Pasha

by Julian Stockwin

  “Do sit down, Mr Brice,” Kydd said mildly, regarding his new third lieutenant.

  He was young but of a very different stamp from Bowden.

  There was no trace of the social refinements, the confident ease of the well-born. Not with those hard lines about his mouth, the controlled tension. The look he returned was guarded but direct.

  “What then was your last ship?”

  “Raven, brig-sloop. Sir.” He had a northern burr, and there was no relaxing of the watchful gaze.

  “Oh?”

  “Leith, east-coast patrols, some Baltic convoys.” Kydd nodded: a small ship perpetually at sea in the often ferocious conditions of the North Sea, a thankless and dangerous existence but a priceless schooling in seamanship. That the man had not tried to make something of it to his new captain was curious, though.

  Was this the taciturn attitude to be seen in some tarpaulin officers, those whose origins were from before the mast, like Gilbey, who felt the need to assert a salty distinction to set them apart from the usual well-born officer class?

  “Do you have experience as a common seaman at all?” Kydd enquired carefully.

  “I beg pardon, sir?”

  “That is to say, did you come aft through the hawse, so to speak?”

  “I did not.” The reply was instant and defensive.

  “As I did myself,” Kydd added casually, before asking, “Your service previous to that?”

  “Midshipman, Triumph, North American station. Master’s mate and lieutenant in Boadicea, the same, sir.”

  “So this is your first frigate.”

  “Sir.”

  There was something unsettling about his manner, which raised a niggling question. Just how had one from such an undistinguished background landed one of what must be the most sought-after lieutenancies in the service? He had seen no major battles, had served no top-flight admirals. It must therefore have been the workings of “interest,” the favour of a higher power who had exercised preferment on his behalf.

  “You’ve done well, if I might remark it, Mr Brice. Tell me, is there any who do take a special concern in your career? Who—”

  “Would you wish to see my commission, Sir Thomas?” Brice said tightly.

  “No, no. I merely wished to get some idea of your background. Time presses—I believe for now I will second you to Mr Bowden until we are more sure of you.”

  Kydd leaned back, considering. Why was his new third lieutenant not more anxious to please? This was a plum appointment: why was he not more … joyful?

  “Will that be all, sir?” The tone was even and polite, but it was unsmiling, tense.

  “Mr Brice. This is a happy ship and we’ve had adventures aboard together that must satisfy any. If you desire it, your place in our band will be professionally rewarding and personally gratifying—if you make it so by a whole-hearted commitment to L’Aurore, your ship and her company.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then I do welcome you aboard, Mr Brice.”

  There were two others joining L’Aurore. He was very busy but the least he could do was cast an eye over them.

  “Pass the word for Midshipmen Clinch and Willock.”

  It was some time before they appeared, breathless and wide-eyed.

  “So. My two young gentlemen. Which one is Clinch?”

  They were both so young—mere children in fancy-dress.

  “S-sir.” The boy clutched his absurdly large cocked hat under his arm and stood awkwardly in his brand-new uniform. His eyes were a startling blue and seemed so innocent.

  “Welcome aboard, Mr Clinch. Your sea service, sir.”

  There was hasty fumbling inside his waistcoat and a paper was produced. It was a certificate of service for two years as a first-class volunteer in an Irish Sea dispatch cutter.

  “Well, unusual sea-time but acceptable for all that. What were your ports-of-call generally?”

  The boy stood in mute horror until it dawned on Kydd. “Ah, this is book-time, not sea-time, I gather.”

  The lad nodded miserably, unable to speak, for at that moment his sea career could well be brought to an end. Regulations were that none could be rated midshipman without two years prior sea service. It was commonly flouted by the device of having the child’s name entered on a ship’s book while still at school, a course so widespread that Nelson himself had thought nothing of practising it. The crime was not so much in the false muster of the books, but in the venality of drawing pay for a fictitious boy.

  “So you’ll need to try double-tides to earn your place on my quarterdeck,” Kydd said gruffly.

  “Sir,” he whispered. Touchingly, the child’s relief had nearly brought him to tears.

  Kydd turned to the other. “Right. Well, you must be Willock.”

  “I am, Sir Thomas.” The cultured accent would endear him to Curzon but would be a sad liability to him in the gun-room.

  “And your sea service?”

  The boy blushed. “Um, none that would stand with a frigate.”

  “Well, what ship, then?”

  “Squirrel, sir.”

  “I can’t say I can bring her to mind. What rate is she?”

  The boy hesitated, then blurted, red-faced, “Tender to Royal William, s-sir.”

  “Tender to a guardship?” Kydd said, aghast. It would be unlikely that the little craft would even have left Portsmouth harbour, tied to such a virtual hulk. He then realised that this was his admiral godfather, doing just the same thing as Jarman.

  “Then no sea-time for you either, younker?”

  The boy hung his head.

  “Clinch—how old are you? Say up, and no stretchers!”

  “Oh, fourteen, sir.”

  With that childish voice?

  Kydd snapped back, “What year were you born in, pray?”

  “Th-that would be seventeen and ninety-three,” he stammered, after a pause.

  “The year they did for King Louis?”

  “Oh, did they?”

  They were caught out and he found himself facing a child of eleven and another of twelve.

  He had to make up his mind: a midshipman was rated as a petty officer and had a place on both the watch bill and at quarters and was expected to pull his weight with the men. These were under-age for a midshipman, even if it was only by a year or two, but that counted when in a position of authority, taking charge of a crew of hardened man-of-war’s men.

  But then he recalled the slow-talking but meticulous Jarman patiently explaining the requisite tables to the eager young seaman he had once been. Without doubt he and his sister were anxiously waiting for word—and he hadn’t the heart to send the boy back. Besides, he had the look of a sailor and—who knew?—he might do well in a happy ship like L’Aurore.

  And if he accepted one and turned away the other …

  “I’m not pleased you’ve flammed me this way,” he harrumphed. “We’re a crack frigate, not a nursery. I should turn you both down, send you back to your mothers, do you hear?”

  They stood rigid, their childish faces pale.

  He let it sink in, then said sternly, “But I’m minded to give you a chance. Should you faithfully promise to me that you’ll bend your best efforts, night and day, to hoist inboard the elements of your profession in double-quick time, then there’s a berth as midshipman for each of you in L’Aurore.”

  “We promise, sir!” they chorused ecstatically.

  “So get your dunnage below, then report to master’s mate Calloway. Smartly now!”

  They scurried away.

  A wartime frigate on active service could see them without any warning in fearfully dangerous waters or under savage fire from the enemy. Was it fair to thrust a child into such peril when their school-friends were still at their books and games?

  It was the way of the Navy. There were ship’s boys aboard L’Aurore who were still younger, one nine years old, who had been a
whole voyage in her. They had found, among other things, that there was nowhere to hide in a ship-of-war but they had taken to the life—these lads, no doubt, would too.

  He turned back to his work.

  The next morning, amid all the bustle of storing ship, it was time to take stock. He was more than satisfied with the way L’Aurore was readying herself for sea. At this rate he could look to a departure the day after next, presuming the powder barges were alongside at the time promised.

  “How’s the watch and station bill proceeding, Mr Curzon?” he asked the distracted first lieutenant.

  The evolution of turning to the entire ship’s company for the task of victualling would be taxing enough for any brand new first lieutenant, without the added burden of the careful assignment of stations to every man. Each must know what was required of him, not only at quarters in battle but in all-hands exercises like coming to anchor—as well as his routine part-of-ship and station for watch-keeping.

  It needed fine judgement to ensure there was an equal balance of skill in both watches but Curzon was starting with a crew he knew intimately and a ship that was already in commission, and if it cost him midnight oil, well, that had ever been the lot of a first lieutenant.

  Later in the morning L’Aurore was visited by a respectful young officer. He was piped aboard by Boatswain Oakley, for he was the captain of his own ship.

  “Lawson, Sir Thomas. Lieutenant-in-command Weazel, brig-o’-war.”

  In the privacy of his cabin Kydd found out the reason for his coming. “We’ve a Mediterranean convoy scheduled to sail, sir. I’m senior officer escorts, and I’ve just been advised by the admiral that you’ll be accompanying us to Gibraltar.”

  “Oh? I’ve yet to decide our sailing date, let alone our dispositions for the voyage.”

  “The admiral assures us that should we await your pleasure, our escort will be greatly increased by your presence.”

  “When did he tell you this?”

  The young man had the grace to blush. “Perhaps an hour ago, sir.”

  He had obviously found out L’Aurore’s deploying and had had the initiative to go to the admiral with a request. Just as he would have done, Kydd had to admit.

  “What’s your number?”

  “Ourselves, two cutters and a schooner. In the convoy, thirty-eight merchantmen.”

  No wonder the lad had jumped at the chance: this was what it was to have prevailed at Trafalgar. Convoys worth millions were now being sent into the open ocean with the flimsiest protection, for had not the French been driven from the seas? It was a dangerous presumption and might one day cost the Treasury far more than any additional escorts.

  “Very well. We’ll sail together.”

  Kydd knew what was coming next, and waited for it.

  “You being much the senior, Sir Thomas, you will, of course, have the honour of commanding the convoy.”

  “Not at all,” Kydd came back. “The honour remains with Weazel and your own good self.” There was no way he would take on the onerous task of maintaining the convoy paperwork—signals, identification vanes, sailing diagrams and the like—the inevitable consequence of having issued his own orders.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “At sea I shall be under your orders, Mr Lawson, and if we fall in with an enemy you will dispose of this frigate as you see fit.”

  “Why, sir, if—”

  “The convoy is your responsibility. And responsibility without command is an impossibility, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ll be employing the Channel Squadron’s signal book?”

  “Sir.”

  “Then we’re in agreement. Kindly send across a copy of your convoy sailing-order folder, if you please, and I’ll undertake to give you twelve hours’ notice of our readiness to proceed.”

  “That would be appreciated, Sir Thomas.”

  It would be even more so by the merchant captains whose ships would be consuming stores while they idled at anchor.

  “I’ve a notion we’ll be at sea the day after tomorrow. Good day to you, Mr Lawson.”

  Storing complete, the powder barges were summoned and, with very great care, the copper-banded barrels were swayed aboard and stowed snugly in the magazines in the bowels of the ship.

  That evening Kydd saw fit to declare himself at twelve hours’ notice to sail.

  The last hours of a ship in her home port were always bittersweet. In the excitement of the outward bound every man in her also realised that, once anchor was weighed and sail set abroad, there was no longer any chance to provide for himself for the months—or years—to come within the wooden bounds of his sea world.

  Small comforts in the misery of stormy night watches made all the difference: seal-fur warmers to slip under tarpaulin jackets, patent nostrums for chilblains, neat little sewing kits, an illegal Crown and Anchor throwing mat and dice, and other distractions, all eased a hard sea life.

  Officers needed to ensure they were well stocked in reading matter, spare dress uniform accoutrements, perhaps a pistol, a pack of cards, a pocket spyglass, sketching gear or a private journal.

  For Kydd it was also the laying in of cabin stores, having on hand pickled or canned delicacies and tracklements for entertaining important visitors aboard. A married officer would come well provided with touches a woman’s practical sense could produce: a lovingly embroidered cot quilt, an extra-long muffler, a dozen hand-stitched shirts. Fortunately Kydd’s valet, Tysoe, had spent most of his adult life at sea and could be relied upon in the article of personal comforts.

  Their last night was an active time for those who could get ashore, but by nine the following morning the last boat was returning with newspapers, a small sack of mail—and a new addition to the frigate’s company.

  Dillon pulled his cloak more tightly around him—it was so unexpectedly raw and blustery out here on the open water, away from the shelter of hedgerows and buildings. Here the wind ran wild and unconstrained, a metaphor perhaps for the freedom of the high seas.

  It was really only a short pull from the Sally Port to the anchored frigate L’Aurore across the legendary stretch of water called Spithead, but he was already shivering; whether from the excitement that gripped him or the keen cold, he couldn’t say.

  It really was exhilarating: here he was, in a ship’s longboat, hard-faced seamen at the oars glancing at him curiously, the young officer at the tiller barking orders, like a captain. And they were on their way to go aboard the crack frigate that had been so recently in the newspapers, with its famous captain, Sir Thomas Kydd.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off the trim ship, sitting low in the water but with a pent-up grace that told of speed and aggression, much like a panther. The lofty rigging and spars were of an impossible complexity but for some reason added a sense of mission, of purpose, and the blue, white and gold of the figurehead under the bow gave a pleasing touch of humanity. And at the end of the ship a large flag, the ensign of Great Britain’s Royal Navy.

  They drew nearer; there were figures on deck moving, the glitter of gold lace on one, and suddenly they were alongside the black, varnished ship’s side. Orders rapped out and they hooked on next to a set of steps and he was helped up to land staggering on the open deck.

  Men were hurrying everywhere but here and there groups were conversing and watching others. He spotted gold stripes and an important cocked hat on one and went over.

  “Captain Sir Thomas Kydd? May I introduce myself—”

  “Who’s this idiot?” spluttered the harassed first lieutenant. “We’re putting to sea! Get him off my deck until we’ve time to deal with him.”

  The mate-of-the-watch hurried over. “You there! What’s your business, then?”

  “Oh, well, I’m expected. The captain,” he answered, leaping out of the way of a line of seamen clapping on to a rope in a hearty pull.

  “What do you mean, fellow? You’re volunteering for this ship?”

  �
�Why, yes. You didn’t really think that in my place I’m taken by the press-gang against my will?” He felt pleased that he seemed to be holding his own among these old shellbacks.

  “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?

  “Simmonds!” he called over to one of the seamen. “Take him below to your mess and sit him down. He’s not to move until we’re at sea and stood down from stations. We’ll see if anyone’s got time for him then.”

  “And my baggage, if you please.”

  “Baggage?” said the mate-of-the-watch in amazement.

  “Aye, sir. Still in the boat,” the coxswain intervened, with a twisted smile. Few volunteers had anything beyond a small bundle.

  “Very well, get it in,” Bowden said impatiently. “We’ll sort it all out later.”

  Dillon was hurried below, sat at a mess-table and told firmly to stay there.

  In the gloom, hearing the anonymous thuds, rumbles and squeaks as the ship prepared to meet the sea once again, for the first time he felt doubt. Had he done the right thing to exchange the security and comfort of his position at Eskdale Hall for this?

  L’Aurore’s pulse quickened. Boats were stowed on their skids, lines laid for running, and the age-old mingled exhilaration and apprehension of the outward bound mounted.

  Signal flags rose and snapped in the stiff breeze and stations for unmooring were piped.

  Captain Kydd came on deck and sniffed the wind appreciatively. “Nor’easterly, Mr Kendall. Fair for the Channel for once.”

  “It is, Sir Thomas,” said the sailing master. “Yet I have it in my bones it could freshen a mite.”

  “How’s the convoy?” he demanded of Bowden.

  “Fair, sir. Still sorting themselves by the look of it.” Off Shag Rock there was a cloud of sail, as usual in a hopeless tangle. Once in the open sea, the chaos would diminish as it always did.

  “Then I believe we’ll not delay further. Carry on, Mr Curzon—take her out.”

  The new first lieutenant licked his lips nervously. “Aye aye, sir,” he managed.

  There was the anchor to be won, sail to be spread at just the proper moment—and the correct quartermaster at the wheel, top-men in place, fo’c’sle party under the right petty officers to cat and fish the anchor in time, all the outworking of his painful hours at the watch and station bill, which would now be tested to the full.