Caribbee(8)

A sharp slap and crash of muskets caused them to wheel round. It was the Royal Marines guard acknowledging the captain emerging from his cabin spaces. With a suspicious look that turned into one of controlled ferocity, Tyrell stumped to the quarterdeck.

‘Bring up the prisoner!’ he roared.

Hannibal’s ship’s company was assembled aft, massing in a silent press of barely concealed hostility. Their captain mounted the poop ladder and advanced to the rail, standing aloof in a belligerent quarterdeck brace and looking down on the hundreds of men.

No one moved. Tyrell continued to survey them grimly, saying not a word, letting the tension build.

There was a stir at the hatchway and the prisoner came slowly on deck, blinking in the bright sunlight, ahead of him the chaplain in black, behind him the master-at-arms and two corporals. He was halted at the break of the poop, then turned to face his shipmates.

It was the duty of the captain to muster the hands and pronounce before them why the prisoner’s life was forfeit, all part of the ceremony of death that was intended as a dread spectacle of deterrence. Tyrell read out the relevant Article of War in savage, ringing tones before the ship’s company standing, heads bared. In sharp, harsh sentences he set out why the man must die: the stern code of the sea had been breached and he must be made to pay.

He concluded and descended from the poop, nodding to the Royal Marines officer. A single drum, muffled by black crêpe, sounded a roll, then a measured beat as Smythe began the last journey, forward to the yardarm.

Kydd joined the line of officers who followed, just behind Cochrane’s flag-captain, who was representing him. They assembled at the foredeck, and the grim ritual was ready to be enacted.

‘Prepare the prisoner!’

The chaplain moved to Smythe and they knelt together. Kydd could hardly conceive of the despair and anguish that must be rushing through the man’s mind – the boatswain mere paces away waiting with the end of the yardarm whip worked into a halter, on the other side the six-pounder gun-crew with their piece ready charged to signal the moment the prisoner was launched into eternity. And, all around, ships with their silent lines of men looking on.

The seaman rose, deathly pale, a studied blankness his only expression as he moved to the appointed place of execution. The halter was brought and put in place around his neck, followed by a black hood. Smythe had only to step on to the cathead and, at the signal, it would be over.

‘Sir,’ the boatswain’s voice croaked.

Tyrell took his time, looking up and then along to where the prisoner’s shipmates waited, the long line of the hangman’s rope in their hands.

‘Carry on!’

But a loud cry broke into the awful stillness: ‘Hold!’

Tyrell wheeled about in astonishment. The flag-lieutenant hurried up and held out a paper, sealed and beribboned.

‘What’s this, sir?’ he snapped.

‘Admiral Cochrane desires you should read this publicly at this time, sir.’

Kydd’s heart leaped. Could it be …?

His voice savage, Tyrell was obliged to announce to all the world that, of the commander-in-chief’s mercy, the said prisoner was reprieved at the scaffold’s foot.

‘Take him down!’ he snarled.

The hood was lifted, the rope removed from his neck – and, with a muffled groan, Smythe crumpled senseless to the deck.





Chapter 2




‘I hear the man was pardoned,’ Renzi said, as Kydd entered. ‘As is the right of a commander on his station,’ he continued. ‘It does have its curiosities, however.’

‘Not now, Nicholas, I’m not in the mood.’

‘You see, in law he is a dead man at the moment sentence is pronounced – a reprieve therefore means he is a new man, debts dissolved but property disowned. I wonder if this extends to the state of marriage. His wife is a widow. Must she marry him again or is she free to seek another?’

Kydd shuddered, as if to shake off the stark memory of the rope. ‘Leave it be, old fellow.’

He accepted some wine from his confidential secretary and friend of many years, then added, ‘And who do you think was his captain, as near drove the man to it?’

‘I’ve no idea, but I wager you’re going to tell me.’

‘Tyrell.’

At first it didn’t sink in. Then Renzi sat back with a tight smile. ‘Duke William – first lieutenant.’

‘The same.’

‘Well, well. Fearless as a lion but cold as a hanging judge.’ The smile disappeared. ‘Did he recognise you at all?’

‘Sitting in judgment as his equal on a court-martial? Never a chance,’ Kydd answered, with a dry chuckle. ‘He’s now captain of Hannibal, 74, and thinks his crew the worst kind o’ scum. I do pity ’em with all my heart.’