It was not difficult —
he had executed innumerable sea perspectives for the master of Artemis in the
South Seas for inclusion on the margins of sea charts and knew the discipline
of exactitude in representation.
With a light breeze and the occasional
sound of gulls, it was pleasant work, and their surroundings were conducive to
artistic expression. Kydd had soon finished the African coast, and began on the
irregular Spanish landscape. This demanded care, for their height-of-eye at
this elevation could cunningly deceive, turning square perspectives into
slants.
'Oh, my goodness! You are good, Thomas!
Look at this, Letitia — he has a very fine hand.' He had not heard her
approach, and felt the heat of a blush at her words. She bent to admire his
work, her femininity briefly enclosing him, then turned to him without drawing
away. 'You will think my piece so amateur.' She giggled.
Taking his cue, Kydd
rose and sauntered across to her easel, trying to look at ease. The watercolour
was bold, using clear tints not perhaps justified by the hazy wash of sun over
far objects, but had a vibrancy that he had not the experience to identify. But
the coastlines were sadly out of proportion, the vertical dimension, as was
always the way with beginners to a seascape, greatly exaggerated.
'It's — it's
wonderful,' he found himself saying. Behind him Emily stifled a giggle. Kydd
couldn't think what else to say and stared woodenly ahead.
'I say—I have a most
marvellous idea!' He swung round at the sudden energy in her voice. 'We shall
combine our talents — you have the strong structure, I shall add colour — and
together we will produce a masterpiece.' She didn't wait for a reply, but ran
over to his easel and abstracted his drawing, brought it back and clipped it
over her own.
'There! Now we shall
see!' Emily selected a broad brush and mixed a quantity of pale blue from the
squares of colour in the ingenious wooden box. She soon had a colour wash in
place, and set to with finer brushes on his coasts. Her cunning use of ochre
and light purple had his pencil hatching underneath take on a sinister, distant
quality, which undeniably brought a dramatic quality to the original.
Engrossed, she
persevered at the fine work, her dainty hands perfect for the task. Kydd cast a
glance at Letitia, still at her picture; their eyes met, but there was no
answering smile.
At last, Emily
leaned back and gazed critically at the result. 'There!' she said, and stared
at it, motionless, for a space. She turned and looked up at Kydd with large
eyes and said seriously, 'It's really very good, is it not, Thomas? We make
quite a pair, I believe.'
Kydd felt heat rising,
but before he could speak, Emily had snapped shut the box and stood. 'I think
we have earned our picnic, don't you?'
'God blast ye, Mr Kydd, what d'you
think you're about? You've not overhauled y'r clewlines.' The master was
choleric: the times for the topsail setting evolution were sadly delayed by
Kydd's failure to see that the clewlines were loosened at his mizzen-mast at
the same rate as the sheets were hauled in.
It seemed everyone was in a state of
enervation. Attempts to stir the ship's company to life with harbour exercises
were met with sullen lethargy. The Achilles of the Caribbean was becoming a
fading memory, the cruises to sweep the seas of the enemy, the landings to
wrest yet another rich island from the French all in the past. Below,
mess-decks were aligning themselves between the real seamen and the unfortunates
of the quota.
Kydd could feel the
resentment — and the broken-down pride. To be left to rot in port was hard for
a good seaman to take, especially when England was menaced by as great a danger
as she had ever been.
Evening drew in and, with it, more
tiresome carping in the gunroom and petty quarrelling on the lower deck. Kydd
made up his mind to take a turn along the streets of Gibraltar to get away.
It was impossible to avoid the wine
shops at the lower levels of the town, and Kydd pushed past hurriedly, but at
one angry shouts climaxed with the ejection of a thick-set seaman, who skidded
angrily in the dust then staggered to his feet. It was a common sight and Kydd
moved to go round the spectacle - but something about the build of the man made
him hesitate.
It was Crow - Isaac
Crow of the Artemis, the hard and fearless captain of the maintop who had been
so much a part of Kydd's past — become a wine-soaked travesty of his former
self. Kydd steadied him and leaned him against a wall. 'Isaac, where—'
'What - well, if it
ain't me ol' shipma' Tom Kydd!' Crow chortled. His clothes were musty and
ragged, probably all he had left after selling the rest for cheap drink, Kydd
guessed.
His expression changed.
In an instant his overly cheery features grew pinched, suspicious. 'A master's
mate, our Tom Kydd, doin' well fer 'isself. Still know yer frien's, then?' He
pushed away Kydd's steadying hand and drew himself up. 'Th' blackstrap they
sells 'ere is worse'n goat's piss.'
'What
ship, Isaac?'
Crow looked at him for
a moment.' Weazle brig-o'-war.' It was an unrated minor warship, in Gibraltar
for lengthy repair. 'Gunner's mate, but broke fer fightin' out o' turn.'
So now he was a common
seaman, disrated no doubt for a frustrated flaring on the mess-decks while his
ship was interminably delayed.
Crow
stared at Kydd, his face hardening into contempt. 'It's gone ter rats — the
whole fuckin' navy's gone t' rats. Shite off th' streets is gettin' seventy
pound ter be a sailor, while we gets the same less'n a shillin' a day the
buggers got back in King Charles's day. What sort o' life is it ter offer a
younker t' go to sea?'
There was no answer to
that, or to the unspoken loathing of professional seamen with pride in
themselves having to share a mess room with the kind of men Kydd had seen.
'Isaac, mate, y' knows that a ship o' war can't be sailed b' the likes o' those
shabs. It takes real seamen — like us!' Kydd felt the rise of anger. 'They'll
always need us, an' just when are they going t' wake up to it?'
Crow turned on him
slowly. 'Yer messin' aft wi' the grunters — why should yer worry yerself about
us foremast jacks?' He held Kydd with his hard black eyes, then swayed back
into the pot-house.
Kydd was taken aback by
his words. He wandered for a time, then made his way back aboard before evening
gun. Cockburn looked at him curiously, but Kydd did not feel like confiding in
him: his origin was as a volunteer and midshipman and presumably, in the
fullness of time, he would attract interest and gain a commission as an
officer; he had never slung his hammock with the men, and could not be expected
to know their true worth and particular strengths. It was something that he
would give much to reflect on with Renzi: he could bring things to order in
fine style.
Brought on deck by a general rush,
Kydd saw from out of the early morning haze the 38-gun frigate La Minerve
sailing into the anchorage.
Even the arrival of a single
frigate was a noteworthy event, and there were few in Achilles who weren't on
deck and interested in the smart ship coming to anchor. As she glided in, sharp
eyes picked up a most unusual state of affairs: this frigate was wearing the
swallow-tail broad pennant of a commodore, Royal Navy, in place of the usual
sinuous length of a commissioning pennant, placing her notionally senior to
Achilles.
The first lieutenant's
telescope was steadily trained on the frigate's quarterdeck. 'I see him —
Commodore Nelson! A firebrand if ever I heard of one.'
Another lieutenant gave
a bleak smile. 'I know him -cares only to add to his reputation at the cannon's
mouth whatever the cost to others, a vain soul, very vain.'
The master's stern face
relaxed slighdy as he murmured, 'Aye, but he cares f'r his men as few does.'
The frigate's anchor
splashed down and the vessel glided to a stop close enough for them to see
every detail aboard, the sails vanishing from the yards in moments, the
disciplined rush to each point of activity. The sharp orders and crisp
flourishes of the boatswain's calls carried over the water. Even as the
admiral's barge pulled strongly shoreward, a-glitter with gold and blue in the
sternsheets, the launch and cutter were not far behind.
'Seems in an almighty pelt.' Cockburn
grinned. It was in stark contrast to their own indolence. Recently Kydd had
noticed the first green shimmer of weed below the waterline of Achilles also
appearing on the anchor cable. But that didn't concern him today: Emily had
offered to show him the top of the Rock.
It was donkeys again, but this time
the party consisted only of Emily, Kydd and the quiet but watchful Letitia.
They wound up a long path set at an incline to the face of the Rock. Emily kept
up a pratde about the view and the history, all of which enabled Kydd to take his
fill of her looks without pretence.
From the top, a rocky
spine and smooth parts, the view was every bit as breathtaking as claimed — at
this height the ships were models, the town buildings miniatures, but Kydd was
more aware of the rosy flush on Emily's cheeks as she pointed out the sights.
'Ah, look there, Thomas!' Far below, Nelson's frigate was getting under way,
her commodore's pennant lifting in the fluky breeze and with all sail set.
'What a picture it is, to be sure.' Impulsively, she laid her arm on his.
The frigate was smart
in her actions, but was having a hard time in the uncertain wind eddies in the
lee of the Rock, paying off in the light airs but nevertheless slowly gaining
ground to the northwards.
'And are the others coming, too?' Emily added
innocently, taking out her dainty ladies' pocket telescope.
Kydd frowned; the
faraway ships she had seen were moored across the bay, in Spanish Algeciras —
and they were sail-of-the-line. 'No doubt about it — but if y' would allow
...'
She offered him the telescope with no
comment, and two mighty enemy vessels leaped into view. If they caught up with
the lone frigate, they could blast her to splinters.
'They're Spanish
battleships, I'm grieved t' say,' Kydd said. Achilles had her bowsprit in for
survey and was not in any condition to come to the frigate's aid. The Spanish
ships had a steady wind in their favour, and had picked up speed; the English
frigate's wind was still in the thrall of the huge Rock, and she could not beat
back against the south-easterly to escape.
Kydd clenched his
fists. This fire-breathing Nelson would not surrender tamely: the pretty
frigate would be a shattered, smoking wreck even before he and Emily had had
chance to spread their picnic.
'Thomas?' Emily's voice was edged with concern.
Kydd stared through the telescope at the spreading drama. The larger Spanish
three-decker was stretching away ahead of the other in her impatience to close
with the frigate and, as Kydd watched, her guns were run out.
Then, unaccountably, the frigate slewed
round into the wind and came to a stop. Kydd could find no reason for the
action. A small boat ventured out from behind her, her crew pulling
energetically. It was carried forward by the current toward the Spanish, but
stopped half-way. At last he understood: La Minerve had come aback while the
jolly boat attended to a man overboard.
The leading Spanish battleship shortened
sail, slowing to drop back on her consort Cleariy she thought the move
preposterous: there had to be a reason for the doomed frigate to round
confidently on her pursuers. Could it be that she had sighted the English fleet
coming to her aid?
Kydd could only watch in admiration as
the frigate picked up her boat and made off in the strengthening breeze. The
Spaniard clapped on sail, but he was too late — the frigate was well on her
way.
Kydd punched the air in
pent-up excitement. 'That was well done, blast m' eyes if it weren't!' he
roared, too late remembering the ladies' presence.
*
* *
Cockburn was uncharacteristically
blunt. 'She is a married lady. It's unseemly to be seen so much in her
company.'
Kydd glowered. 'An' have I been improper
in m' actions?' he said. 'Do I press my attentions? Is she unwilling?' He
challenged Cockburn with a stare. 'She's invited me t' see so many of her
friends, right good of her—'