Quarterdeck (2 page)

Acting Lieutenant Thomas Kydd had every reason to feel the terror that froze his bowels: failure at this examination would see him stripped of his temporary rank and returned ingloriously to his old shipmates.

“Er, well, I would—”

“Come, come, sir! An easy enough question—your certifi cate of service claims sea-time in
Artemis,
a crack frigate as ever I’ve seen. You must have seen a fl ying moor above a dozen times.”

It was unfair: here in this august Navy Offi ce board-room he was being asked to describe one of the most risky manoeuvres, dropping anchor at speed and sailing on to the full scope of the cable, then letting go another before falling back on the two anchors. Black Jack Powlett of the
Artemis
would never have chanced his vessel so, Kydd thought indignantly, then took a deep breath. “Coming boldly up t’ the anchorage, I, er, would range both cables out on the gun-deck—veering parties double-banked, o’ course—an’ at m’ furthest on, let go th’ best bower.

Then—”

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“You do not feel it prudent to double bitt your cable fi rst, sir?” the fi rst commissioner interjected.

Then the second came in: “And we have heard nothing of setting this bower a-cockbill in readiness.”

“That is, if your ship has not yet a trick stopper or similar,”

the fi rst added smugly.

Kydd forced his mind to an icy resolve. “Aye, sir—I may have omitted t’ say that in getting the anchor off the bows it is fi rst necessary . . .”

It seemed to satisfy. He dared a glance at the third member of the board, who sat hard-faced and silent, Captain Essington, the captain of
Triumph
in which he had served at the bloody battle of Camperdown.

“Passing to navigation,” the fi rst commissioner said fl atly.

Kydd’s anxieties returned: he had learned his skills at the hands of a merchant-service sailing master who had taught him a plain yet solid understanding of his craft, but Kydd knew that the Navy liked arcane descriptions and defi nitions.

“We’ll begin with basic understanding, Mr Kydd. What is your conceiving of a great circle?”

“Er, the plane o’ the equator when projected fr’m the centre on to a tangent plane becomes a straight line—”

“Thank you. The workings of an azimuth altitude will be familiar enough to you, no doubt—then clarify for me the correction of the right ascension of the mean sun, if you please.”

Kydd struggled, but could see frowns settling, glances exchanged. Failure was now more than a possibility and a cold dread stole over him. If only they would ask—

“Mr Kydd, you are aboard a two-decker.” It was Essington, leaning forward. Kydd shifted position to face him directly. There was no trace of compassion in the man’s eyes. “Shall we say in the Caribbean? You are scudding before a regular-going hurricane and you sight land—dead to loo’ard. You throw out both

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9

bowers.” The other commissioners looked at Essington with curiosity. “They carry away, one after the other. Only a sheet anchor is left to you to prevent the ship being cast ashore. Detail your actions, if you will, sir, to forestall a wreck and grievous loss of life.” He leaned back, unnerving Kydd with his stare. His fellow captains held back in surprise as Essington fi nished acidly, “And shall we have a coral bottom?”

Kydd cast about for something to say, the right action to take in such an extreme situation—but then it dawned on him: he had been in exactly this plight in the old
Trajan,
and himself had been the one to pass keckling to preserve their last anchor, called as lee helmsman by the master himself. “Aye, sir,” he said crisply. “First we need t’ ride out the blow. A coral bottom means we’ll have to pass a deal of keckling aroun’ the fi rst two or three fathom of cable above the anchor clinch, and then . . .” Those desperate hours off the unknown island were burned into his consciousness: that endless night, the screaming hurricane, the cold dawn and the fearful danger of their action in clawing off.

It steadied him, the simple recounting of fi ne seamanship. “But to make an offi ng will be hard, an’ we must wait f’r the wind to shift a point or two, but then we must take our chance, and only one chance it is. Show small canvas, and at th’ right time cut the cable an’ run f’r the open sea.”

The commissioners nodded, expressionless. “I think that’s enough, gentlemen, do you not?” Essington said.

Kydd held his breath. There was mumbled conferring, more frowns. Was it possibly more than coincidence that Essington had brought forward that particular circumstance? As if he had particular knowledge of his past and . . .

“Where are your certifi cates?”

They were asking for attestations to his “Sobriety, Obedience, Diligence and Skill in the Profession of a Seaman.” Kydd handed over the journals and documents in a fl oodtide of hope: if he had
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failed, why would they be wasting time on the formalities?

The journals were leafed through, but they had been meticulously kept for years and it seemed the certifi cates of age and rated service appeared acceptable. His heart leaped: the last hur-dle was being overcome.

“If my reckoning is correct, we have a diffi culty.” One of the commissioners held the original, if somewhat crumpled, certifi cate of service from Kydd’s fi rst ship,
Duke William.
“From this, it does seem that Mr Kydd is, according to regulations, one year short of the requirement for sea-time.”

Kydd had known of this defi ciency, but had prayed that the regulations would not be applied rigorously. Horatio Nelson himself had been promoted to lieutenant before time, but if a commissioner of the board wished to make an issue of it little could be done.

Essington took the paper, then looked up with a tigerish smile. “Yes—but this is worthless! It is in error! I distinctly recollect when Captain Caldwell was removed from
Royal Billy
to
Culloden.
I rather fancy we would get a different date were we to ask him directly. As it is, Captain Caldwell is now in the West Indies, admiral of the Leeward Squadron if my memory serves. I doubt he is to be troubled on this trivial matter.”

His manner quelled all discussion. The other commissioners gathered up the papers and returned them to Kydd. “Well, it seems we are of one mind. Our recommendation will go forward to the Navy Offi ce that for the good of the service you shall be confi rmed in rank to lieutenant. Good day to you, sir.”

Chapter 1

The Portsmouth Mail made good speed on the highway south from London. Inside, it smelt pungently of leather and old dust, but Thomas Kydd did not care: it would take a great deal more than this to subdue his growing excitement.

After the examination, Kydd had spent some days in Yarmouth, where
Tenacious
had been taken out of commission for battle repairs, and had prevailed upon the naval outfi tter in the matter of a splendid lieutenant’s uniform, determined to go home on leave in a handsome manner.

He stared out at the tranquil winter country scene of soft meadows and gnarled oak trees. This was England at last, his hearth and home after so many years away. The postillion’s long horn blared, and he leaned out of the window. It was Cobham—

Guildford was not far away. He glanced at his friend sitting next to him. “An hour, Nicholas—an hour only, an’ I’ll be seein’ m’

folks again!”

Renzi had been quiet since London, his withdrawn, ascetic expression discouraging talk. He nodded politely and smiled, then looked away.

Heaven only knew what he was thinking about. Their years together had been full of perils and adventure, but Renzi’s friendship had brought Kydd an insight into learning, and respect for
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the riches of the mind. And now they were returning to where their long adventure had started.

Yet again Kydd brought to memory how he had last left home, when he and Renzi had stolen away back to sea, to
Artemis,
the famous frigate, after founding a school to secure his family’s livelihood. There had been a world voyage that had ended in shipwreck, rousing times in the Caribbean, adventures in the Mediterranean. It seemed half a lifetime, but it was only four years or so. Here he was, just twenty-fi ve, and . . .

The coach jerked to a stop, and the horses were changed for the last stage to Guildford. The door swung open, and a young lady was handed up, her tall bonnet catching on the roof sill. She settled opposite in a rustle of pale-blue silk, her eyes downcast.

An older gentleman followed, acknowledged Kydd and Renzi, then sat beside her. The ostler offered a hot brick in worn serge, which the man manoeuvred under the young lady’s feet. “Thank you, dear Papa,” she said demurely, snuggling her hands into a muff.

The man favoured a belly-warmer, which he settled inside his long coat. “Uncommon cold for this time o’ year!” he grunted.

Long inured to conditions far worse, Kydd caught Renzi’s amused but discreet sideways glance. “Er, I’m sure y’r right.”

The girl looked up, and noticed their uniforms. “Oh!” she said prettily, her hand at her mouth. “You’re sailors!”

The man coughed irritably. “They’re offi cers, m’dear, naval offi cers, not sailors, d’ye see?”

“It is what I meant to say, Papa. Pray, sirs, were you in that dreadful battle of Camperdown? I have heard that it was quite the most shocking fi ght this age!”

The man clicked his tongue in exasperation, but Kydd’s heart swelled with pride. Their coach still bore laurel branches from the helter-skelter celebrations of only a week or so ago.

“Indeed, this is so, Miss, and you will understand how truly

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weary we are, that we yearn for the blessings of peace and solitude for a period . . .” Renzi said quietly.

“Of course, sir, please do forgive me.” Her eyes rested briefl y on Kydd. Then she turned determinedly to stare out of the window.

Kydd felt a pang of irritation, but understood that Renzi was sparing him idle chat so that he could enjoy the anticipation of his homecoming.

The mention of Camperdown, his fi rst big fl eet action, brought back emotions that were still too raw and recent, images of the nightmare of the great mutiny at the Nore and its sequel; his mind shied away from them and instead concentrated on the incredible fact that he had been promoted on the fi eld of battle and offi cially confi rmed. He was now Lieutenant Kydd! It was still too heady a thought, so he let his mind return to the excitement of his homecoming.

The coach jolted over the infamous potholes at Abbotswood: Guildford Town was now minutes away. Almost too quickly, the square, grey-stone Elizabethan grammar school passed on the left, and the town proper began, familiar buildings at the top of the high street. The post-horn’s baying echoed off the almshouse opposite Holy Trinity, drawing mildly curious glances from the townsfolk.

Clattering over the old cobbled road, they passed under the big clock, and the driver tooled the mail-coach through the narrow black and white half-timbered entrance of the Angel posting-house.

Kydd and Renzi left their bags with the obsequious landlord, then emerged on to the high street and turned left, past shops and alleys well known to Kydd. The reek and colour of the town, the bustle and shouts, the passing tide of people all seemed to advance like a dream.

Some glanced curiously at the two men, others with admir ation. Self-conscious, Kydd waited for someone to recognise him,
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but perhaps the dark blue, white and gold of his handsome uniform put paid to that. He saw Betty, the fi shmonger’s attractive daughter, who stopped and stared in shock at the sight of him.

Kydd doffed his brand-new cocked hat.

They reached the red-brick church of Holy Trinity, and turned off past the glebe cottages to Schoolhouse Lane, as it was now known. There was no mistaking the little naval school ahead: a huge blue ensign fl oated above for all the world to see—the fl ag under which Kydd had fought at Camperdown. And as they drew near they could hear a muffl ed chanting on the air:

“. . . three sevens are twenty-one, four sevens are twenty-eight, fi ve sevens . . .”

They stepped into the tiny quadrangle, two King’s offi cers returned from the sea. A youngster emerged at the run from a classroom and teetered to a halt. He whipped off his cap and shrilled, “I’ll fetch th’ bo’sun, if y’ please, sir!”

Jabez Perrott emerged out of the building and stumped importantly towards them. His eyes widened, and he gasped, “Be buggered! It’s Master Kydd, be gob!”

Kydd opened his mouth, but Perrott, reddening with pleasure, grabbed for his silver call and emitted a piercing blast. Then, in a lower-deck bellow that had not softened with the years, he roared, “
Aaaaall
the hands!
Haaaands
to muster—clear lower deck, ye swabs!
Haaaands
to muster!”

Children boiled out of the classrooms, screeching in delight at the antics of their strict boatswain.

“Mr Perrott!
Mr Perrott!
What
are
you doing?”

Kydd recognised the voice and, holding back tears, advanced to meet his mother.

“Oh! Tom! It’s you! M’ darling boy, it’s you! And you’ve . . .”

The rest was lost in a fi erce embrace that went on and on, knocking his hat askew.

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15

“Mother! So long . . .”

Kydd’s father had aged: his form was stooped and his eyes sightless. Nevertheless, he bore himself nobly in the black breeches of a headmaster. “Er, is that you, son?”

“It is, Walter!” his mother said, as the old man moved uncertainly towards Kydd, holding out his hand. Kydd took it, then hugged him.