The prosecution’s summing up was brisk, simple and short. The prisoner had committed the act before witnesses and no extenuating circumstances had been found. There could be no finding other than guilty.
Kydd looked across at Smythe. There was no change in his expression as he heard the damning words – he must have known there was no hope from the outset but he was not giving his accusers the satisfaction of showing fear.
Hubbard performed nobly. Allowed full scope for his speech, he spoke eloquently of the lot of the common seaman, of the harshness of his daily life at sea. He touched on Smythe’s ‘very good’ for conduct when discharged from other ships but when he appeared to veer towards a criticism of the regime of discipline in Hannibal he was stopped and cautioned.
‘Thank you, Lieutenant. The court will now consider its verdict.’
The cabin was cleared of all but the president and members of the court.
‘A straightforward enough case, I would have thought,’ Cochrane said. ‘Does anyone have any strong views at all?’
This was Kydd’s chance – but what could he do? The man had raised a weapon at a superior officer, an unforgivable crime in the Navy, and before his shipmates. If he were not punished accordingly they themselves would be in breach of the same Articles of War.
‘He’s culpable, of course,’ he found himself saying, ‘but in respect to the wounds of his flogging, should we not consider a mort o’ leniency at all?’
‘Impossible,’ Cochrane snapped. ‘The relevant article leaves us no leeway. If I have to remind you, the previous article allows “… upon pain of such punishment as a court-martial shall think fit to inflict, according to the degree of the offence …” but no backing and filling in this one: “… every such person being convicted of any such offence, by the sentence of a court-martial shall suffer death.” You see?’
He went around the table, brusquely asking for a verdict from each captain.
‘Guilty,’ Kydd said dully at his turn.
‘So, we are agreed. The court will give its judgment. Bring in the prisoner.’
The man stood tense but with a glassy stare.
‘Daniel Smythe. This court finds you guilty as charged of an offence contrary to Article Twenty-Two of the Articles of War. Have you anything to say before sentence is passed upon you?’
He lifted his manacles, then let them drop in a gesture of despair, but no word escaped him.
Even when the dire sentence of execution was pronounced he held his head high, his gaze on an unknowable infinity.
But Cochrane had not finished. ‘Your offence I note was made before others who seem inclined to sympathise with your act. I can see no alternative other than to follow the example of that great admiral the Earl of St Vincent. Therefore, as a warning to each and every one, in two days hence you shall be hanged at the fore-yard of your ship – by your own shipmates.
‘Take him away.’
After the verdict and sentence were recorded and signed by each member of the court, Cochrane declared it dissolved and leaned back, his face looking lined and old.
‘A distasteful business to be sure,’ he muttered.
On the appointed day, at precisely eleven in the forenoon, a yellow flag mounted the main-masthead of Hannibal. From every ship in the squadron a boat left to take position off the vessel, spectators at the last act in the drama. Other ships warped about to allow their companies, turned up on deck in solemn ranks, to gaze on the scene and learn the fate of those who dared lift a hand against authority.
Kydd, with other captains, stood witness on the ship’s quarterdeck, aware of his role as a symbol of the authority and majesty of law that was extinguishing the life of a fellow sailor.
‘Had to end this way, o’ course.’ Pym stood beside him, with a face of stone.
‘How’s that?’ Kydd asked quietly, grateful for the human contact, his heart full of pity for the man whose lifespan was now being measured in minutes.
‘You don’t know Tyrell. Man’s a martyr to discipline since ’ninety-seven, when he lost his first command to mutineers at Spithead.’
So that was what was riding him, had intensified the driving obsession with rule and punishment.
‘That’s not to say he’s shy in battle – he’s the heart of a tiger and shows it. Just been unlucky, never in any fleet engagement worth the name and fears he’s to be overlooked. Like in San Domingo here not six months back. A foul bottom and last into action when it was all but over.’
‘Still and all,’ Kydd said, in a low voice, ‘to have the men follow out of fear will never be my way.’