The final cheer died away. Satisfied, Caldwell carefully replaced his cocked hat and stepped forward again. “This ship is now under sailing orders. The hoys are already on their way out to us in order that we may complete stores ready for sea as soon as possible, and I know you are ready to do your duty. Unfortunately it is not possible to grant leave ashore,” he continued smoothly. “You will, of course, appreciate the need for all hands at this time.”
A surge of muttering spread outward in the sea of faces. Growls from the petty officers did little to stop it. Caldwell looked pained and waited. The murmuring grew in volume. Now and then individual shouts could be heard.
Tyrell stood rigid, his chin thrust out, his eyes dangerous slits.
More shouts erupted. Tyrell snapped at the Captain of Marines and a line of marines descended each side of the poop and forced their way forward down each side of the deck. On command, they halted and turned inboard, their muskets held tightly across their chests.
The men drew back, the growls replaced by looks of savage discontent.
Caldwell resumed in the same smooth tones: “I shall not be able to be with you during this period, unfortunately. I have urgent business in London. However, I’m sure you will give your support to Mr. Tyrell, who will act in my place until I return.” He nodded at Tyrell. “Carry on, please.” Accompanied by his clerk, he made his way down the ladder and disappeared into the cabin spaces, leaving a somber group of officers on the poop.
Tyrell moved forward. “Hands to stations for store ship,” he ordered brusquely.
“No liberty — what about wives and sweethearts?” The vigorous shout came from the anonymous center of the mass of seamen and was immediately taken up by all around. Boats now putting out from shore, crowded with enterprising womenfolk, gave point to their grievance.
“Silence!” Tyrell roared. His hands, clamped on the rail, writhed under the intensity of his anger. “You’re under discipline, you mutinous rascals. Any one of you wants to forget this, then I’ll see his backbone at the gratings and be damned to him. And it’s no use baying after skirt like a set of mangy dogs. It’ll do you no good. We’re under sailing orders. You’re a vile set of lubbers, no control, and I will not have the discipline in this ship undone by letting a crowd of drabtail trulls come swarming aboard.”
“Why — the poxy, cuntbitten bastard! The — the —” Words failed Whaley.
Murmurs spread and grew in passion. As the shouts and catcalls peaked a shrill voice sounded clear above the disorder: “Death to tyrants — and an end to slavery!”
Kydd recognized Stallard’s high, intemperate voice.
Tyrell went rigid; the shouting died away. The Captain of Marines barked an order, and the marines on each side slapped their muskets to the present, a storm of clicking in the sudden silence as they cocked their weapons.
The seamen shied at the sudden movement, unsure and fearful at developments. The officers on the poop in their blue, white and gold stood, legs apart, looking down, grave and silent.
Tyrell’s murderous expression did not falter. Slowly and deliberately he went down the side ladder alone to the quarterdeck and into the mass of seamen. Directly challenging with his eyes individuals on one side and the other, but never uttering a word, he passed through them, past the mainmast, then with a measured tread back along the other side. Kydd caught his darting glance — a fierce, dangerous glint that held the same intelligence he had seen before. Unchecked by any movement, Tyrell made his way to the opposite ladder and back up to the poop. Taking position dead center, he stopped, holding the still mass of men with his gaze for a long minute. “I don’t know who that fool was,” he roared, “but he’ll swing when I find him — and if he has any friends of like mind, they’ll dangle next to him.” His eyes flicked up the naked masts with the ease of long habit, and down again. “I’ll have no more of this nonsense,” he said, his fury in icy control. “We’re paid to fight the King’s enemies on the high seas, not pansy about in port! We sail to meet the French in a short while, and I mean to have this ship in fighting trim by then — and damn the blood of any knave who stands in my way! Hands to store ship!” The moment hung. Then, with sullen reluctance, by ones and twos, the men dispersed.
Kydd looked at Bowyer. The man still stood, his face a mask of sorrow. It was not hard to understand why: he was staring out over the mile or so of sea to the long stone landing place, and the colorful crowd gathering there. “It’ll be a long time afore we gets to see Spithead again, mate,” he said, in a low voice, and turning abruptly stepped firmly to the seaward side of the deck to join the brooding group of men at the forebrace bitts.