Kydd took it. It was written orders for the disposition of soldiers to the dockyard, and it was signed, 'Powell, Lieutenant, Royal Navy, Senior Officer of ships in English Harbour for the time being'.
'Sergeant!' shouted Farrell, from inside. 'Has Lieutenant Powell been confined in accordance with my orders?'
Kydd entered, and touched his hat to Farrell. 'No, sir, an' I think you should see this.'
Farrell read it, and stood, his face white. 'Sir,' he said to the army captain, 'you will oblige me by taking a file of six soldiers and placing Lieutenant Powell under arrest.' The captain, barely managing a salute, collected his shako and made to leave. 'And, Kydd,' added Farrell, 'please to accompany him, in the event he goes aboard a ship.'
Outside in the gathering dusk, Kydd watched while the army officer formed the men into line, then had them crashing to an 'order arms', then 'shoulder arms'. The word was getting out, and figures were beginning to emerge from buildings to line the roadway.
'Into file — right tuuurrn’ By the right — quick maaarrrch?
Kydd fell in behind the officer, but felt a fool, tagging along behind the quick-stepping soldiers. The little party wound along the roadway, Kydd feeling every eye on him. Chattering died away as they approached. They turned the final corner to the flat coral-stone area between the capstan house and the ship alongside. Spectators crowded around the capstan house, but the space was left clear as though it were an arena for some future duel. Along the deckline of Patelle her ship's company crowded and there was an ugly buzz of talk shot through with angry shouts.
'Partyyyy — halt!' The redcoats clashed to a standstill.
There were two gangways from Patelle to the stone landing, one forward for the men, one aft for the officers. Kydd indicated the after brow to the army captain. But before he could proceed, a man who looked very like a boatswain stormed down in hot confrontation. 'Damn y'r blood, but I know why ye're here,' he said, 'and ye can't have him!' Behind him hostile eyes glared in the sombre gloom. Lanthorns were brought and hooked into the rigging, their light casting a theatrical glow over events.
'In the name of His Majesty, I order you to yield the person—'
Furious, but indistinct shouting sounded from inboard. It brought an immediate answering roar from the seamen on deck, and a sudden burst of activity.
'Fall back on the redcoats,' the army officer said breathlessly to Kydd, and hurried to stand next to the stolid file of soldiers. From the forward brow the ship's company of Patelle poured forth armed with boarding weapons — naked cutlasses, boarding pikes and tomahawks.
Kydd stood firm, but a feral terror of the pack dug into his mind as the angry seamen surged about them. Bystanders scattered, then formed a cautious semicircle around the fray. By a trick of the light, Kydd caught sight of Juba in the crowd of onlookers, motionless, arms folded. He wondered for a moment if he should appeal for help — then thought of what it might mean if he were denied.
The seamen surrounded the party, and began jostling, thumping with the heel of their cutlasses, hoarse cries urging the soldiers to run away. One toppled forward under a blow. The army officer swung round and ordered shrilly, 'Load with ball!' At the cry, the crowd began to scatter in disorder. The sailors spread out and hefted their weapons. If the soldiers opened fire they would be instantly set upon. But Kydd knew that the soldiers would do their duty without question. The end was therefore inevitable, and the shouts and cries died away into a breathless silence as all waited for the final spark.
Distantly, the sound of the measured tramp of men-at-arms sounded. It swelled, and a column of marines appeared. At its head was Farrell, in full uniform. The men came to a halt and Farrell strode purposefully to the centre. 'Where is Lieutenant Powell?' he demanded.
The sailors fell back, unsure.
'If by that you mean your superior officer, I am here,' came a strong, resonant voice at the head of the brow. A short but well-built man in loose shirt and breeches came down. His face was robust but lined, the marks of hard drinking on him.
As the two men met, the others fell back.
'You have your orders, sir, why do you not comply?' Farrell snapped.
'Because — because you know well enough, damn you, Charles!'
Farrell's tone hardened. 'You are under arrest—'
'Poppycock! You know as well as the whole world that you are junior on the lieutenants' list to me, and therefore I am your superior officer.' Powell squared away. 'And now you do take my orders or ...'
Kydd was appalled. By the immutable rule of the navy, the lieutenant whose date of commission was even a day earlier was automatically the senior officer. It even applied to admirals, and Powell's claim appeared to be legitimate.
Farrell's eyes flicked to the mass of silent seamen: Powell caught the look and snarled, 'I have only to say the word, and these good men will sweep away your—'
'You'd shed good blood in such a cause?' Farrell exclaimed in astonishment, then stiffened. 'I am your superior officer because I hold the King's commission as commander of a King's ship. You are acting commander only. Now, are you prepared to obey orders?'
Powell folded his arms. 'No. You are in contempt of naval law, sir.'
Kydd tensed. All it needed was for Powell to shout an order and the stones would be drenched in blood. Farrell did not pause. 'Your pistol, sir,' he asked of the army officer, never taking his eyes from Powell. The captain fumbled at his slung leather pouch and handed over the heavy weapon. Farrell took the pistol and cocked it, aiming at the ground.
'Do you now comply with my orders, sir?' he asked, in an icy monotone.
'If you seek to affright me, sir, you have failed.'
The pistol came up, the dark cavity of the muzzle directly on Powell's chest. 'For the final time, sir. Lieutenant Powell, do you accept my authority and obey my orders — in peril of your life?'
Both men stood rigid.
'You wouldn't fire, Charles! That would be—' 'Sir?' demanded Farrell in a steely hiss. 'Since you ask. No!'
The pistol blasted out, the ball taking Powell squarely in the chest, a sudden crash of sound in the awful stillness. It filled the air with a hanging cloud of gunsmoke, and flung Powell back in a limp huddle. Nobody moved, all held motionless by the horror of the moment.
Farrell lowered the pistol. He turned to the army captain. 'Sir, I surrender myself to you as senior officer and consider myself under open arrest.'
The soldier's hands were shaking as he tried to make deprecating gestures.
Farrell's face was set, controlled. 'I do demand a court-martial on my conduct at the earliest moment.'
Seaflower did not rate a coxswain, and Captain Farrell chose Kydd as his personal attendant in his subsequent trial in St John's. Kydd was thus witness to the solemn spectacle of a court-martial, and was present as his captain returned to the room — to see his sword on the table, hilt towards. The court had unanimously ruled that Farrell's conduct was justifiable in the face of Lieutenant Powell's actions, which amounted to mutiny, and Lieutenant Farrell was most honourably acquitted.
'An' when the president o' the court says the words, his face didn't change one whit,' said Kydd, to the throng in the crew space. 'Jus' bows 'n' thanks 'em all, cool as you please.' He had been impressed by Farrell's bearing, his calm replies to barely disguised needling about his earlier relationship with Powell as lieutenants in the same ship — and, equally, his return to Seaflower. In his place Kydd thought that he would perhaps have celebrated a trifle, but that was not Farrell's way.
Without delay, they put to sea, newly repaired and bound for Port Royal. As Kydd pulled out the charts to exercise plotting a route, Jarman smiled and said, 'Well, how's y'r Danish, then?' Taken aback Kydd didn't know what to say. Jarman tapped at the chart. 'First island you comes to after weatherin' St Kitts,' he said, 'St Croy, Danish these forty years, very peaceable, but Cap'n wants t' call on 'em f'r some reason.'