This was not a happy ship: the combination of a God-fearing captain of dour morals and a boatswain whose contempt for the men found expression in harshness gave litde scope for compassion.
Kydd glanced far out to seaward, where a light frigate was keeping loose station on them for the run to Portsmouth. She made much of being under topsails only to stay with Achilles's all plain sail. Kydd had known service in a frigate, in his eyes a more preferable ship, but they seldom rated a master's mate.
'Same ones,' Cockburn murmured, bringing Kydd's attention back to the flogging and the three pathetic quota men whose crime was running athwart Welby's hawse yet again. The captain's bushy grey eyebrows quivered in the wind, his eyes empty and merciless as he judged and sentenced.
The boatswain's mate waited for the first man to be seized up to the grating, then stepped across. He pulled the lash from the red baize bag and measured up to his task. The marine drummer took position directly above the half-deck, looking enquiringly at Captain Dwyer. In expectation the rustle of whispers and movement stilled - but into the silence came a low sobbing, wretched and hopeless.
'Good God!' Kydd breathed. It was the scraggy little man at the gratings, his pale body heaving in distress.
The boatswain's mate stopped in astonishment, then looked at the captain. Dwyer's eyebrow rose, and he turned to Welby, nodding once.
'Do yer dooty then, Miller.' Welby threw at his mate in satisfaction. The drum thundered, and stopped. In the sickening silence the cat swept down, bringing a hopeless squeal of pain. Kydd looked away. This was achieving nothing, neither individual respect for discipline nor a cohering deference for justice in common.
Lashes were laid on pitilessly. The ship's company watched stolidly: this was the way it was, and no amount of protest could change it.
Kydd scanned the mass of men. He noticed Farnall, the educated quota man who'd had a run-in with Boddy when he first came aboard. Farnall's face showed no indication of disgust or hatred, more a guarded, speculative look.
The contrast between the grim scenes on the upper deck and the fellowship at the noon meal directly afterwards brought a brittle gaiety. Grog loosened tongues and the satisfaction of like company quickly had the crowded mess tables in a buzz of companionable talk and laughter.
Kydd always took a turn along the main deck before his own dinner: after overseeing the issue of grog to the messes he had an implied duty to bear complaints from the men aft, but the real reason was that he enjoyed the warm feeling of comradeship of the sailors at this time, and he could, as well, try the temper of the men by their chatter.
He passed down the centreline of the ship, the sunlight patterning down through the hatchway gratings, the odour of the salt pork and pease filling the close air of the gundeck. Today there were not the lowered voices, glaring eyes or harsh curses that usually preceded trouble, and he guessed that the useless quota hand had gained few friends.
'Jeb.' He nodded at a nuggety able seaman, who grinned back, winking his one remaining eye. No bad blood, it seemed. This was a man Kydd had seen to it drew duty as captain of the heads after he had found him asleep in the tops. He could have taken the man before the captain for a serious offence, but instead he was cleaning the seats of ease each morning before the hands turned to.
As Kydd came abreast the next pair of guns, a seaman got to his feet, hastily bolting a mouthful. It was Boddy. 'First Sunday o' the month, next,' he said significantly.
'Aye,' said Kydd, guessing what was coming.
'An' I claims ter shift mess inter number six st'b'd.'
Kydd pursed his lips. 'They'll have ye?' It was the right of every man to choose his messmates - and they him.
The first Sunday of the month was when moves were made. What was a puzzle was that this was Farnall’s mess, a landman's refuge, and he'd heard that Boddy and Farnall had tangled in Gibraltar. He took out his notebook. 'I'll see first luff knows’ he said.
The indistinct blue-grey bluff of Finisterre left astern, Achilles plunged and rolled on into the Bay of Biscay. Kydd's heart was full: they were bound for England, to his home and hearth for the first time after years that had seen him on a world voyage in a famous frigate, in the Caribbean as a quartermaster in a trim little topsail cutter and a full master's mate in a 64-gun ship-of-the-line. He would return to Guildford a man of some consequence. 'Back to th' fleet - no chance of prize money there,' he said to Cockburn, a grin belying his words.
The day faded to a brisk evening, then night. The frigate had been called to heel, and her lights twinkled and appeared over to larboard in the moonless dusk. Last dog-watchmen were called, hammocks piped down and the watch-on-deck mustered. Achilles sailed into the night, her watch expecting an uneventful time. The frigate's lights faded ahead before midnight, but an alert lookout sighted them an hour or two later on the opposite side, creeping back companionably.