Nobody seemed to know how to find Matthew Walker and even appeared to find his search entertaining. Remembering Elkins’s sharp orders, Kydd hurried on. It was Dan Phelps who finally came to the rescue.
“They’re gullin’ yer, matey — the cook, he’s yer Matthew Walker!” Gratefully Kydd accepted directions to the galley.
The cook scowled. He was a big man, seeming not to notice the absence of a lower leg, which, with the grievous black ingrained wound on the side of his face, was legacy of a bursting gun, terrible pain and a saw on the cockpit table.
“What the hell are you two a-grinnin’ at?” he snarled at his mates, who were deep inside the colossal copper vats, sanding and sniggering. He turned back to Kydd. “See ’ere, me old Jack Tar, you tell yer Mr. Elkins as how I’ve a sea pie to raise for damn near eight hunnerd men, and how does he expect me to do that without yon sky hook?”
Kydd toiled up the fore companionway, aware that the seven bells striking meant that it was a half-hour to noon, and therefore soon dinnertime. From nowhere a boatswain’s mate appeared at the head of the ladder above, blocking Kydd’s progress. He grinned evilly at Kydd before raising his silver call and emitting an appalling blast of sound. “All the haaands! Hands lay aft to witness punishment!” he bellowed at Kydd, then mock doffed his hat with its Duke William picked out in gold and red, and clattered past to the next deck.
Joining the streaming throng, Kydd found himself in the familiar area of the quarterdeck between the ship’s wheel and the mainmast. He had been jostled to the front of the assembled company so his view of the proceedings would be immediate.
The marines were formed up across the poop, but the officers were in a group before the break of the poop facing the men. A clear area existed between them.
The Master-at-Arms and his corporals flanked two seamen, one of whom Kydd recognized as one of the fighters of the previous evening. He had bloodshot eyes but carried himself watchful and erect. The other he did not recognize, a slight gray vole of a man whose darting eyes were his only concession to fear.
Kydd searched about, looking for Bowyer, but could not see him. With the oppressive tension draining his newly won reserves of confidence, he needed some other to share his disquiet. The only one he knew was next to the ship’s side, arms folded and with an impregnable air of detachment. Renzi.
Transferring his attention back to the little group near the wheel, he was in time to see Tyrell appear from the cabin spaces. The officer stumped to the center of the clear area, looking sharply about him. “Rig the gratings,” he growled.
A brace of carpenter’s mates pushed through the crowd of seamen behind Kydd, dragging two of the main hatch gratings aft. One was placed upright against the poop railings and lashed tightly. The other served as a scaffold for the victim to stand upon.
A boatswain’s mate touched his forehead to Tyrell. “Gratings rigged, sir”.
Tyrell glared around at the men and without referring to his paper snapped, “Caleb Larkin, cooper’s mate.”
The gray man shuffled forward. He blinked and looked sideways at Tyrell, but said nothing.
Tyrell nodded at the Master-at-Arms.
“Was found drunk and incapable, sir; did piss in the waist under cover of dark, sir.” The piggy eyes looked at the man without particular expression.
There was a ripple of movements, a few murmurs. The tall boatswain’s mate at the side of the gratings stroked his long red bag.
Larkin seemed resigned, and continued his odd sideways stare at Tyrell.
“An unspeakable act, you ill-looking dog! Have you anything to say?”
The man thought for a moment, then mutely shook his head.
Tyrell let the moment hang. “One week’s stoppage of grog, Master-at-Arms’ black list one month.”
Larkin’s head rose in astonishment. His shoulders twitched as if throwing off the evil threat of the lash, and dared a triumphant look forward at his friends. Astonished looks showed that his incredible escape was not lost on anyone.
The murmuring died away as Tyrell consulted his paper. “Patrick Donnelly, quarter gunner.” He looked up and waited for absolute silence before nodding crisply at the Master-at-Arms.
“Fighting when off watch, sir.”
There were louder mutters this time. The going tariff for fighting would be a spell in the bilboes or a lengthy mastheading in this cold weather. The tall boatswain’s mate would be disappointed of his prey.
“How long have you been quarter gunner, Donnelly?” Tyrell began mildly.
Unsure how to play it, Donnelly muttered something.
“Speak up, man!” Tyrell snapped.
“Two year, near enough,” Donnelly repeated. He had the unfortunate quirk of appearing surly when being questioned in public.