With the utmost dignity, the piper concluded his processing at the head of the table next to the mess president, General Sir David Baird, and duty done, stared fixedly ahead.
The moment hung in a heady whisky fragrance, the gold and scarlet of regimentals in rows interspersed here and there with the rich dark blue and gold of the Navy as both services joined in the tribal ritual of the loyal toast. Baird rose solemnly; with a massed scraping of chairs every officer got to his feet likewise, his glass, charged with a golden glow, held before him.
‘Gentlemen – the King.’
‘The King,’ murmured half a hundred men, some with an added, ‘God bless him.’ It produced a powerful sense of union with the country that had given them birth, now on the other side of the world but to which each and every one was bound by this common tie of allegiance.
With a rustle and occasional clink of ceremonial accoutrements, the assembly resumed their seats and conversations continued in a lively hum.
‘Your jolly good health, sir!’ It was the adjutant of the 93rd, sitting down from Kydd and the more senior officers.
‘And to yours, sir!’ Kydd called in return, raising his glass. He enjoyed attending army mess dinners with their different ways and effortless banter, not to mention the fine victuals to be had in a garrison town and, of course, their well-found cellar.
Tonight was no exception: a regimental occasion with the 71st as hosts and the rest of the military as guests in a splendid affair – but for Kydd there was a purpose and he prepared to make his move.
Next to him was the red-faced and happy Lieutenant Colonel Geoffrey McDonald, Lord of the Isles, and further towards the head of the table the firebrand Colonel Pack held forth, but for Kydd there was only one of notice that night: the brigadier general and second-in-command of the Cape Colony military, William Carr Beresford, sat some places up.
The dinner was over, the toasts made and cloths drawn, and amiable converse became general. Now was the time.
‘A right noble dinner, General Beresford, sir,’ he called genially. ‘I’ve not had better this age, I declare.’
Beresford had a reputation for stiffness, a liking for the forms, but he turned politely to Kydd and replied, ‘The victor of the Zambezi does us honour in the attending, Captain. As it happens I’ve just sent for a bottle of Malmsey of the old sort. Would you care to join me?’
As was usual at this time, a number of officers had taken the opportunity to perform what the Navy delicately alluded to as ‘easing springs’ and by their absence the hardier remaining were able to choose a more convenient seating. Kydd left his and, after a polite bow to Sir David, took the chair opposite Beresford.
‘This is most civil in you, sir,’ he said, as his glass was filled. ‘I’ve quite forgotten the taste of such after so long on this station.’
After murmured appreciations it was established that the distinguished captain in the Royal Navy by the same name was indeed Beresford’s brother John, who had been active and enterprising in the war against the French in the Caribbean, and had, as who might say, been fortunate indeed in the matter of prizes and notice.
Kydd confided that his own family was quite undistinguished, living as they did in the country near Guildford, and changed the subject – not so much out of concern that his humble origins would be discovered but more in the knowledge that this was the eldest son of the Marquess of Waterford, but one who had not succeeded to the title for he was acknowledged illegitimate.
Beresford was surprised by and professed delight to learn of Kydd’s role in the Abercromby action in Egypt and, unbending at last, detailed his own legendary dash across the desert to take the French in the rear, illustrating the route with cruet marshes and a decanter range of mountains, not forgetting a perilous defile between two forks that left no doubt as to the hazards bravely faced.
After another mutual toast, Kydd set down his glass with a sigh. ‘I do confess it, I’m taken with the entertainments commanded by your most celebrated 71st Regiment. I do wish it were in my power to conjure a like in return, but my ship – trim and graceful as she is – cannot possibly stand with a castle in the article of convenience in entertaining.’
He allowed his head to drop. Then he looked up again brightly. ‘I have an idea! Yes – it’s possible! My duty as captain must surely be to make certain those rascals of a crew do not wither in idleness while long at anchor. I’ve a mind to put to sea and exercise ’em. Sir, how would you welcome a day’s cruise in a saucy frigate whose sailors are set to every task in sea life before you? Racing up the rigging, bringing in sail high aloft, a few rounds with the great guns, boatwork …
‘Sir, I can promise entertainments and edification a landlubber may never be witness to in a lifetime.’
‘Oh. Er, I would not want to put those splendid fellows to overmuch trouble, Captain.’
‘Nonsense. You shall be my guest and see how the Navy conducts its manoeuvres, and be damned to their feelings. Shall you wish to see a flogging with the cat o’ nine tails at all?’ Kydd asked innocently.
‘No, no, that will not be necessary. The spectacle of a grand ship working its sails and, er, things will be diversion enough. That’s most kind in you, sir, and I mean to take you up on the offer.’
‘Splendid!’ Kydd exclaimed. ‘And I’m sure your staff might be accommodated if they can bear to be escorted by midshipmen. Shall we say on Thursday, then? My first lieutenant will call upon you at two bells of the forenoon, as we do call nine o’ clock.’
‘All in hand, sir,’ Gilbey said, touching his hat to Kydd on the quarterdeck. ‘Stand fast that th’ officers’ cook is in a fret that he can’t find artichokes an’ he’s heard the general is partial to ’em.’
‘Never mind, I’m sure he’ll manage. Take away my barge and coxswain and be sure to warn the boat’s crew to feather and don’t wet the general.’
There was widespread anticipation at the news that there would be a high-ranking redcoat general aboard to experience for himself how the Navy did things. Even the gunroom found time to priddy their abode with the most tasteful decoration to be found, and after Kydd had indicated that the general would be visiting the mess-decks to see the sailors at home, an astonishing level of industry had produced quaint and intricately wrought ropework ornamentation to adorn the mess-trap racks and table corners.
On deck every conceivable rope’s end that could be spied from the quarterdeck had been inspected, and if not pointed, a seaman was set to the painstaking task of working it thus – fashioning a pleasing taper to the end of the rope and finishing with a lengthy whipping.
Guns were treated with a mixture of lamp black and copperas, then polished well with a linseed-oil woollen cloth, the result being favourably compared to ebony. Kydd knew, however, that this was a fighting general and personally ensured that every fire channel between pan and vent was clear and bright: there had been cases when zealous blacking had resulted in a perfect appearance but a blocked touch-hole had rendered the gun useless in action.
Decks had a snowy lustre where holystone and bear had been plied with salt water, and on all sides, if a touch of colour might bring a fitment to more pleasing prominence, paint was produced and the more artistic seamen set to wielding a brush.
The visit was a perfect excuse to break the monotony of harbour service and to build on the pristine condition of the recently cleansed ship to produce a state of perfection not normally possible. For the rest of the commission, they would have a standard by which to judge themselves.
‘Boat approaching!’ called the mate-of-the-watch, importantly.
‘Side-party!’ growled Curzon. A line of white-gloved midshipmen and lieutenants assembled at the side-steps by the hances, each with a grave expression, Kydd taking position at the inboard end.
The barge curved about and hooked on at the main-chains with a showy display of seamanship. Hidden from view, it was not possible to see what was keeping the general, and the boatswain continued
to lick the mouthpiece of his call nervously. Finally, Kydd peered over the side and saw a red-faced general awkwardly trying to fasten his sword-belt and fending off Poulden’s well-meaning assistance. Ashore, army officers scorned the loose-fitting naval arrangement for a tight, soldierly fit but this was quite impossible to wear in boats as the general was now finding.
Kydd jerked back and rearranged the side-party, placing the boatswain’s mate and a brawny seaman by the ship’s side. ‘See the general doesn’t kiss our deck – compree?’ he hissed.
At last the general’s plumed hat and solemn face appeared as he mounted the side-steps. Twisting his highly polished boots awkwardly over the bulwark and catching sight of the ceremonial line, he made to raise his hat – and the inevitable happened. His sword caught behind him and he toppled forward. In a flash the two seamen had him firmly by the arms, while his cocked hat was caught by a quick-thinking midshipman who clapped it back on his head before scurrying to his place in the line.
While General Beresford recovered his composure, the boatswain’s call pealed out and he advanced down the line of blank-faced sidesmen to be greeted by L’Aurore’s captain, who of course had not seen anything of the general’s discomfiture.
‘You’re most welcome aboard, sir. Might I present my officers …’
In the captain’s cabin a restorative taste of naval-issue rum had Beresford in good humour and ready for his day.
‘Shall we venture on to the upper deck? There you’ll see our sturdy tars at as hard work as ever you’ll see them,’ Kydd invited.
The capstan, situated in L’Aurore between the mainmast and the wheel, was already pinned and swifted; grinning at being under such an august eye, the seamen and marines spat on their hands and clutched the bar upwards to their chests in readiness.
‘Carry on, Mr Curzon!’ Kydd ordered. A fife and drum struck up a jaunty tune and the men stretched out with a will. Beresford was shown the cable ranged along the main-deck below coming in dripping, hauled from forward by the messenger line before it fed down into the cable tiers amidships. It tautened and the pace slowed; men strained and heaved until the boatswain, with his foot on the cable coming in the hawse, roared, ‘Anchor’s aweigh!’
‘Ah. Then I have to inform you, sir, that the anchor is won clear and this ship is now legally at sea.’
‘Lay out and loose!’ The waiting topmen raced out on the yards and sail magically blossomed. Braces were manned and, with a graceful sway of acknowledgement to Neptune, the frigate took up on the larboard tack, the familiar swash and creak of a ship under way growing in volume as Beresford found his sea legs on the slightly canting deck.
Kydd was soon explaining to his intelligent and attentive guest the relative forces between the sails and their resulting course through the sea, the strains to be expected aloft and the options for trimming.
‘Course nor’-west, Mr Curzon.’
Beresford then took in the work on deck necessary to bring the canvas aloft to a proper accommodation to this new direction and the helmsman’s interplay between binnacle compass and set of the sails that ensured the course was maintained. He and Kydd paced the deck together, speaking of the functions of lines and spars, blocks and tackles, until Kydd ordered the ship close-hauled, by the wind as close as she could lie.
The different motion was immediately apparent, much as a horse changes gait when moving from a canter to a gallop, with seas taken on the bow resulting in a spirited pitching and spray carrying aft in exhilarating bursts. Kydd’s intention, though, was to show the limitation of a square-rigger, that she could come up no closer than six points to the wind’s eye.
They made fine speed, and when the land was sunk, all but the far distant blue-grey flat rectangle of Table Mountain, the frigate shortened sail and took up a more sedate pace for the next show: the great guns at drill.
To Kydd, a fine sailing ship was a thing of majesty but what decided battles were the guns, and every man aboard L’Aurore knew his views. The starboard and windward side twelve-pounder main armament was manned and cleared away, fob-watches significantly flourished, and gun-captains with dark expressions mustered their crews.
Beresford took a keen interest in the guns: while they were the lightest frigate main armament in the Navy they were twice the calibre of the largest field gun his army possessed. And quite different: a more compact carriage than horse-drawn artillery, they were on trucks, small wooden wheels, and were tethered to the ship’s side by thick breeching ropes with tackles each side to run them out.
When all gun-crews were closed up, Kydd went to a gun-captain and told him to show the general his equipment – slung powder horn and a pouch with spare flints, cartridge pricker, quill tubes and the rest. Each gun number was told to prove his gear: worm, rammer, sponge and crow, a powder monkey proudly holding out his salt-box for carrying the charge.
‘Slow time, Mr Gilbey.’
His first lieutenant clapped on his hat. ‘Fire! Gun has fired!’ he roared.
The exercise had begun. Tackle falls were eased and the guns rumbled back down the canted deck. The gun-crew got to work – sponge and rammer, invisible wad and shot, the gun-captain showily bruising his priming and slamming the gun-lock down before the gun was run out once more.
Then it was quick time: the fearful muscle-bulging round of heaving the gun in and out in a synchronised choreography, four men furiously serving their iron beast each side, nimbly sharing the limited seven feet of space between each gun with an adjacent crew. After ten minutes of frantic activity, Kydd called a halt.
‘We’ll have three rounds apiece from numbers three and five guns, Mr Gilbey, and to make it interesting we’ll stream a mark.’
The float was found, and on its mast a red flag was fixed, its nine feet square looking enormous on the frigate’s deck.
‘A trifle large, wouldn’t you think?’ Beresford murmured.
Kydd gave a tight smile but said nothing as it was heaved over the side, sliding rapidly astern. While L’Aurore went about to clear the range, the guns were loaded, grey cartridge and iron-black shot, quill tube inserted and gun-lock cocked.
At three hundred yards the jaunty bobbing of the flag was in clear view on the grey-green sea but Kydd took Beresford to the first gun. ‘Do see if you feel the gun is rightly pointed, if you will, sir.’
Gingerly, the general bent to look. ‘There’s no sights!’ he said, astonished. Only a bare barrel looked out into the broad expanse of sea. ‘How do you lay the weapon?’
Kydd pointed out the quoin under the breech for elevation and the handspike to lever the gun bodily from side to side. ‘The gun-captain must lay the gun to his own satisfaction.’ Obligingly, the man did so, with hand signals to his crew.
‘There, sir.’
Once more Beresford bent down, squinted along the barrel to the muzzle, then rose ruefully. ‘As I fail to even see your target, Captain.’
It was a common mistake for first-time gunners. The trick was to locate the target first and draw the muzzle to it, rather than the other way round. After explanations, Beresford picked up on the flag, now a tiny thing set against the sighting along the gun barrel, which unreasonably reared and fell each side randomly with the pitch and heave of the seas.
‘Do say, sir, when you, as gun-captain, will fire your piece.’
Beresford wouldn’t be drawn. ‘It’s quite impossible. The damn thing won’t stay still.’ Kydd hid a smile: unlike the rock-still conditions on land, the sea was a moving, live thing that altered everything, from the footing of the gunners to the eventual flight of the ball.
‘Stand by, gun-crews! Over here, sir, if you please.’
They stood back at a respectful distance, but before Gilbey could give the orders Beresford called out imperiously, ‘And it’s five guineas to one, Mr Kydd, that not a one shall strike within fifty yards!’ The gun-crews turned to look back incredulously.
Kydd, keeping a straight face, nodded in agreement. ‘Carry on, Mr Gilbey.
’
‘Number three gun! Fire when you bear.’
The gun-captain crouched, staring along the barrel, giving large then smaller signals, the gun-lanyard in his hand until he went rigid for a few seconds. Then, in one fluid motion, he jerked on the lanyard, swivelled to one side and arched his body, as the gun, with a brutal slam of sound and momentarily hidden in smoke, hurtled back in recoil.
The smoke cleared quickly in the brisk breeze and, after a second or two, a white plume arose gracefully – not twenty yards to one side and fair for elevation.
‘If that were another frigate, he’d be looking to a hit a-twixt wind and water,’ Kydd commented smugly.
‘Number five!’
Eager to do better, the gun-captain took his time and was rewarded with a strike in line but beyond. Beresford had the grace to look rueful. ‘Your guinea is safe, sir. These gunners are in the character of magicians, I believe.’
Kydd relented and explained how it was done. A field gun in the Army was fired with port-fire and linstock, bringing a glowing match to the touch-hole, a practice that was long gone in the Navy. Aboard ship, a gun was fired with a gun-lock, a larger version of that to be found on a musket, and the lag between yanking the lanyard and the gun going off was a manageable small fraction of a second.
And Kydd, like others who were gunnery-wise, made a practice of rating only top seamen gun-captain, those who had long experience on the helm, who could ‘read’ a sea, anticipate their ship’s behaviour in any conditions. This made all the difference when it came to judging the exact moment to fire during the roll of the ship when the muzzle of the gun swept down over the target.
He would leave it to another time to make the point that most gunnery was conducted at the range of a cricket pitch when, in the blood and chaos, only the fastest and steadiest gun-crews would be left standing.
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