Logically he knew that helpless worry
was of no use
Cockburn
to his country, and he tried resolutely to turn his mind to other things. The
ship: as soon as they took delivery of a spar, they would re-sling the cro'jack
yard across the mizzen-mast, and he would then make his plea for a double cleat
truss, for this would conveniently also act as a rolling tackle.
His thoughts returned
to the present. Here he was, a master's mate, a warrant officer. It was
something he couldn't have dreamed of being in years past; it was the pinnacle
of achievement for a common sailor to have a crackling Admiralty Warrant in his
sea-chest. While he wasn't a real officer — they held a commission from King
George — as a master's mate he was held in real respect aboard. He messed with
the midshipmen it was true, but he was senior to them and could curb their
schoolboy antics as he felt inclined. At the same time, he was squarely part of
the ship's company — a seaman and a professional. His social horizons were
theirs, but he was at the top and owed no one before-the mast except the master
any deference; he could look forward to long service at this comfortable
eminence.
Yet there was one
aspect of this existence that was a continuing source of regret. Nicholas Renzi
had not only shared his adventurous and perilous sea life, but had opened so
much to him that was deep and true, and from him he had learned the habits of
reason and principle in many a companionable night watch. He remembered the
passionate discussions in the South Seas over the precepts of Rousseau, the
intensity of Renzi's convictions informed by Locke and Diderot -all worthy of
an enlightened mind. And Renzi's effortless acquaintance with the beauty and
art of words, which touched a part of the soul that nothing else could.
But Renzi was now
also a master's mate; even a sail-of-the-line would only have one or two. This
made it unlikely that they would ever again serve together.
His eyes cast down to
the dark water. At least up to now they had been on the same station and could
occasionally visit. They had divided their stock of books in Barbados, now
long-since read, but to exchange them he must wait until they met again
...
Moody and depressed he
was on the point of going below when he thought of the garrison library.
Perhaps the kind lady in charge would understand and allow him a volume or two;
then he would apply himself and later astonish Renzi with a morsel of
philosophy, or an arcane and wonderfully curious piece of natural science. He
brightened.
Emily was cross with herself. Mr
Kydd had come to her, and she had ended up tongue-tied, like a silly girl,
letting him walk away. And this morning she would have to face the odious Mr
Goldstein again to inform him that the committee did not see fit in this
instance to contravene their inviolable rule that tradesmen, however eminent,
were not eligible to join the library.
She fussed a row of
learned journals into line, then heard a diffident knock. Brushing aside the
Maltese helper, she strode rapidly to the door and opened it with a sweet
smile. 'Why, Mr Kydd!' He was just as she recalled, the same shy smile. Emily
inclined her head gracefully: she would not be discommoded this time.
'Er, I was wonderin',
miss, if there's any chance I might borrow a book 'r two?'
His eyes were so open
and guileless - if he had seen much, it wasn't in salons or drawing rooms. 'Mr
Kydd,' she said coolly, 'this library was created after the Great Siege by the
officers of the garrison who did not want to endure such another without they
had food for the intellect. This is their library by contribution.'
Kydd's face fell. Emily suppressed
a smile: he was so adorably transparent.
'Naval officers have nobly contributed
as they can,' she continued, 'and the committee have therefore declared them
equally eligible for borrowing privileges.' She picked up a book and pretended
to scrutinise its pages.
Kydd didn't respond,
and when she looked up, she was surprised to see rueful resignation. 'Then I'm
brought up wi' a round turn — I'm a master's mate only.' At her puzzled look he
added, 'A warrant officer.'
Her face cleared. 'We
don't care what kind of officer you are, Mr Kydd. You may certainly join our
library.'
Kydd's smile returned
and Emily responded warmly. 'Now, let me see, what do we have that will
interest you
..
.'
It was a nice problem:
there were officers who earnestly sought educational tomes, others who
reserved their enthusiasm for accounts of the wilder excesses of the fall of
Rome, yet more who would relentlessly devour anything on offer. Kydd did not
seem to fit any of these.
'May I suggest the Gabinetti, Customs
and Cultural History of the Iberians'? It might prove interesting for someone
come to this part of the world.'
Kydd
hesitated. 'Er, I was thinkin' more ye might have one b' Mr Hume — I have a yen
t' know more about what he says on causality.' Mistaking her look, he hurried
to add,' Y' see, I have a frien' who is more in th' metaphysical line, an' will
much want t' dispute empiricism wi' me,' he finished lamely.
'Oh,' Emily said. 'We don't get much
call for that kind of thing, Mr Kydd, but I'll do what I can.' There was a dark
old leather volume she remembered behind the desk by Hume, but she hadn't the faintest
idea what it contained.
'Ah, here you are,' she
said brightly, 'David Hume, An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding'
Kydd took the litde
book and leafed through it reverently. His hands were very strong, she noticed.
'This will do, thank ye, miss,' he said.
'Splendid!' Emily said,
with relief. 'And it's Mrs Emily Mulvany,' she added.
Kydd gravely
acknowledged her, his old-fashioned courtesies charming. At the door he turned
to bid her farewell. 'Oh, Mr Kydd, I may have omitted to let you know, we are
holding an assembly and you are to be invited, I believe,' she said, as
off-handedly as she could manage. 'I am sure you will find it congenial after
your long voyaging.' It would be a fine thing to display such a prize — and so
interesting a man. Emily's thoughts were bubbling: Gibraltar was small and
unchanging and she'd never met someone like Mr Kydd before. Imagine —
discussing philosophy with his friend under the stars, yet ready at a moment's
notice to engage the enemy in some dreadful battle. And his great feat in
rescuing the diplomat in a tiny boat on the open sea. He'd certainly led a much
more exciting and romantic life than a soldier. She watched him depart. A man's
man, he was probably restless, hemmed in by the daily round of the Rock. It would
be an interesting challenge to keep boredom at bay for him
...
The invitation came the following
morning, a plainly worded card, beautifully penned in a feminine hand and
addressed to 'Mr Kydd, on board HMS Achilles'. It was the first social
invitation he had ever had, and he fingered the expensive board with both
pleasure and surprise. Mrs Mulvany was obviously of the quality and he'd
thought that she was just being polite when she mentioned the assembly.
An assembly, he knew
from a single previous experience in Guildford, was a fairly informal social
gathering — but then he remembered that it involved dancing
...
'M' friend,' he said to
Cockburn, after showing him the invitation, 'do ye help me, I must refuse. I'm
no taut hand at th' dancing, an' I'll shame the ship. C'n ye give me some
rousin' good reason I cannot attend, or
—'
Thomas, you
must
attend,' Cockburn said, his face
shadowed at this familiar token of polite society he was most unlikely to see
himself. 'An absence would bring dishonour on both you and the service!'
'But I can't dance, I never learned,'
Kydd said, in anguish. He would far rather face an enemy broadside than make a
fool of himself before tittering ladies.
'Ah.' Cockburn had
grown up with the attentions of a dancing-master and had no apprehension
himself of the dance floor, in fact he rather enjoyed the decorous interplay of
femininity on gentlemanly ardour.
'My
folks were never much in th' social line’ Kydd said forlornly.
'Then I shall be your teacher!' Cockburn
declared impulsively.
‘Wha— No!' Kydd
blurted. A moment's fantasy flashed by of Emily's slim figure bobbing in
delight at his dancing skills, her attractive ringlets springing out in the mad
whirl, a blush on her cheeks as .
..
'Could ye? I don't—'
'Of course. It's, er,
it's rather like your redcoats doing their drill, and they learn it easy
enough.'
The dog-watch saw them
both repair down to the dim cockpit on the orlop, the area outside the
surgeon's cabin, the purser's and the midshipman's berth.
Cockburn looked around
warily, then addressed himself to Kydd. 'In the matter of a cotillion, it is
of the first importance to place the feet so
...'
he said, as he gracefully adopted the pose. Kydd did so, looking down doubtfully.
'You look at the lady, not your feet — is she not to your liking, sir?'
Kydd's head lifted, and
he strained to be graceful. A muffled splutter came from the shadows and he
wheeled round. 'Clap a stopper on y'r cacklin', damn y'r whistle,' he snarled,
'or ye'll be spending y'r dog-watches in the tops!' A midshipman slunk back
into the shadows.
Cockburn persevered.
The gloom and thick odour of the orlop did nothing to convey a ballroom
atmosphere, and there were ringbolts on the deck, here above the main hold.
'The measure is stepped like this — one, two, three and a stand, and a one,
two, three and a four
...'
The surgeon's cabin
door opened noiselessly, and Cockburn was aware of muffled footfalls from
forward, an appreciative audience gathering in the shadows. 'No, Tom, you've
forgotten the "four" again,' he said, with some control, for Kydd had
tripped and sent him staggering. His pupil had a memory as short as
...
'It won't answer, not at all,' he said
to the crestfallen Kydd. He muttered under his breath, then had an idea.
'Please to pay attention -1 will now make this clear enough for the meanest
intelligence.' Kydd looked at him resentfully.
'Er, the first is to make sail, then we
haul our wind to the starb'd tack, and wear about before we drops anchor to
boxhaul around, like this.' The relief on Kydd's face was plain. "Then we
tack about twice against the sun and heave to for a space, let the lady get
clear of our hawse, and we are under way again, this time to larb'd .
..'
'Shouldn't be more'n a half-hour,'
the lieutenant said, through his towel, finishing his personal preparations for
a rendezvous ashore. 'Lobsterbacks like marchin' around, up 'n' down, that sort
of thing, then they flog the poor wight an' it's back to barracks.'
'Aye, sir,' Kydd said, without
enthusiasm. He had agreed to take the lieutenant's place in an army punishment
parade to represent Achilles as a major ship in the port.
'Mos' grateful, Mr
Kydd. As long as you're at the Alameda by five bells
...'
Kydd clapped on a black cockaded
hat, and settled a cross-belt with its distinctive anchor shoulder plate over
his white waistcoat. The rather worn spadroon sword he had borrowed from
Cockburn was awkward in the scabbard; it was so much longer and daintier than a
sturdy cutlass. A glance reassured him that his shoes were well shined - the
gunroom servant needed coaxing of a sort but was a knowing old marine.
With two marines as
escort stepping out smartly ahead, Kydd found his way to the Alameda, and
halted the marines.
The Alameda was a
remarkably large parade-ground that would not be out of place in the bigger
army establishments in England. It was alive with ranks of marching soldiers,
hoarse screams sending them back and forth. Splendidly kitted sergeant-majors
glared down the dressing of the lines and bawled in outrage at the hapless
redcoats. The discordant blare of trumpets and the clash and stamp of drill
added to the cacophony, and from the edge of the arena Kydd watched in wonder
for what he should do.