Kydd’s mother was surprised at her son’s general rally, and therefore looked at his visitor with some interest. Cecilia’s hand flew to her mouth when she recognized him. Renzi’s impeccable manners and kind attentions quickly charmed the house and he was warmly welcomed.
On occasion Renzi caught some thoughtful looks from Kydd’s father but on the whole it was accounted that Kydd’s guest was a fine friend to the family. Cecilia was beside herself with curiosity, but was always courteously deflected, to her considerable chagrin.
Renzi, however, sensed Kydd’s desperation; the strong likelihood was that when they parted, the next cruise could span years, and by then—he forced down the thought and bent to the task of making the days as agreeable as he could for his friend.
“Do you wait for me a moment, dear fellow,” Renzi said, outside the bookshop at the top of the high street. Sated with depressing news from the Anti-Jacobin Review he longed for a new volume from the young iconoclast Wordsworth.
Kydd entered too, and watched as Renzi took down volume after volume in their fine-tooled leather bindings. An odd clunking sound intruded from behind, but it was only a shopman approaching; he had a wooden leg. Kydd did not know him—he must be a new assistant.
“C’n I help ye?” the man said. His voice was strong—in fact, it was hard and had a strength Kydd recognized instantly.
“Do I fin’ myself addressing a gentleman o’ the sea?”
The man stopped, and stared suspiciously. “Are ye lookin’ for somethin’ special?” he said.
“I’m sorry, I thought—”
“Then y’ thought right. So?”
A corpulent, worried-looking man bustled up and said loudly, “Is there any problem? Are the gennelmen being attended to, Mr., er, What’s-y’r-name?”
They left without the book. Outside, the summer afternoon bustle of the high street eddied around Renzi as he and Kydd walked back the few steps to the wig shop. Its crabbed windows and general seediness clutched at Renzi’s heart. Kydd clapped him on the shoulder and disappeared inside, leaving Renzi alone.
Renzi could feel a gray depression settling. He could not interfere, it was Kydd’s decision, a good and noble decision for the sake of his family, but it did not alter the fact that the price was ruinous—it was costing Kydd his spirit and therefore his soul; in twenty years he would be an old man. Renzi sighed heavily. A careless grocer carrying a basket of greens on his head cannoned into him, interrupting his train of thought. He shot the man a glance of such venom that he recoiled in fright and dropped his load.
Reason was not enough in this situation: soon Kydd and he would part. He himself would be back at sea in his self-imposed exile, but without his friend, a true and understanding companion in a perilous and exciting following.
He passed by the open door of the Red Lion at the top of the high street. The dark interior was warm, odoriferous and in a convivial hubbub. On impulse he entered and found an empty high-backed cubicle. Perhaps he could loosen his mind with ale and think of something he could do for Kydd before he left. The pot-boy arrived, looking curiously at his featureless black long clothes—it was seldom that the quality patronized this pothouse.
Renzi ordered a Friary ale, the local dark bitter brewed here since the Middle Ages. He sipped slowly, staring into space as once more he went over the available alternatives. They were pitifully few. His own means were slender; returning to his family to claim his own was out of the question, and his recent acquaintances did not in any wise include men of substance. But this was not a matter of a few guineas’ loan, this was an entire family’s future. Reluctantly, he conceded that Kydd’s act was the only one that had any practical consequence for his family, and it was probably kinder to take his leave quietly—and forever, knowing that their lives had now irrevocably diverged.
Renzi became aware that someone was standing next to him. He looked up. At first he could not place the man, then remembered the assistant with the wooden leg in the bookshop. The man’s hard face rearranged itself into an ingratiating smile. His worn but serviceable tricorne hat was in his hands. “I begs yer pardon, sir,” he said. Kydd had been right, Renzi thought, this was a seaman; by his bearing probably a petty officer—a quarter-gunner, quartermaster’s mate or any one of the band of men rightly termed the backbone of the Navy. “Perrott, Jabez Perrott, if’n yer pleases. If I c’n have a few words, like.”
Renzi felt a surge of irritation. He had no coins to spare—Kydd would get all he had when he left. He did not invite the man to sit, and stared back.
Perrott stood resolute and pressed on. “Yer in the Sea Service.”
It was a bald statement, and surprised Renzi. He knew he did not have the born-to-it strength and character of a seaman that Kydd so obviously had, but for some reason he motioned Perrott to sit opposite. “What can I do for you?”
The man’s hat appeared on the table, the strong hands twisting it, an unaccountably poignant sight for Renzi. What encounter far out at sea had ended for him with his leg under the surgeon’s blade, screaming pain and a severed limb tossed bloodily into the tub?
“If yer could see yer way clear, sir …” Perrott was clearly unused to pleading.
Renzi waited.
“Like, if yez has need of a sea-cook, sir, aboard yer barky, well, I’m a-sayin’ as how I’m yer man …”
Perrott evidently thought he was an officer, a captain. Irony twisted at Renzi’s lips.
“Or mebbe cook’s mate, even,” Perrott added, seeing the expression, “an’ get an actin’ warrant, like.”
It was certainly the practice to employ maimed seamen as cooks, but this required an Admiralty warrant of appointment. No captain, certainly no officer, could simply take on a man without this necessary document. “You mistake me, I am no naval officer,” Renzi said, his pained amusement not shared by Perrott.
“Since swallerin’ the anchor, sir, it’s been hard—cruel hard. Had t’ bear up fer Poverty Bay, like.”
Renzi could only guess the difficulties to be faced by a proud, self-sufficient seaman cast ashore in a cold and indifferent world. The man was either too proud or without the interest to secure a place at Greenwich Hospital, the home for crippled seamen without family.
“I say again, I am not a naval officer, and even if I were, without an Admiralty warrant you may never ship aboard as sea-cook,” Renzi told him.
Perrott allowed a glimmer of a smile to surface at Renzi’s unwitting use of Navy terms. “Aye, sir, if you sez, youse ain’t a naval officer.” He allowed a moment’s pause and continued, “But if yer could have a word with the pusser, an’ tell ’im that I’d divvy on th’ slush …”
Perrott was clutching at straws if he imagined that a promise to the purser to share in his perquisites as cook would get him a berth. “What are you doing in Guildford?” Renzi asked. The quiet rural town was far from the sea, in deep farming country.
“Mem’ries,” said Perrott immediately, his face blank.
Renzi felt a pang of sympathy—Perrott obviously meant memories of the sea and ships, where he had been a prime seaman, a whole man with pride and confidence, not a hobbling cripple with a bleak future, dependent on charity. There would be no reminders in Guildford. Despising himself, Renzi got to his feet to bring the conversation to an end.
Perrott rose also, his wooden limb clattering against the bench. “C’n I call on yer for y’r decision?” His eyes were opaque, the body tense.
“I cannot give you any hope in the matter, Mr. Perrott,” Renzi snapped, angry at himself for allowing sentiment to cloud his reason. He left Perrott at the door of the alehouse staring after him and his anger turned to self-contempt—the very least he should have done was leave him with a pot of beer.
By degrees his depression turned black. The beauty of the summer evening was in sharp contrast to his mood and he felt a need to allow its languorous warmth to enter him without the distraction of others. The high street ran steeply down to the river Wey; alo
ng its pleasant banks was a path overhung with willows. He walked slowly there, thinking of nothing, letting his soul empty of its gross humors. Insects circled in clouds in the stillness, individually gilded by the setting sun; a flock of ducks paddled lazily along.
He had his solitude; by the first bend of the river he was feeling better, and around the curve, with something approaching equanimity, he was able to smile at the sight of a woman on a footbridge upbraiding two children. The two small boys were quite out of hand, shouting across at each other from either bank. The mother’s voice shrilled in vexation.
Renzi had it in mind to cross the footbridge and return by the other bank, and mounted the bridge. The woman saw him and grew flustered. “Oh! I do declare, these infants are impossible.” Renzi did not reply, but bowed civilly. Encouraged, the woman continued, “I am truly at a stand, sir. These—these monsters are trying my patience sorely.”
The bigger of the two boys looked at him speculatively, then quickly returned to his baiting of the smaller. “Young people today are so dreadfully ill-mannered,” the woman continued, “and since my dear husband requires to spend so much of his time in London, in his absence they are quite unbiddable. I am vexed to know just what to do in the matter of discipline.”
Nodding pleasantly, Renzi let the woman pass, and began his return by the other bank. He would not allow Kydd to discover his mood, and deliberately put aside thoughts of his friend’s fate.
He had not gone more than a few yards when an idea formed, grew and burst into expression. It was merely an idle thought, but it developed swiftly—and with what possibilities! His depression lifted instantly and he found it difficult to sleep that night.
Early in the morning Renzi mysteriously excused himself and vanished into town on undisclosed business. He was back at noon, and lost no time in finding Kydd. “I’d be obliged to you, should you spare me the odd hour, Tom,” he said, with peculiar intensity.
They passed to the left of Holy Trinity Church, up past the glebe cottages to the open fields beyond. Here, at Renzi’s urging, they turned down the dusty lane to the slate-covered buildings at the end. “Take a look, Tom.”
Cautiously picking their way over the rubbish in the small courtyard they entered the main structure. It was sturdily built of stone, but decay had allowed the roof timbers to give way and they lay in ruins inside. Nettles populated the rubble.
Kydd looked doubtfully at Renzi’s wild expression, but held his tongue.
“There! You see in front of you the fruit of an enlightened intellect.”
Mystified, Kydd tried to make sense of Renzi’s ramblings.
Renzi continued, “Two disparate thoughts, leading inescapably to a fine conclusion—to a practical conclusion such as you will bless me for.”
Fearing for his friend’s sanity, Kydd took Renzi’s arm.
“No! You don’t understand,” Renzi said, pulling away. His eyes shone. “Here we have it. A solution—I have the school building, I have the schoolmaster, we want but resolve.”
The chance meeting with the woman and her children had given Renzi an idea. He had returned to the bookshop and approached the one-legged assistant and determined he was essentially free for other employment. Adding the other side of the equation, Renzi explained, “Your revered father need fear no loss of visual precision as a schoolmaster, it is not needed, but the worthy citizens of Guildford need a school for their infants that accentuates discipline in these tumultuous times.”
He smiled happily. “So we establish a school on naval lines—a captain assisted by a strict bo’sun and capable quartermaster. You see, your father will be the principal, your dear self as his assistant and your mother to provide for the infants. And we have a bo’sun with a wooden leg who shall rule all aboard with silver call and cane, showing neither fear nor favor to any.”
Touched by his friend’s thoughtfulness and privately reserving judgment as to his suitability as a schoolmaster, Kydd suppressed a stab of excitement at the stability and hope that the plan promised. Affecting reluctance, he growled, “An’ the money? What kind o’ plan is it without a pot o’ money at the back of it?”
Renzi had plans for this, too. “You will tell me that Guildford is a strange town, a wicked place that does not give a fair price for a desirable shop in the high street, and places wild value on a pile of stones high and dry away from passing trade.” He feigned dejection, and said, “So I am undone, my plan is worthless. Let’s return to the Red Lion and console ourselves in drink.”
Kydd felt a bursting elation, but determined not to show it. Instead he said grumpily, “We had best first tell them where we have been wastin’ our evening, then.”
“You will know that I’ve been in the trade since before I was breeched, Thomas, as was my father before me.” Kydd’s father was obdurate. “A Kydd does not abandon all this for the sake of some wild adventure, my son.”
Renzi interjected gently: “Then what Thomas told me of his uncle in Canada, your brother, is nonsense, then, Mr. Kydd?” It served to bring some sense of proportion to the discussion, and they went to bed on the promise of a serious look at the plan in the morning.
The “boatswain” attended at the inaugural meeting in the front room of the closed shop the next day. Despite his wooden leg, it was the glint in his eye and his iron-bound manner that inspired the group as nothing else did, and the day was carried.
Within the week, Kydd and Renzi were standing in the grounds of the Kydd schoolhouse.
“‘Cry havoc! And let slip the dogs of war!’” exclaimed Renzi, and fell upon the ruin, tugging masonry and wizened balks of timber clear. It was hard work, and sweat streamed from them under the summer sun. Cecilia kept up a running supply of lemon shrub, Kydd’s father remaining in the shop to complete outstanding orders.
First, the interior was cleared, and the walls set to rights. The next stage brought out the boatswain with his tackle. He took charge immediately, and with hard, seamanlike orders, perfectly understandable to a brace of foretopmen, had them “swaying up the yards” and “tailing onto the topping lift” until the roof beams were all safely in place.
The boatswain pressed some hands for the roof tiling, and before Kydd’s amazed eyes, a trim little classroom appeared. A schoolmaster’s study and other necessaries were next, and soon a central plinth in the tiny quadrangle was seen stepping a mast—complete with topmast and all the standing rigging proper to such an edifice.
The day came when the mayor was prevailed upon to open the schoolhouse. Three soldiers and a fife arrived from the Royal Surreys, and to the grave glee of the children of the town, they marched about then stood to attention in strict line in front of the mast.
Fine and earnest words were said, and then in this country town, far from the sea, the good folk were treated to the exotic spectacle of the boatswain in his best seagoing gear, solemnly piping a salute to the Union flag of Old England, as it was hauled slowly and impressively up the “mizzen halliards.”
There was something suspiciously like a tear in Mrs. Kydd’s eye as the guests—and prospective parents—inspected the neat buildings. And there was more than a little of the man-o’-war about the scrupulously clean rooms, the squared-off desks and Spartan appointments. The boatswain stumped about, fierce and strict, his silver call around his neck, and Mr. Kydd in the unaccustomed black breeches of a schoolmaster did his best to look severe. Cecilia went up to Renzi and enveloped him in a hug, which went on and on, until she released him, eyes sparkling.
Kydd frowned. It was not so much having to spend such a fine day inside, here alone in the new classroom, it was the impenetrable obtuseness of the book he was trying to get his head round. It was a standard grammar, Lowth, and it would be the one he would have to teach, but he had only the sketchiest dame school education to meet it with.
Without thinking he had sat not at the high, severe teacher’s desk at the front of the room, but at a child’s desk facing it. His head was a-swim with words. An a
dverb? What the devil was that again? Wasn’t it something that ended with ing? But surely that was an adjective? He sighed in despair. And what if one of the pupils asked him the question he dreaded more than any other: “If you please, sir, what use is an adverb?”
He ground his teeth with frustration. “The adverb (Lat. adverbium) as the attribute of an attribute doth occur in divers forms, cf. adverbiation, the phraseological adverb …” What possible value could that be to anyone in real life? To a sailor, for instance, out there on a topsail yardarm in a blow, fisting the madly flogging canvas to a reef while the ship rolled wildly. He leaned back in vivid recollection. And what would Stirk say if at quarters, the gun loaded and run out, he reminded him, “It is of the first importance to apprehend the singular difference between the two distinct families of nouns—the nomen substantium the first, the nomen adjectivum the second. On no account should these be confused …” He smiled at the thought.
“Then you do not find your lot uncongenial?” He had not noticed Renzi entering the little classroom.
“Be damned—how this mumping rogue c’n cackle his grease like this, I’m beggared t’ know.”
Renzi’s eyes softened. “A utile article will always prove perdurant to the mind,” he said enigmatically. Kydd threw him a frosty glance and bent again to his book.
“I proceed to town this afternoon. There are some articles I must have when—when I return aboard. Do you wish anything for the school?” Kydd looked up. Renzi was saddened at the bleakness in his expression. Kydd’s family future was now secure, but the family’s only son most surely was not intended to be a crabby pedagogue.
“Thank ye, no,” Kydd replied, and quickly bent to his work.
Renzi left noiselessly. There were now only days left on his ticket-of-leave, at which point he must go and, in accordance with his resolve, for good.
The bookshop still had not the new Wordsworth in stock, and he turned to leave.
“Why, Mr. Renzi, what a pleasure.” Renzi faced a well-proportioned woman in the latest high-waisted fashion and fussily ornate reticule, her face just a little too ruddy for the elegance of her attire. It crossed his mind that this was one of the mothers who entrusted her child to the Kydd school—her name eluded him—and he politely inclined his head.
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