Kydd took refuge in his great cabin but some came to pay their respects before they left. He found words for each of them: Poulden, his coxswain, Doud, Stirk, others. Most were tongue-tied, overcome by the final parting, mumbling their farewells and blindly turning away.
And then the ship was empty.
Echoing mess-decks, no watch-on-deck, the helm abandoned. A chill wind, a flurry of rain and endless stippled grey water.
The actual ceremony of decommissioning was a subdued affair. With only the standing officers, a few dockyard workers and his officers witnessing, Kydd’s pennant was struck from the main masthead where it had flown night and day since from that time before Trafalgar when it had proudly mounted up. It was solemnly presented to him, and then, in accordance with the immemorial custom of the sea, the ship’s cook went aft and lowered the ensign.
It was finished.
CHAPTER 2
“SO KIND IN YOU TO CALL, Sir Thomas.” The first lord of the Admiralty was in an affable mood and had quickly found time for a now legendary frigate captain. “I heard about L’Aurore. Hard luck, old fellow.”
“Thank you, my lord. It will be quite some months, I fear, before L’Aurore is fit for service. We’ll know more after she’s docked.” Mulgrave was a not unsuccessful army general and therefore could not be expected to feel the void in Kydd’s soul.
“Yes, yes. I heard you brought back a travelling earl caught up in that business in Constantinople.”
“Lord Farndon, sir.”
“And jolly grateful he must have been, undoubtedly. Well, now, and you’ll be taking some time to be with your family, no doubt. Pray don’t neglect us here, Sir Thomas—you are at some eminence in the public eye and the government is always proud to be associated with such a one.”
“I will, my lord, although I do feel I should stand by my ship as she repairs.”
“Well, yes, we’ve been giving thought to that. You are, of course, unemployed as of your pennant being struck.”
“Yes, sir, but it doesn’t signify. I shall wait for L’Aurore to be made good, however long it takes.”
“Ah. Don’t you consider a trifling twelve-pounder of the breed just a little beneath the notice of a distinguished captain such as yourself?”
“Why, no, my lord. She’s tight and true and I’ll wait until—”
“Nonsense. The public would never stand for it. There is a better course—I’m appointing you to a brand-new heavy frigate. A thirty-eight no less, and all eighteen-pounders! From the best shipyard in the country, Buckler’s Hard, and to the latest design. What do you think of that?”
So there was no waiting for his ship’s restoring: now he had lost his dear L’Aurore altogether and another would know her and her sweet ways. “I … I thank you, my lord.”
Mulgrave’s brow creased. “I would have thought such a prospect would bring more joy than you show, Sir Thomas?”
“Oh, I’m deeply honoured, my lord,” Kydd said, adding hastily, “I’m merely thinking of the much greater responsibilities a heavy frigate brings.”
The frown cleared. “Good. I’m sure you’ll be equal to the burden. Then you’ll accept?”
“I … Yes, sir.” It felt a betrayal, like casting off an old love to run with a younger.
“Excellent. I shall immediately let it be known in the proper quarters. The broadsheets will love it.”
“Sir, what is her name, at all?”
“Name? She has none! Only at the launching, I’m told. I’m sure the Navy Board has a right fearsome-sounding tally to an ocean-bounding beast such as her. Why don’t you go down and sight your new command?”
There was a lot to take in. The most immediate was that the ship was still building, and while the launching was set for five weeks hence, with fitting out and trials it could be anything up to half a year or more before he was once again at sea. The pace of his life had, in one stroke, fallen to an amble.
So he would have more than enough time to visit Renzi and his sister at their estate. His spirits rose at the thought—he hadn’t even seen their castle or whatever it was that Lord and Lady Farndon called home, and it tickled his fancy to think to see his sister topping it the countess.
There were details to attend to first, however.
This was a complete break with the past in so many ways. His shipboard possessions must be landed and stored—or should he take the opportunity later to outfit his cabins entirely anew?
And what of the two last remaining of L’Aurore’s complement still with him? Dillon, his confidential secretary, had so ardently wanted to see the sea and the world. Now there was no more for him to do and, reluctantly, Kydd must let him return to where he’d begun, lent by Renzi from his estate. Guiltily he pictured the tanned young man, who’d come so far and seen so much, now having to revert to being a country-house under-secretary.
And the other, the devoted Tysoe, his valet, who’d looked after Kydd since his early days as a lieutenant.
No—he couldn’t do it to the man!
Of all L’Aurore’s company, only Tysoe would follow him into his new existence.
It was time to spy out his new ship. He took a leisurely coach to the south coast, first spending a day or two with his parents in Guildford, his blind old father and plain-speaking mother, neither having any conception of the world he lived in but fiercely proud of him—and now so immeasurably distant from his present being.
Buckler’s Hard was on the west side of the Beaulieu river, which met the Solent opposite the Isle of Wight. A private yard, it was at the edge of the ancient forests to the south, the slipways of the shipbuilders occupying a gentle slope down to the river with buildings of the humbler sort on either flank.
There was a large vessel on the stocks nearly complete and several smaller, one unmistakably a brig-sloop like Teazer and another mere gaunt ribs reaching for the sky. It was a busy scene—ship-wrights and their quartermen, apprentices, shipsmiths, labourers, on stages and underneath the vast hulls.
As Kydd walked closer, the rich stink of wood shavings, bubbling tar, varnish, and the smoke from charcoal braziers enveloped him, and the faint sounds of industry became more insistent: the rhythmic thock of shores being set up with mauls, the muffled thud of an adze, the buzz of saws, all set against a discordant background of taps and clunks of hammer and chisel, caulking irons and persuaders of every kind.
He made his way towards the larger construction, knowing from the row of empty gun-ports that this was his ship—his ship!
Out of uniform, nobody paid him any attention and he guessed that the yard would be a local sight-seeing attraction. He strolled as close as he dared to the rearing colossus. He would never again have the opportunity to see the vessel like this but, oddly, it felt like an intrusion, much like catching a lady half undressed and not at her best.
He walked slowly along. The squared-off hances, so typical of British construction, the no-nonsense sheer and the fat bow. But everywhere there was naked wood, raw gaps at timber edges, giving a curious disappointment—betraying that this was merely a work of man, not a divinity. He tried to shrug it off, then realised it was a consequence of the sailor’s belief that his ship was a living being, with all her likes and dislikes, humours and fierce loyalty, and that she would bear him in her bosom to far places and return him safely to the place of his birth.
This before him was only an “it,” not yet a “she.”
“What can I do for you, Captain?”
The soft-spoken voice made him wheel around. A man of years gazed at him shrewdly.
“How do you know I’m to be her captain?”
“As you’re alone and the smack o’ the sea about you,” the man replied. “Those who’s just a-looking always comes in families an’ so.”
“You’re in the right of it. Captain Sir Thomas Kydd, appointed to this ship.”
“Edward Adams, shipbuilder, as this is my yard, as was my father Henry’s.”
They shook hands.
“The Admiralty has a good opinion of your work, sir.”
“When it suits ’em,” Adams said, with a small smile. “Still an’ all, we’ve given satisfaction, I believe. You know the Lord Nelson’s favourite ship?”
“Agamemnon? A very fine sixty-four.”
“From this yard, over yonder slip. And his frigate captain, Blackwood?”
“Euryalus. He often spoke of her—I knew both men, Mr Adams.”
“The same. Her keel was laid at that very slipway over there. And Swiftsure?”
“The seventy-four-gun ship-of-the-line?” This was impressive work for a small private yard. “I had the honour of seeing all three ships at Nelson’s last battle,” Kydd added.
“So you were at Trafalgar, Captain?”
This prompted an invitation to a charming house near the water. Over a flavoursome local ale, Kydd spent an agreeable few hours discussing the qualities of the oak of Old England, the fitting of iron tanks for water in place of the traditional leaguers, the merits of seasoning on the stocks.
But he also learned there was no possibility that the completion date could be advanced. This was the way it was done and always had been.
CHAPTER 3
“THOMAS! YOU’VE COME!” Cecilia squealed delightedly, running down the steps of Eskdale Hall to hug her brother.
“M’ lady,” Kydd said, with an exaggerated bow.
“How long can you stay—or is your ship lost without her brave captain?” she asked breathlessly.
“A sennight at the least, Cec.”
As his baggage was swung down Kydd looked up at the noble edifice. The coach had come along a driveway a full quarter-mile long, through spacious formal gardens and tree-studded green lawns. “A rattlin’ fine mansion you have, sis,” he murmured, impressed to the point of astonishment at its seemingly endless windows and imperious ornamentation.
“Why, thank you, Captain,” she answered demurely, then looked back and said happily, “And here’s Nicholas!”
Renzi emerged, accompanied by footmen, and hurried down to greet him. “My dear fellow,” he blurted, “welcome! Welcome, indeed!”
Inside, in a small, intimate drawing room, they caught up with Kydd’s news over tea.
“A stout thirty-eight, then,” Renzi enthused. “And eighteen-pounders all. Enough to give pause to the finest Boney possesses. English-built, too. Your first, then, as I’m obliged to remark.”
“True,” Kydd agreed. His initial command, Teazer, had been Maltese and L’Aurore was a French prize. “And at over a thousand tons, it’s spacious enough for the most dainty sybarite,” he reflected with satisfaction.
“It?” Renzi asked.
“Oh, doesn’t have a name yet,” Kydd replied defensively. His friend, it seemed, still had the blood of a mariner. “And you, old trout, dare I ask if you’re settled in at all?”
“Of course he is, silly billy!” Cecilia chided. “As this is his ancient family seat. But, Thomas, there’s always a welcome for you here, at any time—”
“I do thank you—”
“—recollecting that it’s customary among our station to send ahead before you arrive,” she teased.
“I’ll try to remember, sis.”
“Now, dinner is at five sharp. You’ll want to refresh after your journey and—”
“Thank you, but first I beg to ask Nicholas to give me a sight of his grand estate.”
“Farndon has a meeting with his tenants this afternoon,” Cecilia said, “as cannot be put off.”
Kydd shot a look at Renzi, who gave a saintly smile.
“Therefore it shall be myself who will take you around. Like you did for me over your Artemis, Thomas,” she added softly.
There was a warm rush of remembrance. “And so far have we come since then—the both of us.”
They sat down to dinner in the blue dining room, en famille, just the three of them. It was, nevertheless, at a substantial polished table with silver and adornments, Renzi taking his place at the head. Purvis the butler stood solemnly behind him, footmen nearby.
The candlelight was soft, its tawny gold barely reaching the richly decorated ceiling, with its goddesses and painted satyrs, but throwing the sculpted picture frames and bas-relief into high contrast.
“I think a hock?” Lord Farndon suggested. “The ’ninety-four Rheingau, if you would, Purvis.”
He’d brought to mind a time when they’d all been together at sea, long ago in a place far away, in the little cutter Seaflower—Renzi had served this same hock to an important passenger, Lord Stanhope, whom they were urgently transporting to Barbados to take ship for England on a matter of high diplomacy.
Cecilia picked up his meaningful glance and laughed delightedly, turning to her brother. “You were steering the boat, Thomas. You couldn’t have any!”
It set the tone, and by the time the venison arrived they were in a full spate of reminiscence.
“Oh, Thomas. It nearly broke my heart to tell you of Papa’s sight failing, that we needed you to leave the sea and return to Guildford …”
“And there and then, sis, on this heathen beach in Van Diemen’s Land, a thousand miles from anywhere, Nicholas wept to think he was letting you down …”
“All the time I thought he’d run away with a loose woman …”
“… then we threw out the euphroe and the driver took up, would you believe it? We had steerage way before the hurricanoe and … Why, what’s wrong, Cec?” Kydd asked, in sudden concern, seeing the glitter of tears in her eyes.
“It’s nothing, Thomas. I’m just so happy, that’s all. Do continue with your story.”
Kydd finished his tale and, in a warm glow, turned to Renzi. “I’m thinking you’re main pleased to be atop such a splendrous pile, Nicholas.”
“As it must be, dear chap. Like you—do you question your elevation to the great cabin at all, to rue the day that sees you as lordly seigneur over some hundreds of doughty souls—which is more than I can claim to, old fellow?”
“But you’ve got—”
“I may have land and tenants, but nary a one may I put to the lash, as I’ve seen my captain do on occasion.”
“Then—”
“Yes. I’m captain of the good barky Eskdale Hall and, like all captains, I have my duties and my paperwork and, as I must, I’m to concern myself with my stout crew and their liberties.”
They toasted their respective commands with all due ceremony.
Then Kydd asked, “And can it be said you’re restored after your … travels, Nicholas?”
Cecilia flashed Renzi a warning glance. “If you’d leave the brandy, Purvis …”
The footmen quietly retired as well.
“It was—” Renzi began, but Cecilia interrupted him, leaning forward, “Nicholas suffered dreadfully. Thomas, he told me everything—but now he’s home and we’re together again.”
She reached across to squeeze her husband’s hand, her piercing look both pleading and of the utmost love.
An unexpected wash of envy at the intimacy between them took Kydd off-guard. “Ahem. So you’ve no plans for another …”
“Dear fellow, allow that I’ve earned a measure of repose, which I fully intend shall be spent in my library,” Renzi said firmly.
Cecilia brightened. “Oh, I nearly forgot! Thomas, it’s the county ball next week—we’re host this year. Please say you’ll attend, dear brother?”
“Why, of course, Cec.”
“You’ll be the toast of the evening—a true hero who graces us with his presence on our little occasion.”
“You shall want me in uniform, then?”
“With star and sash both! And I have in mind just the lady you’ll squire,” she added. “The Honourable Arabella Fortescue, an accomplished beauty and most delightful woman …”
CHAPTER 4
IT HAD BEEN TOUCHING to see Renzi and Cecilia together, but Kydd had still not quite grown used to seeing his friend at such an elevation.
> Renzi had changed. He was wearing the honour and noble bearing as though born to it, which of course he was, but now he carried himself differently: serious, listening more, saying less. Kydd suspected he’d gone through some private hell in Constantinople in his clandestine efforts to stop it falling into the hands of the French, but was not letting the world see how it had affected him. The healing was a task for Cecilia alone.
For himself it was different. He’d lost L’Aurore—but in her place had been given a plum prize: a brand-new heavy frigate of the latest design, the envy of every red-blooded captain in the navy. The price? Months of patience in idleness.
Since his first command, dispatch had been the watchword, and sloth a vice. Now he was being asked to kick his heels, with nothing to do other than graciously accept the reputation and eminence that was now his.
After making his farewells to Renzi and Cecilia, it was off to London—with leisure time and freedom to make foray into the entertainments on offer in the world’s capital.
Kydd settled into his accustomed chair at the White Hart Inn while Tysoe dealt with the baggage. He realised he needed someone who could provide a fashionable steer, give him an entrée, and thought of Edmund Bazely, the jolly commander he had first met among the Channel Gropers in those feverish times of Bonaparte’s threatened invasion.
He’d heard that the man had just returned from a particularly fortunate cruise in the Caribbean. A determined bachelor, he was above all a knowing man about town in London.
Impatient to taste the delights of the capital, Kydd soon found himself outside Albany in Piccadilly.
The doorman took his card and before long a tubby man stood before him, not fully dressed but beaming with pleasure.
“Why, damme if it ain’t Kydd the Frog-slayer! Or is it t’ be Sir T at all?” he added, with a teasing grin. “Do come in, cuffin. M’ cabin is all ahoo but ye’re welcome, very welcome!”
The rooms, or “set” as they were termed in Albany, were modest in size but well appointed and quite the thing for their chief function, bachelor quarters for the comfortably off.
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