Quarterdeck (19 page)

Vandeput looked down the table but most offi cers remained prudently noncommittal. Renzi sat three places along, holding his glass up to the light and sniffi ng appreciatively. “A fi ne workmanlike Rheingau,” he said, “or possibly a Palatinate, though not as who should say a Spätlese.”

The cabin fell quiet as several commanders and a dozen senior lieutenants held their breath at a junior lieutenant offering an opinion on his admiral’s taste in wine, but Vandeput merely grunted. “Ah, yes. I feel inclined t’ agree—a
trocken
it is not, but you’ll excuse me in th’ matter of taste. Its origin is a Danish prize whose owner seemed not t’ value the more southerly whites.”

Renzi nodded and the admiral shot him an intent look, then steepled his fi ngers. “Gentlemen, f’r those newly arrived for the season, a welcome.” He held attention while he gazed around the cabin, recognising some, politely acknowledging others.

“We have some fresh blood here following our famous victory at Camperdown so I’m taking the opportunity t’ meet you all. The North American Squadron—often overlooked these days, but of crucial importance, I declare. The convoy of our mast-ships alone justifi es our being. Where would the sea service be without
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its masts and spars? An’ half the world’s trade fl ows through this port, including the West Indies, of course.”

Kydd was transfi xed by the glitter of the admiral’s jewelled star, the gold facings of his coat, the crimson sash, which were grand and intimidating, but Vandeput’s pleasant manner and avuncular shock of white hair set him almost at his ease.

“Therefore our chief interest is in the protection of this trade.

I rather fancy we won’t be troubled overmuch by French men-o’-war—rather, it’s these damn privateers that try my patience. Yet I would not have you lose sight of the fact that we are a fl eet—to this end I require that every ship under my command acts together as one, concentrating our force when ordered, and for so doing you signal lieutenants shall be my very nerves.”

A rustle of amusement passed around the table: the fl agship’s smartness was well marked and life would not be easy for these junior offi cers.

“We shall be exercising at sea in company as opportunities arise. I commend my signal instructions to you, with particular attention to be given to the signifi cation of manoeuvres. My fl ag-lieutenant will be happy to attend to any questions later.

“I wish you well of your appointment to the North American Squadron, gentlemen, and ask that you enjoy the entertainment.”

A buzz of talk began as the doors swung wide and dishes of food were brought in. Kydd was about to help himself to the potted shrimps when the stout offi cer next to him half stood over the biggest salver as its cover was removed. “Aha! The roast cod. This is worth any man’s hungering. Shall you try it, sir?”

The fi sh was splendid—buttery collops of tender white, and Kydd forgot his duty until the offi cer introduced himself:

“Robertson, second of the
Acorn.
Damn fi ne cook our admiral has, don’t y’ know?”

“Kydd, fi fth o’
Tenacious.
” He hesitated, but Robertson was

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more concerned with his fi sh, which was vanishing fast. “
Acorn—

the nine-pounder lying alongside?”

“Is her,” Robertson agreed. “I suggest only the chicken pie afore the main, by the way. Ol’ Georgie always serves caribou, an’ I mean to show my appreciation in spades.”

“May I?” Kydd had noticed the disappearing fi sh and was pleased to have remembered his manners so far as to help him to a handsome-sized slice of cold chicken pie. The Rheingau was perfectly attuned to the cold food and his reserve melted a little.

“Nine-pounder frigate—hard livin’ indeed.”

“Aye,” Robertson said, his mouth full, “but better’n a ship-of-the-line.”

“And how so?”

“Prize money, o’ course. Ol’ Georgie’s no fool—sends us out all the days God gives after anything that fl oats, French, Spanish, Scowegian—even American, if we can prove she has a cargo bound for the enemy. If it’s condemned in court, cargo ’n’

all, then shares all round.”

The rumours of caribou were correct, and to the accompaniment of a good Margaux, the dark fl esh was tender with an extraordinary sweet wild meat fl avour. Kydd sat back, satiated.

Renzi was toying with a breast of spruce partridge while deep in serious talk with an older, lean-faced offi cer.

Kydd stole a look at the admiral: he was genially in conversation with a hard-looking offi cer to his left. Kydd wondered at the simple fact that he himself was sharing a meal with such august company.

“Wine with you, sir!” It was the offi cer opposite, who had not said much before.

Kydd held his glass forward. “Prize money b’ the bucket ful!”

he toasted.

The other seemed restless. “That would be fi ne, sir, but while we’re topping it the sybarite, others are fi ghting. And by that I
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mean winning the glory. There’s no promotion to be gained by lying comfortably at two anchors in some quiet harbour—only in a right bloody battle.” He held up his wine to the light and studied it gloomily. “To think it—we’ve been thrown out of the Med since last year, there’ve been descents on Ireland, and at home I hear Pitt has admitted the collapse and destruction of the coalition and none else in sight. We stand quite alone. Can things be much worse? I doubt it.”

Kydd said stoutly, “I’m come fr’m the Caribbee and I can tell you, we’ve been takin’ the French islands one b’ one, and now the Spanish Main is ours. And who c’n doubt? The Mongseers have reached their limits, baled up in Europe tight as a drum.

To the Royal Navy, gaol-keeper! And may she lose the keys!”

But the offi cer remained grave and quiet. Kydd frowned. “Do ye doubt it, sir?” The wine was bringing a fl ush, but he didn’t care; he seemed to be holding his own in this particular conversation.

With a weary smile the offi cer put down his glass. “I cannot conceive where you have been this last half-year that you have not in the least understood the motions of the French Directory—

intrigues at the highest, or at the point of a bayonet, they have now secured the subjugation or acquiescence of the whole of the civilised world.

“They are arrogant, they care not who they antagonise, for in every battle they triumph, whole nations kneel at their bid-ding, and for what purpose? While these lie beaten, they have a mighty general, Buonaparte, who is ready to venture forth on the world! Mark my words, before this year’s end there will be such a bursting forth by the French as will make the world stare!”

He leaned back in his chair and resumed his wine, looking re-provingly at Kydd. Deliberately, Kydd turned back to Robertson, who was now engrossed with the task of picking at a pretty corner dish. “Sweetbreads?” he mumbled, and offered the dish.

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Kydd took one and tried to think of an intelligent remark to make. “The Americans’ll be amused at our troubles wi’ the French,” he said hopefully.

Robertson raised his eyebrows. “Ah, not really, I think.” He looked at Kydd curiously. “You must know they’ve done handsomely out o’ this war—being neutral an’ all, I mean. Can trade with any and all, if they can get away with it, o’ course.”

Kydd’s blank look made him pause. “How long’ve you been made up, then?” he asked directly.

“Just this January,” Kydd answered warily.

“Then I’d clap on more sail an’ get as much o’ this business hoisted aboard as you can. You’re boarding offi cer an’ take in a fat merchantman that the court decides is innocent, expect to explain yourself to the judge in damages!” He grinned broadly and turned to a pyramid of syllabubs.

The warm glow of the wine fell away. These men were of a different origin, brought up from the cradle with discernment, education, the talk of politics continually around them. How could he conceivably claim to be one of them? Kydd stole a look at Renzi, holding forth elegantly on some exemplary Greek, then at the admiral, listening with his head politely inclined to a fi ne story from a young lieutenant, and fi nally at the offi cer opposite, who was now yarning with his neighbour.

Kydd closed the door of his cabin. There was nobody in the wardroom, but the way he felt he did not want to see another face. His experience of the previous night had left him heartsick, unable to deny any longer that trying his hardest was not enough: he just did not belong in this society. He was a deep-sea sailor, true, but as an offi cer he was a fi sh out of water; talk of fox hunting and the Season was beyond him, the implications for his acceptance by them only too clear.

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He knew well what was in store: others who had “come aft by the hawse” had found their place—as a tarpaulin offi cer. Known in the Navy as characters, they were bluff, hard on the men they knew so well and had no pretensions to gentility or learning.

Utterly reliable at sea, they were outcasts in polite social situations, and usually took refuge in hearty drinking. As for promotion and ambition, improbable.

Was this his fate? He had tasted the sweets of a higher life with Renzi—their leisurely talking of philosophers and logic under a tropic moon, the dream-like times in Venice; the dinner with Renzi’s brother in Jamaica had been a taste of what should be, but now . . .

Thought of his friend brought with it a wave of desolation.

Renzi was in his element now, clearly headed for the highest levels and thoroughly enjoying his change of fortune. He had aided Kydd as much as he could, teaching him the forms and appearances, but there was no help for it. This was not a matter of learning the ropes, it was breeding.

His depression deepened: logic would say—and Renzi was a servant to logic—that in truth his friend no longer needed a sea companion to lighten his intellectual existence and ease his self-imposed exile. Now Renzi had the chaplain to dispute with whenever he felt inclined, Kydd thought bitterly. All told, perhaps it would have been more merciful if Kydd had never known another existence—had never encountered Renzi, even.

He felt despair and fl ung open the door for Tysoe. When his servant did not immediately appear he roared his name.

Tysoe arrived, his hands showing evidence that he had been at work boning Kydd’s best shoes. He wore a perfectly composed expression. “Sir?”

“Fetch me one o’ my clarets.”

Tysoe’s eyes fl ickered. “Will that be two glasses, sir?”

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Kydd coloured. “No, damn y’r eyes—just th’ one!”

When it came, he snatched bottle and glass, slammed his door, then splashed the wine into the glass, hands shaking with emotion. He drank hard, and it steadied him. He stared morosely at the ship’s side in his tiny cabin, forcing himself to be calm. “Tysoe! Another bottle an’ you can turn in f’r the night,”

he shouted.

It was obvious now. There was only one cause for his despon-dency: loneliness. An outsider in the wardroom, he was cut off from the rough, warm camaraderie before the mast that he knew so well. Now he had no one. And Renzi would be moving on soon, probably taken up as a fl ag-lieutenant.

The second bottle was half-empty already, but Kydd’s pain was easing. He allowed the warm memory of Kitty to return: she had stood by him during the terrible days of the Nore mutiny—she had a strength he’d rarely seen in a woman. With her, he might have . . . There was a lump in his throat and he gulped another glass. If only she were here, if only . . .

He stared at the glass in his hand. Already he was turning into what he dreaded to be—a tarpaulin offi cer. Through self-pity he was sliding down the same slope as they all must have: to fi nd acceptance they had turned themselves into a patronised caricature, then found a steady friend in the bottle.

“God rot me, but I’ll not be one.” His harsh croak in the confi ned space startled him. He seized the bottle and pushed it away.

So shameful was the thought that he lurched to his feet and threw open the door, clutching the bottle by its neck. The wardroom was still deserted, all others no doubt gone ashore together.

“Tysoe!” he called. The man came quickly and silently and Kydd knew why: he had conceived it his duty to stand by his master while he got helplessly drunk, then tumble him into his cot.

The realisation hurt Kydd: it bore on his spirit that others
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would now be making allowances for him, and he stiffened. “If ye’d like the res’ o’ the wine . . .” He awkwardly held out the bottle. “I shan’t need any more.”

Renzi was not at breakfast but Kydd found him later in the day in his cabin. “The admiral plans to visit his realm in Newfoundland,”

he said, “and for some unaccountable reason he wishes me to accompany him. A vexation—if you remember I planned to join the Shiptons for whist.” He seemed preoccupied. “There will be no sea exercises with the admiral in Newfoundland counting his cod, dear fellow. If you can bear to leave your signal books, why do you not see more of the country? You really should get away more.”

Kydd murmured something, watching his friend rummaging in his chest.

Renzi looked up, shamefaced. “I’d be obliged should you lend me a shirt or two, Tom—there will be a quantity of social occasions in Newfoundland, I’ve heard.” A surge of feeling surprised Kydd with its intensity as he fetched them, but he said nothing.

A stubborn pride still remained, which would not allow him to burden Renzi with the problem.

Renzi left with a hasty wave. Pringle emerged from his cabin the picture of military splendour, a pair of pigskin gloves in one hand, a swagger stick in the other. He noticed Kydd, gave a noncommittal grunt, then he, too, strode away. Servants came to clear the afternoon clutter, looking at Kydd warily. There was nothing for it but to retire to his cabin.