Command

by Julian Stockwin

  “Mr Kydd t’ see Mr Kydd,” he could not help replying.

  The maid’s expression tightened. “I’ll tell th’ mistress, sir.”

  The door closed in Kydd’s face. He heard light footsteps then the door opened.

  “Thomas!” Cecilia shrieked, throwing her arms round him. “Darling Thomas! Do come in—where have you been? You’re so dusty! Sit down, sit down! I’ll get Mother.”

  In seconds Kydd learned that his father was well but frail, the school was doing splendidly, that Boatswain Perrott had taken the pledge—could it be believed?—and that Cecilia herself was now resting, following her release from the employ of Lady Stanhope after Lord Stanhope’s resignation.

  “It’s so marvellous to see you!” Cecilia sparkled, holding Kydd at arm’s length to see him. “I vow I can’t wait until you tell us all about your wonderful ship.” She linked his arm and drew him to the mantelpiece, her vivacity eliciting a reluctant smile from Kydd. “And Nicholas, do you ever see him at all?” she added gaily.

  “Cec, I’ve been tryin’ to say . . .”

  Her hand flew to her mouth.

  “He—he’s very ill. Not as you’d say certain of a recovery.”

  Cecilia went white, all traces of gaiety gone. “Wh-where is he now, Thomas?”

  “Well, er, he’s in th’ coach outside. I wanted to—”

  She tore herself away and ran outside. Kydd hurried after her, disturbed by his sister’s distraught reaction. “We’ll take him inside, Cec—Mother will know what t’ do.”

  Kydd sat at the old-fashioned writing desk, absentmindedly nibbling the end of his quill; the words of the letter were not coming easily. From the next room he could hear the steady murmur of Cecilia reading aloud to her patient. With that and the distracting sounds of animals being driven past to the North Street market, the cries of pedlars and street urchins, it was difficult to concentrate.

  After the flurry of his arrival, arrangements had been put in hand: Kydd was to take lodgings in the town with Renzi, Cecilia insisting that she be trusted to supervise his care and treatment. Luckily the family doctor knew of undulant fever from another case—he snorted at the talk of leeches and quinine, and pronounced confidently that the febrile spasms would diminish in their own good time on Renzi’s return to a cooler clime. With his sea constitution, there was every prospect of a good recovery. They listened gravely, however, as he had gone on to warn of the danger to be apprehended from a marked tendency to depression in those suffering from the illness, leading in some cases even to suicide.

  While the weakened Renzi began slowly to take an interest in the world, Kydd’s fears for his own future were confirmed. His first letter to the Admiralty indicating his availability for appointment was acknowledged curtly with not the slightest indication of interest and he was working now on some excuse to broach the subject again. He was on half-pay—enough to exist in genteel carefulness but no more. With Renzi’s half-pay they could stay in their rooms indefinitely, but on full recovery Renzi would be on his way back to his own family, leaving Kydd to half a living and a hole in his pocket from the fifty pounds he had paid for the coach.

  Cecilia was in no doubt where his best course lay. “This is your chance to settle down, take a wife—raise a family! You’re a hero. The war is over and you’ve played your part. You’re a retired sea-captain, dear brother, free to do anything you want!”

  His mother had as strong feelings on the matter as Cecilia but was wise enough not to press the issue. Kydd did, however, notice that the sword yielded to him by the French captain, which he had proudly presented as a trophy to her and which had been accepted and reluctantly displayed over the mantelpiece, was now put away safely, as were the other keepsakes and stout sea ornaments that had been so much a part of his life but now appeared out of place and quaint.

  Weeks succeeded days and Kydd’s waking hours were a comfortable nothingness; there had been no further word from the Admiralty and despondency settled in. It was now most unlikely that there would be a ship.

  Renzi improved slowly until he reached the point at which he could hold a conversation. Guarded by a jealous Cecilia, he was weak but his mind seemed focused. However, there was a change from the urbane, light-textured conversation of the past to a darker, introspective vein. And when Cecilia read to him he would sometimes turn obstinately to face the wall.

  With Renzi so out of character Kydd could not bring his own situation to him. Yet something must be decided: he could not go on as he was. A pitiable eking out of his means in an attempt to be seen as a gentleman was a bitter prospect.

  The weeks became a month, then two, his sea life a memory too poignant to bear. He knew in his heart he was not intended for the land, with its complexities and odd obsessions, and made up his mind to travel to London. There, he would go personally to the Admiralty and, exerting every ounce of influence and interest he could muster, he would lay siege until he found employment at sea; he would accept any position, any vessel that floated, as long as it took him back to the bosom of the ocean.

  The faded wallpaper and damp corner of the little room did not dismay Kydd unduly—he had endured far worse. What had taken him aback was the way London had grown and changed. It was now generally acknowledged the biggest city in the world with the unthinkable population of one million souls. A stinking, strident and energetic city, it nevertheless had an animation, a vitality that at first reached out to Kydd and did much to temper the universal dank smell of sea-coal smoke, crowded streets and concentrations of squalor.

  His first day in the capital had been spent in finding accommodation; near to the Admiralty in White Hall was his goal but he soon found the rents there ruinous. Weary hours later, it was plain that he could not afford any of the more fashionable residences to the west, and having passed through the commercial heart of the city to the east, he could see there was nothing that could be termed fit for a gentleman officer.

  The south bank of the Thames opposite, although it was connected by the imposing Westminster Bridge, was nothing but roads away to the timber-yards and open fields where wooden tenter-frames spread gaily coloured textiles; further to the east, it transformed into the stews of Southwark.

  But the sheer size of the city became intimidating and depressing, endless miles of jostling humanity, which set Kydd’s nerves a-jangle. In Charing Cross near the public pillory he had spied a tap-house and soon found himself a pot of dark, foaming beer. He drank thirstily and it calmed him.

  A stout gentleman next to him, jovial and in an old-fashioned periwig, was quite taken with making the acquaintance of a naval officer and loudly insisted on shaking his hand. Kydd took advantage of the situation and made enquiry about lodgings, touching lightly on the fact of his temporary inconvenience in the matter of means. He learned that as a rule naval gentlemen found Greenwich answered, being half-way between the Royal Dockyard at Woolwich and the Admiralty and served by the river wherries.

  Kydd now reviewed his plans for an early call at the Admiralty Office in White Hall. He had to present a petition for the attention of the First Lord of the Admiralty that would set out why he was so deserving of a ship, a hard thing indeed when this was no less than Sir John Jervis, Earl St Vincent and a national hero, recently in post and said to be beginning a massive reform of the Navy’s administration and support.

  In this it would be vital to bring to bear every scrap of “interest” that he could; he concentrated on recalling who could possibly put in a word for him. First, there was Lord Stanhope, highly placed in diplomatic circles and with whom he had shared an open-boat voyage in the Caribbean. But he had resigned from his post in protest at the terms of the peace. Captain Eddington? His nephew Bowden had shaped up well for Kydd—but, if rumours were to be believed, Eddington was in the country on his estates awaiting any call. The Commander-in-Chief Mediterranean, Admiral Keith, had given every indication of his approbation of Kydd’s conduct but that very morning’s newspaper detailed how he ha
d returned to Scotland for a well-merited retreat. Was there no one?

  The next morning he had not been able to think of more, but set off for the Admiralty Office with hopes high. His gazette had been duly published and the Naval Chronicle was talking about a small biography piece. He was not unknown, therefore, and his request for a ship of any kind would surely be looked upon with sympathy if it were made in person.

  The fast-skimming wherry revealed quite a different London. Around the Isle of Dogs and its docks was a dense forest of masts from vast amounts of shipping, rafted up together and in continual commotion of lighters and barges. The wherry darted through the vessels, the hard-jawed waterman with his distinctive round cap leaning into his oars with the lithe ease of long practice. Then past the cargo wharves with their pungent fragrances of cinnabar and ginger, and on to shipbuilders’ slips and the last green fields before the Port of London proper.

  With the ancient walls of the Tower of London on the right, the craft approached London Bridge, the first crossing possible across the powerful river. Kydd heard the booming rush of water past the stout piers of the bridge. It did not seem to daunt the waterman who lined up the light boat and brought it under the bridge with short, fast strokes. Beyond it was a much more capacious river, free of sea-going vessels and with the sights grander. The dome of St Paul’s on the right was followed first by Fleet Ditch and the nearby Puddle Dock, then graceful Somerset House, and ahead, as the river straightened the great heart of London, Westminster Abbey, Parliament in its ancient palace where, no doubt, the last details of the peace were being debated at that very moment. Then there was the distant line of the noble Westminster Bridge.

  At White Hall stairs the wherry lay off while Kydd fumbled for silver. Then he went quickly through to the broad avenue that was White Hall, opposite Horse Guards, a right turn and then the colonnaded façade of the Admiralty offices with their imposing buildings beyond offset by the curious structure of a shutter telegraph on the roof.

  Kydd’s pulse quickened at the sight. Within those grey stone walls had been enacted all the sea dramas of the century: great battles had been planned; the shocking news of mutiny in the British fleet had been received there. And following the victory of Camperdown off the Dutch coast the decision to approve the field-of-battle promotion of a master’s mate, one Thomas Paine Kydd, had been taken.

  Clutching his small case with the precious petition inside it, Kydd passed into a cobbled courtyard; before him was a portico and the main door, massive and oaken. The Admiralty. He went up to the doorman and slipped him his “fee.” The man took the money with a bored expression and showed Kydd through the buff-coloured entrance hall with its gleaming brass lamps to the second door on the left. “Cap’n’s room,” he said laconically.

  He entered the high, beautifully arched room. It was full of people, talking, playing cards, pacing about, dozing. Few looked up at Kydd’s entrance, and from their conversations he realised they were there for much the same purpose, seeking promotion or ships—and had been there for a long time.

  Kydd kept to himself while he awaited a summons. One came, but that was to part with guineas to the First Lord’s keeper to ensure delivery of his petition. There was apparently no indication to be had as to the timing of a possible audience and Kydd went back to the waiting room. First minutes, then hours passed. He struck up a desultory conversation with others, but the talk was despairing and bitter, touching mostly on the fearful reduction of the Navy to peacetime numbers and the consequences for employment.

  The hours dragged unbearably in a tense yet mind-numbing tedium but nothing eventuated. He would have to return the next day. And the next. On the third day, well into the morning, word finally came: the First Lord would see him at four precisely.

  Excitement flooded in—at long last! As a commissioned officer Kydd had every right to call on the Admiralty and be heard. And by a sea officer, not a civil appointee, as the previous incumbent. This had to be where his fortune changed.

  Time passed even more slowly; his nervous pacing and rehearsal of his words was watched cynically by the others but Kydd knew this was his only chance. At five minutes to four he presented himself and was ushered upstairs to a large room.

  “Commander Kydd, m’lord,” the functionary said, and withdrew, closing the doors.

  Kydd stood before the great desk and tried to meet the hard grey eyes of Earl St Vincent, whose splendid uniform and decorations filled his vision. “S-sir, it is kind in ye to see me at this time.”

  The eyes were level and uncompromising—and red with tiredness. “You wish a ship.” The words were bitten off as though regretted.

  “Sir. As ye can see fr’m my—”

  “I can read as well as the next man, sir.” He had Kydd’s painfully written petition in his hands and glanced once at it, then resumed his impaling stare. “If this were a time o’ war you should have one, Mr Kydd. Since we are not in that state, I cannot give you one—as simple as that, sir.”

  “Then, sir, any sea appointment would be more than acceptable . . .”

  “If you were a l’tenant, that might have been possible, but you are not. As a commander you must command, and I have no ships.”

  “Sir, not even—”

  “Sir—do tell me, which vessel do you propose I should turn out her captain that you should take his place? Hey? Hey?”

  At Kydd’s silence he went on in a kinder tone: “Your situation is known. Your services to His Majesty’s Navy are well noted, but I can give you no hope of a ship—no hope, do you understand me, sir?”

  Kydd stared unseeingly at the damp walls of his rooms, his mind full of bitter thoughts. St Vincent was upright and honourable and he had had a fair hearing. Probably no amount of interest or influence could overturn the odds against him. The very situation he had feared since that fateful talk with the cutter lieutenant had now come about, ironically so soon after he had secured the distinction he had sought.

  His means were fast dissipating and there were few alternatives. He had gone over these in his mind many times—there was the Impress Service that ran the press-gangs, the Sea Fencibles that were in effect a naval militia, the Transport Board with its storeships and craft for the Army, and finally hospital and prison ships. Even supposing he could find a berth, there was the undeniable fact that any would be poison to his future career as a first-rank sea officer: it was generally expected that a gentleman officer should retire to his country estates to await a call if there was another war.

  A knock at the door brought a quickly scribbled letter from Cecilia. Kydd bit his lip as he read that Renzi had disappeared— had simply vanished from his sick-bed without hint or warning and was presumably wandering the streets, disturbed in his intellects and not responsible. Remembering the doctor’s strictures about depression and suicide Kydd’s first thought was to rush back to look for Renzi. Then cold reason came and told him that Cecilia would ensure that measures were taken to find him and he could add little by returning to Guildford. He set the letter down.

  The cheap candle guttered like his hopes. Things had gone now from disappointment to real worry. Living in London was ruinously expensive and at some point he would find that he must let go his hopes of any more sea employment—and return home. To what?

  A sudden thought struck. There was little difference between a merchant ship and a warship if ship-rigged. He was a known quantity in the matter of leading men and, as for the seamanship, he was sure he could make a better fist of it than many he had seen in his convoy days. He would do as the common sailor always did—slip easily between man-o’-war and merchant jack.

  The cream was the East India Company, vessels run on naval lines of discipline and efficiency and with ample prospect of profitable ventures for the captain. But John Company was known for its closed structure and there was probably no opening for an outsider. The élite Falmouth Packet Service? Greyhounds of the sea, these little ships would race across the Atlantic with mails and
even chests of gold to the New World, again with rich pickings for the captains. Was it worthwhile to make the long trip to Falmouth on the off-chance that he, among so many in like circumstances, would be able to break into such a sea community and secure a command? Probably not. London was, however, the premier maritime centre of the kingdom and if he could not achieve something here, then . . . The heart of this activity was just downstream of the Tower of London, at the final resting place of the ceaseless stream of vessels from all parts of the world. The factors, agents, owners and others all had their offices nearby. He tried to remember company names, any who would favour a naval officer as captain. That was it—Burns, Throsby and Russell; they had been the prickly owners, he remembered, of the brig once chartered for a cartel voyage to the Mediterranean. He set to work to prepare an approach that would persuade them to take on a new captain.

  The Burns, Throsby and Russell building was set back from the noise and stench of the Ratcliffe Highway, a haughty paean to the empire of trade. It seemed that Mr Burns was unavailable but Mr Russell would be in a position to accept Kydd’s calling in half an hour.

  Kydd sat in a high-backed chair and tried not to appear too obvious as he looked about the great hall. The entire floor was populated with scores of identical raised desks, each with its clerk and scratching quill. An overpowering musty odour of old paper and ink pervaded the air in much the same way as the fug of a frigate’s berth deck but here there was no sound other than an echoing susurrus of half a hundred pens.

  “Cap’n Kydd?” A kindly old clerk hovered in front of him. “Mr Russell can see you now.”

  Russell was old-fashioned in appearance, punctilious, his small pince-nez glittering as he peered at Kydd. “Well, Captain, it is certainly not every day we are able to receive such a distinguished sea officer as your own good self, sir.”

  “You know of my action with La Fouine?” Kydd said, in surprise.