Quarterdeck

CHAPTER 4

"GOD BLAST HIS EYES!" Houghton's fists were clenched and he shook with fury. "I'll see this rogue roast in hell! Hoist his number on the lee fore halliard and give him another gun."

The signal for "lie to, and await orders before proceeding" still flew from Tenacious's mizzen peak together with Lady Ann's distinguishing number. It was inconceivable that the shabby timber ship could not understand the need to form up the convoy properly before their voyage began. She seemed intent on heading off into the general distance, vaguely bound for the west, despite the plain sight of so many other ships hove to with brailed-up canvas waiting for the remainder of the convoy to issue out from the inner anchorage.

Kydd marvelled at the sight in front of him: 148 ships, large and small, a vast mass of vessels filling the wide bay. Bustling between them were the two smaller escorts. The whole scene was an expression of economic strength—and vulnerability. If Britain could preserve this great stream of trade goods arriving and leaving the kingdom, her survival was assured. If not, the end of this cataclysmic war would not be far off.

At last Lady Ann slewed and hove to, but her actions had meant Tenacious had moved well out of station and had to heave round back to the assembly points. Her captain was fuming, his officers on edge and the ship's company thoroughly bad-tempered.

The last of the joiners came through the harbour entrance, past Black Rock and into the open sea. "Convoy will proceed," roared Houghton, glaring at his signal lieutenant as though it was all his fault.

Kydd found the place in the signal book, and hastily shouted the hoist to those at the taffrail flag-locker. Flags were bent on, soaring up the halliards as the thump of their fo'c'sle gun drew attention to them.

"Have they acknowledged yet?" snapped Houghton.

Kydd had his telescope up, trying to locate Trompeuse and Viper, just two sail among so many.

"Well?"

Kydd saw the three gunboats of the port's standing force, which had been detached to see the convoy to sea and were temporarily under Houghton's command, but he could not spot the low, half-decked, two-masted craft.

"Good God! Do I have to—"

"Viper acknowledges, sir." It was Bampton at the officer-of-the-watch's telescope.

"And Trompeuse," Kydd added, finding the small ship-sloop. Then he spotted the vessel sliding into the line of sight from behind a bulky salt-carrier, a red and white pennant at her signal halliards. "A gunboat answers, sir."

Houghton took a deep breath. "Then hoist and execute for pennant ships, damn your eyes!"

Rawson already had the signal bent on and swooping up the rigging where it fluttered gaily for several minutes then jerked down. One by one, from random places in the milling ships, trusted merchant vessels followed the lead of Tenacious and hoisted a yellow triangular flag above an unmistakable red and white square—the Halifax convoy.

First Tenacious, then the pennant ships marking leading positions in the convoy purposefully set their bowsprits to the open Atlantic, and a pattern formed after them. Ship after ship fell into column, jockeying with shortened sail into their order of sailing; men-o'-war chivvied and snapped at the heels of the laggardly, and the vast fleet headed away from the land. The gunboats returned to port.

Well before they had left the outer Falmouth Roads and laid the deadly Manacles to starboard, the signal for escorts to take station was made. Tenacious led the convoy, she and her consorts on the windward side of the mass of shipping—the best position to drop down quickly on any of their charges if they were attacked.

"Viper to leave the stragglers and come up to station," Houghton ordered testily. "Never know what's waiting for us out there." The inevitable late starters would have to catch up as best they could. One lumbering merchantman was caught flat aback when avoiding another, and Kydd could see its helpless gyration through his glass as it gathered stern-way and turned in reverse in obedience to the last helm order.

A grey-white wall of drizzle approached silently. In the westerly wind the craggy loom of the peninsula to starboard was no threat. But when they reached its end, the notorious Lizard, they would leave its shelter and face whatever the Atlantic Ocean could bring.

"Damn!" Bampton cursed. The light rain had reached them and was beginning a damp assault. While Houghton kept the deck no one dared go below, and all had to suffer coats heavy with wet and rivulets of cold water wriggling down their necks. The captain stood aggressively as the rain ran down his face. Kydd's crew shivered and clutched their coats but none dared ask to leave the deck.

Suddenly Houghton started. "Who has the watch?"

"I, sir," responded Bampton.

"I shall be in my cabin." Houghton wheeled round and left. Other officers followed his example and went below, but Kydd knew he must stay so he moved down from the exposed poop-deck. Bampton called for his watch-coat and Kydd his oilskins, but then the rain ceased and the wind resumed a chill buffeting.

Kydd used his signals telescope to survey the slow-moving convoy. Once they made the open sea beyond the Lizard they would spread more sail for best speed, but if the stragglers could not make up the distance before they met the friendless ocean they would be in trouble.

In the main they were closing manfully, but a small gaggle were now miles astern locked together. Kydd shuddered with the cold and lowered the telescope. But something made him raise it again. The larger of the stopped vessels had one corner of her main course drawn up to the yard, a peculiar action at sea. He steadied the glass, leaning back with his elbow braced on his chest to see better. There was activity, but it was not co-ordinated.

Straining to make it out, he waited for a spasm of shivering to subside and concentrated on the other vessel. Something about her—she was not low in the water. "Sir!" he said loudly. "Seems the stragglers are being taken!"

"What?" said Bampton incredulously. He brought up his big telescope. "Are you mad? That's nothing but a parcel of lubberly merchantmen got in a tangle!"

"But the main course! It's up to—"

"What are you babbling about, Mr Kydd? She still flies her pennant. The other vessel has her vane a-fly—leave them to it, I say."

"Sir, should we not send Viper down to 'em?"

"And put her to loo'ard and having to beat back just when we make the open sea? I'm surprised at your suggestion, Mr Kydd, and can only ascribe it to your, er, lack of experience in these waters."

The captain appeared from the cabin spaces. "Ah, Mr Bampton. All's well?"

"Yes sir."

"Th' stragglers are bein' snapped up f'r prizes!" Kydd blurted out.

"What? Give me that," said Houghton, taking Kydd's telescope.

"I'm sorry, sir—Mr Kydd's enthusiasm sometimes exceeds his experience and—"

"Why do you say that?" Houghton snapped at Kydd.

"Main course. It's goosewings now, but that would be so if they only had time to haul one clew up to the yard, not both, and if the lubbers hadn't yet loaded the signal guns or shipped aprons against the rain, they—"

Bampton broke in, "What are you wittering about, Kydd? Those vessels have their numbers hoisted. They have not hauled down their colours or signalled distress—they're in a god-awful mess. I've seen it many times before, and so will you."

Houghton's telescope steadied. "Viper and Trompeuse to close and investigate," he bawled to the poop-deck.

He rounded on Bampton. "Mr Kydd knows his signals—'Haul up your main course and two guns to weather' is the signal for the approach of strange sail. They must have been caught napping by some damned privateer disguised as one of our ships, who knows our procedures and that our attention is all ahead."

Trompeuse hurried back along the convoy, keeping to the windward edge. Viper angled off downwind.

The master came up to watch developments but remained silent.

"What is that idiot in Viper up to?" Bampton said.

Kydd had his own ideas about why the gun-brig had clapped on all sail away to the east, well to leeward of the action, but kept his silence.

Tysoe arrived with Kydd's oilskins and a warm jersey, which Kydd struggled into under his waterproofs.

"Sail hoooo!" The masthead lookout's hand was flung out to seaward. As the Lizard opened up to the westward a respectable-sized frigate under easy sail close inshore came into view.

"No colours," growled Houghton, "but we know what she's up to. Quarters, Mr Bampton."

Then Tenacious heard the heart-stopping thunder of the drums in anger for the first time this voyage. Kydd's post in battle was at the signals; he had but to send for his sword and see to the lead-lined bag ready for sinking secret material should the need arise.

"She thinks t' fall on the convoy while the escorts are to loo'ard dealing with the brig—they wouldn't guess a ship o' force was waiting for 'em," the master said. With grim satisfaction Kydd spared a glance astern.

The enemy must have seen events swing against them, for both the hapless goosewinged merchantman and the anonymous brig loosed sail hurriedly and swung about—but it was too late. The reason for Viper's move had become clear. She was now squarely between the enemy and his escape.

"Spankin' good sailin'!" Kydd burst out. With Trompeuse now coming down fast from one direction and Viper well placed in the other, the end was not really in doubt.

The smoke of a challenging shot eddied up from Viper, the ball skipping past the enemy and her prize. The two came briefly together, probably to recover crew, before one broke out French colours and crammed on all sail to try to make off, leaving the other with ropes slashed and drifting helplessly. So close to Falmouth there would be no trouble recovering the abandoned prize.

As the brig attempted to pass Viper, she made a perfect target for raking fire and Viper did not waste it. When the smoke of her broadside cleared, the brig had already struck her colours. Jubilation rang out on Tenacious from the deck below, and satisfied smiles were to be seen on the quarterdeck.

But as Tenacious thrust towards her, the frigate shied away and bore south-east, towards the distant French coast. When she had drawn away, and Tenacious stood down from quarters, Kydd saw that the convoy was now much closer together, and in impeccable formation.

As one, the argosy rounded the Lizard, taking Atlantic rollers on the bow in explosions of white, hauling their wind for the south-west, the wanly setting sun and the thousands of miles that lay ahead.

"Your health, Mr Kydd!" The surgeon leaned forward, as usual in his accustomed evening-wear of a worn green waistcoat. He had an odd, detached way of regarding people, part earnest, part sardonic.

"Thank ye, Mr Pybus," Kydd answered, "It's always a pleasure t' have a doctor wishing me good health."

The wardroom was abuzz with chatter. Besides the charge of anticipation that a new voyage always brought, there was the tension of getting the convoy to sea—and their first brush with the enemy.

"Sharp of His Nibs to spot the wolf among the sheep," said Pringle, helping himself to another cutlet.

Adams leaned across for the asparagus. "Did hear that you helped him to a conclusion, Kydd?" he said, and when his eyes flicked towards the head of the table, Kydd guessed that the story of his contretemps with Bampton was now common knowledge.

"Always like t' help when I can," he said cautiously. Bampton was talking with the purser, but Kydd occasionally caught his eyes straying to himself.

Louder, Adams went on, "To the devil with modesty, old fellow, tell us, what put you on to him?"

"Er, his lee clew t' the course was—"

"Speak up, dear chap, we're working to wind'd!" To make her offing of Wolf's Rock in the night, the ship's taut rigging was causing the length of her hull to creak in noisy protest.

"I said, with only one clew to the yard an' the chance her guns were yet not primed, she'd be tryin' t' let us know she was in trouble and could not. If she had her vanes an' colours correct, seems to me she was surprised, and then th' boarders let all stand to make us think she was a vessel retirin' back to Falmouth."

He grinned. "But then I thought t' take a look at her draught— a brig, outward bound, an' sittin' high in th' water! Stands to reason—"

"You didn't tell me that!" Bampton's voice cut through the talk, which quickly died away. "If I'd known what you saw!"

It was on the tip of his tongue to remark that with his bigger telescope Bampton was better placed to see the same thing, but Kydd remained guarded. "Ah, in fact, there was not really time enough t' tell it."

Bampton held rigid.

The next morning the land was gone. There was just empty sea and the convoy. In loose columns, they bucketed through the long heaving swells from the west, substantial Hudson Bay traders with fine passenger cabins, hardy vessels headed for the Newfoundland cod fishery, slab-sided timber ships that would return with precious masts for the dockyards of the kingdom. And impoverished immigrants crammed among supplies for the settlements.

The night-time shortening of sail now became a resetting of plain sail to reach maximum speed of the slowest. A tedious schedule of hauling and loosing was necessary to adjust speeds; the leading-edge ships had to be reined in while slower ones, which had slipped to the back during the night, were bullied into lengthening their stride.

Routine was only re-established mid-morning when Tenacious was free to go to quarters for exercise of the great guns. After an hour or more of hard work the welcome sound of the tune "Nancy Dawson" drifted up from the main deck, announcing grog and dinner for the hands.

But first, on an open deck nearly deserted of seamen, the officers gathered on the quarterdeck for the noon-day sight. Every officer performed the duty, including the midshipmen, but only the "workings" of the lieutenants were pooled for reliability.

This would be Kydd's first occasion as an officer, for although since those years in the Caribbean he had known how, it was now that his contribution would be a valid element in the navigation of a King's ship.

He readied his octant, an old but fine brass and ebony instrument, by setting the expected latitude down to the tangent screw. This would shorten the time needed to do a fine adjustment in the precious seconds of a meridian altitude. Next, he took the precaution of finding his "height-of-eye" on the quarterdeck. There was an appreciable correction to be made—from there the distance to the horizon of a ship-of-the-line was a full seven miles.

Cradling his instrument Kydd took his place, feeling the long swell come in fine on the bow in a heave down the length of the ship. He estimated it at no more than twelve feet, which meant another correction to height-of-eye. Then, like the others, he trialled the sun—close, but some minutes to go.

He was aware of the helmsman behind him, silently flicking the wheel to catch a wave, glancing up at the weather leech of a sail, then resuming his blank stare ahead. Kydd knew what he was thinking—the wielding of sextants, the consulting of mysterious figures in the almanac marked out an officer from a common seaman.

He lifted the octant again: the reflected lower edge of the sun was getting near the horizon. Kydd waited patiently, shifting the vernier with delicate twists of the tangent screw. Then it was time, the sun was at its highest altitude: reflected by the octant, its image kissed the line of the horizon.

"Stop," he called, his voice mingling with the others. The time to a second was recorded by a master's mate: this was the exact instant of local noon along this line of longitude, the meridian. By the elevation of the sun above the earth, the distance along that line from the equator, the latitude, could be found, and where the two intersected would be the ship's position.

He lowered his instrument and, through habit, glanced into the binnacle: at noon on the meridian the sun was exactly due south so this was a good time to check the compass.

In the wardroom the table filled quickly with paper and books. Kydd jotted down his octant reading, returned the instrument to its case, and found his Moore's Nautical Almanac. In practised sequence he entered the tables, applied the corrections and neatly summarised his workings, his final latitude and longitude boldly there for all to see.

"Thank you, gentlemen," the master said, collecting the workings. They agreed within a minute or so, but Kydd's was the closest of all to Hambly's own.

"Mr Kydd." The captain was standing on the weather side of the quarterdeck.

"Aye, sir," Kydd replied, moving quickly to him.

"As you must be aware," he said gruffly, "with four watch-keeping officers, having a second officer-of-the-watch forces them to watch on, watch off. The first lieutenant has asked that the ship's officers now move to single watches."

"Sir."

"Therefore you will oblige me by assuming your own watch," he said drily. "Should you feel unsure in any situation, you will call me at once. Do you understand?"

"Instantly, sir."

"Carry on, please, Mr Kydd."

The last dog-watch was nearly over when Kydd appeared by the wheel to take the next watch. In the early night-darkness the men stood about quietly, their faces eerily lit from beneath by the dim light of the binnacle lamp.

"Mr Bampton," Kydd said in greeting.

The second lieutenant grunted, and turned to look at Kydd. "Course sou'west b' south, courses are in to topsails one reef, last cast of the log five and a half knots." He glanced once at the dark, near invisible sea, speckled prettily with golden pricks of lanthorn light where the convoy sailed on quietly through the night.

"Convoy still seems to be with us, carpenter reports nine inches in the well, we have two in the bilboes." These unfortunates would spend all night in leg irons until hauled before the captain in the morning, but it was necessary to pass on the information. In the event that the ship was in danger of foundering they must be released.

"You have the ship, I'm going below. If you get into a pother, don't call me. Good night."

It was done. A momentary rush of panic, then exultation. The man standing on the quarterdeck in command, around whom the world that was HMS Tenacious would revolve, was Thomas Paine Kydd.

A duty quartermaster held out the chalk log. The watch always started with a clean slate and Kydd took it, his notations of course and sail now holy writ to be transcribed later to the master's log. He heard the quartermaster murmur the heading to the new hand on the wheel, then saw him squint at the compass before returning to report, "Sou'west b' south, Brown on the wheel, sir." Much as Kydd himself had done not so very long ago.

The figures dispersed, leaving the new watch in possession of the deck. Kydd's midshipman messenger was behind him, and the mate-of-the-watch with his boatswain's mate stood to leeward, waiting for orders. The rest of the watch were at different positions around the deck under their station captains, for now Kydd, as an officer, could never treat with them directly.

Eight bells clanged forward. It was the first watch, and in accordance with practice, the ship went to evening quarters. Mess-decks were transformed as ditty bags were taken down, benches stowed below, mess-traps placed in racks and the hinged table removed. Once again the broad space reverted to its true purpose—a gun-deck with martial rows of heavy cannons.

At the guns, the fighting tops and in the waist of the ship, men stood ready. It was a time to muster them, to ensure they knew their place in combat intimately, and also it was an opportunity for the seamen to learn about those in authority over them. But this did not concern Kydd, who maintained his watch from on high over them all.

Quarters over, the men were released. Hammocks were piped down from their stowage in the nettings around the bulwarks and slung below. In the same hour the space passed from a dining room to a ship of war and then a dormitory. The ship changed from a busy working place to a darkened domain of slumber.

It was a clear night with the wind steady on the beam. Kydd stepped inside the cabin spaces to the lobby, where a small table bore a chart. It was now his duty to think of the bigger picture. A seaman before the mast simply accepted that a course was set to a compass heading. Beyond that, it was of no interest to someone who could have no say in his destiny, but who at the same time did not have to worry about it.

Kydd lowered the dim lanthorn so its soft golden light was enough to see their pencilled course pricked out. They were heading mainly south with the Canary current to avoid the strong trade westerlies, and to pick up later the countervailing seasonal north-easterlies in a swing across the width of the ocean.

Kydd stepped out on deck again. He had been in countless night watches and been comforted by the nocturnal sounds: the slaps and dings of ropes against masts, sails occasionally cracking with a high-spirited flourish, the never-ceasing spreading groan and creak of timbers, the ghost-like susurrus of wind in the lines from aloft—all had been a soothing backdrop before. Now its character had changed. Any number of hazards might lie in wait to challenge his still untutored judgement, a started strake even now spurting black water into the depths of the hold, a wrung topgallant mast tumbling to sudden ruin, a sleepy merchant ship yawing across their bows . . .

"Lawes, prove the lookouts!" It sounded more urgent than he meant.

In response to his mate-of-the-watch's hail came answering cries of "Aye aye!" from around the deck.

Kydd moved along the weather gangway, thumping on ropes. If they gave a satisfying hard thrum they were well taut, but a dead feel under his fist meant a job for the watch on deck. He returned by the lee gangway, looking up at the pale expanse of sail. They drew well, but there was no compelling need for speed, locked in as they were to the speed of the convoy. He had no wish to be known as a "jib and staysail jack," always trimming yards and canvas to the annoyance of the night watch.

Back on the quarterdeck, the ship's easy motion was reassuring, the stolid presence of the helmsman and quartermaster companionable, and his tense wariness subsided.

The master-at-arms came aft from the main hatchway with a midshipman and corporal. "All's well, sir, an' lights out below," he reported.

"Very good. Carry on, please," Kydd said, echoing the words of the countless officers-of-the-watch he had known. The master-at-arms touched his hat, leaving them to their solitude.

The accustomed tranquillity of a night watch began to settle-bringing a disengagement of mind from body, a pleasant feeling of consciousness being borne timelessly to reverie and memories.

Kydd pulled himself together. This was not the way an officer-of-the-watch should be, with all his responsibility. He turned and paced firmly to the mainmast and back, glaring about.

The night wore on. It was easy sailing: he could hear the monotone of one of the watch on deck forward spinning a yarn. There was a falsetto hoot and sudden laughter, but for him there would be no more companionable yarns in the anonymous darkness.

He spun on his heel and paced slowly back towards the binnacle, catching the flash of eyes in the dimness nearby as the quartermaster weighed the chances of a bored officer-of-the-watch picking fault with his helmsman. Reaching the binnacle Kydd glanced inside to the soft gold of the compass light. Their course was true. All along the decks, lines bowsed taut. What could go wrong?

His imagination replied with a multitude of possible emergencies. He forced them away and tried to remain calm, pacing slowly to one side of the deck. Low talk began around the wheel. It stopped when he approached again. Could they be discussing him? Years of his own time at the wheel told him that they were —

and anything else that might pass the hours of a night watch.

Oddly comforted, he made play of going to the ship's side and inspecting the wake as if he was expecting something, but his senses suddenly pricked to full alertness—there were sounds that did not fit. He spun round. An indistinct group of men lurched into view from the main hatchway. Even in the semi-darkness he could see that two were supporting a third, slumped between them. Another followed behind.

He recognised the voice of the boatswain but not those of the other men, who were moaning and arguing. Kydd hurried to the light of the binnacle. "Yes, Mr Pearce?" he snapped at the boatswain.

The moaning man was lowered to the deck in a sprawl. "Fetch the corporal with a night-lanthorn," Kydd snapped, "and ask the doctor to—"

"Sir," Pearce began heavily, "Ord'nary Seaman Lamb, sir, taken in drink in th' orlop."

"What's this, y' useless skulker? Think t' swill out o' sight, do you?" Kydd spat venomously.

The violence of his anger shocked him and he knew he had overreacted. He pulled himself together. "What's y'r division?"

"L'tenant Adams, sir," Lamb said thickly, touching his forelock in fear.

"Said it's his birthday, sir."

The white face of the offender stared up at Kydd from the deck. Lamb struggled to stand but fell back.

Kydd could easily picture what had happened. With typical generosity his messmates had plied him with illicitly hoarded rum in celebration. He had staggered down to the orlop to sleep it off, then had the misfortune to encounter the boatswain on his rounds.

Kydd's sympathies swung to the lad. Life on the lower deck in the cold north Atlantic was not pleasant and seamen looked for any kind of release—generally rum.

But there was no real escape. A ship of war that might in minutes find itself yardarm to yardarm with an enemy was no place for a drunken hand at the guns. Kydd's duty was plain. "Sleeps it off in irons, t' front the captain in the forenoon." Houghton would have no mercy and tomorrow there would be pain and suffering at the gangway.

Kydd turned his back and paced away. He had no stomach for any scenes of pitiful begging but there were only muffled gasps and grunting as the young sailor was hauled away.

"Bring him forward." Houghton stood rigid, his lips clamped to a thin line, his hands behind his back as Lamb was brought before the lectern.

"Take orf that hat!" growled the master-at-arms. The youth's thatch of hair ruffled in the wind that buffeted down over the half-deck. His open face was set and pale, but he carried himself with dignity.

On one side of the captain Kydd attended for the prosecution, on the other was Adams. "Well?" snapped the captain, turning to Kydd.

"Sir, Ordinary Seaman Lamb. Last night at six bells o' the first watch the boatswain haled this man before me under suspicion o' drink." Caught by the boatswain, prostrate with drink before the officer-of-the-watch, there was not the slightest chance of denial. But the grim ritual of the trial must be completed.

"And was he?"

Kydd's answer would be the boy's condemnation. "He—he was incapable." He had had as much chance of avoiding those words as Lamb had of escaping the lash.

"I see. Mr Adams?"

"Sir. This lad is young. It was his birthday and his shipmates plied him with grog in celebration but, sir, in his youth and inexperience he was unable to resist their cajolery. It's nothing but youth and warm spirits—"

"This is of no account! At sea there is no excusing a man-o'-war's man being found beastly drunk at any hour, when paid by the King to hold himself in readiness to defend his country! Have you anything to add as witness to his character?"

"Er, Lamb is a willing hand. His ropework is admired by all in the maintop. And, er, he volunteered into Tenacious and is always forward in his duty . . ."

The captain glanced once at Adams, then fixed Lamb with a terrible stare. "Have you anything to say for yourself, you rogue?"

Lamb shook his head and bit his lip. "Then I find you guilty as charged. Two dozen!" Lamb went white. This was savage medicine, quite apart from the theoretical limit of a dozen strokes allowed a captain at sea.

"Haaands lay aft to witness punishment—aaaall the hands." Boatswain's mates strode about above and below decks with their piercing silver calls, summoning witnesses to justice. As would be the way of it from now on, Kydd remained out of sight below in the wardroom, avoiding conversation until the word was passed down for the final ceremony.

"Officers t' muster!" squeaked a messenger at last. Solemnly, the officers left the wardroom and made their way up to the quarterdeck. There, the gratings were rigged, one lashed upright to the half-deck bulkhead and one to stand on. The ship's company were mustered ready, a space of open deck, then a sea of faces stretching forward. Kydd avoided their gaze, moving quickly up the ladder to the poop-deck.

The captain stalked forward to the poop-rail, much as Kydd had seen so many times before from the opposite side, looking up as a foremast hand. Now, with the other officers, he stood squarely behind him, seeing only the back of his head. Blackly, he saw that his view of proceedings was obscured by the break of the poop, and that therefore on all those occasions before, the officers must have seen nothing of the lashes and the agony.

Marines stood to attention at the rails, a drummer-boy at the ready. Lamb stood before his captain, flanked by the powerful figures of two boatswain's mates. A brief rattle of the drum brought a subdued quiet.

"Articles of War!" barked Houghton. His clerk passed them across. "'Article two: All persons in or belonging to His Majesty's ships or vessels of war, being guilty of drunkenness, uncleanness or other scandalous actions, in derogation of God's honour, shall incur such punishment . . . as the nature and degree of their offence shall deserve.'"

He closed the little book. "Carry on, boatswain's mate."

The prisoner was led over to the gratings and out of sight, but Kydd—flogged himself once—needed no prompting to know what was going on. Stripped and lashed up by the thumbs, Lamb would be in a whirl of fear and shame and, above all, desperately lonely. In minutes his universe would narrow to one of pounding, never-ending torment.

Kydd had seen floggings by the score since his own, but this one particularly affected him.

The drum thundered away, then stopped. Kydd's skin crawled in anticipation of that first, shocking impact. In the breathless quiet he heard the unmistakable hiss of the cat, then the vicious meaty smack and thud as the body was driven against the gratings. A muffled, choking sob was all that escaped—Lamb was going to take it like a man.

There was a further volleying of the drum; again the sudden quiet and the sound of the lash. There was no sound from Lamb.

It went on and on. One part of Kydd's mind cried out—but another countered with cold reason: no-one had yet found a better system of punishment that was a powerful deterrent yet allowed the offender to return to work. Ashore it was far worse: prison and whipping at the cart's tail for a like offence—even children could face the gallows for little more.

The lashing went on.

The noon sight complete, the officers entered the wardroom for their meal. "Your man took his two dozen well, Gervase," Pringle said to Adams, as they sat down. He tasted his wine. "Quite a tolerable claret."

Adams helped himself to a biscuit. "I wonder if Canada rides to hounds—'t would be most gratifying to have some decent sport awaiting our return from a cruise. They've quite fine horseflesh in Nova Scotia, I've heard."

"Be satisfied by the society, old chap. Not often we get a chance at a royal court, if that's your bag."

"Society? I spent all winter with my cousin at his pile in Wiltshire. Plenty of your county gentry, but perilously short of female company for my taste."

Conversation ebbed and flowed around Kydd. As usual, he kept his silence, feeling unable to contribute, although Renzi had by degrees been drawn up the table and was now entertaining Bryant with a scandalous story about a visit to the London of bagnios and discreet villas. Pringle flashed Kydd a single veiled glance and went on to invite Bampton to recount a Barbados interlude, leaving him only the dry purser as dinner companion.

The afternoon stretched ahead. Kydd knew that Renzi had come to look forward to dispute metaphysics with the erudite chaplain and had not the heart to intervene. Having the first dogwatch, he took an early supper alone and snapped at Tysoe for lingering. Melancholy was never far away these days.

He went up on deck early, and approached the master. "Good day to ye, Mr Hambly."

"An' you too, sir."

"Er, do you think this nor' easterly will stay by us?"

"It will, sir. These are the trades, o' course." Hambly was polite but preoccupied.

"I've heard y' can get ice this time o' the year."

The master hesitated. "Sir, I have t' write up the reckonings." He touched his hat to Kydd and left.

At four he relieved Bampton, who disappeared after a brief handover. Once more he took possession of the quarterdeck and the ship, and was left alone with his thoughts.

An hour later Renzi appeared. "Just thought I'd take a constitutional before I turn in," he said, "if it does not inconvenience." He sniffed the air. "Kydd, dear fellow, have you ever considered the eternal paradox of free will? Your Oriental philosopher would have much to say, should he consider your tyrannous position at the pinnacle of lordship in our little world . . ."

Kydd's spirits rose. There had been little opportunity so far to renew their old friendship, and he valued the far-ranging talks that had livened many a watch in the past. "Shall ye not have authority, and allow a false freedom to reign in bedlam?" he said, with a grin, falling into pace next to Renzi.

"Quite so, but Mr Peake advances an interesting notion concerning the co-existence of free will in the ruled that requires my disabusing the gentleman of his patently absurd views." He stared out pensively to leeward.

Kydd stopped dead. Bitterness welled and took focus. Renzi stopped, concerned. "What is it, brother? Are you—"

"Nothing!" Kydd growled, but did not resume his walk.

"May I—"

"Your ven'rable Peake is waiting—go and dispute with him if it gives you s' much pleasure!" Kydd said bitterly.

Renzi said softly, "There is something that ails you. I should be honoured were you to lay it before me, my friend."

It was not the time or place—but Kydd darted a glance around the quarterdeck. No one was watching. He looked across to the conn team at the wheel and caught the quartermaster's eye, then pointed with his telescope up the ladder to the poop-deck. The man nodded, and Kydd made his way with Renzi up on to the small deck, the furthest aft of all. It was not a popular place, dominated as it was by the big spanker boom ranging out from the mizzen mast and sometimes activity in the flag-lockers at the taffrail. They were alone.

Kydd stared out over the wake astern, a ragged white line dissolving to nothing in the distance, ever renewed by their steady motion and the noisy tumbling foam under their counter. His dark thoughts were full but refused to take solid form, and he hesitated. "Nicholas. How c'n I say this? Here I stand, an officer. A King's officer! More'n I could dare t' dream of before. And it's—it's not as it should be . . ."

Renzi waited patiently, gazing astern.

Kydd continued weakly, "Y' see, I don't feel an officer—it's as if I was playin' a role, dressin' up for the part like a common actor." The frustrations boiled up and he gulped with emotion. "I know th' seamanship, the orders an' things but—Nicholas, look at me! When the others talk t' each other, they're talkin' to the squire, the gentry—their father is lord o' the manor of some fine family, they talk of ridin' with the hounds, calling on the duke in London, what's the latest gossip . . ." His voice thickened. "And me, what can I talk about at table without I open m' mouth and be damned a yokel?"

Renzi murmured encouragement. Paradoxically, this made it all the worse for Kydd, and his frustration took a new path. "It's easy enough f'r you. You've been born into it," he said bitterly, "lived that way all y'r life. This is why you can talk y'r horses an' estates 'n' politics with the others. And have you thought how it is f'r me? I sit there sad as a gib cat, hearin' all this jabber and feelin' as out of it as—"

The carpenter interrupted them with his report and Kydd processed the information mechanically. Twenty-four inches in the well: if he left it, the night watch would have to deal with it, manning the big chain pump with all its creaking and banging, rendering sleep impossible for the watch below. He'd see to it before he left the deck.

Renzi spoke quietly: "Tom, do you consider awhile. We all have had to learn the graces, the manners and ways of a gentleman. It's just that we've had much longer than you to learn. You see? You will learn in time, then—"

"Be damned!" Kydd choked. "Do ye take me f'r a performing monkey? Learn more tricks and bring 'em out in company? Is this how to be a gentleman?"

Renzi's face set. "You're being obnoxious, my friend," he said softly.

"An' I'm gettin' sick o' your word-grubbin' ways! You're no frien' if all you can say is—"

Renzi turned on his heel. "Nicholas! I—I didn't mean t' say . . ." Renzi stopped. Kydd's hand strayed to his friend's shoulder but there was no response: Renzi merely turned, folded his arms and looked coldly at him. "I've been thinkin' a lot, Nicholas. About who I am, is the short of it." He lifted his chin obstinately. "Afore now I've been proud t' be a man-o'-war's man. Life f'r me has been simple an' true. Now I've gone aft it's all gone ahoo. I've lost m' bearings—an' all my friends." "Do I take it that you still wish to be an officer?" Kydd looked away for long moments. "Nicholas, you may account me proud or stubborn—but I will not be a tarpaulin to pity f'r his plain ways. An officer left t' one side when it comes to society an' promotion. Gentlemen officers laugh at the poor sot behind his back—gets a-fuddle wi' drink ashore 'cos he don't know what t' say. I'd rather be cream o' the shit than shit o' the cream, damn it."

Renzi winced. "You may regret turning your back on fortune."

"Did I say I was? I just don't know, is all."

Renzi coughed gently. "Possibly I am in no small measure to blame in this, dear fellow, but still I feel there is only one logical course, and one you seem to have already rejected. For as long as it will take, you must apply your best and most sincere endeavours to fitting yourself out for a gentleman officer—in look, word and deed. Then, and only then, you may take your rightful place in society, my friend."

At Kydd's moody silence Renzi insisted on an answer. "I'll think on it," was all he could achieve.

They were heading north to where the Labrador current from the icy fastness of the polar region met the unseen river of warm water driving up from the Caribbean, the Gulf Stream. Such a confluence was highly likely to result in the navigator's nightmare: fog.

Ahead there were several days of slow sailing across the mouth of the great St Lawrence before they made the shallower waters of the Grand Banks, then the doubling of Cape Race for St John's and landfall.

The Halifax-bound leaver division of the convoy had parted, and now the convoy was mainly smaller ships, bringing out supplies for the important cod fishery, with some larger vessels who would touch at St John's before making south for the United States. Kydd knew them all by sight now, and it would be strange after a month and a half of ocean travelling when their familiar presence was no longer there.

With the wind dropping all the time, the seas lost their busy ruckling of the long, easy swell. There was hardly a gurgle or a splash from the ships' languorous sliding through the grey water. Quite different from the fetid heat and glassy calms of the doldrums, this was simply the removal of energy from the sea's motion.

A sudden cry came from the masthead lookout. "Saaail hoooo! Sail t' the nor'ard, standin' towards!"

A distinct stir of interest livened the decks. This was much too early for the sloops and gunboats of St John's they were to meet, and a single sail would be bold to challenge a ship-of-the-line.

"My duty to the captain, and I would be happy to see him on deck," the officer-of-the-watch, Adams, told his messenger, but it was not necessary. Houghton strode on to the quarterdeck, grim-faced.

"You'd oblige me, Mr Kydd, should you go aloft and let me know what you see."

Kydd accepted a telescope from Adams and swung up into the rigging, feeling every eye on him. His cocked hat fell to the deck as he went round the futtock shrouds—he would remember to go without it next time—and to the main topmast top, joining the lookout who politely made room for him.

"Where away?" Kydd asked, controlling his panting. Breaking the even line of the horizon was a tiny smudge of paleness against the grey—right in their path. He brought up the telescope. It was difficult to control: even in the calm sea the slow roll at this height was sufficient to throw off the sighting. He wedged himself against the topgallant mast, feet braced against the cross-trees, then got his first good look at the pale pyramid of sail head on. His heart jumped. The glass wandered and the small image blurred across.

"What do you see?" Houghton bellowed from below.

Kydd swept the telescope to each side of the pyramid. Nothing. Tantalisingly he caught brief glimpses of it, now getting sharper and larger, but there was never enough time to fix on it. He prepared to lean over to hail the deck, then noticed wan sunlight shafting down close to it. He would give it one last try.

A glitter of light moved across the sea towards it. He raised his telescope—and saw it transformed. "Deck hooo! An ice island!"

The whole incident had gone unnoticed by the convoy, for the height-of-eye of Tenacious's lofty masts ensured she saw it well before any other, but all were able to take their fill of the majestic sight as they passed hours later. Up close, it was not all pure white: there were startling pale blues, greens and dirty blotches— and such a size! There was an awed silence along the decks as men came up to stare at the silent monster from the frozen north.

The wind died, leaving a lethargic swell and the ship creaking and groaning under a dull, pearly sky. While Houghton paced up and down in frustration, Kydd noticed one of the larger vessels of the convoy far to the leeward edge. As with all ships, her sails hung lifeless from her yards but for some reason she had none on her foremast, not even headsails. "Odd," he mused to the master. Then a signal jerked hastily aloft from her mizzen peak halliards. Without wind to spread the flags it was impossible to make out the message, but there was clearly activity on deck.

"Damn the fellow!" Houghton snapped. Virtually dead in the water, there was little Tenacious could do to investigate further.

"I thought so," the master said, seeing the dead white of a fogbank advancing stealthily in eddying wreaths that hugged the sea surface and eventually engulfed the ship in a blank whiteness. The muffled crump of two guns sounded from somewhere within the white barrier; in conjunction with the flags this was the agreed signal for distress.

Houghton stopped. All eyes turned towards him. They could not lie idle if there were souls in need of them.

"Away launch, if you please, Mr Pearce." He paused to consider. "A bo'sun's mate and ten men, and we'll have two carpenter's mates in with 'em—and pass the word for the surgeon."

He looked about the deck and caught Kydd's eye. "See what all the fuss is about, Mr Kydd. If the ship is at hazard of foundering and our men can save her, do so. Otherwise advise her master in the strongest terms that a King's ship is not to be troubled in this way." Kydd knew perfectly well why he had been selected for this duty—as the most junior officer, he would be the least missed if he were lost in the fog.

As the yardarm stay tackles were hooked on to the boat Houghton added, "Take an arms chest too, Mr Kydd." Some of the ships carried convicts for the defensive works in St John's.

Kydd went to his cabin and found his sword, part of the uniform and authority of a naval officer when boarding a strange vessel. Tysoe helped fasten the cross strap and buckle on his scabbard sling. "Nothing but a merchantman all ahoo." Kydd chuckled at the sight of his grave expression.

"Get a boat compass," Kydd told Rawson, as he came back on deck. Seamen tumbled into the big launch, then helped sway down the arms chest; there was no point in shipping mast and sails in the flat calm.

Rawson returned with a small wooden box with a four-inch compass set in gimbals. Kydd had the bearing of the hapless vessel and checked that the indication with the boat compass was good. This was handed down, and he watched Rawson go aboard the launch, correctly wearing his midshipman's dirk. Kydd then went down the side, last to board.

"Take the tiller, if y' please," Kydd told Rawson, taking his place in the sternsheets. The surgeon sat patiently on the opposite side. "Why, Mr Pybus, you haven't any medicines?" he said, seeing no bag or chest.

"Oh? You know what it is then I must treat? Wounds, inflamed callibisters, one of a dozen poxes? I tried to persuade these brave fellows to load aboard my dispensary entire but . . ."

Houghton called down loudly from the ship's side: "I'll thank you to lose no time, Mr Kydd!"

"Aye aye, sir," Kydd threw back. "Get moving!" he muttered to Rawson.

"Fend off forrard," Rawson ordered. "Out oars—give way, together." Kydd gently wedged the compass into the bottom of the boat, careful to ensure there was no iron near. Their lives might depend on it.

The men stretched out. It was a good three miles to pull but conditions were ideal: not any kind of sea and the air was cool and dry—it might be different in the fogbank. Kydd saw that Thorn, the stroke oar, was pulling well, long and strong and leaning into it. He was a steady hand with a fine gift for ropework. Further forward was Poulden, who, Kydd vowed to himself, he would see as a petty officer in Tenacious.

Rawson stood with the tiller at his side, his eyes ahead. "Mr Rawson," Kydd said quietly, "you haven't checked your back bearing this last quarter-mile."

The youth flashed an enquiring glance astern at the diminishing bulk of Tenacious, and looked back puzzled.

Kydd continued mildly, "If we're runnin' down a steady line o' bearing, then we should fin' that where we came from bears exactly astern. If it doesn't, then . . ." At the baffled response Kydd finished, "Means that we're takin' a current from somewheres abeam. Then we have t' allow for it if we want to get back, cuf-fin." He had been checking surreptitiously for this very reason.

The white blankness of the fogbank approached and suddenly they left a world with a horizon, a pale sun and scattered ships, and entered an impenetrably white one, where the sun's disc was no longer visible, its light wholly diffused and reduced to a weak twilight. Men's voices were muffled and a dank moisture lay on everything as a tiny beading of slippery droplets.

They pulled through the wreathing fog-smoke, Kydd making certain of their course—its reciprocal would lead them back to their ship. Paradoxically the heavy breathing of the men at the oars sounded both near yet far in the unpleasant atmosphere that was weighing heavy on his sleeves and coat and trickling down his neck from his hat.

"Sir?" Poulden cocked his head intently on one side. "Sir! I c'n hear a boat!"

"Oars!" snapped Kydd. The men ceased pulling. "Still! Absolute silence in the boat!" They lay quietly, rocking slightly. It was long minutes of waiting, with the cheerful gurgle and slap of water along the waterline an irritating intrusion. Men sat rigid, avoiding eyes, listening.

Then there was something. A distinct random thump, a bang of wood against wood and a barely synchronised squeaking, which could only be several oars in thole pins or rowlocks—and close.

It was probably innocent, but what boat would be abroad in these conditions without good reason? The sound faded, but just as Kydd was about to break the silence it started again somewhat fainter—but where? The swirling clammy white was a baffling sound trap, absorbing and reflecting, making guesses of direction impossible.

Kydd felt a stab of apprehension. "Break out the arms—I'll take th' tiller. Quickly!" he hissed.

The wooden chest emptied quickly. Cutlasses were handed along with a metallic slither, one or two tomahawks, six boarding pistols. Kydd saw that they were ready flinted and prayed that the gunner's party had them loaded. He drew his sword. The fine-edged weapon, which had seemed so elegant, now felt flimsy and insubstantial beside the familiar broad grey steel of a cutlass.

He laid the naked blade across his knees and experimentally worked the tiller. Rawson fingered his dirk nervously, but the surgeon lolled back with a bored expression. He had no weapon and, in reply to Kydd's raised eyebrows, gave a cynical smile.

Waiting for the men to settle their blades safely along the side, Kydd held up his hands for quiet once more. In the breathless silence, a drip of water from oars, the rustle of waves and an occasional creak were deafening. Kydd concentrated with every nerve. Nothing.

He waited a little longer, automatically checking that their heading remained true, then ordered quietly, "Oars, give way, together." The men swung into it and the bluff-bowed launch got under way again.

In one heart-stopping instant a boat burst into view, headed directly for them. In the same moment Kydd registered that it was hostile, that it was a French chaloupe, and that it had a small swivel gun in its bow.

His instincts took over. "Down!" he yelled, and pulled the tiller hard over. The swivel cracked loudly—Kydd heard two shrieks and felt the wind of a missile before the bow of the enemy boat thumped heavily into their own swinging forepart. French sailors, their faces distorted with hatred, took up their weapons and rose to their feet in a rush to board.

The launch swayed as the British responded, snarls and curses overlaid with challenging bellows as they reached for their own weapons in a tangle of oars and blood. Pistols banged, smoke hung in the still air. One Frenchman collapsed floppily, his face covered with blood and grey matter; another squealed and dropped his pistol as he folded over.

It was the worst form of sea warfare, boat against boat, nothing but rage and butchery until one side faltered.

An arm came out to grasp the French gunwale and pull it alongside. A tomahawk thudded across the fingers, which tumbled obscenely away. "Get th' bastards!" Kydd roared, waving his sword towards the enemy.

The boats came together, oars splintering and gouging, enemy opponents within reach. The furious clash and bite of steel echoed in the fog. Kydd's sword faced a red-faced matelot flailing a curved North African weapon. The smash of the blade against his sword numbed Kydd's wrist, but the man triumphantly swept it up for a final blow, leaving his armpit exposed. Kydd's lighter steel flashed forward and sank into the soft body. The man dropped with an animal howl.

There was an enraged bellow and a large dark-jowled man shouldered his way into his place, a plain but heavy cutlass in his hand. His face was a rictus of hatred and his first lunge was a venomous stab straight to the eyes. Kydd parried, but the weight of the man's weapon told, and Kydd took a ringing blow to the side of the head.

The man drew back for another strike. He held his weapon expertly, leaving no opening for Kydd. The next blow came, smashing across, and Kydd's awkward defence did not stop a bruising hit above his hip. He felt cold fear—the next strike might be mortal.

As the man stepped on to the gunwale he cunningly swept a low straight-arm stab at Kydd's groin and, at his hasty defence, jerked the blade up for a lethal blow to Kydd's head. Kydd's sword flew up to meet it, an anvil-like ringing and brutish force resulting in the weapon's deflection—and a sudden lightness in his hand.

Kydd looked down. His sword had broken a couple of inches from the hilt. The man gave a roar of triumph and jumped into the launch. Kydd backed away, flinging the useless remnant at him. Jostled by another fighting pair the man stumbled before he could land his final stroke. Kydd cast about in desperation and saw a bloodied cutlass lying in the bottom of the boat.

He wrenched it up, in the process taking a stroke from the Frenchman aimed again at the head, but Kydd's blade was now a satisfying weight in his hand and he'd kept the blow from landing. Fury building, he swung to face his assailant. The man paused, taken aback by Kydd's intensity.

Kydd went on to the attack with the familiar weapon. He smashed aside the man's strikes, landing solid, clanging hits. In the confined space it could not last. As he thrust the broad blade straight for the belly, Kydd brought one foot forward to the other. The man's cautious defence was what he wanted. As the man readied his own thrust, the spring in Kydd's heel enabled him to lunge forward inside the man's own blade, the cutlass drawing a savage line of blood on one side of his head.

The man recoiled, but met the side of the boat and fell against it. Mercilessly Kydd slashed out, his blade slithering along the top of his opponent's to end on the man's forearm. The Frenchman's cutlass fell as he clutched at his bloody wound.

"Je me rends!" he shouted hoarsely. Kydd's blade hovered at the man's throat, death an instant away. Then he lowered it.

"Down!" he snarled, gesturing. "Lie down!" The man obeyed. The blood mist cleared from Kydd's brain and he snatched a glance around him. As quickly as it had started the brutal fight was ending. In the launch the three or four Frenchmen who had boarded were dead or giving up, and the bulk of the British were in the chaloupe, forcing back the remainder. The end was not far away.

"Tell 'em t' lie down!" he yelled. "Don't let the bastards move an inch!"

High-pitched shouts came from the French boat; they were yielding. Kydd felt reason slowly return to cool his passions. He took a deep breath. "Secure the boats t'gether," he ordered, the bloodstained cutlass still in his hands.

His body trembled and he had an overpowering urge to rest, but the men looked to him for orders. He forced his mind to work. "Poulden, into th' Frogs' boat and load the swivel." The petty-officer gunner was nowhere to be seen—he'd probably not survived.

While Poulden clambered over the thwarts and found powder and shot, Kydd looked around. There was blood everywhere, but he was experienced enough in combat to know that just a pint looked mortal. The wounded men were being laid together in the widest part of the launch as Pybus climbed back in. When he caught Kydd's eyes on him, he defiantly handed over a tomahawk—bloodied, Kydd noted.

At Poulden's call, the French were herded weaponless back into their chaloupe and the swivel brought round inside to menace the boat point-blank. "Hey, you, Mongseer!" Kydd's exasperated shout was lost on the sullen men in the boat. He turned to his own boat. "Any o' you men speak French?"

The baffled silence meant he would have to lose dignity in pantomime, but then he turned to the midshipman. "Rawson! Tell 'em they'll be hove overside if they make any kind o' false move." Let him make a fool of himself.

Kydd realised he was still clutching his cutlass, and laid it down, sitting again at the tiller. His hip throbbed and his head gave intermittent blinding stabs of pain; it was time to return to Tenacious and blessed rest. He would secure the Frenchy with a short towline; they could then row themselves close behind under the muzzle of the swivel. He would send another three men to stand by Poulden.

Pybus was busy with the men in the bottom of the boat. "So, we go home," Kydd said, searching around for the compass. "Now do ye remember what course . . ."

Ashen-faced, Rawson held out a splintered box and the ruins of a compass card. With an icy heart Kydd saw that their future was damned. The wall of dull white fog pressed dense and featureless wherever he looked, no hazy disc of sun, no more than a ripple to betray wave direction. All sense of direction had been lost in the fight and there was now not a single navigation indicator of even the most elementary form to ensure they did not lose themselves in the vast wastes of the Atlantic or end a broken wreck on the cold, lonely Newfoundland cliffs.

Kydd saw the hostility in the expressions of his men: they knew the chances of choosing the one and only safe course. He turned to Rawson. "Get aboard an' find the Frenchy's compass," he said savagely.

The midshipman pulled the boats together and clambered into the chaloupe. In the sternsheets the man Kydd had bested held up the compass. Rawson raised his hand in acknowledgement, and made his way aft. Then, staring over the distance at Kydd with a terrible intensity, the Frenchman deliberately dropped the compass box into the water just before Rawson reached him.

Disbelieving gasps were followed by roars of fury, and the launch rocked as men scrambled to their feet in rage. "We'll scrag the fucker! Get 'im!" Poulden fingered the swivel nervously: if they boarded he would no longer have a clear field of fire.

"Stand down, y' mewling lubbers!" Kydd roared. "Poulden! No one allowed t' board the Frenchy." He spotted Soulter, the quartermaster, sitting on the small transverse windlass forward. "Soulter, that's your division forrard," he said loudly, encompassing half the men with a wave. "You're responsible t' me they're in good fightin' order, not bitchin' like a parcel of old women."

"Sir?" The dark-featured Laffin levered himself above the level of the thwarts from the bottom boards where he had been treated for a neck wound.

"Thank 'ee, Laffin," Kydd said, trying to hide his gratitude. If it came to an ugly situation the boatswain's mate would prove invaluable.

"We'll square away now, I believe. All useless lumber over the side, wounded t' Mr Pybus." Smashed oars, splintered gratings and other bits splashed into the water.

"Dead men, sir?" There was a tremor in Rawson's voice.

Kydd's face went tight. "We're still at quarters. They go over." If they met another hostile boat, corpses would impede the struggle.

After a pause, the first man slithered over the side in a dull splash. His still body drifted silently away. It was the British way in the heat of battle: the French always kept the bodies aboard in the ballast shingle. Another followed; the floating corpse stayed with them and did not help Kydd to concentrate on a way out of their danger. The fog swirled pitilessly around them.

"Is there any been on th' Grand Banks before?" Kydd called, keeping his desperation hidden.

There was a sullen stirring in the boat and mutterings about an officer's helplessness in a situation, but one man rose. "I bin in the cod fishery once," he said defensively. Kydd noted the absence of "sir."

"Report, if y' please." The man scrambled over the thwarts. "This fog. How long does it last?"

The man shrugged. "Hours, days—weeks mebbe." No use, then, in waiting it out. "Gets a bit less after dark, but don't yez count on it," he added.

"What depth o' water have we got hereabouts?" It might be possible to cobble together a hand lead for sounding, or to get information on the sea-bed. He vaguely remembered seeing on the chart that grey sand with black flecks turned more brown with white pebbles closer to the Newfoundland coast.

"Ah, depends where we is—fifty, hunnerd fathoms, who knows ?"

There was nowhere near that amount of line to be found in the boat. Kydd could feel the situation closing in on him. "Er, do you ever get t' see th' sun?"

"No. Never do—like this all th' time." The man leaned back, regarding Kydd dispassionately. It was not his problem. "Y' c'n see the moon sometimes in th' night," he offered cynically.

The moon was never used for navigation, to Kydd's knowledge, and in any case he had no tables. There was no avoiding the stark fact that they were lost. There were now only two choices left: to drift and wait, or stake all on rowing in a random direction. The penalty on either was a cold and lengthy death.

"We got oars, we get out o' this," muttered one sailor to stroke oar. There were sufficient undamaged oars to row four a side, more than needed; but the comment crystallised Kydd's thinking.

"Hold y'r gabble," Kydd snapped. "We wait." He wasn't prepared to explain his reasons, but at the very least waiting would buy time.

The fog took on a dimmer cast: dusk must be drawing in. Now they had no option but to wait out the night. Danger would come when the cold worked with the damp of the fog and it became unendurable simply to sit there.

In the chaloupe the French sat tensely, exchanging staccato bursts of jabber—were they plotting to rise in the night? And now in the launch his men were talking among themselves, low and urgent.

He could order silence but as the dark set in it would be unenforceable. And it might cross their minds to wait until it was fully dark, then fall upon Kydd and the others, claiming they had been killed in the fight. The choices available to Kydd were narrowing to nothing. He gripped the tiller, his glare challenging others.

For some reason the weight of his pocket watch took his notice. He'd bought it in Falmouth, taken by the watchmaker's claims of accuracy, which had been largely confirmed by the voyage so far. He took it out, squinting in the fading dusk light. Nearly seven by last local noon. As he put it back he saw derisive looks, openly mocking now.

Night was stealing in—the fog diffused all light and dimmed it, accelerating the transition, and soon they sat in rapidly increasing darkness.

"All's well!" Laffin hailed loyally.

"Poulden?" Kydd called.

"Sir." The man was fast becoming indistinct in the dimness.

As if to pour on the irony the dull silver glow of a half-moon became distinguishable as the fog thinned a little upward towards the night sky. If only . . .

Then two facts edged from his unconscious meshed together in one tenuous idea, so fragile he was almost afraid to pursue it. But it was a chance. Feverishly he reviewed his reasoning—yes, it might be possible. "Rawson," he hissed. "Listen to this. See if you c'n see a fault in m' reckoning."

There was discussion of southing, meridians and "the day of her age" and even some awkward arithmetic—but the lost seamen heard voices grow animated with hope. Finally Kydd stood exultant. "Out oars! We're on our way back, lads."

They broke free of the fogbank to find the convoy still becalmed, and away over the moonlit sea the silhouette of a 64-gun ship-of-the-line that could only be Tenacious.

A mystified officer-of-the-watch saw two man-o'-war boats hook on as the missing Kydd came aboard. At the noise, the captain came out on deck. "God bless my soul!" Houghton said, taking in Kydd's wounds and empty sword scabbard.

"Brush with th' enemy, sir," Kydd said, as calmly as he could. "Compass knocked t' flinders, had to find some other way back."

"In fog, and at night? I'd be interested to learn what you did, Mr Kydd."

"Caused us quite some puzzling, sir, but I'll stake m' life that Mr Rawson here would be very pleased to explain th' reasoning."

Rawson started, then said smugly, "Oh, well, sir, we all knows that f'r any given line o' longitude—the meridian, I mean—the moon will cross just forty-nine minutes after the sun does, and falls back this time for every day. After that it's easy."

"Get on with it, then."

"Well, sir, we can find the moon's southing on any day by taking the day of her age since new, and multiplying this by that forty-nine. If we then divide by sixty we get our answer—the time in hours an' minutes after noon when she's dead in the south, which for us was close t' eight o' clock. Then we just picked up our course again near enough and—"

Houghton grunted. "It's as well Mr Kydd had such a fine navigator with him. You shall take one of my best clarets to the midshipmen's berth." Unexpectedly, the captain smiled. "While Mr Kydd entertains me in my cabin with his account of this rencontre."

Chapter 5

THE NEWFOUNDLAND CONVOY was now safely handed over off St John's, along with Viper and Trompeuse, the ship signalling distress in the fog missing, presumed lost. Tenacious hauled her wind to sail south alone to land her French prisoners and join the fleet of the North American station in Halifax.

As they approached there was a marked drop in temperature; chunks of broken ice were riding the deep Atlantic green of the sea and there was a bitter edge to the wind. Thick watch-coats, able to preserve an inner retreat of warmth in the raw blasts of an English winter, seemed insubstantial.

Landfall was made on a low, dark land. It soon resolved to a vast black carpeting of forest, barely relieved by stretches of grey rock and blotches of brown, a hard, cold aspect. Kydd had studied the charts and knew the offshore dangers of the heavily indented rock-bound coast flanking the entrance to Halifax.

"I'm advising a pilot, sir," the master said to the captain.

"But have you not sailed here before?" Houghton's voice was muffled by his grego hood, but his impatience was plain: a pilot would incur costs and possibly delay.

Hambly stood firm. "I have, enough times t' make me very respectful. May I bring to mind, sir, that it's less'n six months past we lost Tribune, thirty-four, within sight o' Halifax—terrible night, only a dozen or so saved of three hundred souls . . ."

While Tenacious lay to off Chebucto Head, waiting for her pilot, Kydd took in the prospect of land after so many weeks at sea. The shore, a barren, bleached, grey-white granite, sombre under the sunless sky, appeared anything but welcoming. Further into the broad opening there was a complexity of islands, and then, no doubt, Halifax itself.

The pilot boarded and looked around curiously. "Admiral's in Bermuda still," he said, in a pleasant colonial drawl. "Newfy convoy arrived and he not here, he'll be in a right taking."

Houghton drew himself up. "Follow the motions of the pilot," he instructed the quartermaster of the conn.

With a south-easterly fair for entry, HMS Tenacious passed into a broad entrance channel and the pilot took time to point out the sights. "Chebucto Head—the whole place was called Chebucto in the old days." The ship gathered way. "Over yonder," he indicated a hill beyond the foreshore, "that's what we're callin' Camperdown Hill, after your mighty victory. Right handy for taking a line of bearing from here straight into town."

Running down the bearing, he drew their attention to the graveyard of Tribune. Up on rising ground they saw the raw newness of a massive fortification. "York Redoubt—and over to starb'd we have Mr McNab's Island, where the ladies love t' picnic in summer."

The passage narrowed and they passed a curious spit of land, then emerged beyond the island to a fine harbour several miles long and as big as Falmouth. Kydd saw that, as there, a southerly wind would be foul for putting to sea, but at more than half a mile wide and with an ebb tide it would not be insuperable.

Tenacious rounded to at the inner end of the town, there to join scores of other ships. Her anchors plummeted into the sea, formally marking the end of her voyage.

"Gentlemen," Houghton began, "be apprised that this is the demesne of Prince Edward, of the Blood Royal. I go now to pay my respects to His Royal Highness. I desire you hold yourselves ready, and when the time comes, I expect my officers to comport themselves with all the grace and civility to be expected of a King's officer in attendance on the civil power."

The wardroom took the orders with relish. Every port had its duties of paying and returning calls; some were more onerous than others, with entertainments that varied from worthy to spirited, but this promised to be above the usual expectation.

For Kydd it would be high society as he had never dreamed of. Receptions, royal dinners, lofty conversations. All grand and unforgettable. But would he be able to carry it through like a true gentleman? Just how could he strut around as though born to it? It was daunting—impossible.

Soon the wardroom and spaces outside became a beehive of activity with servants blacking shoes, boning sword scabbards, polishing decorations, and distracted officers finding deficiencies in their ceremonials. The ship, however, lay claim to attention first: dockyard stores brought from England were hoisted aboard lighters and taken in charge, and a detachment of the 7th Royal Fusiliers came aboard to escort the regimental pay-chest ashore.

Fore and aft, Tenacious was thoroughly cleaned down, then put in prime order: the cable tiers were lime whitewashed, brick-dust and rags were taken to the brasswork, and cannon were blackened to a gloss with a mixture of lamp-black, beeswax and turpentine. Bryant took a boat away and pulled slowly round the ship, bawling up instructions that had the yards squared across exactly, one above the other.

Then the first invitations came. The captain disappeared quickly, and Pringle, who had old friends in Halifax, vanished as soon as he was decently able, accompanied by Lieutenant Best. The others prepared to find their own way ashore.

"Spit it out, man!" Adams demanded. The note handed in by a messenger was addressed to Renzi, who gravely announced to the wardroom that it seemed both himself and Lieutenant Kydd were invited to the home of the commissioner for lands, Mr Lawrence Greaves.

"Ah, as this eminent gentleman no doubt wishes to honour Tenacious in the proper form," said Adams smoothly, "it would be seemly, therefore, that a more senior officer be present. As it happens, gentlemen, I shall be at leisure . . ."

The boat landed them next to the careening wharf where a carriage waited. The stone steps of the landing-place were reasonably dry, but when they moved forward the hems of their boat-cloaks brushed the snow-mush.

On leaving the dockyard area they turned north, away from the town, and had their first glimpses of a new land. Kydd marvelled at the rugged appeal of the snow-patched raw slopes, the countless spruce and jack-pine—and the silence.

At their destination a gravel track led to a mansion, and as they drew up their Falmouth acquaintance came to the door. "This is most kind in you," Renzi said, with a bow. "May I present Lieutenant Gervase Adams, sir, who cannot be denied in his desire to learn more of your remarkable realm."

Greaves acknowledged him with a bow and slight smile. "Calm seas and a prosperous voyage indeed, gentlemen. Your brisk action at the outset of our voyage has been particularly remarked."

They settled inside by the large fire. "Calibogus?" Greaves offered. At the puzzled looks he smiled, "A Nova Scotian cure for the wind's chill—spruce beer stiffened with rum. I believe we will have King's calibogus, which is taken hot, and is a sovereign remedy."

Mrs Greaves joined them. "To an English eye, our country may appear outlandish, gentlemen, but to us it is an Arcadia indeed," she said proudly.

"With the fisheries to bring wealth and substance to your being," Renzi replied.

"The cod kingdom you will find in the north, in Newfoundland. Here we glory in trade—you have seen our convoys, hundreds of ships and sailing almost every month . . ."

"Such a crowd of shipping—all from Nova Scotia?" Adams asked, puzzled.

"Ah, no, sir," Greaves said. "This is the trade of the North American continent—not only Canada but the United States as well. The seas are alive with privateers and other vermin, and without a navy of their own Cousin Jonathan likes to consign his goods here for safe passage across the ocean."

Renzi rubbed his hands as the generous pinewood fire blazed, warming and cheering. "This is spring," he ventured. "I believe in truth it may be said your winter is worse?"

"It can be a sad trial at times," Greaves replied, "but when the snows come and the great St Lawrence freezes a hundred miles from bank to bank, Halifax with its fine harbour is always free for navigation."

His wife added gravely, "Last winter was dreadful, very severe. Our roads were impossible with ice and snow and we ran uncommonly short of the daily necessaries—the Army could get no beef and the common people were being found frozen in the street! Goodness knows how the maroons survive."

In his surprise Kydd forgot himself and interjected, "Maroons— you mean black men fr'm Jamaica?"

"Yes! Can you conceive? They were in rebellion and given settlement here. It quite touches my heart to see their poor dark faces among all the snow and icy winds." Kydd remembered his times in the West Indies as Master of the King's Negroes. Could even the noble and powerful Juba have survived in this wilderness?

"To be sure, m' dear!" Greaves said. "Yet in their Maroon Hall you will see some of our best workers, and you remember that when they were offered passage back to Africa, only a few accepted. In my opinion they're much to be preferred to that homeless riff-raff on the waterfront."

Adams stirred restlessly and leaned forward. "The Prince. How do you find having a prince o' the blood among you all?"

"A fine man. He has done much for Halifax, I believe."

"Did not King George, his father, send him here into exile, and is he not now living in sin with his mistress Julie?"

"We do not speak of such matters," Greaves said coldly. "When His Royal Highness arrived, this place was raw and contemptible. Now it has stature and grace, with buildings worthy of a new civilisation, and is strong enough I fancy to secure all Canada from a descent."

"Sir, I didn't mean . . ."

"Do you care to see the town, perhaps? We have time to make a visit and return for dinner."

"You are very obliging, sir."

Halifax consisted of one vast rampart, an imposing hill overlooking the harbour. It sloped down to the shoreline, with a massive fortification dominating the crest—the citadel with its enormous flag. There, the party stepped out to admire the view. Greaves had provided fur coats against the chill bluster of the winds, which under lead-coloured skies intermittently drove icy spicules of snow against Kydd's skin. He shivered at the raw cold.

Around them was broad open ground, cleared to give the citadel a good field of fire. The vegetation emerging from snow-melt was bleached a drab light-brown and mud splashes showed where others had walked before. But the view was impressive: the expanse of harbour below stretched out in the distance, the sea a sombre dark grey. Model-like ships lay at anchor, black and still. And the rugged country, blanketed by the monotonous low black-green of subarctic forest, extended like a dark shadow as far as the eye could see.

Kydd caught Renzi's eye. His friend was rapt: "This is a land like no other!" he breathed. "One we might say is in perpetual thrall to the kingdom of the north. There is an unknown boreal fastness here that lies for countless miles to the interior, which has its own bleak beauty that dares men . . ."

Greaves smiled as they tramped back to the carriage. "You could not be visiting us at a worse time of the year," he said, "after the snow, and before the green-up. You may find it hardly credible, but in no more than a month there will be delicate blooms of wild pear, and trees all along Argyle Street that will surprise you with the green of old England."

Just below the citadel the first buildings began, substantial, stone structures that would not have been out of place in England. The air was chill and raw but smoky from countless fires that promised warmth and company. "Now, there's a sight!" Adams said, with satisfaction, as they reached the town proper. Houses, shops, people, all the evidence of civilised living. The streets were rivers of mud and horse-dung but everywhere there were boardwalks to protect pedestrians' feet.

After weeks of familiar faces at sea, the variety of passers-by seemed exotic: ladies with cloaks and muffs picking their way delicately, escorted by their gentlemen; a muffin man shuffling along in sharp contrast to a pig-tailed ranger, half-Indian, with cradled long rifle and bundle. To Kydd's surprise sedan chairs toiled up the steep slope, a sight he had not seen since his youth.

"We do tolerably well in the matter of entertainments," Greaves murmured. "May I mention the Pontac, a popular coffee-house with quite admirable mutton pies, or Merkel's, if tea and plum cake is more to your taste?" At Adams's expression he added drily, "And, of course, there is Manning's tavern, which is well remarked for its ale and respectability."

"Sir, there is a service you may do us," Renzi said. "If you could indicate a chandlery or such that is able to outfit us in the article of cold-weather clothing . . ."

"That I can certainly do, and close by, at Forman's—you shall need my advice, I suspect." The emporium in question was well patronised, and they were met with curious looks from weatherworn men and capable-looking women. An overpowering smell lay on the air.

"Sea gear, if you please," Greaves told the assistant.

"Goin' north?" The broad Canadian twang was noticeable against Greaves's more English tones.

"He means to Newfoundland and the Arctic. Would this be so, do you think?"

"Not in a sail-of-the-line, I believe."

"Well, Capting, here in Forman's we has somethin' fer all hands. Aloft, it's tarred canvas th' best, but there's many prefers their rig less stiff sort o' thing, uses boiled linseed oil instead. An' regular seamen on watch always takes heavy greased homespun under their gear as well."

He swung out a set of what seemed to be heavy dark leather gear. "Norsky fishermen swear by this'n." Selecting an impossibly sized mitten, he added, "Boiled wool, then felted—you don't fear fish-hooks in the dark wi' this!"

Watching their faces for a reaction, he chose another garment. "Er, you gents are goin' to be more satisfied wi' these, I guess." The jacket was of heavy cloth, but much more flexible. However, with every proud flourish he made, a rank animal miasma arose, catching at the back of the throat. "See here," the assistant said, opening the garment and revealing pale, yellowish smears along the seams. "This is guaranteed t' keep you warm 'n' dry. Prime bear grease!"

Forewarned by Lady Jane schooner, Halifax prepared for the arrival of the North American Squadron from its winter quarters in Bermuda. As if in ironic welcome, the morning's pale sun withdrew, lowering grey clouds layered the sky with bleak threat and tiny flakes appeared, whirling about the ship. Kydd shuddered. Obliged to wear outer uniform he had done his best to cram anything he could find beneath it, but the spiteful westerly chilled him to the bone.

Long before the squadron hove in sight, regular thuds from the outer fortresses marked its approach. Six ships in perfect line finally emerged around the low hump of George's Island, indifferent to the weather.

"Resolution, seventy-four," someone said, pointing to the leading ship's admiral's flag floating high on the mast. The rest of the conversation was lost in the concussion and smoke of saluting guns as the two biggest ships present, Resolution and Tenacious, acknowledged each other's presence, then deigned to notice the citadel's grand flag.

Just as her first anchor plunged into the sea the flagship's launch smacked into the water, and sails on all three masts vanished as one, drawing admiring comments from Tenacious's quarterdeck.

Kydd tensed, aware of a warning glance from Bryant standing next to the captain, but he was ready. In Resolution, the white ensign at her mizzen peak descended; simultaneously, in Tenacious, the huge red ensign of an independent ship on its forty-foot staff aft dipped. In its place, in time with the flagship, a vast pristine white ensign arose, signifying the formal accession of the 64 to the North American Squadron.

The snow thickened, large flakes drifting down endlessly and obscuring Kydd's sight of the flagship. If he should miss anything . . .

A three-flag hoist shot up Resolution's main; Kydd anxiously pulled out his signal book, but Rawson knew without looking. "'All captains!'" he sang out gleefully, almost cherubic in his many layers of clothing.

Kydd hurried down to the quarterdeck but Houghton had anticipated the summons and was waiting at the entry port, resplendent in full dress and sword. His barge hooked on below the side-steps and, snowflakes glistening on his boat-cloak, he vanished over the side.

Duty done, Tenacious settled back to harbour routine. The snow began to settle. Deck fitments and spars, brightwork and blacked cannon, all were now topped with a damp white.

As expected, "All officers" was signalled at eleven. Boats put off from every English man-o'-war in the harbour to converge on the flagship; the officers were in full dress and sword, with a white ensign to denote their presence.

It was the pomp and majesty of a naval occasion, which Kydd had seen many times before but from the outside. He stood nervously with the others as they were welcomed cordially by the flag-lieutenant on the quarterdeck and shown below by a serious-faced midshipman.

The great cabin of Resolution extended the whole width of the deck; inside a large, polished table was set for dinner with crystal and silver. Kydd, overawed by the finery, took an end chair.

Next to him a lieutenant nodded amiably, and Kydd mumbled a polite acknowledgement. The hum of conversation slackened and stopped as Vice Admiral of the White, George Vandeput, commander-in-chief of the North American Squadron, came into the cabin.

The massed scraping of chairs was deafening as the officers rose, murmuring a salutation. "D'ye sit, gentlemen," he called, finding the central chair. He whirled the skirts of his frock coat around it as he sank into it, and beamed at the company.

"I'd be obliged at y'r opinion of this Rhenish," he said affably, as decanters and glasses made their appearance.

Kydd's glass was filled with a golden wine that glittered darkly in the lanthorn light. He tasted it: a harder, mineral flavour lay beneath the flowery scent. Unsure, he sipped it again.

Vandeput looked down the table but most officers remained prudently noncommittal. Renzi sat three places along, holding his glass up to the light and sniffing appreciatively. "A fine workmanlike Rheingau," he said, "or possibly a Palatinate, though not as who should say a Spatlese."

The cabin fell quiet as several commanders and a dozen senior lieutenants held their breath at a junior lieutenant offering an opinion on his admiral's taste in wine, but Vandeput merely grunted. "Ah, yes. I feel inclined t' agree—a trocken it is not, but you'll excuse me in th' matter of taste. Its origin is a Danish prize whose owner seemed not t' value the more southerly whites."

Renzi nodded and the admiral shot him an intent look, then steepled his fingers. "Gentlemen, f'r those newly arrived for the season, a welcome." He held attention while he gazed around the cabin, recognising some, politely acknowledging others. "We have some fresh blood here following our famous victory at Camperdown so I'm taking the opportunity t' meet you all. The North American Squadron—often overlooked these days, but of crucial importance, I declare. The convoy of our mast-ships alone justifies our being. Where would the sea service be without its masts and spars? An' half the world's trade flows through this port, including the West Indies, of course."

Kydd was transfixed by the glitter of the admiral's jewelled star, the gold facings of his coat, the crimson sash, which were grand and intimidating, but Vandeput's pleasant manner and avuncular shock of white hair set him almost at his ease.

"Therefore our chief interest is in the protection of this trade. I rather fancy we won't be troubled overmuch by French men-o'-war—rather, it's these damn privateers that try my patience. Yet I would not have you lose sight of the fact that we are a fleet—to this end I require that every ship under my command acts together as one, concentrating our force when ordered, and for so doing you signal lieutenants shall be my very nerves."

A rustle of amusement passed around the table: the flagship's smartness was well marked and life would not be easy for these junior officers.

"We shall be exercising at sea in company as opportunities arise. I commend my signal instructions to you, with particular attention to be given to the signification of manoeuvres. My flag-lieutenant will be happy to attend to any questions later.

"I wish you well of your appointment to the North American Squadron, gentlemen, and ask that you enjoy the entertainment."

A buzz of talk began as the doors swung wide and dishes of food were brought in. Kydd was about to help himself to the potted shrimps when the stout officer next to him half stood over the biggest salver as its cover was removed. "Aha! The roast cod. This is worth any man's hungering. Shall you try it, sir?"

The fish was splendid—buttery collops of tender white, and Kydd forgot his duty until the officer introduced himself: "Robertson, second of the Acorn. Damn fine cook our admiral has, don't y' know?"

"Kydd, fifth o' Tenacious." He hesitated, but Robertson was more concerned with his fish, which was vanishing fast. "Acorn— the nine-pounder lying alongside?"

"Is her," Robertson agreed. "I suggest only the chicken pie afore the main, by the way. Ol' Georgie always serves caribou, an' I mean to show my appreciation in spades."

"May I?" Kydd had noticed the disappearing fish and was pleased to have remembered his manners so far as to help him to a handsome-sized slice of cold chicken pie. The Rheingau was perfectly attuned to the cold food and his reserve melted a little. "Nine-pounder frigate—hard livin' indeed."

"Aye," Robertson said, his mouth full, "but better'n a ship-of-the-line."

"And how so ?"

"Prize money, o' course. Ol' Georgie's no fool—sends us out all the days God gives after anything that floats, French, Spanish, Scowegian—even American, if we can prove she has a cargo bound for the enemy. If it's condemned in court, cargo 'n' all, then shares all round."

The rumours of caribou were correct, and to the accompaniment of a good Margaux, the dark flesh was tender with an extraordinary sweet wild meat flavour. Kydd sat back, satiated. Renzi was toying with a breast of spruce partridge while deep in serious talk with an older, lean-faced officer.

Kydd stole a look at the admiral: he was genially in conversation with a hard-looking officer to his left. Kydd wondered at the simple fact that he himself was sharing a meal with such august company.

"Wine with you, sir!" It was the officer opposite, who had not said much before.

Kydd held his glass forward. "Prize money b' the bucketful!" he toasted.

The other seemed restless. "That would be fine, sir, but while we're topping it the sybarite, others are fighting. And by that I mean winning the glory. There's no promotion to be gained by lying comfortably at two anchors in some quiet harbour — only in a right bloody battle." He held up his wine to the light and studied it gloomily. "To think it—we've been thrown out of the Med since last year, there've been descents on Ireland, and at home I hear Pitt has admitted the collapse and destruction of the coalition and none else in sight. We stand quite alone. Can things be much worse? I doubt it."

Kydd said stoutly, "I'm come fr'm the Caribbee and I can tell you, we've been takin' the French islands one b' one, and now the Spanish Main is ours. And who c'n doubt? The Mongseers have reached their limits, baled up in Europe tight as a drum. To the Royal Navy, gaol-keeper! And may she lose the keys!" But the officer remained grave and quiet. Kydd frowned. "Do ye doubt it, sir?" The wine was bringing a flush, but he didn't care; he seemed to be holding his own in this particular conversation.

With a weary smile the officer put down his glass. "I cannot conceive where you have been this last half-year that you have not in the least understood the motions of the French Directory— intrigues at the highest, or at the point of a bayonet, they have now secured the subjugation or acquiescence of the whole of the civilised world.

"They are arrogant, they care not who they antagonise, for in every battle they triumph, whole nations kneel at their bidding, and for what purpose? While these lie beaten, they have a mighty general, Buonaparte, who is ready to venture forth on the world! Mark my words, before this year's end there will be such a bursting forth by the French as will make the world stare!"

He leaned back in his chair and resumed his wine, looking reprovingly at Kydd. Deliberately, Kydd turned back to Robertson, who was now engrossed with the task of picking at a pretty corner dish. "Sweetbreads?" he mumbled, and offered the dish.

Kydd took one and tried to think of an intelligent remark to make. "The Americans'll be amused at our troubles wi' the French," he said hopefully.

Robertson raised his eyebrows. "Ah, not really, I think." He looked at Kydd curiously. "You must know they've done handsomely out o' this war—being neutral an' all, I mean. Can trade with any and all, if they can get away with it, o' course."

Kydd's blank look made him pause. "How long've you been made up, then?" he asked directly.

"Just this January," Kydd answered warily.

"Then I'd clap on more sail an' get as much o' this business hoisted aboard as you can. You're boarding officer an' take in a fat merchantman that the court decides is innocent, expect to explain yourself to the judge in damages!" He grinned broadly and turned to a pyramid of syllabubs.

The warm glow of the wine fell away. These men were of a different origin, brought up from the cradle with discernment, education, the talk of politics continually around them. How could he conceivably claim to be one of them? Kydd stole a look at Renzi, holding forth elegantly on some exemplary Greek, then at the admiral, listening with his head politely inclined to a fine story from a young lieutenant, and finally at the officer opposite, who was now yarning with his neighbour.

Kydd closed the door of his cabin. There was nobody in the wardroom, but the way he felt he did not want to see another face. His experience of the previous night had left him heartsick, unable to deny any longer that trying his hardest was not enough: he just did not belong in this society. He was a deep-sea sailor, true, but as an officer he was a fish out of water; talk of fox hunting and the Season was beyond him, the implications for his acceptance by them only too clear.

He knew well what was in store: others who had "come aft by the hawse" had found their place—as a tarpaulin officer. Known in the Navy as characters, they were bluff, hard on the men they knew so well and had no pretensions to gentility or learning. Utterly reliable at sea, they were outcasts in polite social situations, and usually took refuge in hearty drinking. As for promotion and ambition, improbable.

Was this his fate? He had tasted the sweets of a higher life with Renzi—their leisurely talking of philosophers and logic under a tropic moon, the dream-like times in Venice; the dinner with Renzi's brother in Jamaica had been a taste of what should be, but now . . .

Thought of his friend brought with it a wave of desolation. Renzi was in his element now, clearly headed for the highest levels and thoroughly enjoying his change of fortune. He had aided Kydd as much as he could, teaching him the forms and appearances, but there was no help for it. This was not a matter of learning the ropes, it was breeding.

His depression deepened: logic would say—and Renzi was a servant to logic—that in truth his friend no longer needed a sea companion to lighten his intellectual existence and ease his self-imposed exile. Now Renzi had the chaplain to dispute with whenever he felt inclined, Kydd thought bitterly. All told, perhaps it would have been more merciful if Kydd had never known another existence—had never encountered Renzi, even.

He felt despair and flung open the door for Tysoe. When his servant did not immediately appear he roared his name.

Tysoe arrived, his hands showing evidence that he had been at work boning Kydd's best shoes. He wore a perfectly composed expression. "Sir?"

"Fetch me one o' my clarets."

Tysoe's eyes flickered. "Will that be two glasses, sir?"

Kydd coloured. "No, damn y'r eyes—just th' one!"

When it came, he snatched bottle and glass, slammed his door, then splashed the wine into the glass, hands shaking with emotion. He drank hard, and it steadied him. He stared morosely at the ship's side in his tiny cabin, forcing himself to be calm. "Tysoe! Another bottle an' you can turn in f'r the night," he shouted.

It was obvious now. There was only one cause for his despondency: loneliness. An outsider in the wardroom, he was cut off from the rough, warm camaraderie before the mast that he knew so well. Now he had no one. And Renzi would be moving on soon, probably taken up as a flag-lieutenant.

The second bottle was half-empty already, but Kydd's pain was easing. He allowed the warm memory of Kitty to return: she had stood by him during the terrible days of the Nore mutiny—she had a strength he'd rarely seen in a woman. With her, he might have . . . There was a lump in his throat and he gulped another glass. If only she were here, if only . . .

He stared at the glass in his hand. Already he was turning into what he dreaded to be—a tarpaulin officer. Through self-pity he was sliding down the same slope as they all must have: to find acceptance they had turned themselves into a patronised caricature, then found a steady friend in the bottle.

"God rot me, but I'll not be one." His harsh croak in the confined space startled him. He seized the bottle and pushed it away. So shameful was the thought that he lurched to his feet and threw open the door, clutching the bottle by its neck. The wardroom was still deserted, all others no doubt gone ashore together.

"Tysoe!" he called. The man came quickly and silently and Kydd knew why: he had conceived it his duty to stand by his master while he got helplessly drunk, then tumble him into his cot.

The realisation hurt Kydd: it bore on his spirit that others would now be making allowances for him, and he stiffened. "If ye'd like the res' o' the wine . . ." He awkwardly held out the bottle. "I shan't need any more."

Renzi was not at breakfast but Kydd found him later in the day in his cabin. "The admiral plans to visit his realm in Newfoundland," he said, "and for some unaccountable reason he wishes me to accompany him. A vexation—if you remember I planned to join the Shiptons for whist." He seemed preoccupied. "There will be no sea exercises with the admiral in Newfoundland counting his cod, dear fellow. If you can bear to leave your signal books, why do you not see more of the country? You really should get away more."

Kydd murmured something, watching his friend rummaging in his chest.

Renzi looked up, shamefaced. "I'd be obliged should you lend me a shirt or two, Tom—there will be a quantity of social occasions in Newfoundland, I've heard." A surge of feeling surprised Kydd with its intensity as he fetched them, but he said nothing. A stubborn pride still remained, which would not allow him to burden Renzi with the problem.

Renzi left with a hasty wave. Pringle emerged from his cabin the picture of military splendour, a pair of pigskin gloves in one hand, a swagger stick in the other. He noticed Kydd, gave a noncommittal grunt, then he, too, strode away. Servants came to clear the afternoon clutter, looking at Kydd warily. There was nothing for it but to retire to his cabin.

Pride would not let him inveigle himself into another's invitation—besides, he might find himself in a situation that would end in his making a spectacle of himself again. He burned with embarrassment at the recollection of his conversation at table. What could they think of an officer as crassly ignorant as any foremast hand?

The wardroom was clear again; he paced about, morose. A book lay on the rudder-head. He wandered over idly and pulled it out: Observations on the Current War, by an Officer of Rank. It was full of maps and diagrams, painstakingly hatched with tiny lines and minuscule lettering. It covered in great detail every military campaign of the war so far.

He had never had an interest in the interminable toing and froing that seemed to be the lot of the Army, but this book had an introductory treatment for each theatre of war, which sounded robust and useful. His spirits rose a little. This at least was something constructive he could do—learn some facts to ward off assumptions of ignorance.

It was a workmanlike book, and the treatment was clear and direct but, even so, talk of why the Duke of York had considered the Austrian Netherlands worth a hopeless campaign was baffling, mainly because it assumed a degree of familiarity with the political background that he did not have.

He persevered, going to each introduction in turn and stitching together a basic understanding on which he could hang his facts. Yet as he did so, he found his attention held by the implications of what he was reading: armies and trade—expressions of a nation's economic strength, but vulnerable to the quixotic twists of fate and man's plotting.

It was a new experience for Kydd. He read on until a fundamental realisation stole over him. He set down the book and stared into space. Until now he had unconsciously thought of his ship as a boundary to his world. He could step ashore in foreign parts and see sights impossible for most, but he could always return to his snug little world and sail away. There, the dangers of the sea and the malice of the enemy were reality.

Now it was all changed. Events in one part of the world could reach out and touch an officer, have grave military and legal consequences if a wrong decision was made. They might conceivably damn his career or even cause an international incident. In essence, an officer dealt with the wider world; the common seaman did not.

"Mr Kydd!" Bryant's bellow reached effortlessly from the quarterdeck to the fo'c'sle where Kydd had taken refuge from the marines drilling loudly on the poop-deck under an enthusiastic Lieutenant Best.

Hastily Kydd made his way aft. "I've been called away, damn it, an' just when we're due a parcel o' new men. Should be coming aboard this hour. Bring 'em aboard, if y' please, and take all the able-bodied but, mark this, send all the rubbish back—we don't want 'em, right?"

"Aye aye, sir. Are they pressed men?"

"Not all. We've got a press warrant out, but most o' these are merchant jacks, tired of winterin', and odd sods off the streets. We can be satisfied with a dozen. I'll rate 'em when I get back this afternoon." Bryant jammed on his hat and stalked off.

Kydd warned off a duty midshipman to desire the surgeon to hold himself in readiness, the purser to his slops and the boatswain to provide a holding crew. It was a well-worn routine: the need for men in any man-o'-war was crucial. Even if the ship was in first-class shape, battle-ready and stored, it was all a waste without men to work her. Kydd had no misgivings about what had to be done to achieve this.

"A King's Yard boat, sir," Rawson reported. The dockyard launch made its way out to them and, as it neared, Kydd leaned over the side to see what was being brought. Looking up at him were a scatter of winter-pale faces, some listless, others alert, some sunk in dejection. A stock collection—the seamen among them would show immediately: they would have no trouble with the side-steps and bulwark.

The mate-of-the-watch took charge. It would not be seemly for Kydd to appear until the men were inboard and assembled; he disappeared into the lobby.

It seemed so long ago, but into his mind, as clear as the day it had happened, came his own going aboard the old battleship Duke William as a pressed man, the misery, homesickness, utter strangeness. Now these men would face the same.

"New men mustered, sir."

Kydd tugged on his hat and emerged on to the quarterdeck, aware of all eyes on him. They were bunched together in a forlorn group near the mainmast. "Get them in a line, Mr Lawes," he ordered.

A more odd assortment of dress was difficult to imagine. Bearskin hats and well-worn animal-hide jackets, greasy-grey oily woollens and ragged trousers, even two with moccasins. More than one was stooped by ill-nourishment or age. Some, the ones standing alert and wary, with blank faces, carried well-lashed seaman's bags.

"I'll speak t' them now, Mr Lawes."

The shuffling and murmuring stopped. He stepped across to stand easily in front of them, waiting until he had their eyes. "My name's L'tenant Kydd. This is HMS Tenacious. We're a ship-of-the-line an' we're part of the North American Squadron, Admiral Vandeput."

Stony stares met him. The men were clearly resigned to a fate known to some, unknown to others.

"C'n I see the hands o' the volunteers?" A scatter of men signified. "You men get th' bounty in coin today, an' liberty later t' spend it. The rest . . ." Kydd continued: "When this war started, I was a pressed man, same as you." He paused for effect. It startled some, others remained wary. "Rated landman in a second rate. An' since then I've been t' the South Seas in a frigate, the Caribbean in a cutter and the Mediterranean in a xebec. I've got a handsome amount o' prize money and now I'm a King's officer.

So who's going t' say to me the Navy can't be th' place to be for a thorough-going seaman who wants t' better himself?

"Now, think on it. Should y' decide to serve King George and y'r country you could end up th' same. Give your names t' the first lieutenant as a volunteer this afternoon and tell him y' want to do well in the sea service o' the King and he'll give ye a good chance."

Kydd turned to Lawes. "Carry on, these men. Stand fast that one an' the two at the pinrail—we'll send 'em back. Rest go below to see the doctor." The men still had their eyes on Kydd, one in particular, a thick-set seaman, who lingered after the others.

"Good haul, I think." It was Bryant, watching them leave. "Surly-looking brute, the last. Shouldn't wonder if he's shipped for some very good reason."

The sun at last became visible through a pale cloud cover, a perceptible warmth on the skin, and Kydd's spirits rose. Ashore, he could make out a different green from the sombre green-black of the boreal forest, and he thought that the country might seem quite another in summer.

The captain left with the first lieutenant to call on the officers of York Redoubt, and a young lady whom Adams had taken up with demanded his constant presence. For now, Kydd decided, he would continue his acquaintance with war's wider canvas.

This time he prepared to take notes. Sitting at the wardroom table, his back to the stern windows, he picked up his book and resumed reading. He discovered that the thousand-year republic of Venice had been sacrificed in a cynical exchange between France and Austria and that the Corsican Napoleon Buonaparte must now be considered England's chief opponent.

It was truly astonishing how much of momentous significance to the world had happened since he had gone to sea—and to think that he had been unknowingly at the heart of these events. The evening drew in, the light faded, but he had found another book, more dog-eared and harder-going, which purported to be a treatment of the economic consequences of a world at war, and he set to.

He felt a small but growing satisfaction: this was one positive course he could take, and it was shaping into a workable aspiration in life. If he could not be a natural-born officer, at least he would be an informed one.

He became aware of a figure standing and looked up. It was Tysoe, cupping a small peg lamp that glowed softly with a clear, bright flame. "Thank 'ee, Tysoe—but does Mr Hambly know I have his lamp?" It was charged with spermaceti oil and used only for painstaking work at the charts.

"Sir, he will be informed of his generous assistance to you when he returns aboard."

Kydd inclined his head to hear better. "Er, what seems t' be afoot on the upper deck?" There had been odd thumpings and occasional cries, but nothing the mate-of-the-watch could not be relied on to deal with.

Tysoe bent to trim the lamp. "The hands, sir. They wish to dance and skylark." Kydd nodded. There were men aboard, visiting from other ships, the weather was clear and it would be odd if there was not some kind of glee going in the fo'c'sle. He laid down his book. Perhaps he should cast an eye over the proceedings.

Darkness had fallen, but it was easy to make out activity on the foredeck by the light of lanthorns hung in the rigging. A hornpipe was being performed beside the jeer bitts of the foremast. Kydd wandered forward unnoticed. The seaman was skilled, his feet flashing forward to slap back rhythmically, the rigid body twirling in perfect time, while his upper body, arms folded, remained perfectly rigid and his face expressionless.

The fiddler finished with a deft upward note and, with a laugh, took a pull at his beer. "Ben Backstay!" The call was taken up around the deck, and eventually a fine-looking seaman from another ship stepped into the golden light and struck a pose.

When we sail, with a fresh'ning breeze,

And landmen all grow sick, sir;

The sailor lolls with his mind at ease,

And the song and can go quick, sir.

Laughing here,

Quaffing there,

Steadily, readily,

Cheerily, merrily,

Still from care and thinking free

Is a sailor's life for me!

The violin gaily extemporised as cheers and roars delayed the next verse. There was no problem here: these were the core seamen of Tenacious, deep-sea sailors whose profession was the sea. They were the heart and soul of the ship, not pressed men or the refuse of gaols.

With a further burst of hilarity the singer withdrew to receive his due in a dripping oak tankard, and Kydd turned to go. Then a plaintive chord floated out, it hung—and a woman's voice sounded above the lessening chatter. "Sweet Sally, an' how her true love Billy Bowling was torn fr'm her arms an' pressed." A blonde woman, standing tall and proud, continued, "Sally's heart's near broken, she can't bear t' be parted—so she disguises as a foremast jack 'n' goes aboard that very night." Kydd moved closer: the woman resembled his lost Kitty.

Aboard my true love's ship I'll go,

And brave each blowing gale;

I'll splice, I'll tack, I'll reef, I'll row,

And haul with him the sail;

In jacket blue, and trousers too,

With him I'll cruise afar,

There shall not be a smarter hand

Aboard a man-o'-war.

Her voice was warm and passionate. Talk died away as she sang on. Kydd's mind took him back to other ships, other ports — and evenings such as this with his shipmates—when he'd had not a care in his heart.

She finished, but the memories she had aroused came on him in full flood, stinging his eyes. He became aware that faces were turned towards him, conversations dying away. A woman moved protectively towards her man and the expressions became dark, resentful.

Poulden came across. "Sir?" he demanded suspiciously.

These men had every right to their territory, little enough in a ship of war. And he had no right—he did not belong. "Er, just came t' hear the songs," he said weakly. "Rattlin' good singing, lads," he added, but it fell into a silence. "Please carry on," he said, louder.

The men looked at each other, then the seaman who had sung "Ben Backstay" got to his feet and stood purposefully under the lanthorns. He muttered an aside to the violinist and clutching a tankard launched loudly into:

To our noble Commander

His Honour and Wealth,

May he drown and be damn'd—

Singer and violinist stopped precisely in mid-note and looked at Kydd. Their point made, the duo continued:

—that refuses the Health;

Here's to thee Billy, honest an' true;

Thanks to the men who calls them his crew

An' while one is drinking, the other shall fill!

A girl sprang into the pool of light. "A sarabande!" she called. But Kydd had left.

CHAPTER 6

"WELL, I WISH YOU JOY of your voyage, gentlemen—unhappily I have a court-martial to attend and therefore shall not be with you." There was no mistaking the smug satisfaction in Bampton's tone. In the normal run of events the inbound convoy would have been met by one or two of the hard-working frigates, but this one was transporting the lieutenant-governor of New Brunswick and his family to take up his post and Tenacious had been deemed more suitable.

It seemed to Kydd that he was the only one looking forward to the sea-time. The weather had been miserable these past few days, cold and blustery, and although they would only be out a day or so at most, the general consensus was that it was an ideal time to snug down in harbour until better conditions returned.

Kydd had long ago realised that he was a "foul-weather jack"—one of those who revelled in the exhilaration and spectacle of stormy seas, racing clouds and the life-intensifying charge of danger. In this short voyage he knew they would probably not face a full-blown tempest but the thought of a lively experience at sea lifted his spirits.

Tenacious and Ceres, a 32-gun frigate belonging to the Newfoundland Squadron, proceeded to sea together. With the cliffs of Chebucto Head abeam, they braced up for the hard easterly beat to rendezvous with the convoy.

The weather was freshening: their bows met foam-streaked waves at an angle, dipping before them, then rearing up to smash them apart in explosions of white. Standing aft, Kydd felt the sheeting spray in his teeth. With canvas taut as a drum, weather rigging harping to the wind's bluster, and, far on their beam, Ceres swooping and seething along under small sail, he was happier than he had been for some time. There would be no problems with the enemy—any rational privateer would have long since scuttled southwards until the weather improved. No prize could be boarded in this.

By afternoon they had not sighted the convoy; almost certainly it had been delayed by the poor weather. Houghton, on the quarterdeck in oilskins slick with spray, obviously had no plans to return to port and at the end of the day they shortened sail and kept enough way on the ship to head the easterly. It showed signs of veering, which had the master muttering anxiously to Houghton. At midnight they wore to the south and at the end of the middle watch took the third leg of a triangle to approximate their dusk position again.

A cold dawn brought no improvement in the weather, just the same streaming fresh gale and lively decks a-swill with water. There was no sign of the convoy but Ceres had stayed with them and by mid-morning there was a flutter of colour at her peak halliards: the convoy had been sighted.

Widely scattered, the ships were struggling to stay together— it was a miracle that they were even within sight of each other after so many thousands of miles of ocean. Without a convoy plan Kydd had no idea how many there should be, but a quick count enabled him to report what must be a sizeable proportion to the captain when he appeared on deck.

"We're looking for Lord Woolmer, she's carrying the new lieutenant-governor," Houghton said brusquely, "an ex-Indiaman. Be so good as to apprise the lookouts and report to me when she's in sight."

Ships of all kinds laboured past, converging on the rendezvous position; some showed obvious signs of storm damage. Towards the rear a battered sloop appeared, oddly out of shape with a truncated foretopmast, but bent on coming up with Tenacious.

"Heave to, please," Houghton ordered, as he took the officer-of-the-watch's speaking trumpet and waited. The sloop barrelled up to leeward and backed her headsails. Close by, the little vessel's appalling motion was only too apparent—she was bucking in deep, jerky movements, bursts of spray sheeting over the small huddle at the wheel.

"Where—is—Lord—Woolmer?" Houghton called.

A figure in the sloop made his way to the shiny wet shrouds and aimed a speaking trumpet. Kydd could hear thin sounds from it, but not make out what was said. The sloop showed canvas enough for it to ease in, its exaggerated bucketing so much the more pitiable as it lurched closer alongside.

" Woolmer— sprung mainmast—left her at fifty-five twenty west—running down forty-three north . . ."

At that longitude she was considerably to eastward of her course; somewhere in the stormy grey of the Atlantic she had encountered a squall that had nearly taken her mainmast by the board. She would have fished the mast with capstan bars and anything to hand, then been grateful for the easterly, which at least would have her heading slowly but surely for Halifax.

Looking down from the deck of Tenacious, Kydd felt for the sloop commander. Without a soul to ease the decision out there in the lonely ocean he had needed to weigh the consequences of standing by the injured vessel with her important cargo or resume his watch over the convoy. His presence was proof of the hard resolution he had made: to him the value to England of the merchant ships had outweighed that of one big ship and her passenger.

The sloop sheeted home and thrashed away after her convoy. Houghton turned to the master. "Mr Hambly, all sail conformable to weather. I believe we shall lay on the larb'd tack initially, with a view to returning to starb'd and intersecting our forty-three north line of latitude somewhere about fifty-seven west longitude."

Much depended on the weather. Lord Woolmer was heading westwards as close as she could stay to a known line of latitude. If Tenacious sailed along the same line in the opposite direction they should meet. The problem was that the wind was dead foul from the east—in difficult conditions Tenacious would need to tack twice to intersect the line at the probable furthest on of the other ship. And Woolmer herself would be finding it hard to be sure of her latitude without sight of the sun for days at a time.

Kydd went below to find a dry shirt. He was watch-on-deck for the last dog-watch and wanted to be as comfortable as possible; there would be no going below later. As he came back up the companionway he saw the master, face set grimly, entering his tiny sea cabin. "Do ye think th' easterly will hold?" Kydd asked, wedging himself against the door for balance. The hanging lan-thorn cast moving shadows in the gloom.

"See this?" Hambly tapped the barometer, its vertical case on gimbals also a-swing. His face seemed old and more lined in the dim light. "Twenty-nine 'n' three fourths. These waters, as soon as we gets a drop more'n a tenth of an inch below our mean f'r the season, stand by. An' we've had a drop o' two tenths since this morning."

He checked the chart again and straightened. "North Atlantic, even at this time o' year, it's folly to trust. It wouldn't surprise me t' see it veer more southerly, an' if that's with a further drop we're in for a hammering."

Kydd turned to go, then asked, "You'll be about tonight, Mr Hambly?"

"I will, sir," said the master, with a tired smile.

In the last of the light the foretop lookout sighted strange sail. It was Lord Woolmer with no fore and aft canvas from the main or anything above her course. She put up her helm to run down on Tenacious, and Kydd could imagine the relief and joy aboard. With luck they would be safe in Halifax harbour in two or three days and the story of their crossing would be told in the warmth and safety of their homes for months to come.

By the time the ship had come up with Tenacious it was too dark for manoeuvres, so they waited until the big, somewhat ungainly merchantman pulled ahead then fell in astern, three lanthorns at her foreyard to comfort the other ship, whose stern lanthorns were plainly visible.

The morning brought the south-easterly that the master had feared; the wind had strengthened and the barometer dropped. It was time for even a well-found ship like Tenacious to take the weather seriously.

Houghton did not waste time. "Mr Pearce, Mr Renzi, we'll have the t'gallant masts on deck." The jibboom was brought in forward. Aloft, all rigging that could possibly carry away to disaster was doubled up, preventer braces, rolling tackles put on the yards, slings, trusses—nothing could be trusted to hold in the great forces unleashed in a storm.

Anchors were stowed outboard—they would be of crucial importance should land be seen to leeward—and were secured against the smash of seas on the bows with tough double ring painters and lashing along the length of the stock.

The rudder, too, was vital to safeguard: a relieving tackle was rigged in the wardroom and a spare tiller brought out. It would need fast work to ship a new one—Rawson could be trusted in this, or to rouse out a portable compass and align its lubber-line to the ship's head for use if the tiller ropes from the wheel on deck broke. The relieving tackle would then be used to steer.

On each deck a hatchway forward and aft ventilated the space through gratings. These now were covered with strong canvas and fastened securely with battens nailed around the coaming. Seas breaking aboard might otherwise send tons of water into the ship's bowels.

The most feared event in a storm was a gun breaking loose: a big cannon might smash through the ship's side. The gunner and his party worked from forward and secured them; each muzzle seized like an ox to the ringbolt above the closed gunport, with double breechings and side frappings. Finally, on deck, lifelines were rigged fore and aft on each side of the masts, and on the weather mizzen shrouds a canvas cloth was spread to break the blast for the helm crew.

Tenacious was now snugged for a blow. Kydd hoped that the same was true for the merchantman. What would probably be of most concern to her captain was the state of his noble passengers. However splendid their appointments, their cabins would now be a hell on earth: the motion would be such that the only movement possible would be hand to hand, their only rest taken tied into a wildly moving cot, their world confined to a box shaken into a malodorous, seasick chaos.

The ships plunged on into the angry seas. Aboard, muscles wearying of the continual bracing and staggering along the deck, eyes salt-sore in the raw cold and the streaming wet, Kydd made a circuit of the deck looking for anything that could conceivably fret itself into a rapidly spiralling danger. He checked little things, that the drain-holes of the boats were kept open, their deck-gripes bar-taut, spare spars under them lashed into immobility. When he stripped off in the damp fug of the wardroom, he could see his own concern reflected in others' eyes, and Renzi wore a taut expression.

He pulled on wool: long undergarments, loose pullovers. Anything to keep out the sapping cold of the streaming wind.

This was no longer an exhilarating contest with Neptune, but something sinister. The first feelings of anxiety stole over Kydd— there was a point in every storm when the elements turned from hard boisterousness to malevolence, a sign that mankind was an interloper in something bigger than himself, where lives counted for nothing.

Back on deck Kydd had no need to check the compass to see that the wind had veered further: the angle of the treble-reefed topsails was now much sharper. If it continued much past south they stood to be headed, prevented from making for Nova Scotia to the west, no more than two days away.

Kydd could just make out a few words as he approached Houghton, who was talking to the master under the half-deck near the wheel: ". . . or lie to, sir." Hambly pointed out over the foam-streaked seas. Beneath the wind-scoured waves a swell, long and massive, was surging up. And it came from the southwest, a portent of the great storm that had sent it.

Kydd glanced at the merchantman. They were but two days from port. So near, yet—Houghton had no authority over her and, indeed, if he had it was difficult to see how any meaningful signal could be made.

"The monster crosses our way, sir, and I'm not sanguine of th' chances of a wounded ship in a real North Atlantic storm," continued the master.

"We stay with Lord Woolmer. That must be our duty," Houghton said abruptly.

Within the hour Woolmer began to turn—away from the wind.

"She's scudding!" said Houghton.

"No, sir, I do believe she wears." The ship continued round, slowly and uncomfortably, until she had come up on the opposite, starboard tack where she held a-try about four points from the wind.

"I thought so!" Hambly said, against the bluster of the wind at the edges of the half-deck. "He's seen enough of the western ocean t' know that if there's a turn f'r the worse, the shift will come out of somewheres close to th' north, and wants to get his staying about over with now." It also meant that Woolmer had given up hope of making it through to Halifax and now lay to under storm canvas, going very slowly ahead, waiting out the storm. Kydd's heart went out to the passengers, who must be near to despair: storms could last weeks.

Tenacious was set to edging round to conform, and together the two vessels endured. By midday the seas had worsened and the wind's sullen moan had keened to a higher pitch, a dismal drone with whistling overtones. The swell had increased and the depth between each crest became a dismaying plunge and rise.

Kydd had experienced Caribbean hurricanes, but this was of a different quality: the cold at its heart gave it a unique dark malice. Like the other officers, Kydd stayed on deck. At noon they took stale bread and cold tongue, biscuit and anchovies, then resumed their vigil.

Suddenly, a mass of panic-stricken men burst up from the after hatchway, spilling on to the deck, falling over themselves to be out. A chill stabbed at Kydd. A seaman shouted hoarsely, "Gotta loose gun!"

Bryant dropped his food and raced for the hatchway, shouting to Kydd, "A dozen micks—now!"

Because of the weather the hammocks had all been stowed below in the lowest deck. Kydd stood in the hatchway, snatching a dozen men to a halt. "Down t' the orlop—we'll go under." He plunged recklessly down the hatchway, praying they would follow. As he passed the level of the gun-deck he had a brief glimpse of a squat black creature crouching for the kill. He hurried on.

Finally in the orlop he paused to allow his eyes to adjust; then he set the men to work. In the wildly heaving gloom hammocks were passed up while Kydd cautiously entered the deserted gun-deck. The gun stood out brazenly from the ship's side. The muzzle lashing had pulled its ringbolt from rotten wood and some weighty motion of the ship had subsequently caused the iron forging of the breeching tackle on one side to give way. The big cannon had swung out and, held by a few stranded ropes, was all but free.

Bryant stood to one side with a crew of seamen armed with handspikes. Kydd signalled to the first men to come up.

"Stand your ground!" the first lieutenant roared, at the men hesitating at his back. The whites of their eyes showed as they fearfully hefted their handspikes and waited for the order. When Kydd's men had temporarily stopped the beast with hammocks thrown in its path, Bryant's would hurl themselves on it with the handspikes in an attempt to overturn it.

Tenacious rose to a wave and fell to starboard. It was all that was needed; the remaining ropes parted with a dull twang and the twenty-four-pounder trundled across the deck, accelerating as it went. The men threw themselves back at the sight of the unrestrained rampage while the cannon hurtled at the opposite side. Then the deck heaved the other way. The gun slowed and stopped, trickling back and forth in a grotesque parody of a bullfight as the ship hesitated at the top of a roll. The next headlong charge might be the last.

"Er, can we help?" Lieutenant Best, accompanied by half a dozen marines, stood uncomprehending and hesitating at the hatchway.

"No! Get 'em away." Kydd appreciated his courage but a crowd was not needed—only a handful of daring, active seamen. He glanced behind him: Chamberlain, the midshipman, with the agility of youth, Lamb, a spry topman, Thorn, steady and quick— he had enough.

"Each a mick, an' follow me—rest, wait until we has it cornered, then move in fast." He seized a trussed hammock for himself and moved forward, feeling the eyes of Bryant's crew on him.

Tenacious's bows rose to a comber. The deck canted up and the cannon suddenly rolled—towards him. Kydd threw the hammock before it and flung himself to one side. It thrust by, skidding on the hammock and fetched up against the mainmast with a splintering crash.

"Chamberlain—here! Lamb 'n' Thorn, get in behind it!" He spotted Best, still hovering. "Get out of it," he snarled, and pushed the crestfallen officer away.

They must close in at whatever risk: Bryant's crew could do nothing until the beast was stopped and then they had seconds only. The next few minutes would see heroes — or death. Warily he approached the cannon, trying to gauge the seas outside.

The bows began to rise again and he tensed, but the downward motion of the cannon abruptly changed course as the wave angled under her keel, and it rumbled headlong towards the ship's side and where Best stood, paralysed with horror.

It happened very quickly: a fatal wavering and the two-ton monster caught him, snatched him along, and slammed against another—a choking squeal and a brief image of spurting blood, limbs and white bone. Best's body was flung to the deck.

Yet his sacrifice was the saving of the ship. Caught in the gun's small wheels his body caused the cannon to slew and stop. Kydd hurled his hammock in its path. Others threw themselves at it, Bryant's crew with handspikes levering furiously, frantically.

They had won.

Shaken, Kydd needed the open decks. Lord Woolmer lay to a mile or so away, taking seas on her bows in explosions of white, pitching and rolling under her scraps of sail.

Hambly was standing by the main shrouds, looking up at the racing dark clouds and the torn seascape. On seeing Kydd, he shouted, "We're takin' it more from the west, I fear." The rest of his words were snatched away by the wind's blast.

"And this means?" Kydd had not heard Houghton approach behind them. Hambly wheeled round, then respectfully accompanied them to the shelter of the half-deck.

"Sir, it means the centre o' the storm is placin' itself right in our path. We'll be down t' bare poles at this rate—we should really bear away an' scud instead of lyin' to. There's no hope this storm is goin' to blow itself out, sir."

Kydd wondered whether the real reason Woolmer was hanging on was the reluctance of her captain to deny his passengers hope of a harbour and surcease. To scud was to abandon all attempts even to hold a position and simply fly before the violence, but this was to turn about and be blown back over the miles they had won at such cost.

"I understand, Mr Hambly, but we stay with them."

Conditions were deteriorating and it was hard to keep them in sight: the air was filled with stinging spray, the motion of the ship becoming a shuddering heave as the seas grew more confused.

The hours wore on. Kydd imagined what it must be like for the people of Woolmer: an indescribable nightmare, endlessly protracted.

After midday Woolmer finally submitted to fate and made the decision to scud. It would be touch and go: the swells issuing from the storm centre were now more than forty feet high, higher even than the lower yards, and clawed into white streaks by the pitiless wind. They had left it perilously late. To fall off the wind, then run before it they must first pass through the most dangerous time of all—broadside to the powerful seas.

Tenacious stood by while Woolmer began to turn, all aboard holding their breath. Her captain had clearly planned his turn away from the wind, for the small sail left on main and mizzen vanished at exactly the same time as her headsails mounted. The leverage told, and the ship, plunging and rocking like a fractious horse, began putting her bow downwind, faster and faster. A rampaging comber burst on her side, checking her movement, but with the appearance of square sail on her fore—loosed by some heroic topmen aloft—Woolmer completed her turn. Rolling drunkenly at first she settled to her new track.

"A princely piece of seamanship as ever I've seen, and with an injured mast!" exclaimed Houghton. Kydd quietly agreed: it had been well done indeed.

"At least they has no worry o' being pooped," said Hambly, eyeing the stately East Indiaman's high stern. With a following sea there was always the danger of a giant wave overtaking and crowding on to her deck to sweep everything before it.

"That's not m' worry," Kydd said—seared on his memory was fighting the helm of a similar-sized vessel in the Great Southern Ocean, the frigate Artemis on her way round Cape Horn.

Hambly looked at him, troubled. "What's that, sir?"

"No matter." Kydd could not voice the fears that had been triggered by the memory.

Houghton broke in decisively: "I'm going to scud under fore-topmast stays'l and a close-reefed fore tops'l. Mr Hambly?"

"Aye, sir." Hands went to their stations, Kydd on the poop at the mizzen. The reefed driver was brought in and all sail aft disappeared, released seamen sent to the main deck. Tenacious began her turn, experiencing the same vertiginous rolls before she, too, was round with the hard wind at her stern.

Barely set on her course, Tenacious's fore topsail split and was instantly transformed to streaming ribbons. "I'll have a quick-saver on that," Houghton shouted at the hurrying boatswain, ordering the replacement topsail and a pair of ropes to be crossed over the sail to prevent it ballooning forward.

Then, there were cries of horror. No more than half a mile away, Kydd saw Woolmer, her silhouette dark against the white of the spindrift, strangely misshapen. Her weakened mainmast had given way under the wind pressure: it had splintered and fallen in ruin over the side.

While Tenacious watched, agonised, the inevitable happened. The crew were unable to cut away the substantial wreckage in time and it acted as a drag to one side. Woolmer yawed. Pulled to one side she was at the mercy of the onrushing water, which pushed her further broadside. Kydd's fears had come to pass: with no ability to come back on course she was forced right over on her beam ends, and the giant seas fell on the helpless vessel. Lord Woolmer capsized in a smother of wreckage, her long hull a glistening whale-like rock for a time before she disappeared altogether; lords, ladies and common seamen gone for ever.

"Mr Hambly," said Houghton, in an unnatural voice, "the best course for us?"

Hambly tore his eyes away from the scene and pulled himself together. "Er, to the suth'ard would keep us fr'm the centre . . . We scuds afore the westerly, that's undoubted, until we can show canvas and come about—there's nothing more we c'n do, sir."

Alone, Tenacious fought the sea, men moving silently in a pall of disbelief, senses battered by the hammering wind. For all of twenty hours the ship ran before the tempest until, in the early hours of the next day, the master judged it possible to set square sail on the main and thereby edge closer to the wind. By evening the winds had moderated to the extent that at last Tenacious could ease round more westward, towards the now distant Halifax.

But the storm had one last trial for the old ship. By degrees the wind shifted north and the temperature fell. The first whirling snowflakes came, then snow squalls that marched across the seas with dark, brassy interiors bringing intense cold.

It got worse. Ice covered shrouds, sails, decks, freezing exposed faces. It stiffened wet ropes to bars that seamen, with frozen fingers in wet gloves and feet in agony with the cold, had to wrestle with to coil.

Even breathing was painful: Kydd bound a cloth round his face but it soon clogged with ice as moisture froze. Below, the wardroom stank of damp wool, bear-grease and the hides used in foul-weather gear. No one spoke: it was too much effort. Renzi sat with his head in his hands.

On Kydd's watch the wind moan increased, the pitiless blast buffeting him with its fearsome chill. He hugged himself, grateful for his moose-hide jacket, and thought of the hapless men in the fo'c'sle. In the scrappiest clothing against the numbing chill they had to muster on watch day and night, working, enduring.

Hambly came over. "Shall have t' take in the main tops'l," he said, looking significantly at Kydd. They had been fortunate until now that they carried the same square sail, close reefed fore and main topsails, but the wind had increased again.

Kydd stared up at the straining sail. There was no question, the ship was over-pressed in these conditions and must be relieved—he could feel it in her laboured response to the helm. He was officer-of-the-watch and the responsibility was his, not the master's.

But there was the deadly glitter of ice on the shrouds, in the tops and along the yards: how could he send men aloft in the almost certain knowledge that for some there would be a cry, a fall and death?

His eyes met Hambly's: there was understanding but no compassion. Without a word Kydd turned and made his way down to the main deck where the watch on deck shivered, hunkered down in the lee of the weather bulwarks.

They looked up as he descended, their faces dull, fatigued, and pinched with cold. He paused. How could he order them to go aloft into a howling icy hell? Perhaps some rousing speech to the effect that the ship, they themselves even, depended on them taking their lives into their hands and going aloft? No. Kydd had been in their place and knew what was needed.

His face hardened. "Off y'r rumps, y' lazy swabs. I want th' main tops'l handed, now." They pulled themselves slowly to their feet. Their weary, stooped figures and bloodshot eyes wrung his heart.

"Lay aloft!" he roared. Every man obeyed. Kydd allowed a grim smile to surface. "An' there'll be a stiff tot f'r every man jack waiting for ye when you get back. Get moving!"

For two hours, ninety feet above Kydd's head, the men fisted the stiff sail in a violently moving, lethal world. Fingernails split and canvas was stained with blood, tired muscles slipped on icy wood and scrabbled for a hold, minds retreating into a state of numbed endurance.

And for two hours, Kydd stood beneath, his fists balled in his pockets, willing them on, feeling for them, agonising. That day he discovered that there was only one thing of more heroism than going aloft in such a hell: the moral courage to order others to do it.

For two more days Tenacious fought her way clear of the storm, which eventually headed north, increasing in malevolence as it went. On the third day the Sambro light was raised—and, after a night of standing off and on, HMS Tenacious entered harbour.

CHAPTER 7

"DAMN! THAT CURSED TAILOR will hound me to my grave," groaned Pringle. The mail-boat had arrived back from the dockyard and the wardroom sat about the table opening letters and savouring news from home.

Adams, clutching six, retired to his cabin but Bampton slipped his into a pocket and sipped his brandy, balefully watching the animation of the others.

Kydd was trying to make sense of his borrowed Essays on Politesse Among Nations, despairing of the turgid phraseology; his restraint in matters social, and sudden access of interest in literature, was generally held to be owing to some obscure improving impulse, and he was mostly left to it.

"You don't care for letters, Mr Kydd," Pybus said, with acerbity. He had received none himself, but was still scratching away lazily with his quill.

Kydd looked up and saw that there was indeed one letter left on the table. "For me?" He picked it up. "From m' sister, Doctor," he said. She wrote closely, and as usual had turned the page and written again at right-angles through the first to be frugal in the postage.

"Well?" demanded Pybus.

But Kydd was not listening.

Dear- Thomas—or should 1 say Nicholas as w-ed? 1 do hopeyou are keeping well, my dears, and wrapping up warm.. The willows are budding ear-y- along the Wey here in- Guil^rdand . . .

The words rushed on, and Kydd smiled to picture Cecilia at her task. Her evident concern for them both warmed him but her admiration for him as an officer in the King's Navy sparked melancholy.

A hurried paragraph concluded the letter:

. . . and Father-.says that- it- would befservice to-him/sshouhdyou enquire after- his brother- .Matthew-. You- remember- they came to- some sort of a misunderstanding an- age ago, and his brother- sailed to- Phdadephia? Papa- says that was in 1763. 'Since then- we have heard nothing of him, except that in the Warfor Independence he was a- loyalist and went north with the others to- Hahfam in- about 1782. Thomas, it would so-please Papa- to- know- that he is alive and well——do- seejfyou can-find him/

Of course, his uncle: an adventurer in this wilderness land, carving a future for himself—or perhaps he was a successful trader, even a shipowner in the profitable Atlantic trade routes. "News?" Pybus said drily.

"Oh, aye. Seems it could be m' uncle is here, Doctor, in Halifax. Who would credit it?" A Kydd ashore, possibly one who had achieved eminence in society and was highly thought of in the community. For the first time in a long while he felt a rush of excitement. "I do believe I'm t' visit him today."

"Kydd—Mr Matthew Kydd." It was strange uttering the words. There were not so many Kydds in the world that it felt anything other than his own name.

The man he had stopped considered for a moment. "Can't say as I've heard of the gentleman, sir," he said finally. "You may wish to try Linnard's the tailors. You'll understand they know all the gentry hereabouts." But Kydd was tiring of the chase. It was becoming clear that his uncle was far from being a notable in Halifax. It had been foolish of him to imagine that one of modest origins could have pretences at high office—but this did not mean that he had not secured a lesser, well-respected place in society.

He toiled up the street, a curious mix of fine stone edifices and shoddy clapboard buildings, but it was not practical to think of entering and asking at random: there had to be a more efficient way. An idea came to him. He would contact Mr Greaves, the commissioner for lands. If his uncle was in any form a landowner he would know him. Kydd brightened as he savoured the effect on his uncle of receiving a card out of the blue from a Lieutenant Kydd shortly about to call.

The land registry was a stiff walk well to the south, and Kydd set out along Barrington Street, past the elegance of St Paul's Church. A line of soldiers was marching up and down on the large open area to his right, and when Kydd approached, the young officer in command halted his men and brought them to attention, then wheeled about and saluted. Kydd lifted his hat to him, which seemed to satisfy. With a further flourish of orders the soldiers resumed their marching.

Then an unwelcome thought struck. Supposing his uncle had fallen on hard times or was still a humble tradesman? It would make no difference to him—but if Greaves thought he was of lowly origins it might prove embarrassing . . . He would move cautiously and find out first.

"To be sure, a Kydd," murmured the clerk, at the desk of the weathered timber structure near the old burying ground. "There was one such, resident of Sackville Street, I seem to recall, but that was some years ago. Let me see . . ." He polished his spectacles and opened a register. "Ah—we have here one Matthew Kydd, bachelor, established as trader and landowner in the year 1782, property on Sackville Street . . . Hmmm—here we have a contribution to the Sambro light, er, the usual taxation receipts . . ."

It was certainly his uncle. At last! How would he greet him? He had never met the man: he had sailed from England well before Kydd had been born. Should it be "Uncle Matthew" or perhaps a more formal salutation?

". . . which means, sir, we have nothing later than the year 1791."

Kydd's face dropped. "So—"

"We find no evidence at all for his continued existence after then. I'm sorry."

"None?"

"No, sir. You may wish to consult the parish books of St Paul's for record of his decease—there was fever here at the time, you understand."

"Thank ye, sir." Kydd made to leave, but another clerk was hovering nearby.

"Sir, you may be interested in this . . ." They moved to the other end of the office. "My wife admired Mr Kydd's work," he said, "which is why she bought this for me." It was a handsomely carved horn of plenty, taking bold advantage of the twisted grain of the wood, and supported at the base by a pair of birds. "You will understand that time is on our hands in the winter. Mr Kydd used to occupy his in carving, which I think you will agree is in the highest possible taste . . ."

Kydd stroked the polished wood, something his own near relative had created: it felt alive.

"Yes, those birds," the clerk mused. "I confess I have no knowledge of them at all—they're not to be seen in this part of Canada. But Mr Kydd always includes them in his work. It's a custom here, a species of signature for claiming fine work as your own."

"But I recognise it well enough," Kydd said. "This is y'r Cornish chough, sir. And it's the bird you find in the coat-of-arms of our own Earl Onslow of Clandon and Guildford."

The man looked back at him with a bemused kindliness, but there was nothing more to learn here. Kydd emerged into the day: he was not yet due back aboard so his hunt would continue.

But at St Paul's there was no entry for Matthew Kydd, in births, deaths or marriages. A whole hour of searching in the gloom of the old church sacristy yielded only two entries in the tithe-book, and a smudged but tantalising reference to banns being called.

A mystery: at one time he had existed, now he did not. It was time to face the most unsatisfactory result of all: his uncle was not in Halifax but somewhere else in Canada—or, for that matter, he could be anywhere. And it explained why no one seemed to know of a Kydd in Halifax. He would regretfully conclude his search and write to his father accordingly.

"If you'd be so good, Tom . . ." Adams seemed anxious, but it did not take much imagination to grasp why he would want to absent himself from church that Sunday morning.

"I trust she's so charming you hold it of no account that you put your immortal soul to hazard?" Kydd said. The captain had made it plain that he wanted an officer from Tenacious at the morning service on Sundays, and it was Adams's turn.

Kydd had no strong feelings about religion, although he enjoyed the hearty singing of the grand old hymns. With his Methodist upbringing he was inured to sitting inactive for long periods.

Army officers with ladies on their arms swept into the church. Other ranks waited respectfully outside and would crowd in later. Kydd took off his hat and made his way inside, settling for an outside seat in a pew towards the front, nodding to the one or two other naval officers scattered about.

A pleasant-faced woman sat down next to him and flashed him an impish smile. "There, my dear," said the stern, stiffly dressed man by her, settling a rug about her knees.

"Thank you," she said, and as soon as it was seemly to do so, turned to Kydd and whispered, "I don't think I've seen you here, sir."

"Lieutenant Kydd of the Tenacious," he whispered back, unsure of the etiquette of the occasion.

"Mrs Cox. Your first visit to Halifax, Lieutenant?"

The church was filling fast but the front pew was still decorously empty.

"Yes, Mrs Cox. Er, a fine place f'r trade."

"Indeed. But when I was a little girl it was a horrid place, believe me, Lieutenant." She smiled again.

There was a damp, penetrating cold in the cavernous interior of the church, barely relieved by two fat-bellied stoves smoking in corners. Kydd shivered and wished he had brought a watch-coat.

Mrs Cox fumbled in her muff. "Here you are, Lieutenant," she said, proffering a silver flask. "Get some inside and you won't feel the cold." It was prime West Indian rum. At his ill-concealed astonishment she pressed it on him. "Go on—we all have to." Aghast at the thought of drinking in church, Kydd hesitated, then, red-faced, took a pull, but as he lowered the flask he saw an august personage and his lady sweeping up the aisle.

Crimson with embarrassment, Kydd froze. With a gracious inclination of her head, the woman smiled and continued. Kydd handed back the flask and settled for the service, trying not to notice the distracting stream of servants bringing hot bricks for the feet of the quality in the front row.

Outside, after the service, when they passed pleasantries, Kydd remembered that Mrs Cox had been born in Halifax. Impulsively he asked, "I wonder, Mrs Cox, can you remember less'n ten years ago, a gentleman by the name of Kydd, Matthew Kydd?"

She considered at length. "I can't say that I do, Lieutenant. A relation?"

"My uncle—I'm tryin' to find him."

Mr Cox pulled his ear as if trying to recall something. "Er, there was a gentleman by that name, I think—recollect he was in corn and flour on Sackville Street. Fine-looking fellow."

"That's him," said Kydd.

A look of embarrassment flashed over Cox's face. "Ah." He gave a warning glance to his wife, whose hand flew to her mouth.

"Then I'm truly sorry to tell you . . . he is no more," Cox said quietly.

Kydd swallowed.

"Yes. In about the year 'ninety—or was it 'ninety-one?—he went to Chignecto with his partner looking out prospects, but unhappily was mortally injured by a bear."

"I remember. It was in the newspaper—such a dreadful thing," Mrs Cox added. "It never does to disturb them in their sleep, the brutes."

Cox drew himself up. "I'm grieved that your search has led you to this, sir. I do hope that the remainder of your time in Halifax will be more felicitous. Good day to you, Lieutenant."

As was usual for officers in harbour, Kydd's duties were light and he felt he owed it to his father to gather the circumstances of his brother's demise. Possibly he had family, a widow. He would get the details from the newspaper and pass them on.

The Halifax Journal office was on Barrington Street, not far from Grand Parade, and the man inside was most obliging. "Yes, indeed, I remember the story well. A fine man, come to such a fate. Uncle, you say. I'll find the issue presently. If you would be so good . . ."

On a table near the compositing desk Kydd learned the sad details of his uncle's death. He had gone to Chignecto, on the other side of Nova Scotia, exploring prospects in muskrat and beaver. His business partner, an Edward Gilman, had accompanied him, but of the two who had set out, only one returned: Gilman. He had buried his friend and partner at the edge of the wilderness by the sea, then brought back the news.

Judging by the upset expressed in the newspaper, Matthew Kydd had been a man of some substance and standing and was sorely missed. Kydd leafed idly through the rest of the paper.

Out in the street he determined that before he wrote to his father he would find Gilman, ask what kind of man his uncle was, find out something about his end.

Sackville Street was just round the corner, steep and colourful with timber dwellings and shops; some were worn and weathered, others painted brown and yellow or red and white. He found a corn factor with a faded sign telling him that this was Gilman's establishment. There was no mention of "Kydd."

He went into the dusty office, where he was met by a suspicious-looking clerk. "May I speak with Mr Gilman?" Kydd asked.

"Concernin' what?"

"That's my business," Kydd said.

The man hesitated, clearly baffled by Kydd's naval uniform. "Mr Gilman," he called. "Gennelman wants t' see you."

Kydd had the feeling of eyes on him. Eventually a hard-looking man appeared, his face showing distrust. "I'm Gilman. Yes?"

"I think y' knew Matthew Kydd?"

Gilman tensed but said nothing.

"You were with him when he was killed by a bear?"

"You're English," Gilman said slowly.

"He was m' uncle, came t' Canada in 'seventy-eight."

Gilman's expression altered slightly. "I weren't with him. That was my pap."

The man must have lost his youth early in this hard country, Kydd reflected. "I'd be much obliged if he could talk with me a little about m' uncle," he said.

"He can't." At Kydd's sharp look he added, "He's bin buried. In the Ol' Burying Ground."

"Do you remember Matthew Kydd?"

"No." It was flat and final.

Pybus was unsympathetic. "Chasing after long-lost relatives is seldom a profitable exercise. Now you have the task before you of communicating grief and loss where before there was harmless wondering. Well done, my boy."

Kydd sharpened his pen and addressed himself to the task. How to inform his father that his brother was no more, and had met his end in such a hideous way? The plain facts—simply a notification? Or should he spare his father by implying that his death was from natural causes? Kydd had never been one for letters and found the task heavy-going.

He decided to wait for Renzi's return. There was no urgency, and Renzi could readily find words for him, fine, elegant words that would meet the occasion. He put aside his paper and went up on deck.

The master had a telescope trained down the harbour. "D'ye see that schooner, sir? Country-built an' every bit as good as our own Devon craft."

Kydd took the telescope. "Aye, not as full in th' bow, an' has sweet lines on her."

He kept the glass on the vessel as Hambly added, "An' that's because of the ice up the St Lawrence, o' course. They'll ship a bowgrace in two or three weeks, when the ice really breaks up. Nasty t' take one o' them floes on the bow full tilt, like."

The approaching vessel stayed prettily and shortened sail preparatory to anchoring, Kydd watching her. She was a new vessel, judging by the colour of her sails and running rigging. He shifted the view to her trim forefoot, pausing to admire her figurehead—a Scottish lass holding what appeared to be a fistful of heather, a striking figure in a streaming cloak with a pair of birds at her feet.

Birds? He steadied the telescope and, holding his breath, peered hard. He kept his glass on the schooner as she glided past. There was no mistake, they were Cornish choughs.

"I'll be damned!" Kydd said softly. Then he swung on Hambly. "Tell me," he said urgently, "do y' know which yard it was built this'n?"

"Can't say as I does." Hambly seemed surprised at Kydd's sudden energy. "There's scores o' shipyards up 'n' down the coast, most quite able t' build seagoin' craft o' this size."

It might be a coincidence—but Kydd felt in his heart it was not. "The yawl ahoy," he hailed over the side to Tenacious's boat's crew, then turned back to Hambly. "I'm going t' see that schooner, Mr Hambly."

The master of the Flora MacDonald did not want to pass the time of day with a lieutenant, Royal Navy. His cargo was to be landed as soon as convenient, and although an impress warrant was not current, who could trust the Navy? However, he did allow that the schooner was new and from St John's Island in the great Gulf of St Lawrence, specifically, the yard of Arthur Owen in New London.

Was it conceivable that his uncle had survived and was now working as a ship-carver on an island somewhere on the other side of Nova Scotia? It made no sense to Kydd. Why hadn't his uncle returned to take up his business? It was coincidence, it had to be.

But he knew he would regret it if he did not follow up this tantalising sign. A quick glance at a chart showed St John's Island no more than a couple of days' sail with a fair wind and if Canso strait was free of ice.

Although Tenacious was required in port by the absence of the admiral and his flagship, activity aboard was light, and there was no difficulty with his request for a week's leave.

It was probably only someone continuing his uncle's particular carving signature, but the expedition would be a welcome change and would give him a chance to see something of Canada. He asked Adams if he wished to come, and was not surprised at his regrets—his diary was full for weeks ahead. Kydd was going to adventure alone.

Vessels were making the run to the newly ice-free St John's Island with supplies after the winter and Kydd quickly found a berth, in a coastal schooner, the Ethel May. Wearing comfortable, plain clothes, he swung in his small sea-bag.

The beat up the coast was chill and wet, but the schooner's fore and aft rig allowed her to lie close to the north-easterly and she made good time; Cape Breton Island, the hilly passage of Canso strait, then the calmer waters in the gulf, and early in the morning of the second day they closed with St John's Island.

It was a flat, barely undulating coastline with red cliffs and contrasting pale beaches. The dark carpet of forest was blotched in places with clearings, and even before they gybed and passed the long narrow sandspit into New London Bay Kydd had seen signs of shipbuilding—gaunt ribs on slipways, timber stands, distant smoke from pitch fires.

In the sheltered waters the schooner glided towards a landing stage with a scatter of tidy weatherboard buildings beyond. "Where y' bound?"

"Owen's yard," Kydd answered.

The skipper pointed along the foreshore. "Around th' point,

one o' the oldest on St John's." He pronounced it "Sinjuns."

"Thank ye," Kydd said, feeling for coins to put into the man's outstretched hand. It had been a quick trip, and sleeping in a borrowed hammock in the tiny saloon was no imposition.

Kydd pushed past the crowd and the buckboard carts that had materialised on the schooner's arrival, hefted his sea-bag and set out.

The road was slush and red mud that the passing inhabitants seemed to ignore. Women wore old-fashioned bonnets and carried large bundles, their skirts long enough for modesty but revealing sturdy boots beneath. Men passed in every kind of dress; utility and warmth took first place over fashion. All looked at Kydd with curiosity—few strangers came to this out-of-the-way place.

The buildings were all of a style, mainly timbered, with high, steeply sloping roofs; the fields were wooden-fenced, not a stone wall in sight. English hamlets had lanes that meandered over the countryside; here there were bold straight lines in everything from settlements to roads.

The shipyard was not big: two slipways and a jetty, a blacksmith's shop and buildings presumably housing the workforce. Kydd tried to keep his hopes in check but he felt a thrill of anticipation as he approached one of the half-built hulls. "Is this Mr Owen's yard?" he hailed shipwrights at work high up on staging.

"It is," one called.

"Th' one that built the Flora MacDonald?"

"The very same."

"Could y' tell me if you've heard of a Mr Kydd—Matthew Kydd?" blurted Kydd.

"Can't say as we heard any o' that name on th' island, friend."

"I'd like t' meet the ship-carver who worked on her figurehead, if y' please," Kydd said.

"We don't do carvin' in this yard. Ye'll want Josh Ellis."

Ellis ran a small business in town. Kydd found the shop and a well-built man of about thirty came to the counter. "I'd like t' speak with Mr Ellis," Kydd said.

"That's me."

He was obviously not old enough to be his uncle; Kydd tried to hide his disappointment. "Did you work the figurehead o' the Flora MacDonald, Mr Ellis?"

"Flora MacDonald?" he reflected. "That's right, I remember now, pretty little schooner from Arthur Owen. Do ye wish one for y'self?"

"Fine work," Kydd answered carefully. "Did ye carve the birds an' all?" "I did."

"What sort o' birds are they, then?"

"Well, I guess any ol' bird, nothin' special."

"Nobody told you how t' carve them?"

"What is it y' wants? Not a carving, I figure," Ellis said, defensive.

"I'm sorry if I offended—y' see, those birds are special, Cornish choughs. You only find 'em in England an' they're rare."

Ellis said nothing, watching Kydd.

"An' they remind me of m' uncle. You find 'em on the coat-of-arms of our earl, in Guildford." There was still no response. "I came here because I thought I'd find out somethin' of him— Kydd, Matthew Kydd."

"No one b' that name on the island, I c'n tell y' now." He folded his arms across his chest.

Kydd saw there was no point in continuing. The whole thing looked like coincidence, and if there was anything more he could not think why. "Well, it was only a fancy. I'll wish ye good day, sir."

He decided to head back to his ship. The landing-stage was close, but there were no vessels alongside and it was deserted. He hesitated, then made for the small general store in the main street to enquire about a passage back to Halifax.

"None I knows of t'day." The shopkeeper stroked his jaw. "Could be one's goin' t'morrow or the next—we don't have a reg'lar-goin' packet, only traders."

Kydd lumped his bag on the counter. "Seems I'm stranded . . . ye have an inn, b' chance?"

"No, sir," he said with amusement, "but y' might try Mrs Beckwith. Her husband were a seagoin' gentleman."

"Yes indeed," said Mrs Beckwith. "I have a room fit fer a adm'ral, bless ye. Stow yer dunnage an' tonight I'll bring alongside as fine a line o' vittles as'll stick t' yer ribs."

Kydd decided to walk off his expectations; the letter was waiting to be written when he returned to Tenacious and he was in no rush to begin it. Besides, the tranquillity of this strange land was appealing: tiny shoots of green were now appearing at the sunny edges of fields, even flowers peeping up through winter-bleached grass. The silence stretched away into the distance. It could not have been more remote from war and the striving of nations.

"So far fr'm the Old Country," Mrs Beckwith said, as the dinner was brought in by a well-built young man. "Oh—this is Mr Cunnable, he boards wi' me too."

"Er, yes. That is, it's a long way t' England."

"Mr Kydd, help y'self. This is our salt cod, an' we got a pile more o' them potatoes. Now, would ye mind tellin' me, how do th' ladies in London Town have their hair this year? Heard tell, high style well powdered 'n' greased over y'r pads is quite past."

"Thank you, Mrs Beckwith, salt cod will be fine with me.

Er, the ladies o' quality I think now are windin' it up and fixin' it to the top of their heads. This is damn fine fish even if I do say so. But these leaves, I can't recollect we have any of them in England."

"Sour dock an' sheep sorrel. Gives winter vittles a mort more flavour. So you're a Navy officer! Then y' must've been to some o' them great balls an' banquets with our Prince Edward! They do say they're goin' to change the name o' this island after him."

"We've only been here a short while, an' our admiral is away in Newfoundland, but I'm sure we'll be invited soon." Kydd lifted his glass; in it was a golden brown liquid, which he tasted gingerly. It was a species of ale, with an elusive tang of malt and spice.

"Seed-wheat wine—made it m'self. Tell me, Mr Kydd, in England do they . . ." She paused, frowning, at a knock on the door. "'Scuse me."

Kydd nibbled at what appeared to be a peppery-flavoured dried seaweed and listened to Mrs Beckwith's shrill voice rising, scolding, and another, quieter. She returned eventually, flushed and irritable. "It's very wrong t' disturb ye, Mr Kydd, but there's a woman here wants t' see you an' won't go away."

Kydd got up. "She's Irish," warned Mrs Beckwith. "If y' like, shall I ask Mr Cunnable t' set the dog on her?"

"No, no. I'll come."

A woman in a shawl hung back in the darkness and spoke quietly: "Good evenin' to yez, sorr—an' you're the gennelman just come ter the island an' asking after his uncle?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Then I'm t' tell ye, if tomorrow at noon y' comes with me, you'll meet someone as knows what happened t' him."

The next day, dressed economically, she was waiting motionless down the road. Kydd saw that, despite her lined face, she held herself proudly. Without a word she turned and walked away from the town.

Where the river shoreline came close she turned down a path. It led to the river and a birchbark canoe with an Indian standing silently by it. The woman muttered some words and the Indian turned his black eyes on Kydd and grunted.

The canoe was much bigger than he had imagined, twenty feet long at least, and made of birchbark strips. There were cedar ribs as a crude framework and seams sewn with a black root. It had half a dozen narrow thwarts and Kydd was surprised to see it quite dry.

In the middle part, a good five feet across, there was a mound of baggage. "If ye'd kindly get in like this, sorr," the woman said. She leaned across the canoe until she held both sides, then, transferring her weight, stepped in neatly and sat. "Be sure t' stand in th' very middle," she added.

Kydd did as he was told, sitting behind her in the front part. The Indian shoved off, swung in, and began to ply his paddle in a powerful rhythm that quickly had them out in the river and gliding along rapidly. He worked silently, his face set like stone, and the woman did not offer any conversation.

They left cleared land behind, dark green anonymous forest stretching away endlessly on both sides. Eventually the Indian ceased paddling, then spun the canoe round and grounded it at the forest's edge.

"Nearly there," the woman said. They left the Indian to follow with the baggage and took a footpath into the trees. Kydd felt as if the forest was closing in; with its hard green conifers uniformly shaped to shed snow, unknown cries and sudden snapping in the undergrowth, it was utterly different from the soft deciduous woodland of England. Kydd thought of his uncle, killed by a bear that had burst from the trees, and was afraid. Why had he agreed to this madness?

Suddenly he glimpsed the dark blue of water, and a grey spiral of smoke. "Here!" the woman said happily, as they came upon a cluster of log cabins in a patch of land leading down to the sea. She called, and a man appeared. He stood on the porch of one of the largest cabins, a big man, long-haired and with a deep chest; he wore moose-hide worked with porcupine quills.

"My husband Joseph Bourne, sorr."

The man shook hands with Kydd, looking at him keenly. Kydd felt the strength and hardness in his clasp. "I hear you knew my uncle, Matthew Kydd, Mr Bourne," Kydd said.

"Very close t' me, he were," Bourne said at length, in a deep Canadian burr. "Come inside, sit y'self down."

The cabin was snug and warm with a steeply sloping cedar-shingle roof; the logs chinked smoothly on the inside. Skins and two bear hams hung from the high beams. Woven Indian matting decorated the walls and a pair of long guns was crossed above the fire. It smelt pungently of smoke and human living.

Two rocking chairs faced the fire, and the men sat together. "M' wife got t' hear of you in town," he said, in a voice both soft and slow. "Thought I could help."

Kydd murmured something, conscious of the man's look.

"You're fr'm the Old Country," Bourne said. "Fr'm what part do ye hail?"

"Guildford, which is in Surrey."

"Very pretty, I heard."

"Mr Bourne, ye said you'd tell me of m' uncle Matthew," said Kydd.

"All in God's good time, friend," Bourne said, and leaned round his chair. "Colleen, c'n you fetch us a jug o' beer, darlin', and some moose jerky? Our guest's come a long way t' be here.

Now, y'r uncle Matthew." He collected a long pipe and tobacco pouch from the chimneypiece above the fire. "Need t' think," he said, as he stuffed the bowl and got a light from the fire. When he had it going to satisfaction, he started: "He came t' Nova Scotia fr'm the Colonies in 'seventy-eight—wanted no truck wi' revolutions an' that. Set himself up in business, an' did well for hisself. Then got destroyed by a bear in Chignecto country."

Kydd tried to hide his irritation—that much he already knew, and if the man simply wanted company . . . "Sir, it would oblige me greatly, should you—"

"His wife died in Halifax o' the fever. Had three bairns, all taken. That was in 'eighty-four." He drew long on his pipe, staring into the fire. "After that, well, I guess he took a diff'rent slant on life. Got inta business, corn tradin' an' such. Did well, laid out silver in the right place an' got him a gov'ment contract f'r the Army, set up in Sackville Street, noticed by th' governor . . . but never remarried."

"What kind o' man d'ye think he was?"

Bourne poured from a stone jug into colourful pottery tankards and offered one. From the woodsy taste, Kydd recognised it as spruce beer—it had a compelling bitterness and he decided it was an acquired taste.

"A straight arrow, I reckon. Hard worker but . . ."

"Mr Bourne?"

"But I'm thinkin' he weren't so happy, really." He lapsed again into an introspective silence.

Kydd coughed meaningfully and asked, "I have t' ask if you know anything about his bein' taken by the bear. Was it . . . quick?" His father would want details.

Bourne puffed once more, then said quietly, "Who wants t' know?"

"Why, he had an elder brother who's my papa. They parted years afore I was born, some sort o' misunderstanding. M' father's gettin' frail an' hoped t' be reconciled. Now I have to write t' him, you understand."

Bourne got to his feet, crossed to the fire and knocked out his pipe on a log. He turned, but did not resume his chair, looking at Kydd with an unsettling intensity.

Then his gaze shifted; his wife was standing rigid behind Kydd, staring at her husband. His eyes returned to Kydd. "You're a smart lad. What d' they call ye?"

"I'm Thomas—Tom Kydd." He looked steadily at the older man. "An' do I call ye Uncle?" he added softly.

In the stillness the hardwood fire snapped and spat, sending up fountains of red sparks. For a long time Bourne held his silence, until Kydd thought he had not heard. Then he spoke. "I guess you do that," he said.

"Come, lass, sit by we," Kydd's uncle said, after composure had been regained and whiskey had been downed. She moved over and sat on the floor, close.

"I'm goin' t' tell ye the whole nine yards, Thomas—Tom. It's a long ways fr'm here to Guildford, so don't go makin' judgements before you've heard me out. I told ye no lie. About seven, eight year ago I weren't happy. Ye might say I was miserable. I got t' thinkin' about life 'n' all, and knew I was a-wastin' the years God gave me. So I did somethin' about it. Simple, really. I did a deal with m' partner—Ned Gilman, right true sort he were. I spelled out t' him that if he said I was took by a bear, an' let me start a new life, I'd let him have the business. We shook on it, an' I guess that's it—here I am."

"Just—gave him th' business?"

"I did. But he suffered for it!" His face wrinkled in amusement. "Folk said th' bear tale was all a story—that really he'd murthered me an' left me t' rot, while he came back alone 'n' claimed th' business."

Kydd remembered the hostility his enquiries had met and now understood. "Will ye leave y'r bones here, d'ye think?" It was a far, far place, England, where ancient churches and the old ways comforted, with graveyards, ceremony and mourning at life's end. What was there of that in this raw land?

"Tom, you don't know this land, y' never lived here. It's hard, break-y'r-heart bad at times, but it's beautiful—because it's so hard."

He stood up suddenly. "Come wi' me." He strode to the door and out into the gathering dusk. The sun was going down in a display of soft lilac and grey; a mist hung over the still waters and the peace was only broken by the secret sounds of nature.

"See there? It's a land so big we don't know how far it is t' the other side. It's new an' raw, open to all—the west an' the north is all waiting, mile on mile o' country without it's seen a man. But that's what I want, t' be at peace. M' heart is here, Tom, where I c'n live like God means me to."

Kydd saw his face light up as he spoke. "How d' ye live? Y'r carving?"

Turning to him the older man spoke quietly but firmly. "T' you, I'm a poor man. I ask ye to think of what I have here—all m' time is my own, all of it. This place is mine, I built it m'self as I want it. And yes, I carve—in winter y' has a lot o' time, an' what better than t' create with y'r own hands?"

He chuckled. "Y' saw the choughs. I didn't think t' see anyone fr'm old Guildford here. But it keeps me in coin enough t' meet m' needs." He threw open a door to a side cabin. In the gloom Kydd could see huge figures: griffins, mermaids, solemn aldermen and long, decorative side panels. The odour of fresh-carved timber chips was resinous and powerful. "The yards're startin' for th' year. They'll be wantin' the winter's work now."

They trudged back to the main cabin. A train-oil lamp was burning inside, intensifying the shadows, while the smell of beef pie and potatoes eddied about.

"Now, m' lad, how's about you tell me about Guildford an' y'r folks?"

Kydd talked of the Old Country, of the stirring changes that had resulted from this final great war with the French, the school they had bravely started, the appearance of various little ones in the family. At one point Kydd stopped, letting the stillness hang, then asked carefully, "We were told there was a misunderstanding with my papa, Uncle. Was it s' bad you remember it t' this day?"

His uncle guffawed loudly. "Was at first, but then I hears after, she married someone else anyhow. Didn't seem right t' start up writin' again so . . ."

The evening was a great success. Colleen brought out a hoarded jar of blueberry wine and, in its glow, stories of old times and old places were exchanged long into the dark night.

"So you've never regretted it?"

"Never!" His hand crept out to take hers. "In Halifax they'd never let an Irish woman in t' their society. I'd always be tryin'. Here we live content the same as man 'n' wife, an' here we stay."

The fire flared and crackled, the hours passed and the fire settled to embers. Eventually Kydd yawned. "Have t' return to m' ship tomorrow," he said, with real regret.

His uncle said nothing, staring into the fire. Then he took a deep breath. "Seems y' have a teaser on y'r hands, m' boy."

"A problem?"

"Yes, sir. Now, consider—you've seen me, alive 'n' well. You have t' decide now what ye say to y'r father. The world knows I was killed by a bear. Are you goin' to preserve m' secret an' let it stand, or will ye ease his human feelings 'n' say I'm here?"

"I—I have t' think on it," was all Kydd could find to say.

His uncle gave a slow smile. "I'm sure ye'll know what t' do." His gaze on Kydd was long—and fond.

"Wait here," he said, and went outside.

While he was gone, Kydd's thoughts turned to his father. Where was the mercy in telling him that, according to the world, his brother was no more? Or, on the other hand, that his brother was alive and well but had turned his back on society, preferring a pariah woman and a vast wilderness?

There was just one course he could take that would be both merciful and truthful. He would say that, according to the records, his uncle Matthew had lived in Halifax doing well until 1791 but had then moved somewhere else in the immense country of Canada. In this way at least his father would remain in hope.

The door creaked open and his uncle returned with an object wrapped in old sacking. "You're goin' to be the last Kydd I ever sees," he said thickly, "an' I'm glad it were you. See here—" He passed across the sacking. It contained something heavy, a single, undistinguished black rock. But, breaking through it in several places, Kydd saw a dull metallic gleam. Gold. Astonished, Kydd took it, feeling its weight.

"Fell down a ravine years ago, goin' after a animal, an' there it was. But it's no use t' me—I bring that t' town an' in a brace o' shakes it'll be crawlin' with folks grubbin' up th' land an' fightin'. Never bin back, leave th' rest in the good earth where it belongs. But you take it—an' use it to get somethin' special, something that'll always remind ye of y'r uncle Matthew in Canada."

CHAPTER 8

SEAMEN WERE HOISTING IN HEAVY STONE BOTTLES of spruce-beer essence. Admiral Vandeput considered the drink essential to the health of his squadron.

"I'll sweat the salt fr'm your rascally bones—sink me if I don't." The squeaky voice of a midshipman was unconvincing: he had a lot to learn about the handling of men, Kydd thought, and turned away irritably. He put his head inside the lobby. Adams had promised to relieve him, but was nowhere to be found. Kydd returned impatiently to the quarterdeck. The seamen had finished their work and all of the wicker-covered jars were below at last.

The last man of the work party was still on deck, slowly coiling down the yardarm tackle fall. There was something disquieting about this thick-set seaman: Kydd had seen him come aboard with the new men and several times he'd noticed the man looking his way with a significant cast.

Kydd paced forward. The man glanced over his shoulder at him and turned his back, busying himself with his task. When Kydd drew near he straightened and turned, touching his forelock. "Mr Kydd, sir," he said, his voice not much more than a low rasp.

Surprised, Kydd stopped.

"Sir, ye remembers me?"

There was an edge of slyness to his manner that Kydd did not like. Was he a sea-lawyer perhaps? But the man was only a little shorter than Kydd himself, powerfully built, with hard, muscular arms and a deep tattooed chest: he had no need of cozening ways on the mess-deck.

The man gave a cold smile. "Dobbie, petty officer o' the afterguard," he added, still in a low tone.

Kydd could not recall anyone by that name. The midshipman popped up out of the main-hatchway but saw them together and disappeared below again. "No, can't say as I do," Kydd replied. Unless the seaman had something of value to say to an officer he was sailing closer to the wind than a common sailor should. "I don't remember you, Dobbie—now be about y'r duties."

He turned to go, but Dobbie said quietly, "In Sandwich." Kydd stopped and turned. Dobbie stared back, his gaze holding Kydd's with a hard intensity. "Aye—when you was there. I remembers ye well . . . sir."

It had been less than a year ago but the Sandwich was a name Kydd had hoped never to hear again. She had been the mutineers' flagship and at the centre of the whirlwind of insurrection and violence at the Nore. It had climaxed in failure for the mutiny and an end to the high-minded attempt to complete the work begun at Spithead. Many sailors had paid with their lives. Kydd had joined the mutiny in good faith but had been carried along by events that had overwhelmed them all. But for mysterious appeals at the highest level he should have shared their fate.

"Dick Parker. Now there was a prime hand, don' ye think? Saw what was goin' on, but concerns hisself with the men, not th' gentry. Sorely missed, is he."

Kydd drew back. Was Dobbie simply trying to ingratiate himself, or was this a direct attempt at drawing Kydd into some crazy plot? Anxiety and foreboding flooded in. Either way this had to be stopped.

"Enough o' this nonsense. Where I came from before I went t' the quarterdeck is no concern o' yours, Dobbie. Pay y'r respects to an officer an' carry on." Even in his own ears it rang false, lacking in authority.

Dobbie looked relaxed, a lazy smile spreading across his face. Kydd glanced uneasily about; no one was within earshot. "Did ye not hear? I said—"

"Me mates said t' me, 'An' who's this officer then, new-rigged an' has the cut o' the jib of the fo'c'sle about 'im?' What c'n I say?" Dobbie was confident and as watchful as a snake. "I keeps m' silence, 'cos I knows you has t' keep discipline, an' if they catches on that you is th' Tom Kydd as was alongside Dick Parker all the time—"

"What is it ye want?" Kydd snapped.

Dobbie picked up the end of the fall and inspected its whipping, then squinted up at Kydd. "Ah, well. I was wonderin'—you was in deep. Not a delegate, but 'twas your scratch what was clapped on all them vittlin' papers, I saw yez. Now don't y' think it a mort strange that so many good men went t' the yardarm but Mr Tom Kydd gets a pardon? Rest gets the rope, you gets th' King's full pardon 'n' later the quarterdeck." The lazy smile turned cruel. "We gets t' sea, the gennelmen in the fo'c'sle hear about you, why, could go hard f'r a poxy spy . . ."

Kydd flushed.

Dobbie tossed aside the rope and folded his arms. "Your choice, Mr Tom Kydd. You makes m' life sweet aboard—I'm a-goin' t' be in your division—or the fo'c'sle hands are goin' to be getting some interestin' news."

"Damn you t' hell! I didn't—" But Dobbie turned and padded off forward.

Kydd burned with emotion. It was utterly beyond him to have spied treacherously on his shipmates as they had fought together for their rights. He was incapable of such an act. But the men of the fo'c'sle would not know that. Dobbie was one of them, and he was claiming to have been with Kydd at the mutiny and to have the full story. Unable to defend himself in person, Kydd knew there was little doubt whom they would believe.

The consequences could not be more serious. He would not be able to command these men, that much was certain; the captain would quickly recognise this and he would be finished as an officer. But it might be worse: a dark night, quiet watch and a belaying pin to the head, then quickly overside . . .

And the wardroom—if they believed he owed his advancement to spying and betrayal, what future had he among them?

It was incredible how matters had reached such a stand so quickly. He would have to move fast, whatever his course. The obvious action was to submit. It had definite advantages. Nothing further would happen because it was in Dobbie's interest to keep his leverage intact. And it would be simple: Kydd as an officer could easily ensure Dobbie's comfortable existence.

The other tack would be to brazen it out. But Kydd knew this was hopeless: he would be left only with his pride at not yielding to blackmail, and that was no choice at all.

He yearned for Renzi's cool appraisal and logical options: he would find the answers. But he was in Newfoundland. Kydd was not close to Adams and the others: he would have to face it alone.

His solitary, haunted pacing about the upper deck did not seem to attract attention, and two hours had passed before he found his course of action.

Kydd knew the lower deck, its strengths and loyalties as well as its ignorance; its rough justice and depth of sentiment could move men's souls to achieve great things—or stir them to passionate vindictiveness. He would now put his trust in them, an unshakeable faith that he, even as an officer, could rely on their sense of honour, fairness and loyalty.

The afternoon ebbed to a pallid dusk, and the hands secured, then went below for grog and supper. Kydd waited until they were in full flow. Then he went down the after hatchway to the gun-deck and paused at the foot of the ladder.

The mess-tables were rigged and the usual warm conviviality of a meal-time, enlivened by rum, rose noisily from the tables between the rows of guns. A few curious looks came his way, but in the main seamen were more interested in the gossip of the day and he was ignored.

Methodically, he removed his cocked hat. Then he took off his lieutenant's uniform coat and laid it carefully over his arm. By this time he had the attention of the nearest, who looked at him in astonishment.

He paced forward slowly, and with terrible deliberation. One by one the tables lapsed into an amazed silence, which grew and spread until the whole gun-deck fell into an unnatural quiet and men craned forward for a better view.

Kydd continued his walk, his face set and grim, eyes fixed forward in an unblinking stare. He was either right to trust— or he had lost everything. He passed the great jeer capstan, the mighty trunk of the mainmast, the main hatch gratings, his measured tread now sounding clear and solemn.

He halted abreast the fore capstan, his eyes still fixed forward. Slowly his gaze turned to one side: Dobbie sat, transfixed, at the mess by number-five gun. Kydd marched over. Not a man moved. He held Dobbie with his eyes, dropping his words into the silence. "I'll be waiting for ye—the Mizzen tavern. At two, tomorrow." Then he wheeled about and began the long walk back down the silent gun-deck.

In the privacy of his cabin Kydd buried his face in his hands. As an officer there was no question of how to deal with a slur on one's honour: a duel was the inevitable result. Dobbie was not a gentleman, therefore Kydd could not demean himself in calling him out. But this was a matter for the lower deck: different rules applied. By now the news would be already around the ship. It was too late for him to back away—and also for Dobbie.

Dobbie was big and a bruiser, well used to a mill. Kydd could take care of himself, but this was another matter. Of a surety he would be the loser, in all probability suffering a battering and disfiguring injury. But the result would be worth it. Never more would any man question his honour or integrity: Dobbie's word would be hollow against that of a man who had set aside the power and privileges that were his by right to defend his honour in the traditional way.

Kydd had no fear of it coming to the ear of the captain — or any other officer, for that matter. It would be common currency on the mess-decks and every seaman and petty officer would know of it, but it was their business and, as with so many other things, the quarterdeck never would hear of it.

He slept well: there was little to be gained in brooding on hypothetical events of the next day and in any case there was nothing he could do about it now that events had been set in train.

As he moved about the ship there were surreptitious looks, curious stares and a few morbid chuckles. He went below to find his servant. "Er, Tysoe, there is something of a service I want you t' do for me."

"Sir, don't do it, sir, please, I beg," Tysoe said, with a low, troubled voice. "You're a gentleman, sir, you don't have to go mixing with those villains."

"I have to, an' that's an end to it."

Tysoe hesitated, then asked unhappily, "The service, sir?"

"Ah—I want you to find a fo'c'sle hand who c'n lend me a seaman's rig f'r this afternoon. Er, it'll be cleaned up after."

"Sir." But Tysoe did not leave, disconsolately shuffling his feet. "Sir, I'm coming with you."

"No." Kydd feared he would be instantly discovered and probably roughed up: he could not allow it. "No, but I thank ye for your concern."

There was a fitful cold drizzle when Kydd stepped into the boat, which gave him an excuse to wear a concealing oilskin. Poulden was stroke; he had gruffly volunteered to see Kydd through to the Mizzen tavern, but made determined efforts not to catch his eye as he pulled strongly at his oar.

They landed at King's Slip. Without a word, Kydd and Poulden stepped out and the boat shoved off. The waterfront was seething with activity and they pushed through firmly to Water Street.

It was lined with crude shanties and pothouses; raw weathered timbers abuzz with noise, sailors and women coming and going, the stink of old liquor and humanity in the air. A larger hostelry sported a miniature mast complete with upper yards, jutting out from a balcony. "The Fore, sir," said Poulden, self-consciously. "We has three inns; the Fore, the Main, 'n' the Mizzen, which, beggin' yer pardon, we understands t' be respectively the wildest, gayest an' lowest in Halifax." Hoisted on the Fore's mast was the sign of a red cockerel, a broad hint to the illiterate of the pleasures within.

Kydd's heart thudded, but he was angry with Dobbie—not so much for trying such a scheme but for the slur on Kydd's character. His anger focused: whatever the outcome of the next few hours he would see to it that he left marks on Dobbie.

They swung down a side-street to see a crowd of jostling men outside an entrance with a small mizzen mast. "Sir, gotta leave ye now." Poulden returned the way he came, leaving Kydd on his own. His mouth dried. Screeches of female laughter and roars of appreciation at some unseen drunken feat filled the air. As a young seaman he'd been in places like this, but he had forgotten how wild and lawless they were.

"There he is! Told yer so!" Heads turned and Kydd was engulfed with a human tide that jollied him inside, all red faces and happy anticipation. A black-leather can was shoved at him, its contents spilling down his front. "No, thank ye," he said quickly, thrusting it away.

Women on the stairs looked at him with frank curiosity, some with quickening interest at his strong, good looks. A hard-featured seaman and two others tried to push through. "Gangway, y' scrovy bastards, an' let a man see who it is then," he grumbled.

"Akins, Master o' the Ring. I have t' ask, are ye Lootenant Kydd an' no other?" The taphouse broke into excited expectancy at Kydd's reply. He recognised both of the others: Dean, boatswain's mate of Tenacious, standing with brutal anticipation, and Laffin, petty officer of the afterguard, wearing a pitying expression. There were others from Tenacious, their images barely registering on Kydd's preternaturally concentrated senses.

"Are ye willing t' stand agin Bill Dobbie, L'tenant, the fight t' be fair 'n' square accordin' t' the rules?" There was a breathy silence. Bare-knuckle fighting was brutal and hard, but there were rules—the Marquess of Queensberry had brought some kind of order to the bloody business.

"Aye, I'm willing."

The pothouse erupted. "Fight's on, be gob, an' me bung's on Dobbie."

This was going to be a legendary match to be talked of for years. The crush was stifling, but Laffin cleared the way with his fists and they passed through the damp sawdust and sweaty, shoving humanity to the sudden cool of the outside air. It was a small inner courtyard with rickety weathered buildings on all four sides. In the centre, sitting on a standard seaman's chest, was Dobbie.

Kydd stopped as the significance of the chest crowded in on him. This was not going to be a fight according to Queensberry's rules: this was a traditional way of the lower deck to settle the worst of grudges—across a sea-chest. They would sit facing each other over its length, lashed in place, to batter at each other until one yielded or dropped senseless.

To back away now was impossible. He had to go through with it. He took in Dobbie's deep chest and corded arms. His fists were massive and strapped up with darkened, well-used leather. There was no doubt that Kydd was in for heavy punishment.

The men and women in the courtyard were shouting obscene encouragement to Dobbie, urging him to take it out on an officer while he had the chance. A hoot of laughter started up at the back of the crowd and Kydd's servant was propelled to the front.

"Tysoe!"

"Sir, sir—" He had a bundle clutched to his chest, and his frightened eyes caught Kydd's. "I came, sir, I—I came—"

"He's come t' drag Tom Cutlass home after, like," chortled Dean. It was the first Kydd had heard of any lower-deck nickname—from the desperate time fighting in the boat when his sword had broken and he had taken up a familiar cutlass. Strangely, it strengthened his resolve.

"Don't worry, Tysoe, I'll see ye right!" Kydd said forcefully, above the crowd.

The laughter died as the men sensed the time had come. Kydd looked directly at Dobbie, who returned the look with a glittering-eyed malignity. "Get on wi' it, yer sluggards!" screamed one woman, her cries taken up by the baying circle of men. Scowling, Akins turned to Kydd. "Get y'r gear off, then, mate."

Kydd pulled off his shirt, feeling the icy cold wind playing on his bare torso. There was a stir of amazed comment as the stretched and distorted scars criss-crossing his back were recognised for what they were: a relic of the long-ago agony of lashes from a cat-of-nine-tails at a grating. The woman's screeches diminished and the crowd subsided.

Laffin produced cords and Kydd took his place at the other end of the chest, feeling the feral impact of Dobbie's presence, his heart racing at the carnage about to be wrought. The ropes cut into his legs, but his eyes rose to lock on Dobbie's.

"Are ye ready, gemmun?" Akins had no watch, no tools of a referee—this was going to be a smashing match. A thin, cold rain began, chilling Kydd's skin and running into his eyes, mixing with salt sweat, stinging and distracting. He raised his fists slowly, his heart hammering. Dobbie responded, holding his low for a first murderous punch, his pale, unblinking eyes locked on Kydd's.

Akins raised his arm, looking at each in turn. His eyes flickered once and the arm sliced down. "Fight!" he yelled and leaped aside.

For one split second, Dobbie held Kydd's eyes, then cut loose with a bellow. "No!" he roared, dropping his arms. "Be buggered! I'll not do it!"

The crowd fell into an astonished silence, staring at Dobbie. He thrust his head forward, his fists by his side. "Take a swing, mate—come on, make it a settler."

Kydd, shaken but suddenly understanding, obliged with a meaty smack to the jaw, which rocked Dobbie. Laffin came forward with his knife and severed the ropes. Dobbie got to his feet. He shook his head and turned to the rowdy crush. "Shipmates!

Y' came t' see a grudge fight, an' I'm sorry I can't give yez one. See, this 'ere is Tom Kydd as I remember fr'm the Nore—I saw 'im stand alongside Dick Parker 'n' them in the mutiny when others were runnin' like rats. But I thought as 'ow 'e got 'is pardon by sellin' out his mates, an' I told him so.

"Mates, if y' wants a lesson in honour, Mr Kydd's yer man. Won't stand fer anyone takin' 'im fer a villain without 'e stands up fer 'isself, an' that's why 'e sees me 'ere—a duel, like. An I 'ave ter say, I didn't reckon 'e'd 'ave the sand t' see it through, sling 'is mauley like a good 'un, 'im bein' an officer an' all."

He turned back to Kydd and touched his forehead. "I'd take it kindly in ye should y' shake m' hand, sir."

A roar of wild applause burst out, going on and on, until Dobbie held up his arms. "M' lads—I want yer t' unnerstand, this 'ere Kydd is one of us, but 'e's done good fer 'imself, an' that's no crime. An' I f'r one is going ter foller Lootenant Kydd."