Quarterdeck (11 page)

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

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

“Fish Strand?” Kydd said, cupping his toddy.

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“Indeed. Mr Pringle assures us that somewhere about here we’ll fi nd all we need to preserve the soul in the wilderness of Nova Scotia.” Renzi pulled a battered guinea from his pocket.

“And it seems that I should return with a proof suitable for a diminutive midshipman against Boreas’s worst.”

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

A grey-haired man of some quality entered the alehouse. He saw the two naval offi cers and inclined his head, then signalled to the pot-boy and came across. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.

Do I see offi cers of that fi ne two-decker in the roads?”

“You do, sir,” Renzi answered. “Lieutenants Kydd and Renzi of His Majesty’s Ship
Tenacious,
at your service.”

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

“She is.”

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

“It will be,” Kydd admitted, “but I’ll wager this is not
your
fi rst, sir.”

“No indeed. I’m commissioner for lands in Halifax, as it happens, returning to my post.”

“Then, sir, it puzzles me t’ know why you don’t take the packet service—it’s much the faster,” Kydd said, seeing a smart

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brigantine with the Blue Peter at her masthead through the tavern window.

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

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

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

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

A crack of gunfi re drew their attention to the brigantine. Her Blue Peter was jerking down, with vigorous activity at her foredeck windlass. “Ah, yes, she’ll be in Halifax two weeks before us—if the privateers let her . . .”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have a fi ne range o’ stock,” Kydd said, fi ngering a lace shift of unusual stoutness.

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

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

“Leather an’ velvet reticules, purse-springs, clarionets o’ superior tone, dissected maps, Pope Joan boards wi’ genuine pearl fi sh, ivory walkin’ stick with sword—”

“Aye, that will do,” said Kydd, ignoring the ingratiating tone.

“I’ll think on it.”

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

“Mr Kydd,” he responded archly. “I admire your
sangfroid.
”

“Sir?”

“There is a convoy assembling to sail tolerably soon, and you see fi t to linger ashore at your pleasure, when as signal lieutenant you know there is a convoy conference to conduct. You must be confi dent it will not sail this age.”

“Convoy conference?”

“Why, of course! A signal lieutenant, do you not read your standing orders?” His sniff of disdain incensed Kydd. “Flagship of the escort, and the fi rst lieutenant has not a staff for signals?

I shouldn’t wonder that at this moment he has the ship in a moil, looking for her signal lieutenant.”

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

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

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

“Not as who should say. But t’ play the ignoramus does not sit well wi’ me.”

“What are—”

“You’ll see!”

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• • •

With a bored look on his face, the duty master’s mate was standing by the main shrouds with his telescope of offi ce. He was clearly taken with the idea Kydd put to him. “Bo’sun’s mate!

Desire midshipman Rawson to present himself on the quarterdeck.”

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

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

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

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

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

The afternoon saw a changed Rawson, respectful, increasingly confi dent and ready to fall in with Kydd’s wishes.

“We shall rig for signalling, if y’ please.”

“Sir?”

“For exercise, hands to stations f’r signalling,” Kydd repeated fi rmly.

“Aye aye, sir,” Rawson said hastily. It took some time to fi nd

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the other signal midshipman and four seamen, and just as long to fi nd the little table for the signal log.

“Are we ready?” Kydd checked on his signals crew—Rawson and three of the seamen at the fl ag-locker, and his own midshipman messenger with another.

“Sir.”

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

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

“Have you a list of these, b’ chance?” Kydd asked casually.

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

“Sir, in the front here we have our fl ags. This is the code of Admiral Howe that we carry, and it’s just numbers—’ought to nine. We have some others, the ‘affi rmative,’ the ‘preparative’ an’

that, but it’s best you see ’em in action. All we do is look in this part of the signal book and we have codes for two hundred and sixty signals, spelled out by number.”

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

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

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

“But what if we want t’ do something that doesn’t have a code in the book? What do we then?”

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

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

“Er, begging your pardon, Mr Kydd, but we hoists
Trompeuse
’s pennant fi rst so he knows the signal is for him, which we fi nds here.”

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

Kydd waited for a reaction. A red and white pennant jerked aloft from the brig. “The answering pennant,” crowed Rawson.

“They see and will obey!”

Their own signal brought down, one made its way up the mast of the little ship. Rawson dived for the book. “Nine-seven-one—

‘I have to report there has been undue mortality in my rats. ’ ” At Kydd’s expression he explained gleefully: “It’s a sign means they could have fever aboard!”

• • •

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

“So signals is the life for you?” Adams said.

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

Adams adjusted his cravat. It was an open secret that a certain landlady was bestowing her favours liberally, under certain expectations not unconnected with Adams’s solitary visits ashore.

“Pray don’t be too cocksure, dear chap,” he said, with feeling.

“A reputation can be destroyed by false bunting just as easily as putting a ship ashore.”