Quarterdeck (38 page)

a hair over.”

Truxtun’s expression did not change. “Not good enough. I’ll have the lee stuns’ls abroad immediately.”

The spring breeze whipped the tops from the waves as Kydd edged his way behind Truxtun towards the wheel and binnacle.

Under the unblinking eye of the quartermaster he got what he wanted—a sight of the compass. South-south-east, wind from the west with a touch of north in it. Ideal blue-water sailing for a frigate: no wonder Truxtun was letting her have her head.

They were passing a broad river mouth to starboard with small vessels of all kinds converging at the confl uence. “Potomac,”

hissed the midshipman behind him.

“I beg y’r pardon?” Kydd said, taken off-balance.

“The river—Potomac.” He busied himself preparing the log for another cast.

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“Thank ye,” Kydd said quietly.

With stuns’ls drawing and royals atop each mast,
Constellation
foamed ahead. It was remarkable for a new vessel to have achieved such speed so soon. The log went out and the excited midshipman yelled, “A whisker less fourteen!” It was nothing short of extraordinary—and exhilarating. If Kydd was not to be an active participant at least he could enjoy the sensation.

Truxtun’s eyes darting aloft, then aft, caught Kydd’s eye.

Kydd smiled broadly in open admiration. “She goes like a racehorse!”

“Aye—like a Yankee racehorse!” But there was no rancour in his voice and his grim expression had eased. It would be a gratifying thing, thought Kydd, to be in command of a frigate that, with her twenty-four pounders, could outfi ght any other and, at the same time, run or chase as she chose.

In the darkness of late evening they came to single anchor in the shelter of Hampton Roads, within sight of the broad Atlantic. The wardroom was abuzz at the splendid showing of their ship and it seemed only right to invite their captain to a hearty dinner.

Kydd sat at the furthest remove from Truxtun’s place of honour at the head, but he was grateful to be present, hearing the happy talk about him, seeing friendships being forged and strengthened that would stand by them all in the ocean voyages ahead.

The talk roamed over the chance of war with France, seeing
The Glory of Columbia
at the Chestnut Street theatre, the right way to treat a halibut—it was just the same as his own wardroom

. . . but different.

The dishes came and went, and the cloth was drawn. Blue smoke spiralled to the deckhead, glasses were raised and confi dences exchanged. The chatter rose and fell. Into a chance silence Gindler’s voice was raised: “Ah, Mr Kydd, you must have
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seen some sea service in your time. Pray tell us of it.”

Glances were shot at Truxtun but he gave no sign that he objected.

“Aye, well, I had th’ good fortune to take a cruise around th’

world,” Kydd said, thinking quickly. “A frigate, nearly as fi ne as this.” He saw this was received well. “Setting a parcel o’ philosophers on a rock, an’ keeping the cannibals in their canoes at bay . . .” He told them of the adventure, and when he concluded with the sad wreck of
Artemis
on the Azores, there was a general stirring of sympathy.

Midshipman Porter leaned forward and exclaimed, “Have you b’ chance seen action?”

“A little—Camperdown, which was where I got m’ step.”

Kydd wouldn’t be drawn on the experience and tried to move on to Venice, but Truxtun himself interrupted: “Your fl eet were in bloody mutiny before then.” A ripple of muttering showed that the dreadful events had been shocking news here as well. “How did that affect you?”

The warmth of the evening fell away as he forced his mind to deal with the sudden release of memories. “It—my ship mutinied, but I was not hurt.”

“Would you say the sailors had just cause?”

“At Spithead they had their reasons, and the Admiralty granted most and gave a pardon. But at the Nore . . .” He felt his face redden.

“Yes?”

“At the Nore, where I was, their cause was understandable but they went about it the wrong way.”

Truxtun growled, “There’s no treating with mutineers, ever.”

The next day a small convoy had yet to assemble, so the dark-featured First Lieutenant Rodgers was sent ashore to the settlement of Norfolk to open a recruiting rendezvous to bring in more

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volunteers. Kydd saw Truxtun hand him silver at the gangway, saying, “Get some music going and grog for all hands—indulge their humour in a farewell frolic.” Rodgers grinned and went over the side.

From forward came the dull
blang
of scaling charges as they cleared the cannon of rust and debris. Men squatted on the foredeck as they made up paper cartridges for the small arms, while others had the hatches off for the last of the sea stores still coming aboard.

By the early afternoon activity had died away. But Truxtun was not satisfi ed. He beat to quarters, and for two hours had the great guns exercised. Big twenty-four-pounders given resplendent names by their gun crews, Thunderer, Volcano, Murderer, and all plied with ferocity and resolution.

That night Kydd did not sit down with the wardroom. Captain Truxtun had requested the pleasure of his company and he entered the great cabin with some apprehension, for they were alone. Through the stern windows Kydd could see dim specks of light on shore; a tawny gold issued from the windows of a vessel anchored nearby, prettily dappling the water.

They passed pleasantries while they took a simple meal, and the steward swiftly removed the dishes. Kydd’s wariness grew with Truxtun’s politeness. “Do take a chair,” Truxtun said, gesturing to a comfortable one near the stern windows. He found a cedar box in his writing desk and drew out a cigar. “Do you indulge, Mr Kydd?” At Kydd’s declining he put it away again.

“You’ll pardon me, Mr Kydd, but you’re the darnedest Royal Navy offi cer I ever clapped eyes on.” His frank gaze was unsettling. “I can tell a smart man when I see one. Don’t have the airs of a King’s man but I’ll guess that’s because you come from the people.” He pondered for a moment. “So, do you hold it right to press men from under their own fl ag?”

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“Sir, if these men are British they have a duty to—”

“They are American, sir.”

“They say they are.”

“They hold protections to prove it—and these are spat on by English offi cers.”

“Yes! Th’ rate for an American protection by your consul in Liverpool is one guinea and no questions asked.”

Truxtun smiled. “We each have our views.” The smile disappeared. “It’s insulting to our fl ag for our merchant ships to be stopped and submit to search on the high seas. What do ye think of that?”

“Sir, Britain is a small island,” he said carefully. “Trade is all we have. To survive we have to protect it, and—”

“You’re right—and damn wrong. Do you know that most of the trade out of Nova Scotia is your cargo in our bottoms, on its way to ports of the world only a neutral can reach? You stop an American and you sink your own trade.”

Kydd fl ushed. “You asked for views—I don’t know y’r details but this I do know: if you’re doin’ the same for the French you’re makin’ a hill o’ money out of it.”

Truxtun’s expression hardened, then a glimmer of a smile showed. “Well, as to that . . .”

It was the fi rst that Kydd had heard of the true extent of the French attacks on American shipping and Truxtun’s tone left no doubt of his feelings. “If we don’t stand on our hind legs and fi ght ’em we deserve to be beat.”

He looked directly at Kydd. “You’re wondering why we don’t declare war. So am I!” He glowered. Suddenly he got to his feet, crossed to his desk and abstracted a folded paper. “I’ll show you this,” he said, in an odd voice. “It came in today.”

It was a single page, and bore the seal of the President of the United States. Kydd looked up in surprise. “Don’t worry,

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the whole world’s going to know about this tomorrow,” Truxtun said heavily.

It began, “Instructions to Commanders of Armed Vessels, belonging to the United States, given at Philadelphia in the twenty-second Year of the Independence of the said States . . .” Truxtun leaned over and stabbed a fi nger at the second paragraph. “There!”

“WHEREAS, it is declared by an Act of Congress . . . that armed Vessels, sailing under authority or Pretence of Authority from the French Republic, have committed Depredations on the Commerce of the United States . . . in violation of the Law of Nations, and Treaties between the United States and the French Nation . . .” Truxtun snorted. “And what must we do?” He tapped the last paragraph: “THEREFORE, and in pursuance of the said Act, you are instructed and directed, to seize, take and bring into any Port of the United States . . .”

“You see? It’s on. A shootin’ war against the French.”

Kydd stared in astonishment—everything had changed. “ But— ”

Truxtun interrupted him: “But it’s not. We haven’t declared war, the French haven’t. What kind of peace is it that requires me to fi re into a Frenchman on sight? Some sort of—of quasi-war?”

Kydd was in no doubt. “Any kind o’ war is fi ne. This is thumpin’ good news—and c’n I say, sir, if we both have the same enemy then we must be friends.”

“No! No—I didn’t say that. I didn’t say that at all. We just has the same enemy, is the truth of it. I’ll be doing my duty at sea and you’ll be doing yours as you see it.” He took back the paper. “If it’s any clearer,” he said gruffl y, “I mean to say I hope we meet at sea one day—as equals, Mr Kydd.”

The convoy was fi nally ready to sail. Showers blustered in from the north in curtains of white, vivid against the sullen grey of the sky, and lines of foam-crested waves advanced seaward.

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A sullen thump came from forward—the signal gun for departure; two cutters moved about the dozen merchantmen cajoling, threatening, shepherding. It was so similar to Kydd’s sailing from Falmouth, yet there was a difference: the lift of a head, the ringing shouts of the petty offi cers, the brazen size of the fl ag at the mizzen peak, the length of the pennant at the mainmasthead.

This was a unique experience: to be aboard the fi rst frigate commissioned in the United States Navy, and the fi rst to put to sea on a war cruise.

Kydd stood out of the way, to the side, buffeted by the wind and with rain dripping from his hat brim. He was in no mood to go below. Although he was a spectator, he knew that no one would forget the day: a navy brought in just months from nothing to one that could execute the will of the nation. From helpless acquiescence to a sea force that would now go against the country’s enemy—and conceivably within hours.

He looked forward. Gindler strode ahead proudly, disdaining oilskins over his lieutenant’s uniform. To starboard the square, lofty lighthouse of Cape Henry lay abeam. With
Constellation
in the lead, the convoy left the haven of Chesapeake Bay and sailed for the open ocean to the east and all that lay beyond.

Standing out to sea the frigate lifted to the swell, new men staggered to the businesslike roll, while others sniffed the wind as if eager to be out to sea—or was it in anticipation of bloody action? The merchant ships bunched together close to the American frigate: there had been talk ashore of a pair of big privateers lying in wait and self-preservation was a strong motive for keeping station.

The weather moderated as they made their offi ng, although
Constellation
needed only double-reefed topsails to stay with her labouring convoy. Kydd walked forward, keenly appreciative of the motion of a frigate once more and interested indeed in the weatherliness of the American.

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After the sociability of the dinner he was now greeted with cautious nods and the occasional smile—even the intense Lieutenant Rodgers touched his hat to him at one point.

When the land had been sunk and a tossing wilderness of empty ocean had been reached, the convoy dispersed, some to the Barbadoes, others to Dublin and London, thousands of miles of hard sailing with small crews, with the constant fear of sighting the sails of a predator. But
Constellation
was free now to soar.

“Mr Kydd.” Truxtun snapped, as though struck by a sudden thought. “We shall be cruising south tomorrow.” The rest of the quarterdeck was listening intently. “Therefore I believe it would be most expedient for you then to take your leave from this vessel. I shall stop a Philadelphia packet for your convenience, sir.”

Kydd had taken to standing beside the lee helmsman, willing the ship on, feeling her motion through the water, and turned in surprise. “Er—why, of course, Captain.” It was a disappointment not to see the frigate at her best, and despite the circumstances of his passage, there was something about this ship and her crew . . .

In the dog-watches, as the ship shortened sail for the night, Kydd lingered on deck, then went below for his last dinner aboard the
Constellation.
He went to his accustomed place at the end of the table, but found a black steward there. “If y’

please, sah,” he said, and pointed to the head of the table, where all the American offi cers stood with glasses, grinning at him.

“Come ’n’ set, Tom,” one called. Kydd did as he was asked, and took the chair normally occupied by the fi rst lieutenant, bemused.

“Just wanted t’ wish you God speed, Mr Kydd,” Rodgers said, proffering a glass.

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Kydd took it and lifted it to them. “Your very good health, gentlemen,” he called, touched beyond measure.

The group broke into warm conversation, and as dinner was brought he found himself talking as amiably as any. More wine, more dishes: Kydd felt a rush of feeling that came out as hot words of admiration for their fi ne ship, their spirit, their future.