Quarterdeck (39 page)

He sat with fl ushed 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 fi nd 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?

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But he held the King’s commission. Would he be betraying his country in her time of need? What about other offi cers 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 fi ghting the King’s enemies even if it was under another fl ag.

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 country men if he felt lonely. They had made the choice, even if many had chosen desertion. Could he?

He tossed and turned until fi nally sleep came mercifully to claim him.

It seemed only minutes later when he jerked awake. He knew that he had heard a cannon 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, fl ung 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.

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“Now, sir!” Truxtun bellowed.

It was the characteristic odd-coloured staysail, the abrupt curve of her beakhead. But where? Her colours fl ew directly away and were impossible to make out; the two signal fl ags of her challenge fl ickered briefl y 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 fi re, for God’s sake—she’s a British ship!”

Incredulous, Truxtun stared at him. “She fi red on the American fl ag! 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 fl ag!”

“Surrender? Are you insane?”

“No—fl ag o’ parley.” 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 fl ag 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 fl ag advanced, a lieutenant clearly visible in the sternsheets.

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“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 fi red 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 fl ag of truce, sir, I believe I might respectfully demand that you offer me some form of proof of your national status—if you please.”

“Be damned to your arrogance, sir!” Truxtun punched a fi st towards the huge American fl ag 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.”

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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 confi rmation 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 defi ance.

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 confi ning 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.

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“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 fi ght 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 confi dentiality 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 fi nally 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 offi ce and hurried down to the watermen’s steps to hire a wherry to take him to the fl agship at anchor.

The offi cer-of-the-day quickly got rid of Kydd to the fl ag-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.”

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The offi cer 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 offi cer 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 fi nal, shocking clash. “Therefore, sir, I saw that if it happens again there’s chance f’r a mortal fi ght 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 fl eet.”

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.”

“S-sir?”

“A good, offi cer-like solution, L’tenant. Always worried me,
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Americans at sea in a ship o’ force sharing the same ocean without we have a form o’ co-operation. The politicos won’t go at it out o’ pride, but now we’ve forced their hands. I can see how this can go further, Mr Kydd. As I say, well done, sir.”

Weak with reaction, Kydd swayed. “Oh, I see it’s been a fatiguing journey for ye, Mr Kydd,” the admiral said solicitously.

“Do sit, and I’ll ring for a brandy.”

Kydd stared moodily at the town from the decks of
Tenacious.

He had been welcomed back by a newly respectful wardroom, but after a while conversations turned once again to the social scene. The whole town was mesmerised by the impending visit of the Duke of Schweigerei, elder son of the Archduke of Austria, which would climax in a grand reception and banquet given by His Royal Highness Prince Edward in the Duke’s honour. In view of the importance attached to the country for its role in Pitt’s coalitions, every offi cer would be expected to attend the glittering occasion.

Renzi had tried to be interested in Kydd’s adventure, but he was clearly preoccupied with some personal matter, and Kydd found himself once more at a loose end. The seductive thought on his mind was of what might be—service in the new navy of a vigorous young land. No more would he hear of lords and estates, fox-hunting and the Season.