The boatswain shifted awkwardly and mumbled, "Jus' wanted t' warn ye, like."
As had Renzi.
"I'll—I'll think on it," was all Kydd could manage.
"Then I'll be away for'ard," Purchet said, with quiet dignity.
Kydd sat down slowly, cold with shock. Since he had first won command those few years ago in Malta, he had taken satisfaction that his origins before the mast gave him a particular insight into the thinking of his men, but now—a mutiny?
Deep down he knew the reason and it was the one he feared most.
To be brutally honest with himself, he would have to admit that he was confronting personal failure. His seizing on duty as the answer to his pain, a sure and trustworthy lifeline out of the pit of despair that he had grasped so eagerly; this had secured its object, the continuance of his professional functioning, but at grievous cost. By degrees it had changed him, become the master of his soul and now ruled his every action, turning him into a hard-hearted, blinkered automaton.
He balled his fists. It had been too easy—a way of keeping the world and its hurts at bay, but also an excuse not to think. And, above all, not to face things. He paced fretfully about the cabin: If it was not the answer, then what was?
The decanters were in the sideboard. He hesitated, then took out the rum. Its fire steadied him but this was no remedy. That could only be to face up to his pain, the grief . . . memories.
Since that terrible day he had instinctively shied from their immediacy. Was he ready to deal with them yet? A feeling of inevitability crept over him. He was not blessedly logical, as Renzi was, but something drew him irresistibly to focus on just one thing: the slight but constant pressure at his breast, always so warm against his skin. The locket.
He had worn it next to his heart since the day when Rosalynd's silhouette had been fashioned into a miniature—and he had never dared look upon it since he had lost her. He drew it out slowly, tenderly. For a brief moment he held it tight in his hand, fighting the flood of images, then snapped it open.
Her likeness: Rosalynd. In black crêpe paper, now a little crinkled. He held the trinket reverently, trying to relive the time when it had been new. The cheap gilt finish had now worn through to the bright steel at the edges and in places there were specks of rust, but no matter. What he held in his hands was Rosalynd, his sweetheart.
He gulped as his eyes misted, but another thought intruded, growing in strength and insistence. This was not Rosalynd. It was merely her likeness. It was tarnishing and fading and would eventually disintegrate. It was not her: she no longer existed in this world—except in his memory, and there she would never fade.
He knew then what he had to do. He crossed to the stern windows, opened the centre one and swung it wide. Outside there was impenetrable blackness but with it the clean tang of salt, seaweed and waves soughing mournfully against "Teazer's counter. With only a brief hesitation he hurled the locket into the night.
It was done. With the act came a feeling of release; lovers separated by distance would eventually meet again, but when separated by time they would not. Rosalynd was of the past. There was now no need for any elaborate personal defences: she was safely preserved in his memory, and he had his duties to his present existence. Renzi had been right but it had taken the threat of mutiny to bring him to—
Mutiny! The reality flooded in and his mind snapped to full alertness. He did not fear a bloody uprising so much as the certainty that the moment an order was disobeyed, a scornful or threatening word uttered, nothing short of a court-martial and a noose at the yardarm would satisfy an Admiralty sensitive to the slightest evidence of disaffection or rebellion in the fleet. Long after the corpses were cut down Teazer would bear the stain of dishonour—and it would be entirely the fault of her captain.
It demanded action—and quickly. What should he do? Order the marines to stand to, heading off any moves now under way? Wake Standish and have him, with the warrant officers, armed and aft? This would stop any mutiny in its tracks but would immediately throw the ship into two camps set implacably against each other.
He couldn't do it. He would lose any regard that still remained in his men and that was too great a price to pay. Then what? Do nothing? That was not possible. Instead he would appeal directly to them. On a personal level, but not as a supplicant: as their captain. And not on the quarterdeck in the usual way . . .
His servant Tysoe had taken to keeping out of the way so Kydd went to his sleeping cabin and there found his full dress coat with its Nile medals and pulled it on. Clapping on his gold-laced cocked hat he made his way in the darkness to the hatchway.
As he descended he could hear the usual babble of talk and guffaws issuing from the mess-deck; it was a strong custom of the Service that the captain would never intrude on the men in their own territory in their own time, still less do so without warning— but this was no idle visit.