Kydd knew the lower deck, is strengths and loyalties as well as its ignorance; its rough justice and depth of sentiment could move men’s souls to achieve great things – or stir them to passionate vindictiveness. He would now put his trust in them, an unshakeable faith that he, even as an officer, could rely on their sense of honour, fairness and loyalty.
The afternoon ebbed to a pallid dusk, and the hands secured, then went below for grog and supper. Kydd waited until they were in full flow. Then he went down the after hatchway to the gun-deck and paused at the foot of the ladder.
The mess-tables were rigged and the usual warm conviviality of a meal-time, enlivened by rum, rose noisily from the tables between the rows of guns. A few curious looks came his way, but in the main seamen were more interested in the gossip of the day and he was ignored.
Methodically, he removed his cocked hat. Then he took off his lieutenant’s uniform coat and laid it carefully over his arm. By this time he had the attention of the nearest, who looked at him in astonishment.
He paced forward slowly, and with terrible deliberation. One by one the tables lapsed into an amazed silence, which grew and spread until the whole gun-deck fell into an unnatural quiet and men craned forward for a better view.
Kydd continued his walk, his face set and grim, eyes fixed forward in an unblinking stare. He was either right to trust – or he had lost everything. He passed the great jeer capstan, the mighty trunk of the mainmast, the main hatch gratings, his measured tread now sounding clear and solemn.
He halted abreast the fore capstan, his eyes still fixed forward. Slowly his gaze turned to one side: Dobbie sat, transfixed, at the mess by number-five gun. Kydd marched over. Not a man moved. He held Dobbie with his eyes, dropping his words into the silence. ‘I’ll be waiting for ye – the Mizzen tavern. At two, tomorrow.’ Then he wheeled about and began the long walk back down the silent gun-deck.
In the privacy of his cabin Kydd buried his face in his hands. As an officer there was no question of how to deal with a slur on one’s honour: a duel was the inevitable result. Dobbie was not a gentleman, therefore Kydd could not demean himself in calling him out. But this was a matter for the lower-deck: different rules applied. By now the news would be already around the ship. It was too late for him to back away – and also for Dobbie.
Dobbie was big and a bruiser, well used to a mill. Kydd could take care of himself, but this was another matter. Of a surety he would be the loser, in all probability suffering a battering and disfiguring injury. But the result would be worth it. Never more would any man question his honour or integrity: Dobbie’s word would be hollow against that of a man who had set aside the power and privileges that were his by right to defend his honour in the traditional way.
Kydd had no fear of it coming to the ear of the captain – or any other officer, for that matter. It would be common currency on the mess-decks and every seaman and petty officer would know of it, but it was their business and, as with so many other things, the quarterdeck never would hear of it.
He slept well: there was little to be gained in brooding on hypothetical events of the next day and in any case there was nothing he could do about it now that events had been set in train.
As he moved about the ship there were surreptitious looks, curious stares and a few morbid chuckles. He went below to find his servant. ‘Er, Tysoe, there is something of a service I want you t’ do for me.’
‘Sir, don’t do it, sir, please, I beg,’ Tysoe said, with a low, troubled voice. ‘You’re a gentleman, sir, you don’t have to go mixing with those villains.’
‘I have to, an’ that’s an end to it.’
Tysoe hesitated, then asked unhappily, ‘The service, sir?’
‘Ah – I want you to find a fo’c’sle hand who c’n lend me a seaman’s rig f’r this afternoon. Er, it’ll be cleaned up after.’
‘Sir.’ But Tysoe did not leave, disconsolately shuffling his feet. ‘Sir, I’m coming with you.’
‘No.’ Kydd feared he would be instantly discovered and probably roughed up: he could not allow it. ‘No, but I thank ye for your concern.’
There was a fitful cold drizzle when Kydd stepped into the boat, which gave him an excuse to wear a concealing oilskin. Poulden was stroke; he had gruffly volunteered to see Kydd through to the Mizzen tavern, but made determined efforts not to catch his eye as he pulled strongly at his oar.
They landed at King’s Slip. Without a word, Kydd and Poulden stepped out and the boat shoved off. The waterfront was seething with activity and they pushed through firmly to Water Street.