“Well, glory be,” Petit breathed. “It’s fer us, mates.”
On the quarterdeck Captain Powlett emerged from the hatchway and paced slowly with a fixed expression. He wore full dress uniform with sword and decorations, a resplendent figure compared to his usual Spartan sea rig.
The far-off bark of a gun broke through the hullabaloo, the smoke eddying away from the bow of a naval cutter trying to break through the scrimmage. It fussed its way alongside.
The group of seamen forward watched as an officer clambered aboard and a polite exchange followed on the quarterdeck. Then things moved swiftly. The tow was cast off, and lighters and hulks gathered about to take the prize in hand, leaving the battle-pitted Artemis to proceed on alone under easy sail. Their salute to the Admiral at Spithead banged out regularly, but they passed the great fleet at anchor without stopping—they would enter the harbor itself.
Artemis shortened to topsails for the last mile into the narrow entrance, the line of passage taking her parallel with the shore a bare couple of hundred yards to starboard, past the furiously cheering crowds that swarmed over every imaginable viewpoint. Grateful that his station in the foretop allowed him to witness these marvelous events, Kydd looked out on a scene that he knew would stay with him all his life.
A gun went off below him. It startled him: they had no reason to salute. Then a seaman pointed out the colorful standard hoisted on the dockyard signal tower. “’Is Nibs,” he said laconically.
The salute banged on—the full twenty-one for the King of England. They were now passing through the close entrance. They glided past the rickety old buildings of Portsmouth Point close in to starboard, every window full of cheering figures. On the opposite side of the entrance was the darkened brick solidity of Fort Blockhouse, and beyond it Haslar Naval Hospital. As many wounded and sick sailors that were able to had hobbled down to the water’s edge, and a military band thumped out “Hearts of Oak.”
On they sailed, past the low white medieval turrets of the gun wharf, then where the harbor inside widened again, to Portsmouth Hard with its taverns and hostelries alive with crowds. Two men-o’-war moored midstream had manned ship. Hundreds of men lined along bare masts and yards gave full-throated cheers to the now famous frigate.
Abruptly they were upon the long dockyard buildings. There was a flurry of activity as Artemis swung about into the wind and slowed. Her sails were brailed up and lines were relayed ashore by waiting boats and they were warped in alongside the dock.
Aware of the official welcoming party on the quay, Kydd felt uneasy and self-conscious, on the one hand wishing that the assembly of pomp and finery could be somewhere else, and on the other seized with a thrill of expectation.
With her sails in a harbor stow and the running rigging secured and flemished down, a special gangway was positioned from the quarterdeck to the dock. It had white canvas-covered rope handlines, and on each supporting post there was a small royal crest.
“Into line, Kydd!” The harsh whisper from the Master-at-Arms caught him by surprise. “Sideboy!” the man snapped, seeing that Kydd did not react immediately. He was pushed into a double line of men at the head of the gangway after the boatswain’s mates. At the inner end of the line the Captain and officers waited, their tension evident. On the wharf a similar line of redcoats formed facing each other with muskets rigidly at the present.
“Stand by!” snapped Rowley, the officer-of-the-watch. The boatswain’s mates whipped up their silver calls to the ready. There was silence throughout the ship. The noises of celebration outside the dockyard gates sounded even rowdier.
“Pipe!” Rowley rapped. The calls blasted out together and Kydd’s eyes slid to the small group who slowly mounted the gangway. In the lead was King George and behind him, the Queen.
When the monarch reached the deck the piping ceased. No one moved a muscle. Genially, King George looked about him, not more than a few feet from Kydd. He paced forward a step or two, glancing around with interest, then turned to his aide-de-camp. “Soon took the gloss off the sides of the Frenchy, showed him the way into Portsmouth Harbor, hey—hey?” His large rubicund face lit up.
“Indeed so, sire.”
The kindly eyes turned to Kydd.
A voice from behind murmured, “Thomas Kydd, foretopman, sir.”
The King nodded. “Where are ye from?”
Kydd’s heart stopped. “Guildford town—er, Y’r Majesty,” he said, touching his forehead automatically in a naval salute. Too late he realized that kings would probably expect something more in the way of a bow.
The broad white eyebrows rose. “Fine place f’r turnips, very fine! An’ sheep too—prime sheep, y’r Surrey cross.” He looked at Kydd somewhat bemused, as if finding it hard to reconcile farming talk with the strong young sailor before him.
Before Kydd’s frozen brain could think of a reply, his sovereign had moved on to address others, but Kydd was content simply to stare ahead, suffused with happiness. Nobody at all in his acquaintance, high and low, had ever claimed an introduction to the King himself!
There was a murmuring of the most elegant politeness as Powlett’s officers were introduced and the party moved down the main hatchway to view the scars of battle.
Kydd heaved a sigh of relief, but by this time others had mounted the gangway, and the quarterdeck was getting crowded. With a rustle of material a vision in light rose and cream paused in front of him. The girl pouted and fingered the sturdy black anchor buttons on his jacket. “You lif on the schip all zer time?” she uttered, in thick German-accented English. Kydd could only nod while he thought frantically how he should address a foreign princess. His brain could only come up with half-remembered stories of princesses in fairy tales.
She was a good head shorter than him, and her clear pale eyes looked up at him through extraordinary long eyelashes. Her hairstyle was markedly plainer than the other women’s, and was not caked in powder. “Pliss to show me your brafe schip,” she begged, and smiled winningly.
She would only be about seventeen, what remained of his objective mind observed. Reddening to the roots of his hair, Kydd mumbled something and pushed through the gawping crowd forward. To larboard of the mainmast was a stubborn darkening of the deck planking. “Where our first lieutenant, er, fell.”
Her hand flew to her mouth as she took in the implications of the stain, then she turned back to him.
“He lives yet,” Kydd stuttered, “he is below at this, um, time.” He tried a bow, but his body was not the willowy type, and it turned out an awkward jerk. Her long gloved hand touched his arm as she pealed with laughter. After a moment Kydd joined in.
“Ah, Sophia, there you are.” A tall hussar in dark green uniform, gold frogging and ornate hat slipped neatly between the two of them, his back to Kydd. “Allow me to escort you around the boat,” he said, offering his arm.
She pulled free, and defiantly dropped Kydd a magnificent curtsy. She held it, her eyes locked on his. The moment passed, then she laughed delightedly, and took the soldier’s arm. She moved away, throwing a single glance back at Kydd, who stared after them, afraid to break the spell.
“All the haaaands! All hands on deck—lay aft!”
Kydd, at the fore-royals, had caught a glimpse of his princess as the party went ashore. She was looking up, as if searching among the hundreds of cheering men.
The ship’s company had only just come down from manning the yards for a three times three for His Majesty. The King had paused on his way back through the lines of redcoats and turned, clearly affected. He bowed this way and that while the huzzahs echoed from the buildings, the sailors redoubling their efforts at his unfeigned pleasure.
They assembled now on the main deck below the boat-space, and on the gangways each side, some hanging in the rigging to get a better view. Powlett stood forward of the wheel, his face working under evident emotion.
Kydd waited impatiently for Renzi. It was with the utmost pleasure that he told him of his meet
ing with a princess. His friend stared in frank amazement, and then rubbed his chin. “That would probably have been Princess Sophia of Mecklenburg, I believe.” His face held every indication of envy, causing great satisfaction to Kydd. Then Renzi chuckled. “You should keep an eye to windward, my dear fellow, for after the unfortunate passing of the Duke of Buccleuch’s eldest, she is now an unattached maiden.” Kydd’s smile broadened.
Boatswain’s calls piped the still, and the men quickly fell into silence.
“His Majesty is—pleased,” Powlett said, seeming to have difficulty with the words. “And he has—will be doing me the deepest honor, in conferring on me a knighthood.” He paused and looked down at his spotless court shoes. The ship erupted into cheers upon cheers.
He looked up, the hard face mobile. “He has also been so kind as to present me with a purse. In it is a golden guinea for every man. His Majesty commands that with this his honest tars shall drink his health in a bumper.” The cheers were genuine and long.
Powlett’s voice strengthened. “In the matter of prize money …” he grinned, knowing the interest his words were creating “… I have to tell you that I have been led to understand that, subject to survey, the Frenchman will be bought into the Service!” A wave of muttering passed among the assembly. Prize money was a subject for intense satisfaction, not cheers. “And as a result, and in view of our previous successes, it is my intention to make a preliminary award now, while your liberty tickets are being prepared.”
There was no stopping it. “Three cheers an’ a tiger fer Cap’n Powlett!” came a roar from the throng. The hoarse cheering went on and on, emotion from the battle finally released in a flood of affection for the tough Captain. “Carry on!” Powlett said, and abruptly turned on his heel and went below.
* * *
The golden orbs above the old dockyard gate seemed to draw the people like a magnet, all of them eager to catch a sight of their famed hearts of oak. Beside the marine sentry were soldiers, shoving back at the crowd. Kydd was astonished at the press of people, the riot of heaving, jostling humanity. “What ship—what ship?” The cries were insistent.
An elderly seaman from another vessel answered nervously, indistinct in the clamor. With shouts of derision he was shouldered aside. In their turn Kydd and Renzi were challenged. “Artemis!” they replied, and were instantly swept off by the adoring crowd, faces on all sides babbling and shouting, alive with joy and drink. It seemed that their escort meant them to go no farther than the Admiral Benbow close by the Hard.
There was a deafening uproar inside the taproom; red faces and blue smoke, sweating men and flashing-eyed femininity along with the sickly sweet smell of beer and wet sawdust. “Artemis!” The shout was relayed around the room, and without delay a barmaid arrived to press tankards of foaming dark beer on the pair.
“To the sons o’ Neptune ’oo are Old England’s right true glory!” A generous roar followed, and tankards tilted. Kydd flushed with pleasure and raised his own.
Renzi noticed a calculating gleam in several female faces. Like birds of prey they detached from their perches and sidled across. The two sailors found themselves with a brace apiece, one on each arm. Renzi skillfully disengaged, but Kydd did not seem to be in any hurry to part.
“Gave ’em a right quiltin’, did yer not, darlin’?” one said, her face flushed and hair peeping out from under her mob cap. She looked up at Kydd’s face and said huskily, “Wager you didn’t hang back, me lovely, when the call ter duty went out.”
The other fingered his jacket. Defying the venomous looks of the first, she said, “Why doesn’t you an’ me take a short cruise? I c’n show yez a time as’ll keep yer warm for a year.” The first raised her leg gently and caressed Kydd’s thigh. He colored and pretended to enjoy his beer while she teased him toward her.
The tug-of-war continued until a thin-faced man in drab shore clothes appeared, and plucked at Kydd’s sleeves. “Ben Watkins—mizzen topsailman o’ the Duchess as was,” he said, against the din. “Heard tell it was a near-run thing, mates.”
The pulling and tugging subsided a little. “Yes,” said Kydd shortly, but with a smile.
“Know somethin’ about it, me bein’ aboard when we took the—the Majesté that time,” Watkins said. Kydd looked at him. The man’s voice lowered. “See, mates, has ter bear up for Poverty Bay like, see, and I needs an outfit afore I ships out agen, and …”
Kydd felt inside his waistcoat and came out with a crown piece. Renzi grabbed his hand, but Kydd pressed it on the man. He looked at Renzi. “I know,” he said, “but I’m feelin’ flush.”
Renzi realized that Kydd knew the man to be a fraud—there was no such thing as a “mizzen topsailman” and he had never heard of a Duchess or of a Majesté. It was Kydd’s simple generosity, and Renzi felt mean. “Let’s cruise, shipmate,” he said, and disengaged Kydd from the harpies’ embraces. They shouldered through the noisy crush, seeing Petit being borne in, laughing and shouting.
Outside they paused in the bright sunlight. The water was alive with small craft, and a light frigate was making her way slowly past in the summer breeze, outward bound. The street was a kaleidoscope of color.
As a pressed man in the old battleship Duke William, Kydd had never before had the opportunity to enjoy shoreside pleasures and he looked keenly about him—the hucksters, gentlemen and their ladies, sailors ashore and the vivid splash of red of an officer of a foot regiment. A cart trundled past, piled high with barrels. The sweat of the two horses was sharp in his nostrils; there was something about the purity of the sea air on a long voyage that made the scents of the shore so much more pungent.
Without a word they turned to the left, away from the dockyard, and made their way down the street. Sailors were shouting to each other and rolling down the way in fine style. Impecunious lieutenants heading for the dockyard from their cheap lodgings in Southsea crossed to the other side to avoid confrontation, but most passersby grinned conspiratorially at their antics.
At the first corner Kydd and Renzi headed down the maze of smaller lanes to wander among the shops and hostelries. The aroma of mutton and onions hit them. “My dear fellow—” began Renzi, but Kydd, with a quick grin, was already on his way into the chop house. They slid into place in a high-backed alcove and loudly demanded service.
“A brace of y’r shilling mutton pies an’ not so damn near with y’r trimmings,” Kydd began.
“With pork chops on the side, if you please,” agreed Renzi.
“An’ onions all over, with a jug o’ y’r best stingo.”
“To be sure—and if your vittles isn’t of the first quality then we shall tack about and make another board.”
An hour later, replete, they eased out into the street again. The day was cheerful in every particular, the noises in the thoroughfare busy and jolly, and the two friends wandered along, mellow and happy.
A tattoo parlor attracted Kydd, who suggested that a bright blue anchor on the back of each hand might be the very thing. “Leave it till later,” Renzi advised quickly, and pulled him across to an agreeably decorated bow window where sailors’ knickknacks were on display.
The corpulent shopman sized them up. “Artemis, if my eyes do not deceive,” he burbled, fussing at his stock. “Just the wery thing for a gentleman mariner,” he declared, sweeping forward a deep blue seaman’s jacket. It was ornately finished in white piping and boasted a splendid superfluity of white buttons. “Yes? Then you will without doubt need a waistcoat of the true sort—and ’ere I ’ave the harticle in question. I see you have already noticed the genuine pearl buttons and extra-fine stitching.”
A short time later the pair emerged from the shop in fine attire, complete with the latest style of round hat with a dashing curled brim. Wiggling his toes in his smart long-quartered shoes, Kydd laughed with the sheer delight of being rigged out like a true-born son of the sea.
Their steps took them past the anachronistic yet charming white stone walls and turrets
of the gun wharf. They turned right toward Broad Street, Kydd’s rolling walk just a little exaggerated. In Old Portsmouth a sailor was a natural denizen among the crazy, rickety buildings of the narrow spit of Portsmouth Point.
At the lowering ramparts of King Henry’s fortifications they turned right, past the Sally Port, where boat crews came and went from the great fleet at anchor at Spithead. The massive dark stone arch they passed was the last part of England that would be seen by the wretches condemned to transportation to Botany Bay. Kydd shuddered. The last time he had seen these old stones was from seaward, as a new-pressed landman on the foredeck of a line-of-battle ship.
In the narrowing confines it seemed as if the whole sea world had converged on the place. There were seamen in every rig imaginable and from every maritime nation, all brought together by the need to know something other than their harsh sea life.
“Avast there, yer scrovy swabs!” Stirk’s familiar bellow broke in on Kydd’s musings. He came striding across, his face creasing in delight. Behind him was Doggo, who pointedly lifted a bottle. Stirk stopped, and looked askance at Kydd. “Well, bugger me days—flash as a rat with a gold tooth!” he said, still grinning. He nodded politely to Renzi, who had chosen more plainly.
“We gotta blow out our gaff, then—shall we lay course to board the Lamb ’n’ Flag, me hearties?” The four passed along the street companionably, with the old houses and taverns pressing in on both sides to the end of the spit. There, a shingle beach offered a view into the harbor with Artemis alongside at the dockyard.
Kydd caught the powerful odor of seaweed, wet ropes and tar. But he hadn’t long to reflect as they swung through the dark oak doors of the tavern. “Hey, now! Toby Stirk! Warp yerself alongside, mate.” The roar came from a knot of men at a table to the left. A vast, red-faced seaman laughed and beckoned them over.
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