The Privateer's Revenge(4)

Then the two were on him, expertly riffling his pockets, taking his purse, a small ring, the fob watch Cecilia had proudly given him when he had achieved the quarterdeck. He was helpless while they ransacked his body with savage, invasive hands.

"Dick—I'm 'avin' them kicks. Help me get 'em off th' bastard."

They had seen his breeches, the sign of a gentleman, and these were his finest, worn for the admiral. He struggled but was held while they were viciously stripped off. "An' the shirt, cully!"

He caught one a glancing blow but it was no use. Before they had robbed him of stockings and shoes, too, something made them scurry off, leaving him prostrate in the dirty alley, sore and shivering with cold and shame.

Kydd sat up, head swimming. A bout of heaving seized him and he fell sideways, sliming his undervest. He got to his feet unsteadily, then saw that one of the robbers had thrown aside his own garments to run off in his. A rank pair of trousers and a ragged black waistcoat; they would have to cover him as he made his way back to . . . his old life?

No! If there was one thing he was not, it was a craven-hearted lobcock. He would see through what he'd set out to do. With pathetic dignity he hauled on the malodorous trousers, the fat-streaked waistcoat, and his old grego, which the footpads had disdained. It had seen many a stormy night in the past and no doubt would in whatever lay ahead . . .

Kydd set course stubbornly for Cockside. He reached the cobblestones of the quay, the bowsprits of silent ships spearing high above him in the still darkness. On the far wharf others were moored broadside to, with cargo working gear rigged, waiting for the next day. A lone shipkeeper wandered morosely about the deck of his vessel.

The sailors' taverns were beacons of light and noise and he made for the nearest. His mouth tasted vile, his head throbbed—but a gage of bowse with the splicings would soon set him to rights. Kydd pushed open the door and a sickly sweet smell of liquored sawdust and warm humanity hit him. A few turned, then resumed their conversations.

Across the room a serving maid looked at him speculatively and made her way through the tables. "A hard time, sailor?" she said sympathetically. It was not uncommon after a rough voyage and the hard carousing that followed for a sailor to sell his clothes. Kydd's heart warmed to her and he gave a shy smile. "Ye're welcome here, shipmate," she continued. "An' what c'n I find f'r you as will chase away y'r mem'ries, m' dear?"

Kydd's face clouded. "Thank 'ee, Miss—but there isn't a med'cine made as will settle that. Er, I have m' hopes of a long voyage t' come, though," he concluded weakly. His expression eased. "But a muzzler o' y'r right true sort is wha' I'd take kindly."

"Look, come over an' sit wi' these gennelmen," she said and waved a pot towards a cosy group about a table in the corner. "They's in from the Indies, eleven weeks 'cross the Western Ocean wi' a sprung foremast an' aught t' eat but belaying-pin soup an' handspike hash."

The beer was dark, honest and spread the glow of inebriation once more. His new friends had glanced at him curiously just once and then, as was the way of the sea, had accepted him for what he was. "Yez must've had a time of it, Tom, m' skiddy cock. Which hooker?" one asked.

"Save y'r kindness, mates, an' it's something I—I don't wan' t' talk of," Kydd said gruffly, and took refuge in his tankard.

"Right b' us, ain't it?" the oldest in the group said hastily to the others and called for another pint. "An' if ye're not flush in the fob . . ." he muttered kindly.

"Ah, 'everybody's mess an' no one's watch'?" Kydd snorted. "No, cuffin, I has m' cobbs as will pay m' way."

He fumbled with his shoe while the others looked away politely. He found the coins—in his careless haste he had slipped in three half-guineas and a florin, a princely sum for a seaman. Embarrassed, he mumbled something and ordered a drink for each man.

They had not questioned Kydd's reticence—many went to sea for a good enough reason—but they told him willingly of their own hard passage. Seeing Kydd relax a little, they asked what he had in mind for the future and, head spinning, he tried to explain his great need for far voyaging. They nodded: it was the ambition of most seamen when reaching port to spend all their hard-won pay in one glorious spree and, penniless, sign on for another hard voyage.

"Well, matey, we's not f'r south o' the Line, but y' might want t' think about Barbadoes Packet. Sailin' soon f'r Batavia in hardwares. Her mate'll be about lookin' f'r hands tonight, I shouldn't wonder."

Kydd tried blearily to take it in.

"Th' mate?" said another, with feeling. "Ye're forgettin' it's Hellyer, a right bucko as ever I seen! You ship out in that there—"