Quarterdeck: A Kydd Sea Adventure

by Julian Stockwin

  They left. Kydd watched the Prince’s carriage depart, Thérèse’s last glance back and fond wave. The rest of the guests issued out noisily, and it seemed the whole of Halifax wanted to meet him, make his acquaintance, be seen with him. Captain Houghton appeared, staring wordlessly at Kydd and shaking his head slowly before he moved on; Adams came up and insisted on taking his hand. ‘Damme if that wasn’t the finest stroke of the age!’ he said sincerely.

  Finally Renzi emerged. Full of the deepest delight Kydd said casually, ‘Then was she not a suitable lady?’

  ‘Brother, we must walk for a spell.’ Renzi did not bother to introduce the lady with him, who pouted at the slight. ‘Into your coach, m’dear,’ he said firmly. ‘I shall follow.’ When they were alone on the street Renzi turned to him. ‘My dear fellow,’ he began, then stopped. ‘My dear chap. Where can I begin?’ He paced about in frustration, ignoring the admiring glances passers-by were throwing at Kydd. ‘In polite society – in the highest society – damn it all, what you did was either inspired deviltry or the purest ignorance! And all Halifax believes it the first.’

  ‘Nicholas, you talk in riddles. If you’re just envious—’

  ‘Tom – if you must know, this is what you did. You invited the Prince’s mistress to a banquet hosted by the Prince himself.’

  ‘Thérèse – Julie?’ Kydd fell back in dismay. The flush drained from his face. At the very least it was the ruin of his career, a spectacular end to his promising beginnings. After the exaltation of earlier it was agonising.

  ‘Not at all.’ Renzi struggled for the words. ‘The world believes you knew that Julie appears at lesser occasions, the Prince having a particular taking for her, but at affairs of state – foreign potentates – she must not be seen. To the Prince’s great pleasure you produced her for him at this occasion under the unimpeachable courtly pretence of not knowing her situation.’

  He gave a low laugh. ‘There must be many haughty matrons of Halifax who have been put sadly out of countenance tonight – but many more gentlemen whose admiration for you is unbounded. Just consider – you now have the ear and attention of a prince of the Blood Royal. You are made in society, you – you have but to claim the fruits of your cunning.’

  ‘Where’s Renzi?’ It was late morning in the wardroom and he had still not appeared. Kydd had put it down to over-indulgence, but his friend’s cabin was empty.

  ‘Renzi? I do believe he must still be at Manning’s tavern – he was well away when I saw him,’ Pringle drawled.

  A tavern? Kydd threw on his coat and clapped on his hat. In all the time he had known Renzi he had never once seen him in liquor. Surely he was not a spurned lover. The woman whom he had seen at the banquet? Impossible!

  Manning’s was often frequented by officers but Kydd could not find Renzi in the high-backed chairs of the taphouse or in any of the more secluded public rooms. Discreet enquiry yielded that he was still in his room and furthermore had sent for two bottles since midnight, and was unaccountably alone.

  Disturbed, Kydd went up the stairs. Knocking at the door several times did not produce a result. ‘Nicholas!’ he called softly. ‘I know you’re there. Let me in, brother.’

  About to knock again he heard Renzi’s muffled voice, ‘Thank you for your visit, but I’m indisposed. I shall return aboard – later.’

  ‘If bein’ tosticated is what ails ye, then it’s a poor shab as won’t see his friend.’

  There was a silence, then a rattling, and the door opened. Kydd nearly laughed at the frowsy bleariness of his friend but kept a grave expression and entered. He sat in a chair next to the bed. ‘Can I be of service to ye?’ he asked neutrally.

  Renzi glared balefully at him. Then he groaned and lolled back in the other chair. ‘I’m all undone, I see. You shall have the truth of it – but first a drink.’

  Kydd sat up, alarmed, but Renzi reached for the water pitcher on the dresser and up-ended it, gulping the water noisily. He wiped his mouth and tried to grin. ‘Ah, let us say I have been the unwitting sport of Venus, the plaything of Cupid. In fine, I have to admit to being gulled in full measure.’

  ‘Aye?’ said Kydd, trying not to show his considerable interest.

  ‘A charming nymph, a young sprig of society, whose name will be known in the highest reaches of Haligonian gentility, she it was who – who has refused me.’

  ‘That – that woman at the banquet?’ Kydd said, appalled.

  ‘Not her,’ said Renzi testily. ‘A mere quicumque vult, a Cyprian taken up for the occasion. No – I speak of a young woman of grace and talents, a perfect specimen of spirited maidenhood. I met her at the admiral’s rout and since then have been seen in her company at many a polite occasion, a sparkling companion. Then, the sap unwonted rising high, I pressed my attentions on her, would not be denied . . .’ He trailed off, staring disconsolately at the wall.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘It grieves me to say it, but she – she . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It seems that the young lady is – how shall we phrase it? Of the Sapphic persuasion.’ At Kydd’s blank look he added wearily, ‘This is to mean that she prefers the company of women to that of men, in all its forms.’

  ‘Then—’

  ‘Quite so. For her I have been but a toy, a necessary social ornament. It has been a – salutary experience.’

  ‘Nicholas, I—’

  ‘And is now most firmly a thing of the past,’ Renzi concluded bleakly.

  Kydd subsided. It explained Renzi’s distraction, his absences. And it was certain he would appreciate neither sympathy nor pity.

  Renzi drew a deep breath and leaning forward said, ‘Therefore we shall speak of your transmogrification.’

  ‘My . . . ?’ said Kydd carefully.

  ‘You’re clearly not fully aware of what has happened, and by that I do not mean simply your appearance with Madame Thérèse.’ He held his head and closed his eyes for a space. ‘Consider this: your action in bringing Julie to the banquet is seen as a very clever piece of theatre to bring yourself to the attention not only of society but of Prince Edward himself, a coup that has all Halifax abuzz.

  ‘Now what that is telling the world is that you must be accounted a superior player in the arts of society, and it would go well with any who can boast your acquaintance. This is my wager with you – you’ll have more invitations in the next week than you can possibly accept in a year.’

  ‘But I don’t—’

  ‘Let me continue. This is a triviality, a vaporous nonsense compared to its true significance.’ He took another pull at the water pitcher and, looking directly at Kydd, continued, ‘Tom, dear chap, what is signified is that the forms of politeness, so well expressed by John Locke, however requisite in the salons and courts, must always yield to that of true character in polite company.

  ‘In vino veritas, then. I was wrong. I freely admit it. You are your own man now, with a character and reputation that will only grow. You don’t need airs and my clever words – and neither do you need to bandy empty talk about fox-hunting or the Season, for you’ve established a manly character of your own, which, dare I say it, is above such nonsense.

  ‘My dear fellow – go forth and conquer. Know that you can match any gentleman for wit and reputation and at last take your place in society.’

  Renzi closed his eyes. ‘And leave me to die in peace.’

  Kydd rose noiselessly and tiptoed away.

  Renzi was right. Invitations arrived by the dozen for Lieutenant Kydd in the days that followed. At one point Captain Houghton came to him personally with a mumbled request that he grace an evening with him at the attorney general Uniacke’s, known like Cunard for his four daughters, and a power in the land. Fortunately Kydd found his diary free for that night.

  And Renzi was right about the other thing: the wardroom continued to talk country estates and Vauxhall Gardens, but when Kydd came in with an appreciation of the new United States Navy or a light observation
on signals he was listened to respectfully, getting laughs in all the right places.

  It was a heady discovery that he was free at last. Free of the demons of inferiority, the fear of being seen as socially gauche, the oaken-headed tarpaulin, an embarrassment. Now he could hold his own in any society.

  ‘Nicholas, are you at liberty tonight? It would give me th’ greatest pleasure to sup with you – at Pontac’s at seven?’

  Kydd was determined to do his friend proud. ‘Do have more o’ the roast lark, they’re so particular in the cooking here,’ he said. ‘And I hope the Lafite is up to your expectations,’ he added anxiously. He piled Renzi’s plate high and insisted on pouring the wine.

  Renzi was unusually silent, which Kydd put down to his recent experience. It needed all of an hour before he finally spoke his mind. ‘There is an observation I feel obliged to make, Thomas, bearing as it does on our long friendship.’ He weighed his words carefully. ‘An unkind observer might remark that in our lower-deck existence we had a peculiar need, one for the other. I – that in my term of exile there was one of intelligence, uncommon good sense and enquiring nature to lighten my durance. You – my trifles of philosophy and intellectual penetrations could enable you to rise above the limitations of your surroundings. That same observer could then say, in perfect truth, that those needs are now concluded. You have succeeded in all the accomplishments of gentility and the sea profession, so I am no longer needed.’

  Kydd slammed down his glass. ‘Stuff ’n’ nonsense, Nicholas!’ He saw Renzi’s eyes glitter – it seemed it was costing him much to speak as he had.

  ‘And I,’ Renzi continued, with some difficulty, ‘I have had my choice of wranglers in reason, the company of my peers in breeding, the sweets of society, but in cleaving to these it grieves me to recall how I have so shamelessly neglected our friendship – all for the sake of the evanescent. Is this then an end to our association? Logic is a stern mistress and pronounces that, with the extinction of need, we must necessarily part, go our own ways—’

  ‘A pox on y’r damned logic!’ Kydd said angrily. ‘As a philosopher you’re nothin’ but a double-barrelled, copper-bottomed fool! Do ye think I don’t still want you as a friend, share the laughs ’n’ pains o’ life, enjoy while we can? Raise up y’r glass, Nicholas, an’ let’s drink to friendship.’

  Renzi lifted his head. A reluctant half-smile spread and he replied, ‘I will – but this time it’s a friendship of equals.’

  Glasses clinked. When they had regained composure Kydd fumbled in his coat. ‘Er, Nicholas, I’d value y’r opinion. Which o’ these invitations do ye think we should accept?’

  Author’s Note

  A question I am often asked is how long does the research for each book take? That is a difficult thing to quantify because in some ways I suppose I have been unconsciously doing it all my life – during my time at sea absorbing the universals all mariners hold dear, and ingesting material from countless maritime books, both fiction and non-fiction, that I’ve been drawn to since a very early age.

  The proportion of my time now devoted to research must come close to fifty per cent. But I have to say, it’s an aspect of being a writer that I particularly enjoy.

  Research for the Kydd series has provided an opportunity to go down many fascinating paths in search of some arcane fact or other – and this book has proved no exception. I found myself corresponding with Dr David Green at the USDA Forest Service about the specific gravity of swamp oaks; this enabled me to send Kydd on his night-time sabotage mission against the French frigate. A chance discovery of an old pilot book of Kydd’s time in a Falmouth museum had me enquiring of the august Royal Institute of Navigation. One of their members, Dr Mark Breach, confirmed the antique rule-of-thumb about the moon’s meridian that saved Kydd and his boat crew in the fog.

  And while on the subject of chance, what were the odds of my coming across a signal book actually belonging to a lieutenant on the North American station at exactly the time when Kydd learns his craft as a signal lieutenant? Retired Paymaster Commander William Evershed generously extended a loan of the precious family relic for me to study.

  Research has enriched my life in another way, too. It has made me many new friends who also are irresistibly drawn to the sea. Two, in particular, have a special connection with Quarterdeck. I first met ship modeller Robert Squarebriggs when I visited Canada’s Maritime Provinces in 2002. He shared his love of the boreal wilderness, and I hope in this book that I have done justice to his infectious enthusiasm for his native land. Tyrone Martin is an erudite scholar of the dawn of US Navy history, and a former captain of Old Ironsides. His many insights into this fascinating period will again be invaluable when Kydd returns to North America, which he assuredly will.

  I feel some degree of guilt in not being able to acknowledge everyone I consulted in the process of writing this book, but they all have my deep thanks. However I could not omit mentioning the four wonderfully professional women in my life – my wife (and creative partner) Kathy, my literary agent Carole Blake, my editor Carolyn Mays, and my publicist Kerry Hood. Between them, they contrive to keep the hassles of the modern world at bay, allowing me to give full rein to my creative juices, ready for the next adventure . . .

  About the Author

  Julian Stockwin was sent at the age of fourteen to Indefatigable, a tough sea-training school. He joined the Royal Navy at fifteen before transferring to the Royal Australian Navy, where he served for eight years in the Far East, Antarctic waters and the South Seas. In Vietnam he saw active service in a carrier task force. After leaving the Navy (rated Petty Officer), Julian practised as an educational psychologist. He lived for some time in Hong Kong, where he was commissioned into the Royal Naval Reserve. He was awarded the MBE and retired with the rank of Lieutenant Commander. He now lives in Devon with his wife Kathy. More information can be found on his website at www.JulianStockwin.com.