“Nicholas,” Kydd mumbled. He was fo’c’sle lookout, a concession to his still painful wounds.

They were quite alone. For a while they stood together, watching the endless moon-silvered waves march toward them from ahead, a hypnotic sight, the continuous lifting and soft crunching of the bow spreading white foam on each side to mark their passage.

“A pleasing scene,” Renzi ventured.

“Yes.”

Kydd’s wounds were healing, and he was able to wear his blue-striped shirt. An occasional cracking in the skin called for more goose grease, but soon he would be as fit as ever. The scar, however, he would carry for the rest of his life.

“You have your plans made now, I believe.”

Kydd was silent for a space. “Yes, I have.”

Renzi waited.

“I spoke t’ Dick Whaley.”

“And?”

“He said that every merchant ship has a hidey hole in the lower hold where they stow their best men from the press-gang, should they board. The powder brig will be with us very soon to replace our powder and shot. I will be aboard her when she returns to England.”

Renzi’s heart went cold. There would be no turning back.

“Nicholas – I have no right to ask it – ” The moonlight cast deep shadows on Kydd’s face.

“Ask, you looby.”

“I will need to sweeten the brig crew, you know, to – ”

“I understand. You shall have it.” He thought of the guineas sewn in his second waistcoat. Kydd would need them all to sustain him for whatever lay ahead.

“Thank you. I – we might meet again somewhere, y’ never know, in this poxy world.”

Two days later the brig arrived. It was a boisterous day and, as she lay alongside, an irritable boatswain had to rig, in addition to the main yard tackle, a stay end quarter tackle on fore and main to steady the big barrels as they were swayed aboard. It was not difficult to arrange assignments to the working party in the brig – most sailors had a reluctance to be in such proximity to tons of gunpowder.

At the noon meal break Kydd feigned fatigue, curling up in a corner as though stealing a nap. The brig’s crew looked at him curiously, then later invited him to share their victuals.

The Judith and Mary of Bristol was on charter to the Navy, a small, rotund but seaworthy vessel that had done the trip several times before. The crew quarters right in the eyes of the ship were tiny, but the men on each side of the table tucked into their meal with gusto. There was small beer to follow and Kydd drank it thirstily – it was no more than a few days old and was fresh and soft. He listened to the talk that followed. The Judith had reached her rendezvous late because she had sailed well out into the Atlantic to avoid any privateers at the entrance to the Channel. She was to supply Duke William and return to Devonport to de-store before going to Bristol for refit.

Kydd tried to hide his excitement – Bristol had no significant naval presence that he knew of. He took a deep breath. “Thanks for the scran. Might be I can return the favor.”

The nuggety seaman opposite grinned. “No need fer that at all, boyo!” he said, in a pleasant Welsh borders lilt.

“No – what I mean is, there’s maybe a bit o’ gold in it f’r you.”

The seamen looked at each other.

“How so, lad?”

For answer, Kydd stood up and, fixing them with blazing eyes, tore off his shirt to reveal the half-healed wounds, livid purple weals, some still weeping in places. “There’s ten guineas in it for you if I’m aboard when you sail,” he growled.

“An’ a berth in a King’s ship for us all if yer found,” another seaman muttered.

“What do y’ say?”

At first there was no response, and Kydd feared the worst.

Then the dark nuggety seaman stood up. “Name’s Finchett – Billy to you. Welcome aboard the Judith!”

Giddy with relief, Kydd sat down.

“We has a little, who shall say, accommodation in the hold we useta make our own before, when the press-gang’s out abroad. Ye’ll be safe enough there, boyo.” His palm came out, apologetically. “We needs to make other arrangements, you’ll unnerstand.”

The guineas chinked solemnly into the silence.

After the break, Kydd returned to the hold for work. Duke William required only half of Judith’s cargo of powder and soon they would cease their labor and return aboard.

Finchett clambered about over the top of the cargo as though checking their stowage.

There was much more light in the hold than there was on the old Duke William, but even so, there were dark recesses in the corners.

“Here you are, Tom,” Renzi whispered. He had noiselessly appeared at Kydd’s elbow with a shapeless piece of jute sacking. “Your gear – take it.”

Kydd grasped it, touched by his friend’s thoughtfulness.

“Last barrel, you men!” called down the boatswain.

Finchett gave Kydd a significant look and sauntered over to the after corner. Kydd followed, looking up through the hatch as though waiting for the can-hook to come plunging down again. His heart hammered. It was not too late to abandon the unknown, return to the warmth and safety of his mess – and his friends.

A bulky water barrel rested in the dark outer end of the lower hold. It had an old strop and toggle lying around it, and it looked just like the other sea stores. Finchett slipped the toggle and took the after chine in his fingers.

Checking around carefully, he lifted – the barrel split in two length-ways, hinging at the forward end. He let it fall again. “Get in when yer hears me shout ’n’ don’t come out till you hears a knock, two times two.”

Kydd wiped his clammy hands on his trousers and looked back. Renzi had come over to see the arrangement and now stood quietly.

“It seems that this is goodbye, my good friend,” Kydd whispered.

There was no answer. Renzi’s face was away from the dull light and it was difficult to read his expression.

From the opposite corner of the hold came the loud splintering of wood. “What the hell are youse doing, yer useless lubbers?” came Finchett’s shout. “Call yerselves seamen? I’ve seen better sailors in Mother Jones’s barnyard!”

Kydd gulped. A quick glance back at Renzi and he had the barrel top lifting. There was no time to lose. His heart thudding, he climbed in and began lowering the top half over him.

“Tom – ” Renzi’s voice was hoarse, unnatural.

Kydd hesitated.

“I – I’m coming with you!”

Mind racing, Kydd crouched down – and immediately felt an opening in the end of the barrel. In the dimness he made out that the opening communicated with the rest of the ship aft in some way. On hands and knees he crawled through.

He looked back to see the figure of Renzi dropping in, and the barrel lid closing. It was now totally black.

Almost immediately there was a scrabble of sound outside as someone secured the strop, and then quiet. Whatever else, the minimum they could expect was a flogging for attempting to desert – Renzi was now as guilty as he.

Renzi must have found the opening too, for his elbows caught Kydd in the side.

“I really do beg your pardon,” he murmured, and wriggled aside.

Kydd felt a rise of panic as claustrophobia threatened. He could feel deep frames as they crossed and curved away upward, a flat decking pressed down close above. They must be at the very lowest point of the vessel, where the rise of the keel led to the transom and rudder pintle. There would be rats and cockroaches crawling unseen among them in the dark.

The smell was bad, but less so than Duke William’s nauseous depths. It was very close and stuffy and Kydd panted in anticipation of the air expiring.

“I must be demented! Utterly bereft of my senses!” came Renzi’s voice.

The motion was not helpful – the swash and hiss of waves above them was quite audible, and the little brig’s liveliness was unsettling after the battleship’s grand movements. Kydd lay full length, trying to relax. The jerk and wallow of the vessel was trying and he needed to brace himself against the hard beams. Time passed. He knew that they were still alongside from the irregular thumps as they bumped the bulbous sides of Duke William.