The Privateer's Revenge(5)

A splintering crash and female screams slammed into Kydd's consciousness followed by urgent shouts and a strident bellow from the door. Reeling, he tried to make sense of it as his companions shot to their feet and yelled at him, "The press! Skin out while y' can, Tom—jowla, jowla, matey!" They disappeared hurriedly into the scrimmage and Kydd tried clumsily to follow but fell headlong. Before he could rise he felt knees in his back, his thumbs secured with rope-yarns, and he was yanked to his feet.

"Got a rough knot 'ere, sir," the press gang seaman called, his hand firmly on the scruff of Kydd's neck as he tried to writhe free.

A young lieutenant was approaching and Kydd hung his head in stupefied dejection, waiting for recognition. "Ah, yes. Looks fit enough. Hey, you—which ship? What rate o' seaman?"

Kydd struggled with his befuddled mind. "Er, there's a mistake," he mumbled.

"That's 'sir' t' you, cully," the seaman said, with a sharp cuff to Kydd's head.

"Um, sir, y' can't take me, I'm . . . er, that is t' say, I'm . . ." He trailed off weakly.

"And, pray, what are you, then? A gentleman?" the officer said sarcastically, eyeing Kydd's appearance. "Or possibly the captain of your ship as can't be spared."

The seaman tittered.

Kydd said nothing, overcome with mortification. The lieutenant changed his tone. "Now there's nothing to be ashamed of. Should you show willing, in the King's service, we can make a man of you. Proud to serve! Who knows, there's been those who've been rated full petty officer in just a few years."

Numb, Kydd was led off with the others by the Impress Service, the regular organisation for supplying the fleet with men. He knew they were going to the receiving ship, an old, no longer fit-for-service hulk moored well out.

There, they were herded into the darkness of the hold, and the gratings slid into place with hopeless finality. Two dim lanthorns revealed dirty straw and pitiful bodies, a pail of water in the corner. In the morning he would be cleaned up to go before the regulating captain who, he recalled, was Byam, honourably wounded at the Nile. Without question he would be recognised.

The drink-haze fled, leaving him in full knowledge of the horror of his situation. He would be laughed out of the Navy. Even the merchant sailors would chortle with glee at the story of his downfall. To the disgrace of his family, he would be pointed out wherever he went as the captain who had been pressed by his own press gang.

The long night passed in self-condemnation, recrimination and torturing images of his shocked friends and relations as they heard the news. How could he bear the shame? What excuse could he offer? He lay sleepless on the rank straw, dreading the day to come.

At first light the guards took up position at the grating. Kydd heard footsteps approaching and saw figures peering down. He shrank away. There were muffled voices, then a guard lifted away the grating and swung over a lanthorn. "Hey! Yair, you wi' the grego!"

Kydd looked up miserably.

"Yes, that's him, the villain," came a cultured voice. Another loomed next to him.

The ladder was slid down. "Up 'n' out, matey, an' no tricks!"

Kydd climbed slowly, misery overflowing. He reached the top and raised his eyes—to be met with the grave face of Nicholas Renzi, who said, with a sigh, "It's him. Tom Brown, gunner's mate. Never to be trusted ashore. I dare to say that "Teazer's captain will know what to do with him." He turned to the lieutenant. "I do thank you for securing him—we'll have him back aboard immediately. I don't believe Captain Byam need be troubled." Then he ordered the thickset seaman next to him, "Hale him into the longboat directly, if you please."

Tobias Stirk grinned mirthlessly and frogmarched Kydd away.





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CHAPTER 2


HEARING MOVEMENT IN THE OTHER BEDROOM, Renzi sat up. Although he was very tired, he rose quickly and dressed. It had been a long, distressing night. After frantically searching for Kydd for hours, he had gone to Teazer and found Stirk. Together, with Stirk sworn to secrecy, they had scoured the dockyard and town. Then, despairing, they had thought to check the press gang catch.

Renzi knocked softly. Kydd's pain was heartbreaking and he was clearly not responsible for his actions: Who knew what he might do next?

"Tom?" he called gently. "Are you awake, brother?"

There was an indistinct murmur. Renzi entered. To his surprise Kydd was shaved, dressed and tying his neckcloth. "Do I see you well, my friend?" Renzi ventured.

"As ye'd expect." Kydd did not take his eyes from the mirror.

"Believe me, brother, you have my every understanding. When one's wits are askew with grief there is no telling where the mind will stray."