Quarterdeck (31 page)

Kydd expressed his appreciation and, proffering some coins, added apologetically, “I have t’ tell you now, sir, I don’t have any American money for my room.”

“Put it away, sir. That won’t be necessary.” Hay pursed his lips and said, “I don’t mean t’ be nosy, but can I ask what business is it y’ have in Exbury? Somethin’ to do with the Frenchy, I guess.”

“I—have to, er, enquire of the authorities what they mean t’ do in the matter,” Kydd said cautiously.

“To do? Nothin’ I guess. Frenchy is here t’ fi t a noo mizzen and be on her way, and that’s all—we let him be.”

“It’s the law, Mr Hay.”

“Law? No law says we has to send him out fer you to take in that two-decker o’ yourn,” he said coldly.

“I have t’ hear the authorities fi rst, y’ understands,” Kydd said.

“Who would that be, do ye think?”

Hay’s coolness remained. At length, he said, “That’ll be Mr Dwight or Mr Chadwick. Selectmen fer Exbury.” Seeing the blank look on Kydd’s face, he added, “Magistrates, like. Call th’

meetings, run th’ constables.”

“I’d like to call on ’em, if y’ please,” Kydd said politely.

“Time fer that after supper.” The aroma of fresh-baked bread fi lled the air. Hay sniffed appreciatively. “An’ if I’m not wrong we’re havin’ steamed clams.”

“. . . and may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.”

While Mrs Hay set about the dishes, Kydd tried to make conversation. “M’ fi rst time in the United States. I have t’ say, it’s a good-lookin’ country.” Hay regarded him without comment.

Kydd smiled across at Judith, who hastily dropped her eyes. He turned once more to Hay. “I’d be obliged if ye could fi nd your way clear t’ tellin’ me why I’m not welcome, Mr Hay.”

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Hay’s face hardened. “That’s easy enough. We live fr’m the sea by fi shing ’n’ trade. We’re a small town, as ye can see, and when a ship is built an’ vittled for tradin’ there’s a piece of everyone in her when she puts t’ sea. Life ain’t easy, an’ when a family puts in their savin’s it’s cruel hard t’ see that ship taken f’r prize by a King’s ship an’ carried into a Canadian port t’ be condemned.”

“But this is because you’ve been caught trading with the French—the enemy.”

“Whose enemy?” Hay snorted. “None of our business, this war.”

“And if the French beat us, then you don’t think they’re going to come and claim back their American empire? They have most o’ the rest of the world.”

Hay grunted. “Eat y’r clams, Mr Kydd.”

The atmosphere thawed as the meal progressed. Eventually, after apple pie and Cheddar, Hay sat back. “If you’re goin’ t’ see a magistrate, make it Dwight.” He wouldn’t be drawn any further and Kydd set off alone. At the substantial gambrel-roofed house, which Hay had previously pointed out, he was greeted by a short, tubby man wearing a napkin tucked round his neck.

“Er, I need t’ see Mr Dwight.”

“Himself,” the man said, in a peculiar, rapid delivery. “I guess you’re the English offi cer. Am I right?”

“Aye, Lieutenant Kydd. Sir, pardon me if I seem unfamiliar with y’r ways, but I need t’ fi nd the authority here in Exbury—

the public leader, as it were, in your town.”

Dwight raised his eyebrows, but motioned Kydd inside and closed the door. “I’ll shake hands with you in private, if you don’t mind, L’tenant. Now sit ye down, and here’s a little rye whiskey for your chilblains.”

Kydd accepted it.

“Sir, if you’re lookin’ for our leader, I guess I’m your man.

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Selectman o’ Exbury. It’s about as high as it goes, short o’ the governor in Hartford. Now, how can I help you?”

“Sir, I come on a mission o’ some delicacy. No doubt you’re aware that a French privateer lies in your port—”

“I am.”

“—which we surprised in the fog in th’ process of takin’ a merchant ship of the United States goin’ about its lawful business.”

“Don’t surprise me to hear it, sir.”

“Oh?” said Kydd, prepared only for disbelief and scorn.

“Sir. Let me make my position clear. I’m known as a plain-speakin’ man and I’ll tell it straight.

“I’m a Federalist, same as the President, same as General Washington himself. I won’t try your patience in explaining our politics. Just be assured we stand for the old ways and decent conduct, and we don’t hold with this damn French arrogance and ambition. We’re opposed by a bunch o’ rascals who think t’ sym-pathise with them on account of their help in the late war—saving y’r presence, sir.”

Kydd began to speak, but was interrupted. “I said I’ll speak plain, and I will. We’ve been taking insults to our fl ag and loss to our trade, and we’ll not have it. There’s going t’ be an accounting, and that soon.

“But, sir, I’ll have you understand, because we take the same view, this does not mean we’re friends.”

Kydd gathered his thoughts and began again: “What we seek, sir, is an indication how you mean to act.” As smoothly as he could, he continued, “You have here a belligerent vessel seeking a neutral haven f’r repairs. According to international law, he must sail within two days. Do ye mean to enforce the law?”

Dwight sighed. “Philadelphia is a long ways off—the law is as may be. Here, it’s what the citizens say that counts.”

“Does this mean—”

“If I tried t’ arrest the Frenchman with my two constables, I’d

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start a riot—
and
be thrown out of offi ce. This town has just lost a ship t’ the British and two lads to your press-gang. And I’d run smack dab against Kit Schroeder.”

“I believe I’ve met the gentleman,” Kydd murmured.

“Owns three ships and the store, knows how t’ lift a cargo with all the right papers to see it past the British an’ then on to a French port. There’s most folks here do business with him and don’t want to see him interfered with, y’ see.”

“So you’re saying that there’s nothing you c’n do? You mean th’ Frenchy to lie alongside as long as he wants?” For the sake of local politics the privateer was to be left untouched;
Tenacious
would be forced to sail in a few days, releasing the vessel to continue her career of destruction. Resentment boiled up in Kydd.

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 fi gures, 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.

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Julian Stockwin

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 infl uence 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 fi nd 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 fi fth 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?”

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“What? No, lad, we don’t keelhaul sailors. We fl og ’em, never keelhaul.” Kydd chuckled.

“Have you ever bin fl ogged, 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 offi cer.”

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 fi ll 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 authorita-tive- looking fi gure watched from the foredeck of the privateer.

Kydd stiffened. There would be no help from the spectators by the vessel: they were too busy gawp ing and the few looking in his direction seemed disinclined to intervene.

Kydd stood his ground with folded arms. He knew he could probably make a good account of himself, but he would not be the fi rst to make a move.

“Spyin’ dog! Y’ knows what happens t’ spies?”

“Are ye as chuckle-headed as y’ look? I’m no spy, skulkin’

around. I’ve got just as much right t’ take the air here as—as y’r Frenchy there.”

One of the bystanders came up. “He’s right, y’ knows. Both
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Julian Stockwin

furriners, stands t’ reason y’ can’t pick one over the other.”

“Hold y’r noise, Darby.” Schroeder strode across. “You, sir!” he called at Kydd, standing aggressively between him and the ship. “Will you account for your presence as an offi cer of a belligerent power at the lawful mooring-place of a ship of the opposing nation? Or shall it be spying?”

Kydd held his temper. “No.”

Schroeder started. “You’re saying—”

“I said, ‘No,’ which is to say I do not have t’ account to you or any man for what I’m about on m’ lawful business on a public highway.”

Schroeder’s jaw hardened, but Kydd looked past him to the privateer. Scores of men were pouring on to the wharf, scattering the onlookers.

Kydd waited. Surely they would not dare anything in broad daylight, before witnesses. But then they spread out in a line and moved towards him. Kydd tensed, the features of individual seamen resolving, alien chatter quietening to a purposeful advance.

Kydd stood fi rm. They came closer and stopped in front of him, undeniably seafarers, but with their sashes, fl oppy liberty caps and Mediterranean swarthiness, there was something distorted and menacing about them. They shuffl ed together to form a barrier, and when Kydd moved to go round it, they blocked his way again. Kydd spotted the fi gure on the foredeck and bellowed,

“Let me pass, y’ villains!” The offi cer shrugged and called out an unintelligible stream of French. It was stalemate: there was nothing for it but as dignifi ed a retreat as possible.

Kydd stalked off, seething at being outwitted by the French.

At the very least he had hoped to report back on the ship, her state for sea, guns, anything he could see. Now he would have to admit he hadn’t been able to get close.

He forced his mind to focus on the situation and by the time he’d reached the cross-street he had a plan: he would see the

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other side instead. That implied a boat; the tide was on the make, which would allow him to drift past and take his fi ll of the scene.

Kydd found the young lads playing in the same place and he called across to Peter, “A silver sixpence wi’ King George’s head on it should you tell me where I c’n hire a fi shin’-boat.”

The dory was double-ended and handy. In borrowed oilskins, Kydd set the little boat drifting along, an unbaited line over the side.

The privateer, the
Minotaure de Morlaix,
was big. Work was going ahead on the mizzen, a new spar chocked up ready on the wharf, but there appeared to be no hurry. Kydd scanned the vessel: her clean lines meant speed but also implied limited sea-endurance, given the large crew.