It was a single page, and bore the seal of the President of the United States. Kydd looked up in surprise. ‘Don’t worry, 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 finger 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 fire into a Frenchman on sight? Some sort of – of quasi-war?’
Kydd was in no doubt. ‘Any kind o’ war is fine. 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 gruffly, ‘I mean to say I hope we meet at sea one day – as equals, Mr Kydd.’
The convoy was finally 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.
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 officers, the brazen size of the flag at the mizzen peak, the length of the pennant at the mainmasthead. This was a unique experience: to be aboard the first frigate commissioned in the United States Navy, and the first 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 offing, 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.
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 officers 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 first lieutenant, bemused.
‘Just wanted t’ wish you God speed, Mr Kydd,’ Rodgers said, proffering a glass.
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 fine ship, their spirit, their future.
He sat with flushed face and beamed at them all. No cool talk of the London season, not a word about fox-hunting or estates in the country, this was good sturdy conversation about horses, prospects of prize money, scandalous theatre gossip – here he could safely say his piece without fear of being thought a boor.
‘Fr’m Kentucky, friend, you’ll hanker after this . . .’ Bourbon whiskey was added to the list of Kydd’s American experiences.
‘Did I ever tell ye of Gibraltar? Now there’s a rare place, one thunderin’ great rock . . .’
Happy and muzzy, he did not notice that Truxtun was in the wardroom until he suddenly saw him sitting at the other end of the table. He froze – but Truxtun raised his glass. ‘Ye share the same forename as me, Tom, and I’d like to say that, should you find it in your heart to become an American, there could be a berth aboard Constellation if you choose.’
Kydd turned in to his tiny cot, unable to control his whirling thoughts. An American? Thomas Paine Kydd, citizen of the United States, gentleman of the land and lieutenant of the United States Navy? It was not impossible – he had no ties, no wife and family back in England.
Excitement seized him and his eyes opened wide in the darkness. Why not start a new life in a country where there did not seem to be any difference between gentleman and commoner, a nation that seemed to have so much land and so few people – opportunity unlimited?
But he held the King’s commission. Would he be betraying his country in her time of need? What about other officers in foreign navies? Well, they had been allowed to resign their commissions to take service, and was there not one in the Russian Navy who was now a grand duke? And, above all, if he were in the American Navy he would be fighting the King’s enemies even if it was under another flag.
And there were so many English seamen already serving – he had heard aboard Constellation the accents of Devon, the North, London. He could always be among his countrymen if he felt lonely. They had made the choice, even if many had chosen desertion. Could he?
He tossed and turned until finally sleep came mercifully to claim him.
It seemed only minutes later when he jerked awake. He knew that he had heard a c
annon shot and sat up. Almost immediately the urgent rattle of a drum beating to quarters set his heart hammering.
Kydd dropped clumsily out of his cot and reached for his clothing. Nearby, thumping feet sounded urgently. He struggled into breeches and shirt, flung on his coat and raced barefoot up the companion to the upper deck.
In the cold of daybreak, out of the thin drifting rain ahead, the dark shape of a ship lay across their path. Constellation’s helm was put up to bear away. Even in the bleak grey half-light it was plain that they had come upon a man-o’-war, a frigate, who had instantly challenged them.
‘Get out of it, damn you!’ Truxtun bawled, catching sight of Kydd. ‘Get below!’
There was something about this enemy frigate – Kydd knew he had seen her before.
‘Now, sir!’ Truxtun bellowed.
It was the characteristic odd-coloured staysail, the abrupt curve of her beakhead. But where? Her colours flew directly away and were impossible to make out; the two signal flags of her challenge flickered briefly into life as they were jerked down and, her challenge unanswered, her broadside thundered out.
In the seconds that the balls took to reach them Kydd remembered, but before he could speak, Truxtun roared, ‘Get that English bastard below, this instant!’
Shot slammed past hideously, gouting the sea and sending solid masses of water aboard. One slapped through a sail. Kydd urged Truxtun, ‘Sir, hold y’r fire, for God’s sake – she’s a British ship!’
Incredulous, Truxtun stared at him. ‘She fired on the American flag! She’s got to be a Frenchman, damn you!’
‘That’s Ceres thirty-two, I’d stake m’ life on it!’ But how fast would Ceres take to reload and send another, better-aimed, broadside?
‘An English ship!’ Truxtun’s roar carried down the deck and pale faces turned, then darkened in anger, menacing growls rising to shouts. ‘I’ll make ’em regret this! Mr Rodgers—’
‘Do ye want war with England as well?’ Kydd shouted. Livid, Truxtun hesitated.
‘Hoist y’r white flag!’
‘Surrender? Are you insane?’
‘No – flag o’ parlay.’ All it needed was for one over-hasty gunner on either side and the day would end in bloody ruin.
For a frozen moment everything hung. Then Truxtun acted: ‘White flag to the main, Mr Rodgers,’ he growled.
‘He’d better be coming with an explanation!’ Truxtun snapped to Kydd, as a boat under a white flag advanced, a lieutenant clearly visible in the sternsheets.
‘Sir, be s’ good as to see it from his point o’ view. His private signals have not been answered and as far as he knows there is no United States Navy with a ship o’ this force. You have t’ be a Frenchy tryin’ a deception.’
Truxtun gave an ill-natured grunt and waited for the boat. When it drew near Kydd saw the lieutenant stand and look keenly about him as the bowman hooked on. As he mounted the side angry shouts were hurled at him by seamen, which Truxtun made no attempt to stop.
‘Now, before I blow you out of the water, explain why you fired into me, sir,’ Truxtun said hotly, as the lieutenant climbed over the bulwark.
He had intelligent eyes and answered warily, ‘Sir, the reason is apparent. You did not answer my ship’s legitimate challenge and, er, we have no information about an American frigate at sea. Our conclusion must be obvious.’ Before Truxtun could answer, he added, ‘And remembering we are under a flag of truce, sir, I believe I might respectfully demand that you offer me some form of proof of your notional status – if you please.’
‘Be damned to your arrogance, sir!’ Truxtun punched a fist towards the huge American flag above them. ‘There is all the proof anyone needs!’ Shouts of agreement rang out and seamen advanced on the quarterdeck. The lieutenant held his ground but his hand fell to his sword.
Kydd held up a hand and stepped forward. ‘L’tenant, a word, if y’ please.’
The lieutenant looked in astonishment at Kydd’s bare legs, his civilian coat and breeches, soaked and clinging to him. ‘Er, yes?’
Drawing him aside, Kydd spoke urgently. ‘I’m L’tenant Kydd of HMS Tenacious, supernumerary aboard. I have t’ tell ye now, this is a United States frigate true enough, and no damn Frenchy.’
The lieutenant’s disdain turned to cold suspicion. ‘You’ll pardon my reservations, sir,’ he said, giving a short bow, ‘but can you offer me any confirmation of your identity?’
Kydd pulled his wet coat about him: a great deal hung on his next words. ‘Very well, I can do that,’ he said softly. ‘Off Devil’s Island not a month ago, Ceres was there when Resolution hangs out a signal to tack – in succession. Tenacious makes a fool of herself. I was that signal lieutenant.’
The lieutenant stared, then smiled. ‘I really believe you must be.’
He turned to Truxtun and removed his hat. ‘Sir, you have my condolences that this unhappy incident took place, but cannot concede any responsibility. This will be a matter for our governments to resolve. Good day, sir.’
The furious Truxtun did not reply, glowering at the man as he solemnly replaced his hat and went down the side to his boat, followed by yells of defiance.
What if it had been Tenacious instead? Kydd’s thoughts raced – a ship-of-the-line thundering out her broadside? How could two proud navies cruise the seas without it happening again? They were at war with the same enemy – that was the main point. All else was pride.
‘Sir.’ Truxtun drew a deep breath and Kydd went on quickly, ‘Be so kind as t’ honour me with a minute of y’r time – in private.’
Truxtun turned to Rodgers. ‘Stand down the men.’ He stalked over to Kydd and stared at him. ‘Very well – and then, for your own safety, sir, I’m confining you to your cabin until you’re off this ship.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Kydd felt he was being carried forward in a rush of destiny that could not be stopped, yet his mind was protecting him from the enormity of what he was contemplating by an odd detachment from reality.
‘If I might go t’ my cabin for a moment.’ He was back quickly and went with Truxtun into his great cabin, closing the door behind him.
‘One minute.’
‘Sir. Captain – this is a madness. We must fight t’gether, not each other. So I’m now going t’ trust you with my honour, an’ I know it’s not going t’ be misplaced.’ He could read nothing in Truxtun’s stony face.
‘Sir.’ He gulped as he felt in his coat and withdrew a small pocket book. ‘Sir, this is a copy of our secret signals. If you are challenged by a British ship you may safely reply with the correct private signal of the day, here, and at night challenge and response, here.
‘Take it, sir, an’ I know you’ll protect its confidentiality with your own honour.’ If the enemy ever got hold of its secrets, the ships of the Royal Navy would be at their mercy.
Truxtun stared at the book and then at Kydd. ‘God rot me, but you’re a brave man, Mr Kydd,’ he said softly. He took the book and slipped it into his own coat. ‘It’ll be safe with me.’ He held out his hand. ‘I hope you do not suffer for this, but what you’ve done . . .’ He clapped his hand on Kydd’s shoulder. ‘An honour to know you, sir.’
Chapter 12
Kydd had been able to reassure Stoddert with what he had seen, and Liston had listened to his account of a new player on the world maritime stage with grave attention, accepting his considered opinion of the new navy as an effective force. But now Kydd must face his day of reckoning and his return to Halifax was charged with dread at how he would be received. He knew why he had acted as he did, but the Admiralty might regard it as no less than treason.
Leaving the deadly Sambro Ledges well to leeward, the packet he’d caught back finally rounded the grey rocks of Chebucto Head for the run in to Halifax harbour. He had been away only days but it seemed like months.
Soon Kydd was standing on Water Street pier. He knew exactly what he had to do. He left his baggage at the shipping office and hurried down to the watermen
’s steps to hire a wherry to take him to the flagship at anchor.
The officer-of-the-day quickly got rid of Kydd to the flag-lieutenant.
‘I have to wait upon the admiral immediately,’ Kydd said tightly.
‘You have an appointment, of course.’
‘I’m just this hour returned from th’ United States.’
The officer snorted in contempt. ‘Good God, Mr Kydd, you know better than to come aboard hoping the admiral is at leisure to see you. Leave your reasons with me and—’
‘L’tenant, unless you take me t’ Admiral Vandeput this instant, you’ll rue it, an’ that is my solemn promise.’
‘Very well. Be it on your own head. What ship, you say?’
The officer knocked softly on the door to the admiral’s day cabin. ‘Lieutenant Kydd, sir, HMS Tenacious. No appointment, but he seems monstrous anxious to see you.’
Kydd entered.
The admiral was at his desk frowning, his secretary standing nearby with papers. ‘Yes?’
‘Sir, I have a matter of th’ greatest importance.’ Kydd’s voice came out thickly.
Vandeput looked at him steadily, then glanced at his secretary. ‘Go,’ he snapped, then turned back to Kydd. ‘You’re back from America. What is it?’
It took but small minutes to convey the gist of his experiences, ending with the final, shocking clash. ‘Therefore, sir, I saw that if it happens again there’s chance f’r a mortal fight or . . .’
Vandeput’s expression hardened. ‘And then?’
Kydd took hold of all his courage. ‘I gave Captain Truxtun m’ own signal book, which has all th’ private signals for your fleet.’
There was an appalled silence, then the admiral said softly, ‘You’re saying this American captain now has possession of all our secret signals?’
‘Aye, sir,’ said Kydd, trying to keep the tremor from his voice.
‘Well done.’
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