The Admiral's Daughter (15 page)

Covered with confusion, Kydd scrambled to his feet. “Miss Lockwood! How g-good to see you again!” His foot caught in the rug and he stumbled, dropping his new hat in his anxiety not to lose the pie he had accepted from her.

She laughed and picked up his hat for him. “This is a smart beaver indeed. It's not often a naval officer displays such good taste.” There was a disarming warmth in her tone and the laughter had stayed in her eyes.

“Oh, er, the hat. For that I must own it's my sister is m' pilot in matters o' fashion.” He looked about for Cecilia but she was not in sight. “Y' should meet her, Miss Lockwood. All the men do think her the prime article.”

“I shall, Mr Kydd,” she said, amused. Her glance strayed to the stolid form of Kydd's acquaintance and she added loudly, “If this is your first visit here, you'll be entranced by the views to be had. Do let's see.”

Other couples were promenading or talking together and Kydd walked forward stiffly, trying hard to appear fashionable. He felt sudden pressure on his arm as Persephone, stifling a giggle, said softly, “Armitage can be such a bore when he wants to be, and I did feel so sorry for you on your own. Can you bear to forgive me carrying you off?”

“Miss Lockwood! I—I thank you for y' service to me and I do confide it would be of some interest t' me should we sight the Sound.” This was a small distance across the rise to the thin line of trees veiling the view eastwards, but still within plain sight of the picnic gathering.

“Then so we shall.” They walked slowly together until the rise fell away to reveal the wide, glittering expanse of Plymouth Sound past the Hoe to the busy Cattewater and a sweep on out to sea.

“I never tire of this prospect,” Persephone said. “It's always so animated, so ever-changing. But, then, you must have quite another perspective, I'm sure.”

Not possessed of a witticism worthy of such a lady Kydd fell back on a simple recounting of a mariner's experience when entering the great port. It seemed to satisfy, for Persephone remained attentive throughout. “Papa tells me you were with Nelson at the Nile,” she said.

“Well, not really, I'm afraid—y' see, I was in a different ship fr'm his and we fought in the dark. I couldn't see much o' the flagship.”

She looked at him oddly. “And at Acre the same year?”

Kydd gave a wary smile; this was not really a fit subject for fine ladies. “Yes, but I don't care f'r y'r land-fightin'. It's so . . . so disagreeable,” he finished lamely.

After a space she said quietly, “Do you know, Mr Kydd? You're quite unlike anybody else I've met—that is to say, for a sea officer. You may believe that an admiral's daughter does not lack for men's company, but you— Anyone else would have delighted in telling me of their victories in the face of such perils, and you . . . are different.”

Kydd found he had to look away from her frank gaze. “I heard Admiral Lockwood went t' London to attend the court. Did you b' chance go as well and see, er, their majesties?” he asked tentatively.

Persephone paused and looked at him kindly. “Papa's brother is Groom of the Stole and one of Prinny's set. And Mama is remembered as lady-in-waiting to Princess Charlotte—she's now the queen consort of Frederick of Wurttemberg, of course—so you may be sure it's quite impossible to stay away,” she said, with a sigh.

“Prinny?” said Kydd, awed.

“The Prince of Wales is such a spendthrift and coxcomb, of course, but I do believe his heart is in the right place.” Suddenly she looked down. “I think we should return now, Mr Kydd. I thank you for your company, and I do wish you well for your next voyage.” Then, with the flash of a sweet smile, she walked ahead of him back to the picnic.

C
HAPTER 6

“D
ID Y' FIND ENTERTAINMENT
enough along shore, Mr Standish?” Kydd asked the figure in glistening black oilskins standing next to him as another slowly drifting rain squall passed over the little sloop.

The first lieutenant shook himself in a shower of droplets and allowed a smile. “I do have my hopes of the young ladies here, sir.”

Kydd kept his eye on the swirling current lapping noisily round the rocks in the narrows of Devil's Point. On the ebb, and with this mild south-westerly, there should be no difficulty with the sharp turn before Drake's Island on their way out to sea.

Standish raised his speaking trumpet and blared at the fore-brace hands as
Teazer
straightened for the run past the Hoe. “I believe, sir, you now have an address in Stonehouse.”

“I have,” Kydd said, with satisfaction. “Durnford Street. There— can y' see the darker roof o' the third house along? A view o' the Hamoaze on one side an' Plymouth Hoe th' other.” It was an unreal thought that there he had a home of his own making.

“Sir!” The quartermaster's voice was sharp with alarm as he pointed at the bulk of a large merchantman ahead, emerging from the rain squalls and about to cross their bows on its way to the Mill Bay docks. It was unfortunate: the lookouts had probably assumed that his attention was on the task in hand and had refrained from pointing out the obvious.

Annoyed with himself, he snapped the orders that took the way off the sloop to pass astern of the ponderous vessel. “It seems we're in some need of a sea breeze t' clear our heads. As soon as we're t' seaward o' Jennycliff, let's see th' hands lose some sweat. Both watches t' exercise then, Mr Standish.”

“Aye aye, sir,” he acknowledged. “Er, and, sir—if you'd excuse the impertinence—I did learn as well that our captain's clerk is now, er, of the same address?”

“Aye, he is,” Kydd said firmly.

“Sir.”

“Then am I t' understand that he's easy in his duties—as who's to say backward in diligence—when assistin' you?”

“Why, no, sir,” Standish answered hastily. “He is very amiable and obliging.”

“Mr Renzi is a learned gentleman o' shinin' qualities as is acceptin' th' convenience of this vessel by th' admiral's express permission, and who finds the value of an, um,
pied-à-terre
in this place an obligin' thing.

“If your philosophicals are lofty enough you'll have th' chance t' quiz him as y' please, for I'll be invitin' you an' Mr Renzi both t' dinner soon.”

The afternoon brought an improvement in the weather, and with the wind backing to a pleasant westerly, Kydd decided to patrol the eastward half of his area.

There was no need for haste, as who was to say where any trouble might lie? The admiral's office had received no recent reports of predation and Kydd wondered if he would ever again get the chance to face Bloody Jacques at bay.

Meanwhile his contentment continued to build, with warm thoughts of his progress in society mingling with enjoyment of the tumbling green Devonshire coastline and the clean, sparkling summer seas ahead.

Renzi had received the news of Kydd's successful first foray into
real
society politely and had been cautiously approving when he had heard in some detail of his encounter with an admiral's daughter. Kydd had no idea how he had done, but the very fact that she had stayed to talk implied that his presence was not altogether uncongenial. She was certainly of a quality far above his, yet she had singled him out—this was surely proof of his acceptability in gentle company. He hugged the conclusion gleefully to himself and turned on his heel to pace the quarterdeck.

The line of coast was beginning to take on meaning and character—Kydd recognised the mouth of the Erme River: it had been there, so long ago, that he had been one of the party that had crept ashore to discover the truth of the great mutiny, learning of the worst in the pretty village of Ivybridge below the moor.

As the coast trended south past the Bolt Tail and Head it peaked with Start Point. One of the major seamarks for the winter-beset battleships of the Channel Fleet fleeing a ferocious gale, it promised calm and rest at Tor Bay, beyond.

Teazer
's patrol limit was at the other end of the long sweep of Lyme Bay at Portland and nearby Weymouth. There were no seaports of consequence in the bay beyond Exmouth and he determined to stretch out for Portland.

“Mr Standish, tomorrow is Sunday an' we shall have Divisions. If you'd be s' kind?” It was a little unfair; the ship was still being squared away after three weeks in dockyard hands, but what better way to pull
Teazer
into shape than to have a captain's inspection and bracing divine service? Anyway, it would give him a good idea of the temper of his men. It was the duty of the first lieutenant to prepare the ship and Standish would be held to account for any short-comings; this was the custom of the service and he would be as much on display as the ship.

At four bells Kydd stepped out of his great cabin to the piercing squeal from the boatswain's call. In full dress uniform he acknowledged the polite report from Standish that His Majesty's Ship
Teazer
was now at readiness for his inspection.

He went to the main-hatchway and stood aside for the boatswain to precede him on deck with a single warning peal, the “still.” Then Kydd emerged gravely on to the upper deck. With fitting gravity he began in a measured pace to process down the larboard side of the deck, every man still and watching.

Lines from aloft appeared properly belayed and, additionally, the ends were each laid flat in a careful concentric spiral, a Flemish coil. He moved past the bitts to the shot garlands alongside each squat carronade. The gunner watched Kydd's progress steadily: Kydd knew it would be astonishing indeed if the balls were not wonderfully chipped and blacked and the carronades gleaming on their slides but appearances must be preserved and he went carefully through the motions.

The foredeck was in the same pristine state as aft; the lines were not pointed as they were on the holy ground of the quarterdeck where the final four inches had been artistically tapered, but in other ways there was pleasing attention to detail. Here he noted that every rope's end was neatly whipped, in the complex but secure and elegant West Country style, while the canvas grippings of the foreshrouds had been painted instead of tarred.

“A strong showing, Mr Standish,” Kydd allowed. Standish tried to hide his smile of satisfaction.

But professional pride was at stake here; Kydd looked about covertly but there was nothing to which he could take exception. He would have to try harder. Noting the angle of the breeze across the deck he crossed to a carronade neatly at rest on its slide. At the cost of his dignity Kydd squatted and felt under its training bed forward before the waterway and found what he was looking for: wisps of oakum and twine trimmings, wafted there during the work that morning. He straightened and looked accusingly at Standish. “Ah, sir, I'll be speaking to the captain of the fo'c'sle,” the lieutenant said, with a touch of defiance.

Kydd growled, “But there's a matter o' higher importance that concerns me.” He held Standish's eyes, provoking in the other man a start of alarm. Kydd went on, “It is, sir, th' foretop lookout failin' in his duty!”

They snapped their gaze aloft to catch the interested lookout peering down at events on deck, then hurriedly shifting his attention back out to sea. Kydd had known the man's curiosity would probably get the better of him and had deliberately refrained from looking up before. “Th' mate-o'-the-watch t' inform me how he's to teach this man his duty,” he barked.

In the respectful hush he turned and went down the fore hatch-way to the berth-deck. Men were mustered below, in their respective divisions headed by their officers, and stood in patient silence. The swaying forest of sailors filled the space and Kydd picked his way through.

Knowing all attention was on him, he moved slowly, fixing his eyes to one side then the other, looking for a shifty gaze, resentment or sullen rebelliousness but saw only guarded intelligence or a glassy blank stare. He passed along and stopped. “Why has this man no shoes?” he demanded of Prosser. The sailors went barefoot where they could at sea but mustered by divisions for captain's inspection only shoes would do.

“He doesn't have any, sir,” Prosser answered uncertainly.

“
Why
doesn't he have any?” Kydd responded heavily. The divisional system of the navy was a humane and effective method of attending to the men's welfare by assigning an officer responsible not only for leading his division into combat but as well concerning himself with any personal anxieties his men might have.

Prosser shifted uncomfortably.

“Tell me, why do y' have no shoes?” Kydd asked the man directly.

“I ain't got m' pay ticket,” he mumbled.

“You're fr'm, er,
Foxhound,
” Kydd recalled. “Are you saying that y'r pay due entitlement has still not come t'
Teazer?
”

“Sir.”

Kydd rounded on Prosser. “Inform th' captain's clerk that this matter's to be brought t' the attention of
Foxhound
an' report to me the instant this man's account is squared.”

It annoyed him that Prosser, a master's mate, was holding his men at arm's length like that. Only by getting to know them and winning their confidence would he be of value to them—and, more importantly, be in a position to make good decisions when at their head in action. It was no secret that Prosser had been hoping for a bigger, more prestigious rate of ship, but if he was looking for an early recommendation from his captain then this was not the way to gain it.

Aft was where the petty officers berthed; their mess was in immaculate order, and on impulse Kydd asked that the rolled canvas that would screen them off from the rest should be unfurled. As he suspected, it was richly painted on the inside with a colourful pastiche of mermaids and mythical sea-beasts.

He lifted his eyes and saw Stirk looking at him across the deck; it had been so many years, but some of Kydd's happiest times at sea had been spent with Stirk in a mess such as this. He fought to control a grin and contented himself with a satisfied nod.

The cook's domain was spotless, the morning's salt beef standing by for the coppers. The boatswain's store was trim and well-stowed, and in the sailmaker's tiny cuddy Kydd found a miniature hammock slung snugly fore and aft and in it the lazy-eyed ship's cat, Sprits'l, looking sleek and assured.

Emerging from the cloistered depths of
Teazer
to the more civilised upper realms, Kydd pronounced himself satisfied. As a ship-of-war there was little to complain of and he turned to Standish. “Rig f'r church, if y' please,” he ordered, and went to his cabin to allow the bedlam to settle that was the tolling of the ship's bell for divine service and the clatter of match-tubs and planks being brought up as pews.

“If ye'd rather . . . ?” Kydd offered to Renzi. The absence of a chaplain meant that the office would normally be carried through by the captain or other officer but Renzi's reputation for fine words would ensure him a respectful hearing.

“I think not,” answered his friend. He added warmly, “Your good self is much the closer to a divine in this ship.”

The captain's clerk would, however, need to appear in front of the men: on report from Standish, two sailors slowly mounted the main-hatchway and appeared on deck. Every man and boy of the ship's company sat stolidly in a mass facing their captain, who stood by the helm behind an improvised lectern.

Kydd liked what he saw. These were his men, sitting patiently, those who would sail his ship and fight at his word, and on whose skills and courage the success of the commission would directly depend.

He was coming to be aware of several, in terms of their character. Some he knew well, their features strong and comforting, but others were still just faces, wary and defensive. All waited quietly for the ceremony that the Lords of the Admiralty in their wisdom had ordained should take place regularly in His Majesty's ships.

But first Kydd drew himself up and snapped, “Articles of War!”

“Off hats!” roared Standish.

Heads were bared while the captain's clerk stepped forward and, in a rolling baritone the equal of any to be found on the Shakespearean stage, declaimed the stern phrases to the sea and sky.

“‘Every person in the fleet, who through cowardice, negligence or disaffection, shall forbear to pursue the chase of the enemy . . . or run away with any of His Majesty's ordnance, ammunition stores . . . either on the high seas, or in any port, creek or harbour . . . and being convicted thereof by the sentence of a court-martial, shall suffer death . . .'” Duty done, Renzi stepped back.

The two men were brought forward, on report for being slack in stays—Standish wanted the job done speedily. Kydd could only approve of his zeal and sentenced them both to fourteen days in Purchet's black book. Cares of the world dealt with, it was time to address the divine.