The vigil continued and Kydd’s hold on reality drifted. Shadows appeared, offering him grog, food. His messmates came in ones and twos; an awkward word, a hand clapped on the shoulder, understanding. Bowyer’s breathing was now almost imperceptible.
Exhaustion made Kydd’s eyes heavy and his head jerked as he fought to keep awake. In this half-world of existence there was a merciful sense of detachment, a disconnection from events. Toward the end of the last dog-watch his mind registered a change… that there was now no movement at all. Bowyer’s appearance was quite unaltered, except that he no longer breathed.
His best friend was dead.
“Rum do, Joe gettin’ ’is like that,” said Doud.
“Not ’s if he were a raw hand – never seen such a right old shellback as ’e,” Whaley mused.
Pinto leaned across the table, his liquid brown eyes serious. “You joke – but we say, when the Holy Mother want someone, she call, you come.”
From the end of the table Claggett coughed in a noncommittal way and called them to attention. “Joe had no folks.” The statement was bald, but downcast looks showed that the implications were clear. “He was one o’ the Hanway boys, he were never one fer the ’longshore life.” He glanced around. The shoddy purser’s glim guttered. This time there were no sardonic words about the smell. “I’d say that Tom Kydd is as close as any to Joe,” Claggett said.
“Where’s he now, poor mucker?” someone asked.
“Saw him a whiles ago up forrard on the fo’c’sle,” said Howell. “At the weather cathead,” he added significantly.
“Doesn’t someone go ’n’ see if we can help?” said Doud.
Whaley hesitated. “Did go meself, Ned, but he wants to be on his own.”
“Best to leave him so, I guess,” said Claggett. “He’ll get over it betimes.”
Kydd was not alone, there on the fo’c’sle in the wind and thin rain. In his befuddled brain he felt a fierce and uncaring joy in the hard bulk of the bottle that lay hidden, nestling next to his heart. Phelps could always be relied on where rum was concerned.
In the gloom of the night the fore lookouts kept out of the way and no one else was foolish enough to wallow in the chill misery of wind and rain. Kydd took another drink from his secret store. It helped, but only if he didn’t think. The trouble was there was no answer. Only blind fate. He took another swig. It burned as it spread into his vitals.
For some reason he found himself sitting on deck with his back to the carronade, looking up with owlish eyes at the huge pale span of the foresail. Strange that. There should only be one foreyard; another seemed to be floating nearby. He leaned back to get a better view and toppled over. He struggled to sit upright again and fixed his eyes on the rain-black bitts to steady himself.
“Poor sod!” the larboard fo’c’sle lookout muttered to the other, jerking his head at the sodden, lonely figure. Neither could desert their posts – and that meant the result was inevitable. In a short while the Master-at-Arms with his corporals would be doing his rounds and would discover the poor wight. Then it would be irons overnight and the cat in the morning – at sea they were merciless when it came to a member of the fighting crew becoming useless from drink when at any time the enemy could loom up out of the night with all guns blazing. He’d be lucky to get away with just a dozen.
The lookout turned back to resume his stare out into the night.
The bottle tilted again. Bowyer had no right to leave him like this – he’d taken his advice and was well on the way to becoming a sailor. And now he had to sort it out for himself. It wasn’t fair. Unlike many of the pressed men, Kydd had found a friend. In Bowyer, he’d had someone who could take this hellish world and make sense of it, put it in perspective for him. Give him purpose, a future, and be there when needed. Kydd’s face contorted.
A figure emerged from the fore hatch, indistinct in the gloom. It hesitated, then came across and stood over him. Renzi looked down, with pity and revulsion in his expression. Blind sentiment played no part in Renzi’s character – Kydd must take his chances along the road he himself had chosen. In his own past he had seen too many like him, worse in fact, for those with the wealth to do it could go to hell in their own way. Renzi moved away – but something made him return. He looked down again. Kydd returned the look with drunken resentment and Renzi swore harshly, for he knew he could not abandon him. Not when the man bore the uncanny resemblance that had haunted Renzi since Kydd first came aboard. He jerked Kydd to his feet, tore the bottle from his grasp and hurled it into the night.
“Wha – how dar’ you, s-sir!” Kydd spluttered, trying to dislodge the grip clamped on his collar. Somehow his feet found the deck and he wriggled free.
Renzi regarded him grimly.
Kydd bristled. “You never l-liked Joe,” he said. “You don’ like anybody, you slivey bast’d!”
Renzi had deep reasons for his detached position. But something had to be done: if he did nothing, disengaged himself – the result would be inevitable. A pang of memory stabbed at him.
“Wha’s matter? Can’t speak? Don’t wanna speak wi’ a common jack – you too high ’n’ mighty, then?”
Kydd had changed, Renzi acknowledged to himself. Far from being a naïve young man from a country town pressed into an uncaring, alien environment, he was gaining confidence in his considerable natural abilities and had a very real prospect of being a fine seaman – if he survived.
“Ah, yes!” He looked at Renzi sideways with a leer. “I know – I know why you’re at sea wi’ the rest of us!”
He made exaggerated glances around to check for listeners. “You’ve done something, haven’t you? Somethin’ bad, I’ll wager, ’n’ they’re after you. You go ashore, they’re gonna nobble you. You’re runnin’, Renzi, running from somethin’.”
Renzi drew a sharp breath. “You ignorant jackass. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Put a rein on your tongue before you say anything you might regret.”
“It speaks! The gran’ prince deigns to address th’ mobility.” Kydd made a bow, but staggered forward, colliding with Renzi. “Ge’ your hands off me, sir!” Kydd said, wrenching himself free. He took a swing at Renzi, clumsy and wild. Renzi easily ducked under it, but knew that if he left now all would be over for Kydd. Tempted, he drew back – but Kydd’s guileless face and dark features pricked him mercilessly. Stepping around him, Renzi seized his arms in a lock and frog-marched him toward the hatch.
“Ger’ away – wha’ you doing? Le’ me go, you -”
He threw Kydd down the ladder and resumed his hold when Kydd picked himself up at the bottom. It continued until they were in the orlop. Renzi dragged Kydd over to the gratings between the pump room and sail stowage, and flung him down. “There, you fool! You want to give your life to the bottle, do it in company.” He jerked up the grating to reveal, in the stinking blackness below, a huddled figure clutching a bot tle. The face looked up anxiously, rheumy eyes and trembling grasp pitiful in its degradation. Renzi spoke scornfully. “Eakin, cooper’s mate. Why don’t you introduce yourself, Mr. Kydd? I’m sure you’ll find you have much in common!” He let Kydd drop to the deck and left.
“Don’t worry, mate, we squared it with Jack Weatherface. Good hand, is Tewsley.” Doud spoke softly, as to a child.
Kydd said nothing, holding his head and staring at his breakfast.
“Yeah – look, we understand, cuffin. He was our shipmate too.” Whaley reached over and squeezed his arm.
Kydd looked up wordlessly. His vague memories of the previous night were shot through with horror – waking from a drunken sleep to find the sickening Eakin pulling him down into the hold to evade the Master-at-Arms before clumsily going through his clothes for drink or valuables. He remembered also Renzi’s pitiless grip and implacable face, and the cold ferocity of his movements. Kydd shot a glance over at Renzi in his usual place opposite Claggett. Silent and guarded as ever, he gave no sign of recognition.