Pasha

by Julian Stockwin

  A fore-top bellow sounded outside. “Ah. That’s Toby Stirk rousing our carriage alongside. I fear it’s time to face your destiny, Nicholas.”

  They were not prepared for the sight that greeted them at St Mary’s.

  “Be damned! There’s half Guildford Town here!” spluttered Kydd, red-faced with pleasure.

  Surrounding the church was an overflowing, joyous crowd of chattering, delighted men, women and children in their best dress, bedecked with flowers and ribbons. They were not going to miss the wedding of the age.

  Harassed church functionaries managed to keep a lane to the entrance free but the people were impatient to catch a glimpse of the principals and pressed them sorely.

  Kydd stepped down and bowed to them pleasantly. It brought a ripple of excitement and scattered awed applause. This was Sir Thomas Kydd, a son of the town and now a famous frigate captain; there in his gold and blue with a crimson sash and star, looking every inch the sea hero.

  The tongues clucked. Look at that gold medal and riband! The tall cocked hat with all the gold lace! Was it true he once laboured in the wig-shop that used to be up High Street past the clock?

  No! Never! It couldn’t be!

  Then the Earl of Farndon descended. There was a respectful hush and a spreading sigh as he formally greeted an awestruck Canon Chaddlewood.

  Such a vision had not been seen at St Mary’s within living memory: a white waistcoat and silk stockings with knee breeches and discreetly jewelled shoes—this was your genuine article, an earl of an ancient family of England, come to do the greatest honour to their little town.

  Once more Kydd felt unreality creep in. This couldn’t be happening to him, young Tom Kydd as was. It must be a dream. Here in this church, which had stood on this spot for a thousand years and had seen christenings, weddings and funerals of the good people of Guildford in an endless succession. And on this day …

  As they entered the packed church a sea of faces turned to watch them take their place at the altar. There was his mother, blubbing into a handkerchief, his father struck dumb with the occasion—and Lord Onslow, whom he’d been summoned to see in Monarch’s great cabin after the great battle of Camperdown when he’d been set on the quarterdeck and his path to glory.

  And the dowager countess, cool and aloof, others he could only guess were members of Nicholas’s family, with nobles, gentry and notables beyond counting. His vision swam with colour and circumstance.

  The organ stopped suddenly, then began a grander air. He twisted round: it was his sister entering in an exquisite white gown, supported by a tremulous Hetty Panton.

  She reached the altar and gave Kydd a look for him alone, of the utmost softness and love.

  A lump formed. He had always hoped it would happen—but this was the reality.

  The organ stopped and time-hallowed words fell into the silence.

  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God …”

  The wan sunlight of winter streamed through the stained-glass windows, bright motes of dust held in motionless thrall to the words.

  “… to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony …”

  That was the Cecilia who, as barely more than a child, had travelled alone to Portsmouth to plead with him to return to the wig-shop and leave the sea. The practical good sense, but then the tears of understanding as she saw the desolation of Fate closing in on his carefree existence.

  “… signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and His Church …”

  And the man now in the glittering pomp of a peer of the realm: he had seen him stand with bloodied sword at the gates of Acre, denying Napoleon Bonaparte himself his victory. The one who, in only months past, had, single-handed, brought down the devilish plot to destroy England’s precious Caribbean trade—and who could ironically never claim the credit, while he himself was proclaimed glorious victor of a lesser triumph.

  “The ring!” hissed his mother from her pew.

  He had been oblivious and scrabbled for it in his pocket. Pink-faced, he handed it to his one true friend, who slipped the ring on to his bride’s finger.

  The rector joined their hands and solemnly pronounced to all the world, “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”

  It was done.

  Bells pealed out overhead in a glorious, joyful din as the newly married couple went to the sacristy for their formal signing.

  Then they reappeared, joined in blissful, self-conscious union.

  The congregation rose and waited as they processed along the aisle to emerge at the arched entrance, to a muffled roar of ecstasy from the crowd outside.

  Kydd followed them out and stood blinking as wheat grains were showered on the couple. Traditional wedding gifts were pressed on the guests and coins thrown high into the crowd.

  Joining with others in expressing their wishes to the couple for a long and fruitful marriage, he was taken aback when Cecilia leaned forward and whispered fiercely, “The carriage! Thomas, you forgot to send for it!”

  He hid a smile and shook his head in sorrow. “Sorry, Cec—no carriage, I’m afraid.”

  She looked at him, speechless.

  Then he clapped on his cocked hat with a flourish. It was the signal.

  From around the corner came a frightening bellow. “Billy Roarers—forward!”

  The crowd fell into a stunned silence—and into view came a boat.

  It ran on wheels and was pulled by a dozen Jack Tars as large as life, tailing on to ropes, driven by a roaring Stirk.

  “Handsomely, y’ lubbers,” he bawled. “Star’b’d a touch forrard, there.”

  It was gaily ornamented from stem to stern and had huge imitation anchors and mermaids, ribbons streaming everywhere and on its stumpy mast it flew an enormous Union flag. On the centre thwart, a pair of dainty cushions.

  The people were delighted. It was very seldom that the Navy, so popular after its recent victories, could show itself so far inland and they immediately gave a raucous appreciation.

  Stirk, in an exaggerated sea roll, went to Renzi and snatched off his cap. “An’ yer boat’s alongside, y’ lordship.”

  “Thank you, Mr Stirk. You and your Billy Roarers all. My dear?”

  They sat in state, waving regally as the boat set off to the sudden skirl of fife and drums of the Surrey Militia, which had magically appeared and was now marching behind.

  Grinding up the steep High Street, the din and revelry were deafening. They brought shopkeepers and customers on to the street and children screaming and running by the incredible sight.

  Under the projecting clock of the town hall, past the Tunsgate, and followed in procession by the lords, nobles and honest townsfolk of Guildford in an unstoppable show of happiness and pride.

  Then, at the top of the hill where the old Elizabethan grammar school stood, and the road out of town ran, they stopped.

  There, with liveried footmen attending, was Lord Farndon’s four-horse open landau. Its gleaming black with the scarlet, gold and green swirl of its crest spoke of another world, unattainable to the mortals who looked on.

  The merriment ebbed while the newly married earl and his bride disembarked.

  And then, in the short distance between the boat and the carriage, Kydd saw Cecilia transmogrified from his young sister into a countess—from a laughing girl into a noble lady.

  The landau glided away. Cecilia turned to wave, blowing him a kiss, and then they were off into their future together.

  He watched them disappear and his eyes misted.

  In that moment he had lost both his sister and his best friend.

  CHAPTER 3

  PORTSMOUTH WAS THE SAME: somewhat grubby and showing not a little wartime drab—but there was magic, too, and as he peered from the window of the stagecoach Kydd could just make out the distant sight of slender masts and yards soaring above the mean roofs. Among them would be L’Aurore, his command and his love—his true
home.

  The orders that had come so soon after the wedding had been blunt about the need for dispatch. Kydd wasted no time in calling upon the port admiral and received his pack for the coming voyage, as well as yet more letters and messages imploring a place on his quarterdeck as midshipman for a son, a nephew, others—all begging for a chance to ship with the now famous frigate captain.

  It wasn’t so very long ago, in dear old Teazer, that he’d been snubbed by those who believed a captain who’d come aft the hard way not really the thing but now, it seemed, it was quite another situation.

  Kydd had his views about a lean and hungry frigate being overrun with youngsters, and although he could ship up to six midshipmen, he’d settled for just another two.

  One was William Clinch. Kydd had received a dignified letter from a Mr Jarman, sailing master of Ramillies 74 of the North Sea Squadron. Even before he had begun to read he remembered the lowly merchant-service sailing master of Seaflower cutter who had taken Able Seaman Tom Kydd and taught him his figuring, as well as how to use a sextant and work up a position. It had been his first step to the glory of the quarterdeck and he still had the man’s worn octant, presented to him in admiration after a difficult open-boat voyage.

  Jarman had written on behalf of the only son of his sister, who desperately wanted to go to sea, like his uncle, but unless interest could be found he would necessarily have to ship before the mast. In painfully crafted phrases it was implied that Kydd’s sound grounding in seamanship that he’d learned in Seaflower would ensure his nephew received a prime nautical education.

  The wording of the other request that he’d acceded to could not have been more different. It had come from Boyd, the urbane and patrician flag-captain, now a retired admiral, who had taken Kydd, the raw sloop captain, aside in the fearful days of Bonaparte’s plans for invasion before Trafalgar, to give him his first lessons in strategics for a naval officer. In mellifluous prose, Boyd warmly complimented Kydd on his honours and begged he might oblige him extremely by taking up his godson, Josiah Willock, his own circumstances being a family of daughters only.

  L’Aurore had completed her refit, not a lengthy one as it was still less than two years since she had left dock in this very place just before Trafalgar. She now lay at anchor in Spithead and Kydd begged a dockyard launch to go out to her.

  As always, it was a deep satisfaction to approach her from seaward and admire her elegant lines.

  The boatman’s hail back was practised and sure. It sparked instant activity on deck and Kydd feigned not to notice as a full side-party was assembled and the boatswain summoned from below, the officer-of-the-watch with his telescope watching anxiously.

  The launch curved round, oars tossed smartly, and the bowman hooked on at the main-chains.

  L’Aurore’s captain had arrived to resume his command.

  After the peal of the boatswain’s call had died away, Curzon stepped forward and removed his hat. “Sir Thomas—and I know I speak for the entire ship’s company of L’Aurore—welcome back aboard!”

  Kydd had taken in the trim appearance of his vessel, the spotless decks with not a line from aloft out of place. Considering that he was not yet expected, this spoke volumes for the care she had been given.

  “The first lieutenant?” he prompted.

  “Not aboard, sir,” Curzon said, adding respectfully, “Do we have orders for sea, Sir Thomas?”

  “As shall be made known to you all, just as soon as my dunnage is struck aboard.”

  The sound of the call had brought others on deck. Bowden came up and gave a bow of respect. “My deepest sensibility of your elevation, Sir Thomas,” he said warmly. “And I—”

  He was interrupted by a sudden noise from forward. The fo’c’slemen, stealthily lined up on the foredeck with their caps in their hands, broke into a masculine roar with “See the Conquering Hero Comes!”

  From these old sailors it was a deeply affecting honour and Kydd removed his hat and waited while they finished.

  Going below, the peace and orderliness of his quarters reached out to him. Tysoe, his valet, came up to remove his boat-cloak and accoutrements.

  “A right handsome job you’ve done here, Tysoe.”

  “Thank you, Sir Thomas. I’m happy to be of service to you.”

  There was a faint fragrance of lavender and beeswax and the cabin spaces were spotless.

  Kydd suppressed a sigh. In their relatively short commission he had been fortunate in his ship’s company. Originally pressed from an inward-bound frigate just arrived back in England, they had overcome their sullen resistance in the fires of Trafalgar and the two supporting actions following, and now were a tried and true weapon forged from the very best.

  “Pass the word. Officers and warrant officers in my cabin in one bell.”

  They arrived with suspicious promptness.

  “Before I begin, I’ll have your reports. Mr Curzon, if you please?”

  It was all very satisfactory: the ship had left dock six days ago and had readied for sea. Not under sailing orders, she was under watch for liberty, and omitting stragglers—those locally adrift from leave less than three days—there had been only two desertions. Storing and victualling must await orders before a line of expenditure could be opened, but in all other respects L’Aurore was trim and taut in her particulars.

  “Thank you, Mr Curzon. The first lieutenant still not aboard?”

  “Ah.” Curzon smothered a grin as he glanced at the others. “Soon after you left for London he received news he was promoted commander into Fly, sloop o’ war. He begged to be remembered to you but thought it proper to take up his command directly.”

  There were knowing looks about the table.

  Kydd guessed what had happened. “So it was a right gleesome frolic he had that night?”

  “As required the watch to be turned out to carry him ashore, Sir Thomas.”

  Kydd chuckled. His tarpaulin first lieutenant had at last achieved his greatest wish—command. It was, of course, a gesture to Kydd, promotion out of the ship of his first lieutenant, but Gilbey wouldn’t care about why: he could now eventually retire from the service a sea captain, not a lowly lieutenant, and with all the honour and veneration that that description commanded ashore.

  “So we’re short a first lieutenant.”

  There was an instant quiet: what followed could be either the introduction of a tyrannous new first lieutenant imposed from the outside or the wholesale promotion of the existing officer complement—or anything in between.

  “Before we go on, I’d like to make something clear. I thank you all for your warm wishes on my … good fortune. Yet I’m an old-fashioned sort and I’d rather you keep the ‘Sir Thomas’ for shore-side. Aboard L’Aurore I’d be satisfied with being addressed in the usual sea-kindly fashion.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Then we’ll proceed. Without we have a first, we cannot put to sea, and in course I’ve petitioned the Admiralty to provide one. And they have.”

  He watched their faces. He’d only known their lordships’ pleasure in the orders he’d picked up from the flag-lieutenant earlier that morning.

  “You should know that our new premier will be taking up his duties this very day, I’m told.”

  There were significant glances about the table.

  “What’s his name, sir?” asked Curzon, carefully. Hard characters were legendary and life could suddenly turn very difficult.

  “His name? Why, Curzon is his name.”

  “You mean … ?”

  “I do, sir. You are now the first of L’Aurore.”

  Curzon’s widening smile told it all. If the frigate was fortunate in action, and L’Aurore invariably was, he, too, could look to a promotion out of her—at the least to a substantial sloop command or possibly to a flagship directly under the eye of a commander-in-chief.

  “Then …” the third lieutenant dared.

  “Yes, Mr Bowden. You are now second lieutenant.”


  There was relief, satisfaction and exulting all round.

  “And for our new third, it will be a Mr Brice, whom I’d like you to welcome in the usual way.”

  “Have you word of our deploying, sir?”

  Kydd hesitated. They would know soon enough and there was no easy way to break it to them. The far-ranging frigate of Cape Town and Caribbean fame was headed to a much different place.

  He’d treasured the oblique offer from the first lord to remove from L’Aurore into another, larger, command but had felt reluctant to leave his pretty little frigate. He had to concede, however, that she was looking increasingly old-fashioned, and her slight twelve-pounder main armament was the lightest in the establishment.

  But she was L’Aurore—his first ship as a post-captain, a frigate command, whose dainty and sometimes whimsical ways he had come to know and respect.

  “We’re to join Admiral Collingwood in the blockade of Cádiz.”

  “Blockade?” Curzon’s groan was echoed around the table.

  “Yes! And an honour for all that,” Kydd said sharply. “The Mediterranean squadron, Nelson’s own command. And we, a light frigate, can count on action a-plenty, I’d wager. The closest inshore reconnaissance, and as the fastest ship, we’ll not lack for interesting voyages with the most important dispatches, I’ll remind you.”

  “So … not much chance of—”

  “And if you think yourselves hard done by, then as you bask in our southern sunshine, Mr Curzon, do take thought for our brothers keeping the seas off Brest in damnably ugly winter Atlantic blows.”

  There could be no answer to that.

  “Very well. We’ve orders to put to sea without delay. Mr Curzon will ready his watch and station bill and we’ll begin storing against these orders in the forenoon tomorrow.

  “Yes, Mr Kendall?”

  The sailing master rubbed his chin. “Charts f’r where, sir?”

  “Iberian coast, Gib, western Med—I don’t fancy we’ll be elsewhere in a hurry.”

  The meeting broke up in a buzz of expectation. Resting peacefully at anchor off the fleshpots of Portsmouth was all very well, but there was a war to win and distinction to be gained out where L’Aurore belonged—at sea.