Thecutter headed for the smart new stone buildings of the dockyard. The last halfof the century had seen a massive expansion of capability in the foremost royaldockyard of the country, and it was a spectacle in its own right, the greatestindustrial endeavour in the land. As they neared the shore, Kydd nervously tookin the single Union Flag hanging from the signal tower. This was the evidencefor all eyes of the reality of a court-martial to be held here, ashore, by thePort Admiral. The court would normally meet in the Great Cabin of the flagship,but the anchorage at Spithead was virtually empty, Admiral Howe's fleetsomewhere in the Atlantic looking for the French.
Themarine sentries at the landing place stood at ease — there were no officers inthe boat needing a salute, only an odd-looking lot of seamen in ill-fittingsailor rig. There were few words among the men, who obediently followed alieutenant into an anteroom to await their call. Pointedly, a pair of marinestook up position at the entrance.
Itseemed an interminable time to Kydd, as he sat on the wooden chair, his hatawkwardly in his hand. The voyage across the vast expanse of the Pacific andthe early responsibility of promotion thrust on him had considerably maturedhim, and anyone who glanced at his tanned, open face, thick dark hair andpowerful build could never have mistaken him for anything other than what hewas, a prime seaman. His past as a perruquier in Guildford town was nowunimaginably distant.
'AbrahamSmith,' called a black-coated clerk at the door. The carpenter's mate stood andlimped off, his face set. Kydd remembered his work on the foredeck of Artemis inthe stormy darkness. Men here owed their lives to the raft he had fashionedfrom wreckage and launched in the cold dawn light.