Quarterdeck

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In the course of four short years, Thomas Kydd, former wig maker from Guildford, has gone from pressed man to master's mate—but can he make the near-impossible step to lieutenant on the quarterdeck?

In this fifth adventure in Julian Stockwin's popular series, Kydd must pass a tough examination to confirm the lieutenancy awarded him at the bloody battle of Camperdown. But aboard the 64-gun Tenacious he faces a more daunting challenge—matching up to the high-born officers, who have spent a lifetime learning to be gentlemen. With the help of his enigmatic friend Renzi, Kydd struggles to conform to his new world but soon discovers it's easier to swing a cutlass in close quarters than negotiate the brutal minefields of upper-class society. Relief comes his way when Tenacious reaches the colonies and he is unwittingly caught up in the danger and intrigue surrounding the birth of the American Navy. There, in uncharted waters, Kydd finds that quick wits and superior seamanship once again make the difference between life and death.

With a sure hand, Stockwin brings his usual meticulous research and historical accuracy to this latest Kydd adventure. Kydd, Renzi and the men of Tenacious struggle to do their duty as King's men, but as Kydd finds out, life in the colonies brings a freedom few in English society have ever known.

QUARTERDECK

A KYDD SEA ADVENTURE

THE KYDD SEA ADVENTURES, BY JULIAN STOCKWIN

Kydd

Artemis

Seaflower

Mutiny

Quarterdeck

Tenacious

Command

The Admiral's Daughter

JULIAN STOCKWIN

Quarterdeck

Kydd sea Adventure

MCBOOKS PRESS, INC. ITHACA, NEW YORK

Published by McBooks Press 2005 Copyright © 2004 by Julian Stockwin

First published in Great Britain in 2004 by Hodder and Stoughton A division of Hodder Headline

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher. Requests for such permissions should be addressed to McBooks Press, Inc., ID Booth Building, 520 North Meadow St., Ithaca, NY 14850.

Cover painting by Geoff Hunt

Cover and interior designed by Panda Musgrove

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Stockwin, Julian. Quarterdeck : a Kydd sea adventure / by Julian Stockwin.

p. cm.

ISBN 1-59013-115-0 (hc. : alk. paper) 978-1-59013-128-2, 1-59013-128-2 (trade pbk : alk. paper) 1. Kydd, Thomas (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Great Britain—History, Naval—18th century—Fiction. 3. Seafaring life—Fiction. 4. Sailors—Fiction. I. Title.

PR6119.T66Q37 2005

823'.92—dc22 2005010741

Visit the McBooks Press website at www.mcbooks.com.

Printed in the United States of America

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

In recent memory of Lieutenant Chris Walklett, RN A true heart of oak

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PROLOGUE

A CLOCK TICKED LOUDLY IN THE SILENCE. The three commissioners, experienced sea captains all, stared implacably at the candidate, waiting for his answer.

Acting Lieutenant Thomas Kydd had every reason to feel the terror that froze his bowels: failure at this examination would see him stripped of his temporary rank and returned ingloriously to his old shipmates.

"Er, well, I would—"

"Come, come, sir! An easy enough question—your certificate of service claims sea-time in Artemis, a crack frigate as ever I've seen. You must have seen a flying moor above a dozen times."

It was unfair: here in this august Navy Office board-room he was being asked to describe one of the most risky manoeuvres, dropping anchor at speed and sailing on to the full scope of the cable, then letting go another before falling back on the two anchors. Black Jack Powlett of the Artemis would never have chanced his vessel so, Kydd thought indignantly, then took a deep breath. "Coming boldly up t' the anchorage, I, er, would range both cables out on the gun-deck—veering parties double-banked, o' course—an' at m' furthest on, let go th' best bower. Then—"

"You do not feel it prudent to double bitt your cable first, sir?" the first commissioner interjected.

Then the second came in: "And we have heard nothing of setting this bower a-cockbill in readiness."

"That is, if your ship has not yet a trick stopper or similar," the first added smugly.

Kydd forced his mind to an icy resolve. "Aye, sir—I may have omitted t' say that in getting the anchor off the bows it is first necessary . . ."

It seemed to satisfy. He dared a glance at the third member of the board, who sat hard-faced and silent, Captain Essington, the captain of Triumph in which he had served at the bloody battle of Camperdown.

"Passing to navigation," the first commissioner said flatly.

Kydd's anxieties returned: he had learned his skills at the hands of a merchant-service sailing master who had taught him a plain yet solid understanding of his craft, but Kydd knew that the Navy liked arcane descriptions and definitions.

"We'll begin with basic understanding, Mr Kydd. What is your conceiving of a great circle?"

"Er, the plane o' the equator when projected fr'm the centre on to a tangent plane becomes a straight line—"

"Thank you. The workings of an azimuth altitude will be familiar enough to you, no doubt—then clarify for me the correction of the right ascension of the mean sun, if you please."

Kydd struggled, but could see frowns settling, glances exchanged. Failure was now more than a possibility and a cold dread stole over him. If only they would ask—

"Mr Kydd, you are aboard a two-decker." It was Essington, leaning forward. Kydd shifted position to face him directly. There was no trace of compassion in the man's eyes. "Shall we say in the Caribbean? You are scudding before a regular-going hurricane and you sight land—dead to loo'ard. You throw out both bowers." The other commissioners looked at Essington with curiosity. "They carry away, one after the other. Only a sheet anchor is left to you to prevent the ship being cast ashore. Detail your actions, if you will, sir, to forestall a wreck and grievous loss of life." He leaned back, unnerving Kydd with his stare. His fellow captains held back in surprise as Essington finished acidly, "And shall we have a coral bottom?"

Kydd cast about for something to say, the right action to take in such an extreme situation—but then it dawned on him: he had been in exactly this plight in the old Trajan, and himself had been the one to pass keckling to preserve their last anchor, called as lee helmsman by the master himself. "Aye, sir," he said crisply. "First we need t' ride out the blow. A coral bottom means we'll have to pass a deal of keckling aroun' the first two or three fathom of cable above the anchor clinch, and then . . ." Those desperate hours off the unknown island were burned into his consciousness: that endless night, the screaming hurricane, the cold dawn and the fearful danger of their action in clawing off. It steadied him, the simple recounting of fine seamanship. "But to make an offing will be hard, an' we must wait f'r the wind to shift a point or two, but then we must take our chance, and only one chance it is. Show small canvas, and at th' right time cut the cable an' run f'r the open sea."

The commissioners nodded, expressionless. "I think that's enough, gentlemen, do you not?" Essington said.

Kydd held his breath. There was mumbled conferring, more frowns. Was it possibly more than coincidence that Essington had brought forward that particular circumstance? As if he had particular knowledge of his past and . . .

"Where are your certificates?"

They were asking for attestations to his "Sobriety, Obedience, Diligence and Skill in the Profession of a Seaman." Kydd handed over the journals and documents in a floodtide of hope: if he had failed, why would they be wasting time on the formalities?

The journals were leafed through, but they had been meticulously kept for years and it seemed the certificates of age and rated service appeared acceptable. His heart leaped: the last hurdle was being overcome.

"If my reckoning is correct, we have a difficulty." One of the commissioners held the original, if somewhat crumpled, certificate of service from Kydd's first ship, Duke William. "From this, it does seem that Mr Kydd is, according to regulations, one year short of the requirement for sea-time."

Kydd had known of this deficiency, but had prayed that the regulations would not be applied rigorously. Horatio Nelson himself had been promoted to lieutenant before time, but if a commissioner of the board wished to make an issue of it little could be done.

Essington took the paper, then looked up with a tigerish smile. "Yes—but this is worthless! It is in error! I distinctly recollect when Captain Caldwell was removed from Royal Billy to Culloden. I rather fancy we would get a different date were we to ask him directly. As it is, Captain Caldwell is now in the West Indies, admiral of the Leeward Squadron if my memory serves. I doubt he is to be troubled on this trivial matter."

His manner quelled all discussion. The other commissioners gathered up the papers and returned them to Kydd. "Well, it seems we are of one mind. Our recommendation will go forward to the Navy Office that for the good of the service you shall be confirmed in rank to lieutenant. Good day to you, sir."

CHAPTER 1

THE PORTSMOUTH MAIL MADE GOOD SPEED on the highway south from London. Inside, it smelt pungently of leather and old dust, but Thomas Kydd did not care: it would take a great deal more than this to subdue his growing excitement.

After the examination, Kydd had spent some days in Yarmouth, where Tenacious had been taken out of commission for battle repairs, and had prevailed upon the naval outfitter in the matter of a splendid lieutenant's uniform, determined to go home on leave in a handsome manner.

He stared out at the tranquil winter country scene of soft meadows and gnarled oak trees. This was England at last, his hearth and home after so many years away. The postillion's long horn blared, and he leaned out of the window. It was Cobham— Guildford was not far away. He glanced at his friend sitting next to him. "An hour, Nicholas—an hour only, an' I'll be seein' m' folks again!"

Renzi had been quiet since London, his withdrawn, ascetic expression discouraging talk. He nodded politely and smiled, then looked away.

Heaven only knew what he was thinking about. Their years together had been full of perils and adventure, but Renzi's friendship had brought Kydd an insight into learning, and respect for the riches of the mind. And now they were returning to where their long adventure had started.

Yet again Kydd brought to memory how he had last left home, when he and Renzi had stolen away back to sea, to Artemis, the famous frigate, after founding a school to secure his family's livelihood. There had been a world voyage that had ended in shipwreck, rousing times in the Caribbean, adventures in the Mediterranean. It seemed half a lifetime, but it was only four years or so. Here he was, just twenty-five, and . . .

The coach jerked to a stop, and the horses were changed for the last stage to Guildford. The door swung open, and a young lady was handed up, her tall bonnet catching on the roof sill. She settled opposite in a rustle of pale-blue silk, her eyes downcast.

An older gentleman followed, acknowledged Kydd and Renzi, then sat beside her. The ostler offered a hot brick in worn serge, which the man manoeuvred under the young lady's feet. "Thank you, dear Papa," she said demurely, snuggling her hands into a muff.

The man favoured a belly-warmer, which he settled inside his long coat. "Uncommon cold for this time o' year!" he grunted.

Long inured to conditions far worse, Kydd caught Renzi's amused but discreet sideways glance. "Er, I'm sure y'r right."

The girl looked up, and noticed their uniforms. "Oh!" she said prettily, her hand at her mouth. "You're sailors!"

The man coughed irritably. "They're officers, m'dear, naval officers, not sailors, d'ye see?"

"It is what I meant to say, Papa. Pray, sirs, were you in that dreadful battle of Camperdown? I have heard that it was quite the most shocking fight this age!"

The man clicked his tongue in exasperation, but Kydd's heart swelled with pride. Their coach still bore laurel branches from the helter-skelter celebrations of only a week or so ago.

"Indeed, this is so, Miss, and you will understand how truly weary we are, that we yearn for the blessings of peace and solitude for a period . . ." Renzi said quietly.

"Of course, sir, please do forgive me." Her eyes rested briefly on Kydd. Then she turned determinedly to stare out of the window.

Kydd felt a pang of irritation, but understood that Renzi was sparing him idle chat so that he could enjoy the anticipation of his homecoming.

The mention of Camperdown, his first big fleet action, brought back emotions that were still too raw and recent, images of the nightmare of the great mutiny at the Nore and its sequel; his mind shied away from them and instead concentrated on the incredible fact that he had been promoted on the field of battle and officially confirmed. He was now Lieutenant Kydd! It was still too heady a thought, so he let his mind return to the excitement of his homecoming.

The coach jolted over the infamous potholes at Abbotswood: Guildford Town was now minutes away. Almost too quickly, the square, grey-stone Elizabethan grammar school passed on the left, and the town proper began, familiar buildings at the top of the high street. The post-horn's baying echoed off the almshouse opposite Holy Trinity, drawing mildly curious glances from the townsfolk.

Clattering over the old cobbled road, they passed under the big clock, and the driver tooled the mail-coach through the narrow black and white half-timbered entrance of the Angel posting-house.

Kydd and Renzi left their bags with the obsequious landlord, then emerged on to the high street and turned left, past shops and alleys well known to Kydd. The reek and colour of the town, the bustle and shouts, the passing tide of people all seemed to advance like a dream.

Some glanced curiously at the two men, others with admiration. Self-conscious, Kydd waited for someone to recognise him, but perhaps the dark blue, white and gold of his handsome uniform put paid to that. He saw Betty, the fishmonger's attractive daughter, who stopped and stared in shock at the sight of him. Kydd doffed his brand-new cocked hat.

They reached the red-brick church of Holy Trinity, and turned off past the glebe cottages to Schoolhouse Lane, as it was now known. There was no mistaking the little naval school ahead: a huge blue ensign floated above for all the world to see—the flag under which Kydd had fought at Camperdown. And as they drew near they could hear a muffled chanting on the air: ". . . three sevens are twenty-one, four sevens are twenty-eight, five sevens . . ."

They stepped into the tiny quadrangle, two King's officers returned from the sea. A youngster emerged at the run from a classroom and teetered to a halt. He whipped off his cap and shrilled, "I'll fetch th' bo'sun, if y' please, sir!"

Jabez Perrott emerged out of the building and stumped importantly towards them. His eyes widened, and he gasped, "Be buggered! It's Master Kydd, be gob!"

Kydd opened his mouth, but Perrott, reddening with pleasure, grabbed for his silver call and emitted a piercing blast. Then, in a lower-deck bellow that had not softened with the years, he roared, "Aaaaall the hands! Haaaands to muster—clear lower deck, ye swabs! Haaaands to muster!"

Children boiled out of the classrooms, screeching in delight at the antics of their strict boatswain.

"Mr Perrott! Mr Perrott! What are you doing?"

Kydd recognised the voice and, holding back tears, advanced to meet his mother.

"Oh! Tom! It's you! M' darling boy, it's you! And you've . . ." The rest was lost in a fierce embrace that went on and on, knocking his hat askew.

"Mother! So long . . ."

Kydd's father had aged: his form was stooped and his eyes sightless. Nevertheless, he bore himself nobly in the black breeches of a headmaster. "Er, is that you, son?"

"It is, Walter!" his mother said, as the old man moved uncertainly towards Kydd, holding out his hand. Kydd took it, then hugged him.

"Walter, Tom is an officer!" She looked anxiously to Kydd for confirmation—the idea was so enormous.

"Aye, Mother, it's 'Lieutenant Kydd, Royal Navy' you must call me now, or I'll clap ye all in irons!" He spoke loudly so his father would make no mistake about what he was hearing.

"Carry on, sir?" Perrott said to Kydd, touching his hat.

"Er, please do," said Kydd.

"Ship's comp'ny, ahoy! I'll have yez in two lines afore the mast—let's be havin' ye!" he bawled at the children. They shuffled eagerly into line. "Now, we dips our colours t' a pair o' 'eroes 'oo has jus' come back 'ome fr'm such a battle as never was, an' we're going t' show how much we admires 'em!"

Lieutenants Kydd and Renzi stood solemnly to attention as "God Save The King" and "Rule Britannia" were sung enthusiastically by the wide-eyed youngsters.

A piercing squeal on the boatswain's call brought quiet, and the colours were dipped reverently to half staff. With great dignity Perrott turned to face Kydd, removing his hat. Taken by surprise, Kydd raised his own cocked hat, at which the colours rose again.

"Silence!" Perrott thundered at the awed children. "Now, Lootenant Kydd will talk t' you about y'r dooty."

Kydd managed to splutter a few words: "Y'r duty is . . . steadfast in all weathers . . . courage at the cannon's mouth . . . King and country."

It seemed to be enough. An eager child broke ranks and held up his hand. "Please, sir, I want t' be a sailor—how do I be a sailor?"

Soon a pink-faced Kydd was mobbed by shouting boys.

"Pipe down, y' scurvy crew, 'n' listen to the l'tenant!" growled Perrott happily.

Kydd glanced across at his mother, who was bursting with pride, and knew there was only one thing to do. He turned to his father and touched his hat. "Cap'n, sir, permission f'r liberty ashore t' both watches!"

"Oh, er, liberty?" his father stuttered. "Yes, yes, er, Lieutenant Kydd. A half-holiday to, er, all hands!" The children screamed with delight and poured out of the school, leaving a dazed, happy Kydd family standing in the quadrangle.

"I shall withdraw at this point, if I may," Renzi said quietly.

"No, no, Mr Renzi," Mrs Kydd insisted. "You must stay an' tell us where you have been on the sea—you'll both have such tales, I do declare!" She turned to Kydd. "Now, I'll ask Mr Partington to spare us his room for you—he can stay with his friend Jonathan. For Mr Renzi . . ." She trailed off. Then she resumed stiffly: "But, then, now Thomas has a reputation, he'll want t' have his own establishment."

His mother's words could not hide the essence of the matter, the brutal truth, and Kydd felt a chill at the passing of his simple life. He saw her colouring: she had understood that her son was no longer hers. From now on, society events and invitations would firmly distinguish between the Kydds.

"We shall stay at the Angel," Renzi said softly. "Then we will take modest lodgings in town."

Kydd mumbled agreement.

"Well, then, that's settled," his mother said bravely. "It's for the best, o' course. Come inside an' take a posset—you must be frozen after y'r journey."

* * *

As he cradled a mug of hot curdled milk at the kitchen table Kydd listened to the flow of prattle from his mother, felt the quiet presence of his father and caught the curious flash of the maid's eyes. His own kept straying down to his uniform, the blue and gold so striking. Who could guess what the future might hold now? A deep sigh escaped him.

He heard the approaching tap, tap of footsteps. His mother smiled. "Ah, that must be Cecilia—she'll be so surprised to see you!"

The last time he had seen his sister was in a wrecked boat in the Caribbean. He recalled her mortal terror as they had fought for their lives against the sharks. What would she think of him now?

"She's done very well with Lord an' Lady Stanhope, Thomas. Quite the lady companion she is now," Mrs Kydd said proudly. "And don't go quarrellin' with her, if y' please, you know how it upsets your father."

The outside door rattled, and Cecilia's voice echoed down the passageway. "Father—what is going on? I saw quantities of your boys on the street and . . ." Her voice died away as the two men rose to their feet. She looked from face to face, incredulous. "Thomas? You . . . you . . ."

Kydd awkwardly held out his hands. "Ye're doin' well, Mother says—"

Suddenly her expression softened to a deep tenderness, and she seized her brother in a fierce hug. "Oh, Thomas! I've so missed you!"

He felt her body heaving, and when she looked at him again he saw the sparkle of tears. His own voice was gruff with emotion as he said, "Sis—y' remember in th' boat—"

She stopped him with a finger on his lips and whispered, "Mother!" Then she let him go, crossed to Renzi and placed a generous kiss on both his cheeks. "Dear Nicholas! How are you? You're still so thin, you know."

Renzi replied politely, and Cecilia turned back to her brother. "Thomas and Nicholas are going to take chocolate with me at Murchison's and tell me all their adventures, while you, Mother, prepare such a welcome for this wandering pair!" she announced. Her eyes widened. "Gracious me—and if I'm not mistaken in the particulars—Thomas, you're a . . ."

"L'tenant Kydd it is now, Cec," he said happily.

The evening meal was a roaring success. Kydd became hoarse with talking and Renzi was quite undone by the warmth of his welcome. Cecilia could not get enough of Kydd's descriptions of the Venice of Casanova, even above his protestations that the danger of their mission meant he was hardly in a position to discourse on the republic's attractions.

Distant thumps and a sudden crackle sounded outside. Cecilia clapped her hands. "The fireworks—I nearly forgot! Tonight we'll see your Admiral Onslow—he is to be a baronet, and is now resting at Clandon with his brother the earl. It's said he'll make an address from the balcony of the town hall! Gentlemen—I wish to attend! I shall be with you presently." She swept away imperiously to appear shortly afterwards in a pelisse at the height of fashion: lemon silk, lined and faced with blue. She looked at them both with the suspicion of a pout. "And who will be my gentleman escort?"

Kydd hesitated, but instantly Renzi bowed deeply and offered his arm. "May I observe that I find Mademoiselle is in looks tonight?" he said, with the utmost courtly grace.

Cecilia inclined her head and accepted his arm. They went outside and, without a backward glance at Kydd, moved off down the lane, Cecilia's laughter tinkling at Renzi's sallies.

Kydd watched them helplessly. His sister had changed. There was not a trace of childhood chubbiness left: her strong features had developed into strikingly dark good looks and a languorous elegance. Her position with Lady Stanhope had allowed her to find an easy confidence and elegance of speech that he could only envy; he followed them, trying to look unconcerned.

Crowds pressed everywhere, while excited chatter and the smell of fireworks hung on the air. People held back respectfully. Kydd was not sure whether it was in recognition of them as gentlefolk or because of the Navy uniform. Closer to the torch-lit balcony the throng was tightly packed and they had to remain some distance back.

Cecilia kept Renzi's arm, but pulled Kydd forward, attracting envious looks from other ladies. "Oh, I'm so proud of you!" she exclaimed, her voice raised above the excited babble of the crowd. She smiled at them both, and Kydd felt better.

"It was th' admiral gave me m' step, Cec—there in th' great cabin o' Monarch." Kydd paused, remembering the scene. "But it were Cap'n Essington put me forward."

A deep thumping came from the other side, further down the high street: the Royal Surreys called out to do duty on this naval occasion. Thin sounds of fife and trumpet rose above the hubbub, strengthening as they approached. Then, with a pair of loud double thumps on the bass drum, it ceased.

The crowd surged below the balcony and settled into a tense expectation. Torchlight illuminated upturned faces, caught the sparkle of eyes, the glitter of gold lace. At the signs of indistinct movement within, a rustle of anticipation arose and the mayor emerged on to the balcony in his best scarlet gown and tricorne, resplendent with his chain of office. "M' lords, ladies an' gen-nelmen! Pray silence for the mighty victor o' the great battle o' Camperdown, our own—Adm'ral Onslow!"

The genial sea officer Kydd remembered stepped out on to the balcony. A furious storm of cheering met him, a roar of wholehearted and patriotic acclaim. Onslow, in his full-dress admiral's uniform, sword and decorations, bared his head and bowed this way and that, manifestly affected by the welcome.

Kydd watched him turn again and again to face all parts of the crowd. At one point he thought he had caught the admiral's eye, and wondered if he should wave back, but there was no sign of recognition.

The noise subsided, and Onslow moved to the front of the balcony. He fumbled in his coat, and withdrew a paper. He hesitated, then put the paper back, straightening to a quarterdeck brace. "M' lord mayor an' lady—citizens of Guildford!" he began. "I thank ye for your fine and loyal address followin' the action off Camperdown. But I must make something very clear to ye. An admiral doesn't win battles, the seamen do. An' I cannot stand here tonight without I acknowledge this before you all! Over there t' larb'd! Yes, those two men, ahoy! Be s' good as to join me and show y'selves! These are two of your true victors o' Camperdown!"

"Thomas—go!" Cecilia squealed, when it became obvious whom the admiral had singled out. The crowd shuffled and fell back.

Onslow was waiting for them and shook their hands warmly. "A fine thing t' see ye both," he rumbled, his keen eyes taking in their new uniforms. "Let's out an' give 'em a sight, then you'll honour me with y'r presence at the presentation."

They emerged together on the balcony to a roar, Kydd waving awkwardly, Renzi bowing. Kydd's eyes searched out Cecilia. She was shouting something to him, waving furiously, and his heart swelled.

"A capital choice," Renzi said, removing his coat and standing in waistcoat and breeches. "It seems we shall be waiting out Tenacious's repair in a tolerable degree of comfort." He settled into a substantial high-backed chair.

Kydd rubbed his hands before the fire. The agent had left, and they had taken on this half-mansion below the castle for a reasonable sum. The owner had apparently instructed that officers in His Majesty's service could rely on his patriotic duty in the matter of a lease. Not only that but, agreeably, they could share the services of domestic staff with the adjoining residence, which, as it was inhabited by an old lady, should be no trial.

Kydd looked around him with growing satisfaction, albeit tinged with trepidation. The rooms were not large, but were bigger than anything he had lived in before. He'd always known that the heart of the home was the kitchen, but here it seemed that this elegant room had taken its place.

The walls were a soft sage colour, the broad, generous sash windows were hung with muslin and festoon curtains, and stout druggets lay beneath his feet instead of oiled floorcloths. The furniture was reassuringly old-fashioned and sturdy. He turned again to the fire with its plain but well-proportioned marble surround and mantelpiece, and felt an unstoppable surge of happiness. "Two or three months, d'ye suppose?" he mused, recalling the savage wounds Tenacious had suffered.

"I would think so." Renzi sat sprawled, his eyes closed.

"Nicholas, th' sun is not yet above th' foreyard, but I have a desire t' toast our fortune!"

Renzi half opened his eyes. "Please do. You will not find me shy of acknowledging that it is these same fates that determine whether one should die of a loathsome disease or—"

"Clap a stopper on it, brother!" Kydd laughed. "I'll go 'n' rouse out somethin' we c'n—"

"I think not."

"Why—"

"Pray touch the bell for the servant."

"Aye, Nicholas," Kydd said humbly. He found the well-worn but highly polished silver bell and rang it self-consciously.

"Sir?" A manservant in blue, with a plain bob wig, appeared.

Renzi pulled himself upright. "Should you unlock my grey valise you will find a brace of cognac. Pray be so good as to open one for us."

"Certainly, sir," the man said, with a short bow, and withdrew.

Kydd tried to look unconcerned and toasted his rear until the servant returned bearing a gilt tray.

"A votre sante," Renzi said.

"A votter sonday," Kydd echoed awkwardly. The brandy burned a passage to his empty stomach.

Renzi stood up, raising his glass to Kydd. "Our present fortune. May this indeed be a true augury of our future."

"Aye, an' may we never find th' need t' deny our past ever," Kydd responded. "Nicholas. M' true friend." He looked sideways at Renzi and, seeing he was attending politely, pressed on: "I've been a-thinkin'—you don't care if I say my mind?"

"My dear fellow! If it were any other I would feel betrayed."

"Well, Nicholas, this is all more'n I could ever hope for, somethin' that can only happen if—if y'r destiny is written somewhere, I reckon. So I'm takin' this chance wi' both hands! I'll give it m' rousin' best copper-bottomed, double-barrelled, bevel-edged try, I will!"

Renzi nodded. "Of course, brother."

"So this is what I have t' do." Kydd took a determined pull on his brandy. "I've seen y'r tarpaulin officer come aft through the hawse, a right taut son o' Neptune. Ye sees him on watch on th' quarterdeck an' it puts y'r heart at ease. But, Nicholas, I don't want t' be a tarpaulin officer. They're stayin' l'tenants all their days, fine messmates I'm sure, but who should say—plain in their habits. The other officers step ashore t'gether while they stays aboard 'n' makes friends wi' a bottle."

He glanced down at the glass in his hands. "I want t' be a reg'lar-built King's officer and gentleman, Nicholas, an' I asks you what I c'n do to be one o' them."

Renzi's half-smile appeared. "If this is your wish, Tom—yet I'll have you know there is no shame in being one of nature's gentlemen . . ."

"If y' will—"

"Ah. All in good time, dear fellow. This does require a mort of reflection . . ."

It was all very well for Kydd to ask this of him, even if what he said was perfectly reasonable—but in truth the job was nigh impossible. Renzi's eye covertly took in Kydd's figure: instead of a fine-drawn, willowy courtliness there were strong shoulders and slim hips standing four-square; rather than a distinguished slender curve to the leg, his knee-breeches betrayed sculpted musculature. And in place of a fashionably cool, pale countenance there was a hearty oaken one, whose open good humour was not designed for societal discretion. And yet he was undoubtedly intelligent: Renzi had seen his quick wits at work. But Kydd would have to learn to value politeness and convention—not his strongest suit. Then there was his speech—Renzi squirmed to think of the sport others would make of him behind his back. The probable course of events, then, would be for Kydd to retreat into the comfort of bluff sea-doggery, and thereby exclude himself from gentle-born society. But this was his particular friend: he could not refuse him.

"Mr Kydd, as now I must call you, this is what I propose." He fixed him with a stare. "Should you choose this path then I must warn you that the way is arduous. There's many a chance to stumble. Are you prepared for a hard beat to wind'd?"

"I am."

"And there are, er, matters you must accept without question, which are not, on the face of it, either reasonable or explicable. Do you undertake that you will accept from me their necessity without question?"

Kydd paused. "Aye."

"Very well. I will give you my full assistance in your worthy endeavour, and if you stay the course, for you may indeed wish to yield the race at any point—"

"Never!"

"—then I in turn agree to assist in your elevation into society."

Kydd flushed. "I won't shame ye to y'r friends, if that is y'r meaning."

"That was not my meaning, but let us make a start." He reached for the cognac and filled Kydd's glass. "There is a beginning to everything, and in this it is the understanding that for a gentleman it is appearances that define. Politeness, the courtesies due to a lady, these are held at a value far above that of courage out on a yard, true saltwater seamanship. It is unfair, but it is the world. Now, in the matter of the courtesies, we have . . ."

Kydd persevered. He was aware that Renzi's precepts were introductory only and that there lay ahead a challenge of insight and understanding far different from anything he had encountered before. The morning lengthened, and by the time Renzi had reached the proper use of euphemisms Kydd was flagging.

They heard the rap of the front-door knocker. "I'll go," Kydd said, rising.

"You shall not!" Renzi's words stopped him, and he subsided into his chair.

The manservant entered with a small silver tray in his gloved hands and went pointedly to Renzi. "Are you at home, sir?"

Renzi picked up a card. "I am to this young lady, thank you."

"Very well, sir."

As the servant left, Renzi shot to his feet. "Square away, Tom—it's your sister!"

Cecilia entered the sitting room, eyes darting around. "Er, you're welcome, Cec," Kydd said, trying vainly to remember his morning exercises in civilities.

She acknowledged Renzi with a shy bob. "Mother said—such a silly—that men are not to be trusted on their own in a domestic situation. How insulting to you!"

"I do apologise, Miss Kydd, that we are not dressed to receive. I hope you understand."

"Nicholas?" Cecilia said, puzzled, but then her expression cleared. "But of course—you're standing on ceremony for Thomas's sake." She looked at her brother fondly.

Kydd smouldered.

Cecilia, ignoring him, crossed to a candlestand and delicately sniffed the nearest. "Well, it's none of my business, but I can't help observing that unless you have means beyond the ordinary, beeswax candles must, sadly, be accounted an extravagance. Tallow will be sufficient—unless, of course, you have visitors." She crossed to the windows and made play of freeing the shutters. "You will be aware how vital it is to preserve furniture from the sun."

"We c'n manage," Kydd growled. "An' I'll thank ye to keep y'r household suggestions to y'rself."

"Thomas! I came only out of concern for your — "

"Cec, Nicholas is tellin' me the right lay t' be a gentleman. Please t' leave us to it."

"Indeed!"

"Dear Miss Kydd, your kindness in enquiring after our situation is handsomely done," said Renzi, "yet I feel it is probably a man's place to impart to another the graces of a gentleman."

Cecilia hesitated. "That's as maybe, Mr Renzi, but there is another purpose to my visit. You appear to have forgotten that a naval uniform will not answer in all appearances in polite society. I came merely to offer my services in a visit to the tailor."

At the tailor's Cecilia was not to be dissuaded. She quickly disposed of Kydd's initial preferences. A yellow waistcoat, while undoubtedly fetching, was apparently irredeemably vulgar: dark green, double-breasted was more the thing; she conceded on the gold piping at the pockets. Buff breeches, a rust-coloured coat, and for half-dress, a bon de Paris with discreet gold frogging would be of the highest ton—she was not sure about the lace.

"An' what's the reckonin' so far?" Kydd had done well in prize money in the Caribbean, and after Camperdown there would be more, but this must be costing a shocking sum.

Cecilia pressed on relentlessly. A dark blue frock coat was essential, in the new style with cut-away skirts that ended in split tails for an elegant fall while horse-riding—it seemed frivolous to Kydd, who was more used to a sensible full-skirted warmth. A quantity of linen shirts was put in train, and material for a cravat was purchased that Cecilia insisted only she might be trusted to make.

Kydd rebelled at pantaloons, long breeches that could be tucked into boots. Knee breeches were what he would be seen in—no one would mistake him for a damned macaroni.

The tailor, gratified at patronage by those so recently in the public eye, promised that he would bend his best efforts to have them delivered soon. Kydd was then escorted to the bootmaker and, finally, to the premises of Henry Tidmarsh, hosier, hatter and glover, where he found for himself a dashing light-grey brimmed hat with a silver buckle.

As Kydd tried on hats, Renzi came up beside Cecilia. "Quite a transformation," he murmured.

"Yes, Nicholas," agreed Cecilia, keeping her voice low, "but I fear he will be thought a coxcomb if his dress is not matched by his manners."

She turned to him, her hand on his arm. "Dear Nicholas, I know you are trying your best, but Thomas can be very stubborn if he chooses. Do bear him with patience, I pray."

"Of course. But the hardest for him will undoubtedly be his articulations—his speech damns him at once."

Cecilia touched his arm. "Is there anything, perhaps, that I can do?"

Renzi's thoughts had taken quite another course. She was no longer the ingenuous girl-child he had known from before. Cecilia was a desirable, self-possessed woman, who would be an ornament to any social gathering. "Er, this is possibly something we could discuss together, should you be at leisure." He felt a flush rising at the implication of the words.

"Why, Nicholas!" Cecilia said gaily. "If I didn't know you more, I'd be obliged to consider you importunate." She flashed him a smile, and turned her attention to her brother's fancy in hats.

Although he was now entitled to do so, Kydd could not indulge in the wigs that he had learned to make in his apprenticeship: the comet, the royal bird, the long bob—even the striking Cadogan puff—were now no longer fashionable. He would wear nothing, simply a neat black ribbon to hold back his hair at the nape of the neck. Hair-powder was taxed, so it would be quite understood if he left his hair as nature intended.

True to his word, the tailor delivered his work in only three days, and Kydd stood before the full-length bedroom mirror, regarding himself doubtfully. A generous cut on the waistcoat avoided any tense wrinkling resulting from muscle-play beneath, but the buff breeches seemed to cling indecently close. However, if he had to appear in public, this was not a bad beginning, he thought. He gazed down approvingly at the white stockings and buckled shoes, then whirled once about.

"Glad to see you in spirits, brother," came from behind him.

"Aye, what must be . . ." said Kydd, adjusting a cuff. "Are ye ready, Nicholas?"

"Ah!" Renzi waved a finger.

"What? Oh! I meant t' say, are you prepared, Mr Renzi?"

"Then let us sally forth on the world."

Renzi was in brown, a complete dark brown, with breeches, coat and even waistcoat in the colour, relieved only by the cream gush of his cravat and the stockings. In the manner of a Romantic he sported a broad-brimmed dark hat worn at a rakish angle.

It was the first time Kydd had used an ebony cane. As they passed along Chapel Street it felt awkward to the hand, whether he swung it at each pace to click on the ground or twirled it about. He fought down a sense of fakery, but after the second time a passer-by made way respectfully for him he felt happier.

They passed under the big clock in the high street—the beadle outside the town hall touched his hat to them—turned down a side-street and entered a dingy doorway.

"Might I present M'sieur Jupon? He is engaged to be your dancing master." A short but fierce-eyed man swept down in the most extravagant leg to Kydd, then straightened, fixing him with a challenging stare.

"Er, pleased t' meet ye," Kydd stuttered, and essayed a jerky bow. Jupon and Renzi exchanged glances.

"M'sieur Jupon will instruct you in the graces of movement and courtesy, and you will attend here for one hour daily until you have mastered the elements."

"Ah, Mr Kydd, you're not boardin' your ship now, sir. Do try a little grace in y'r movements." The voice of the lady horse-master carried effortlessly across the ring. She could well be relied on to hail the foreyard from the quarterdeck in a blow, Kydd thought.

The horse, however, had sensed his innocence, swishing its tail and playing with its bit. Its eyes rolled in anticipation while Kydd struggled to heave himself up, staggering one-footed in a circle.

Renzi dismounted and came across. He checked the girth and yanked on the stirrup. "Ah, the stablehand is having his amusement. You'd have your knees round your ears with this! We'll ease away—so." The stirrups descended, the horse quieter under Renzi's firm hand. He slapped the horse familiarly on the rump. "Look, here's a tip. Make a fist, and touch the stirrup bar up here. Now swing the iron up under your arm, and the right length for you will be when it just touches the body."

Kydd swung up nervously into the saddle, suddenly finding himself at a great height. The horse snorted and tossed its head. He felt that it was biding its time before wreaking some terrible revenge.

"So we seem t' have made up our mind to go ridin' at last." A sarcastic bellow came across the ring to him. "We start wi' the walk."

The horse plodded in a circle, and Kydd's confidence grew.

"Back straight, Mr Kydd." He forced his spine to rigidity and completed another circle. "Jehosaphat Moses! Keep y'r back supple, Mr Kydd. Let y'r hips rock with the horse, sir!"

The trot was more to his liking with its brisk motion, but the horse whinnied with frustration at the tight rein and Kydd eased it a little.

A gate was opened into a larger field, and Renzi began to canter. Kydd followed behind, feeling the thud of hoofs through the animal's frame and hearing snorts of effort coming from the great beast beneath him. It was exhilarating, and he relaxed into it. The horse seemed to sense this and responded with a more fluid, faster motion.

"Well done, Mr Kydd!" he heard. " ' Collected an' light in hand,' we say."

As he turned he saw the woman pull out a large fob watch. "To me!" she demanded impatiently.

Kydd felt the horse respond to his signals with knee and reins and suddenly was reluctant to finish for the morning. Impulsively, he clapped his knees to the beast's barrel-like sides. After a brief hesitation the horse responded and broke into a gallop. Instinctively Kydd acted as he would aloft, his standing crouch that of a topman leaning forward to hand a billowing sail. The horse stretched out down the length of the field. Now wildly excited, Kydd caught a glimpse of figures staring at him as he thundered past. The wind tore through his hair, the din of hoofs and the animal's rhythmic movements beat on his senses.

A gnarled wooden fence spread across his vision. As they hurtled towards it, Kydd considered an emergency turn to larboard. Far behind him a faint bellow sounded: "Bridge y'r reins! Bridge your reins!" but he was too far gone. The horse threw itself at the rails. There was a momentary muscular tensing, a lunge into space, then all was quiet for a heartbeat before the beast landed with a mighty thud and a jerk.

Kydd stayed aboard as the horse raced away through nondescript winter-brown bracken and into the woods beyond. It hesitated in mid-stride, then swerved on to a woodland path, Kydd ducking to avoid whip-like branches.

He became aware of hoofbeats out of synchrony with his own, and indistinct shouting. He guessed it would be Renzi following, but dared not look behind. He shot past a gaping greenwood forager, then reached a more substantial lane across their path.

The horse skidded as it negotiated a random turn, but the mud slowed it, and the gallop became less frantic. It panted heavily as it slowed to a trot. Renzi caught up and grasped the reins. "How are you, brother?"

Kydd flashed a wide grin. "Spankin' fine time, Nicholas, s' help me," he said breathlessly, his face red with exertion.

Renzi hid a grin. "And what has happened to your decorum, sir?"

"Oh? Aye, yes. Er, a capital experience, sir."

They rode together for a space. The lane widened and a small cottage came into view ahead. "Do dismount, old fellow, and ask directions back," Renzi suggested. Gingerly, Kydd leaned forward to bring his leg across the saddle, but in a flash he had toppled backwards into the black winter mud, still with one foot in a stirrup.

The horse stamped and rolled its eyes as Kydd got ruefully to his feet and trudged down the garden path to the door.

It was answered by a stooped old man with alert bright eyes. Before Kydd could speak, he smiled. "Ah, Master Kydd, I do believe? Thomas Kydd?"

"Aye, y'r in the right of it," Kydd said. "That is t' say, you have th' advantage of me, sir."

The man feigned disappointment. Kydd's face cleared. "O' course! Parson Deane!" It seemed so long ago that, as a boy, he had taken delight in going to the lakeside with the old man and his dog after duck. "I hope I find you in health, sir," he said. The parson glanced up at Renzi, who was still mounted. "Oh, sir, this is Mr Renzi, my particular friend. Mr Renzi, this is the Rev'nd Deane."

Renzi inclined his head. "My honour, sir. Our apologies at this intrusion, we merely seek a more expedient way back to our manege."

Deane's face creased in pleasure. "I shall tell you, should you come inside and accept a dish of tea while Thomas tells me where he's been spending his days."

They left the horses to crop grass outside the garden fence and went into the parson's house. Deane looked at Kydd keenly, clearly enjoying his sparse recital of his impressment and subsequent adventures. "So now you're an officer?"

Kydd grinned boyishly. "L'tenant Kydd!" he said, with swelling pride.

"Then you are now, in the eyes of the whole world, a gentleman. Is this not so?"

It seemed appropriate to bow wordlessly.

Deane contemplated Kydd for a long moment. "Do you stop me if I appear impertinent," he said, "yet I would later remember this moment with shame were I not to share with you now my thoughts concerning your station."

"It would be f'r my advantage, Mr Deane." He couldn't resist a quick glance of triumph at Renzi—after all, he had remembered the polite words—but Renzi responded with a frown. Obediently Kydd turned all his attention to the old man.

"It seems to me that the essence of a gentleman is to be found in his good breeding, his impeccable civility to all, including his servants. 'Manners maketh man,' as the Good Book teaches us. Outer manners reflect inner virtue."

Renzi nodded slowly. "The worthy Locke is insistent on this point," he murmured.

"It is never quite easy for the young to acquire the civil virtues," the parson continued. " 'Quo semel est imbuta recens, servabit oderem testa diu,' was Horace's view, and by this you should understand . . ."

* * *

Kydd stirred restlessly in his armchair. "Gettin' to be a gallows' sight more'n a man c'n take, Cec, all this'n."

Cecilia affected not to hear. Kydd glanced at her irritably. "I mean, how much o' this is going to stand by me at sea?"

"That's better," Cecilia said demurely, but laid down her book. "Now I'm sure the other officers will be polite and well bred, so you must be the same."

Kydd snorted.

Renzi sighed. "You have still three issues of the Gentleman's Magazine to digest, to my certain knowledge," he said accusingly.

"And a Spectator," Cecilia chimed in. "How can you keep a lady entertained at table without you have small-talk to share?"

She looked at Renzi in mock despair, then brightened. "Mr Renzi, have you seen our castle? The merest ruin, I'll grant, but of an age indeed. Mama will be persuaded to come—she knows all the history."

"I'm wore out," said Mrs Kydd, finding a wooden bench overlooking what remained of the castle keep. "You two have a good look roun' by y'rselves."

Cecilia was agreeable, and Renzi took her on his arm for the stony path winding about the castle mound. The winter sun had a fragile brilliance, contrasting colour bright with grey and brown tints.

"It grieves me to say it, but Thomas did not shine at the tea-party in any wise," he opened. He was uncomfortably aware of her touch—it had been long years since last he had enjoyed polite female company, and Cecilia was now a beauty.

"Yes—the silly boy, sitting there like a stuffed goose while the ladies made sport of him. I despair, Nicholas, I really do."

Renzi assisted Cecilia past a perilous rock. She flashed him a look of gratitude, then dropped her eyes, but her hold on his arm tightened.

"Miss Kydd . . ." began Renzi thickly, then stopped. With his own feelings about her far from clear was it fair—was it honour-able?—to engage her affections?

"Yes, Nicholas?" she said, smiling up at him.

He pulled himself up. "I was . . . Your mother confides that you have secured the liveliest trust in your position with Lady Stanhope."

"I have been very fortunate," she said gravely. Then a smile broke through. "You've no idea how many of the highest in the land I've seen. Lady Stanhope requires I attend her at all her routs and I'm sure it's only to find me a husband."

"And — "

"Don't be a silly, Nicholas. I'm sensible of my fortune in this and, I do declare, I'm not ready to forsake it all now for the tedium of domestic life." She tossed her head, eyes sparkling.

After another few paces she turned to him with a troubled expression. "Thomas—he . . ."

He knew what concerned her: her brother would find himself first ridiculed and later shunned if he could not hold his own in company. "Time is short, I agree. Do you not think that we are obligated to press him to enter in upon society in a more formal degree?"

Cecilia bit her lip, then decided. "A dinner party! Now, let me see . . . We have the pick of Guildford, of course, a hostess would die to entertain a brace of heroes from Camperdown, but I rather feel that at this stage Thomas would not welcome the public eye too warmly." She thought for a moment, then said, "I know—I'll speak with Mrs Crawford, advise her that after such a dreadful battle Thomas relishes nothing better than a small, intimate gathering. I'll be seeing her on Thursday and shall speak to her then."

"Splendid," responded Renzi. It would indeed be a suitable occasion for Kydd, if he could overcome his timidity in august surroundings. He beamed approval at Cecilia.

"Er, Nicholas," she said off-handedly, "something that I keep forgetting to ask. It's just my ill-bred curiosity, but you've never mentioned your own people." She stopped to admire a singularly gnarled small tree.

"My own? Well . . . shall I say they're just an Old Country family of Wiltshire whom I haven't attended as assiduously as I might?"

Kydd sat motionless at the bare table, listening while Cecilia explained and cautioned, his expression hard but in control.

"No, Thomas, it just will not do. We do not enter like a herd of goats to feed. First to take their places are the ladies, and they will occupy one end of the table. When they are seated the gentlemen proceed—but, mark this, in strict order. They will be placed at the table in the same succession."

Cecilia's eyes flicked once to Renzi, then turned back to Kydd.

Kydd's face tightened, but he kept his silence.

"Now, Mrs Crawford always dines a la frangaise, as you know, Thomas, and allows promiscuous seating so a man may sit next to a lady, though some find this too racy for the English taste, and in this . . ."

Renzi's sympathy was all too transparent. "I do rather think that Tom is more a man of daring and action, dear sister. This posturing must be a disagreeable strain for such a one."

"Nevertheless, he shall require his manners wherever he may be," Cecilia said coldly. "A gentleman does not put aside his breeding simply for the perils of the moment. Now, please attend, Thomas." "Miss Cecilia Kydd, Mr Thomas Kydd and Mr Nicholas Renzi!" blared the footman.

The babble of conversations faded: it was common knowledge that the two guests now arrived had suffered in the legendary October clash off the Dutch coast, and it had been said that they had chosen tonight to resume their place in polite society. There were many curious rumours about these officers, but no doubt before the night was over the details would have been made clear.

A wave of determined females advanced, led by the hostess, and the groups dissolved in a flurry of introductions.

"Enchanted," said Mr Kydd, making a creditable but somewhat individual leg to a gratified Mrs Crawford.

"Do say if you become too fatigued, Mr Kydd," she said, eyeing his broad shoulders. "You'll find us in the utmost sympathy with your time of trial."

"That is most kind in ye, dear Mrs Crawford," the handsome sailor-officer replied gravely.

She turned reluctantly to the other one, a sensitive-looking, rather more austere gentleman, and, reclaimed by her duty, murmured politely.

They sat down to dinner under the golden glitter of chandelier and crystal, to polite approbation at the first remove.

"May I help you t' a portion of this fine shott, Miss Tuffs?" said Mr Kydd, politely. The young lady on his left, nearly overcome at being noticed by one of the principal guests, could only stutter her thanks, tinged with alarm at the resulting pile of roast piglet generously heaped to occupy the whole plate.

"Sir, this toothsome venison demands your immediate attention. Might I . . ." The red-faced gentleman to the right would not be denied, and placed a satisfying amount on Mr Kydd's plate.

"Your servant, sir," said Mr Kydd, inclining his head.

It was clear that the middle-aged woman across from him was set on securing his attention. "The weather seems uncommon blowy for the time of year," she said.

Mr Kydd thought for a moment, and replied politely, "It's a saying ashore only, Mrs Wood, 'When the wind is in the east, 'tis no good to man nor beast.' And by this is meant that in the winter season we often shiver in th' winds o' Tartary from the east. Now, at sea we bless this wind, Mrs Wood, for it is a fair wind for our ships down-channel and . . ."

Fully satisfied in the matter of explanations, Mrs Wood retired to contemplate, at which Mr Kydd turned his attention to the red-faced gentleman. "Gentleman's Magazine's interestin' this week—says about your electric fluid invented by Mr Volta all comes from frog legs in the end," he remarked bravely.

The man shook his head slowly in amazement. "Now, that's something I never knew," he said at length. A look of barely concealed satisfaction suffused Mr Kydd's face as he looked up the table to where Mr Renzi sat quietly, nodding slowly.

A footman obliged with claret. "Wine with you, sir!" Mr Kydd said happily, with all the joyous relief to be expected of one having passed through a personal trial and not been found wanting. "I give you Lady Fortune, an' may she always be one!"

CHAPTER 2

"AYE, 'ERE SHE COMES, CAPTING," the inn porter said, indicating the gig under sail coming around Garrison Point. He held out his hand for a promised sixpence and left them to it, their chests and other impedimenta in a pile on Sheerness public jetty while they waited for the boat from Tenacious.

Kydd's heart bumped. This was the day he had been looking forward to these several months while Tenacious was under repair, the most important day of his life, the day he joined his ship confirmed in his rank, a King's officer. The day or so aboard after Camperdown didn't really count—he could hardly remember anything of the brute chaos and towering weariness in the wounded ship limping back to Sheerness.

The coxswain, a midshipman, cautiously rounded into the wind twenty yards off. Two seamen brailed up and secured the sail for a pull under oars the final distance to the jetty steps. It was not what Kydd would have done: the breeze, although fluky, was reliable enough for an approach under sail alone.

As the boat glided alongside, the sailors smacked the oars across their thighs and levered them aloft in one easy movement, just as Kydd had done in the not so distant past. His eyes passed over the boat and the four seamen, as he recalled the old saying, "You can always tell a ship by her boats." Was caution a feature of this ship, he wondered.

The sailors seemed capable, long-service able seamen economically securing the sea-chests and striking them into the centre of the boat, but Kydd sensed darting eyes behind his back as they took the measure of the new officers.

He and Renzi assumed their places in the sternsheets, at leisure while the midshipman took the tiller. The boat bobbed in the grey North Sea chop and Kydd's new uniform was sprinkled with its first saltwater. He tried to keep his face blank against surging excitement as they rounded the point to open up the view of the Nore anchorage—and his ship.

She was one of a straggling line of vessels of varying sizes moored in this transitory anchorage to await different destinies. A wisp of memory brushed his consciousness: it was at the Nore that he had been taken as a bitter victim of the press gang, so long ago now, it seemed.

He glanced back to the scatter of dockyard buildings, the low fort, the hulks, and a pang of feeling returned for Kitty Malkin, who had stood with him during the dark days of the Nore mutiny. She had uncannily foretold his elevation, and that she would not be a part of it. Other memories of the time came too, dark and emotional. The red flag of mutiny, the spiralling madness that had ended in savage retribution and shame. Memories he had fought hard to dim.

Kydd crushed the thoughts. He would look forward, not back, take his good fortune and move into the future with it. The phantoms began to fade.

"She's storing," Renzi said, as if reading something in his face.

"Er, yes, those are powder hoys alongside, she's ready t' sail," Kydd muttered, his eyes fixed on the approaching bulk of Tenacious. The foretopmast was still on deck for some reason but her long commissioning pennant flew from her masthead. Repairs complete, she now stood ready in the service of her country.

A faint bellow from the ship sounded over the plash of the bow wave. The bowman cupped his hand and bawled back, "Aye, aye!" warning Tenacious that her boat was bearing naval officers, who would expect to be received as the custom of the sea demanded.

The midshipman again doused sail and shipped oars for the last stretch. Kydd resolved to attend to the young gentleman's seamanship when the opportunity arose. The boat bumped against the stout sides and the bowman hooked on. Kydd held back as Renzi seized the handropes and left the boat. Although their commissions bore the same date, he was appointed fourth lieutenant aboard, and Kydd, as fifth, would always be first in the boat and last out.

The ship's sides were fresh painted, the thick wales black, with the lines of guns set in natural timber, smart in a bright preparation of turpentine and rosin. A strong wafting of the scent mixed pleasingly with that of salt spray.

Above, a boatswain's call pierced the clean, winter air. Kydd was being piped aboard a man-o'-war! He mounted the sidesteps: his eyes passed above the deck line to the boatswain's mate with his pipe on one side and two midshipmen as sideboys on the other. He touched his hat to the quarterdeck when he made the deck, and approached the waiting officer-of-the-watch. "Lieutenant Kydd, sir, appointed fifth l'tenant."

For a moment he feared this officer would accuse him of being an impostor, but the man merely smiled bleakly. "Cutting it a trifle fine, don't you think?" he said, then turned to the duty quartermaster and ordered the chests swayed inboard. Renzi came to stand with Kydd.

"Captain Houghton will want to see you immediately, I should think," the officer-of-the-watch said.

"Aye aye, sir," Kydd replied carefully, conscious of eyes on him from all over the busy decks. He remembered little of her from the exhausted hours he had spent aboard after the battle, fighting to bring the damaged vessel to safe harbour, but all ships had similar main features. He turned and went into the cabin spaces aft.

Renzi reported first. There was a rumble of voices; then the door opened. "Seems pleasant enough," he whispered to Kydd.

Kydd knocked and entered. The captain sat behind his desk facing him, taking advantage of the wan light coming through the stern windows. He was glowering at a paper.

"L'tenant Kydd come aboard t' join, sir."

"Don't sit," the captain said heavily. "You're to hold yourself ready to go ashore again."

"But, sir, why?"

"You are owed an explanation, I believe," Houghton said, looking at Kydd directly. "I've been given to understand that your origins are the lower deck, that is to say you have come aft through the hawse, as the expression goes."

"Er—aye, sir."

"Then this must be to your great credit, and shows evidence, no doubt, of sterling qualities of some kind. However . . ." He leaned back in his chair, still fixing Kydd with hard, grey eyes. ". . . I am determined that Tenacious under my command shall have a loyal band of officers of breeding, who will be able to represent the ship with, um, distinction, and who may be relied upon in the matter of courtesy and gentle conduct.

"You should understand that it is no reflection on yourself personally, when I say that I am applying to the commissioner to have you replaced with a more suitable officer for this vessel. There is no question in my mind that your services will be far more valuable to the service perhaps in a sloop or gunboat, not in a sail-of-the-line." He stood. "In the meantime you may wish to avail yourself of the conveniences of the wardroom. Carry on, please."

Kydd stuttered an acknowledgement and left. He felt numb: the swing from exhilaration to the bleakness of rejection was as savage as it was unexpected.

The mate-of-the-watch waited on the open deck. "Sir?" Kydd's chest and personal possessions lay in a small heap.

"Leave 'em for now." Kydd felt every eye on him as he went below to the wardroom. The only inhabitant was a marine captain sitting at the table, pencilling in an order book. He looked up. "Some sort o' mistake," Kydd mumbled. "I'm t' be replaced."

"Oh, bad luck, old trout."

Kydd took off his coat and sat at the other end of the table. As desolation built, he tried to subdue the feeling of homelessness, of not belonging in this select community. He got up abruptly and, pulling himself together, stepped out on deck. He had seen Renzi with a party forward getting the topmast a-taunt. Renzi would have no problems of breeding with this captain, and later he must find his friend and bid him farewell.

The officer-of-the-watch caught sight of Kydd and turned with a frown. Some waiting seamen looked at him with open amusement. Face burning, Kydd returned to the wardroom. It was half-way through the afternoon and the marine captain had left. A young wardroom servant was cleaning the table. "Ah, sorry, sir, I'll leave," he said, collecting his rags.

"No, younker, carry on," Kydd said. Any company was better than none.

He looked about. It was a surprisingly neat and snug space with louvred cabin doors looking inward to the long table along the centreline and the fat girth of the mizzen mast at one end. The bulkheads and doors were darkly polished rich mahogany, and at the other end there was plenty of light from the broad stern windows — even the privacy of a pair of officers' quarter galleries. She would be an agreeable ship for far voyaging.

This old class of 64s were surprisingly numerous—still probably near thirty left in service—and were known for their usefulness. As convoy escorts they could easily crush any predatory frigate, yet at a pinch could stand in the line of battle. In home waters the mainstay of the major battle fleets was the 74, but overseas, vessels like Tenacious were the squadron heavyweights.

Kydd's depression deepened as he wandered about the wardroom. On the rudder head he found a well-thumbed book, The Sermons of Mr Yorick. Raising his eyebrows in surprise he found that it was instead a novel by a Laurence Sterne, and he sat to read. Half-way into the first chapter and not concentrating, he heard a piping of the side and guessed that the captain had returned with news of his replacement.

Word was not long in coming. A midshipman pelted down and knocked sharply. "Lootenant Kydd? Sir, cap'n desires you wait on him."

On deck the officer-of-the-watch looked at him accusingly. His chest and bags, obviously a hindrance, had been moved to the base of the mainmast. "Be getting rid o' them soon," Kydd said defiantly, and went inside to see the captain.

This time Houghton stood up. "I won't waste our time. We're under notice for sea, and there's no officer replacement readily at hand. I see you will be accompanying us after all, Mr Kydd."

A leaping exultation filled Kydd's thoughts. Then a cooler voice told him that the explanation for his change of fortune was probably the inability of the commissioner's office to change the paperwork in time—an officer's commission was to a particular ship rather than the Navy as a whole, and could not easily be put aside.

"I'll not pretend that this is to my liking, Mr Kydd," the captain continued, "but I'm sure you'll do your duty as you see it to the best of your ability." He stared hard at Kydd. "You are the most junior officer aboard, and I need not remind you that if you fail me then, most assuredly, you will be landed at the first opportunity."

"I will not fail ye, sir."

"Umm. Quite so. Well, perhaps I'd better welcome you aboard as the fifth of Tenacious, Mr Kydd." He held out his hand, but his eyes remained bleak. "Show your commission and certificates to my clerk, and he will perform the needful. My first lieutenant has your watch details and you will oblige me by presenting yourself on deck tomorrow morning for duty."

Excitement stole back to seize Kydd as he stood in the wardroom supervising his gear being carried down. His cabin was the furthest forward of four on the larboard side, and he opened the door with trepidation: only a short time ago this had been officers' private territory.

It was small. He would be sharing his night-time thoughts with a gleaming black eighteen-pounder below, and his cot, triced up to the deckhead for now, ensured that he could never stand upright. He would have to find room for his chest, cocked-hat box, sword, personal oddments and books. A cunningly designed desk occupied the forward width, taking advantage of the outward curve of the ship's side. He pulled at its little drawers and wondered which dead officer had unintentionally left it behind for others.

The gunport was open. At sea it would be closed and then the cabin would be a diminutive place indeed, but he had been in smaller. He tried the chair at the desk. It was tiny, but well crafted to fit into such a space, tightly but comfortably enfolding his thighs. He eased into it and looked around. Spartan it might be, but it was the first true privacy he had ever experienced aboard ship. His eyes followed the line of intersection where the bulkhead met the overhead beams. The thin panels were slotted: at "beat to quarters" this entire cabin would be dismantled and struck down in the hold below. Over the door he noticed a ragged line of colour, where a curtain had once been fastened to cover the door space; he could have the door open and still retain a modicum of privacy.

It was adequate, it was darkly snug—and it was his. He went to his chest and rummaged around. Carefully stored at the bottom was his commission. Undoing the red silk ribbon he unfolded the crackling parchment and read it yet again.

By the Commissioners for executing the Office of Lord High Admiral of Great Britain . . . Lieutenant Thomas Kydd. . . we to appoint you Lieutenant of His Majesty's Ship the Tenacious. . . strictly charging the Offcers and all the Ship's Company . . . all due Respect and Obedience unto you their said Lieutenant. . .

Kydd savoured the noble words. It concluded sombrely:

Hereof nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer to the contrary at your peril. And for so doing this shall be your Warrant. . .

It was signed Evan Nepean, secretary to the Admiralty, and the date of seniority, 20 January 1798, with the scarlet Admiralty seal embossed to the left. This single document would figure prominently for the rest of Kydd's life, defining station and position, rank and pay, authority and rule. He creased it carefully and put it away. A deep breath turned into a sigh, which he held for a long time.

He turned and found himself confronting a black man. "Tysoe, sir, James Tysoe, your servant," he said, in a well-spoken tone.

Kydd was taken aback, not that Tysoe was black but at the realisation that here was proof positive of the status he had now achieved. "Ah, yes." He had had a servant in the gunroom before, but this was altogether different: then it had been a knowing old marine shared with all the others; here the man was his personal valet. "Do carry on, if y' please," Kydd said carefully.

Tysoe hesitated. "I think it were best, sir, should I stow your cabin."

"Thank ye, no, I'll take care of it," Kydd said, with a smile. There was nothing too personal in his possessions, but the thought of a stranger invading his privacy was an alien notion.

"Sir, I can do it," Tysoe said softly. Something in his voice told Kydd that he should let the man go about his business. Then he realised that, of course, Tysoe needed to know the location of everything if he was to keep his master well clothed and fettled.

"Well, just be steady with the octant," Kydd admonished him.

"Lieutenant Kydd, I believe!" Renzi chuckled as he entered the wardroom.

Kydd's heart was full, but he was still unsettled by his unfortunate welcome to the ship and could only manage, "Aye, do I see Lieutenant Renzi before me?"

Renzi dumped a number of well-used order books on the table. "Well, my friend, it does seem this is a task it would be prudent to begin immediately, if not earlier."

Regulations. Orders. Directions. Covering every possible situation. Each in careful phrasing ensuring that every subordinate in the chain of command would be in no doubt that if any disagreeable situation arose it would not be the fault of his superior.

From the Admiralty:

Article: The Captain is to demand from the Clerk of the Survey a book, with the inventory of the stores committed to the charge of the Boatswain and Carpenter . . .

Article: If any be heard to curse or blaspheme the name of God, the Captain is strictly required to punish them for every offence by causing them to wear a wooden collar . . .

Article: The Lieutenant is expected that he do provide himself with the necessary instruments, maps and books of navigation, and he is to keep a journal according to the form set down and at the end of the voyage shall deliver copies thereof signed by himself into the Admiralty and Navy Offices...

Article: No commander shall inflict any punishment upon a seaman beyond twelve lashes upon his bare back with a cat of nine tails, according to the ancient practice of the sea . . .

The commander in chief of the North Sea Fleet had his own instructions—from the timing of the evening gun when at anchor, to conduct when in sight of the enemy—all in all a dizzying succession of domestic detail, mixed with grave admonitions to duty.

Kydd sensed movement outside.

"Well, now, if I'm not mistook, here's our fourth and fifth lootenants!" It was a pleasant-faced young officer, rubbing his hands with cold.

"Ah, Thomas Kydd, sir, at your service."

"Well, then, my dear sir, I am your humble and obedient Gervase Adams, third of this barky—was junior luff in Raven, sadly no more." Kydd shook hands, grateful for the friendliness.

Adams turned to Renzi. "Give you joy of your step, Renzi," he said formally, holding out his hand. Renzi had served for a small time in Tenacious as master's mate: he'd been part of the ship's company at Camperdown. Kydd realised that they assumed his origins to be a senior midshipman promoted, not someone from forward, as he was.

Adams looked over Kydd's shoulder at the books. "This is what you should be boning up on, m' boy." He tapped one marked "Captain's Orders." "This owner is new to me, but if he's running to form he'll expect you to have it by heart in a day—'This is the word of the Lord: hear ye and obey!'"

There was a knock at the door and Adams crossed to answer it. "L'tenant Kydd! Seems first luff has need of the solace of your company at this time."

Kydd hesitated, partly out of concern for the reception he would receive from the captain's deputy, partly out of confusion as to where to go. He knew the first lieutenant's cabin would be here in the wardroom, the largest one to starboard and right in the stern, but it was unoccupied.

"In harbour he sets up shop in the coach next to the captain's cabin, you'll find." Adams paused. "Bryant the Beatific. The men call him Bull—last ship a frigate, and he wants his own command so bad it stinks. I'd steer small with him, Kydd, to be sure."

"Sit, sir." Bryant finished his scrawling. "So, Mr Kydd, you're the fifth and junior. I've put you with Mr Bampton as second officer-of-the-watch until you can prove yourself. And I'll have you know, sir, that if you don't—and that damn soon—I'll see you broke. That I promise. Understand?"

"Sir."

He consulted his paper. "And you'll take the afterguard, where you're under my eye." He looked up. "Heard you came aft the hard way—and heard else—you'll not be shy in a fight an' I like that. Now, you bat square with me, and you'll do. Right?"

"Aye, sir." Kydd was not sure what he was implying, and answered cautiously. The man, with his aggressive, out-thrust jaw and direct, almost angry manner, unsettled him.

"Ah, yes—and you'll be signal lootenant, o' course."

"But, sir, I—"

"Then you'll learn, damn it, like we all did!" Bryant snapped. "You've got a signal midshipman, Rawson, and two steady hands on the bunting. Do y' want a wet nurse as well?"

"I'll do m' duty right enough." Kydd felt himself reddening.

Bryant eased back in his chair. "Let's see. You were entered as a landman in 'ninety-three, then shipped in Artemis frigate around the world, did a few years in the Caribbean and came back a master's mate. Earned their lordships' approbation in the late mutiny at the Nore, and didn't disgrace yourself at Camperdown." He slapped the papers back into their pack. "I'm sure you'll do your duty, Mr Kydd." He rose. "Now, keep station on me—it's a new wardroom, we need to make our number to each other."

The long table was laid with a starched white cloth and silver was much in evidence. It was close on four o'clock, supper time; aboard ship it was always taken considerably earlier than on land.

Kydd lost Bryant in a swirl of officers as old friends warmly greeted each other and new ones respectfully made themselves known. Renzi was deep in conversation with a plainly dressed man who had a curiously neat and sensitive face. Kydd made to cross to him, but a glass was thrust into his hand, and Adams's pleasant face appeared. "A tincture with you, m' friend," he said, leaning back while a seaman politely plied a bottle. The wine was deep and red, and eased Kydd's trepidation.

"Your very good health, sir," Kydd said. Adams smiled, then turned to an older lieutenant, but before he could speak, Bryant, attended by a steward, took the head of the table, his back to the stern windows.

"We sit now," warned Adams, and led Kydd quickly to the opposite end of the table, to one side of the thickness of the miz-zen mast growing up at the end. Then he swung round deftly and sat opposite.

A buzz of talk arose. Bryant roared down the table, "Wine with you, Mr Kydd!"

The table fell quiet and Kydd caught covert glances in his direction. He tried to gather his wits. "C-confusion to the French!" he called, raising his glass to Bryant. The words seemed weak and theatrical after the hearty oaths of seamen.

The marine captain raised his glass and declaimed drily, "And to ourselves—as no one else is likely to concern themselves with our welfare."

"Damn right!" Bryant said vigorously, and drank deeply, then held up his empty glass. Talk began again, but Bryant banged a spoon on the table. "Gentlemen!" he demanded loudly. "Today sees Tenacious with her company of officers complete. We're in commission, and we'll be rejoining the North Sea Fleet very shortly. I believe it's not too soon to make our acquaintance of each other."

Kydd could hear a bottle being opened out of sight as he positioned his glass. He was grateful to the wine for settling his apprehensions.

"I'm your premier. My last ship was Thetis, thirty-eight, in the Indian Ocean, where we saw not much o' the French worth a spit. I hope to see some better sport before long." He pitched his voice to the older lieutenant. "Now you, sir."

"Bampton, second luff, only officer surviving after Camperdown. Served two years with the North Sea Fleet in Tenacious before," he added drily.

"Ah, was you at the Nore mutiny?" the marine wanted to know.

"Yes." Kydd froze. "And no. I was set ashore by the mutinous villains—but had the pleasure later of seeing 'em at a yardarm." He gave a thin smile and sipped his wine.

Bryant's gaze slipped to Adams, who took up his cue. "Gentlemen, you see before you one Gervase Adams, relict of the Raven, eighteen, fir-built and cast ashore. Take heed all ye who would place Baltic fir before good British oak . . ."

"And?"

Renzi's manner was perfect: his easy affability brought approving grunts from around the table. He raised his glass in Kydd's direction. "Might I bring forward my particular friend Thomas Kydd, whom you see before you as junior aboard, but whose shining parts his modesty forbids him to mention. His actions in thwarting a fearful case of barratry while still a child of the sea is well remarked, and I owe my continued existence to his acting forcefully in a curious circumstance on an island in the Great South Sea. He it is who conned the longboat in the Caribbean that preserved Lord Stanhope, and in all, gentlemen, we must conclude that Mr Kydd be truly accounted a favoured son of Neptune!"

Bryant rumbled loudly, "Hear him!"

Kydd reddened, and mumbled something. The table remained silent.

"That may be so," exclaimed Adams, "but be advised, Kydd, it's the custom of the service that if you've been around the Cape of Good Hope you're entitled to one foot on the table. If you've doubled Cape Horn, both feet on the table, but nothing entitles you to spit to wind'd!"

There was warmth in the easy laughter that followed the old saw. Kydd had no idea that there was such a fraternity in the officers in their wardroom, and he longed to be truly one of them.

Introductions continued. The marine turned out to be a Captain Pringle, with a well-polished line in wardroom wit. It seemed that later a brand-new lieutenant of marines would also grace the ship.

Renzi's new friend was a Mr Peake, a quietly spoken and erudite gentleman who would be their chaplain, and completing the company, further along, was one not in uniform but wearing a comfortable green-striped waistcoat. He announced himself laconically as Pybus, the ship's surgeon.

The wardroom dissolved into talk and laughter, and a violin out of sight behind the mizzen mast began a soft piece Kydd did not recognise. At the same time the smell of onion soup filled the air, and silently a bowl appeared before him. Simultaneously, a number of covered dishes arrived.

"Kydd, dear fellow, may I assist you to some of these fresh chops?" Adams said, as Kydd finished his soup. "Sadly, we shan't see their like again, I fear, before we next make port."

Behind the chair of each officer stood a seaman or marine to wait at table; Tysoe was at the back of Kydd. Adams waited until he had withdrawn to see to Kydd's glass. "That old blackamoor you have there, come down in the world since he was valet de chambre to Codrington, who, you might recollect, died of an apoplexy in our very great cabin." He leaned forward. "You don't have to stay with the old fellow—ask Pringle for a marine, they know the sea service."

Kydd looked round at the other servants. There was none who appeared to be above thirty; Tysoe had substantial grey in his bushy hair. Having seen the scrimmages that sometimes took place as servants jostled to see their masters' needs met first, he had his doubts that Tysoe would hold his own. But something about the man's quiet dignity touched Kydd. There were advantages to youth, but different ones with maturity and, besides, were they not both outsiders? "Er, no, I'll keep Tysoe," Kydd answered.

He saw the glow of contentment in the others as his eye roved over the animated officers. Eddying talk rose and fell, then lulled. He heard Bampton call down to him, his voice studied and casual: "Kydd, something or other tells me you're no stranger to the lower deck. Can this be right?"

Bryant frowned. The table fell quiet, and faces turned to Kydd.

He took a deep breath. "True, very true, sir. I was untimely taken up as a pressed man and, unable t' run, I find myself still here."

Awkward grins surfaced, and Pringle murmured to the table in general, "That won't please the owner—not by half, it won't."

Bampton persisted: "Was this not alarming? For your family is what I mean."

"Damn it all!" Bryant exploded, glaring at Bampton. "We were promised figgy duff—where the devil is it?"

It was a pearly calm winter's day when Kydd appeared for duty on the deck of the man-o'-war, a King's officer. After their pressed men had been claimed and come aboard, the ship's company would be mustered by open list into divisions and Kydd would see his men for the first time.

A hoy from the receiving ship came alongside in a flurry of flapping canvas and shouted orders. Kydd continued to pace the quarterdeck, the arrival of pressed men not his concern. Out of sight, in the waist below, the first lieutenant would be setting up to receive them, rating the seamen by their skills and consigning the rest—landmen—to the drudgery of brute labour.

Kydd felt contentment at the thought that within a week or so this deck would be alive and heeling to the stern winds of the open ocean.

Renzi fell into step beside him.

"Nicholas! How did y' sleep?" Kydd's own experience had not been of the best. Alone in the dark, he had tried to keep the thoughts that surged through him under control. The cot, a square-sided canvas frame suspended from the deckhead, was comfortable, but he had not realised that bedding was his own responsibility, and were it not for Tysoe's silent intercession, he would have gone without.

"Well, it must certainly be admitted, our elevation to society in this watery world has its distinct attractions." Renzi wore an indulgent smile, which triggered a jet of frustration in Kydd. After his own experiences, it was galling to see Renzi take to his new life so easily.

"It is agreeable, perhaps, but today we get th' measure of our men," he said impatiently. Adams was on the opposite side of the deck, deep in conversation with a master's mate, and also appeared anxious to be started.

"Mr Kydd?"

He turned to see a dignified older man in plain uniform. The man touched his hat. "Hambly, sir, sailing master."

"Good morning, Mr Hambly," Kydd replied. A full master, Royal Navy, paying his respects, the highest professional being in Kydd's universe before. The man's steady look had a quality of appraisal, cool judgement.

"Thought I'd make y'r acquaintance, sir." Before Kydd could speak, he continued, "Mr Jarman is m' friend."

Kydd remembered the master of the topsail cutter Seaflower, who had patiently taught him the elements of navigation and whose octant he now used, pressed on him after his famed open-boat voyage.

"A fine man, Mr Hambly," Kydd said sincerely. "I owe him much."

The master smiled slowly, touched his hat to Kydd, then Renzi, and left.

A double strike on the bell sounded forward: this was the time for the officers to repair to the great cabin where the shape of things to come would now become apparent.

"Gentlemen, be seated." The captain remained standing, staring out of the stern windows. "I won't keep you long," he said. "It is my intention to conclude the fitting of this vessel for sea as soon as possible. I desire that today you shall muster the people by open list, and prove your divisions. The first lieutenant has assured me he has now a complete watch and station bill."

Bryant nodded emphatically, then glanced around at the officers meaningfully. There had been frantic work by his writer and clerks the previous night.

Houghton continued sternly, "He wishes that this shall be advised to all hands—with a view to shifting to sea routine within a small space of days. The quarters bill will be posted this evening, I am assured." He withdrew a silver watch. "Shall we say, divisions at five bells?"

"Mr Lawes?" Kydd addressed the only master's mate among the group of about twenty men.

"Aye, sir."

"Pleased t' see you," Kydd said, touching his own hat at Lawes's salute. He turned to survey the men drawn up on the poop-deck. Most of his division, the able seamen, landmen and idlers, would still be below for these first proceedings. "Our petty officers, Mr Lawes?"

"Sir."

These men were the hard centre of his division, the ones in local charge of the seamen at masts, yards and guns. They would also be at his right hand when his division was tasked for special duty, whether the boarding of a prize or the cutting out of an enemy—and they would be looking directly to him for their lead.

"This is Mr Rawson, signal midshipman." It was the previous day's coxswain of the ship's boat, Kydd remembered.

"And Mr Chamberlain, midshipman." He was absurdly youthful, thought Kydd, observing his curls and slight build, yet he knew this boy had a status and duties that placed him well above the hardiest able seaman.

"Samuel Laffin, bo'sun's mate . . ." Dark-featured and oddly neat in his appearance, on his hat he wore a ribbon with "Tenacious" in gold lettering.

"Henry Soulter, quartermaster." Kydd recognised a natural deep-sea mariner, and warmed to his softly spoken ways.

And there were others, whom he knew he should remember— petty officers of the fighting tops, quarter gunners, petty officer of the afterguard—and rarer birds, such as captain of the hold, yeoman of the powder room and the carpenter's mates. In all, he would have a fair proportioning of the five hundred-odd of Tenacious's company, such that most of the skills of a man-o'-war would be at hand if Mr Kydd's division was called away as a unit.

Kydd stepped forward and braced himself to address them: they would be expecting some words to set the tone. "Ye'll find that I play fair, but I expect the same from you all. You know I come fr'm before the mast, that's no secret, but chalk this in y'r log—I know the tricks, an' if I see any of 'em, I'll be down on ye like thunder.

"I like a taut ship. If y' see an Irish pennant, send a hand t' secure it. If the job's not finished b' end of watch, stay until it's done. And look after y'r men! If I see you warm 'n' dry on watch while a man has a wet shirt, I'll have ye exchange with him."

He felt their eyes on him, and he knew what they were thinking: how would all this translate to action, or was it mere words? Would he leave it to them, the senior hands, to deal with things on the spot so long as the objective was achieved, to administer justice in the time-honoured ways of the sea? In effect, would their status be properly acknowledged?

"Y' have your lists?" Each petty officer would have the watch and station details of every man he was responsible for, and Lawes would have a master list. After today there would be no excuse for any seaman not to know where he should be in every circumstance foreseeable by experience and necessity.

"Mr Lawes, I shall inspect my division in one bell."

The territory allotted for mustering Mr Kydd's division was the after end of the main deck. His men assembled in order, three rows on each side facing inboard, their ditty bags of clothing at their feet. There was controlled bedlam as watch and stations were explained, noted and learned, friendships discovered between those of like watch and part-of-ship, and new-rated petty officers got to grips with their duties.

Kydd paced quietly down the middle. He could leave it to Lawes to muster the men and report when ready while he eyed them surreptitiously.

A Royal Navy warship was divided into as many divisions as there were officers. In this way each man could claim the ear of his own officer for complaint, requests and someone to speak for him at a court-martial. It was a humane custom of the Navy, but it required that the officer was familiar with his men.

But the men had other allegiances. Apart from the specialist artisans, the idlers, the crew was divided into two watches for routine working of the ship—starboard and larboard watches. These would in turn be divided into parts-of-ship—the fo'c'sle, maintop, afterguard on the quarterdeck and so on. As officer-of-the-watch, Kydd would therefore be certain to meet his men in another guise.

If there was a break in routine, as when a ship came to her anchor or took in sail for a storm, each man had his own particular post of duty, his station. Whether this was up at the main yard fisting canvas, or veering anchor cable when "hands for mooring ship" was piped, he had to close up at his station or risk the direst punishment.

Now, before Tenacious faced the open sea, was the time to establish that the ship's company was primed and ready for their duty.

"Sir, division ready f'r your inspection," said Lawes cautiously. He was an older master's mate and Kydd suspected that his origins were also from before the mast.

They stepped forward together to the front row. The sailors looked ahead vaguely, but Kydd knew he was under close scrutiny. In the future he could be leading them into the hell of a boarding, the deadly tensions of a night attack in boats—or seeing them spreadeagled on a grating under the lash.

"You, sir, what's your name?" The grog-blotched skin, rheumy eyes and flaccid ditty bag were a giveaway.

"Isaac Hannaford, s' please yer, sir."

"And?"

The man's eyes shifted uneasily. "Can't rightly recolleck," he finally answered.

"First o' starb'd, sir, afterguard," Lawes said heavily.

"Let's see y'r clothing, then, Hannaford," Kydd said. The ditty bag was upended to reveal a forlorn, unclean assortment. "Mr Lawes, what's in this man's list?"

"Sir, shirts, two, stockings, four." Hannaford was an old hand and knew the ropes—but he had sold his clothing for illicit grog.

"Come, now, Hannaford, you're an old haulbowlings. Can't you see, without kit, you're not going t' be much use to the barky?" There was no use waiting for an answer, and he rounded on Lawes. "To see th' purser for slops, t' make up his list." It would be stopped out of his pay; whether that would have any effect was doubtful. "And each Sunday t' prove his kit to the petty officer of his watch."

As Lawes scrawled in his notebook Kydd passed to the next man. "Thorn, sir." Kydd nodded and moved on.

He stopped at a fine-looking seaman, so tall that he stood stooped under the deckhead. "Haven't I seen you afore now? Was it . . . Bacchante, the Med?"

"'Twas, right enough, sir," the man said, with a surprised smile. "But you was master's mate then—no, I tell a lie, quartermaster as was. Saw yez step ashore in Venice, I remembers." At Kydd's expression he hurried to add, "An' it's William Poulden, waist, sir, second o' larb'd."

Kydd decided he would see if he could get this good hand changed from the drudgery of being in the waist with the land-men to something more rewarding.

He stopped at a shy-looking youngster with a stye on one eye. "What's y'r station for reefing at th' fore?"

"Ah—fore t' gallant sheets 'n' clewlines, sir," the boy said, after some thinking.

"Hmmm." This was a topman—he should have been quicker to respond. "And mooring ship?"

"T' attend buoy an' fish tackle," he said instantly. Kydd knew that the quick reply was a guess. No topman would be left on the fo'c'sle while taking in sail. "Mr Lawes, this man c'n claim his tot only when he knows his stations. And he sees the doctor about his eye."

The rest of his division seemed capable. He noted the odd character eyeing him warily—but he would see their quality soon enough when he stood his first watch.

A distant call sounded from forward, a single long note, the "still." The captain was beginning his rounds.

"Straighten up, then! Mr Lawes, see they toe the line properly, if you please." The rows shuffled into line, to Kydd's eyes their alert and loose-limbed bearing infinitely preferable to the perfect rigidity of a line of soldiers.

He saw the captain approach, accompanied by the first lieutenant, looking under pressure, with the captain's clerk and Pringle. Kydd whipped off his hat and prepared for inspection, but the captain managed only a rapid glance, a nod at Kydd and a few words with Lawes before he passed to the gun-deck below.

The officers assembled for sail drill had no indication of the captain's mind when he appeared from his cabin. His fixed expression could mean disappointment at the quality of the men he had seen earlier or satisfaction with the relative ease with which Tenacious had been manned.

In any event, now would be the time that reputations were won or lost, weakness and strengths revealed, not least of which would be that of the captain himself, as he reacted to the success or otherwise of the morning's evolutions.

Kydd felt the tension. His eyes met Renzi's and provoked a slow half-smile as both turned to face their captain.

"Loose and furl by mast and watch. I shall not want to exercise further today—but if we are not striking topmasts within the space of three days . . ."

Already at his station on the quarterdeck, Kydd watched the other officers move to the fo'c'sle, main deck and forward of the mainmast.

"Larb'd watch o' the hands—haaaands to stations for making sail!"

Two hundred seamen raced to their stations, the fore, main and mizzen shrouds black with men heading for the tops; others ran to the pin rails at the ship's side and the massive square bitts at the base of each mast, around which hung a complex maze of ropes.

Along the deck men hurried to the belaying points for important lines running aloft, braces, halliards, sheets. Petty officers pushed and bullied the hapless landmen into their places, showing no mercy to the slow-witted. It all seemed so straightforward now, but Kydd recalled his first daunting experiences at tailing on to a rope, in the old 98-gun Duke William in these very waters.

When the muttering, cursing and murmuring had settled, the captain lifted his speaking trumpet. "Foremast, loose all sail to a bowline."

Adams, clearly tense and waiting for the start, instantly lifted his head and blared up, "Lay aloft, royal yardmen! Lay aloft . . ."

"Belay that!" Houghton's face was red with anger, and the hard edge in his voice carried forward. "Brace around, damn it, lay the yard first, you fool!"

Adams's command had been a mistake. Firmly anchored, and with but one mast with sail abroad, there was no opportunity to use another mast, with sails backing, to balance the forces. His order would have seen the ship move ahead and strain at her moorings.

Crimson-faced, Adams stood down his men at the halliards, shifting them to the forebraces, and brought the yards round, as he should have done before sending the men aloft to set the sail.

Kydd knew his turn would come.

The exercise went on. At the foremast, sail cascaded down at the volley of commands, to hang limply forward. Minutes later, men returned to the yards, this time to furl the sail to a seamanlike stow. Houghton said nothing, his furrowed brow evidence of the direction of his thoughts.

"Mainmast, loose all sail to a bowline," Houghton ordered. He was staying with the larboard watch and moving along the masts: Kydd, at the mizzen, would be facing his test so much the earlier. Would his petty officers be reliable enough on the job, up there on the mizzen top? There was no chance that he himself would ever again be up there with them, to see their work, intervene if needed, chase down laggards . . . It took an effort of will to remain aloof and outside the real action, merely to direct in general—but at the same time the responsibility was his alone.

"Mizzen, loose all sail to a bowline!"

Kydd turned instantly.

"Lay aloft an' loose mizzen tops'l!"

No point in going through the orders in detail from the deck, when the captain of the mizzen top was perfectly capable of taking charge on the spot. Kydd wheeled around and snapped, "Let go brails and vangs—man the clew outhaul and out spanker!" The mizzen did not have a course spread on the cro'jack to worry about, but it did have a mighty fore and aft sail, the spanker, and this with not only a lower boom but a substantial gaff that had to be bodily raised apeak.

"Get those men movin', the maudling old women!" he threw irritably at the petty officer of the afterguard in charge of the halliard crew on deck. This was no time to be cautious, here directly under the captain's eye.

The mizzen topsail yard was nearly hoisted. Kydd bit his lip, but the sail came tumbling down at just the right time. He had been right to trust the men in the top.

"Lay aloft—loose t' garns'l!" Men swarmed up the higher shrouds, while below the topsail was settled. With the sail hanging down limply as it was, Kydd had foreseen the need to haul out the foot forward, and used the old trick of untoggling the top bowlines from their bridles and shifting them to a buntline cringle.

He stole a quick glance at Houghton. The captain stood impassive, waiting.

The topgallant set, it was then just the mizzen royal—and the gaskets came off smartly at just the time the spanker gaff reached its final position. Kydd judged that there would be no need on this occasion for play with a jigger at the spanker outhaul, and simply waited for the motion to cease.

"Start the halliards b' a foot or two," he warned the after-guard—they had unwisely belayed fully before the order.

Sheepishly they threw off the turns, but Kydd was startled by a blast of annoyance from the captain. "What the devil are you about, Mr Kydd? Not yet finished?"

The sprightly sound of "Roast Beef of Old England" on fife and drum echoed up from the main deck. The men had already taken their issue of grog and gone below for the high point of their noonday meal, leaving the deck to the officers and indispensables of the watch. As they returned to work, to part-of-ship for cleaning, Kydd thankfully answered the call and made his way to the wardroom.

The table was spread, wine was uncorked and splashing into glasses; expressions were easing after the morning's tensions. Laughter erupted at one end of the table and the fragrance of roast pork agreeably filled the air.

"Your good health, brother!" Renzi grinned at Kydd over his glass: he had done tolerably well at the mainmast that morning, avoiding the captain's wrath at the last moment by quick-thinking at the braces.

"Thank ye — and yours, old friend," Kydd replied. There was a lot to think about, not the least of which was his standing in this world, so utterly different from that of the seaman.

An insistent tinkling intruded into his thoughts. It was the second lieutenant, tapping his glass with a spoon. "Gentlemen, may I have your attention?" He waited until the talk died. "I don't have to tell you that we shall soon be rejoining the fleet, which means, of course, that we shall need to provision against some months at sea."

He looked pointedly at Kydd. "There are some who are victualled 'bare Navy' but have nevertheless seen fit to accept the hospitality of this mess." Mystified, Kydd turned to Adams, who merely raised his eyebrows. "This is neither fair nor honourable. But be that as it may, in my humble post as mess caterer, I have calculated that we shall need to consider the sum of fifty pounds per annum as a minimum subscription."

"Preposterous! That's more'n five poun' a head!" Bryant's glass trembled in mid-air. "What do we get for that?"

Bampton heaved a theatrical sigh. "The mess commensal wine by quarter cask is half a pint a day, captain to dinner once a month. We lay in the usual cheeses, barrel oysters, tea and raisins, other conveniences for the pantry, such as cloves, pickles, ginger and the like, and when we consider breakages in glasses and dishes . . ."

Kydd thought of the seaman's broadside mess, with its square wooden plates and pewter tankards, the men using their own knives. There was little that could be considered breakable, and even the petty officers carried few crockery items in their mess racks. He decided to lie low while discussions raged about the mess subscription. He himself was not pressed for money and he had taken the precaution of appointing an agent. The Caribbean prizes had long yielded their bounty, but Camperdown was promising not only a medal but gun money in surprising degree.

"That's settled, then." Bampton made a pencil note and sat back. "We agree to subscribe the sum of five guineas per head. The officers' wine store is near empty, and with the usual allowance I believe you shall find room for four dozen apiece—you will be laying in your own cabin stores, of course.

"Now, it is usual to empower the mess caterer to go ashore on the wardroom's behalf. I shall do so in Yarmouth, and will expect one guinea in advance from each officer."

CHAPTER 3

OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS THE RUMBLE and squeak of gun trucks was a never-ending background to shipboard life. Not content with exercising the company of Tenacious at ship drill, their captain had a quarter gunner and his four gun crews in turn hard at work from dawn to dusk.

Houghton had been on a gun-deck in the long-drawn-out battle of the Glorious First of June. "Different ships, different long-splices," was the saying before the mast: some captains were particularly keen on appearances, others favoured the niceties of seamanship. With this one it was gunnery, Kydd had realised quickly.

Then the awaited sailing orders came. Within minutes Houghton had summoned his officers to his cabin. "I have here the Admiralty's instructions—and I have to say, they are not what I was expecting." Houghton lifted his eyes from the paper, enjoying the suspense. "Indeed not. It would seem that their lordships believe that after Camperdown the North Sea Fleet may be safely reduced, and therefore we are to be sent to join the North American station."

Excited talk broke out. "Sir, if we should fit foreign, then . . ." The first lieutenant needed details. Not only did there have to be a wholesale hold-restowing but there would, no doubt, be official impositions, from carrying mails to chests of specie for a garrison, to prickly passengers and returning prisoners.

"Now where in Hades do we find real foul-weather gear in Sheerness?" Pringle muttered. "Gets cold as charity in Halifax."

"Quite," agreed Houghton, "but we shall touch at Falmouth for a convoy. If my memory serves, there is adequate chandlery servicing the Atlantic packets. I'd advise you all to wait and procure your cabin stores there."

"You've been to Halifax, sir?"

"I have. But not since His Highness took up his post."

"Sir?"

"His Royal Highness Prince Edward. Our only overseas possession to boast a prince of the blood. Quite turned society on its head, I've heard." Houghton stood up. "Gentlemen, may I remind you there is not a moment to be lost? The first lieutenant will provide a list of actions that will result, I trust, in our being under way for the Downs in two days."

"Haaaands to unmoor ship! Aaaall the hands! All hands on deck!" Although expected, the order brought a rush of excitement at the first move in putting to sea for a voyage of who knew how long.

A smack poled away from the sides of the ship, the tender now released from its workaday fetching and carrying. Her crew waved up at the big two-decker flying the Blue Peter at the fore masthead. She was outward bound to foreign parts, to mysterious worlds across the oceans, while they remained at home.

Kydd stood easy on the fo'c'sle, waiting with his party to bring the anchors to final sea stowage. Decks below, in the fetid gloom, the capstans would be manned and the fearsome job of winning her anchors would be acted out. Thankfully, this was not his concern.

The soft green of the land held a tinge of melancholy: how long before he would see these shores again? What adventures lay waiting? Just a brief stop in Falmouth to pick up the convoy, then he might be looking on his native England for the last time—deaths by disease and accident far exceeded those from enemy action.

Kydd's thoughts were interrupted by a swirl of muttering from his men as they watched a fishing-boat putting out from the shore. Under every stitch of sail, and heeled to her gunwales, it was making directly for Tenacious. Kydd went to the deck-edge and saw it come to clumsily at the side-steps. A redcoat stood up, swaying, and started waving and shouting.

The man obviously wished to board, but the side-ropes were no longer rigged. Kydd could hear shouting as a number of sailors gathered at the ship's side. A rope was flung down, knocking the man to his knees. The fishermen fashioned a bowline on a bight and passed it under the man's arms and, to barely muffled laughter, he was hoisted spinning and kicking aboard Tenacious. His baggage followed quickly. This would be the long-expected junior marine officer, Kydd guessed, but when he looked next, both marine and baggage had disappeared.

He glanced up. The men aloft were at their place—the cast would be to larboard, and his men deployed accordingly. Bampton waited at the gangway, watching Kydd with disdain. But with a clear hawse and the tide not yet on the make, Kydd was confident he knew what to do.

Over the bow, the starboard cable curved down into the grey-brown sea, the anchor buoy bobbing jauntily seventy feet ahead. From the low hawse hole the twenty-two-inch cable gradually tautened, a heavy shuddering settling to a steady passing inboard.

Checking yet again that the cat and fish falls were led properly along the deck, Kydd watched the anchor buoy inching towards the ship until the buoy boat grappled it. The process grew slower the steeper the angle of cable, until at last it was up and down.

"Short stay," he growled at a seaman, who whipped up a white flag. The quarterdeck at the other end of the ship now knew that the anchor was ready to be tripped from the sea-bed. It would be essential to loose sail the instant this happened, the ship under way and therefore under control immediately; otherwise she would simply drift with the wind.

All waited in a tense silence. Kydd looked over the fat beakhead. The cable had stopped passing in, and he could imagine the savage struggle taking place at the capstan.

Suddenly the cable resumed its movement and Kydd sensed the ship feel her freedom. "She's a-trip," he snapped. The man's arm came down. With anchor aweigh Tenacious was now no longer tethered to the land. She was at sea.

Houghton's voice sounded through the speaking trumpet. Sail dropped from yards and staysails jerked aloft. He was taking a chance that the remainder of the cable would be heaved in and the anchor duly catted by the powerful tackle before the ship got too much way on. Kydd looked over his shoulder down the deck; when he saw Houghton's challenging figure, he knew he must not fail.

The first ripple of water appeared about the stem at the same time as the inches-thick anchor ring broke surface. "Stoppers!" roared Kydd. It was now a race to uncouple the anchor from the cable and heave it clear of the water before the wake of the ship established itself. "Hook on!" He leaned over the side to see. Men were furiously passing the stoppers on the cable, which would then be ready for hauling in at the hawse. He wheeled round, and cannoned into the second lieutenant, winding him.

"Have a care, damn you, sir!" Bampton said venomously.

"Aye, sir." Kydd burned; the officer had no right to be there in a difficult operation for which he had no responsibility. The situation was well in hand: on hearing the "hook on" the quickwitted fo'c'sle party had, without orders, taken the strain and begun hauling vigorously on the big cat-fall. Kydd had seen Poulden's leadership in this and blessed his recommendation to have the seaman transferred from the waist.

The squealing of sheaves stopped as the anchor rose to the projecting cathead. "Well there, the cat." It had done its duty by hoisting the anchor out of the sea. He turned back to the side and called down: "Pass th' ring-painter—get that stopper on fast!" The three and a half tons of forged black iron was now being buffeted by passing waves.

There was a problem with the stoppering, the ropes passed to restrain the great weight of the cable. A hundred pounds in every six feet, it was a slithering monster if it worked free. Another fo'c'sleman swung round the beakhead to help, but with the vessel now under way and a frothy bow-wave mounting, the situation was getting out of control.

"Poulden!" Kydd barked. "Get down an' get the fish-tackle on." The tall seaman dropped to the swaying anchor and, balancing on its arms like a circus acrobat, took the fish-tackle and applied it firmly below the inner fluke.

Kydd's early intervention enabled the anchor to be hauled up sideways out of the race of water while the crossed turns at the cable were cleared away.

"Walk away with the fish, y' sluggards!" Kydd ordered, satisfied. He had been right: Tenacious was a sea-kindly ship, her regular heave on the open sea reminiscent of a large frigate, even if there was more of the decorum of the mature lady about her.

Kydd lingered on the fo'c'sle after the party had secured. The hypnotic lift and crunch of the bows was soothing and he closed his eyes for a moment in contentment—but when he opened them again he saw four seamen looking at him resentfully.

Straightening, he took off his hat, the sign that he was there but not on duty, and left; it was their fo'c'sle and the men off watch had every right to their relaxation. He no longer belonged there: he had left their world and entered a higher one, but in its place did he now have anything that could provide the warmth and companionship he had enjoyed before?

On the way back, as he passed the belfry, there was a sharp clang: seven bells of the forenoon watch. Until safely anchored once again there would always be, for every hour of the day or night, a full complement of hands taking care of the ship, keeping watch and ward over their little community in the endless wastes of ocean.

Kydd was due to go on duty with Mr Bampton as officer-of-the-watch and himself as second. He made his way to the quarterdeck, where the captain held conference with the first lieutenant. They paced along the weather side, deep in conversation, while Kydd waited respectfully on the leeward.

At ten minutes before the hour Bampton mounted the main companion to the deck. He was in comfortably faded sea rig, with the modest gold lace allowed a lieutenant bleached to silver. A few months at sea would have Kydd's brand-new blues in the same way. Kydd was at his post early, and he said peevishly, "I thought to see you below, Mr Kydd."

"Sir." Kydd touched his hat.

"No matter. Pray keep station on me, and don't trouble to interrupt, if you please." Bampton waited impatiently for the captain to notice him. "Sir, to take the deck, if you please." Kydd heard the captain's wishes passed—course and sail set, special orders.

"I have the ship, sir," Bampton said formally, and thereby became commander pro tem of HMS Tenacious. His eyes flickered to Kydd, then he turned to the mate-of-the-watch. "I'll take a pull at the lee forebrace," he said, "and the same at the main."

He looked up, considering. "Send a hand to secure that main t'gallant buntline—and I mean to have all fore 'n' aft sail sheeted home in a proper seamanlike manner, if you please."

He turned on his heel and paced away down the deck. Kydd didn't know whether to follow or stay at attention. He compromised by taking a sudden interest in the slate of course details stowed in the binnacle. "Nobbut a jib 'n' stays'l jack," he overheard the quartermaster's low growl to his mate, and saw no reason to correct the observation.

It was a hard beat down Channel, a relentless westerly heading them and the brood of merchant shipping that was taking advantage of the company of a ship of force. They clawed their way tack by tack, driven by the need to make Falmouth and the convoy on time.

The wind strengthened, then fell and eased southerly, allowing a tired ship's company to shape course past the Eddystone, albeit in an endless succession of rain squalls.

The master put up the helm and bore away for Falmouth. As the yards came round and the wind and seas came in on the quarter—a pleasant lift and pirouette for him, a lurching trial for the landmen—Kydd looked ahead. He'd never been to Falmouth, the legendary harbour tucked away in the craggy granite coast of Cornwall. It would be the last stop in England before the vast-ness of the Atlantic Ocean.

The master stood hunched and still, raindrops whipping from his dark oilskins and plain black hat. This man held a repository of seamanship experiences and knowledge that even the longest-serving seaman aboard could not come close to: he could bring meaning and order into storm, calms and the unseen perils of rock and shoal.

Kydd moved up and stood next to him. "My first visit t' Falmouth, Mr Hambly," he said. "I'd be obliged should you tell me something of the place."

The head turned slowly, eyes cool and appraising. "Your first, Mr Kydd? I dare say it won't be y'r last while this war keeps on." He resumed his gaze forward. "A fine harbour, Falmouth, in the lee of the Lizard, and big enough for a fleet. At the beginning o' last year, you may recollect the great storm—'twas then four hundred sail sheltered f'r three weeks in Falmouth without we lost one. Fine port, Mr Kydd."

"Then why doesn't we have the Channel Fleet there instead of Plymouth?"

The master's expression cracked into a smile. "Why, now, sir, that's a question can't concern an old shellback like me."

"Th' hazards?"

"No hazards, sir, we have nine mile o' ten-fathom water inside, Carrick Roads, and no current more'n a knot or two . . ."

The coast firmed out of the clearing grey rain, a repelling blue-black only now showing here and there a tinge of green. To larboard of them the great promontory of the Lizard thrust into the Channel. The hurrying seas had changed direction and were now heading in the same direction as Tenacious.

Hambly pointed to a jumble of broken coastline: "The Manacles." Kydd had heard of their reputation. "An' here is where you'll find the great sea wrack and th' bloody sea dock," Hambly added. "Seaweed, in course."

"The bottom?"

"Grey sand, mixed wi' bits o' shell and brown gravel, but as soon as y' finds barley beards or cornets, think t' turn up th' hands an' shorten sail." When approaching a coast in fog or other murk the only indication of its proximity was a change in the appearance of what was brought up in the hollow base of the hand lead-line armed with tallow. To Kydd this was singular— these tiny sea mites had been born and died deep in the bosom of the sea. The first time they met the light of this world was when they were hauled up by a seaman, to convey the means of preserving the life of half a thousand souls. Held in thrall, Kydd stared over the grey seascape.

"And it's here you'll fin' the sea grampus—an' the baskin' shark, o' course. As big as y'r longboat, he is, but as harmless as a sucking shrimp — "

"Mr Hambly," Bampton cut in sharply from behind. "Be so kind as to attend your duties—we're but a league from St Anthony's."

"Aye aye, sir," Hambly said calmly, and crossed to the binnacle in front of the wheel. He picked up the traverse board and deliberately matched the march of its pegs with the scrawled chalk of the slate log, then looked up at the impassive quartermaster. "Very good, son," he said, and resumed his vigil forward.

An occluding head of land opened to an indentation and the smaller sail accompanying them began to converge on the same place. "St Anthony's," Hambly murmured, as the headland, fringed with white, pulled back to reveal an opening in the lowering coastline no more than a mile wide. On the western side was the stark, squat, greyish-white of a broad castle turret. "Pendennis, an' Falmouth lies beyond."

He turned to the officer-of-the-watch. "Tops'ls will suffice, sir."

By this time the captain had appeared on deck, but he made no attempt to relieve the officer-of-the-watch.

"Bo'sun, all hands on deck, pipe hands to shorten sail." Kydd wondered at Bampton's order: to his eyes there was no urgency—the watch on deck were quite capable of taking in the courses one by one.

The calls pealed out and men tumbled up from below to take in the big lower sails. "Keep the men on deck, if you please," Bampton ordered.

"You'll beware Black Rock," Hambly warned Bampton. "A pile o' broken rocks squatting athwart th' entrance, right in our course." He pointed to a flurry of white around a mound of black right in the centre of the harbour entrance.

"Which side, Mr Hambly?" Bampton asked.

"The eastern, sir, deepest channel."

"A point to starboard," snapped Bampton. The quartermaster spoke quietly to the helmsman, who set the bowsprit pointing off to starboard of the gloomy black whaleback.

"Not as you'd say difficult," Hambly said. "You sees Black Rock at half-tide, and on th' overflow you c'n be sure there's three fathom over the bar within."

A coastal brig, sailing at the same rate, converged on the eastern passage with Tenacious. Both vessels were before the wind; they drew closer. The smaller vessel seemed to ignore their presence.

The captain snatched up the speaking trumpet from its bracket. "The brig ahoy, sheer off. Bear away, this instant!" A ship-of-the-line was far too ponderous to play games.

"He means to head us through," Houghton exclaimed in disbelief. "You villains! Bear off! You must give way to a King's ship, damn you!"

Houghton stalked forward, eyeing the menace of Black Rock ahead. "Give him a gun, forrard!" he roared. A six-pounder on the fo'c'sle banged out. The gunsmoke was borne away in a body through the entrance, but the brig paid no heed, her main yard dipping and swaying closer and closer to their own lower rigging. "We take the eastern channel, let that villain choose the west," Houghton snapped. The brig's shallower draught would allow him the passage.

"Aye aye, sir. Lay Black Rock close to larb'd, and hold your course," Bampton acknowledged.

Just two hundred yards from Black Rock the brig diverged to the other side of the danger. The seaweed-covered rocks were now in close detail. All eyes followed the rogue vessel still under full sail plunging past the hazard.

"Sir!" the helmsman called urgently. Unable to release the wheel he indicated vigorously with his head. With all attention on the brig they had not noticed two fishing smacks close-hauled under fore and aft sail, crossing their bows to leave harbour. They shot into view from behind St Anthony's Head to starboard. Seeing the brig they changed their minds and tried to go about, floundering in stays dead ahead.

Bampton's mouth opened—but closed again. The channel was only a few hundred yards wide, with Black Rock to one side and the high headland of St Anthony to the other. It didn't take much imagination to see that, running downwind as they were, backing or dousing sail to stop their way was impossible—even if this was achieved Tenacious would probably slew helplessly round to cast up on shore. The smacks were doomed.

"Helm a-larb'd," Hambly calmly told the man at the wheel. "Keep with th' land a cable or so."

"No . . ." Bampton hesitated. He could not utter the words of contradiction that would firmly sheet home to him responsibility for the next few minutes.

The master kept his eyes ahead, his face tranquil. Tenacious's bows slowly paid off towards the rain-dark coast towering so near to starboard. Individual tumbling rock formations could be made out, seagulls perched on them watching the big ship curiously. The swash of their wake, the slat and creak of shipboard noises were loud in the silence.

They'd avoided the smacks, but another danger presented. Sprawled across their track was a new headland, with a round castle prominent on its heights, but Hambly kept his course.

"Should you—"

Hambly did not deign to notice Bampton.

Kydd saw the problem. If they could not come hard round their only other action to starboard was to head ignominiously into a creek just opening up. He held his breath, then felt the first puff of a playful easterly coming down the creek . . . Depth of water close to, local winds—the master had known!

The edge of their sails shivered and Hambly said, over his shoulder, "We'll brace up, I believe."

As they did so, Kydd saw that, without any movement at the helm, the ship's bow swung safely away from the shore.

"Aye, the set of th' ebb," Hambly said and, unexpectedly, smiled. HMS Tenacious found her course again and came to anchor in the spacious expanse of Carrick Roads and Falmouth.

Kydd hugged his boat-cloak around him as the officers' gig left the shelter of the ship's side, sails to a single reef. He pulled his hat tighter and smiled weakly at Renzi through spats of spray. A straggle of low buildings along the shoreline, Falmouth was a small town tucked away just inside the western headland, around from the ruined Pendennis Castle.

Inside the harbour, clusters of smaller ships were moored close before the town, but the majority of shipping, assembling for the convoy, crowded into Carrick Roads—a mass of merchant ships of all kinds and destinations, with boats under sail or oar crisscrossing the waters.

"Fish Strand," Renzi told the coxswain, as they approached the town. The gig headed past the anchored vessels for the tiny quay. "Return before dusk, if you please," he ordered, and the two friends stepped ashore.

"If you should desire a restorative . . ." The First and Last on Market Street seemed to meet the bill—with a jolly tavern-keeper and roaring fire in the taproom to accompany their hot spiced rum.

"Fish Strand?" Kydd said, cupping his toddy.

"Indeed. Mr Pringle assures us that somewhere about here we'll find all we need to preserve the soul in the wilderness of Nova Scotia." Renzi pulled a battered guinea from his pocket. "And it seems that I should return with a proof suitable for a diminutive midshipman against Boreas's worst."

Lieutenants did no watches in harbour: this was a duty for master's mates and midshipmen. Kydd acknowledged that it was very satisfactory to be free to go ashore as the spirit moved, and he was privately relieved to be away from the atmosphere in the wardroom.

A grey-haired man of some quality entered the alehouse. He saw the two naval officers and inclined his head, then signalled to the pot-boy and came across. "Good afternoon, gentlemen. Do I see officers of that fine two-decker in the roads?"

"You do, sir," Renzi answered. "Lieutenants Kydd and Renzi of His Majesty's Ship Tenacious, at your service."

"Greaves, Lawrence Greaves. And your noble vessel is bound for North America?"

"She is."

"Ah! Then you will be our guardian angel, our protector of this 'trade,' perhaps?" Greaves was clearly no stranger to sea passages—a "trade" was the common maritime term for a convoy. "May I sit with you?" he asked. "My wife and I will be embarked on the City of Sydney for Halifax." The pot-boy hovered. "The same? Or would you prefer wine?" The grey was confined to his side-whiskers, and his eyes were genial. "Your first visit?"

"It will be," Kydd admitted, "but I'll wager this is not your first, sir."

"No indeed. I'm commissioner for lands in Halifax, as it happens, returning to my post."

"Then, sir, it puzzles me t' know why you don't take the packet service—it's much the faster," Kydd said, seeing a smart brigantine with the Blue Peter at her masthead through the tavern window.

"No mystery, my friend. My wife is no sailor and insists on the conveniences of a larger vessel, and for me, I much prefer the comforting presence of one of His Majesty's men-o'-war about me. Do you know much of these packets?"

"Not a great deal, sir, but that they do carry inviolable protections against the press," said Renzi.

"Well, then, the post-office packet, small but fast, the mails of the kingdom are entrusted to these, and not only that but passengers and specie—bullion for treasury interchange. They risk tempest and privateers to make a fast passage, and I ask you to conceive of the value to a merchant of receiving his letter-of-credit by reply within fifteen weeks of consigning his petition to an Atlantic crossing."

Kydd murmured an appreciation, but Greaves leaned forward. "A nest of villains, sir! They carry the King's mails, but should they spy a prize, they will not scruple to attack at risk of their cargo—and worse! Even under the strictest post-office contract, they weigh down their vessel with private freight to their common advantage. And should this not be enough, it is commonly known that while the post office will recompense them for a loss at sea to an enemy, profit may just as readily be won from the insurances."

A crack of gunfire drew their attention to the brigantine. Her Blue Peter was jerking down, with vigorous activity at her fore-deck windlass. "Ah, yes, she'll be in Halifax two weeks before us—if the privateers let her . . ."

Kydd put down his glass. "Mr Greaves, have you any suggestions f'r preserving body 'n' soul in Halifax? We've heard it can be grievous cold at times."

"Why, yes, but you'll be paying over the odds here, you'll find. Pray wait until Halifax and you will quickly acquire an embarrassment of stout gear. Shall we raise a glass to the success of our voyage?"

"Just curious," Kydd said, as they strolled down the sea-smelling streets of Falmouth, the keening herring gulls raucous along the seafront, clouds of them swooping on the boats landing fresh-caught fish.

"Then if you must, here is one such." With a pang, Kydd reflected that this was like the old days, when he and Renzi had been carefree sailors wandering together in sea-ports around the world.

Outside the shop a large signboard announced, "The Falmouth Bazaar, Prop. James Philp: Stationer, Perfumer, Patent Medicines and Dealer in Fancy Goods to the Falmouth Packet Service."

The interior was odorous with soaps and perfumery, an Aladdin's cave of massed fabrics, baubles and necessaries, the tawdry and the sublime; no passenger facing the prospect of more than a month at sea would lack for suggestions of what to include in their baggage.

The shopkeeper approached them. "If I c'n be of service to you gennelmen?" he said, gripping his lapels.

"You have a fine range o' stock," Kydd said, fingering a lace shift of unusual stoutness.

"We have indeed," said the shopkeeper. "And what, may I enquire, might interest you?"

Further into the store Kydd saw a couple looking curiously their way. "What do y' have for the run t' Halifax?" he asked.

"Leather an' velvet reticules, purse-springs, clarionets o' superior tone, dissected maps, Pope Joan boards wi' genuine pearl fish, ivory walkin' stick with sword—"

"Aye, that will do," said Kydd, ignoring the ingratiating tone. "I'll think on it."

The two left, then turned on to Killigrew Street where they came across Bampton. Kydd lifted his hat politely.

"Mr Kydd," he responded archly. "I admire your sangfroid."

"Sir?"

"There is a convoy assembling to sail tolerably soon, and you see fit to linger ashore at your pleasure, when as signal lieutenant you know there is a convoy conference to conduct. You must be confident it will not sail this age."

"Convoy conference?"

"Why, of course! A signal lieutenant, do you not read your standing orders?" His sniff of disdain incensed Kydd. "Flagship of the escort, and the first lieutenant has not a staff for signals? I shouldn't wonder that at this moment he has the ship in a moil, looking for her signal lieutenant."

Hardly a flagship, thought Kydd, as he left the first lieutenant's cabin. Just two men-o'-war: the ship-sloop Trompeuse and the six-pounder brig Viper, both near hidden by the increasing numbers of merchant ships assembling in Carrick Roads.

Bryant had not been searching for him. He seemed mildly surprised that the new signal lieutenant had cut short his run ashore to hurry back on board. Papers for the ship's masters had not yet been completed, and in any event Houghton had not yet indicated his wishes in the matter of the signal codes to be used in the convoy.

Loyally, Renzi had returned on board with Kydd, and joined his friend as he headed for the upper deck. "Are we to panic, do you think?" he murmured.

"Not as who should say. But t' play the ignoramus does not sit well wi' me."

"What are-"

"You'll see!"

With a bored look on his face, the duty master's mate was standing by the main shrouds with his telescope of office. He was clearly taken with the idea Kydd put to him. "Bo'sun's mate! Desire midshipman Rawson to present himself on the quarterdeck."

"Mr Rawson," said Kydd, to the wary youth, "your boat-handling, I'm sorry t' say, is not of the standard we expect aboard a sail-o'-the-line, and a flagship, at that."

Rawson mumbled something, but Kydd clapped him on the shoulder. "But don't ye worry, lad, today you an' I will go a-sailing together and you could learn something t' your advantage."

Renzi looked at him curiously, but Kydd went on, "An' then you shall show me what y' know of signals."

For the rest of the forenoon Kydd took away the twenty-five-foot gig and a boat's crew, and in his turn Rawson discovered what it was to sail. Under Kydd's patient direction, and in the brisk winds of the roads, the lug foresail and mizzen were dipped and backed, brailed and reefed while Rawson found how to read a wind, to give best to a squall and when to ship washstrakes.

While the boat plunged between the anchored merchantmen, Kydd hid his apprehension: before long he would have to stand alone on the quarterdeck taking command as a full officer-of-the-watch in a major warship.

The afternoon saw a changed Rawson, respectful, increasingly confident and ready to fall in with Kydd's wishes.

"We shall rig for signalling, if y' please."

"Sir?"

"For exercise, hands to stations f'r signalling," Kydd repeated firmly.

"Aye aye, sir," Rawson said hastily. It took some time to find the other signal midshipman and four seamen, and just as long to find the little table for the signal log.

"Are we ready?" Kydd checked on his signals crew—Rawson and three of the seamen at the flag-locker, and his own midshipman messenger with another. "Sir."

"Then we shall begin. Mr Rawson, please t' change places with y'r young friend, I want you on hand. Now, ye see Trompeuse lying there fine t' larboard. We're senior, and will want to have her responding to our motions. I've spoken with her commander, he is persuaded t' exercise his own signals crew, so we will play the admiral."

The flag-locker was set snugly across the taffrail, right at the after end of the raised poop-deck, handy for the mizzen peak signal halliards. The locker had dozens of neat miniature doors, each with a brightly painted image of a flag.

"Have you a list of these, b' chance?" Kydd asked casually.

Rawson brought over a dog-eared pocket book. "This belonged to the last signal l'tenant—he didn't survive Camperdown—and now it's yours." It was a handwritten notebook of useful information gleaned from the Fighting Instructions and other sources.

"Sir, in the front here we have our flags. This is the code of Admiral Howe that we carry, and it's just numbers—'ought to nine. We have some others, the 'affirmative,' the 'preparative' an' that, but it's best you see 'em in action. All we do is look in this part of the signal book and we have codes for two hundred and sixty signals, spelled out by number."

He glanced at Kydd doubtfully, and continued, "So if we want to tell our ships 'Break through the enemy line and engage 'em from the other side,' then we look up in the headings, find the signal, and it's twenty-seven, which we hoist."

"Seems clear enough—but what if we want t' tell them to stay about all together? How do we let 'em know when t' put the helm down?"

"Ah, that's easy. The order is hoisted up so all c'n see it. Then when they all say they're ready, we pull it down sharply, which is the signal. Or we can use the preparative flag if the admiral wants to give us time t' get ready."

"But what if we want t' do something that doesn't have a code in the book? What do we then?"

Rawson scratched his head. "Can't send it," he admitted. So that was the reason, Kydd realised, for the many occasions he had known when his ship had laboriously come up within hail of a senior, and the two ships had rolled along together while angry communications took place by speaking trumpet.

He tried not to think of the impossibility of doing this in the smoke and violence of battle and took up the little signal book again. "So, let's amuse Trompeuse. I see here I can order her to open fire on th' closest enemy—so let's be having it. I find the code here . . ."

"Er, begging your pardon, Mr Kydd, but we hoists Trompeuse's pennant first so he knows the signal is for him, which we finds here."

At the flag-locker a yellow and blue pennant was taken, deftly toggled to the signal halliard, then sent soaring aloft. On another halliard the two-flag code was hoisted close up.

Kydd waited for a reaction. A red and white pennant jerked aloft from the brig. "The answering pennant," crowed Rawson. "They see and will obey!"

Their own signal brought down, one made its way up the mast of the little ship. Rawson dived for the book. "Nine-seven-one— 'I have to report there has been undue mortality in my rats.'" At Kydd's expression he explained gleefully: "It's a sign means they could have fever aboard!"

The evening grog issue cut short their sport, and Kydd went below with the signal book. The system seemed rational enough but he could foresee problems. What if the wind was gusting towards them from a ship? It would set her flags end-on. And in any kind of battle, with its vast amount of powder-smoke, flags would be invisible.

"So signals is the life for you?" Adams said.

"Seems t' be all plain sailing to me. And is a mort better than chokin' on smoke in the gun-deck!"

Adams adjusted his cravat. It was an open secret that a certain landlady was bestowing her favours liberally, under certain expectations not unconnected with Adams's solitary visits ashore. "Pray don't be too cocksure, dear chap," he said, with feeling. "A reputation can be destroyed by false bunting just as easily as putting a ship ashore."

Kydd smiled, but closed the book. He felt reasonably secure in his knowledge of signals and, despite Bampton's acid words, surely there could not be much more to add that he needed to say to a crowd of merchant seamen. With the ship about to sail, it made sense to sup on the fat of the land while they could. "Nicholas! I have a fancy to step ashore again, are you interested?"

"Falmouth?" Renzi ruminated, hiding a smile. "This is the Valubia of Virgil—you have probably overlooked that passage in The Aeneid describing Falmouth. Let me see: 'Est in recessu longo lo cus; insula portum . . it goes, as I remember. You will recognise the Dryden too: 'Where vale with sea doth join into its purer hands; 'twixt which, to ships commodious Port is shown—' "

"Sir!" It was a small midshipman at the door. "The captain, sir, desires Mr Kydd to attend on him before he lands, should it be convenient."

"The convoy instructions have arrived, Mr Kydd," Houghton grunted. His clerk scratched away to one side, a sizeable pile of paper mounting beside him.

"Sir."

"And the convoy will sail in two days." Houghton looked up at him. "I am senior officer and I will be calling a conference of ships' masters for tomorrow afternoon at two. You will attend, of course, and will probably wish to prepare. My clerk, when he's finished, will disclose to you my private signals and wishes in respect of the escorts.

"Mark my words, I mean to brook no insolence from the master of any merchant vessel, and I will have obedience. I want you to make this quite plain."

"Aye aye, sir," Kydd said, turning to go. "And may I have a convoy signal list?"

Houghton started in annoyance. "Of course not! Have you forgotten they are secret? The losing of just one such can lead our convoy into ambuscade, the loss of millions, disgrace to our flag. All are accounted for, sir, and are now under guard—I'm surprised you see fit to ask such a thing."

It was a shock: first, the level of secrecy to which he was now privy, but second, that he had not given it much thought. Simple courage and seamanship were no longer the only things that would matter in the future.

Houghton grunted. "Very well. You may study a signal list in the lobby while Mr Shepheard is working. Any notes you take will be kept by him also. That is all, Mr Kydd."

His heart sank; the mass of detail about fleet signals was exhaustive. Once under way and at sea each ship would be an island, unreachable except for these signals. Kydd leafed through the orders for distinguishing signals and vanes, then the instructions on to the formation of the convoy; it would apparently be a multi-column square advancing over the ocean. The name of each ship was filled in and assigned a number, which turned out to be its column and row position, and the three escorts were positioned around them, Tenacious, with a tiny flag added to her name, in the van.

The bulk of the details however, was taken up with resolving problems before they occurred. He turned more pages in dismay. Even putting to sea in good order required special flags to be hung out from odd places about the ship. A red and white weft at the mizzen peak indicated that a ship wished to speak, probably for some urgent concern; a signal of 492 required the unfortunate ship concerned to hoist a yellow flag and steer straight for an enemy in a warlike manner, imitating the action of a warship.

It went on: Kydd's eyes glazed. He began to resent the implied assumption that a naval officer could do anything at a moment's notice, and tried not to think of what he had to face in less than a day. Was it possible to get to grips with so much in that time?

Marines at the landing pier clashed to present arms when Captain Houghton stepped out of the boat, and more lined the way along Arwenack Street to the Customs House where the conference was due to take place.

With their marine guard Kydd paced along stoically behind Houghton and his first lieutenant, lugging the padlocked bag of signal instructions and trying to ignore the curious glances of the townsfolk. At the Customs House, a big, square-looking stone building with a brace of captured French cannon at the entrance, they were met by a prosperous-looking individual wearing an old-fashioned tricorne hat. "Cap'n Houghton? Raddles, Collector o' Customs. Welcome to Falmouth, an' your convoy gentlemen are a-waitin' within." They passed inside along a musty-smelling passage. "Been here before, sir?" Without waiting for an answer he went on, "The long room is where they meets mostly."

They entered a large room with barn-style beams and imposing, floor-length windows. It was noisy, as some hundreds of plainly dressed and weatherworn seamen were present. The babble died as they entered, and those standing in groups moved to take chairs.

Kydd followed Houghton up the aisle to the front, conscious of heads turning. There was a small lectern, a chalkboard and a table. Just three chairs, facing the hundreds seated, waited.

Houghton took the centre chair and Kydd the left. Bryant was on the right. The talking died away. The collector introduced the officers briefly with a bow and a gesture, then left.

The captain wasted no time. He stepped up to the lectern and fixed his glare on the audience. "I am senior officer of the escorts. On this voyage you will have ships of force with you, and need fear nothing from the French, as long as you sail agreeable to the plan. Runners will not be tolerated unless arrangements are in hand. Do I make myself clear?"

Kydd knew that runners were individual ships that tired of the slower speeds of a convoy and struck out ahead alone. They were taking a chance and were on their own, but stood to gain a lot when theirs was the first cargo landed.

"We have a favourable wind and I intend to proceed tomorrow forenoon with the tide. If you have any objections to the sailing plan you may see me in Tenacious up to six hours before we weigh. Otherwise I will take it that you agree to its provisions and will abide by them." He gripped the sides of the lectern. "Have you any questions? No?" A restless stirring went through the meeting. Houghton relaxed his stance. "Lieutenant Kydd here will present the sailing plan and explain the signals." Kydd felt a moment of panic, but remembered to nod and smile under the scrutiny of so many eyes. He had a deep sense of responsibility that so many merchant seamen were putting their trust in the Navy.

"Then it is only left for me to wish you fair winds and a successful voyage. Good day, gentlemen."

To Kydd's relief, Houghton and the first lieutenant strode together down the aisle and left. He had no wish for his performance to be seen by anyone from Tenacious. Aware of a rustle of expectation he moved to the lectern and stood before the sea of stony faces. "L'tenant Kydd, signal lieutenant in Tenacious."

His voice came out thin and unconvincing. "I want t' talk to you about our convoy to Halifax an' Newfoundland," he said, trying to toughen his tone. "And especially the conduct o' your ships when given direction by th' escorts. My captain has particularly asked me to—"

"So what if we can't agree wi' your direction, young feller?" A hard-faced man towards the front had risen to his feet. "The King's service knows aught o' what worries us, so why should we do everythin' you tell us? Eh?"

Kydd stuttered a weak reply.

Another master got up, more to the back, but his voice boomed out effortlessly. "Tell us, Mr Lootenant Kydd, truly now, have ye ever crossed the Atlantic in a blow? Come on, son, don' be shy! When it's blowin' great guns 'n' muskets, squalls comin' marchin' in a-weather, lee gunnels under half th' time. Have ye?"

"Er, myself, I'm no stranger t' foul weather."

"Good. Then you'll be able t' tell us how in Hades we c'n spy all your flags an' numbers in a fresh blow an' all!" The two captains sat down to a murmur of agreement.

In front of him were experienced seamen who had been to sea before he was born and whose sea wisdom cast his own into pale insignificance. Kydd saw that Bryant had returned, and was standing at the end of the hall, listening to him. "Should ye not make out our signal, y' keep the answering pennant at the dip," he went on hesitantly. He saw some leaning forward, straining to hear. "If th' weather—"

Bryant marched up the aisle, grim-faced. Kydd yielded the lectern to him.

"I'm L'tenant Bryant, first o' the Tenacious," he began, challenging them with his tone and glowering at them individually. "L'tenant Kydd is my assistant." He flashed a dispassionate glance at Kydd. "Now we have a convoy to get under way afore noon tomorrow, so no more nonsense, if y' please. Any who wants to argue with a King's ship knows what to expect."

He took a wad of instructions and held them up. "As you all know, this is how we conduct our convoy. As usual I'll start at th' beginning, remembering all you've been told about keepin' this under lock 'n' key.

"Convoy assembles in Falmouth Roads, outside the harbour. Each ship t' rig their coloured vane to fly at the fore or main, ac-cordin' to the instructions, not forgetting your number good and plain on each stern-quarter. Order o' sailing and first rendezvous, you should have by you, before we leave."

Bryant leaned forward on the lectern. "Now, here's a thing. My captain's a right Tartar, he is, a hard horse driver who's always on our necks. He's your senior officer now, so I advise you all t' spread what canvas you need to keep the convoy closed up an' all together." He allowed that to sink in, then went on, "Signal code for the convoy is in two parts, and provision is made . . ."

The presentation continued. Kydd stood awkwardly beside Bryant, resentful yet admiring of his easy competence.

Then the conference drew to a close and a line of merchant captains came forward to sign the register and take custody of their convoy instructions. They left to return to their ships; the Blue Peter would soon be at each masthead.

Kydd picked up his gear, avoiding Bryant's eye. He was startled to hear him give a quiet laugh. "They falls out o' the line of sailin', you know what we do? Give 'em a shot in the guts! Sets 'em into a more co-operative frame of mind, it does."

Bryant helped Kydd heap paper rubbish into the bag; this would later be burned. "But the biggest threat we can use is to report 'em to Lloyds," he continued. "They show stubborn, we tell Lloyds, an' then they have to explain to their owners why their insurance premiums just doubled." Before Kydd could say anything, Bryant had consulted his watch and stalked off.