Quarterdeck: A Kydd Sea Adventure

by Julian Stockwin

  ‘Then if you must, here is one such.’ With a pang, Kydd reflected that this was like the old days, when he and Renzi had been carefree sailors wandering together in sea-ports around the world.

  Outside the shop a large signboard announced, ‘The Falmouth Bazaar, Prop. James Philp: Stationer, Perfumer, Patent Medicines and Dealer in Fancy Goods to the Falmouth Packet Service.’

  The interior was odorous with soaps and perfumery, an Aladdin’s cave of massed fabrics, baubles and necessaries, the tawdry and the sublime; no passenger facing the prospect of more than a month at sea would lack for suggestions of what to include in their baggage.

  The shopkeeper approached them. ‘If I c’n be of service to you gennelmen?’ he said, gripping his lapels.

  ‘You have a fine range o’ stock,’ Kydd said, fingering a lace shift of unusual stoutness.

  ‘We have indeed,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘And what, may I enquire, might interest you?’

  Further into the store Kydd saw a couple looking curiously their way. ‘What do y’ have for the run t’ Halifax?’ he asked.

  ‘Leather an’ velvet reticules, purse-springs, clarionets o’ superior tone, dissected maps, Pope Joan boards wi’ genuine pearl fish, ivory walkin’ stick with sword—’

  ‘Aye, that will do,’ said Kydd, ignoring the ingratiating tone. ‘I’ll think on it.’

  The two left, then turned on to Killigrew Street where they came across Bampton. Kydd lifted his hat politely.

  ‘Mr Kydd,’ he responded archly. ‘I admire your sangfroid.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘There is a convoy assembling to sail tolerably soon, and you see fit to linger ashore at your pleasure, when as signal lieutenant you know there is a convoy conference to conduct. You must be confident it will not sail this age.’

  ‘Convoy conference?’

  ‘Why, of course! A signal lieutenant, do you not read your standing orders?’ His sniff of disdain incensed Kydd. ‘Flagship of the escort, and the first lieutenant has not a staff for signals? I shouldn’t wonder that at this moment he has the ship in a moil, looking for her signal lieutenant.’

  Hardly a flagship, thought Kydd, as he left the first lieutenant’s cabin. Just two men-o’-war: the ship-sloop Trompeuse and the six-pounder brig Viper, both near hidden by the increasing numbers of merchant ships assembling in Carrick Roads.

  Bryant had not been searching for him. He seemed mildly surprised that the new signal lieutenant had cut short his run ashore to hurry back on board. Papers for the ship’s masters had not yet been completed, and in any event Houghton had not yet indicated his wishes in the matter of the signal codes to be used in the convoy.

  Loyally, Renzi had returned on board with Kydd, and joined his friend as he headed for the upper deck. ‘Are we to panic, do you think?’ he murmured.

  ‘Not as who should say. But t’ play the ignoramus does not sit well wi’ me.’

  ‘What are—’

  ‘You’ll see!’

  With a bored look on his face, the duty master’s mate was standing by the main shrouds with his telescope of office. He was clearly taken with the idea Kydd put to him. ‘Bo’sun’s mate! Desire midshipman Rawson to present himself on the quarterdeck.’

  ‘Mr Rawson,’ said Kydd, to the wary youth, ‘your boat-handling, I’m sorry t’ say, is not of the standard we expect aboard a sail-o’-the-line, and a flagship, at that.’

  Rawson mumbled something, but Kydd clapped him on the shoulder. ‘But don’t ye worry, lad, today you an’ I will go a-sailing together and you could learn something t’ your advantage.’

  Renzi looked at him curiously, but Kydd went on, ‘An’ then you shall show me what y’ know of signals.’

  For the rest of the forenoon Kydd took away the twenty-five-foot gig and a boat’s crew, and in his turn Rawson discovered what it was to sail. Under Kydd’s patient direction, and in the brisk winds of the roads, the lug foresail and mizzen were dipped and backed, brailed and reefed while Rawson found how to read a wind, to give best to a squall, and when to ship washstrakes.

  While the boat plunged between the anchored merchantmen, Kydd hid his apprehension: before long he would have to stand alone on the quarterdeck taking command as a full officer-of-the-watch in a major warship.

  The afternoon saw a changed Rawson, respectful, increasingly confident and ready to fall in with Kydd’s wishes.

  ‘We shall rig for signalling, if y’ please.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘For exercise, hands to stations f’r signalling,’ Kydd repeated firmly.

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ Rawson said hastily. It took some time to find the other signal midshipman and four seamen, and just as long to find the little table for the signal log.

  ‘Are we ready?’ Kydd checked on his signals crew – Rawson and three of the seamen at the flag-locker, and his own midshipman messenger with another.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Then we shall begin. Mr Rawson, please t’ change places with y’r young friend, I want you on hand. Now, ye see Trompeuse lying there fine t’ larboard. We’re senior, and will want to have her responding to our motions. I’ve spoken with her commander, he is persuaded t’ exercise his own signals crew, so we will play the admiral.’

  The flag locker was set snugly across the taffrail, right at the after end of the raised poop-deck, handy for the mizzen peak signal halliards. The locker had dozens of neat miniature doors, each with a brightly painted image of a flag.

  ‘Have you a list of these, b’ chance?’ Kydd asked casually.

  Rawson brought over a dog-eared pocketbook. ‘This belonged to the last signal l’tenant – he didn’t survive Camperdown – and now it’s yours.’ It was a handwritten notebook of useful information gleaned from the Fighting Instructions and other sources.

  ‘Sir, in the front here we have our flags. This is the code of Admiral Howe that we carry, and it’s just numbers – ’ought to nine. We have some others, the “affirmative”, the “preparative” an’ that, but it’s best you see ’em in action. All we do is look in this part of the signal book and we have codes for two hundred and sixty signals, spelled out by number.’

  He glanced at Kydd doubtfully, and continued, ‘So if we want to tell our ships “Break through the enemy line and engage ’em from the other side”, then we look up in the headings, find the signal, and it’s twenty-seven, which we hoist.’

  ‘Seems clear enough – but what if we want t’ tell them to stay about all together? How do we let ’em know when t’ put the helm down?’

  ‘Ah, that’s easy. The order is hoisted up so all c’n see it. Then when they all say they’re ready, we pull it down sharply, which is the signal. Or we can use the preparative flag if the admiral wants to give us time t’ get ready.’

  ‘But what if we want t’ do something that doesn’t have a code in the book? What do we then?’

  Rawson scratched his head. ‘Can’t send it,’ he admitted. So that was the reason, Kydd realised, for the many occasions he had known when his ship had laboriously come up within hail of a senior, and the two ships had rolled along together while angry communications took place by speaking trumpet.

  He tried not to think of the impossibility of doing this in the smoke and violence of battle and took up the little signal book again. ‘So, let’s amuse Trompeuse. I see here I can order her to open fire on th’ closest enemy – so let’s be having it. I find the code here . . .’

  ‘Er, begging your pardon, Mr Kydd, but we hoists Trompeuse’s pennant first so he knows the signal is for him, which we finds here.’

  At the flag locker a yellow and blue pennant was taken, deftly toggled to the signal halliard, then sent soaring aloft. On another halliard the two-flag code was hoisted close up.

  Kydd waited for a reaction. A red and white pennant jerked aloft from the brig. ‘The answering pennant,’ crowed Rawson. ‘They see and will obey!’

  Their own signal brought down, one made its way up the mast of the li
ttle ship. Rawson dived for the book. ‘Nine-seven-one – “I have to report there has been undue mortality in my rats.”’ At Kydd’s expression he explained gleefully: ‘It’s a sign means they could have fever aboard!’

  The evening grog issue cut short their sport, and Kydd went below with the signal book. The system seemed rational enough but he could foresee problems. What if the wind was gusting towards them from a ship? It would set her flags end-on. And in any kind of battle, with its vast amount of powder-smoke, flags would be invisible.

  ‘So signals is the life for you?’ Adams said.

  ‘Seems t’ be all plain sailing to me. And is a mort better than chokin’ on smoke in the gun-deck!’

  Adams adjusted his cravat. It was an open secret that a certain landlady was bestowing her favours liberally, under certain expectations not unconnected with Adams’s solitary visits ashore. ‘Pray don’t be too cocksure, dear chap,’ he said, with feeling. ‘A reputation can be destroyed by false bunting just as easily as putting a ship ashore.’

  Kydd smiled, but closed the book. He felt reasonably secure in his knowledge of signals and, despite Bampton’s acid words, surely there could not be much more to add that he needed to say to a crowd of merchant seamen. With the ship about to sail, it made sense to sup on the fat of the land while they could. ‘Nicholas! I have a fancy to step ashore again, are you interested?’

  ‘Falmouth?’ Renzi ruminated, hiding a smile. ‘This is the Valubia of Virgil – you have probably overlooked that passage in The Aeneid describing Falmouth. Let me see: “Est in recessu longo lo cus; insula portum . . .” it goes, as I remember. You will recognise the Dryden too: “Where vale with sea doth join into its purer hands; ’twixt which, to ships commodious Port is shown—”’

  ‘Sir!’ It was a small midshipman at the door. ‘The captain, sir, desires Mr Kydd to attend on him before he lands, should it be convenient.’

  ‘The convoy instructions have arrived, Mr Kydd,’ Houghton grunted. His clerk scratched away to one side, a sizeable pile of paper mounting beside him.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And the convoy will sail in two days.’ Houghton looked up at him. ‘I am senior officer and I will be calling a conference of ships’ masters for tomorrow afternoon at two. You will attend, of course, and will probably wish to prepare. My clerk, when he’s finished, will disclose to you my private signals and wishes in respect of the escorts.

  ‘Mark my words, I mean to brook no insolence from the master of any merchant vessel, and I will have obedience. I want you to make this quite plain.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ Kydd said, turning to go. ‘And may I have a convoy signal list?’

  Houghton started in annoyance. ‘Of course not! Have you forgotten they are secret? The losing of just one such can lead our convoy into ambuscade, the loss of millions, disgrace to our flag. All are accounted for, sir, and are now under guard – I’m surprised you see fit to ask such a thing.’

  It was a shock: first, the level of secrecy to which he was now privy, but second, that he had not given it much thought. Simple courage and seamanship were no longer the only things that would matter in the future.

  Houghton grunted. ‘Very well. You may study a signal list in the lobby while Mr Shepheard is working. Any notes you take will be kept by him also. That is all, Mr Kydd.’

  His heart sank; the mass of detail about fleet signals was exhaustive. Once under way and at sea each ship would be an island, unreachable except for these signals. Kydd leafed through the orders for distinguishing signals and vanes, then the instructions on to the formation of the convoy; it would apparently be a multi-column square advancing over the ocean. The name of each ship was filled in and assigned a number, which turned out to be its column and row position, and the three escorts were positioned around them, Tenacious, with a tiny flag added to her name, in the van.

  The bulk of the details however, was taken up with resolving problems before they occurred. He turned more pages in dismay. Even putting to sea in good order required special flags to be hung out from odd places about the ship. A red and white weft at the mizzen peak indicated that a ship wished to speak, probably for some urgent concern; a signal of 492 required the unfortunate ship concerned to hoist a yellow flag and steer straight for an enemy in a warlike manner, imitating the action of a warship.

  It went on: Kydd’s eyes glazed. He began to resent the implied assumption that a naval officer could do anything at a moment’s notice, and tried not to think of what he had to face in less than a day. Was it possible to get to grips with so much in that time?

  Marines at the landing pier clashed to present arms when Captain Houghton stepped out of the boat, and more lined the way along Arwenack Street to the Customs House where the conference was due to take place.

  With their marine guard Kydd paced along stoically behind Houghton and his first lieutenant, lugging the padlocked bag of signal instructions and trying to ignore the curious glances of the townsfolk. At the Customs House, a big, square-looking stone building with a brace of captured French cannon at the entrance, they were met by a prosperous-looking individual wearing an old-fashioned tricorne hat. ‘Cap’n Houghton? Raddles, Collector o’ Customs. Welcome to Falmouth, an’ your convoy gentlemen are a-waitin’ within.’ They passed inside along a musty-smelling passage. ‘Been here before, sir?’ Without waiting for an answer he went on, ‘The long room is where they meets mostly.’

  They entered a large room with barn-style beams and imposing, floor-length windows. It was noisy, as some hundreds of plainly dressed and weatherworn seamen were present. The babble died as they entered, and those standing in groups moved to take chairs.

  Kydd followed Houghton up the aisle to the front, conscious of heads turning. There was a small lectern, a chalkboard and a table. Just three chairs, facing the hundreds seated, waited.

  Houghton took the centre chair and Kydd the left. Bryant was on the right. The talking died away. The collector introduced the officers briefly with a bow and a gesture, then left.

  The captain wasted no time. He stepped up to the lectern and fixed his glare on the audience. ‘I am senior officer of the escorts. On this voyage you will have ships of force with you, and need fear nothing from the French, as long as you sail agreeable to the plan. Runners will not be tolerated unless arrangements are in hand. Do I make myself clear?’

  Kydd knew that runners were individual ships that tired of the slower speeds of a convoy and struck out ahead alone. They were taking a chance and were on their own, but stood to gain a lot when theirs was the first cargo landed.

  ‘We have a favourable wind and I intend to proceed tomorrow forenoon with the tide. If you have any objections to the sailing plan you may see me in Tenacious up to six hours before we weigh. Otherwise I will take it that you agree to its provisions and will abide by them.’ He gripped the sides of the lectern. ‘Have you any questions? No?’ A restless stirring went through the meeting. Houghton relaxed his stance. ‘Lieutenant Kydd here will present the sailing plan and explain the signals.’ Kydd felt a moment of panic, but remembered to nod and smile under the scrutiny of so many eyes. He had a deep sense of responsibility that so many merchant seamen were putting their trust in the Navy.

  ‘Then it is only left for me to wish you fair winds and a successful voyage. Good day, gentlemen.’

  To Kydd’s relief, Houghton and the first lieutenant strode together down the aisle and left. He had no wish for his performance to be seen by anyone from Tenacious. Aware of a rustle of expectation he moved to the lectern and stood before the sea of stony faces. ‘L’tenant Kydd, signal lieutenant in Tenacious.’

  His voice came out thin and unconvincing. ‘I want t’ talk to you about our convoy to Halifax an’ Newfoundland,’ he said, trying to toughen his tone. ‘And especially the conduct o’ your ships when given direction by th’ escorts. My captain has particularly asked me to—’

  ‘So what if we can’t agree wi’ your direction, young feller?
’ A hard-faced man towards the front had risen to his feet. ‘The King’s service knows aught o’ what worries us, so why should we do everythin’ you tell us? Eh?’

  Kydd stuttered a weak reply.

  Another master got up, more to the back, but his voice boomed out effortlessly. ‘Tell us, Mr Lootenant Kydd, truly now, have ye ever crossed the Atlantic in a blow? Come on, son, don’ be shy! When it’s blowin’ great guns ’n’ muskets, squalls comin’ marchin’ in a-weather, lee gunnels under half th’ time. Have ye?’

  ‘Er, myself, I’m no stranger t’ foul weather.’

  ‘Good. Then you’ll be able t’ tell us how in Hades we c’n spy all your flags an’ numbers in a fresh blow an’ all!’ The two captains sat down to a murmur of agreement.

  In front of him were experienced seamen who had been to sea before he was born and whose sea wisdom cast his own into pale insignificance. Kydd saw that Bryant had returned, and was standing at the end of the hall, listening to him. ‘Should ye not make out our signal, y’ keep the answering pennant at the dip,’ he went on hesitantly. He saw some leaning forward, straining to hear. ‘If th’ weather—’

  Bryant marched up the aisle, grim-faced. Kydd yielded the lectern to him.

  ‘I’m L’tenant Bryant, first o’ the Tenacious,’ he began, challenging them with his tone and glowering at them individually. ‘L’tenant Kydd is my assistant.’ He flashed a dispassionate glance at Kydd. ‘Now we have a convoy to get under way afore noon tomorrow, so no more nonsense, if y’ please. Any who wants to argue with a King’s ship knows what to expect.’

  He took a wad of instructions and held them up. ‘As you all know, this is how we conduct our convoy. As usual I’ll start at th’ beginning, remembering all you’ve been told about keepin’ this under lock ’n’ key.

  ‘Convoy assembles in Falmouth Roads, outside the harbour. Each ship t’ rig their coloured vane to fly at the fore or main, accordin’ to the instructions, not forgetting your number good and plain on each stern-quarter. Order o’ sailing and first rendezvous, you should have by you, before we leave.’