Quarterdeck (27 page)

“Are ye ready, gemmun?” Akins had no watch, no tools of a referee—this was going to be a smashing match. A thin, cold rain began, chilling Kydd’s skin and running into his eyes, mixing with salt sweat, stinging and distracting. He raised his fi sts slowly, his heart hammering. Dobbie responded, holding his low for a fi rst murderous punch, his pale, unblinking eyes locked on Kydd’s.

Akins raised his arm, looking at each in turn. His eyes fl ickered once and the arm sliced down. “Fight!” he yelled and leaped aside.

For one split second, Dobbie held Kydd’s eyes, then cut loose with a bellow. “No!” he roared, dropping his arms. “Be buggered! I’ll not do it!”

The crowd fell into an astonished silence, staring at Dobbie.

He thrust his head forward, his fi sts by his side. “Take a swing, mate—come on, make it a settler.”

Kydd, shaken but suddenly understanding, obliged with a meaty smack to the jaw, which rocked Dobbie. Laffi n came forward with his knife and severed the ropes. Dobbie got to his feet.

He shook his head and turned to the rowdy crush. “Shipmates!

202

Julian Stockwin

Y’ came t’ see a grudge fi ght, an’ I’m sorry I can’t give yez one.

See, this ’ere is Tom Kydd as I remember fr’m the Nore—I saw

’im stand alongside Dick Parker ’n’ them in the mutiny when others were runnin’ like rats. But I thought as ’ow ’e got ’is pardon by sellin’ out his mates, an’ I told him so.

“Mates, if y’ wants a lesson in honour, Mr Kydd’s yer man.

Won’t stand fer anyone takin’ ’im fer a villain without ’e stands up fer ’isself, an’ that’s why ’e sees me ’ere—a duel, like. An I ’ave ter say, I didn’t reckon ’e’d ’ave the sand t’ see it through, sling ’is mauley like a good ’un, ’im bein’ an offi cer an’ all.”

He turned back to Kydd and touched his forehead. “I’d take it kindly in ye should y’ shake m’ hand, sir.”

A roar of wild applause burst out, going on and on, until Dobbie held up his arms. “M’ lads—I want yer t’ unnerstand, this ’ere Kydd is one of us, but ’e’s done good fer ’imself, an’ that’s no crime. An’ I f’r one is going ter foller Lootenant Kydd.”

“All bets ’r off, gennelmen!” bawled Akins.

The press of spectators broke into riotous commotion. Kydd’s comprehension of events rapidly disintegrated—he was being slapped on the back and idolised by dozens of drunken seamen.

An unwilling Tysoe was plied with beer; women’s gleeful painted faces danced before him; and Dobbie, now the centre of a throng of seamen, was telling the story of the great mutiny of the Nore.

Admiral Vandeput and his squadron returned three days later, joining
Tenacious
at her anchorage. Kydd was in the boat returning from the fl agship, and could see Renzi waiting on the quarterdeck of
Tenacious,
and dared a brief wave. It was good to see his friend and the clouds lifted from his spirit.

Clutching the precious pouch of despatches and confi dential signal information, Kydd hauled himself up the side and took Renzi’s hand. “I’d thought to see you fl ag-lieutenant b’ now,” he said.

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203

“Flag-lieutenant? Not if the present incumbent can help it.”

Renzi chuckled drily. “And while you’ve been in this Arcadia resting, I’ve been privy to secrets concerning the cod fi shery that would stand you amazed, dear fellow.”

“You’ll tell me of y’r secrets this very afternoon. You get y’r gear inboard while I get these t’ Captain Houghton. I have it from on high that the adm’ral will want t’ have his squadron to sea f’r exercises as soon as he’s stored—that’s t’morrow, I’ll wager.”

“If it were at all possible, a light walk ashore among the spring blooms would be pleasant, Tom. Our admiral does not spare his minions, you may believe.”

The Dartmouth side of the harbour was speckled with green shoots and the ground was fi rming. They paced it out in the hesitant sunshine, feeling the country awake out of its winter retreat.

“A singular place, Newfoundland,” Renzi said, at length. “At times I believed that the island should be entirely covered by curing fi sh, were it not that room has to be made for the vats of that monstrously malodorous fi sh oil.”

“Your secrets?” Kydd wanted to know.

“Nothing, really. It’s a turbulent place that requires the admiral to show fi rm on occasion—the fi sher gentry from Devon have it that Newfoundland is their personal fi ef, and deliver rough justice to those who say otherwise. You’d smile to hear the talk in an assembly at St John’s—you’d swear it was Exeter or Bideford on market day.”

They walked on companionably. “So, all has been uneventful in the meantime?” Renzi enquired.

Kydd hesitated. Renzi was the soul of discretion, but that was not the point at issue—his uncle had left the resolution of his problem to him alone: Should he involve his friend in a matter of family?

There was no question: he had been on his own for too long.

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Julian Stockwin

“Nicholas, the strangest thing—I met m’ uncle f’r the fi rst time not long since.” His tone made Renzi look at him sharply.

“Yes—m’ father’s brother, here in Canada.” Kydd went on to tell of his discovery and his quandary—and his decision neither to conform to the story of the bear nor to reveal his uncle’s current whereabouts to his family.

“An admirable, even logical decision, Tom, and I honour you for it,” Renzi said sincerely.

They strolled on in the quietness at the edge of the forest.

“That’s not all of the matter, is it, brother?” Renzi said, stopping and facing Kydd directly. “I’d be honoured to share whatever it is that lays its hands on my friend.”

Kydd looked away, staring at the jack-pines carpeting the landscape, all seeming the same but when looked at separately every one an individual, uncountable thousands into the blue-grey distance. “Nicholas, it doesn’t answer. I have t’ face it. I’m not t’ be one of y’r deep-dyed, gentleman offi cers who knows their fox-hunting an’ Seasons. I know seamanship an’ navigation, not dancin’ and talking to ladies.”

“Dear fellow, this—”

“When I got my step t’ the quarterdeck it was hard t’ believe.

Then it seemed to me that there was no end t’ it—captain of my own ship, even. But I know better than that now. The King’s service needs l’tenants for sure, but only the
gentlemen
will fi nd

’emselves promoted—an’ I’m no gentleman, an’ now I know it.”

“No gentleman? What nonsense—”

“Spare me y’r comfortin’ words, Nicholas,” Kydd said bitterly. “For my own good, I have t’ hoist this aboard an’ stop pining f’r what can’t be, and that’s that.”

“But it only requires you learn the marks of civility, the—”

“Is that
all
it is to be a gentleman, jus’ know all the tricks? I don’t think so.” Kydd fell silent, morosely kicking a pine cone.

“Do you despise gentlemen?” Renzi asked quietly.

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205

Kydd fl ashed him a suspicious look. “Not as who should say—

they were born to it, that’s their good luck . . . and yours,” he added, with a sardonic smile.

They walked on for a space, then Kydd stopped again. “T’

be honest, it sticks in m’ gullet that I’m t’ leave promotion to others—and I’m of a mind t’ do something about it.”

“What?”

“Well, in a merchant ship they have no care f’r gentle ways—a berth as mate in an Indiaman would suit me right handsomely, one voyage a year out east, an’ my own freight . . .”

“Leave the Navy?”

“And why not?”

Kydd obstinately avoided Renzi’s gaze as his friend stared at him.

In a brisk south-easterly early next morning the North American Squadron put to sea for one week’s exercising in the waters between Nova Scotia and the United States, the 74-gun HMS

Resolution
as fl agship in the van, the seven ships a picture of grace and might.

In
Tenacious,
at the rear, the picture was more apparent than real: the fi le of ships that stretched ahead to the fl agship in perfect line also obscured her signals, and the little fl eet could not stretch to the luxury of a repeating frigate.

Despairing, Kydd hung out from the rigging to weather, trying to steady his big telescope against the thrumming in the shrouds and bracing himself to catch the meaning of
Resolution
’s signal fl ags end-on. They were clawing their way out close-hauled; if they were to end on an easterly course passing south of the Thrumcap they would have to pass through the wind’s eye.

It was the admiral’s choice, to tack about or wear round, and with the Neverfail shoal waiting ahead and the same unforgiving rocks under their lee that had claimed
Tribune
so recently. Tack
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Julian Stockwin

or wear—put the helm down or up—it all depended on the signal that would be thrown out to the fl eet in the next few minutes.

Captain Houghton stumped up and down the quarterdeck, nervous midshipmen scuttling along behind him, the master keeping a respectful distance to his lee. It was impossible to send the men to their stations until it was known the action to be taken, and they stood about the decks in uneasy groups.

Devil’s Island, the most seaward part of Halifax, lay abeam: now there was no reason why they could not bear up—and then there was a tiny fl utter of bunting on
Resolution
’s poop.

Kydd concentrated with his glass. A quick refresh from his pocket book had shown him that there was only one fl ag in the two hoists that differentiated “tack” and “wear”—a yellow diag-onal on a blue background—and this was number three, “tack.”

If he just glimpsed that fl ag, he could ignore the rest and they would gain a vital edge. Houghton stopped pacing and faced Kydd. Around the ship men followed suit, every face turning towards him.

There! A cluster of fl ags mounted swiftly in
Resolution
’s rigging, their fl uttering edges making the hoist nearly impossible to read—but Kydd’s straining eyes had spotted the distinctive number three as the fl agship’s signal crew bent it on as part of the hoist. Before the fl ags had reached the peak he roared triumphantly, “It’s
tack!
”

Men raced to their stations; running gear was thumped on the deck and faked for running, afteryards manned by the starboard watch and headyards the larboard, double manning for the greatest speed. The signal jerked down aboard the fl agship—

execute!

The wheel spun as the quartermaster at the wheel and his mate threw themselves at the task and
Tenacious
’s bluff bow began to move. At the waist, ropes’ ends were out as the petty offi cers ensured the foresheet was let go smartly and the lee brace

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207

checked away. In growing excitement Kydd saw that of the fi le of ships only
Tenacious
herself at the rear and the fl agship at the head had begun a swing round into the wind. His pride swelled at the evidence of his enterprise—they were well into their tacking about while in front,
Andromeda,
was still in line ahead.

“Helm’s a-lee!”
Big driving sails began shaking, the yards bracing round while the foreyards took the wind aback to lever her round.
“Mainsail haul!”
The ship passed slowly through the eye of the wind and all hands heaved and hauled with all their might to make the sails belly out comfortably on to the new tack.

It was neatly done.

“Sir!” It was Rawson, tugging on his sleeve urgently. Kydd turned irritably. The midshipman pointed mutely at the line of ships:
Resolution
had tacked about as fast as they, but all the rest were still thrashing along on the old tack, not one even attempting to go about.

A feeling of growing apprehension crept over Kydd. Something was wrong.
Resolution
was now in plain view to weather, her entire beam to
Tenacious
instead of her stern—and as they watched, a fl utter of bunting mounted at her main, the original signal. But ominously, there for the whole fl eet to see was
Tenacious
’s pennant climbing brazenly aloft. A gun thudded out peremptorily for attention.

“What, in the name of God?” Houghton roared at Kydd. The admiral was telling the world that HMS
Tenacious
had blundered and should conform to his signal.

“It’s tack, but
in succession,
sir,” Rawson whispered urgently, pointing to an entry in the signal book. It was the order to tack, sure enough, but the maddening additional fl ag at the end indicated that instead of turning into line like a fi le of soldiers, the admiral wanted the column of ships to reach a fi xed point, then wheel round to follow him, thereby preserving their line ahead formation.

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Julian Stockwin

“Sir, the signal is ‘tack in succession.’ I—I’m sorry, sir . . .”

Kydd’s voice seemed thin and weak.

Houghton’s chest swelled and his face reddened, but before the explosion another gun sounded impatiently from the fl agship. There was nothing for it but public ignominy.

“
Haaands
to stations for staying!”
Tenacious
must obey the last order and come back to her original tack; her ship’s company, feeling the shame and the entire fl eet’s eyes on them, took up their ropes again while Kydd stood mortifi ed, face burning.

Tenacious
came ponderously about and tried to assume her old place at the end of the line—but by now the line itself was all but gone, preceding ships now having reached the fi xed point and tacked round on to the new course.

Cursing, weary men picked up their ropes and prepared to haul round for the third time in a row. But when the due point was reached
Tenacious
had not picked up enough speed, and when the helm went down she headed up languidly into the wind—and stayed there, held in the wind’s eye, in irons.