Kydd(4)

“So how long’ll this be — I mean, when can I go back home?”

The man chuckled harshly. “Forget home, lad. You’re crew of the Royal Billy all the time she’s in commission — you gets to leave her only if she goes to Davy Jones’s locker by bein’ wrecked ashore or sunk in an argyment with a Frenchie.”

“But …” The idea was too overwhelming to take in.

“Look, chum, you’re a pressed man,” said Truscott, “same’s me. We don’t get to go ashore, we gets paid less ’n a private soldier and we’ve less say about what we do next than a common bloody trull — so do yerself a great favor and get used to it. You’re now a foremast jack in a man-o’-war, ’n’ that’s that.”

Kydd breathed deeply, reaching for calm, but frustration boiled within him. He smashed his fists on the cask and gave a long hopeless roar of impotent rage.

Truscott sighed. “Don’t take on, lad. Nothin’ you can do now. Listen — there’s them who are goin’ to suffer” — he glanced significantly at the broken farm-boy — “and they’re goin’ to be the muckers who’ll be on every shite chore there is, fer ever more. ’N’ there’s them that’ll work it out ’n’ make right Jack Tars of ’emselves — and that’s no bad life when you comes at it the right way.” He cleared his throat. “Ye’ll not expect to be one right off, but —”

“You’re just talking piss ’n’ wind, you are!” Stallard’s acid voice cut in from the dark as he scrambled over to them. “He wants to know why he’s a prisoner down here in this stinkin’ hole, not what wunnerful prospects he has!” His voice rose as though he were addressing a crowd. “We’re here because we ain’t got no rights — none!” He paused. A groan sounded in the dark. “Only ’cos we’re born in a cottage, not a mansion, we’re no better’n a flock of cunny sheep — do this, go there, yes, sir, no, sir. Whatever they say, we do. You see any whoreson gentleman down here, then? Not a chance!”

“You’d better keep your trap shut once we’re at sea, mate,” Truscott said.

“Don’t you worry, Mr. Sailor Man,” Stallard retorted. “I may know a thing or two about that — you just be sure you know where you’ll be standin’ when it comes down to it.”

Kydd bit his tongue. Stallard was mad if he thought he could get away with his petty seditions here — there was no chance of a mad gallop away into the night and anonymity in this closed community.

“Yer frien’ had better learn quick,” said Truscott, in a low voice. “If he gets talkin’ wild like that he’ll be decoratin’ a yardarm before he knows where he’s at.”

Stallard glared at him, then slithered over to Kydd. The lanthorn gleam caught his eyes. “Kydd knows what it’s all about,” Stallard said. “Ain’t that right, mate?”

Kydd said nothing.

“We’re town-mates, from Guildford,” Stallard told the figures draped on the casks about them, “and they’ve learned there to have a care when they deal with us — or they could get a midnight visit from Captain Swing.” He cackled. Noticing Kydd’s silence, he added, “We stand for our rights in the old town or we lose ’em. That’s what we say, ain’t it, me old cock — ain’t it?” He thrust his face into Kydd’s.

Kydd kept quiet.

“Well, then! I do declare! Can it be Kydd’s a toady to the gentry — a stinkin’ lickspittle? Mebbe a —”

Something gave way. Kydd threw himself forward and smashed his fist into Stallard’s face, but as he did so he cracked his own head against the low deck beams. Stunned, he fell back, and Stallard dived on him, punching, clawing, gouging.

“Stow it, you mad buggers!” Truscott thrust himself between them, pulling Stallard off Kydd by his hair.

Stallard knelt back. Dark runnels of blood came from his nose and smeared over his face. “Don’t think I’ll forget this, Kydd!” he said.

Kydd looked at him contemptuously. “You’re gallows — bait, Stallardy’r cronies won’t save y’ now!”

He was interrupted by a clumping at the grating, and a petty officer appeared at the hatchway. “Up ’n’ out — move yer scraggy selves!”

They emerged onto the orlop deck, the dull yellow glow of the lanthorns appearing almost cheerful after the Stygian darkness of the hold.

Awaiting them were a pair of marines, in scarlet with white crossbelts and muskets, standing rigidly. The boatswain’s mate had two seamen with him.