Kydd pulled off his shirt, feeling the icy cold wind playing on his bare torso. There was a stir of amazed comment as the stretched and distorted scars criss-crossing his back were recognised for what they were: a relic of the long-ago agony of lashes from a cat-o’-nine-tails at a grating. The women’s screeches diminished and the crowd subsided.
Laffin produced cords and Kydd took his place at the other end of the chest, feeling the feral impact of Dobbie’s presence, his heart racing at the carnage about to be wrought. The ropes cut into his legs, but his eyes rose to lock on Dobbie’s.
‘Are ye ready, gemmun?’ Akins had no watch, no tools of a referee – this was going to be a smashing match. A thin, cold rain began, chilling Kydd’s skin and running into his eyes, mixing with salt sweat, stinging and distracting. He raised his fists slowly, his heart hammering. Dobbie responded, holding his low for a first murderous punch, his pale, unblinking eyes locked on Kydd’s.
Akins raised his arm, looking at each in turn. His eyes flickered once and the arm sliced down. ‘Fight!’ he yelled and leaped aside.
For one split second, Dobbie held Kydd’s eyes, then cut loose with a bellow. ‘No!’ he roared, dropping his arms. ‘Be buggered! I’ll not do it!’
The crowd fell into an astonished silence, staring at Dobbie. He thrust his head forward, his fists by his side. ‘Take a swing, mate – come on, make it a settler.’
Kydd, shaken but suddenly understanding, obliged with a meaty smack to the jaw, which rocked Dobbie. Laffin came forward with his knife and severed the ropes. Dobbie got to his feet. He shook his head and turned to the rowdy crush. ‘Shipmates! Y’ came t’ see a grudge fight, an’ I’m sorry I can’t give yez one. See, this ’ere is Tom Kydd as I remember fr’m the Nore – I saw ’im stand alongside Dick Parker ’n’ them in the mutiny when others were runnin’ like rats. But I thought as ’ow ’e got ’is pardon by sellin’ out his mates, an’ I told him so.
‘Mates, if y’ wants a lesson in honour, Mr Kydd’s yer man. Won’t stand fer anyone takin’ ’im fer a villain without ’e stands up fer ’isself, an’ that’s why ’e sees me ’ere – a duel, like. An I ’ave ter say, I didn’t reckon ’e’d ’ave the sand t’ see it through, sling ’is mauley like a good ’un, ’im bein’ an officer an’ all.’
He turned back to Kydd and touched his forehead. ‘I’d take it kindly in ye should y’ shake m’ hand, sir.’
A roar of wild applause burst out, going on and on, until Dobbie held up his arms. ‘M’ lads – I want yer t’ unnerstand, this ’ere Kydd is one of us, but ’e’s done good fer ’imself, an’ that’s no crime. An’ I f’r one is going ter foller Lootenant Kydd.’
‘All bets ’r off, gennelmen!’ bawled Akins.
The press of spectators broke into riotous commotion. Kydd’s comprehension of events rapidly disintegrated – he was being slapped on the back and idolised by dozens of drunken seamen. An unwilling Tysoe was plied with beer; women’s gleeful painted faces danced before him; and Dobbie, now the centre of a throng of seamen, was telling the story of the great mutiny of the Nore.
Admiral Vandeput and his squadron returned three days later, joining Tenacious at her anchorage. Kydd was in the boat returning from the flagship, and could see Renzi waiting on the quarterdeck of Tenacious, and dared a brief wave. It was good to see his friend and the clouds lifted from his spirit.
Clutching the precious pouch of despatches and confidential signal information, Kydd hauled himself up the side and took Renzi’s hand. ‘I’d thought to see you flag-lieutenant b’ now,’ he said.
‘Flag-lieutenant? Not if the present incumbent can help it.’ Renzi chuckled drily. ‘And while you’ve been in this Arcadia resting, I’ve been privy to secrets concerning the cod fishery that would stand you amazed, dear fellow.’
‘You’ll tell me of y’r secrets this very afternoon. You get y’r gear inboard while I get these t’ Captain Houghton. I have it from on high that the adm’ral will want t’ have his squadron to sea f’r exercises as soon as he’s stored – that’s t’morrow, I’ll wager.’
‘If it were at all possible, a light walk ashore among the spring blooms would be pleasant, Tom. Our admiral does not spare his minions, you may believe.’
The Dartmouth side of the harbour was speckled with green shoots and the ground was firming. They paced it out in the hesitant sunshine, feeling the country awake out of its winter retreat.