Kydd stared out over the wake astern, a ragged white line dissolving to nothing in the distance, ever renewed by their steady motion and the noisy tumbling foam under their counter. His dark thoughts were full but refused to take solid form, and he hesitated. ‘Nicholas. How c’n I say this? Here I stand, an officer. A King’s officer! More’n I could dare t’ dream of before. And it’s – it’s not as it should be . . .’
Renzi waited patiently, gazing astern.
Kydd continued weakly, ‘Y’ see, I don’t feel an officer – it’s as if I was playin’ a role, dressin’ up for the part like a common actor.’ The frustrations boiled up and he gulped with emotion. ‘I know th’ seamanship, the orders an’ things but – Nicholas, look at me! When the others talk t’ each other, they’re talkin’ to the squire, the gentry – their father is lord o’ the manor of some fine family, they talk of ridin’ with the hounds, calling on the duke in London, what’s the latest gossip . . .’ His voice thickened. ‘And me, what can I talk about at table without I open m’ mouth and be damned a yokel?’
Renzi murmured encouragement. Paradoxically, this made it all the worse for Kydd, and his frustration took a new path. ‘It’s easy enough f’r you. You’ve been born into it,’ he said bitterly, ‘lived that way all y’r life. This is why you can talk y’r horses an’ estates ’n’ politics with the others. And have you thought how it is f’r me? I sit there sad as a gib cat, hearin’ all this jabber and feelin’ as out of it as—’
The carpenter interrupted them with his report and Kydd processed the information mechanically. Twenty-four inches in the well: if he left it, the night watch would have to deal with it, manning the big chain pump with all its creaking and banging, rendering sleep impossible for the watch below. He’d see to it before he left the deck.
Renzi spoke quietly: ‘Tom, do you consider awhile. We all have had to learn the graces, the manners and ways of a gentleman. It’s just that we’ve had much longer than you to learn. You see? You will learn in time, then—’
‘Be damned!’ Kydd choked. ‘Do ye take me f’r a performing monkey? Learn more tricks and bring ’em out in company? Is this how to be a gentleman?’
Renzi’s face set. ‘You’re being obnoxious, my friend,’ he said softly.
‘An’ I’m gettin’ sick o’ your word-grubbin’ ways! You’re no frien’ if all you can say is—’
Renzi turned on his heel. ‘Nicholas! I – I didn’t mean t’ say . . .’ Renzi stopped. Kydd’s hand strayed to his friend’s shoulder but there was no response: Renzi merely turned, folded his arms and looked coldly at him. ‘I’ve been thinkin’ a lot, Nicholas. About who I am, is the short of it.’ He lifted his chin obstinately. ‘Afore now I’ve been proud t’ be a man-o’-war’s man. Life f’r me has been simple an’ true. Now I’ve gone aft it’s all gone ahoo. I’ve lost m’ bearings – an’ all my friends.’
‘Do I take it that you still wish to be an officer?’
Kydd looked away for long moments. ‘Nicholas, you may account me proud or stubborn – but I will not be a tarpaulin to pity f’r his plain ways. An officer left t’ one side when it comes to society an’ promotion. Gentlemen officers laugh at the poor sot behind his back – gets a-fuddle wi’ drink ashore ’cos he don’t know what t’ say. I’d rather be cream o’ the shit than shit o’ the cream, damn it.’
Renzi winced. ‘You may regret turning your back on fortune.’
‘Did I say I was? I just don’t know, is all.’
Renzi coughed gently. ‘Possibly I am in no small measure to blame in this, dear fellow, but still I feel there is only one logical course, and one you seem to have already rejected. For as long as it will take, you must apply your best and most sincere endeavours to fitting yourself out for a gentleman officer – in look, word and deed. Then, and only then, you may take your rightful place in society, my friend.’
At Kydd’s moody silence Renzi insisted on an answer. ‘I’ll think on it,’ was all he could achieve.
They were heading north to where the Labrador current from the icy fastness of the polar region met the unseen river of warm water driving up from the Caribbean, the Gulf Stream. Such a confluence was highly likely to result in the navigator’s nightmare: fog.
Ahead there were several days of slow sailing across the mouth of the great St Lawrence before they made the shallower waters of the Grand Banks, then the doubling of Cape Race for St John’s and landfall.
The Halifax-bound leaver division of the convoy had parted, and now the convoy was mainly smaller ships, bringing out supplies for the important cod fishery, with some larger vessels who would touch at St John’s before making south for the United States. Kydd knew them all by sight now, and it would be strange after a month and a half of ocean travelling when their familiar presence was no longer there.
With the wind dropping all the time, the seas lost their busy ruckling of the long, easy swell. There was hardly a gurgle or a splash from the ships’ languorous sliding through the grey water. Quite different from the fetid heat and glassy calms of the doldrums, this was simply the removal of energy from the sea’s motion.
A sudden cry came from the masthead lookout. ‘Saaail hoooo! Sail t’ the nor’ard, standin’ towards!’
A distinct stir of interest livened the decks. This was much too early for the sloops and gunboats of St John’s they were to meet, and a single sail would be bold to challenge a ship-of-the-line.
‘My duty to the captain, and I would be happy to see him on deck,’ the officer-of-the-watch, Adams, told his messenger, but it was not necessary. Houghton strode on to the quarterdeck, grim-faced.
‘You’d oblige me, Mr Kydd, should you go aloft and let me know what you see.’
Kydd accepted a telescope from Adams and swung up into the rigging, feeling every eye on him. His cocked hat fell to the deck as he went round the futtock shrouds – he would remember to go without it next time – and to the main topmast top, joining the lookout who politely made room for him.
‘Where away?’ Kydd asked, controlling his panting. Breaking the even line of the horizon was a tiny smudge of paleness against the grey – right in their path. He brought up the telescope. It was difficult to control: even in the calm sea the slow roll at this height was sufficient to throw off the sighting. He wedged himself against the topgallant mast, feet braced against the cross-trees, then got his first good look at the pale pyramid of sail head on. His heart jumped. The glass wandered and the small image blurred across.
‘What do you see?’ Houghton bellowed from below.
Kydd swept the telescope to each side of the pyramid. Nothing. Tantalisingly he caught brief glimpses of it, now getting sharper and larger, but there was never enough time to fix on it. He prepared to lean over to hail the deck, then noticed wan sunlight shafting down close to it. He would give it one last try.
A glitter of light moved across the sea towards it. He raised his telescope – and saw it transformed. ‘Deck hooo! An ice island!’
The whole incident had gone unnoticed by the convoy, for the height-of-eye of Tenacious’s lofty masts ensured she saw it well before any other, but all were able to take their fill of the majestic sight as they passed hours later. Up close, it was not all pure white: there were startling pale blues, greens and dirty blotches – and such a size! There was an awed silence along the decks as men came up to stare at the silent monster from the frozen north.
The wind died, leaving a lethargic swell and the ship creaking and groaning under a dull, pearly sky. While Houghton paced up and down in frustration, Kydd noticed one of the larger vessels of the convoy far to the leeward edge. As with all ships, her sails hung lifeless from her yards but for some reason she had none on her foremast, not even headsails. ‘Odd,’ he mused to the master. Then a signal jerked hastily aloft from her mizzen peak halliards. Without wind to spread the flags it was impossible to make out the message, but there was clearly activity on deck.
‘Damn the fellow!’ Houghton sna
pped. Virtually dead in the water, there was little Tenacious could do to investigate further.
‘I thought so,’ the master said, seeing the dead white of a fog-bank advancing stealthily in eddying wreaths that hugged the sea surface and eventually engulfed the ship in a blank whiteness. The muffled crump of two guns sounded from somewhere within the white barrier; in conjunction with the flags this was the agreed signal for distress.
Houghton stopped. All eyes turned towards him. They could not lie idle if there were souls in need of them.
‘Away launch, if you please, Mr Pearce.’ He paused to consider. ‘A bo’sun’s mate and ten men, and we’ll have two carpenter’s mates in with ’em – and pass the word for the surgeon.’
He looked about the deck and caught Kydd’s eye. ‘See what all the fuss is about, Mr Kydd. If the ship is at hazard of foundering and our men can save her, do so. Otherwise advise her master in the strongest terms that a King’s ship is not to be troubled in this way.’ Kydd knew perfectly well why he had been selected for this duty – as the most junior officer, he would be the least missed if he were lost in the fog.
As the yardarm stay tackles were hooked on to the boat Houghton added, ‘Take an arms chest too, Mr Kydd.’ Some of the ships carried convicts for the defensive works in St John’s.
Kydd went to his cabin and found his sword, part of the uniform and authority of a naval officer when boarding a strange vessel. Tysoe helped fasten the cross strap and buckle on his scabbard sling. ‘Nothing but a merchantman all ahoo.’ Kydd chuckled at the sight of his grave expression.
‘Get a boat compass,’ Kydd told Rawson, as he came back on deck. Seamen tumbled into the big launch, then helped sway down the arms chest; there was no point in shipping mast and sails in the flat calm.
Rawson returned with a small wooden box with a four-inch compass set in gimbals. Kydd had the bearing of the hapless vessel and checked that the indication with the boat compass was good. This was handed down, and he watched Rawson go aboard the launch, correctly wearing his midshipman’s dirk. Kydd then went down the side, last to board.
‘Take the tiller, if y’ please,’ Kydd told Rawson, taking his place in the stern-sheets. The surgeon sat patiently on the opposite side. ‘Why, Mr Pybus, you haven’t any medicines?’ he said, seeing no bag or chest.
‘Oh? You know what it is then I must treat? Wounds, inflamed callibisters, one of a dozen poxes? I tried to persuade these brave fellows to load aboard my dispensary entire but . . .’
Houghton called down loudly from the ship’s side: ‘I’ll thank you to lose no time, Mr Kydd!’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ Kydd threw back. ‘Get moving!’ he muttered to Rawson.
‘Fend off forrard,’ Rawson ordered. ‘Out oars – give way, together.’ Kydd gently wedged the compass into the bottom of the boat, careful to ensure there was no iron near. Their lives might depend on it.
The men stretched out. It was a good three miles to pull but conditions were ideal: not any kind of sea and the air was cool and dry – it might be different in the fogbank. Kydd saw that Thorn, the stroke oar, was pulling well, long and strong and leaning into it. He was a steady hand with a fine gift for ropework. Further forward was Poulden, who, Kydd vowed to himself, he would see as a petty officer in Tenacious.
Rawson stood with the tiller at his side, his eyes ahead. ‘Mr Rawson,’ Kydd said quietly, ‘you haven’t checked your back bearing this last quarter-mile.’
The youth flashed an enquiring glance astern at the diminishing bulk of Tenacious, and looked back puzzled.
Kydd continued mildly, ‘If we’re runnin’ down a steady line o’ bearing, then we should fin’ that where we came from bears exactly astern. If it doesn’t, then . . .’ At the baffled response Kydd finished, ‘Means that we’re takin’ a current from somewheres abeam. Then we have t’ allow for it if we want to get back, cuffin.’ He had been checking surreptitiously for this very reason.
The white blankness of the fogbank approached and suddenly they left a world with a horizon, a pale sun and scattered ships, and entered an impenetrably white one, where the sun’s disc was no longer visible, its light wholly diffused and reduced to a weak twilight. Men’s voices were muffled and a dank moisture lay on everything as a tiny beading of slippery droplets.
They pulled through the wreathing fog-smoke, Kydd making certain of their course – its reciprocal would lead them back to their ship. Paradoxically the heavy breathing of the men at the oars sounded both near yet far in the unpleasant atmosphere that was weighing heavy on his sleeves and coat and trickling down his neck from his hat.
‘Sir?’ Poulden cocked his head intently on one side. ‘Sir! I c’n hear a boat!’
‘Oars!’ snapped Kydd. The men ceased pulling. ‘Still! Absolute silence in the boat!’ They lay quietly, rocking slightly. It was long minutes of waiting, with the cheerful gurgle and slap of water along the waterline an irritating intrusion. Men sat rigid, avoiding eyes, listening.
Then there was something. A distinct random thump, a bang of wood against wood and a barely synchronised squeaking, which could only be several oars in thole pins or rowlocks – and close.
It was probably innocent, but what boat would be abroad in these conditions without good reason? The sound faded, but just as Kydd was about to break the silence it started again somewhat fainter – but where? The swirling clammy white was a baffling sound trap, absorbing and reflecting, making guesses of direction impossible.
Kydd felt a stab of apprehension. ‘Break out the arms – I’ll take th’ tiller. Quickly!’ he hissed.
The wooden chest emptied quickly. Cutlasses were handed along with a metallic slither, one or two tomahawks, six boarding pistols. Kydd saw that they were ready flinted and prayed that the gunner’s party had them loaded. He drew his sword. The fine-edged weapon, which had seemed so elegant, now felt flimsy and insubstantial beside the familiar broad grey steel of a cutlass.
He laid the naked blade across his knees and experimentally worked the tiller. Rawson fingered his dirk nervously, but the surgeon lolled back with a bored expression. He had no weapon and, in reply to Kydd’s raised eyebrows, gave a cynical smile.
Waiting for the men to settle their blades safely along the side, Kydd held up his hands for quiet once more. In the breathless silence, a drip of water from oars, the rustle of waves and an occasional creak were deafening. Kydd concentrated with every nerve. Nothing.
He waited a little longer, automatically checking that their heading remained true, then ordered quietly, ‘Oars, give way, together.’ The men swung into it and the bluff-bowed launch got under way again.
In one heart-stopping instant a boat burst into view, headed directly for them. In the same moment Kydd registered that it was hostile, that it was a French chaloupe, and that it had a small swivel gun in its bow.
His instincts took over. ‘Down!’ he yelled, and pulled the tiller hard over. The swivel cracked loudly – Kydd heard two shrieks and felt the wind of a missile before the bow of the enemy boat thumped heavily into their own swinging forepart. French sailors, their faces distorted with hatred, took up their weapons and rose to their feet in a rush to board.
The launch swayed as the British responded, snarls and curses overlaid with challenging bellows as they reached for their own weapons in a tangle of oars and blood. Pistols banged, smoke hung in the still air. One Frenchman collapsed floppily, his face covered with blood and grey matter; another squealed and dropped his pistol as he folded over.
It was the worst form of sea warfare, boat against boat, nothing but rage and butchery until one side faltered.
An arm came out to grasp the French gunwale and pull it alongside. A tomahawk thudded across the fingers, which tumbled obscenely away. ‘Get th’ bastards!’ Kydd roared, waving his sword towards the enemy.
The boats came together, oars splintering and gouging, enemy opponents within reach. The furious clash and bite of steel echoed in the fog. Kydd’s sword faced a red
-faced matelot flailing a curved North African weapon. The smash of the blade against his sword numbed Kydd’s wrist, but the man triumphantly swept it up for a final blow, leaving his armpit exposed. Kydd’s lighter steel flashed forward and sank into the soft body. The man dropped with an animal howl.
There was an enraged bellow and a large dark-jowled man shouldered his way into his place, a plain but heavy cutlass in his hand. His face was a rictus of hatred and his first lunge was a venomous stab straight to the eyes. Kydd parried, but the weight of the man’s weapon told, and Kydd took a ringing blow to the side of the head.
The man drew back for another strike. He held his weapon expertly, leaving no opening for Kydd. The next blow came, smashing across, and Kydd’s awkward defence did not stop a bruising hit above his hip. He felt cold fear – the next strike might be mortal.
As the man stepped on to the gunwale he cunningly swept a low straight-arm stab at Kydd’s groin and, at his hasty defence, jerked the blade up for a lethal blow to Kydd’s head. Kydd’s sword flew up to meet it, an anvil-like ringing and brutish force resulting in the weapon’s deflection – and a sudden lightness in his hand.
Kydd looked down. His sword had broken a couple of inches from the hilt. The man gave a roar of triumph and jumped into the launch. Kydd backed away, flinging the useless remnant at him. Jostled by another fighting pair the man stumbled before he could land his final stroke. Kydd cast about in desperation and saw a bloodied cutlass lying in the bottom of the boat.
He wrenched it up, in the process taking a stroke from the Frenchman aimed again at the head, but Kydd’s blade was now a satisfying weight in his hand and he’d kept the blow from landing. Fury building, he swung to face his assailant. The man paused, taken aback by Kydd’s intensity.
Kydd went on to the attack with the familiar weapon. He smashed aside the man’s strikes, landing solid, clanging hits. In the confined space it could not last. As he thrust the broad blade straight for the belly, Kydd brought one foot forward to the other. The man’s cautious defence was what he wanted. As the man readied his own thrust, the spring in Kydd’s heel enabled him to lunge forward inside the man’s own blade, the cutlass drawing a savage line of blood on one side of his head.
Quarterdeck Page 11
