Kydd(101)

Kydd tried to hide his excitement — Bristol had no significant naval presence that he knew of. He took a deep breath. “Thanks for the scran. Might be I can return the favor.”

The nuggety seaman opposite grinned. “No need fer that at all, boyo!” he said, in a pleasant Welsh borders lilt.

“No — what I mean is, there’s maybe a bit o’ gold in it f’r you.”

The seamen looked at each other.

“How so, lad?”

For answer, Kydd stood up and, fixing them with blazing eyes, tore off his shirt to reveal the half-healed wounds, livid purple weals, some still weeping in places. “There’s ten guineas in it for you if I’m aboard when you sail,” he growled.

“An’ a berth in a King’s ship for us all if yer found,” another seaman muttered.

“What do y’ say?”

At first there was no response, and Kydd feared the worst.

Then the dark nuggety seaman stood up. “Name’s Finchett — Billy to you. Welcome aboard the Judith!”

Giddy with relief, Kydd sat down.

“We has a little, who shall say, accommodation in the hold we useta make our own before, when the press-gang’s out abroad. Ye’ll be safe enough there, boyo.” His palm came out, apologetically. “We needs to make other arrangements, you’ll unnerstand.”

The guineas chinked solemnly into the silence.

After the break, Kydd returned to the hold for work. Duke William required only half of Judith’s cargo of powder and soon they would cease their labor and return aboard.

Finchett clambered about over the top of the cargo as though checking their stowage.

There was much more light in the hold than there was on the old Duke William, but even so, there were dark recesses in the corners.

“Here you are, Tom,” Renzi whispered. He had noiselessly appeared at Kydd’s elbow with a shapeless piece of jute sacking. “Your gear — take it.”

Kydd grasped it, touched by his friend’s thoughtfulness.

“Last barrel, you men!” called down the boatswain.

Finchett gave Kydd a significant look and sauntered over to the after corner. Kydd followed, looking up through the hatch as though waiting for the can-hook to come plunging down again. His heart hammered. It was not too late to abandon the unknown, return to the warmth and safety of his mess — and his friends.

A bulky water barrel rested in the dark outer end of the lower hold. It had an old strop and toggle lying around it, and it looked just like the other sea stores. Finchett slipped the toggle and took the after chine in his fingers.

Checking around carefully, he lifted — the barrel split in two length-ways, hinging at the forward end. He let it fall again. “Get in when yer hears me shout ’n’ don’t come out till you hears a knock, two times two.”

Kydd wiped his clammy hands on his trousers and looked back. Renzi had come over to see the arrangement and now stood quietly.

“It seems that this is goodbye, my good friend,” Kydd whispered.

There was no answer. Renzi’s face was away from the dull light and it was difficult to read his expression.

From the opposite corner of the hold came the loud splintering of wood. “What the hell are youse doing, yer useless lubbers?” came Finchett’s shout. “Call yerselves seamen? I’ve seen better sailors in Mother Jones’s barnyard!”

Kydd gulped. A quick glance back at Renzi and he had the barrel top lifting. There was no time to lose. His heart thudding, he climbed in and began lowering the top half over him.

“Tom — ” Renzi’s voice was hoarse, unnatural.

Kydd hesitated.

“I — I’m coming with you!”

Mind racing, Kydd crouched down — and immediately felt an opening in the end of the barrel. In the dimness he made out that the opening communicated with the rest of the ship aft in some way. On hands and knees he crawled through.

He looked back to see the figure of Renzi dropping in, and the barrel lid closing. It was now totally black.

Almost immediately there was a scrabble of sound outside as someone secured the strop, and then quiet. Whatever else, the minimum they could expect was a flogging for attempting to desert — Renzi was now as guilty as he.

Renzi must have found the opening too, for his elbows caught Kydd in the side.

“I really do beg your pardon,” he murmured, and wriggled aside.

Kydd felt a rise of panic as claustrophobia threatened. He could feel deep frames as they crossed and curved away upward, a flat decking pressed down close above. They must be at the very lowest point of the vessel, where the rise of the keel led to the transom and rudder pintle. There would be rats and cockroaches crawling unseen among them in the dark.