Pasha

by Julian Stockwin

  At the side of the quarterdeck stood the two new midshipmen trying to look important but clearly nervous and excited. Kydd hardened his heart—they’d better not let him down.

  Under eye from his captain, the sailing master and a prudent boatswain, Curzon’s manoeuvre was successfully completed and the frigate stood away. She passed the milling sail and, in a fine show, leaned to the wind for the open sea where, as agreed, she would deter by her presence any lurking predators watching for a chance.

  The wind was keen and fair and Kydd saw no reason why they shouldn’t make good time in the voyage south. He glanced up at the expanse of curving sail, his pennant streaming away to leeward, and felt a lifting of the heart—he was back where he belonged.

  Eight bells sounded forward: the forenoon watch closed up and the morning watch went to breakfast. Sea routine had begun.

  Reluctantly he quit the deck and went below for his own meal. As he ate alone he was suddenly touched by melancholy. Before, Renzi and he had started their day together with intelligent conversation between equals, friends. Now he was as most other captains were, solitary grandee at the pinnacle of the hierarchy where, by definition, he had no equal to unburden himself to or seek opinion from on a course of action.

  He had long since not needed Renzi’s guidance and advice in the social graces. While his friend’s erudite observations on the world’s condition had always been appreciated, he had now to make his own discovery of how higher matters were concluded, take his decisions unaided.

  But, more than anything, he was putting to sea without his dear friend and he felt a poignant twist.

  Life had to go on, but he gave a small smile at the thought that at this very moment Renzi—the Earl of Farndon—would be sitting down to a lordly breakfast with Cecilia. An even bigger life-change for him, no doubt.

  He finished his coffee and resumed the deck. The convoy had nearly completed forming up, four columns with nine merchantmen in each, backing and filling while the last found their place, shepherded by the distraught antics of the escort.

  At last the head marker ships let fly their pennants and the convoy got under way—down Channel.

  “Station astern of the convoy, Mr Bowden. Eyes on Weazel, any trouble let me know instantly.”

  “Station astern, Weazel senior, aye aye, sir.”

  He turned to go but was stopped by Curzon. “Sir Thomas, I—”

  “Belay that, if you please.”

  “Sir? Oh, yes. Well, sir, there’s one of the volunteers insisting he’s to see you. I do apologise, but he was most insistent. Unusual sort of chap.”

  “Very well. In my cabin in ten minutes.”

  Dillon was shown in briskly. In trepidation he looked about him. It was a spacious but neat cabin, stretching right across the deck, with a fine set of ornamental windows at the end. A handsome escritoire stood up against the opposite end, and the domestic touches were masculine and spare.

  “Leave him with you, sir?”

  “Yes, carry on.

  “You’re a volunteer. What is your objection to service in this vessel?” Kydd snapped.

  Dillon straightened. “You are the captain, sir?” The officer had a taut, unforgiving air, with more gold lace than the others, albeit somewhat sea-tarnished, and dark, strong looks. He had to be the famous and recently elevated hero of Curaçao—and Dillon was daring to put himself forward as his personal secretary?

  “I am.”

  “Sir Thomas Kydd?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I beg to introduce myself. Edward Dillon, lately in the employ of the Earl of Farndon.”

  He essayed a bow—but this was no drawing-room introduction; the hard lines in the captain’s features indicated he was not one to waste time on vanities.

  “Sir, I have a letter from the earl.”

  Dillon handed it across. There was no change in the flinty expression as it was read. He knew what was in it: with pronouncements of complete trust, there was a mild suggestion that in his character were the attributes to be expected of a confidential secretary sufficient to render him a suitable candidate for the post.

  He found it hard to take his eyes from the man who had been knighted not for courtly toadying but for a battle won with blood and courage. This was a man of a kind he had never in his life met before and it was intimidating.

  Kydd put the letter down and looked at him. “You know his lordship was the previous occupant of this post?”

  “He did tell me something of it, yes, sir.”

  “What makes you think that you can fill his shoes, hey?”

  “Sir, only the undoubted fact that he himself did so put me forward for the position.”

  Kydd’s expression eased fractionally at the reply.

  “You were confidential secretary at Eskdale, then?”

  “Under-secretary, Sir Thomas.”

  “Did Renzi … that is, did Lord Farndon inform you that service at sea is quite another thing? No soft shore-side ways, damned uncomfortable at times and always a job of work to do to annoy the enemy. No passengers in a king’s ship, Mr Dillon.”

  “His lordship was also at pains to point out to me that the deck of a man-o’-war is a sovereign perspective from which to learn of the world, Sir Thomas.”

  “That’s as may be,” Kydd snapped. “Now, a confidential secretary to the captain of a warship has to learn many novel things—it takes time. What assurance do I have that you’ll stay the course?”

  Dillon paused. “May I then tell you something of myself?”

  “Go on, but make it brief.”

  “My father is a lawyer of some eminence in the Inns of Court and desired me to go up to Oxford to pursue law, which was not altogether in my reckoning. After my bachelor degree we agreed that I needed time to consider the matter while experiencing something of the world. My post at Eskdale seemed to answer, touching as it does on matters both confidential and complex in law, satisfying my father and at the same time allowing me to pursue my first interest, which is modern languages.”

  “I cannot see how—”

  “Sir, bear with me. For its convenience to myself I agreed to serve for a period of some years, which the present Lord Farndon was kind enough to remit, providing my service and loyalty remained with his old ship. Sir, if you’ll take me, I will stay.”

  “Hmm. So you have a good round hand at the pen, can hoist in the meaning of a paragraph of legal cant, express yourself clearly?”

  The glare was unsettling but Dillon came back strongly. “That you may rely upon, Sir Thomas.”

  Kydd hesitated, then leaned back, regarding him for a space. “This is a hard thing for me, Dillon. The post of confidential secretary to the commander of a man-o’-war, especially one of the significance of L’Aurore, is considerable. It’s to be made privy to confidences affecting the lives of those aboard my vessel and possibly those of national importance. I must be sure you’re the man for it.”

  Dillon waited politely as Kydd considered.

  “Very well. I’ve a mind to take you on. Temporary acting rate as it were, subject to stout performance at the pen and so forth.”

  “Thank you, Sir Thomas. I’ll endeavour to give full satisfaction.”

  “Good.” He suddenly gave a quizzical smile. “And I’ve another duty as will see you well occupied while you shape up in your role.

  “As you’re acting secretary only, as it were, there’s a post aboard you’re eminently suited to fill. That of schoolmaster to the young gentlemen. They’ll muster daily to receive your lessons in figuring, history and French, that sort of thing. I’ll not have ’em leading a heathen existence while there’s a learned cove aboard to teach ’em otherwise.”

  “Very well, Sir Thomas.”

  “So—you’re on my staff as of this moment, subject to review. You’re on the ship’s muster roll as schoolmaster and you’ll mess in the gun-room with the officers. Your duties will be explained to you later.”

  The hard expressio
n returned. “Mr Dillon, you’ve a lot to take in, and a short time to do it. Settle into your cabin now. Tomorrow morning Mr Calloway will stand by as you learn your larboard from your starboard. In the afternoon we’ll have the ship’s clerk, Mr Goffin, explain how we conduct our affairs.”

  Almost absent-mindedly, he added, “And on the first night at sea we generally have dinner together, a get-to-know-you sort of thing.”

  Then he looked up grimly. “You’ll stand with the warrant officers, share a servant with the purser. Should you fail to satisfy you’ll be landed at Gibraltar for shipping back. Clear?”

  Dillon swallowed nervously. There were those at Eskdale who would take great satisfaction in an inglorious return.

  “Yes, Sir Thomas.”

  He summoned Tysoe. “Kindly conduct this gentleman below and inform Mr Curzon that I’m now possessed of a new confidential secretary and the ship has a schoolmaster.”

  At his curt dismissal Dillon left awkwardly, following the valet down a hatchway to a bewildering world of polished doors and a long table; this was apparently the gun-room where he would sleep and mess. His luggage was piled outside his cabin, which was impossibly small.

  The convoy sailed on uneventfully westward, and as the last dog-watch mustered and darkness fell, canvas was shortened to topsails, and leading lights began twinkling in every ship’s rigging. Weazel surged alongside to hail a goodnight.

  Kydd entered his great cabin when all had assembled at the table. His officers scrambled to their feet.

  “It’s right good to see you, Sir Thomas!” Bowden said, with unaffected pleasure. “On this our first night of the commission.”

  “Hear him,” others echoed.

  Kydd took his place at the head, looking down with unfeigned pleasure at the familiar faces—and those of Brice to his left, and at the junior end, Dillon, sitting apprehensively with the boatswain and gunner.

  “Mr Curzon is not … ?”

  “He wishes to express his disappointment at not being able to attend but feels it his duty to remain on deck at this time.”

  It left Bowden and Brice free to take pleasure in their evening.

  Tysoe moved forward unobtrusively to fill Kydd’s wine glass, the servants behind each chair taking their cue.

  “Then let us rejoice in our good fortune,” Kydd said loudly. “A well-found ship, good company and the Dons to provide for our entertainment later!”

  Glasses were raised amid happy shouts of approval.

  “And here’s to our new shipmates,” he added. “Mr Brice! To your good health and fortune in L’Aurore!”

  The man’s tense expression barely eased as he raised his own glass in answer and sipped sparingly, his eyes watchful.

  “Do relate something of your sea service,” Kydd prompted. This was a chance to unbend, to regale his new messmates with well-polished yarns and emerge as an individual.

  “As I told you, sir. Out of Leith in Raven, brig-sloop. North Sea, the Baltic.”

  “Come, come, sir. You’re much too modest. We here know a trifle of what it is to be in the North Sea in dirty weather. And your Baltic convoy—I’ve heard numbers of above two hundred mentioned. How is this possible with so few escorts?”

  “You may believe we did our duty, sir.”

  “You’ve smelt powder on occasion, surely.”

  “Some action, sir, yes.” He took another sip of his wine.

  “Good God! You’re with friends now, Mr Brice. Can you not speak of your service to us?”

  “Three French corvettes on Dogger Bank and we with a forty-sail convoy. We saw them off over three days.”

  The man’s wariness was unsettling.

  “’Pon my soul, but you’re a tight fellow with your words,” Kydd said, in mock exasperation. “Yet we’ll have it out of you before long.”

  He looked directly down the table. “And here we have Mr Edward Dillon, my pro tem confidential secretary following the elevation of Mr Renzi and about to take up his duties. Here’s to you, sir, and may your time in L’Aurore be a happy one!”

  “Th-thank you, Sir Thomas. I’ll strive to win your approval.”

  “And that’ll be a hard beat t’ windward, I’m thinking,” the sailing master, Kendall, muttered, addressing his glass.

  “How so?” Clinton, the Royal Marine lieutenant, asked mildly.

  “In course he’s a-following in Mr Renzi’s footsteps.”

  “Ah. That I can see,” he answered, nodding wisely.

  “Aye, and a rare hand, him, wi’ his learning an’ such.”

  “Not forgetting his undoubted talents in the article of intelligence ashore,” Bowden added respectfully.

  “Always to be relied on t’ tip us the griff on any foreign moil.”

  “And a taut hand wi’ a blade an’ all.”

  “Remember ’im in Corfu? Coming it the Russky, then gets the Frogs to hand over their papers?” Oakley chortled. “Heard they’s all a-tremble as he tells ’em to!”

  “And there was Curaçao,” Bowden said, in admiration. “And Marie-Galante. I don’t rightly know what he was about, but the admiral seemed mightily pleased at the end of it all.”

  Dillon blinked nervously. “I—I really can’t say that—”

  “Pay no mind to them, Mr Dillon,” Kydd said kindly. “Your duties will not include adventures such as Mr Renzi had, have no fear about that.”

  The morning dawned cold and damp but the dark shapes of the convoy columns continued to lumber on ahead, a quick reckoning telling that none had strayed during the night. Familiar routine had the watch-on-deck about their duties and looking forward to their burgoo.

  “Mr Calloway?”

  “Sir?”

  “You aren’t planning on making Mr Dillon’s day more confusing than it already is for him, are you?”

  “What, me, sir?” the crestfallen young man answered.

  “Yes, you, sir. I’ve a need for that gentleman’s services in the shortest possible time and it’s your job to see he takes inboard his nauticals at the gallop. None o’ your tricks with finding the key to the starboard watch or how to swing a sky hook, you rascal. Just show him the ship’s main particulars and have him speaking some sea lingo that makes sense. Compree?”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “And our newest reefers?”

  “A useless pair, sir, but they’ll shape up, or I’ll know the reason why.” Calloway had himself started sea life as a runaway waif and clearly had his views about mollycoddled young gentlemen.

  “Piping the eye, homesick both. They’re together in Mr Bowden’s watch. I dare say he knows how to teach ’em their duty,” Calloway added.

  Dillon arrived, clutching a large notebook and pencil, and wearing a suitably studious expression.

  “This is master’s mate Calloway, Mr Dillon. He’s to teach you the essentials, which I trust you’ll absorb in quick time.”

  “You’ll not find me wanting in application, Sir Thomas. Mr Calloway?”

  Kydd found quickly that he did indeed have a call for a secretary—in fact, a sore need.

  Barely into their voyage there were so many papers at his desk clamouring for his attention. In the course of things, Renzi would discreetly have sorted them for priority and importance before ever he saw them, flagging those needing thought and deliberation as opposed to the “requiring signature” rained on him by an officious ship’s clerk.

  It was too much to expect of his new man at this stage, and as well there were confidential matters that he’d have to handle himself until there was sufficient trust. He was becoming acutely aware that the task, with its complexity and delicacy, was not one for a temporary jobbing secretary. He needed one who would grow into the job and see it as a long-term prospect.

  Was Dillon the man to take it on? His talk of seeing the world might be satisfied in full by the time they reached Gibraltar and Kydd would have to look for another. With Dillon’s romantic notions it was not an impossible prospect.

&n
bsp; Moodily, he gazed down the deck forward where the watch was bending on a fore-topgallant. A routine procedure, furling and sending down the old sail for repair first, it still required skill and timing. It was Brice in charge at the foot of the mast and Kydd stopped to watch.

  The boatswain had immediate control of the men on the yard and Brice was standing impassive, letting Oakley and the topmen get on with it. This was a good sign, demonstrating his understanding of the intermeshing authority of petty officers and men, whose trusting interdependence could so easily be perturbed by interference from the outside.

  Once, he had spotted a fouled clew-line block out of sight of the boatswain; with crisp, efficient orders he had dealt with it and returned authority to the boatswain immediately. The officer’s seamanship was faultless, no doubt the result of the close-quarter responsibilities he’d have encountered in his small brig in stormy waters. Given a good report from Bowden, he’d have him take full officer-of-the-watch duties earlier rather than later.

  A hail from the masthead told of landfall.

  Ushant. The strategic hinge point of France where ships for the Mediterranean and further south turned sharply left; those to the New World set out on the long beat into the broad Atlantic.

  It was a point of convergence for ships of every nation leaving Europe or inward-bound from overseas to the great ports of the north—and therefore a prime target for privateers of all flags.

  In a well-escorted convoy, they had little to fear from those vermin but such a concentration of wealth was a tempting prize. Any stragglers would be set upon without mercy and, as if knowing this, the convoy seemed to huddle even closer.

  “Yes, Mr Dillon, that’s France, and on that little grey island are some of Napoleon’s finest, with cannon and muskets enough to fire into us and do us harm.”

  The young man had come up and was staring across the sea with an intense fascination at the first foreign shore he had seen, and that of the enemy to boot.