Quarterdeck (37 page)

There can be no question that the United States is implicated in any way.”

“I understand, sir.”

“But more to our liking are Mr Gindler’s remarks upon your character. Let me be candid, sir. The Royal Navy is a proud and ancient service, but there are many of its offi cers whose superior attitude is both lamentable and abhorrent to us as a nation. It is a trait that regrettably seems to appear more prominent with seniority, and this is why we have chosen to request a less senior offi cer.

“Mr Gindler tells us that your conduct ashore was circum-spect and respectful to the feelings of the people even to the point of joining the merriment in a tavern—in short, sir, you have the common touch, which we as a people do prize so much.”

Stoddert rose, gripping the edge of the table and wincing as he did so. At Kydd’s concern he gave a low chuckle. “Ah, this. A souvenir given me by the English at Brandywine Creek.”

He drew the chair to a more confi ding proximity. “Let me be frank, Mr Kydd. Your position as a King’s offi cer in a warship of the United States Navy is anomalous, not to say irregular, and there are those who would put the worst construction on your presence. Therefore you are entered as a supernumerary on board, specifi cally a friend of the captain. You haven’t yet the pleasure of an introduction to Captain Truxtun, but he will be advised of you, and will be encouraged to take full advantage of your knowledge and experience of the Royal Navy. I’m sure he will appreciate your assistance.” He leaned forward further.

280

Julian Stockwin

“Before you go, I should like to make it very plain that on your return I would deeply appreciate your sincere appraisal of our efforts. Do you think this will be possible?”

“Sir.” Kydd felt resentment building at the way so many seemed to be treating him like a pawn in a higher game.

“Then, sir, it only remains for me to wish you God speed on your voyage. You will fi nd Lieutenant Gindler waiting in the drawing room below.”

“Was all that necessary?” A fi gure moved out from behind a covered escritoire.

Stoddert closed the door. “I think so. The military of any race should not be overburdened with considerations of politics.” At times Murray, his political agent, could be insensitive to the perceptions of others.

“Be that as it may, Mr Stoddert, you didn’t warn him of the Republicans—he should have been told.”

“That we have an opposition in Congress so lost to honour they would stop at nothing to ruin our navy for crass political gain? Jefferson has done his worst to try to prevent America reaching for a sure shield against the world—how can I explain that to a man whose country continues to exist only because of her own power at sea? I cannot. In any case, this talk of sub-verting crews and so on is probably from unreliable sources and should be discounted. What most concerns me are my captains.

A prickly, diffi cult bunch, Murray. Especially Truxtun.”

“A fi ghting captain,” Murray interposed strongly.

“Oh, indeed. But as a privateer. And pray bring to mind the fl uttering in Congress there was during the English war, on hearing how he set John Paul Jones himself to defi ance over some notion of which ship was to fl y some pennant. Not one to be led easily—and too damn clever by half. Did you know he was once pressed by the Royal Navy?”

Quarterdeck

281

“Indeed?”

“But that’s by the by. Here is my main hope for L’tenant Kydd.

He has no interest in politics. He’s a tarpaulin mariner and cares only for his ropes and sails. He must be intelligent, he wouldn’t hold a commission else, so he’ll be able to tell me exactly what I want to know . . .”

Nothing could convey better to Kydd the continental vastness of the country than the overland coach journey with Gindler to Baltimore. From as fi ne a four-horse conveyance as any in England, they admired the spring-touched verdancy of the deciduous woodland that had replaced the northern conifers, the glittering lakes, rivers and blue-washed mountains far into the interior.

At stops to change horses, Gindler added to Kydd’s impressions: he pointed out that beyond the mountains to the west the land was wild, stretching for more than sixty degrees of longitude; an unimaginable distance, more than the Atlantic was wide, and no one knew what was within it. Unsettled by the effect of this enormity Kydd was glad when they met the cobble-stones of Baltimore.

“She’ll be lying in the Patuxent river,” Gindler said. “We’re nearly ready for sea.” There was no delaying: a fast packet on its way down the Chesapeake to Norfolk had promised to call at Patuxent and their ship.

The sight of naked masts and yards towering above the low, bushy point made Kydd’s pulse quicken. The packet rounded the point into the broad opening of a river and there at anchor was the biggest frigate he had ever seen.

“A thing of beauty,” breathed Gindler. “Don’t you agree?”

Kydd concentrated as they neared the vessel. She was distinctive and individual; her lines and fi nish owed nothing to the
282

Julian Stockwin

conservative traditions of old-world shipwrights, and there was an alert purposefulness about her. There was much in her that a sailor could love. Nearly half as big again as the lovely
Artemis,
she seemed well armed. “Twenty-fours?” he asked.

“Indeed! I’d like to see any frigate that swims try to come up against the old
Connie,
” Gindler said proudly.

“Old?” Kydd said wryly, observing seamen applying a tar mixture to the last remaining raw timber of the bulwarks.

“Well, I grant you she’s newborn, but I have the feeling you’ll be hearing from us in the future, my friend.” His glance fl icked up to the fl ag with its stars and stripes and he added softly, “I promise you that.”

Kydd had seen far too many ships fi tting for sea to be concerned at the turmoil on deck. He followed Gindler aft to the captain’s cabin. Gindler knocked and an irritable bellow bade them enter.

“Mr Kydd, sir,” said Gindler, and when the captain looked up in incomprehension he added, “Our supernumerary.”

The captain’s gaze swivelled to Kydd. Intelligent but hard eyes met his. Then the man grunted, “Mr Kydd, y’r service,” and turned back to his papers. “Berth him in the fourth lootenant’s cabin. He won’t be sailing,” he ordered, without looking up.

“Aye, sir,” said Gindler, and withdrew with Kydd.

Picking their way through men at blocks and ropework—

some seaming canvas, others scaling shot—they headed for the after hatchway. “I fear I must desert you now, Tom, duty calls.

I’ll take you to the wardroom, and I’m sure Captain Truxtun will want to see you when less pressed.”

“Welcome back, Lootenant!” a fresh-faced seaman called, with a grin, to Gindler and waved a serving mallet.

“Thanks, Doyle,” Gindler threw back. At Kydd’s raised eyebrows he added, “A mort of difference from a King’s ship, I think. Remember, aboard here every man jack is a volunteer on

Quarterdeck

283

wages and, as Americans, they’re not accustomed to bending the knee.”

Kydd did not rise to the bait and privately wondered at their reliability in action when instant obedience was vital.

The wardroom was almost deserted. A black messman glanced at him curiously and left. Kydd looked about him. The raw newness had not yet been overcome to bring individuality. At the same time there was an alien air. The unfamiliar wood graining, the slant of the munnions—even the smell: striking timber odours, the usual comfortable galley smells subtly different, no waft of bilge.

He crossed to the transom seat. Reassuringly, it was still the repository of the ephemera of wardroom life and he picked up a Philadelphia newspaper, the
Mercantile Advertiser.
While he awaited Truxtun’s summons he settled by the midships lanthorn and opened it. There was no ochre tax stamp and the paper was of good quality. He scanned the front page, which was given over to a verbatim setting out of a newly enacted statute. The next page, however, was vigorous and to the point: a growing feeling against the French gave colour to the local news and trade intelligence. Further inside there were advertisements and notices.

“Mr Kydd? Cap’n wants ye.” He folded the paper, tugged his waistcoat into position and followed the messenger, apprehensive at meeting those hard eyes again.

Truxtun was standing, his back to Kydd, staring broodily out of the windows of his cabin. He turned and gestured to a chair.

“Sit y’self down, Mr Kydd.” He himself remained standing.

“I’ll be plain with you, sir. Mr Secretary Stoddert thinks to provide me with an aide who’ll tell me how they do it in King George’s Navy. I can tell you frankly I don’t give a solitary hoot how you do things—this is the United States Navy and I’m captain o’ the
Constellation,
and I’ll do things the way I want.”

His face had the implacability of a slab of oak. “Therefore your
284

Julian Stockwin

presence aboard is a waste. For Ben Stoddert’s sake, I’ll carry you these few days, but I’ll have you know, sir, that I’ll be giving orders that no United States offi cer or crewman shall hold con-verse with you—I don’t want ’em getting strange ideas agin mine about how a ship o’ war should be run. I’d be obliged if you’d keep your views to yourself.

“In return, you’re welcome to sit at vittles in the wardroom and the fourth’s stateroom is yours. You’ll know to keep out from under while the ship’s being worked, and should we meet an enemy you’ll stay below. Have I made myself clear, sir?”

It was going to be a hard time for Kydd. He was not introduced when the wardroom sat for dinner. He was passed the condiments when he asked, but none caught his eye. Desultory talk went on about progress in the fi nal run-up to sea trials in the morning, a few lame attempts at humour—this was a wardroom that had not been long together but would coalesce around individuals as the commission went on.

In the morning he caught Gindler, now a taut-rigged lieutenant, about to go on deck. “I’m sorry it has to be this way, Tom,”

he said softly. He touched his hat and left for the nervous bustle above.

Kydd hesitated: he could see down the length of the deck to the cable party readying the messenger; the tierers were moving down the hatchway for their thankless task at bringing in the cable.

He decided against making an appearance and returned to the wardroom. Although it was galling to be left in ignorance below decks, this was a fi rst voyage with a new ship and a new company and he felt it was not altogether fair to witness the inevitable mistakes and dramas. He found a dog-eared copy of the
North American Review
and tried to concentrate, but the long tiller up against the deckhead began to creak and move as the

Quarterdeck

285

man at the wheel exercised the helm. Then piercing calls from the boatswain and his mates told of the hoisting of boats, all suffused with the age-old excitement of the outward bound.

Rhythmic singing came from the men forward, and he felt a continual low shuddering in the deck that was, without doubt, the capstan at work. A sudden clatter and fl urry of shouting would be a fall running away with the men while heavy thumps against the ship’s side were the boats being brought in and stowed. The noises lessened until there was silence. They were ready to proceed.

Constellation
’s deck lifted and moved. In a deliberate sway it inclined to starboard, a heel that paused then returned and steadied to a defi nite angle, which had only one meaning: they were under sail and moving through the water.

Kydd threw down the newspapers—it was too much. He had to catch a glimpse of the sea. There were no stern windows in the wardroom, so the nearest place to see the ship’s position was from the captain’s cabin above.

He hurried up the companion and through the lobby. To the sentry loosely at attention outside the great cabin, he muttered,

“Have t’ see out.” If he craned his neck, he could just glimpse the coastline of the Patuxent slowly rotating; a discernible wake was disturbing the water astern and the frenzied squeal of blocks could be heard even below decks.

He nodded to the marine and returned to the wardroom.

He knew vaguely that they should shape course south down Chesapeake Bay to the sea, but without sight of a chart he was in the dark. The angle of the deck lessened, then he heard another volley of faintly heard shouts, and there was a brief hesitation—

they must be staying about.

At the right moment the tiller groaned with effort as the wheel went over but after some minutes there was no corresponding sway over to larboard. They had missed stays. Kydd cringed for
286

Julian Stockwin

the offi cer-of-the-deck as the unmistakable bull roar of Truxtun erupted; he was grateful to be out of sight. He picked up the
Review
again and fl icked the pages.

After an hour or so the motions were repeated but this time in a smooth sequence, the frigate taking up on the opposite tack.

Again the manoeuvre and again an easy transition. Dare he emerge on deck? He waited for a space; the angle of heel increased gradually and he guessed that more sail was being loosed. Kydd could stand it no longer. He made his way to the aft companion and mounted the steps to the quarterdeck. In the tense scene, not a soul looked his way. Groups of men were at the bitts, the base of the masts, the forecastle, all looking aft to where Truxtun stood with folded arms, staring up at taut canvas.

“Stream!” he snapped, to the men at the taffrail. One held the reel of the log high while the log-ship, a triangular drag piece, was cast into the sea astern to uncoil the line from the drum. It hurtled out at speed and when the sand-glass had run its course a lanky midshipman called, “Nip,” and then, “Eleven knots an’