“Six-pounders, an’ hoping t’ find carronades. Couldn’t help but notice—Mayfly’s clencher-built, not s’ common as who would say. I was in a cutter in the Caribbean, Seaflower b’ name, an’ she was lap-straked as well.”
“Caribbean? I was there in Wessex frigate in ’ninety-four.”
“Were ye really? I remember . . .”
The talk livened agreeably at the subject of old ships. Fernly had been an able seaman with the good fortune to have impressed a captain sufficiently that he had been plucked from the fo’c’sle and placed on the quarterdeck as a mature midshipman. This had led to promotion in due course, but the later demise of the captain had left him without interest at high level and he had not been noticed.
Dinner was served, the conversation turning now to landfalls and seaports across the seven seas; between them they had seen so much of a world unknown and unexplored to the generation just past.
As justice was being done to a cunning Buttered Meringue La Pompadour, Fernly cocked his head and listened, holding up his hand. The strains of a violin and sounds of merriment from the main deck had stopped and there was a sudden quiet.
Then, faintly on the night breeze, from forward came a familiar air:
We’ll rant and we’ll roar like true British sailors;
We’ll rant and we’ll roar across the salt seas
Until we strike soundings in the Channel of old Eng-a-land
From Ushant to Scilly ’tis thirty-five leagues . . .
“That’s m’ quartermaster,” Fernly said softly, “an’ a right songster indeed.”
Kydd looked at Fernly. “Spanish Ladies,” he blurted happily.
Fernly returned the look with impish glee, mouthing the words while waving a glass in the air and Kydd responded in a creditable baritone, his own glass spilling as he beat time. Soon Fernly came in with a fair tenor.
The old sea-song finished and, faces flushed, they moved back to the easy chairs. “Rare time,” Kydd said, easing his waistband.
“It’s a sad profession, without it has compensations,” Fernly agreed, helping himself to Madeira. Tysoe had cleared decks without either man noticing and a baize cloth now bore a neat cluster of decanters.
Kydd sighed deeply. His gaze slipped down to the glittering gold of the epaulette on his coat, which was now draped over the back of his chair. He looked up and his expression became wistful. “I own that I’ve been a copper-bottomed, thorough-going lucky wight. Here am I, a Guildford wigmaker, topping it th’ mandarin as commander, writing m’self orders f’r a cruise. Who would’ve smoked it?”
He stopped. “Ah—that is not t’ say . . .” In the fuddle of wine, words failed him. His guest was still only a lieutenant and a silver-haired one at that, with only a tiny cutter to show for his years at sea. And a lieutenant-in-command could not possibly compare with a commander of a sloop.
Fernly lifted his glass and, closing one eye, squinted at the table candle through it. “Y’ told me before as I was t’ talk free. Should I?” He spoke as though to himself.
“Fill an’ stand on, I beg,” Kydd said warmly.
Still staring at his glass Fernly continued in the same tone: “You’re senior in rank, an’ I in years. Gives you a different slant on things, y’ must believe.” His voice strengthened. “Only f’r the friendship I bear ye for the night’s company do I speak out, you understand.”
“Just so,” Kydd said neutrally.
“You’re new made t’ commander, this is plain.”
“Why Keith gave me th’ step I still don’t understand.”
“Nor will you ever. My guess is, he had others waitin’ that by movin’ the one into a sloop the other would protest. You were to hand and got th’ berth—but if half th’ reason was fortune, the other half must be y’r shinin’ past. That must still the tongues o’ those who would object.”
Kydd leaned forward and refilled his glass. “But you—”
“Do I hear a dash o’ pity on my account? Pray don’t trouble y’self, sir. I’m content with m’ lot because I’m a philosophical. I’m a tarpaulin an’ know it—I never hoisted aboard y’r polite ways, I had no one t’ teach me. My pride is in good deepwater seamanship an’ prime sailing.”
Looking steadily at Kydd he continued, “I’ll be straight—I’ve been in the sea service long enough t’ take inboard some hard facts, which I’ll share with ye.
“The first: y’ speaks of a cruise you means to take. That’s a brave thing t’ do when y’r Articles of War—I mean th’ thirteenth— says much about any who, an’ if I remember th’ words aright, hangs back fr’m ‘pursuing the chase of any enemy, pirate or rebel,’ which chasin’ prizes instead must surely be.”
He sipped his wine, regarding Kydd calmly. “An’ the seventeenth—pain o’ death or other, should ye fail in protecting trade, which is goin’ after the privateers and similar and not lookin’ after th’ merchant jacks.” He paused, then added, “Y’r flag officer likes prize-money shares but likes better zeal agin the enemy—just ask His Nibs, Adm’ral Nelson!”
Kydd coloured. “I know the Articles well enough,” he muttered.
Fernly went on remorselessly: “Still an’ all, I’ve knowledge that the eastern Med squadron will be returning here shortly f’r their regular repair ’n’ store, which will be fatal to your enterprise in any case.” So much for his independence, Kydd thought resentfully, but waited for the older man to say his piece.
“Then shall we speak o’ your situation.” Fernly glanced meaningfully about the cabin and added, “You must feel content with y’r lot.”
Kydd nodded.
“Then consider this: it’s not th’ best but the worst thing f’r an officer, being away on y’r own like you are. In the sea service you’ll agree the only way t’ get promotion is to be noticed. Some fine action, with a butcher’s bill to follow, sort o’ thing you’re well acquainted with, I believe. Now, what chance have ye got t’ be noticed in a small ship that you’re frightened of the smallest frigate? You’re out o’ sight, no one knows y’ exist. You do well, an’ you’re accounted a reliable, safe pair o’ hands, which will suit their lordships fine t’ keep you so for ever.”
It was galling but there was no arguing with it. Fernly leaned over and made a show of smoothing the hang of Kydd’s coat with its lustrous gold lace, continuing mildly, “I give ye joy on y’r promotion—I hope it brings satisfaction.”
Kydd kept mute. Clearly Fernly was about to make some point.
“A commander? I once saw service in a flagship. A real caution, some of th’ things you’d see.” He twirled his glass by the stem as he considered Kydd, a lop-sided smile in place.
“The Commander-in-Chief—a lot o’ things he has t’ worry over. Enemy fleet, state o’ the ships, spies ’n’ such, but y’ know what troubles him most? How t’ satisfy those he owes an obligation by way of a place. Relatives o’ his, of others, even th’ highest in the land, all clamouring f’r preferment.
“So, he removes a favoured l’tenant into a brig as commander. He’s now out o’ sight an’ mind at the other end o’ the Med for, say, a year, two. Then someone’s nephew gets uppity, has t’ be quieted with a ship. What then? It’s sad enough, but th’ first has had his chance for distinction and must give way to another. As simple as that, m’ friend.”
Fernly’s expression held sorrow and Kydd felt the warmth of the wine and fellowship fall away.
“It gets worse. Our first commander, what is he t’ do without he has a ship? If he was a lieutenant—like m’self—we can see him entered back into a ship-of-the-line, second l’tenant or some such. But a commander . . . There’s above a hundred commanders more’n there are King’s ships I’ve been told, so what’s his fate? A commander may not undo his promotion; and so we see that while th’ country fights f’r its life, our brave officer cannot be found employment—an’ must retire fr’m the sea.
“Mr Kydd,” Fernly said softly, “I do believe you’re under notice. T’ make yourself remark
ed upon—or perhaps learn how to grow turnips . . .”
CHAPTER 6
KYDD GLOWERED AT THE PAPERWORK on his desk, his dark mood sinking fast into depression. It had been a cruel let-down, the intrusion of hard reality into the euphoria of first command. It was not as if he was unaware of the things Fernly had said—every naval officer knew something of the situation—it was more the cold realisation that, like the diagnosis of a disease, it now applied inescapably to him.
He picked up a scrawled sheet, trying to fix his thoughts on stations for fire-fighting, but his eyes glazed. There was no way he could concentrate. The cruise would have to be cancelled: he could not risk being away without real orders when the squadron arrived back in port. His so-brief days of roving free were over. Teazer’s fate would revert again to fetch and carry, convoy escort, dispatches—he would be the menial of any who cared to make use of his little ship, with never a chance at true battle and glory.
Yet the worst part was that he could see now that if he failed to distinguish himself in Teazer his longed-for elevation would ironically ensure that he must abruptly leave the sea, and without appeal.
One thing was certain, though: a report to the admiral had to be rendered. He had been putting it off as long as he could but there would be no time to spare after he had arrived. Kydd sighed and took a fresh sheet of paper—and a dozen sharp needles clamped themselves to his stockinged leg. As he shot to his feet, banging his head on an overhead deck beam, his eyes flicked down.
There was a terrified squeak and a pair of imploring black eyes looked up into his. Kydd opened his mouth to roar for Tysoe but stopped; he bent and picked up the warm little body, which lay trustingly in his cupped hands. “Ye’re nothing but a tiger, young Sprits’l,” he found himself cooing. A tiny pink tongue gave a tentative lick at one finger and Kydd’s heart was lost to the little creature. It had been years before, but he had not forgotten the ship’s cat of the old Duke William that had shared his first night in the Navy.
The kitten let go and scampered across the deck, then disappeared under a side table, its face reappearing mischievously. Kydd smiled: if this little creature could not only brave the unknown world but turn it into a place of fun and play, who was he to complain at his lot? His depression began to lift and he turned back to his report.
Attard, midshipman of the watch, knocked timidly at the door. “S-sorry to disturb, sir, but, er, have you—”
“Under the table yonder—an’ I’ll thank ye t’ keep it forward,” Kydd growled, hiding a grin.
It was amazing how such a tiny life had brought proportion to his own. Now he could turn his mind to a more constructive course. His independence was about to be checked—but then was not this at heart a falsity anyway? An admiral had seniors; even the great Nelson must take orders from above. Nelson— now there was his example: to do his duty to the utmost and when the big chance came to seize it full-heartedly and without hesitation. And, meanwhile, he would try to be like little Sprits’l, taking joyously all that life had to offer of the moment . . .
“Never mind that,” Admiral Warren said, slapping Kydd’s report down on the desk, “I haven’t the time. Tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself.”
“Well, sir,” Kydd began carefully, “in th’ absence of direction fr’m a senior officer I conceived it m’ duty to fit out th’ ship immediately by any means. Being ready in all respects I proceeded to sea.”
He paused—this was the delicate part. “I came up with a corsair plunderin’ a merchant ship an’ tried to catch him but as a xebec he went about close to th’ wind and—and I lost him.”
The admiral’s granite expression did not change. “It happens. Go on,” he rasped.
“Er, at the suggestion of Mr Cameron I took a convoy t’ Ragusa and fell in with two Algerines. They left without joining action on seein’ my hostile motions.”
Warren’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t pursue it further. “Well, then—you have your senior now and it is to be admitted that your presence here is not unwelcome.” Kydd smothered a sigh of relief and tried to look eager. “While my fleet repairs and stores, it would be of service to me should you look into the south for word of Ganteaume. Even as I’ve been searching for him in the north, he may have been at large in the Gulf, refitting.
“You shall have orders for a reconnaissance along the coast east of Tripoli. I don’t have to tell you, if Ganteaume is sighted you will spare nothing and nobody to bring me the news. If at the end of ten days there is no word, then your voyage will not be wasted as you shall be able to render me your appreciation of the situation in those parts.”
“Aye aye, sir!” Kydd said crisply.
Warren glowered. “And if you’re under the impression this scouting voyage is an excuse for prize-taking, let me disabuse you, sir. You’re performing this vital task because I can’t spare the frigates. Understand?”
“Mr Purchet! Those forrard backstays are a disgrace,” Kydd said savagely, as he stepped back aboard. “And why is not th’ rattlin’ complete on the main shrouds?” He didn’t wait for an answer and plunged below.
He had no charts of the Barbary coast. No carronades. There had been only a brief discussion with the flag-lieutenant concerning intelligence, which seemed contradictory and nothing much beyond conjecture: the British were newcomers to the Levant, which had been mainly a French trading preserve before, and it showed. Any charts that might be available were copies of captured enemy ones, of varying age and quality, and provisioning was only to be had at either Malta or by barter with the Moors of north Africa.
There was no word of Ganteaume or his fleet—they might be at large anywhere except in the north where Warren had just been with his squadron. His orders called for a search to the south-east from Tripoli deep into the Gulf of Sirte, presumably returning along the north-trending coast. Any one of the indentations in the lonely desert coast might harbour the powerful enemy squadron; when he came upon them it was in the lap of the gods if the wind was fair for a rapid retirement or whether he would find himself set upon by fast frigates intent on his destruction to preserve the secret of their presence.
There was no possibility of action and glory in this kind of work, no credit for fleeing a superior enemy and simply returning with the news—but every chance of oblivion if he came back with nothing.
Kydd screwed up his attempt at orders in the case of fire on board and flung it into the corner. He snatched up another paper and tried to concentrate on planning the voyage: stores, of course, charts. Where could they water? Their sea endurance would probably not extend to the near thousand-mile round trip. What were the inshore wind and current conditions? He had been in a frigate that had touched ground at the other end of the Mediterranean and it had been a terrifying experience. Was Bonnici up to the hair-raising coast-hugging of this voyage? Was he?
They slipped and put to sea early in the morning, shaping course directly south the several hundred miles to Tripoli, the winds fair for a fast passage. Teazer leaned into it with a will, but her commander stood unmoving on his quarterdeck, staring ahead in a black mood. Dacres reported sea watches set and Kydd grunted an ill-humoured acknowledgement.
He noticed that several men were the worse for wear after a final run ashore before they sailed: if they fumbled a manoeuvre he would see there was a reckoning.
A line of men on their knees with holystones were working their way aft across the deck, kept well supplied with water from a bucket-man and sand from the petty officer in charge. As they approached, Kydd caught furtive glances—was he going to yield the deck to the lowly seamen or stand his ground? A stubbornness born of his mood kept him rooted to the spot. The men came near. Then, without looking up, awkwardly tried to work round his unmoving shoes. He kept his position, staring forward fixedly as the line passed by. Close to Kydd and well within his hearing, Daniel Hawkins said, in a raised voice to the man on his left, “Be gob, an’ does we have t’ top it the heathen slave an’ all?”
Kydd stiffened in surprise.
“Silence, damn y’r hide!” Purchet’s outraged bellow came from behind him. “I heard that, y’ villain! Y’r own captain you’d chouse, y’ rascal!” The boatswain came up to Kydd. “I’ll see him afore Mr Dacres for ye, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr Purchet, but—” Kydd said, then stopped. Any interference would be seen as weakness, an allowing of disrespect to his person and situation. His authority would begin to unravel as of that moment.
With grim inevitability the little drama expanded. The sullen sailor was hauled off and, within minutes, Dacres had solemnly reported that he had confined a member of Teazer’s crew to irons, to appear before Kydd at his pleasure.
There was no point in delaying the inevitable: half an hour before the noon grog issue the ship’s company was mustered. For appearance’s sake, Kydd required his warrant officers and midshipmen to fall in behind where he would stand, facing the mass of seamen. An improvised lectern was set up and when officers and men were all present Dacres went below to report.
Composing his expression to one of solemn judgement Kydd emerged on to the upper deck. The seamen were mustered in a mass forward with the small number of minor officers aft.
Kydd strode purposefully to the lectern. “Carry on, Mr Dacres,” he intoned, with as much gravity as he could muster.
“Sir. At two bells this forenoon Daniel Hawkins, ordinary seaman, was heard to utter words of calumny and disrespect to the person of you, sir, his lawful commander, in contravention of Article the Twenty-third of the Articles of War.”
“Witnesses?” Kydd said sharply. “Mr Purchet?”
“Sir,” began the boatswain, with ill-concealed relish, and repeated the accusation.
“Thank you. Is there any t’ speak for him?”
“Sir.” Bowden stepped forward manfully. “Hawkins is in my division, sir, and I have never found reason to remonstrate with him.” It was carefully phrased, the absence of positive qualities revealing.
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