Dwight held up a pacifying hand. ‘Now, I didn’t say there was nothing I could do. I’m a selectman an’ you have come to me with a case. I’ll be letting the governor in Hartford know – but that’ll take some time with the roads as they is. However, I’m empowered to, and I will, issue a warrant for a town meeting to consider, um, whether the committee of public safety should take action to prevent there being a hostile action on our soil. Requiring the Frenchman t’ take himself elsewhere, say. No promises, Mr Kydd, but you’ll get to say your piece and—’
He broke off and cocked his head. Indistinct shouts sounded in the night, rhythmic thuds like a drum. Dwight crossed to the window and pulled the shutter ajar. ‘Trouble,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘Republicans. Don’t like you being here, I guess.’
Kydd peered out. Flickering torches were being borne along towards them, and in their light he saw marching figures, gesticulating, shouting.
‘Had ’em here before, the wicked dogs. Here, lend me a hand, sir.’ They moved over to each window and secured the folding shutters, the smell of guttering candles in the gloom of the closed room now oppressive.
A maid came from the rear, hands to her mouth. ‘We’ll be quite safe, Mary,’ Dwight said, and pulled open a drawer. Kydd caught the glint of a pistol. ‘They’re only here ’cos they’ve had a skinful of Schroeder’s liquor – they’ll be away after they’ve had their fun.’
He eased open the shutter a crack. ‘See that? They’re wearing a tricolour cockade in their hats! Republicans do that so there’s no mistake who it is they support.’
The noise grew close. A drum thudded in an uneven rhythm, while harsh shouts and laughter came clearly through the closed shutters. Suddenly there was a sharp thud and tinkling glass, then another. Dwight stiffened and swore. ‘Breaking windows. I’ll have Schroeder’s hide – no need f’r this.’
But, as he had prophesied, the influence of drink faded and the small crowd dispersed. ‘I’m truly sorry you’ve been inconvenienced, Mr Kydd,’ Dwight said, with dignity, ‘but in my country we value free speech above all things. Good night to ye.’
Kydd did not sleep well and was up at cockcrow, pacing along the single cross-street to get the stiffness from his limbs.
It did not take long for the gang of youngsters to find him and begin chanting again, but Kydd grinned broadly and gave them a cheery wave. They soon tired of the sport and darted away. After a few minutes one returned and took station next to him. Kydd guessed he was about ten.
‘Are you English?’ the boy blurted out.
‘Aye. I come fr’m Guildford, which is in Surrey,’ Kydd said.
‘What’s your ship’s name?’
‘Oh, she’s His Britannic Majesty’s sixty-four-gun ship Tenacious, an’ I’m her fifth l’tenant, Kydd, so you have t’ call me “sir”!’
‘Yes, sir,’ the boy said smartly. ‘I’m Peter Miller.’ They walked on together. ‘How do ye keelhaul a man, sir?’
‘What? No, lad, we don’t keelhaul sailors. We flog ’em, never keelhaul.’ Kydd chuckled.
‘Have you ever bin flogged, sir?’ Peter asked, wide-eyed.
Kydd hesitated. It was not an admission he would make in polite company. ‘Yes, a long time ago, before I was an officer.’
Peter nodded seriously. ‘I want t’ join the Navy like you, but my pap says we ain’t got a navy,’ he added defensively.
‘We have Americans in the Royal Navy, lad. Ye could—’
‘No, sir!’ Peter said with spirit. ‘I’ll not serve King George. Er, that’s any king a’tall, not just your king, sir.’
Kydd laughed, and the boy scampered off.
He reached the end of the street, turned the corner and found himself heading towards the French privateer alongside the commercial wharf. At the thought of seeing the ship at such close quarters he quickened his pace. There were idle onlookers standing about on the quay taking their fill of the novel sight; Kydd could see no reason why he should not be one of them.
A shout came from behind him. ‘There he is – the English bastard! Come t’ spy on our friends.’ He recognised the voice of a hothead who had been at the boat. Several men hurried towards him, one hefting a length of paling wood; an authoritative-looking figure watched from the foredeck of the privateer. Kydd stiffened. There would be no help from the spectators by the vessel: they were too busy gawping and the few looking in his direction seemed disinclined to intervene.