The Baltic Prize

Chapter 13

Kydd towelled down after Tysoe’s swift and efficient shave under the skylight, absent-mindedly rubbing his chin. ‘I know it’s the regular-done thing in other barkies and I’ve a mind to do it myself.’

‘And what’s that, Sir Thomas?’ Tysoe answered, from the washplace.

‘Breakfast,’ he answered briefly. It was his practice at sea to invite the off-going officer-of-the-watch to the meal and hear the events of the night and how Tyger had behaved herself during the dark hours.

‘I’m going to have the mids to breakfast, too – one at a time, o’ course. Find out a bit more about ’em.’ And today he’d invite the youngest, Rowan.

‘Sir Thomas?’ came the child-like voice at the door.

‘Come in, Mr Rowan. Take a chair. Mr Brice will be along presently.’

The midshipman eased himself in cautiously and took his place at the table, his eyes dropping in the presence of his captain.

‘Coffee? Or is it to be tea?’ Kydd offered.

The youngster had been on board only a short time but it seemed he was finding his feet in the rush and tumble of a first-rank man-o’-war, and had even entered the third dimension, aloft.

‘Are you on course in your learning, Mr Rowan? A lot to hoist in, and not so much time, I’m persuaded.’

‘I am, Sir Thomas,’ the lad answered, in a small voice.

‘Oh? Then what has Mr Bowden for you this forenoon?’

‘Bends ’n’ hitches with Able Seaman Leckie, sir.’

‘Good. Pay attention to Leckie, he’s a taut hand.’ Kydd helped himself to the toast and marmalade. ‘Are you getting along with the other boys?’ It came out too quickly – these were ‘young gentlemen’, even if they were the same age as mere schoolboys.

‘Yes, sir.’

In another prick of regret Kydd reminded himself that if Rowan was being bullied he, as captain, would never hear of it.

His third lieutenant arrived, shaking out his oilskins in the coach. The rain squalls of early morning were a trial for the watch-on-deck at this latitude.

‘Good morning to you, Mr Brice,’ Kydd said, after the man appeared. ‘A good watch?’

Brice sat quickly, his red-rimmed eyes token of the hours of concentration as the ship had plunged on into the blackness where other ships of the fleet also sailed with all the danger of an unexpected encounter ending in a disastrous collision.

‘Nothing to worry of, sir,’ came the cautious reply, with a curious glance at the awed midshipman.

‘Mr Brice,’ Kydd said significantly, looking at Rowan out of the corner of his eye. ‘Tell me, what do you say is the chief concern of a good officer-of-the-watch?’

‘In course, sir. The four Ls.’

‘And what are those, pray?’ He knew very well – Kydd’s first acquaintance with them had been in the Caribbean as a young seaman with the quiet sailing master Jowett, whose octant even now was in his cabin.

‘Why, sir, these I take to be lead, latitude, log and longitude. These are before me at all times.’

‘Just so,’ Kydd said solemnly, trying not to sound sanctimonious. ‘And speaking of latitudes, when may we see you at the noon sight, Mr Rowan?’

The head dropped again. ‘Sir, I … I’m finding it a bit hard. To understand the words in the definitions, I mean.’ He looked up in mute pleading.

‘Oh, er, yes, and it’s a cruel beat to wind’d for those without the lingo.’ On impulse, he added, ‘I had a good teacher as showed me the main strands first, before the hard words. When you’re finished with Leckie, come down and I’ll give you a starter on ’em.’

Damn it, but those were Persephone’s eyes – and their effect was continuing to awaken deep feelings.