The Admiral's Daughter

by Julian Stockwin

  “Kydd. Commander Thomas Kydd, captain of Teazer sloop-o’-war.” He would not yet be known by sight, of course.

  “If you would accompany me, sir, the admiral is receiving now.” There was a guilty thrill in being aware of the respect he was accorded by this flag-lieutenant and Kydd followed with his head held high. As a lesser mortal, Standish would have to wait.

  His boat-cloak and hat were taken deftly in the small ante-room and after a nervous twitch at his cravat he stepped from the small foyer into noise, light and colour.

  “Thank you, Flags. Ah, Kydd. Glad to see you, sir.” The admiral was in jovial mood, standing in the splendour of full-dress uniform, an intimidating figure. He turned to the two ladies who flanked him. “My dear, Persephone, might I present Commander Kydd, now captain in one of my ships here? He’s much talked about in the Mediterranean, you must believe.”

  Kydd turned to the admiral’s lady and bowed as elegantly as he could and was duly rewarded with a civil inclination of the head. “I do hope you will enjoy this evening, Commander. I did have my fears of the weather,” she said loftily.

  “An’ I’m sure it will back westerly before sun-up, ma’am,” Kydd replied graciously. He was uncomfortably aware of straight-backed dignity and hard, appraising eyes. He tried to smile convincingly when he turned to the daughter.

  There was a quick impression of a willowy figure in a filmy white high-waisted gown that bobbed decorously in response to his bow; when she rose, Kydd’s eyes were met by amused hazel ones in a fashionably pale, patrician face. A neat gloved hand was extended elegantly.

  “Miss L-Lockwood,” Kydd said, taking the hand. Renzi’s polite words, learnt so laboriously, fled from his mind at the girl’s cool beauty. “M-my honour, er, is mine,” he stuttered.

  “I do trust that you don’t find England too dull after the Mediterranean, Mr Kydd—they do say that Naples is quite the most wicked city in the world.” The well-bred voice had an underlying gaiety that Kydd could not help responding to with a grin.

  “Aye, there’s sights in Naples would set ye—” Something warned him of Lady Lockwood’s frosty stare and the admiral’s frown and he concluded hastily “—that is t’ say, we have Pompeii an’ Herculano both rattlin’ good places t’ be.”

  “Why, I shall certainly remember, should I ever have the good fortune to visit,” the daughter said demurely, but the laughter was still in her eyes. After a brief hesitation she withdrew her hand gently from Kydd’s fingers.

  • • •

  The orchestra’s subdued airs went almost unnoticed among the hubbub. While he waited for Standish to be received Kydd looked about him. The room was filled with laughter and noise, the occasional splash of military scarlet, and to Kydd the much more satisfying splendour of the blue, white and gold of the Royal Navy. Tiered chandeliers hung low from the lofty ceiling, shining brightly to set eyes and jewellery a-sparkle and lightly touching every lady with soft gold. He looked back: there were still some to be received but Standish was not among them—he had disappeared into the throng.

  Kydd was alone. Glances were thrown in his direction but no one ventured to approach: he knew why—he had not been introduced to any other than the admiral’s party and he was unknown. Purposefully, he strode into the room, neatly avoiding knots of people in just the same way as he would on the mess-deck in a seaway, clutching to his heart Renzi’s strictures about politeness and genteel behaviour.

  Then he found what he was searching for: a jolly-looking commander who was holding forth to a fellow officer and his shy-looking lady while controlling a champagne glass with practised ease. Kydd hovered until the reminiscence was concluded but before he could step forward the man turned to him. “What cheer, m’ lad? Are you here for the dancing or . . . ?”

  “Oh, er, dancing would be capital fun,” Kydd said stiffly, then added, with a courtly bow, “Commander Thomas Kydd o’ Teazer sloop.”

  “Well, Commander Thomas Kydd, first we must see ye squared away wi’ a glass.” He signalled to a footman discreetly. “Bazely, sir, Edmund Bazely out o’ Fenella brig-sloop, and this unhappy mortal be Parlby o’ the Wyvern. ” The handshake was crisp, the glance keen. “Are ye to be a Channel Groper, b’ chance?”

  Kydd loosened; the champagne was cool and heady and his trepidation was changing by degrees into an irresistible surge of excitement. “Aye, so it seems, f’r my sins.”

  “An’ new to our charming Devonshire?”

  “Too new, Mr Bazely. All m’ service has been foreign since— since I was a younker, an’ I’m amazed at how I’m t’ take aboard enough t’ keep Teazer fr’m ornamentin’ a rock one day.”

  “All foreign? Ye’re t’ be reckoned lucky, Kydd. As a midshipman I can recollect mooning about in a seventy-four at Spithead and with no more sea service than a convoy to the Downs for all o’ two years.” He mused for a moment, then recollected himself. “But we have a whole evening looming ahead. If ye’ll excuse us, Mrs Parlby, I want to introduce m’ foreign friend here to some others.” As they moved slowly towards the side of the room he chuckled. “No lady in tow—I take it from this ye have no ties, Kydd?”

  “None.”

  “Then where better to make your acquaintance wi’ the female sex than tonight?” They reached a group of young ladies with fans fluttering, deep in excited gossip. They turned as one and fell silent as the two officers approached, fans stilled.

  “Miss Robbins, Miss Amelia Wishart, Miss Emily Wishart, Miss Townley, might I present Commander Kydd?” Bazely said breezily. “And be ye advised that he is captain o’ the good ship Teazer, now lying in Plymouth shortly to sail against the enemy!

  “Miss Townley is visiting from Falmouth,” he added amiably.

  Kydd bowed to each, feeling their eyes on him as they bobbed in return; one bold, another shy, the others appraising. His mind scrambled to find something witty to say but he fell back on a feeble “Y’r servant, ladies.”

  “Mr Kydd, are you from these parts?” the bold-eyed Miss Robbins asked sweetly.

  “Why, no, Miss Robbins, but I do hope t’ make y’r closer acquaintance,” Kydd replied, but was taken aback when the young ladies fell into a sudden fit of smothered giggles.

  Bazely laughed. “If ye’d excuse me, m’ dears, I have to return. Do see my friend is tolerably entertained.”

  Kydd took in their waiting faces and tried to think of conversation. “Er, fine country is Devon,” he ventured. “I’ve once been t’ Falmouth, as pretty a place as ever I’ve seen.”

  “But, Mr Kydd, Falmouth is in Cornwall,” Miss Robbins laughed.

  “No, it is not,” Kydd said firmly.

  They subsided, looking at him uncertainly. “Not at all— Falmouth is in Antigua—the Caribbean,” he added, at their blank looks.

  “Mr Kydd, you have the advantage over we stay-at-homes. Pray tell, have you seen the sugar grow? Is it in lumps ready for the picking or must we dig it up?”

  It was not so difficult, the ladies showing such an interest, and so pleasantly was time passing that he nearly forgot his duty. “Miss Amelia,” he enquired graciously, of the shyest and therefore presumably safest, “c’n you find it in y’r heart t’ reserve th’ cotillion for m’self?”

  Gratified, he watched alarm, then pleasure chase across her features. “Why, sir, this is an honour,” she said, with a wide smile. A pity she was so diminutive—not like the admiral’s daughter, who, he had noted, was nearly of a height with himself—but Miss Amelia had a charmingly cherubic face and he could not help swelling with pride at the image of the couple they must present.

  A disturbance on the floor resolved into the master of ceremonies clearing a space about him and the hum of conversation grew to a noisy crescendo, then died away. “M’ lords, ladies ’n’ gentlemen, pray take your partners—for a minuet.”

  Kydd offered his arm: it had seemed so awkward practising in the great cabin of HMS Teazer with Renzi but now it felt natural. It was to be expected that a stately m
inuet would open the ball, but the dance’s elaborate graces and moves were too intimidating to consider until his confidence strengthened, and they stood together on one side as the lines formed. He nodded amiably to the one or two couples that had seemed to notice him and glanced down at his young lady: she smiled back sweetly and Kydd’s spirits soared.

  It seemed that the admiral’s formidable wife was being led out by his flag-lieutenant to open the dancing, and Kydd, conscious of Miss Amelia’s arm on his, sought conversation. “A fine sight, y’r grand ball, is it not? Do ye have chance f’r many?”

  Her eyes grew wide. “Oh, sir, I have come out only this season,” she said, in a small voice that had Kydd bending to hear.

  “That’s as may be—but I’ll wager ye’ll not want f’r admirers in the future, Miss Amelia.”

  The cotillion was announced: Kydd led her out with pride and they joined the eightsome opposite a star-struck maiden and her attentive beau, a young lieutenant who bowed respectfully to Kydd. He inclined his head civilly and the music began.

  Miss Amelia danced winsomely, her eyes always on him, the more vigorous measures bringing a flush to her cheeks. Kydd was sincerely regretful when it ended and he escorted her gallantly back to her friends.

  Somehow he found himself in the position of requesting that Miss Robbins grant him the pleasure of the next dance, which luckily turned out to be “Gathering Peascods,” a fashionable country dance that he had only recently acquired.

  Between the changes Miss Robbins learnt that he was widely travelled, had been moderately fortunate in the matter of prize-money and was unmarried. Kydd was made aware that Miss Robbins was from a local family, much spoken of in banking, and lived in Buckfastleigh with her two younger sisters, single like herself.

  There was no question but that this was the world he might now call his own. He was a gentleman and all now knew it! At the final chords he punctiliously accorded Miss Robbins the honours of the dance, then with her on his arm wended his way back to her chair.

  Happy chatter swelled on all sides; he was conscious of the agreeable glitter of candlelight on his gold lace and epaulettes, the well-tailored sweep of his coat, and knew he must cut a figure of some distinction—it was time to widen his social connections.

  He threaded his way through the crowded ballroom and headed for the upper floor, where there would be entertainment of a different sort—cards and conversation. At a glance he saw the tables with card-players and others politely attendant on them but also couples promenading, sociable groups and forlorn wallflowers.

  “Mr Kydd, ahoy!” A remembered voice sounded effortlessly behind him and he wheeled round.

  “Mr Bazely,” he acknowledged, and went over to the table. Curious eyes looked up as he approached.

  “Mrs Watkins, Miss Susanna, this is Commander Kydd, come to see how prodigious well the ladies play in Devon. Do take a chair, sir,” he said, rising to his feet.

  “May I know how the pot goes?” Kydd asked courteously, remaining standing.

  “Why, four guineas, Mr Kydd,” one of the ladies simpered.

  Sensing that Bazely would not be averse to respite, he replied sadly, “Ah, a mort too deep f’r me, madam.” Turning to Bazely, he bowed and asked, “But if you, sir, are at liberty t’ speak with me of the country for a space, I’d be obliged.”

  Bazely made his excuses and they sauntered off in search of the punch table. “Your Mrs Watkins is a hard beat t’ windward, Kydd,” he sighed gustily, “Mr Watkins being a fiend for dancing and always absentin’ himself,” he added, with a glimmer of a smile.

  “Tell me,” Kydd asked, “how do ye find service in these waters, if I might ask ye?”

  With a shrewd glance Bazely said, “For the learning of seaman-ship an’ hard navigation it can’t be beat. The coast to the sou’ west is poor, remote, devilishly rock-bound and a terror in a fresh blow.” He pondered for a moment. “The folk live on fishing mostly, some coastal trading—and free tradin’, if they gets a chance.” Kydd knew this was a local euphemism for smuggling.

  “So what sport’s t’ be had?”

  “As it dares,” Bazely grunted. Now at the punch table he found glasses and poured liberally. “Getting bold and saucy, y’r Johnny Crapaud. Sees his best chance is not b’ comin’ up agin Nelson an’ his battleships but going after our trade. If he can choke it off, he has us beat. No trade, no gold t’ pay for our war, no allies’ll trust us. We’d be finished.”

  The punch was refined and had none of the gaiety Kydd remembered from the Caribbean. “But ye asked me how I find the service.” Bazely smiled. “Aye, it has to be said I like it. No voyage too long, home vittles waiting at the end, entertainments t’ be had, detached service so no big-fleet ways with a flagship always hanging out signals for ye—and doing a job as is saving the country.”

  “True enough,” Kydd agreed.

  “Come, now, Mr Fire-eater, should Boney make a sally you’ll have all the diversion ye’d wish.”

  “Why here you are, Mr Kydd,” a silvery voice cooed. “For shame! Neglecting the company to talk sea things. I’m persuaded a gentleman should not so easily abandon the ladies.”

  “Miss Lockwood! I stan’ guilty as charged!” Kydd said, and offered his arm, his heart leaping with exultation. The admiral’s daughter!

  CHAPTER 4

  “HELP Y’SELF TO THE BATH CAKES, Nicholas—I did s’ well last evenin’ at supper.” Kydd stretched out in his chair. The morning bustle of a man-o’-war sounded from on deck but, gloriously, this was the concern of others.

  “Then your appearance in Plymouthian society may be accounted a success?” Renzi asked. “I did have my concerns for you in the article of gallantry, it being a science of no mean accomplishing.”

  “All f’r nothing, m’ friend. The ladies were most amiable an’ I’m sanguine there’s one or two would not hesitate t’ throw out th’ right signal t’ come alongside should I haul into sight.”

  Kydd’s broad smile had Renzi smothering one of his own. “Do I take it from this you find the experience . . . congenial?”

  “Aye, ye do. It’s—it’s another world t’ me, new discovered, an’ I’m minded t’ explore.”

  “But for the time being you will be taking your good ship to war, I believe.”

  Kydd flushed. “M’ duty is not in question, Nicholas. We sail wi’ the tide after midday. What I’m sayin’ only is that if this is t’ be m’ future then I find it agreeable enough. We’re t’ expect some hands fr’m the Impress Service afore we sail,” he added briskly. “This’ll please Kit Standish.”

  Their eighteen men shortfall translated to a one-in-four void in every watch and station; he was uncomfortably aware that the first lieutenant had found it necessary to spread the crew of two forward guns round the others to provide full gun crews. The Impress Service would try its best, but after the hullabaloo of the hot press on the eve of the outbreak of war every true seaman still ashore would have long gone to ground.

  Kydd finished his coffee—in hours Teazer would be making for the open sea. Out there the cold reality of war meant that the enemy was waiting to fall upon him and his ship without mercy, the extinction of them both a bounden duty. Was Teazer ready? Was he?

  He nodded to Renzi. “I think I’ll take a turn about th’ deck— pray do finish y’r breakfast.”

  At two in the afternoon the signalling station at Mount Wise noted the departure of the brig-sloop Teazer as she passed Devil’s Point outward bound through Plymouth Sound on her way to war. What they did not record was the hurry and confusion about her decks.

  “M’ compliments, an’ ask Mr Standish t’ come aft,” Kydd snapped at the midshipman messenger beside him. Battling Teazer ’s exuberant motion Andrews staggered forward to the first lieutenant who was spluttering up at the foretopmen.

  “Mr Standish, this will not do!” growled Kydd. Their first fight could well take place within hours and their sail-handling was pitiful. “I see y’r captain o�
� the foretop does not seem t’ know how t’ handle his men. We’ll do it again, an’ tell him he’s to give up his post t’ another unless he can pull ’em together—an’ that directly.”

  “Sir.”

  “Only one bell f’r grog an’ supper, then we go t’ quarters to exercise gun crews until dusk.” He lowered his tone and continued grimly, “We’re not s’ big we can wait until we’re strong. Do ye bear down on ’em, if y’ please.”

  While they were exercising on a straight course south and safely out to sea, they were away from the coast and not performing their assigned task. Kydd kept the deck all afternoon. He knew that the sailors, so recently in the grog-shops and other entertainments of the port, would be cursing his name as they laboured. The occasional flash of sullen eyes showed from the pressed men—there had been only nine men and a boy sent out to Teazer before she sailed, all of questionable worth. There were so few of her company he knew and trusted.

  When eight bells sounded at the beginning of the first dog-watch sail was shortened, and after a quick supper it was to the guns until the long summer evening came to a close, Teazer ’s bow still to seaward. Kydd would not rest: one by one the seniors of the ship were summoned to the great cabin and, over a glass of claret, he queried them concerning the performance of their men, their strengths and prospects. It was not to be hurried, the intricate process of turning a collection of strangers into a strong team that would stand together through the worst that tempests and the enemy could bring. Kydd knew that any weaknesses would become apparent all too quickly under stress of weather or battle.

  The following day broke with blue skies and a clear horizon; both watches went to exercise and at the noon grog issue Kydd saw the signs he was looking for—the previously wary, defensive responses were giving way to confident chatter and easy laughter that spoke of a shared, challenging existence. This would firm later into a comradely trust and reliance.