Kydd had seen floggings by the score since his own, but this one particularly affected him.
The drum thundered away, then stopped. Kydd’s skin crawled in anticipation of that first, shocking impact. In the breathless quiet he heard the unmistakable hiss of the cat, then the vicious meaty smack and thud as the body was driven against the gratings. A muffled, choking sob was all that escaped – Lamb was going to take it like a man.
There was a further volleying of the drum; again the sudden quiet and the sound of the lash. There was no sound from Lamb. It went on and on. One part of Kydd’s mind cried out – but another countered with cold reason: no-one had yet found a better system of punishment that was a powerful deterrent yet allowed the offender to return to work. Ashore it was far worse: prison and whipping at the cart’s tail for a like offence – even children could face the gallows for little more.
The lashing went on.
The noon sight complete, the officers entered the wardroom for their meal. ‘Your man took his two dozen well, Gervase,’ Pringle said to Adams, as they sat down. He tasted his wine. ‘Quite a tolerable claret.’
Adams helped himself to a biscuit. ‘I wonder if Canada rides to hounds – ’t would be most gratifying to have some decent sport awaiting our return from a cruise. They’ve quite fine horseflesh in Nova Scotia, I’ve heard.’
‘Be satisfied by the society, old chap. Not often we get a chance at a royal court, if that’s your bag.’
‘Society? I spent all winter with my cousin at his pile in Wiltshire. Plenty of your county gentry, but perilously short of female company for my taste.’
Conversation ebbed and flowed around Kydd. As usual, he kept his silence, feeling unable to contribute, although Renzi had by degrees been drawn up the table and was now entertaining Bryant with a scandalous story about a visit to the London of bagnios and discreet villas. Pringle flashed Kydd a single veiled glance and went on to invite Bampton to recount a Barbados interlude, leaving him only the dry purser as dinner companion.
The afternoon stretched ahead. Kydd knew that Renzi had come to look forward to dispute metaphysics with the erudite chaplain and had not the heart to intervene. Having the first dog-watch, he took an early supper alone and snapped at Tysoe for lingering. Melancholy was never far away these days.
He went up on deck early, and approached the master. ‘Good day to ye, Mr Hambly.’
‘An’ you too, sir.’
‘Er, do you think this nor’ easterly will stay by us?’
‘It will, sir. These are the trades, o’ course.’ Hambly was polite but preoccupied.
‘I’ve heard y’ can get ice this time o’ the year.’
The master hesitated. ‘Sir, I have t’ write up the reckonings.’ He touched his hat to Kydd and left.
At four he relieved Bampton, who disappeared after a brief handover. Once more he took possession of the quarterdeck and the ship, and was left alone with his thoughts.
An hour later Renzi appeared. ‘Just thought I’d take a constitutional before I turn in,’ he said, ‘if it does not inconvenience.’ He sniffed the air. ‘Kydd, dear fellow, have you ever considered the eternal paradox of free will? Your Oriental philosopher would have much to say, should he consider your tyrannous position at the pinnacle of lordship in our little world . . .’
Kydd’s spirits rose. There had been little opportunity so far to renew their old friendship, and he valued the far-ranging talks that had livened many a watch in the past. ‘Shall ye not have authority, and allow a false freedom to reign in bedlam?’ he said, with a grin, falling into pace next to Renzi.
‘Quite so, but Mr Peake advances an interesting notion concerning the co-existence of free will in the ruled that requires my disabusing the gentleman of his patently absurd views.’ He stared out pensively to leeward.
Kydd stopped dead. Bitterness welled and took focus. Renzi stopped, concerned. ‘What is it, brother? Are you—’
‘Nothing!’ Kydd growled, but did not resume his walk.
‘May I—’
‘Your ven’rable Peake is waiting – go and dispute with him if it gives you s’ much pleasure!’ Kydd said bitterly.
Renzi said softly, ‘There is something that ails you. I should be honoured were you to lay it before me, my friend.’
It was not the time or place – but Kydd darted a glance around the quarterdeck. No one was watching. He looked across to the conn team at the wheel and caught the quartermaster’s eye, then pointed with his telescope up the ladder to the poop-deck. The man nodded, and Kydd made his way with Renzi up on to the small deck, the furthest aft of all. It was not a popular place, dominated as it was by the big spanker boom ranging out from the mizzen mast and sometimes activity in the flag-lockers at the taffrail. They were alone.