Meanwhile his contentment continued to build, with warm thoughts of his progress in society mingling with enjoyment of the tumbling green Devonshire coastline and the clean, sparkling summer seas ahead.
Renzi had received the news of Kydd’s successful first foray into real society politely and had been cautiously approving when he had heard in some detail of his encounter with an admiral’s daughter. Kydd had no idea how he had done, but the very fact that she had stayed to talk implied that his presence was not altogether uncongenial. She was certainly of a quality far above his, yet she had singled him out—this was surely proof of his acceptability in gentle company. He hugged the conclusion gleefully to himself and turned on his heel to pace the quarterdeck.
The line of coast was beginning to take on meaning and character—Kydd recognised the mouth of the Erme River: it had been there, so long ago, that he had been one of the party that had crept ashore to discover the truth of the great mutiny, learning of the worst in the pretty village of Ivybridge below the moor.
As the coast trended south past the Bolt Tail and Head it peaked with Start Point. One of the major seamarks for the winter-beset battleships of the Channel Fleet fleeing a ferocious gale, it promised calm and rest at Tor Bay, beyond.
Teazer ’s patrol limit was at the other end of the long sweep of Lyme Bay at Portland and nearby Weymouth. There were no seaports of consequence in the bay beyond Exmouth and he determined to stretch out for Portland.
“Mr Standish, tomorrow is Sunday an’ we shall have Divisions. If you’d be s’ kind?” It was a little unfair; the ship was still being squared away after three weeks in dockyard hands, but what better way to pull Teazer into shape than to have a captain’s inspection and bracing divine service? Anyway, it would give him a good idea of the temper of his men. It was the duty of the first lieutenant to prepare the ship and Standish would be held to account for any short-comings; this was the custom of the service and he would be as much on display as the ship.
At four bells Kydd stepped out of his great cabin to the piercing squeal from the boatswain’s call. In full dress uniform he acknowledged the polite report from Standish that His Majesty’s Ship Teazer was now at readiness for his inspection.
He went to the main-hatchway and stood aside for the boatswain to precede him on deck with a single warning peal, the “still.” Then Kydd emerged gravely on to the upper deck. With fitting gravity he began in a measured pace to process down the larboard side of the deck, every man still and watching.
Lines from aloft appeared properly belayed and, additionally, the ends were each laid flat in a careful concentric spiral, a Flemish coil. He moved past the bitts to the shot garlands alongside each squat carronade. The gunner watched Kydd’s progress steadily: Kydd knew it would be astonishing indeed if the balls were not wonderfully chipped and blacked and the carronades gleaming on their slides but appearances must be preserved and he went carefully through the motions.
The foredeck was in the same pristine state as aft; the lines were not pointed as they were on the holy ground of the quarterdeck where the final four inches had been artistically tapered, but in other ways there was pleasing attention to detail. Here he noted that every rope’s end was neatly whipped, in the complex but secure and elegant West Country style, while the canvas grippings of the foreshrouds had been painted instead of tarred.
“A strong showing, Mr Standish,” Kydd allowed. Standish tried to hide his smile of satisfaction.
But professional pride was at stake here; Kydd looked about covertly but there was nothing to which he could take exception. He would have to try harder. Noting the angle of the breeze across the deck he crossed to a carronade neatly at rest on its slide. At the cost of his dignity Kydd squatted and felt under its training bed forward before the waterway and found what he was looking for: wisps of oakum and twine trimmings, wafted there during the work that morning. He straightened and looked accusingly at Standish. “Ah, sir, I’ll be speaking to the captain of the fo’c’sle,” the lieutenant said, with a touch of defiance.
Kydd growled, “But there’s a matter o’ higher importance that concerns me.” He held Standish’s eyes, provoking in the other man a start of alarm. Kydd went on, “It is, sir, th’ foretop lookout failin’ in his duty!”
They snapped their gaze aloft to catch the interested lookout peering down at events on deck, then hurriedly shifting his attention back out to sea. Kydd had known the man’s curiosity would probably get the better of him and had deliberately refrained from looking up before. “Th’ mate-o’-the-watch t’ inform me how he’s to teach this man his duty,” he barked.
In the respectful hush he turned and went down the fore hatch-way to the berth-deck. Men were mustered below, in their respective divisions headed by their officers, and stood in patient silence. The swaying forest of sailors filled the space and Kydd picked his way through.
Knowing all attention was on him, he moved slowly, fixing his eyes to one side then the other, looking for a shifty gaze, resentment or sullen rebelliousness but saw only guarded intelligence or a glassy blank stare. He passed along and stopped. “Why has this man no shoes?” he demanded of Prosser. The sailors went barefoot where they could at sea but mustered by divisions for captain’s inspection only shoes would do.
“He doesn’t have any, sir,” Prosser answered uncertainly.
“Why doesn’t he have any?” Kydd responded heavily. The divisional system of the navy was a humane and effective method of attending to the men’s welfare by assigning an officer responsible not only for leading his division into combat but as well concerning himself with any personal anxieties his men might have.
Prosser shifted uncomfortably.
“Tell me, why do y’ have no shoes?” Kydd asked the man directly.
“I ain’t got m’ pay ticket,” he mumbled.
“You’re fr’m, er, Foxhound, ” Kydd recalled. “Are you saying that y’r pay due entitlement has still not come t’ Teazer? ”
“Sir.”
Kydd rounded on Prosser. “Inform th’ captain’s clerk that this matter’s to be brought t’ the attention of Foxhound an’ report to me the instant this man’s account is squared.”
It annoyed him that Prosser, a master’s mate, was holding his men at arm’s length like that. Only by getting to know them and winning their confidence would he be of value to them—and, more importantly, be in a position to make good decisions when at their head in action. It was no secret that Prosser had been hoping for a bigger, more prestigious rate of ship, but if he was looking for an early recommendation from his captain then this was not the way to gain it.
Aft was where the petty officers berthed; their mess was in immaculate order, and on impulse Kydd asked that the rolled canvas that would screen them off from the rest should be unfurled. As he suspected, it was richly painted on the inside with a colourful pastiche of mermaids and mythical sea-beasts.
He lifted his eyes and saw Stirk looking at him across the deck; it had been so many years, but some of Kydd’s happiest times at sea had been spent with Stirk in a mess such as this. He fought to control a grin and contented himself with a satisfied nod.
The cook’s domain was spotless, the morning’s salt beef standing by for the coppers. The boatswain’s store was trim and well-stowed, and in the sailmaker’s tiny cuddy Kydd found a miniature hammock slung snugly fore and aft and in it the lazy-eyed ship’s cat, Sprits’l, looking sleek and assured.
Emerging from the cloistered depths of Teazer to the more civilised upper realms, Kydd pronounced himself satisfied. As a ship-of-war there was little to complain of and he turned to Standish. “Rig f’r church, if y’ please,” he ordered, and went to his cabin to allow the bedlam to settle that was the tolling of the ship’s bell for divine service and the clatter of match-tubs and planks being brought up as pews.
“If ye’d rather . . . ?” Kydd offered to Renzi. The absence of a chaplain meant that the office would normally be carried throug
h by the captain or other officer but Renzi’s reputation for fine words would ensure him a respectful hearing.
“I think not,” answered his friend. He added warmly, “Your good self is much the closer to a divine in this ship.”
The captain’s clerk would, however, need to appear in front of the men: on report from Standish, two sailors slowly mounted the main-hatchway and appeared on deck. Every man and boy of the ship’s company sat stolidly in a mass facing their captain, who stood by the helm behind an improvised lectern.
Kydd liked what he saw. These were his men, sitting patiently, those who would sail his ship and fight at his word, and on whose skills and courage the success of the commission would directly depend.
He was coming to be aware of several, in terms of their character. Some he knew well, their features strong and comforting, but others were still just faces, wary and defensive. All waited quietly for the ceremony that the Lords of the Admiralty in their wisdom had ordained should take place regularly in His Majesty’s ships.
But first Kydd drew himself up and snapped, “Articles of War!”
“Off hats!” roared Standish.
Heads were bared while the captain’s clerk stepped forward and, in a rolling baritone the equal of any to be found on the Shakespearean stage, declaimed the stern phrases to the sea and sky.
“‘Every person in the fleet, who through cowardice, negligence or disaffection, shall forbear to pursue the chase of the enemy . . . or run away with any of His Majesty’s ordnance, ammunition stores . . . either on the high seas, or in any port, creek or harbour . . . and being convicted thereof by the sentence of a court-martial, shall suffer death . . .’” Duty done, Renzi stepped back.
The two men were brought forward, on report for being slack in stays—Standish wanted the job done speedily. Kydd could only approve of his zeal and sentenced them both to fourteen days in Purchet’s black book. Cares of the world dealt with, it was time to address the divine.
A respectful silence was followed by a rustle of anticipation. Kydd knew he was on trial—some commanders would be eager to play the amateur preacher, others flippant and dismissive, but the common run of seamen were a conservative, God-fearing breed, who would be affronted at any kind of trifling with their sturdy beliefs.
“Gissing?” The carpenter’s mate stood up with his violin and joined Midshipman Boyd at his German flute. When all was ready Kydd announced the hymn, “O God, Our Help in Ages Past,” and the ship’s company sang heartily together, the old words to the well-known tune sounding forth loud and strong. It was the sign of a ship’s company in good heart.
Kydd went to the lectern, notes ignored—these were his men and he knew what they wanted. “Men of Teazer—Teazer ’s men,” he began. There was a distinction and it was rooted in the different allegiances between those merely on her books and those who had found their being in and of the ship. “Let me spin ye all a yarn.” This got their attention. “Years ago, when I was in m’ very first ship we joined action with a Frenchy. And as we closed with th’ enemy I was sore afraid. But my gun-captain was there, who was older an’ much wiser. He was the very best kind o’ deep-sea mariner, and he said to me words o’ great comfort that let me face th’ day like a man.”
His eyes found Stirk’s and he saw the studied blankness of expression that showed he, too, had remembered that day.
“‘Kydd,’ he said. ‘Now, it’s certain ye’ll get yours one day, but ye’ll never know what day this’ll be when y’ wakes up in the morning. If it is, then y’ faces it like a hero. If it wasn’t, then it’s a waste o’ your life to worry on it.’”
Kydd waited for the murmuring to die, then picked up the Bible. “He’s in the right of it, o’ course—but it was here all th’ time. Matthew, the sixth chapter an’ the thirty-fourth verse. ‘Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’
“Men, should y’ need a course t’ steer in any weather then th’ chances are you’ll find it here.”
Portland Bill was the eastern limit of Teazer ’s area, but it would do no harm to show the denizens that the navy was here. “T’ take us past the Bill an’ round to, off Weymouth,” he instructed the master.
There was no real need to pass into the next patrol area, especially with the notorious Race extending out to the Shambles, but this was only bad in heavy weather and it was well known that the King took the waters at Weymouth in summer—what more loyal act could there be than to demonstrate to His Majesty that his sea service was dutifully safe-guarding the shores of his realm?
In the bright sunshine the distant wedge of the peninsula seemed too tranquil for its reputation and the irregular rippling over the Shambles was a tame version of the violent tidal overfalls Kydd had heard about. Teazer slipped between them and in an hour or so came to off the town, the hands that had been at their recreational make-and-mend, which was customary after divine service, now lining the bulwarks.
More than one telescope was trained shorewards as they slowed and swung with the current but the King was not at home—the squat King Henry fortress showed no colourful royal standard.
“Take us out, if y’ please,” Kydd ordered. It would be harder to return now for the wind was veering more to the west, but if they took Lyme Bay in long boards it would not only give the men more time to enjoy their make-and-mend but enable them to raise Exmouth in the morning.
The next day, as they lay off Exmouth for an hour or two it had clouded over; if there were any urgent sightings or intelligence a cutter would come out to them. After breakfast they clapped on sail for the south and Teignmouth, where they did the same thing, heaving to well clear of the bar at the narrow harbour mouth.
Kydd felt a sense of unreality creeping in: this was not war, it was a pleasant cruise in a well-found craft with eighty men aboard who had nothing more to their existence but to obey his every whim. And before him lay only another easy sail south past some of the loveliest coast in England to Start Point, then a leisurely beat back home to Plymouth. When would it pall? When would come the time that Teazer had to justify herself as a man-o’-war? And when would he cross swords with Bloody Jacques?
Sail was spread and Teazer leant to it heartily; Hope’s Nose was their next landfall and beyond it Tor Bay and Brixham. There was just time to go below and do some work, and reluctantly Kydd left the deck.
Renzi was deep in thought at his accustomed place in the stern windows so Kydd left him in peace, settling down with a sigh to an unfinished report. He worked steadily but his ears pricked at sudden shouts on deck and the rapidly approaching thump of feet.
“Sir!” blurted Andrews at the door. “Mr Standish’s compliments and the fleet is in sight!”
“A fleet?” Was this the dreaded invasion?
“Sir! Channel Fleet, flag o’ Admiral Cornwallis!”
Kydd threw on his coat and bounded up on deck to find they had rounded Hope’s Nose to the unfolding expanse of Tor Bay and come upon the majestic sight of the battleships of the blockading fleet entering their fall-back anchorage.
Looking up, Kydd saw their commissioning pennant standing out, long and proud, at precisely a right-angle from the shore. This meant a dead westerly, so the French in Brest were locked fast into their lair, unable to proceed to sea; the shrewd Cornwallis was taking the opportunity to refit and resupply—for as long as the wind held. Should it shift more than a point or two all anchors would be weighed in a rush and the fleet would stand out to sea to resume its watch and guard. Cornwallis was known as “Billy Blue”: his custom was to leave the Blue Peter flying all the time he was at anchor, the navy signal for imminent departure.
Kydd kept Teazer at a respectful distance while the great fleet came to rest. By the laws of the navy he was duty-bound to call on the admiral to request “permission to proceed,” a polite convention that allowed the senior man the chance to co-opt his vessel temporarily for some tas
k.
“Full fig, Tysoe.” Their salute banged out while Kydd shifted into his full-dress uniform and, complete with sword and medals, embarked in the pinnace for the mighty and forbidding 112-gun flagship Ville de Paris.
Tor Bay was a scene of controlled chaos. From nowhere a host of small craft had appeared, summoned by an urgent telegraph signal that the fleet had been sighted. Hoys, wherries, lighters and a ceaseless stream of boats plied between the ships. This was resupply: a population equivalent to one of the biggest towns in England had appeared magically offshore and demanded months of provisions, putting into motion a formidably complex system that was timed to the hour.
As Kydd journeyed across to the flagship, constantly at hazard of entangling with the furious passage of the small craft, his boat’s crew marvelled at the scene. On each ship they passed, men were thick in the rigging, sending down worn canvas, re-reeving end for end the halliards and braces that had seen so much service in the ceaseless struggle to keep the seas. Lighters were being towed out from the breweries at Millbrook, laden deep with vast quantities of beer, a healthier alternative to water in the casks after weeks at sea; and hoys struggled with all the onions, cabbages and other greens they could carry. That very morning these had been in the ground and hapless contractors were at twelve hours’ notice to supply many tons of vegetables.
There was much activity ashore on Paignton Sands, too. Snaking lines of horses and cattle were stretched out over the hills heading towards a series of tents. Around them were piles of barrels and men in frenetic motion. The oxen, driven overland from the depot at Ivybridge, were being slaughtered, salted and headed up there and then in casks on the beach.
It was a telling commentary on the efforts of the nation to provide for its sailors, and a demonstration for all to see of the value placed on keeping this vital battle fleet at sea.
The monstrous sides of the flagship towered up and Kydd felt nervous. This was the commander-in-chief, Sir William Cornwallis, whose iron discipline was chiefly responsible for holding together the fleet in the fearsome conditions of the Atlantic blockade. His sea service went back to the American war—his brother had surrendered at Yorktown—and he had been with Rodney at the battle of the Saintes and served as a commodore in India against Tippoo Sahib.
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