Quarterdeck: A Kydd Sea Adventure

by Julian Stockwin

  His mother’s words could not hide the essence of the matter, the brutal truth, and Kydd felt a chill at the passing of his simple life. He saw her colouring: she had understood that her son was no longer hers. From now on, society events and invitations would firmly distinguish between the Kydds.

  ‘We shall stay at the Angel,’ Renzi said softly. ‘Then we will take modest lodgings in town.’

  Kydd mumbled agreement.

  ‘Well, then, that’s settled,’ his mother said bravely. ‘It’s for the best, o’ course. Come inside an’ take a posset – you must be frozen after y’r journey.’

  As he cradled a mug of hot curdled milk at the kitchen table Kydd listened to the flow of prattle from his mother, felt the quiet presence of his father and caught the curious flash of the maid’s eyes. His own kept straying down to his uniform, the blue and gold so striking. Who could guess what the future might hold now? A deep sigh escaped him.

  He heard the approaching tap, tap of footsteps. His mother smiled. ‘Ah, that must be Cecilia – she’ll be so surprised to see you!’

  The last time he had seen his sister was in a wrecked boat in the Caribbean. He recalled her mortal terror as they had fought for their lives against the sharks. What would she think of him now?

  ‘She’s done very well with Lord an’ Lady Stanhope, Thomas. Quite the lady companion she is now,’ Mrs Kydd said proudly. ‘And don’t go quarrellin’ with her, if y’ please, you know how it upsets your father.’

  The outside door rattled, and Cecilia’s voice echoed down the passageway. ‘Father – what is going on? I saw quantities of your boys on the street and . . .’ Her voice died away as the two men rose to their feet. She looked from face to face, incredulous. ‘Thomas? You . . . you . . .’

  Kydd awkwardly held out his hands. ‘Ye’re doin’ well, Mother says—’

  Suddenly her expression softened to a deep tenderness, and she seized her brother in a fierce hug. ‘Oh, Thomas! I’ve so missed you!’

  He felt her body heaving, and when she looked at him again he saw the sparkle of tears. His own voice was gruff with emotion as he said, ‘Sis – y’ remember in th’ boat—’

  She stopped him with a finger on his lips and whispered, ‘Mother!’ Then she let him go, crossed to Renzi and placed a generous kiss on both his cheeks. ‘Dear Nicholas! How are you? You’re still so thin, you know.’

  Renzi replied politely, and Cecilia turned back to her brother. ‘Thomas and Nicholas are going to take chocolate with me at Murchison’s and tell me all their adventures, while you, Mother, prepare such a welcome for this wandering pair!’ she announced. Her eyes widened. ‘Gracious me – and if I’m not mistaken in the particulars – Thomas, you’re a . . .’

  ‘L’tenant Kydd it is now, Cec,’ he said happily.

  The evening meal was a roaring success. Kydd became hoarse with talking and Renzi was quite undone by the warmth of his welcome. Cecilia could not get enough of Kydd’s descriptions of the Venice of Casanova, even above his protestations that the danger of their mission meant he was hardly in a position to discourse on the republic’s attractions.

  Distant thumps and a sudden crackle sounded outside. Cecilia clapped her hands. ‘The fireworks – I nearly forgot! Tonight we’ll see your Admiral Onslow – he is to be a baronet, and is now resting at Clandon with his brother the earl. It’s said he’ll make an address from the balcony of the town hall! Gentlemen – I wish to attend! I shall be with you presently.’ She swept away imperiously to appear shortly afterwards in a pelisse at the height of fashion: lemon silk, lined and faced with blue. She looked at them both with the suspicion of a pout. ‘And who will be my gentleman escort?’

  Kydd hesitated, but instantly Renzi bowed deeply and offered his arm. ‘May I observe that I find Mademoiselle is in looks tonight?’ he said, with the utmost courtly grace.

  Cecilia inclined her head and accepted his arm. They went outside and, without a backward glance at Kydd, moved off down the lane, Cecilia’s laughter tinkling at Renzi’s sallies.

  Kydd watched them helplessly. His sister had changed. There was not a trace of childhood chubbiness left: her strong features had developed into strikingly dark good looks and a languorous elegance. Her position with Lady Stanhope had allowed her to find an easy confidence and elegance of speech that he could only envy; he followed them, trying to look unconcerned.

  Crowds pressed everywhere, while excited chatter and the smell of fireworks hung on the air. People held back respectfully. Kydd was not sure whether it was in recognition of them as gentlefolk or because of the Navy uniform. Closer to the torch-lit balcony the throng was tightly packed and they had to remain some distance back.

  Cecilia kept Renzi’s arm, but pulled Kydd forward, attracting envious looks from other ladies. ‘Oh, I’m so proud of you!’ she exclaimed, her voice raised above the excited babble of the crowd. She smiled at them both, and Kydd felt better.

  ‘It was th’ admiral gave me m’ step, Cec – there in th’ great cabin o’ Monarch.’ Kydd paused, remembering the scene. ‘But it were Cap’n Essington put me forward.’

  A deep thumping came from the other side, further down the high street: the Royal Surreys called out to do duty on this naval occasion. Thin sounds of fife and trumpet rose above the hubbub, strengthening as they approached. Then, with a pair of loud double thumps on the bass drum, it ceased.

  The crowd surged below the balcony and settled into a tense expectation. Torchlight illuminated upturned faces, caught the sparkle of eyes, the glitter of gold lace. At the signs of indistinct movement within, a rustle of anticipation arose and the mayor emerged on to the balcony in his best scarlet gown and tricorne, resplendent with his chain of office. ‘M’ lords, ladies an’ gennelmen! Pray silence for the mighty victor o’ the great battle o’ Camperdown, our own – Adm’ral Onslow!’

  The genial sea officer Kydd remembered stepped out on to the balcony. A furious storm of cheering met him, a roar of wholehearted and patriotic acclaim. Onslow, in his full-dress admiral’s uniform, sword and decorations, bared his head and bowed this way and that, manifestly affected by the welcome.

  Kydd watched him turn again and again to face all parts of the crowd. At one point he thought he had caught the admiral’s eye, and wondered if he should wave back, but there was no sign of recognition.

  The noise subsided, and Onslow moved to the front of the balcony. He fumbled in his coat, and withdrew a paper. He hesitated, then put the paper back, straightening to a quarterdeck brace. ‘M’ lord mayor an’ lady – citizens of Guildford!’ he began. ‘I thank ye for your fine and loyal address followin’ the action off Camperdown. But I must make something very clear to ye. An admiral doesn’t win battles, the seamen do. An’ I cannot stand here tonight without I acknowledge this before you all! Over there t’ larb’d! Yes, those two men, ahoy! Be s’ good as to join me and show y’selves! These are two of your true victors o’ Camperdown!’

  ‘Thomas – go!’ Cecilia squealed, when it became obvious whom the admiral had singled out. The crowd shuffled and fell back.

  Onslow was waiting for them and shook their hands warmly. ‘A fine thing t’ see ye both,’ he rumbled, his keen eyes taking in their new uniforms. ‘Let’s out an’ give ’em a sight, then you’ll honour me with y’ presence at the presentation.’

  They emerged together on the balcony to a roar, Kydd waving awkwardly, Renzi bowing. Kydd’s eyes searched out Cecilia. She was shouting something to him, waving furiously, and his heart swelled.

  ‘A capital choice,’ Renzi said, removing his coat and standing in waistcoat and breeches. ‘It seems we shall be waiting out Tenacious’s repair in a tolerable degree of comfort.’ He settled into a substantial high-backed chair.

  Kydd rubbed his hands before the fire. The agent had left, and they had taken on this half-mansion below the castle for a reasonable sum. The owner had apparently instructed that officers in His Majesty’s service could rely on his patriotic duty in the matter o
f a lease. Not only that but, agreeably, they could share the services of domestic staff with the adjoining residence, which, as it was inhabited by an old lady, should be no trial.

  Kydd looked around him with growing satisfaction, albeit tinged with trepidation. The rooms were not large, but were bigger than anything he had lived in before. He’d always known that the heart of the home was the kitchen, but here it seemed that this elegant room had taken its place.

  The walls were a soft sage colour, the broad, generous sash windows were hung with muslin and festoon curtains, and stout druggets lay beneath his feet instead of oiled floorcloths. The furniture was reassuringly old-fashioned and sturdy. He turned again to the fire with its plain but well-proportioned marble surround and mantelpiece, and felt an unstoppable surge of happiness. ‘Two or three months, d’ye suppose?’ he mused, recalling the savage wounds Tenacious had suffered.

  ‘I would think so.’ Renzi sat sprawled, his eyes closed.

  ‘Nicholas, th’ sun is not yet above th’ foreyard, but I have a desire t’ toast our fortune!’

  Renzi half opened his eyes. ‘Please do. You will not find me shy of acknowledging that it is these same fates that determine whether one should die of a loathsome disease or—’

  ‘Clap a stopper on it, brother!’ Kydd laughed. ‘I’ll go ’n’ rouse out somethin’ we c’n’—’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘Why—’

  ‘Pray touch the bell for the servant.’

  ‘Aye, Nicholas,’ Kydd said humbly. He found the well-worn but highly polished silver bell and rang it self-consciously.

  ‘Sir?’ A manservant in blue, with a plain bob wig, appeared.

  Renzi pulled himself upright. ‘Should you unlock my grey valise you will find a brace of cognac. Pray be so good as to open one for us.’

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ the man said, with a short bow, and withdrew.

  Kydd tried to look unconcerned and toasted his rear until the servant returned bearing a gilt tray.

  ‘À votre santé,’ Renzi said.

  ‘À votter sonday,’ Kydd echoed awkwardly. The brandy burned a passage to his empty stomach.

  Renzi stood up, raising his glass to Kydd. ‘Our present fortune. May this indeed be a true augury of our future.’

  ‘Aye, an’ may we never find th’ need t’ deny our past ever,’ Kydd responded. ‘Nicholas. M’ true friend.’ He looked sideways at Renzi and, seeing he was attending politely, pressed on: ‘I’ve been a-thinkin’ – you don’t care if I say my mind?’

  ‘My dear fellow! If it were any other I would feel betrayed.’

  ‘Well, Nicholas, this is all more’n I could ever hope for, somethin’ that can only happen if – if y’r destiny is written somewhere, I reckon. So I’m takin’ this chance wi’ both hands! I’ll give it m’ rousin’ best copper-bottomed, double-barrelled, bevel-edged try, I will!’

  Renzi nodded. ‘Of course, brother.’

  ‘So this is what I have t’ do.’ Kydd took a determined pull on his brandy. ‘I’ve seen y’r tarpaulin officer come aft through the hawse, a right taut son o’ Neptune. Ye sees him on watch on th’ quarterdeck an’ it puts y’ heart at ease. But, Nicholas, I don’t want t’ be a tarpaulin officer. They’re stayin’ l’tenants all their days, fine messmates I’m sure, but who should say – plain in their habits. The other officers step ashore t’gether while they stays aboard ’n’ makes friends wi’ a bottle.’

  He glanced down at the glass in his hands. ‘I want t’ be a reg’lar-built King’s officer and gentleman, Nicholas, an’ I asks you what I c’n’ do to be one o’ them.’

  Renzi’s half-smile appeared. ‘If this is your wish, Tom – yet I’ll have you know there is no shame in being one of nature’s gentlemen . . .’

  ‘If y’ will—’

  ‘Ah. All in good time, dear fellow. This does require a mort of reflection . . .’

  It was all very well for Kydd to ask this of him, even if what he said was perfectly reasonable – but in truth the job was nigh impossible. Renzi’s eye covertly took in Kydd’s figure: instead of a fine-drawn, willowy courtliness there were strong shoulders and slim hips standing four-square; rather than a distinguished slender curve to the leg, his knee-breeches betrayed sculpted musculature. And in place of a fashionably cool, pale countenance there was a hearty oaken one, whose open good humour was not designed for societal discretion. And yet he was undoubtedly intelligent: Renzi had seen his quick wits at work. But Kydd would have to learn to value politeness and convention – not his strongest suit. Then there was his speech – Renzi squirmed to think of the sport others would make of him behind his back. The probable course of events, then, would be for Kydd to retreat into the comfort of bluff sea-doggery, and thereby exclude himself from gentle-born society. But this was his particular friend: he could not refuse him.

  ‘Mr Kydd, as now I must call you, this is what I propose.’ He fixed him with a stare. ‘Should you choose this path then I must warn you that the way is arduous. There’s many a chance to stumble. Are you prepared for a hard beat to wind’d?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And there are, er, matters you must accept without question, which are not, on the face of it, either reasonable or explicable. Do you undertake that you will accept from me their necessity without question?’

  Kydd paused. ‘Aye.’

  ‘Very well. I will give you my full assistance in your worthy endeavour, and if you stay the course, for you may indeed wish to yield the race at any point –’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘– then I in turn agree to assist in your elevation into society.’

  Kydd flushed. ‘I won’t shame ye to y’ friends, if that is y’r meaning.’

  ‘That was not my meaning, but let us make a start.’ He reached for the cognac and filled Kydd’s glass. ‘There is a beginning to everything, and in this it is the understanding that for a gentleman it is appearances that define. Politeness, the courtesies due to a lady, these are held at a value far above that of courage out on a yard, true saltwater seamanship. It is unfair, but it is the world. Now, in the matter of the courtesies, we have . . .’

  Kydd persevered. He was aware that Renzi’s precepts were introductory only and that there lay ahead a challenge of insight and understanding far different from anything he had encountered before. The morning lengthened, and by the time Renzi had reached the proper use of euphemisms Kydd was flagging.

  They heard the rap of the front-door knocker. ‘I’ll go,’ Kydd said, rising.

  ‘You shall not!’ Renzi’s words stopped him, and he subsided into his chair.

  The manservant entered with a small silver tray in his gloved hands and went pointedly to Renzi. ‘Are you at home, sir?’

  Renzi picked up a card. ‘I am to this young lady, thank you.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  As the servant left, Renzi shot to his feet. ‘Square away, Tom – it’s your sister!’

  Cecilia entered the sitting room, eyes darting around. ‘Er, you’re welcome, Cec,’ Kydd said, trying vainly to remember his morning exercises in civilities.

  She acknowledged Renzi with a shy bob. ‘Mother said – such a silly – that men are not to be trusted on their own in a domestic situation. How insulting to you!’

  ‘I do apologise, Miss Kydd, that we are not dressed to receive. I hope you understand.’

  ‘Nicholas?’ Cecilia said, puzzled, but then her expression cleared. ‘But of course – you’re standing on ceremony for Thomas’s sake.’ She looked at her brother fondly.

  Kydd smouldered.

  Cecilia, ignoring him, crossed to a candlestand and delicately sniffed the nearest. ‘Well, it’s none of my business, but I can’t help observing that unless you have means beyond the ordinary, beeswax candles must, sadly, be accounted an extravagance. Tallow will be sufficient – unless, of course, you have visitors.’ She crossed to the windows and made play of freeing the shutters. ‘You will be aware how vital it is t
o preserve furniture from the sun.’

  ‘We c’n manage,’ Kydd growled. ‘An’ I’ll thank ye to keep y’r household suggestions to y’rself.’

  ‘Thomas! I came only out of concern for your—’

  ‘Cec, Nicholas is tellin’ me the right lay t’ be a gentleman. Please t’ leave us to it.’

  ‘Indeed!’

  ‘Dear Miss Kydd, your kindness in enquiring after our situation is handsomely done,’ said Renzi, ‘yet I feel it is probably a man’s place to impart to another the graces of a gentleman.’

  Cecilia hesitated. ‘That’s as maybe, Mr Renzi, but there is another purpose to my visit. You appear to have forgotten that a naval uniform will not answer in all appearances in polite society. I came merely to offer my services in a visit to the tailor.’

  At the tailor’s Cecilia was not to be dissuaded. She quickly disposed of Kydd’s initial preferences. A yellow waistcoat, while undoubtedly fetching, was apparently irredeemably vulgar: dark green, double-breasted was more the thing; she conceded on the gold piping at the pockets. Buff breeches, a rust-coloured coat, and for half-dress, a bon de Paris with discreet gold frogging would be of the highest ton – she was not sure about the lace.

  ‘An’ what’s the reckonin’ so far?’ Kydd had done well in prize money in the Caribbean, and after Camperdown there would be more, but this must be costing a shocking sum.

  Cecilia pressed on relentlessly. A dark blue frock coat was essential, in the new style with cut-away skirts that ended in split tails for an elegant fall while horse-riding – it seemed frivolous to Kydd, who was more used to a sensible full-skirted warmth. A quantity of linen shirts was put in train, and material for a cravat was purchased that Cecilia insisted only she might be trusted to make.