Kydd(25)

“Meantimes, he’s goin’ to be killin’ orf sailors, lads, don’t forget that.”

Bowyer said nothing, looking thoughtfully over his pot. He leaned forward. “Did you ever stop to think, mates, that he’s only had the Royal Billy a few weeks — and not forgettin’ a fourth part of his crew are new pressed?”

It didn’t have any takers.

“I seen like dat in Lisbon. They take the capitão ashore — they shoot him!”

Kydd turned in surprise to the man at the end of the table. He was a sorrowful-looking, wall-eyed Iberian with a flaming red kerchief in place of the usual black.

“Savin’ your presence, Pinto, the dagos sometimes got the right slant on things.” Claggett’s pronouncement did not invite comment.

Bowyer gave a twisted smile. “That’s Pinto, Tom. A Portugee with some sorta quarrel with shoreside. ’N’ cox’n’s mate — that’s why you ain’t seen him before,” he added, as though it were an obvious explanation for his absence for meals at sea.

With a quaint flourish, Pinto flashed his teeth and bobbed his head. “Fernando da Mesouta Pinto, your service,” he said melodiously. “We ha’ not met?”

Unsure, Kydd nodded in return. “Thomas Kydd o’ Guildford,” he said, and seeing the polite inclination of the head added more loudly, “in England.”

“O’ course, Thomas. And you are pressed? What did you before?”

The conversations died away, eyes turning curiously to Kydd. He was aware that Renzi, in his accustomed position at the ship’s side opposite Claggett, had his dark eyes on him as well, but he refused to give the satisfaction of noticing.

“Perruquier!” he said defiantly, and took a strong pull at the grog. The hubbub at the other tables flurried and ebbed, but when he set down his tankard there was no comment.

“Fine thing fer a man in Guildford,” Claggett said mildly.

Howell gave a harsh laugh. Then he leaned across the table and mock-toasted the bow-backed man next to Kydd. “About as fine a thing as bein’ a gennelman’s flunkey aboard a king’s ship, eh, you — Buddles?”

The man made no reply. His eyes dropped as he shied away from the confrontation, his face turning toward Kydd.

Kydd was shocked at the extremity of misery he saw.

“What’s this — nothin’ to say? Yer tongue lyin’ to under a storm jib, then?” Howell leaned back and half turned to his neighbor.

“Nah — he’s missin’ his woman! He’s quean-struck on the old biddy — I saw them together in the tavern.”

“Leave him, companheiro.” The voice sliced through the talk quietly.

“What’s he to you, Pinto?” Howell said loudly, and glared at him. “That looby a friend of yourn?”

In a movement of snake-like quickness Pinto thrust over and seized Howell’s kerchief. He yanked the man toward him — and toward a glint of steel that had simultaneously appeared at Howell’s throat. “You a pig,” Pinto said, in a low and perfectly even voice.

Howell’s hands fell away slowly, far too late to intervene. He was careful not to move. “You — you’re mad, you dago bastard!”

Pinto held him with his brown, liquid eyes, then slowly released him, withdrawing the knife at the last moment. From first to last there had been no expression of emotion. Pinto resumed his place opposite Kydd and, unexpectedly, smiled at him. At a loss, Kydd smiled back, finding his gaze sliding along to Renzi, who sat perfectly still and as watchful as a cat.

Claggett cleared his throat and addressed the now silent table. “You’re caught fightin’, Pinto, yer’ll get your back flayed at the gratings. And you, Howell, you know damn well that Buddles ain’t no sailor, and he’s got a family ’n’ bantlin’s an’ all. They could be on the parish now, fer all he knows.”

A smothered sob escaped Buddles.

“Come on, Jonas, leave him be,” Whaley begged. “We’ve got Portsmouth Point under our lee, ’n’ I’m hot for a cruise there tonight — let’s see if your Betty still remembers yer.”

Howell glowered.

“Where’ll you be headin’ for, Ned?” Whaley asked Doud, whose countenance had brightened considerably at the direction the talk was taking.

Kydd bit his lip. The thought of returning to land and walking in a street, any street, seeing men in breeches, women in dresses and laughing children, stabbed with poignant appeal. He downed the last of his grog. “What about you, Joe?” he asked Bowyer.

A slow, shy smile spread across his face. “Well, Tom, you see, I’ve an understandin’ with a lady, name of Poll. We goes back awhile.” His face softened. “We gets leave to step off, she’ll be a-waitin’ for me at Sally Port, ’n’ if not, then we’ll get ‘wives aboard’ all the while we’re at moorin’s. ’S only human.” The kindly gray eyes rested on Kydd. “She’ll know some young lass as would welcome an arrangement with ye, Tom, don’t you worry. It’s the right way fer a sailor.”