Mutiny(111)

'Kitty, how do I find ye?' He hugged her close.

'Come in, Tom, darlin',' she said, but her voice was tired, subdued.

Kydd entered the familiar room and sat in the armchair. Kitty went to fetch him an ale. 'I'm master's mate in Triumph seventy-four,' he called to her. 'She's gettin' on in years but a good 'un - Cap'n Essington.'

She didn't reply, but returned with his tankard. He looked at her while he drank. 'We're North Sea squadron,' he explained. 'C'n expect to fall back on Sheerness t' vittle 'n' repair, ye know.'

'Yes, Tom,' she said, then unexpectedly kissed him before sitting down opposite.

Kydd looked at her fondly. 'Kitty, I've been thinkin', maybe you 'n' me should—'

'No, Tom.' She looked him in the eyes. 'I've been thinkin' too, m' love.' She looked away. 'I told ye I was fey, didn't I?'

'V did, Kitty.'

She leaned forward. 'Tom Kydd, in y'r stars it's sayin' that y're going t' be a great man — truly!'

'Ah, I don' reckon on that kind o' thing, Kitty,' Kydd said, pink with embarrassment.

'You will be, m' love, mark my words.' The light died in her eyes. 'An' when that day comes, you'll have a lady who'll be by y'r side an' part o' your world.'

'Aye, but—'

'Tom, y' know little of the female sex. Do y' think I'd want t' be there, among all them lords 'n' their ladies, knowin' they were giggling' behind y'r back at this jumped-up seamstress o' buntin'? Havin' the fat ol' ladies liftin' their noses 'cos I don't know manners? Have you all th' time apologisin' for your wife? No, dear Tom, I don' want that. 'Sides, I couldn't stand th' life - I'm free t' do what I want now.' She came over and held his hand. 'Next week, I'm leavin' Sheerness. What wi' Ned 'n' all, there's too many memories here. I'm off t' my father in Bristol.' 'Kitty, I'll write, let me—'

'No, love. It's better t' say our goodbye now. I remember Ned once said, "A ship's like a woman. To think kindly of her, y' have t' leave her while y'r still in love." That's us, Tom.'



Triumph put to sea, her destination in no doubt. She would be part of Admiral Duncan's vital North Sea squadron, there to prevent the powerful Dutch fleet emerging from the Texel anchorage. If they did — if the Channel was theirs for just hours — the French could at last begin the conquest of England.

It was at some cost to ships and men: beating up and down the coast of Holland, the French-occupied Batavian Republic, was hard, dangerous work. The land was low and fringed with invisible sandbanks, a fearful danger for ships who had to keep in with the land, deep-sea ships whose keels brushed shoals while the Dutch vessels, designed with shallow draught, could sail down the coast and away.

But it was also a priceless school for seamen. With prevailing winds in the west, the coast was a perpetual lee shore threatening shipwreck to any caught close in by stormy winds. And as the warm airs of summer were replaced by the cool blusters of autumn and the chill hammering of early winter, it needed all the seamanship the Royal Navy had at its command to stay on station off the Texel.

Kydd hardened, as much as by conflicts within as by the ceaseless work of keeping the seas. The mutiny of two months ago was now receding into the past, but he had still not put it truly behind him.

He accepted the precious gift of reprieve, however achieved: life itself. But so many had paid the price: the gentle Coxall, the fiery Hulme, the fine seaman Davis, Joe Fearon, Charles McCarthy, Famall, others. The Inflexibles, led by Blake, had stolen a fishing-smack and gone to an unknown fate in France.

It could have been worse: vengeance had been tempered, and of the ten thousand men involved, only four hundred had faced a court, and less than thirty had met their end at a yardarm.

To say farewell to Kitty had brought pain and loneliness, and with Renzi about to return to his previous life, there was now not a soul he could say was truly his friend, someone who would know him, forgive his oddities as he would theirs in the human transactions that were friendship.

His reticence about speaking of recent events had stifled social conversation, and a burning need to be hard on himself had extended to others, further isolating him. He withdrew into himself, his spirit shrivelling.

Days, weeks, months, the same ships that had been in open mutiny were now at sea so continuously that the first symptoms of scurvy appeared. Sails frayed, ropes stranded, timbers failed, and still they remained on station. By October signals from the flagship showed that even the doughty Duncan was prepared to return to Yarmouth to revictual and repair.

The storm-battered fleet anchored, but there would be no rest. Duncan had said, 'I shall not set foot out of my ship . .-.'It would be a foolhardy captain indeed who found he had business ashore. Storing ship, caulking gaping seams, bending on winter canvas — there was no rest for any.