‘A fighting captain,’ Murray interposed strongly.
‘Oh, indeed. But as a privateer. And pray bring to mind the fluttering in Congress there was during the English war, on hearing how he set John Paul Jones himself to defiance over some notion of which ship was to fly some pennant. Not one to be led easily – and too damn clever by half. Did you know he was once pressed by the Royal Navy?’
‘Indeed?’
‘But that’s by the by. Here is my main hope for L’tenant Kydd. He has no interest in politics. He’s a tarpaulin mariner and cares only for his ropes and sails. He must be intelligent, he wouldn’t hold a commission else, so he’ll be able to tell me exactly what I want to know . . .’
Nothing could convey better to Kydd the continental vastness of the country than the overland coach journey with Gindler to Baltimore. From as fine a four-horse conveyance as any in England, they admired the spring-touched verdancy of the deciduous woodland that had replaced the northern conifers, the glittering lakes, rivers and blue-washed mountains far into the interior.
At stops to change horses, Gindler added to Kydd’s impressions: he pointed out that beyond the mountains to the west the land was wild, stretching for more than sixty degrees of longitude; an unimaginable distance, more than the Atlantic was wide, and no one knew what was within it. Unsettled by the effect of this enormity Kydd was glad when they met the cobblestones of Baltimore.
‘She’ll be lying in the Patuxent river,’ Gindler said. ‘We’re nearly ready for sea.’ There was no delaying: a fast packet on its way down the Chesapeake to Norfolk had promised to call at Patuxent and their ship.
The sight of naked masts and yards towering above the low, bushy point made Kydd’s pulse quicken. The packet rounded the point into the broad opening of a river and there at anchor was the biggest frigate he had ever seen.
‘A thing of beauty,’ breathed Gindler. ‘Don’t you agree?’
Kydd concentrated as they neared the vessel. She was distinctive and individual; her lines and finish owed nothing to the conservative traditions of old-world shipwrights, and there was an alert purposefulness about her. There was much in her that a sailor could love. Nearly half as big again as the lovely Artemis, she seemed well armed. ‘Twenty-fours?’ he asked.
‘Indeed! I’d like to see any frigate that swims try to come up against the old Connie,’ Gindler said proudly.
‘Old?’ Kydd said wryly, observing seamen applying a tar mixture to the last remaining raw timber of the bulwarks.
‘Well, I grant you she’s newborn, but I have the feeling you’ll be hearing from us in the future, my friend.’ His glance flicked up to the flag with its stars and stripes and he added softly, ‘I promise you that.’
Kydd had seen far too many ships fitting for sea to be concerned at the turmoil on deck. He followed Gindler aft to the captain’s cabin. Gindler knocked and an irritable bellow bade them enter.
‘Mr Kydd, sir,’ said Gindler, and when the captain looked up in incomprehension he added, ‘Our supernumerary.’
The captain’s gaze swivelled to Kydd. Intelligent but hard eyes met his. Then the man grunted, ‘Mr Kydd, y’r service,’ and turned back to his papers. ‘Berth him in the fourth loo’tenant’s cabin. He won’t be sailing,’ he ordered, without looking up.
‘Aye, sir,’ said Gindler, and withdrew with Kydd.
Picking their way through men at blocks and ropework – some seaming canvas, others scaling shot – they headed for the after hatchway. ‘I fear I must desert you now, Tom, duty calls. I’ll take you to the wardroom, and I’m sure Captain Truxtun will want to see you when less pressed.’
‘Welcome back, Lootenant!’ a fresh-faced seaman called, with a grin, to Gindler and waved a serving mallet.
‘Thanks, Doyle,’ Gindler threw back. At Kydd’s raised eyebrows he added, ‘A mort of difference from a King’s ship, I think. Remember, aboard here every man jack is a volunteer on wages and, as Americans, they’re not accustomed to bending the knee.’
Kydd did not rise to the bait and privately wondered at their reliability in action when instant obedience was vital.
The wardroom was almost deserted. A black messman glanced at him curiously and left. Kydd looked about him. The raw newness had not yet been overcome to bring individuality. At the same time there was an alien air. The unfamiliar wood graining, the slant of the munnions – even the smell: striking timber odours, the usual comfortable galley smells subtly different, no waft of bilge.
He crossed to the transom seat. Reassuringly, it was still the repository of the ephemera of wardroom life and he picked up a Philadelphia newspaper, the Mercantile Advertiser. While he awaited Truxtun’s summons he settled by the midships lanthorn and opened it. There was no ochre tax stamp and the paper was of good quality. He scanned the front page, which was given over to a verbatim setting out of a newly enacted statute. The next page, however, was vigorous and to the point: a growing feeling against the French gave colour to the local news and trade intelligence. Further inside there were advertisements and notices.
‘Mr Kydd? Cap’n wants ye.’ He folded the paper, tugged his waistcoat into position and followed the messenger, apprehensive at meeting those hard eyes again.
Truxtun was standing, his back to Kydd, staring broodily out of the windows of his cabin. He turned and gestured to a chair. ‘Sit y’self down, Mr Kydd.’ He himself remained standing.
‘I’ll be plain with you, sir. Mr Secretary Stoddert thinks to provide me with an aide who’ll tell me how they do it in King George’s Navy. I can tell you frankly I don’t give a solitary hoot how you do things – this is the United States Navy and I’m captain o’ the Constellation, and I’ll do things the way I want.’ His face had the implacability of a slab of oak. ‘Therefore your presence aboard is a waste. For Ben Stoddert’s sake, I’ll carry you these few days, but I’ll have you know, sir, that I’ll be giving orders that no United States officer or crewman shall hold converse with you – I don’t want ’em getting strange ideas agin mine about how a ship o’ war should be run. I’d be obliged if you’d keep your views to yourself.
‘In return, you’re welcome to sit at vittles in the wardroom and the fourth’s stateroom is yours. You’ll know to keep out from under while the ship’s being worked, and should we meet an enemy you’ll stay below. Have I made myself clear, sir?’
It was going to be a hard time for Kydd. He was not introduced when the wardroom sat for dinner. He was passed the condiments when he asked, but none caught his eye. Desultory talk went on about progress in the final run-up to sea trials in the morning, a few lame attempts at humour – this was a wardroom that had not been long together but would coalesce around individuals as the commission went on.
In the morning he caught Gindler, now a taut-rigged lieutenant, about to go on deck. ‘I’m sorry it has to be this way, Tom,’ he said softly. He touched his hat and left for the nervous bustle above.
Kydd hesitated: he could see down the length of the deck to the cable party readying the messenger; the tierers were moving down the hatchway for their thankless task at bringing in the cable.
He decided against making an appearance and returned to the wardroom. Although it was galling to be left in ignorance below decks, this was a first voyage with a new ship and a new company and he felt it was not altogether fair to witness the inevitable mistakes and dramas. He found a dog-eared copy of the North American Review and tried to concentrate, but the long tiller up against the deckhead began to creak and move as the man at the wheel exercised the helm. Then piercing calls from the boatswain and his mates told of the hoisting of boats, all suffused with the age-old excitement of the outward bound.
Rhythmic singing came from the men forward, and he felt a continual low shuddering in the deck that was, without doubt, the capstan at work. A sudden clatter and flurry of shouting would be a fall running away with the men while heavy thumps against the ship’s side were the boats being brought in and stowed. The noises
lessened until there was silence. They were ready to proceed.
Constellation’s deck lifted and moved. In a deliberate sway it inclined to starboard, a heel that paused then returned and steadied to a definite angle, which had only one meaning: they were under sail and moving through the water.
Kydd threw down the newspapers – it was too much. He had to catch a glimpse of the sea. There were no stern windows in the wardroom, so the nearest place to see the ship’s position was from the captain’s cabin above.
He hurried up the companion and through the lobby. To the sentry loosely at attention outside the great cabin, he muttered, ‘Have t’ see out.’ If he craned his neck, he could just glimpse the coastline of the Patuxent slowly rotating; a discernible wake was disturbing the water astern and the frenzied squeal of blocks could be heard even below decks.
He nodded to the marine and returned to the wardroom.
He knew vaguely that they should shape course south down Chesapeake Bay to the sea, but without sight of a chart he was in the dark. The angle of the deck lessened, then he heard another volley of faintly heard shouts, and there was a brief hesitation – they must be staying about.
At the right moment the tiller groaned with effort as the wheel went over but after some minutes there was no corresponding sway over to larboard. They had missed stays. Kydd cringed for the officer of the deck as the unmistakable bull roar of Truxtun erupted; he was grateful to be out of sight. He picked up the Review again and flicked the pages.
After an hour or so the motions were repeated but this time in a smooth sequence, the frigate taking up on the opposite tack. Again the manoeuvre and again an easy transition. Dare he emerge on deck? He waited for a space; the angle of heel increased gradually and he guessed that more sail was being loosed. Kydd could stand it no longer. He made his way to the aft companion and mounted the steps to the quarterdeck. In the tense scene, not a soul looked his way. Groups of men were at the bitts, the base of the masts, the forecastle, all looking aft to where Truxtun stood with folded arms, staring up at taut canvas.
‘Stream!’ he snapped, to the men at the taffrail. One held the reel of the log high while the log-ship, a triangular drag piece, was cast into the sea astern to uncoil the line from the drum. It hurtled out at speed and when the sand-glass had run its course a lanky midshipman called, ‘Nip,’ and then, ‘Eleven knots an’ a hair over.’
Truxtun’s expression did not change. ‘Not good enough. I’ll have the lee stuns’ls abroad immediately.’
The spring breeze whipped the tops from the waves as Kydd edged his way behind Truxtun towards the wheel and binnacle. Under the unblinking eye of the quartermaster he got what he wanted – a sight of the compass. South-south-east, wind from the west with a touch of north in it. Ideal blue-water sailing for a frigate: no wonder Truxtun was letting her have her head.
They were passing a broad river mouth to starboard with small vessels of all kinds converging at the confluence. ‘Potomac,’ hissed the midshipman behind him.
‘I beg y’r pardon?’ Kydd said, taken off-balance.
‘The river – Potomac.’ He busied himself preparing the log for another cast.
‘Thank ye,’ Kydd said quietly.
With stuns’ls drawing and royals atop each mast, Constellation foamed ahead. It was remarkable for a new vessel to have achieved such speed so soon. The log went out and the excited midshipman yelled, ‘A whisker less fourteen!’ It was nothing short of extraordinary – and exhilarating. If Kydd was not to be an active participant at least he could enjoy the sensation.
Truxtun’s eyes darting aloft, then aft, caught Kydd’s eye. Kydd smiled broadly in open admiration. ‘She goes like a racehorse!’
‘Aye – like a Yankee racehorse!’ But there was no rancour in his voice and his grim expression had eased. It would be a gratifying thing, thought Kydd, to be in command of a frigate that, with her twenty-four pounders, could outfight any other and, at the same time, run or chase as she chose.
In the darkness of late evening they came to single anchor in the shelter of Hampton Roads, within sight of the broad Atlantic. The wardroom was abuzz at the splendid showing of their ship and it seemed only right to invite their captain to a hearty dinner.
Kydd sat at the furthest remove from Truxtun’s place of honour at the head, but he was grateful to be present, hearing the happy talk about him, seeing friendships being forged and strengthened that would stand by them all in the ocean voyages ahead.
The talk roamed over the chance of war with France, seeing The Glory of Columbia at the Chestnut Street theatre, the right way to treat a halibut – it was just the same as his own wardroom . . . but different.
The dishes came and went, and the cloth was drawn. Blue smoke spiralled to the deckhead, glasses were raised and confidences exchanged. The chatter rose and fell. Into a chance silence Gindler’s voice was raised: ‘Ah, Mr Kydd, you must have seen some sea service in your time. Pray tell us of it.’
Glances were shot at Truxtun but he gave no sign that he objected.
‘Aye, well, I had th’ good fortune to take a cruise around th’ world,’ Kydd said, thinking quickly. ‘A frigate, nearly as fine as this.’ He saw this was received well. ‘Setting a parcel o’ philosophers on a rock, an’ keeping the cannibals in their canoes at bay . . .’ He told them of the adventure, and when he concluded with the sad wreck of Artemis on the Azores, there was a general stirring of sympathy.
Midshipman Porter leaned forward and exclaimed, ‘Have you b’ chance seen action?’
‘A little – Camperdown, which was where I got m’ step.’
Kydd wouldn’t be drawn on the experience and tried to move on to Venice, but Truxtun himself interrupted: ‘Your fleet were in bloody mutiny before then.’ A ripple of muttering showed that the dreadful events had been shocking news here as well. ‘How did that affect you?’
The warmth of the evening fell away as he forced his mind to deal with the sudden release of memories. ‘It – my ship mutinied, but I was not hurt.’
‘Would you say the sailors had just cause?’
‘At Spithead they had their reasons, and the Admiralty granted most and gave a pardon. But at the Nore . . .’ He felt his face redden.
‘Yes?’
‘At the Nore, where I was, their cause was understandable but they went about it the wrong way.’
Truxtun growled, ‘There’s no treating with mutineers, ever.’
The next day a small convoy had yet to assemble, so the dark-featured First Lieutenant Rodgers was sent ashore to the settlement of Norfolk to open a recruiting rendezvous to bring in more volunteers. Kydd saw Truxtun hand him silver at the gangway, saying, ‘Get some music going and grog for all hands – indulge their humour in a farewell frolic.’ Rodgers grinned and went over the side.
From forward came the dull blang of scaling charges as they cleared the cannon of rust and debris. Men squatted on the foredeck as they made up paper cartridges for the small arms, while others had the hatches off for the last of the sea stores still coming aboard.
By the early afternoon activity had died away. But Truxtun was not satisfied. He beat to quarters, and for two hours had the great guns exercised. Big twenty-four-pounders given resplendent names by their gun crews, Thunderer, Volcano, Murderer, and all plied with ferocity and resolution.
That night Kydd did not sit down with the wardroom. Captain Truxtun had requested the pleasure of his company and he entered the great cabin with some apprehension, for they were alone. Through the stern windows Kydd could see dim specks of light on shore; a tawny gold issued from the windows of a vessel anchored nearby, prettily dappling the water.
They passed pleasantries while they took a simple meal, and the steward swiftly removed the dishes. Kydd’s wariness grew with Truxtun’s politeness. ‘Do take a chair,’ Truxtun said, gesturing to a comfortable one near the stern windows. He found a cedar box in his writing desk and drew out a cigar. ‘Do you indulge, Mr Kydd?’ At Kydd’
s declining he put it away again.
‘You’ll pardon me, Mr Kydd, but you’re the darnedest Royal Navy officer I ever clapped eyes on.’ His frank gaze was unsettling. ‘I can tell a smart man when I see one. Don’t have the airs of a King’s man but I’ll guess that’s because you come from the people.’ He pondered for a moment. ‘So, do you hold it right to press men from under their own flag?’
‘Sir, if these men are British they have a duty to—’
‘They are American, sir.’
‘They say they are.’
‘They hold protections to prove it – and these are spat on by English officers.’
‘Yes! Th’ rate for an American protection by your consul in Liverpool is one guinea and no questions asked.’
Truxtun smiled. ‘We each have our views.’ The smile disappeared. ‘It’s insulting to our flag for our merchant ships to be stopped and submit to search on the high seas. What do ye think of that?’
‘Sir, Britain is a small island,’ he said carefully. ‘Trade is all we have. To survive we have to protect it, and—’
‘You’re right – and damn wrong. Do you know that most of the trade out of Nova Scotia is your cargo in our bottoms, on its way to ports of the world only a neutral can reach? You stop an American and you sink your own trade.’
Kydd flushed. ‘You asked for views – I don’t know y’r details but this I do know: if you’re doin’ the same for the French you’re makin’ a hill o’ money out of it.’
Truxtun’s expression hardened, then a glimmer of a smile showed. ‘Well, as to that . . .’
It was the first that Kydd had heard of the true extent of the French attacks on American shipping and Truxtun’s tone left no doubt of his feelings. ‘If we don’t stand on our hind legs and fight ’em we deserve to be beat.’
He looked directly at Kydd. ‘You’re wondering why we don’t declare war. So am I!’ He glowered. Suddenly he got to his feet, crossed to his desk and abstracted a folded paper. ‘I’ll show you this,’ he said, in an odd voice. ‘It came in today.’
Quarterdeck Page 27
