Pinto’s vicious curse drew a sharp look from the petty officers.

Wong grunted. “If him, I Hung Fu Chi!” The contempt in his bland face was the first expression Kydd had ever seen on it.

The wondering murmurs continued until Caldwell nodded at Tyrell, who snapped, “Still!” at the boatswain.

From a dozen silver calls a single steady note pealed. A slight shuffling of feet and silence spread. Captain Caldwell strode forward to the break of the poop to take position, legs astride, hands behind his back. In front of him, the ship’s company of Duke William: petty officers, hard men, the freely acknowledged backbone of the Navy; the tarry-pigtailed long-service able seamen, relaxed but wary; the idlers – the armorer, cooper, sailmaker, carpenter and their mates in their outlandish working clothes; the yeomen – coxswain, quartermasters, gunner’s mates; and the landmen, anxious, not understanding.

The Captain cleared his throat and began. “I’ve called you all aft to tell you the news.” His voice, not strained in shouting orders, was a pleasant patrician baritone. “But first I want to congratulate the fo’c’slemen on their quick thinking this morning. It may have prevented an unfortunate accident from occurring. Well done.”

There was a ripple of indistinct comment.

He paused, looking grave. “We shall need that sort of initiative and attention to duty where we will be going.”

Significant looks were exchanged. If Caldwell was talking about sea duty in the near future, then not only would estimates of leave time ashore need to be revised but they would be putting out into the Atlantic winter in an old, leaky vessel in certain peril of their lives. Faces hardened and attitudes took on a sullen cast as they waited for what came next.

“As most ready for sea, we sail in a little while on a very important task. A vital task, and one on which England’s very existence may depend.”

Disbelieving stares and mutters came from all sides: the men had been quick to notice Caldwell’s use of “we” – clearly he had got away with it, there would be no new captain.

“You don’t need me to remind you that we are now at war with France. And this time we’re dealing with a set of murderous bandits who will stop at nothing.” His voice whipped and rose in dramatic flourishes. “We proceed with Tiberius and Royal Albion with frigates for the coast of France to clamp our hold on their deep-sea ports in time to prevent their fleet coming out to fall upon these islands. And our folk at home are right to put their trust in us to defend them. Ours is the just cause and ours will be the victory. Let me hear your spirit, men – an huzzah for old England! Let me hear it!”

There were sparse cheers and stony looks.

“And another for our brave ship!”

The cheers held a little more conviction.

“A three times three for His Majesty!”

This time the shouts were more good-humored, for it was not the amiable “Farmer George” who was the cause of their immediate discontent. Volleys of cheers echoed over the water, Caldwell and all the officers marking time with their hats.

The final cheer died away. Satisfied, Caldwell carefully replaced his cocked hat and stepped forward again. “This ship is now under sailing orders. The hoys are already on their way out to us in order that we may complete stores ready for sea as soon as possible, and I know you are ready to do your duty. Unfortunately it is not possible to grant leave ashore,” he continued smoothly. “You will, of course, appreciate the need for all hands at this time.”

A surge of muttering spread outward in the sea of faces. Growls from the petty officers did little to stop it. Caldwell looked pained and waited. The murmuring grew in volume. Now and then individual shouts could be heard.

Tyrell stood rigid, his chin thrust out, his eyes dangerous slits.

More shouts erupted. Tyrell snapped at the Captain of Marines and a line of marines descended each side of the poop and forced their way forward down each side of the deck. On command, they halted and turned inboard, their muskets held tightly across their chests.

The men drew back, the growls replaced by looks of savage discontent.

Caldwell resumed in the same smooth tones: “I shall not be able to be with you during this period, unfortunately. I have urgent business in London. However, I’m sure you will give your support to Mr. Tyrell, who will act in my place until I return.” He nodded at Tyrell. “Carry on, please.” Accompanied by his clerk, he made his way down the ladder and disappeared into the cabin spaces, leaving a somber group of officers on the poop.

Tyrell moved forward. “Hands to stations for store ship,” he ordered brusquely.

“No liberty – what about wives and sweethearts?” The vigorous shout came from the anonymous center of the mass of seamen and was immediately taken up by all around. Boats now putting out from shore, crowded with enterprising womenfolk, gave point to their grievance.

“Silence!” Tyrell roared. His hands, clamped on the rail, writhed under the intensity of his anger. “You’re under discipline, you mutinous rascals. Any one of you wants to forget this, then I’ll see his backbone at the gratings and be damned to him. And it’s no use baying after skirt like a set of mangy dogs. It’ll do you no good. We’re under sailing orders. You’re a vile set of lubbers, no control, and I will not have the discipline in this ship undone by letting a crowd of drabtail trulls come swarming aboard.”

“Why – the poxy, cuntbitten bastard! The – the -” Words failed Whaley.

Murmurs spread and grew in passion. As the shouts and catcalls peaked a shrill voice sounded clear above the disorder: “Death to tyrants – and an end to slavery!”

Kydd recognized Stallard’s high, intemperate voice.

Tyrell went rigid; the shouting died away. The Captain of Marines barked an order, and the marines on each side slapped their muskets to the present, a storm of clicking in the sudden silence as they cocked their weapons.

The seamen shied at the sudden movement, unsure and fearful at developments. The officers on the poop in their blue, white and gold stood, legs apart, looking down, grave and silent.

Tyrell’s murderous expression did not falter. Slowly and deliberately he went down the side ladder alone to the quarterdeck and into the mass of seamen. Directly challenging with his eyes individuals on one side and the other, but never uttering a word, he passed through them, past the mainmast, then with a measured tread back along the other side. Kydd caught his darting glance – a fierce, dangerous glint that held the same intelligence he had seen before. Unchecked by any movement, Tyrell made his way to the opposite ladder and back up to the poop. Taking position dead center, he stopped, holding the still mass of men with his gaze for a long minute. “I don’t know who that fool was,” he roared, “but he’ll swing when I find him – and if he has any friends of like mind, they’ll dangle next to him.” His eyes flicked up the naked masts with the ease of long habit, and down again. “I’ll have no more of this nonsense,” he said, his fury in icy control. “We’re paid to fight the King’s enemies on the high seas, not pansy about in port! We sail to meet the French in a short while, and I mean to have this ship in fighting trim by then – and damn the blood of any knave who stands in my way! Hands to store ship!” The moment hung. Then, with sullen reluctance, by ones and twos, the men dispersed.

Kydd looked at Bowyer. The man still stood, his face a mask of sorrow. It was not hard to understand why: he was staring out over the mile or so of sea to the long stone landing place, and the colorful crowd gathering there. “It’ll be a long time afore we gets to see Spithead again, mate,” he said, in a low voice, and turning abruptly stepped firmly to the seaward side of the deck to join the brooding group of men at the forebrace bitts.