Kydd’s sympathies swung to the lad. Life on the lower deck in the cold north Atlantic was not pleasant and seamen looked for any kind of release – generally rum.
But there was no real escape. A ship of war that might in minutes find itself yardarm to yardarm with an enemy was no place for a drunken hand at the guns. Kydd’s duty was plain. ‘Sleeps it off in irons, t’ front the captain in the forenoon.’ Houghton would have no mercy and tomorrow there would be pain and suffering at the gangway.
Kydd turned his back and paced away. He had no stomach for any scenes of pitiful begging but there were only muffled gasps and grunting as the young sailor was hauled away.
‘Bring him forward.’ Houghton stood rigid, his lips clamped to a thin line, his hands behind his back as Lamb was brought before the lectern.
‘Take orf that hat!’ growled the master-at-arms. The youth’s thatch of hair ruffled in the wind that buffeted down over the half-deck. His open face was set and pale, but he carried himself with dignity.
On one side of the captain Kydd attended for the prosecution, on the other was Adams. ‘Well?’ snapped the captain, turning to Kydd.
‘Sir, Ordinary Seaman Lamb. Last night at six bells o’ the first watch the boatswain haled this man before me under suspicion o’ drink.’ Caught by the boatswain, prostrate with drink before the officer-of-the-watch, there was not the slightest chance of denial. But the grim ritual of the trial must be completed.
‘And was he?’
Kydd’s answer would be the boy’s condemnation. ‘He – he was incapable.’ He had had as much chance of avoiding those words as Lamb had of escaping the lash.
‘I see. Mr Adams?’
‘Sir. This lad is young. It was his birthday and his shipmates plied him with grog in celebration but, sir, in his youth and inexperience he was unable to resist their cajolery. It’s nothing but youth and warm spirits—’
‘This is of no account! At sea there is no excusing a man-o’-war’s man being found beastly drunk at any hour, when paid by the King to hold himself in readiness to defend his country! Have you anything to add as witness to his character?’
‘Er, Lamb is a willing hand. His ropework is admired by all in the maintop. And, er, he volunteered into Tenacious and is always forward in his duty . . .’
The captain glanced once at Adams, then fixed Lamb with a terrible stare. ‘Have you anything to say for yourself, you rogue?’
Lamb shook his head and bit his lip. ‘Then I find you guilty as charged. Two dozen!’ Lamb went white. This was savage medicine, quite apart from the theoretical limit of a dozen strokes allowed a captain at sea.
‘Haaands lay aft to witness punishment – aaaall the hands.’ Boatswain’s mates strode about above- and below-decks with their piercing silver calls, summoning witnesses to justice. As would be the way of it from now on, Kydd remained out of sight below in the wardroom, avoiding conversation until the word was passed down for the final ceremony.
‘Officers t’ muster!’ squeaked a messenger at last. Solemnly, the officers left the wardroom and made their way up to the quarterdeck. There, the gratings were rigged, one lashed upright to the half-deck bulkhead and one to stand on. The ship’s company were mustered ready, a space of open deck, then a sea of faces stretching forward. Kydd avoided their gaze, moving quickly up the ladder to the poop-deck.
The captain stalked forward to the poop-rail, much as Kydd had seen so many times before from the opposite side, looking up as a foremast hand. Now, with the other officers, he stood squarely behind him, seeing only the back of his head. Blackly, he saw that his view of proceedings was obscured by the break of the poop, and that therefore on all those occasions before, the officers must have seen nothing of the lashes and the agony.
Marines stood to attention at the rails, a drummer-boy at the ready. Lamb stood before his captain, flanked by the powerful figures of two boatswain’s mates. A brief rattle of the drum brought a subdued quiet.
‘Articles of War!’ barked Houghton. His clerk passed them across. ‘“Article two: All persons in or belonging to His Majesty’s ships or vessels of war, being guilty of drunkenness, uncleanness or other scandalous actions, in derogation of God’s honour, shall incur such punishment . . . as the nature and degree of their offence shall deserve.”’
He closed the little book. ‘Carry on, boatswain’s mate.’
The prisoner was led over to the gratings and out of sight, but Kydd – flogged himself once – needed no prompting to know what was going on. Stripped and lashed up by the thumbs, Lamb would be in a whirl of fear and shame and, above all, desperately lonely. In minutes his universe would narrow to one of pounding, never-ending torment.