‘This is no excuse in a man-o’-war, sir.’
‘And you will also be aware that, two days before, this man had suffered a dozen lashes for insubordination?’
‘Which rather proves the point, wouldn’t you say?’
‘That was not my intent,’ Hubbard said, with a growing intensity. ‘Rather, it is to give reason to the act. Smythe was doing his duty as best he could – with savage wounds healing on his back he was being asked to perform strenuous acts occasioning extreme pain. Is it any cause for wonder that he should react with such feeling to being told he was remiss in his duty?’
‘This is not for me to say,’ Beale said woodenly.
‘No further questions, sir.’
It was as clear to Kydd as if he had seen it happening before him. The proud seaman, wanting to take his stripes like a man, had not reported sick and had done his best – until the prissy Beale had intervened. That his messmates had seen to it that he had rum to ease his suffering had only aggravated the situation and he had gone over the edge. What kind of ship was it that did not have the humanity to make allowances?
‘Mr Biggs?’
‘Call Captain Tyrell!’
At first the name meant nothing. Then into the court came a figure from Kydd’s past. Short but powerfully built, thick eyebrows above deep-set eyes and a restless, dangerous air. Kydd was seeing again the first lieutenant of the ship into which he had been press-ganged so many years before, now post-captain of a ship-of-the-line.
He would never forget those eyes, that pugnacious, challenging bearing – and as well how he had single-handedly faced down a gathering mutiny, the lion-like courage he had shown in the hopeless royalist uprising. And the pitiless discipline that had made him an object of hatred.
‘You are captain of HMS Hannibal, sir.’
‘I am.’ That harsh, flat voice from those days before the mast.
‘Can you tell the court what you witnessed on the day in question, sir?’
‘I saw the prisoner at the slablines with the others and the villain was slacking. Idling, I say. While his party were hauling hearty he was shirking. Not standing for it, I sent L’tenant Beale for’ard to take him in charge and saw there was an argument. I stepped up to see what it was and with my own eyes saw Smythe draw a pin and take a murderous swing at Mr Beale. Then I—’
Hubbard held up a hand tentatively. ‘A – a point of order, Mr President?’
Cochrane frowned. ‘What is it, Mr Hubbard?’
‘Simply a matter of clarification, if you please, sir. We have Mr Beale’s testimony that the prisoner was restrained from making any blow, yet Captain Tyrell here has stated that an attack was made. May we …?’
‘Interrupting a witness is most irregular, sir. Yet I’ll answer you on that – it doesn’t signify one whit. The twenty-second Article of War, of which the prisoner stands charged, specifies clearly – and I quote, “… who shall strike, or draw or offer to draw, or lift up any weapon against him …” by which we may understand that the simple act of taking up the belaying pin with the object of injuring this officer in the execution of his duty is sufficient to condemn.
‘Carry on, Captain Tyrell.’
‘Then I had the rogue taken up. This stirred up his accomplices who made motions to deny me. I must turn out the marines before I could restore order on my own decks, the mutinous rabble! I’m sorry to say that this ship’s company is a scurvy crew, the worst scum it’s been my misfortune to command, and I demand an example be made.’
‘Ah, just so, Captain Tyrell. Have you any further questions, Lieutenant?’
‘Er, yes. Sir, have you had cause to punish Smythe on any previous occasions?’
‘I have! Above half a dozen times, the vile shab!’
Cochrane stirred impatiently. ‘Captain, I’ll not have such language in my court. Kindly confine yourself to the facts, if you please.’
More mildly, he addressed Hubbard. ‘I think you can take it that the prisoner has a record of ill behaving. What in my day we called a “King’s hard bargain”, if memory serves.’
There were dutiful smiles but the young officer was not to be deflected. ‘Sir, I have on hand Hannibal’s punishment book. I beg permission to read from it.’
‘What the devil—?’
Tyrell’s objection was cut short by a look from the president of the court, who then replied, ‘If it’s pertinent to the case, sir.’
Hubbard took the book and began reading. ‘Twelve lashes for wry talk … half a dozen for being slow in stays and another dozen for silent contempt … mastheaded for six hours …’ It went on and on, a revealing litany of suffering that told of a ship in the hellish thrall of a tyrant.