Quarterdeck (6 page)

As the boat glided alongside, the sailors smacked the oars across their thighs and levered them aloft in one easy movement, just as Kydd had done in the not so distant past. His eyes passed over the boat and the four seamen, as he recalled the old saying,

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“You can always tell a ship by her boats.” Was caution a feature of this ship, he wondered.

The sailors seemed capable, long-service able seamen economically securing the sea-chests and striking them into the centre of the boat, but Kydd sensed darting eyes behind his back as they took the measure of the new offi cers.

He and Renzi assumed their places in the sternsheets, at leisure while the midshipman took the tiller. The boat bobbed in the grey North Sea chop and Kydd’s new uniform was sprinkled with its fi rst saltwater. He tried to keep his face blank against surging excitement as they rounded the point to open up the view of the Nore anchorage—and his ship.

She was one of a straggling line of vessels of varying sizes moored in this transitory anchorage to await different destinies.

A wisp of memory brushed his consciousness: it was at the Nore that he had been taken as a bitter victim of the press gang, so long ago now, it seemed.

He glanced back to the scatter of dockyard buildings, the low fort, the hulks, and a pang of feeling returned for Kitty Malkin, who had stood with him during the dark days of the Nore mutiny. She had uncannily foretold his elevation, and that she would not be a part of it. Other memories of the time came too, dark and emotional. The red fl ag of mutiny, the spiralling madness that had ended in savage retribution and shame. Memories he had fought hard to dim.

Kydd crushed the thoughts. He would look forward, not back, take his good fortune and move into the future with it.

The phantoms began to fade.

“She’s storing,” Renzi said, as if reading something in his face.

“Er, yes, those are powder hoys alongside, she’s ready t’

sail,” Kydd muttered, his eyes fi xed on the approaching bulk
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Julian Stockwin

of
Tenacious.
The foretopmast was still on deck for some reason but her long commissioning pennant fl ew from her masthead. Repairs complete, she now stood ready in the service of her country.

A faint bellow from the ship sounded over the plash of the bow wave. The bowman cupped his hand and bawled back,

“Aye, aye!” warning
Tenacious
that her boat was bearing naval offi cers, who would expect to be received as the custom of the sea demanded.

The midshipman again doused sail and shipped oars for the last stretch. Kydd resolved to attend to the young gentleman’s seamanship when the opportunity arose. The boat bumped against the stout sides and the bowman hooked on. Kydd held back as Renzi seized the handropes and left the boat. Although their commissions bore the same date, he was appointed fourth lieutenant aboard, and Kydd, as fi fth, would always be fi rst in the boat and last out.

The ship’s sides were fresh painted, the thick wales black, with the lines of guns set in natural timber, smart in a bright preparation of turpentine and rosin. A strong wafting of the scent mixed pleasingly with that of salt spray.

Above, a boatswain’s call pierced the clean, winter air. Kydd was being piped aboard a man-o’-war! He mounted the side-steps: his eyes passed above the deck line to the boatswain’s mate with his pipe on one side and two midshipmen as sideboys on the other. He touched his hat to the quarterdeck when he made the deck, and approached the waiting offi cer-of-the-watch.

“Lieutenant Kydd, sir, appointed fi fth l’tenant.”

For a moment he feared this offi cer would accuse him of being an impostor, but the man merely smiled bleakly. “Cutting it a trifl e fi ne, don’t you think?” he said, then turned to the duty quartermaster and ordered the chests swayed inboard. Renzi came to stand with Kydd.

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41

“Captain Houghton will want to see you immediately, I should think,” the offi cer-of-the-watch said.

“Aye aye, sir,” Kydd replied carefully, conscious of eyes on him from all over the busy decks. He remembered little of her from the exhausted hours he had spent aboard after the battle, fi ghting to bring the damaged vessel to safe harbour, but all ships had similar main features. He turned and went into the cabin spaces aft.

Renzi reported fi rst. There was a rumble of voices; then the door opened. “Seems pleasant enough,” he whispered to Kydd.

Kydd knocked and entered. The captain sat behind his desk facing him, taking advantage of the wan light coming through the stern windows. He was glowering at a paper.

“L’tenant Kydd come aboard t’ join, sir.”

“Don’t sit,” the captain said heavily. “You’re to hold yourself ready to go ashore again.”

“But, sir, why?”

“You are owed an explanation, I believe,” Houghton said, looking at Kydd directly. “I’ve been given to understand that your origins are the lower deck, that is to say you have come aft through the hawse, as the expression goes.”

“Er—aye, sir.”

“Then this must be to your great credit, and shows evidence, no doubt, of sterling qualities of some kind. However . . .” He leaned back in his chair, still fi xing Kydd with hard, grey eyes.

“. . . I am determined that
Tenacious
under my command shall have a loyal band of offi cers of breeding, who will be able to represent the ship with, um, distinction, and who may be relied upon in the matter of courtesy and gentle conduct.

“You should understand that it is no refl ection on yourself personally, when I say that I am applying to the commissioner to have you replaced with a more suitable offi cer for this vessel.

There is no question in my mind that your services will be far
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Julian Stockwin

more valuable to the service perhaps in a sloop or gunboat, not in a sail-of-the-line.” He stood. “In the meantime you may wish to avail yourself of the conveniences of the wardroom. Carry on, please.”

Kydd stuttered an acknowledgement and left. He felt numb: the swing from exhilaration to the bleakness of rejection was as savage as it was unexpected.

The mate-of-the-watch waited on the open deck. “Sir?”

Kydd’s chest and personal possessions lay in a small heap.

“Leave ’em for now.” Kydd felt every eye on him as he went below to the wardroom. The only inhabitant was a marine captain sitting at the table, pencilling in an order book. He looked up.

“Some sort o’ mistake,” Kydd mumbled. “I’m t’ be replaced.”

“Oh, bad luck, old trout.”

Kydd took off his coat and sat at the other end of the table. As desolation built, he tried to subdue the feeling of homelessness, of not belonging in this select community. He got up abruptly and, pulling himself together, stepped out on deck. He had seen Renzi with a party forward getting the topmast a-taunt. Renzi would have no problems of breeding with this captain, and later he must fi nd his friend and bid him farewell.

The offi cer-of-the-watch caught sight of Kydd and turned with a frown. Some waiting seamen looked at him with open amusement. Face burning, Kydd returned to the wardroom. It was half-way through the afternoon and the marine captain had left. A young wardroom servant was cleaning the table. “Ah, sorry, sir, I’ll leave,” he said, collecting his rags.

“No, younker, carry on,” Kydd said. Any company was better than none.

He looked about. It was a surprisingly neat and snug space with louvred cabin doors looking inward to the long table along the centreline and the fat girth of the mizzen mast at one end.

The bulkheads and doors were darkly polished rich mahogany,

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43

and at the other end there was plenty of light from the broad stern windows—even the privacy of a pair of offi cers’ quarter galleries. She would be an agreeable ship for far voyaging.

This old class of 64s were surprisingly numerous—still proba bly near thirty left in service—and were known for their useful ness. As convoy escorts they could easily crush any preda-tory frigate, yet at a pinch could stand in the line of battle. In home waters the mainstay of the major battle fl eets was the 74, but overseas, vessels like
Tenacious
were the squadron heavy-weights.

Kydd’s depression deepened as he wandered about the wardroom. On the rudder head he found a well-thumbed book,
The
Sermons of Mr Yorick.
Raising his eyebrows in surprise he found that it was instead a novel by a Laurence Sterne, and he sat to read. Half-way into the fi rst chapter and not concentrating, he heard a piping of the side and guessed that the captain had returned with news of his replacement.

Word was not long in coming. A midshipman pelted down and knocked sharply. “Lootenant Kydd? Sir, cap’n desires you wait on him.”

On deck the offi cer-of-the-watch looked at him accusingly.

His chest and bags, obviously a hindrance, had been moved to the base of the mainmast. “Be getting rid o’ them soon,” Kydd said defi antly, and went inside to see the captain.

This time Houghton stood up. “I won’t waste our time. We’re under notice for sea, and there’s no offi cer replacement readily at hand. I see you will be accompanying us after all, Mr Kydd.”

A leaping exultation fi lled Kydd’s thoughts. Then a cooler voice told him that the explanation for his change of fortune was probably the inability of the commissioner’s offi ce to change the paperwork in time—an offi cer’s commission was to a particular ship rather than the Navy as a whole, and could not easily be put aside.

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Julian Stockwin

“I’ll not pretend that this is to my liking, Mr Kydd,” the captain continued, “but I’m sure you’ll do your duty as you see it to the best of your ability.” He stared hard at Kydd. “You are the most junior offi cer aboard, and I need not remind you that if you fail me then, most assuredly, you will be landed at the fi rst opportunity.”

“I will not fail ye, sir.”

“Umm. Quite so. Well, perhaps I’d better welcome you aboard as the fi fth of
Tenacious,
Mr Kydd.” He held out his hand, but his eyes remained bleak. “Show your commission and certifi cates to my clerk, and he will perform the needful. My fi rst lieuten ant has your watch details and you will oblige me by presenting yourself on deck tomorrow morning for duty.”

Excitement stole back to seize Kydd as he stood in the wardroom supervising his gear being carried down. His cabin was the furthest forward of four on the larboard side, and he opened the door with trepidation: only a short time ago this had been offi -

cers’ private territory.

It was small. He would be sharing his night-time thoughts with a gleaming black eighteen-pounder below, and his cot, triced up to the deckhead for now, ensured that he could never stand upright. He would have to fi nd room for his chest, cocked-hat box, sword, personal oddments and books. A cunningly designed desk occupied the forward width, taking advantage of the outward curve of the ship’s side. He pulled at its little drawers and wondered which dead offi cer had unintentionally left it behind for others.

The gunport was open. At sea it would be closed and then the cabin would be a diminutive place indeed, but he had been in smaller. He tried the chair at the desk. It was tiny, but well crafted to fi t into such a space, tightly but comfortably enfolding his thighs. He eased into it and looked around. Spartan it

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45

might be, but it was the fi rst true privacy he had ever experienced aboard ship. His eyes followed the line of intersection where the bulkhead met the overhead beams. The thin panels were slot-ted: at “beat to quarters” this entire cabin would be dismantled and struck down in the hold below. Over the door he noticed a ragged line of colour, where a curtain had once been fastened to cover the door space; he could have the door open and still retain a modicum of privacy.

It was adequate, it was darkly snug—and it was his. He went to his chest and rummaged around. Carefully stored at the bottom was his commission. Undoing the red silk ribbon he unfolded the crackling parchment and read it yet again.

By the Commissioners for executing the Office of Lord High Admiral of Great Britain . . .

Lieutenant Thomas Kydd . . . we do appoint you Lieutenant of His Majesty’s Ship the Tenacious

. . . strictly charging the Officers and all the Ship’s Company . . . all due Respect and Obedience unto you their said Lieutenant . . .

Kydd savoured the noble words.

It concluded sombrely:

Hereof nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer to the contrary at your peril. And for so doing this shall be your Warrant . . .

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Julian Stockwin

It was signed Evan Nepean, secretary to the Admiralty, and the date of seniority, 20 January 1798, with the scarlet Admiralty seal embossed to the left. This single document would fi gure prominently for the rest of Kydd’s life, defi ning station and position, rank and pay, authority and rule. He creased it carefully and put it away. A deep breath turned into a sigh, which he held for a long time.

He turned and found himself confronting a black man. “Tysoe, sir, James Tysoe, your servant,” he said, in a well- spoken tone.

Kydd was taken aback, not that Tysoe was black but at the realisation that here was proof positive of the status he had now achieved. “Ah, yes.” He had had a servant in the gunroom before, but this was altogether different: then it had been a knowing old marine shared with all the others; here the man was his personal valet. “Do carry on, if y’ please,” Kydd said carefully.

Tysoe hesitated. “I think it were best, sir, should I stow your cabin.”