Caribbee

Chapter 3

‘Only for a small visit, as it were, sir,’ Curzon, L’Aurore’s high-born second lieutenant, asked, in an uncharacteristically humble tone, ‘as will satisfy them on the particulars of our good ship.’

Kydd saw no reason why not. Curzon had relatives in Barbados and, no doubt, had said warm things about L’Aurore that had aroused their curiosity. And his was a post of some significance in the ship; he was quite entitled to bring visitors on board.

Then Kydd had an idea, one that, now they were part of the defending force, would reinforce the ship’s standing with the Barbadians.

‘Certainly you may, Mr Curzon. But not for a short time, sir, I will not allow it.’

‘Sir?’

‘If they cast about to muster a dozen others as well, then they shall all be our guests – at a quarterdeck ball.’

It was generally accounted a princely idea, and the news went about the ship like wildfire. While officers could rejoice in the honours of the ball, the seamen would be treated to the edifying spectacle of their betters sporting a toe. And it went without saying that the ship would require prettifying to a degree: it would not do for L’Aurore to be paltry before the rest of the squadron.

‘And I expect you to be forward in the matter of arrangements, if you please,’ Kydd told Curzon.

It was remarkable how the list grew. As a signals frigate, there was no shortage of gay bunting to drape about to soften warlike outlines – but how to indicate to the shore that flowers by the basket would be appreciated to place at the bitts and around the binnacle, and that a certain circumspection should be exercised in ballgowns in consideration of a frigate’s modest space about decks?

Naturally, midshipmen would be in attendance on the guests – but could they be fully trusted in the article of politeness, manners … decorum?

And music: in L’Aurore the Royal Marines were stout hands with fife and drum but a society evening seemed to need a little more. The capstan fiddler, perhaps?

Boatswain Oakley could be relied on to see the lower rigging triced up out of the way, but what about the training-tackle ringbolts for the nine-pounders? Avoided without thought by any sailor, these iron rings, set in the deck inboard, would prove a sad hazard for a lady with eyes only for her partner.

Kydd left these questions to Curzon, while he bent his attention to whom else he should invite. The governor might well take offence were he not included. And this was a major naval station: the commander-in-chief must be on the list, but which others? By order of seniority, the captains of the ships-of-the-line must rate first – some had their wives and daughters but in all they would probably outnumber the Barbadians. The military? He had a hazy idea that there were three regiments garrisoned, implying three colonels of the same substantive rank as himself, who would frown at an all-naval gathering in an entertainment-starved island. And then there was …

It was getting out of hand – until a happy thought struck. ‘Oh, Renzi, dear fellow! I have a small task for you.’

Kydd rubbed his hands in glee. It was working out better than he had hoped. As they lay at anchor in the still, warm evening he reviewed arrangements. Guests would be arriving at dusk to a lanthorn-lit, gaily decorated quarterdeck, welcomed by the airs of a very creditable orchestra wheedled by Renzi from other ships. The deck was now clear of encumbrance: its guns had been trundled to the breast-rail at the forward end of the quarterdeck, then covered with deal planking and every tablecloth the gunroom possessed to form a creditable refreshments table. The ringbolts had been drawn by an obliging carpenter, which left the area abaft the mizzen-mast an enchanting ballroom.

Chairs were placed around the capstan-head for resting couples, and strung along the shrouds, a line of light cast a soft gold on the dance-floor, tended by a grinning ship’s boy dressed as a page. A party of smartly dressed seamen waited expectantly at the ship’s side, for ladies visiting L’Aurore would not be expected to scramble up: an ornamented boatswain’s chair was waiting to sway them aboard.

‘We have a “regret unable” from the governor but the admiral and his lady will be attending,’ Renzi murmured, ‘for a short time only, he pleading advancing age. The garrison commander and wife accept with pleasure – I’ve allowed him two officers of local birth, and it would be churlish to refuse the colonel of the West Indian Regiment, they so ardent in their loyalty. As to our naval friends, I found it necessary to set the bar at post-captain and that from only the larger sail-of-the-line. In all a very creditable response, I think you’ll agree.’

‘Well done, Nicholas. Were there, as who should say, hearts repining for want of an invitation?’

‘None,’ Renzi said smoothly. ‘Not when they learned that a second ball is projected, especially for officers of the middling sort and thereby promising to be of a livelier character.’

‘You wicked dog!’ Kydd laughed with delight. ‘So I must throw the ship over to a jaunting on another occasion. A rattling good plan, brother.’

He moved forward to greet the first guests, a puffing gentleman, who had insisted on taking the side-steps, while his wife alighted daintily to the deck from the boatswain’s chair, apparently no stranger to the device. They were followed by Captain Pym of Atlas and his lady, piped aboard by a well-scrubbed boatswain, then a brace of young misses exclaiming with delight as their parents, too, made their way aboard.

‘Punch, ladies and gentlemen?’ Kydd offered after the introductions. He beckoned a hovering midshipman forward and turned to nod to the orchestra, which quickened its pace.

More guests arrived, and he found himself at the centre of a gaily chattering throng, his heart lifting at the happy scene.

‘Upon my word, sir, but this is a pretty ship indeed!’ The young lady curtsied as she came under notice from the great captain. ‘I’ve heard it’s quite a flyer, sir.’

‘Why, so she is, my dear.’ Kydd tried frantically to remember her introduction at the levee, recalling in time that this was Amelia, the eldest of a substantial sugar factor. ‘As we sailors must call a ship “she” for her flightsome ways, Miss Amelia.’

She was in a filmy pale-blue muslin gown, well suited to the warmth of the evening. It did nothing to hide her comeliness.

‘I shall try to remember, sir,’ she said seriously, but dimpled prettily. ‘And you are her captain. How proud you must be!’

‘She has her quips and quillets, as it must be said – especially in a lasking breeze – but, yes, I own myself much taken with her.’ Out of the corner of his eye Kydd caught an envious look from several nearby officers.

The boatswain’s call sounded again and he raised his eyes to see which of the squadron captains would be next.

It was Tyrell. He stepped aboard, looking around suspiciously. Kydd excused himself to go to greet him. ‘Why, Rufus, we’re pleased you’re able to come. Will you-’

‘May I present my wife, Kydd.’

He had had no idea Tyrell was married or that his wife was on station with him. He gave a polite bow. ‘I hope you’ll enjoy the evening, Mrs Tyrell.’

‘Oh, I’m sure I shall!’ she exclaimed brightly. She was short and slender, her face lined but soft, almost wistful.

Tyrell took her arm firmly and snapped, ‘Come, m’ dear – we have our duty to the others.’

Kydd returned to his young lady. She had already attracted admirers: Lieutenant Bowden, handsome in his full dress uniform, and Lieutenant Clinton, of the Royal Marines, resplendent in his scarlet and gold. Both retreated in confusion at the arrival of their captain to snare their prize.

‘Shall I be your escort while we take a turn about the decks?’ Kydd said, offering his arm. A dazzling smile was his reward and they stepped off together. He was conscious that it had been too long since he had had female company of such quality, and he let her pleasant talk wash about him, contributing a little about this or that when it seemed appropriate.

The orchestra struck a chord and Curzon, as master of ceremonies, came forward to announce the first dance.

‘Miss Amelia?’ Kydd murmured, with an elegant bow.

‘Why, of course, my captain!’ she responded breathlessly, and they strolled back, past the motionless helm, its spokes intertwined with greenery and flowers, and on to the open area that extended to the curved taffrail over the stern.

There was immediate movement to the side and an outburst of clapping as it was assumed that Kydd had selected his partner to open the ball.

He beamed and bowed at Curzon, who took his cue and called the sets in foursomes. Amelia took her place at the head opposite and bobbed girlishly at Kydd’s flourish.

In view of the warm evening the steps were measured but, even so, Kydd was grateful for a spell at the end of the dance and went to fetch a cool lime cordial for them both. As he returned, he noticed a bent figure out of the lanthorn light beyond the chattering groups. It was Tyrell, inspecting the fall of one of the lines from aloft. In L’Aurore the contented seamen took pride in their ship, spending the occasional dog-watch to point rope – adding a tapered finish to the end in a show of seaman-like skill.

Kydd guessed that in Hannibal this was something they would never feel inclined to do – and he reflected on how much Tyrell was losing to his ship by treating his men as he did.

He looked around for Mrs Tyrell and saw her in shy conversation with Curzon, doing his duty to leave no guest unattended. He turned back in time to see Amelia claimed by Bowden. She flashed him a smile before she was whisked away for a Tartan Pladdie.

Circulating, he made amiable conversation to Pym and his lady, politely remarking on her elaborate bead-embroidered evening dress, then partnered a Mrs Pulteney for the contre-danse.

Gilbey moved up to tell him that the commander-in-chief was approaching and Kydd took position to greet him. The calls pealed shrilly, and an agreeably surprised Cochrane came aboard for his promised visit, accompanied by his wife, a short but remarkably voluble lady in plain lemon who did not hold back her approval.

At refreshments Kydd artfully trapped Mrs Jobson, wife of the King’s Harbour Master so that at the resumption of dancing he was well placed to lead her out for the Boulangere, a dance that involved facing first one partner and then another – which, by great coincidence, was Miss Amelia. At changes, it was the work of moments to transfer allegiance and, as smoothly as he had planned, they were together again.

‘I do declare, sir, you cut a rare figure at dancing.’ Her eyes shone and Kydd glowed. ‘And in your own ship, as you were so good as to show me. You are too kind and I’m vexed as to how I might return the politeness.’

She bit her lip prettily, then said brightly, ‘You must pay us a visit, sir. Do come and meet Papa – I’m sure he would be agreeable.’

The dull thump sounded from some way off to the south-westward, its origin hidden by the hanging grey-white sheets of rain drifting in from the Atlantic but it was from the general direction of Acasta, which had been paired with L’Aurore for the routine sweep to the south of Barbados ordered by Cochrane.

Kydd wore L’Aurore around and headed into the murk to find his senior, who was summoning him by gun, flag communications being impossible in the conditions. The veil thinned and he caught sight of the sternwork of the big frigate and closed, passing around her lee and coming within hail.

Dunn was on her quarterdeck and raised his speaking trumpet. ‘I’ve just spoken to a Dansker who swears he spotted a heavy frigate in the squalls to the suth’ard,’ he blared, ‘standing to the sou’-west.’

Kydd waited. This would not be the first merchantman to report an innocent trader with painted gun-ports as a fearsome warship.

‘He could be mistaken, but we can’t take the chance on it being a scouting frigate for a Frenchy raiding fleet, thinking to enter the Caribbean not by the usual passages. I desire you’ll sail south to eleven and thirty latitude, touch at Grenada for intelligence and return to Barbados. I’ll be looking towards Trinidad. Clear?’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

‘Should you fall in with the enemy you will waste not a moment in alerting Admiral Cochrane. This is your first and last duty.’

‘Understood, sir.’

‘Very well. Carry on, Captain.’

The two ships parted and Kydd set to the mission. L’Aurore, with the north-easterlies right aft, risked stunsails to larboard for a fast run. The passage between Tobago and Grenada into the Caribbean from the Atlantic was not much more than thirty miles wide and, with luck and speed, he could be in its centre at dawn and in a prime position to spot any fleet.

L’Aurore did her best for him, eating up the distance into the evening and then the night. It was not comfortable going for it was one of her quirks that, with wind and sea aft, a deep rolling and twisting set in that had the boatswain looking anxiously up at the spars, and seamen passing hand to hand along the decks.

Casts of the log, adjusted for speed over the ground in a following sea, gave hope that they would meet their goal in good time. In the early hours they reached the 11 degrees 30 minutes track; Kydd bore up due west and shortened sail.

They were now astride the entry channel and at daybreak their crosstree lookout would be in a position to spy any sail on either side – if the weather held. If it was a questing frigate, the battle-fleet would not be far behind, and Kydd had his strategy ready for returning by the swiftest means: he would round Grenada and pass inside the Windward Islands until the wind was fair for Barbados, then raise it in a single board.

There were other factors in the equation but he had long ago concluded that worrying about potential problems was futile: they had to be met individually if and when they cropped up. He turned in and, after a sound sleep, was up with the others at quarters to meet the dawn.

The night changed by degrees into a new day, the tropical morning as usual arriving in minutes, the transformation from silent darkness to lively sunrise always a thing of rapture.

No sudden cry from the masthead shattered the calm, no menacing line of sail was seen widening across their path: the horizon was clear.

‘Stand down, Mr Gilbey,’ Kydd ordered, and turned to go.

‘Deck hooo!’ The hail from the lookout was hesitant but insistent. ‘I think I see sail – broad on the larb’d bow.’

‘Get up there, m’ lad,’ Kydd said to Searle, handing him his pocket telescope.

The youngster swung importantly into the shrouds and rapidly mounted to the tops and then the crosstrees where he joined the lookout. They spoke briefly and Searle held up the glass to where the lookout pointed.

After a few seconds he stiffened, slammed the glass shut and grabbed for a stay, riding it down to the deck. ‘Sir! It’s a ship right enough, big ’un as I could see, but, er, it was setting sail as we looked at it.’ This accounted for the lookout’s initial confusion.

‘Courses or t’gallants?’ Kydd demanded.

‘Um, it seemed to be tops’ls only, sir.’

It made no sense. Unless it was a scout in advance of the main fleet, which had kept on small sail only during the night so as not to range too far ahead. Or was it an innocent merchantman resuming full sail after a night under easy canvas?

If it was a frigate, then the fleet was close astern and he should heave to and stop his progress to leeward, needing as it did a beating back against the wind to make up distance lost. If not, then hanging back could result in missing an enemy further onward.

The deck fell silent, seamen and officers waiting patiently for his command.

Kydd decided: the only way to settle the question was to close with and identify the strange sail even at the cost of later clawing back his windward position. ‘We stand on. Hands to breakfast, if you please.’

He stayed as the deck cleared. Then, as the sail was not yet visible, he went below himself.

He’d only just begun to eat when a messenger brought the news that the wind had fallen and the officer-of-the-watch feared the pursuit was in jeopardy. He swore under his breath, for his valet Tysoe had contrived jugged kippers and scrambled eggs, but when he reached the open deck, there was now no more than a playful zephyr.

‘Masthead lookout!’ he bellowed. ‘How’s the chase?’

There was a pause, then a mournful ‘Standin’ away. The bugger’s fore-reachin’ on us.’

Kydd ignored Curzon’s muttered profanity. With the wind coming in from astern, the conditions would reach out in their own good time and take the other too. And, conversely, any change for the brisker here would see them close on a chase helpless in the calms. There was nothing for it, however: all measures must be taken to come up with the fleeing ship before it vanished over the horizon completely.

All hands were turned up for the effort of clothing L’Aurore in as much sail as she could take. Stunsails to each yardarm, royals, bonnets, ringtails to the staysails and driver, watersails below the stunsails. Her slight motion increased, a cheerful bubbling at the forefoot, the creak of spars taking up wind pressure – but within two hours the lookout had lost the chase.

It was the worst outcome possible: they were no further forward in identification, while the chase now had freedom to break off to left or right – or to rendezvous with a fleet already within the Caribbean, which it would otherwise have led L’Aurore on to discover. The question for Kydd now was whether to press on along the same track.

A decision could not be delayed much longer: both ships were being carried into the Caribbean by a current as fast as a man briskly walking. They would be abreast of Grenada later in the day and he would be forced to either break off or go on.

He knew even as he thought about it what he would do. Keep on while the wind was still fair for Grenada, then tack about into St George’s where there was a small British garrison and see if there was news, otherwise warn them. It helped that this was in fact more or less what he had been sent to do.

After midday the breeze freshened, the more extravagant sail was taken in, and by three they were bowling along. The chase was still not in sight. There was nothing for it – L’Aurore hauled her wind for the north, and before evening made landfall on Grand Bay, rounding Point Salines safely well to windward before opening up St George’s Bay itself.

And almost immediately they saw, not more than a mile or two ahead, a terrified merchantman of precisely the same size and rig as their chase desperately making for the safety of the harbour.

It took a short visit only to establish that this was their quarry. The vessel had unusually shortened sail in the night to furled lower courses rather than topsails, the longer to remain out of sight at daybreak. And there was no immediate intelligence of an enemy in the vicinity. They had done what they could.

After spending the night at anchor in order to transit the coral banks to the north in daylight, L’Aurore proceeded back to sea.

There was no guarantee that the big merchantman was the ship seen through the rain squalls by the Danish but it seemed likely; in any event Kydd’s orders were to return to Barbados and report. They slipped north past the steep, tropical slopes of Grenada, taking their leave of the area, and into the island-studded seas to the north.

‘Lay Ronde well to starb’d,’ Kydd instructed, sniffing the breeze. He reluctantly left the sunlit brilliance of the morning and went below to prepare his day.

In the middle of the third paragraph of his report he froze, then jerked upright, listening.

Some preternatural sense had triggered an alarm – something so out of kilter with his ordered world that it made the hairs on his neck rise.

He waited, quill poised. It came again, more felt than heard. The deep crump of an explosion – more; then sounds coming together.

He raced for the cabin door, nearly knocking down Gilbey, on his way to report, who blurted, ‘Gunfire! Heavy gunfire coming from out o’ the north!’

A sudden chill stole over Kydd. It was inexplicable that somewhere ahead a fleet action was taking place among the maze of islands that made up the Grenadines. But, then, with St Lucia and Martinique not so far further on and Barbados itself to the east, was it impossible?

Napoleon’s master-stroke.

Renzi was already on deck and pointed to a distant ragged smudge of smoke that spread as they watched. The rumbling became sharper, then tailed off and the smoke dissipated.

‘All sail to bowlines,’ Kydd snapped, ‘then clear for battle.’ How he might join a major action with not the slightest knowledge of dispositions or foe was not clear, but his duty was: he must get his ship to the British commander on the scene as soon as he could.

Lookouts were tripled with orders to report the character and position of every ship they could see. If he could build a picture before he was engulfed in the madness of combat …

But they remained completely silent as the frigate made for the distant thinning band of smoke. Then, without warning, there was a sudden concussion and a colossal plume of flame and smoke shot up – some unfortunate vessel had blown up before their eyes. It explained why the firing had died away, just as it had those years ago at the Nile when there was utter silence for long minutes after the explosion of the French flagship L’Orient.

The racing wave kicked up by the blast reached them, still with enough energy to send L’Aurore into a fretful jibbing and tossing. Yet as they neared, there were no sightings. Not a sail, let alone a line-of-battle.

In an awed hush L’Aurore progressed on. Eerily, the entire battlefield was innocent of anything save the deep blue and emerald green of the sea. Not a single ship.

A cry from a seaman and an outstretched arm pointed to a dark speck in the water off the bow. Closer, it resolved into a body, clinging to a piece of wreckage.

‘Bring it in,’ Kydd said tersely.

He was a black man, his body burnt and bloody. As he was laid on deck there was movement, weak and spasmodic. Eyes half open, he rolled to his side to retch before flopping back with an agonised groan.

‘What ship?’ Kydd demanded bending over him. Then, when there was no response: ‘Quel navire?’

Someone brought a roll of canvas and packed it under his head. The surgeon arrived and inspected the man.

‘Are we going to get anything from him, do you think?’ Kydd asked.

Before the answer came, the man moaned hoarsely, then spoke inaudibly and closed his eyes in pain.

‘Er, what was that?’

‘Man, Kick ’em Jenny!’ the man croaked with effort.

Kydd looked up, baffled.

‘Sounded like, “Kickum cherry”,’ Gilbey offered.

A startled cry from forward took their attention. A seaman was urgently gesturing to a sight that clutched at every shellback’s heart, out off the bow. From the Stygian gloom of the deep, an intense, spreading luminescence was rising, moving slowly, with infinite menace. Was a sea-monster of unimaginable size about to appear and devour them?

Petrified seamen watched as it took shape, rising, growing. With it came a foul smell that …

Renzi turned on Kydd in sudden understanding. ‘Naples!’

Kydd reacted instantly. ‘Hard down y’r helm! Get us away, for God’s sake!’

L’Aurore heeled and ran from the hideous apparition but when they were not one mile off, with a cataclysmic spasm, an underwater volcano vented. Bursting skyward with a deafening blast, a towering plume of grey, shot with flame and lazily arcing black fragments, climbed and then subsided into lesser paroxysms, a fearful and stupefying drama of nature.

When the heavy rumbling had died away the man opened his eyes again and whispered, ‘Dere – she wake up. Dat Kick ’em Jenny!’

An invitation arrived from the commander-in-chief, Leeward Islands station to a formal dinner marking the first anniversary of the battle of Trafalgar and the loss of Lord Nelson. It was extended to every naval officer in Cochrane’s command, and the guest of honour was to be the only one of Nelson’s captains on that dread day who was serving on the station: Thomas Kydd.

The very highest in civil society would be invited to attend too, and in view of the unprecedented numbers, the governor had graciously extended the use of the state banqueting hall, the Long Room.

It would be, without question, the occasion of the year.

Kydd felt both humbled and elated. Guest of honour – that meant not only a faultless appearance but a speech, delivered before several hundred sea officers and important guests.

Renzi could be relied on to confect a splendid talk, replete with apt quotations from the classics and full of elegant, rolling phrases that would be commented on for months – but this time Kydd knew he had to make it his own: set down what it had been to be part of the exalted realm of Nelson’s band of brothers; open to his listeners just what the brutal pressures had been on the little admiral, how he’d triumphed over every one to lead his devoted men to victory in the greatest sea battle of all time.

And perhaps share something of the humanity and warmth in the man, those details of administration and concern for the fleet, which showed he understood that the men in the ships won his battles for him and …

He reached for a pen and began to write.

The evening passed in a haze of exhilaration, splendour and moment. The glitter and array of so much gold lace on dark blue, medals, honours – and the sea of faces looking politely up at him when he got to his feet for the crowning occasion of his speech.

The room settled into a respectful silence while Kydd composed himself.

‘Your Excellency, Sir Alexander, distinguished guests, fellow officers …’

The governor and Cochrane were seated to either side of him at the high table but he could see L’Aurore’s officers together on the right and, close by, Tyrell. Renzi was well down the room; as a retired naval officer he had been accorded the honour of attending.

‘It’s difficult for me to conceive that it’s been but a single year since that day off Cape Trafalgar when …’

He told the tale simply but powerfully, giving fervent credit to the man who had himself raised Kydd to the eminence of post-captain. He tried to give a feeling for the events his audience had only read about in the newspapers and chronicles, a sense of the unbearable tension of the great chase and its resolution in the final cataclysm of the coming together of two vast fleets.

He paused. The room was in utter stillness. ‘Gentlemen, before we toast the immortal memory of Lord Horatio Nelson, let me read to you words he wrote that, to me, are at the heart of his humanity and greatness as a leader.’

Reaching down, he found a slim book and opened it.

‘This is just a single quotation taken from his ‘Memoir of My Life’ written in 1799.’

There was a rustle of appreciation. Anything the legendary admiral had said concerning his naval life should be worth hearing.

Kydd had no need to read, for he would never forget. Lowering the book, he let the resounding words echo out into the vast hall. ‘Gentlemen, Admiral Lord Nelson wrote, of the officers aft on the quarterdeck and the seamen of the fo’c’sle: “Aft the most honour – forward the better man!”’

The room exploded with applause from all except Tyrell, whose face simply reddened.

Kydd took his seat, receiving congratulations from right and left and raising his glass in response to them all.

The evening was enlivened. Many brought chairs to sit by him and hear more of that momentous day; others passed by to touch his shoulder and murmur words of appreciation.

Then it was time to withdraw for brandy and cigars, an appropriate moment for the more staid to make their excuses and the others to form a companionable group close together.

‘Can’t top a Trafalgar yarn,’ Pym chortled, ‘but did I ever recount what happened when we raised the Spanish treasure fleet in ’ninety-seven?’

‘Yes!’ came from half a dozen throats.

‘Then I’ll tell you about it …’

The warmth and intimacy of a shared professional world reached out and enveloped Kydd, leaving him in a daze of contentment.

Then he noticed Tyrell on the fringe of the happy crowd, looking on expressionless, his glass near empty. Kydd realised what was going on: the others were ignoring him – his own fault, true, but sad for all that.

Dunn of Acasta followed Pym’s dit with an interesting tale of bluff and chicanery among the Malays and the Dutch in the East Indies. Then a young officer shyly came in with a simple but harrowing account of an Arctic traverse the previous year.

The numbers thinned as the night wore on but Kydd was reluctant to leave and break the spell. He valued Renzi’s companionship dearly but in any ship her captain had no professional equal with whom to make frank conversation, to offer advice, to exchange banter and risque humour – to unbend and be at ease in like company. It was a precious occasion.

Finally Pym stood up and yawned elaborately. ‘I’m for the cot, I believe.’

‘I also,’ another added, but cocked his head meaningfully to one side. In one corner Tyrell sat, quite alone. There were two bottles on a side-table and he appeared to be talking to himself.

With a cynical smile, Pym looked at Kydd. ‘Well, m’ lad. You’re junior captain – the duty’s yours.’

It took him a moment to understand: Tyrell was in his cups and, for the sake of decency, had to be hustled out and sent safely home.

‘Lives ashore. The carriage knows where,’ Pym murmured and, with another yawn, left with the others.

Reluctantly, Kydd went across to Hannibal’s captain to see what he could do – and stopped short.

Tyrell wasn’t talking to himself, he was singing. In a tuneless, broken bass he was giving out the mournful ‘Valiant Sailor’ of Anson’s time, a century before.

It took Kydd aback – this was no hearty patriotic tune or lyrical trifle. It was a fore-bitter, one that seamen sang to each other and certainly not for the ears of the quarterdeck.

‘Come all ye wi-ild young men,

A warning do take it by me,

And see you no more, my boys,

Sent off to a foreign countree …’

Hesitantly he moved into Tyrell’s field of vision. ‘Rufus? We’re all away now. Are you ready to leave?’

There was no acknowledgement of his presence. Tyrell’s eyes were unfocused, his body swaying with the song. An empty glass in his hand beat time.

‘… we sailed all that night and into the day

And the first ship we spied was a Frog man-o’-war!

We bore her head upright, a bloody flag we did fly

Each man was prepared, the Lord says who dies …’

Kydd touched his arm. ‘Rufus! Time to be quit, now.’

With a bleary effort Tyrell looked up, but didn’t stop.

‘Your carriage is waiting!’ Kydd said, louder.

The singing went on, raucous and uncaring.

‘Our yards, masts and rigging were all shot away

And begob our great guns did they roar!

Why can’t I be there with my Polly on the shore?’

Kydd glanced around the near empty hall in despair. A couple of footmen were standing by the door in studied boredom. ‘Over here, you men. Bear a hand,’ he called to them.

They came unwillingly, but Kydd made them take one arm while he took the other and they lifted Tyrell bodily. He made to struggle but saw it was useless and allowed himself to be dragged away, raising his voice in rebellious conclusion:

‘The decks were aswim in blood dire and red,

It’s then that I’m wounded full sore;

Dear Polly my love, with her black rolling eye

Here I lie bleeding, it’s for you I do die …’

There was no hiding it now, and as soon as they made the open air, Kydd roared, ‘Cap’n Tyrell’s carriage, ahoy! Lay alongside now, you villains!’

A small conveyance with an expressionless driver stepped up. Tyrell was hoisted in by the footmen, his cloak and cocked hat tossed in beside him, leaving him to sprawl in confusion.

Kydd felt a stab of pity at the sight of such a man brought low. The least he could do was to see him safe home. He pushed Tyrell to the other side and clambered into the vehicle next to him, propping him upright in a semblance of dignity. As an afterthought he found the cocked hat and clapped it on; it seemed to steady him and the singing stopped.

‘Cast off,’ Kydd snapped, and obediently they started away, clopping down the road.

By the time they had made Tyrell’s residence, a modest house at the fringes of the smarter Georgetown, he seemed to be back in possession of his wits. The carriage ground to a stop and Kydd got out, ready to hand Tyrell down, but he was imperiously waved aside while the other alighted, staggering a little before holding himself erect with drunken dignity.

‘Your house, Rufus,’ Kydd said neutrally. ‘I’ll bid you goodnight now.’

‘W-what? Never!’ Tyrell spluttered. ‘An officer an’ gentleman, you are, Kydd – you’ll come aboard for a snifter, as is the least I can offer a fellow cap’n.’

‘Er, I really must-’

‘Stuff ’n’ nonsense! You’ll come in an’ take m’ hospitality like the gennelman you are.’ A thought struck and he leered suspiciously at Kydd. ‘That is, if you’re not one of the blaggards who can’t stand the company of a fighting seaman.’

The door opened and light spilled out. ‘Is that you, Rufus?’ asked Mrs Tyrell, hesitantly. She was in a mob cap and held a gown tightly around her, clearly called from her bed.

‘Damn sure it is, Hester,’ Tyrell roared, ‘wi’ a guest who’s dry, for God’s sake!’

There was nothing for it but to humour him. Kydd hoped it would not be long.

‘Oh, it’s you, Mr Kydd,’ she said faintly. ‘Er, do come in, pray. I must apologise for the, er …’

‘Not at all, Mrs Tyrell,’ Kydd said warmly, removing his hat. ‘I’m sorry to inconvenience.’

A disgruntled servant, still in his nightcap, stumbled up but was told firmly by Mrs Tyrell that the gentlemen would be supping alone in the front room and she herself would look after them.

They were settled into chairs and a single candle lit; what Kydd could see of the room seemed wan and eerily lifeless.

Mrs Tyrell brought a brandy decanter and glasses and left them.

‘Here’s t’ honour an’ distinction!’ Tyrell said, gesturing grandly, then downing his drink in one.

‘As is the right of every true sea officer,’ Kydd replied, conscious that he had been so blessed but his host had not.

The decanter splashed out more brandy and Tyrell waited meaningfully.

‘Oh – er, to the saucy Arethusa,’ Kydd said hastily, bringing to mind the most iconic ship of the age and impatient to be away.

‘Aye! To the-’ Tyrell stopped. A look of puzzlement, then deep suspicion crossed his face. ‘Why do you … Wha’ do you know about what happened? I demand t’ know!’

Confused, Kydd tried to think. Then he had it. Years ago, part of the blockading fleet off Toulon, as master’s mate he’d been sent, without reason given, as independent witness to Arethusa frigate while the boatswain mustered his stores, returning none the wiser. Then, months later in Gibraltar, he had been sworn to secrecy by her gunner’s mate, a friend, who needed to get it off his chest.

A simple, tawdry tale: the boatswain had conspired with the captain to sell stores and had been found out. Of noble birth, the captain had not been court-martialled and the pair had been quietly removed.

‘Yes, I know about it, Rufus, but that was a damn long time ago.’ What was riding the man? Of a certainty he was not in the fleet at the time.

‘Y-you know, then! I thought, after all these years … Who was it blabbed his mouth?’

To his horror, Kydd could see he was near to tears so answered softly, ‘The gunner’s mate – as swore me to secrecy, Rufus.’

‘Ah. It had t’ be, o’ course.’ He stared away. Kydd was about to take his leave, but then Tyrell downed his brandy in a savage gulp and slopped in more.

‘You wan’ t’ know why I did it,’ he challenged.

‘Why, er-’

‘Wouldn’t unnerstan’ anyway, you swell coves born wi’ a silver spoon in your mouth. Get your place through family, y’r step through interest! Never know what it’s like to be a common jack looking aft, clemmed in a fo’c’sle with wharf rats ’n’ priggers, no hope for it ever.’ He drank again, heavily, then swayed, his head drooping.

Appalled but fascinated, Kydd had to find out what was driving him. ‘So tell me why, Rufus,’ he urged.

‘Wha’? Oh, nothing t’ tell, really. Always wanted to go t’ sea, call o’ the deep wha’ever. M’ father was a doctor, didn’t want me to waste m’ life on the briny, so I up an’ ran away to sea. Fetched up in a three-decker as landman, then t’ Medusa as ordinary seaman.’

So that was what it was! Tyrell had misheard Arethusa as Medusa and thought Kydd was bringing up his guilty secret, whatever it was. And, ironically, it seemed that not only was he from before the mast, as Kydd was, but thought that Kydd was not.

‘And then?’

‘Ah. That was our Cap’n Belkin.’ His thoughts wandered again but when they returned it was with a cruel smile. ‘A depraved brute an’ no one knew it.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘See, I knew what was going on, couldn’t fool me.’

‘Er, what-’

‘He shipped his fancy boy as a volunteer, the villain, an’ I hatched a plan. I broke in on them while he’s a-tupping. Ha! Should’ve seen ’em!’

He cackled, then went on, ‘So in course he has a choice. Public court-martial – or he sets me on his quarterdeck as midshipman.’

The carriage returned through deserted late-night streets, giving Kydd time to come to terms with what had happened. He’d left Tyrell when he’d passed out, going out of his way to reassure his flustered wife.

It was all so plain now: the doctor’s son of some education and standing had been smitten by the sea and had answered the call. He’d found life as a fore-mast jack a hard one and probably made it no easier by putting on airs, antagonising his shipmates. Then a chance had come to claw his way above them. In his later career as an officer, having claim to being a midshipman, he would not need to admit to earlier service before the mast any more than others would, including Nelson himself.

Kydd’s thoughts raced. Did he sympathise? If not, who was he to judge? And how far did what he had learned explain Tyrell’s brutal attitude to the common seamen, his prickly relations with fellow officers and misanthropic social behaviour? Guilt must play a part in his character, as would the need to prove himself, but Kydd could not see how such things could poison a soul so absolutely. Was there something else?

One thing he was sure of: Tyrell was an incomparable fighting seaman and for that, at least, he would give the man the benefit of the doubt.