Quarterdeck (3 page)

“Walter, Tom is an offi cer!” She looked anxiously to Kydd for confi rmation—the idea was so enormous.

“Aye, Mother, it’s ‘Lieutenant Kydd, Royal Navy’ you must call me now, or I’ll clap ye all in irons!” He spoke loudly so his father would make no mistake about what he was hearing.

“Carry on, sir?” Perrott said to Kydd, touching his hat.

“Er, please do,” said Kydd.

“Ship’s comp’ny, ahoy! I’ll have yez in two lines afore the mast—let’s be havin’ ye!” he bawled at the children. They shuffl ed eagerly into line. “Now, we dips our colours t’ a pair o’

’eroes ’oo has jus’ come back ’ome fr’m such a battle as never was, an’ we’re going t’ show how much we admires ’em!”

Lieutenants Kydd and Renzi stood solemnly to attention as

“God Save The King” and “Rule Britannia” were sung enthusi-astically by the wide-eyed youngsters.

A piercing squeal on the boatswain’s call brought quiet, and the colours were dipped reverently to half staff. With great dignity Perrott turned to face Kydd, removing his hat. Taken by surprise, Kydd raised his own cocked hat, at which the colours rose again.

“Silence!” Perrott thundered at the awed children. “Now, Lootenant Kydd will talk t’ you about y’r dooty.”

Kydd managed to splutter a few words: “Y’r duty is . . . stead-fast in all weathers . . . courage at the cannon’s mouth . . . King and country.”

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Julian Stockwin

It seemed to be enough. An eager child broke ranks and held up his hand. “Please, sir, I want t’ be a sailor—how do I be a sailor?”

Soon a pink-faced Kydd was mobbed by shouting boys.

“Pipe down, y’ scurvy crew, ’n’ listen to the l’tenant!” growled Perrott happily.

Kydd glanced across at his mother, who was bursting with pride, and knew there was only one thing to do. He turned to his father and touched his hat. “Cap’n, sir, permission f’r liberty ashore t’ both watches!”

“Oh, er, liberty?” his father stuttered. “Yes, yes, er, Lieutenant Kydd. A half-holiday to, er, all hands!” The children screamed with delight and poured out of the school, leaving a dazed, happy Kydd family standing in the quadrangle.

“I shall withdraw at this point, if I may,” Renzi said quietly.

“No, no, Mr Renzi,” Mrs Kydd insisted. “You must stay an’ tell us where you have been on the sea—you’ll both have such tales, I do declare!” She turned to Kydd. “Now, I’ll ask Mr Partington to spare us his room for you—he can stay with his friend Jonathan. For Mr Renzi . . .” She trailed off. Then she resumed stiffl y: “But, then, now Thomas has a reputation, he’ll want t’ have his own establishment.”

His mother’s words could not hide the essence of the matter, the brutal truth, and Kydd felt a chill at the passing of his simple life. He saw her colouring: she had understood that her son was no longer hers. From now on, society events and invitations would fi rmly distinguish between the Kydds.

“We shall stay at the Angel,” Renzi said softly. “Then we will take modest lodgings in town.”

Kydd mumbled agreement.

“Well, then, that’s settled,” his mother said bravely. “It’s for the best, o’ course. Come inside an’ take a posset—you must be frozen after y’r journey.”

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• • •

As he cradled a mug of hot curdled milk at the kitchen table Kydd listened to the fl ow of prattle from his mother, felt the quiet presence of his father and caught the curious fl ash of the maid’s eyes. His own kept straying down to his uniform, the blue and gold so striking. Who could guess what the future might hold now? A deep sigh escaped him.

He heard the approaching
tap, tap
of footsteps. His mother smiled. “Ah, that must be Cecilia—she’ll be so surprised to see you!”

The last time he had seen his sister was in a wrecked boat in the Caribbean. He recalled her mortal terror as they had fought for their lives against the sharks. What would she think of him now?

“She’s done very well with Lord an’ Lady Stanhope, Thomas.

Quite the lady companion she is now,” Mrs Kydd said proudly.

“And don’t go quarrellin’ with her, if y’ please, you know how it upsets your father.”

The outside door rattled, and Cecilia’s voice echoed down the passageway. “Father—what
is
going on? I saw quantities of your boys on the street and . . .” Her voice died away as the two men rose to their feet. She looked from face to face, incredulous. “Thomas? You . . . you . . .”

Kydd awkwardly held out his hands. “Ye’re doin’ well, Mother says—”

Suddenly her expression softened to a deep tenderness, and she seized her brother in a fi erce hug. “Oh, Thomas! I’ve so missed you!”

He felt her body heaving, and when she looked at him again he saw the sparkle of tears. His own voice was gruff with emotion as he said, “Sis—y’ remember in th’ boat—”

She stopped him with a fi nger on his lips and whispered,

“Mother!” Then she let him go, crossed to Renzi and placed a
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generous kiss on both his cheeks. “Dear Nicholas! How are you?

You’re still so thin, you know.”

Renzi replied politely, and Cecilia turned back to her brother.

“Thomas and Nicholas are going to take chocolate with me at Murchison’s and tell me all their adventures, while you, Mother, prepare such a welcome for this wandering pair!” she announced.

Her eyes widened. “Gracious me—and if I’m not mistaken in the particulars—Thomas, you’re a . . .”

“L’tenant Kydd it is now, Cec,” he said happily.

The evening meal was a roaring success. Kydd became hoarse with talking and Renzi was quite undone by the warmth of his welcome. Cecilia could not get enough of Kydd’s descriptions of the Venice of Casanova, even above his protestations that the danger of their mission meant he was hardly in a position to dis-course on the republic’s attractions.

Distant thumps and a sudden crackle sounded outside. Cecilia clapped her hands. “The fi reworks—I nearly forgot! Tonight we’ll see your Admiral Onslow—he is to be a baronet, and is now resting at Clandon with his brother the earl. It’s said he’ll make an address from the balcony of the town hall! Gentlemen—I wish to attend! I shall be with you presently.” She swept away imperiously to appear shortly afterwards in a pelisse at the height of fashion: lemon silk, lined and faced with blue. She looked at them both with the suspicion of a pout. “And who will be my gentleman escort?”

Kydd hesitated, but instantly Renzi bowed deeply and offered his arm. “May I observe that I fi nd Mademoiselle is in looks tonight?” he said, with the utmost courtly grace.

Cecilia inclined her head and accepted his arm. They went outside and, without a backward glance at Kydd, moved off down the lane, Cecilia’s laughter tinkling at Renzi’s sallies.

Kydd watched them helplessly. His sister had changed. There

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was not a trace of childhood chubbiness left: her strong features had developed into strikingly dark good looks and a languorous elegance. Her position with Lady Stanhope had allowed her to fi nd an easy confi dence and elegance of speech that he could only envy; he followed them, trying to look unconcerned.

Crowds pressed everywhere, while excited chatter and the smell of fi reworks hung on the air. People held back respectfully. Kydd was not sure whether it was in recognition of them as gentlefolk or because of the Navy uniform. Closer to the torch-lit balcony the throng was tightly packed and they had to remain some distance back.

Cecilia kept Renzi’s arm, but pulled Kydd forward, attracting envious looks from other ladies. “Oh, I’m so proud of you!”

she exclaimed, her voice raised above the excited babble of the crowd. She smiled at them both, and Kydd felt better.

“It was th’ admiral gave me m’ step, Cec—there in th’ great cabin o’
Monarch.
” Kydd paused, remembering the scene. “But it were Cap’n Essington put me forward.”

A deep thumping came from the other side, further down the high street: the Royal Surreys called out to do duty on this naval occasion. Thin sounds of fi fe and trumpet rose above the hubbub, strengthening as they approached. Then, with a pair of loud double thumps on the bass drum, it ceased.

The crowd surged below the balcony and settled into a tense expectation. Torchlight illuminated upturned faces, caught the sparkle of eyes, the glitter of gold lace. At the signs of indistinct movement within, a rustle of anticipation arose and the mayor emerged on to the balcony in his best scarlet gown and tricorne, resplendent with his chain of offi ce. “M’ lords, ladies an’ gennelmen! Pray silence for the mighty victor o’ the great battle o’

Camperdown, our own—Adm’ral Onslow!”

The genial sea offi cer Kydd remembered stepped out on to the balcony. A furious storm of cheering met him, a roar of
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wholehearted and patriotic acclaim. Onslow, in his full-dress admiral’s uniform, sword and decorations, bared his head and bowed this way and that, manifestly affected by the welcome.

Kydd watched him turn again and again to face all parts of the crowd. At one point he thought he had caught the admiral’s eye, and wondered if he should wave back, but there was no sign of recognition.

The noise subsided, and Onslow moved to the front of the balcony. He fumbled in his coat, and withdrew a paper. He hesitated, then put the paper back, straightening to a quarterdeck brace. “M’ lord mayor an’ lady—citizens of Guildford!” he began. “I thank ye for your fi ne and loyal address followin’ the action off Camperdown. But I must make something very clear to ye. An admiral doesn’t win battles, the seamen do. An’ I cannot stand here tonight without I acknowledge this before you all!

Over there t’ larb’d! Yes, those two men, ahoy! Be s’ good as to join me and show y’selves! These are two of your true victors o’

Camperdown!”

“Thomas—go!” Cecilia squealed, when it became obvious whom the admiral had singled out. The crowd shuffl ed and fell back.

Onslow was waiting for them and shook their hands warmly.

“A fi ne thing t’ see ye both,” he rumbled, his keen eyes taking in their new uniforms. “Let’s out an’ give ’em a sight, then you’ll honour me with y’r presence at the presentation.”

They emerged together on the balcony to a roar, Kydd waving awkwardly, Renzi bowing. Kydd’s eyes searched out Cecilia. She was shouting something to him, waving furiously, and his heart swelled.

“A capital choice,” Renzi said, removing his coat and standing in waistcoat and breeches. “It seems we shall be waiting out

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21

Tenacious
’s repair in a tolerable degree of comfort.” He settled into a substantial high-backed chair.

Kydd rubbed his hands before the fi re. The agent had left, and they had taken on this half-mansion below the castle for a reasonable sum. The owner had apparently instructed that offi -

cers in His Majesty’s service could rely on his patriotic duty in the matter of a lease. Not only that but, agreeably, they could share the services of domestic staff with the adjoining residence, which, as it was inhabited by an old lady, should be no trial.

Kydd looked around him with growing satisfaction, albeit tinged with trepidation. The rooms were not large, but were bigger than anything he had lived in before. He’d always known that the heart of the home was the kitchen, but here it seemed that this elegant room had taken its place.

The walls were a soft sage colour, the broad, generous sash windows were hung with muslin and festoon curtains, and stout druggets lay beneath his feet instead of oiled fl oorcloths. The furniture was reassuringly old-fashioned and sturdy. He turned again to the fi re with its plain but well-proportioned marble surround and mantelpiece, and felt an unstoppable surge of happiness. “Two or three months, d’ye suppose?” he mused, recalling the savage wounds
Tenacious
had suffered.

“I would think so.” Renzi sat sprawled, his eyes closed.

“Nicholas, th’ sun is not yet above th’ foreyard, but I have a desire t’ toast our fortune!”

Renzi half opened his eyes. “Please do. You will not fi nd me shy of acknowledging that it is these same fates that determine whether one should die of a loathsome disease or—”

“Clap a stopper on it, brother!” Kydd laughed. “I’ll go ’n’

rouse out somethin’ we c’n—”

“I think not.”

“Why—”

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Julian Stockwin

“Pray touch the bell for the servant.”

“Aye, Nicholas,” Kydd said humbly. He found the well-worn but highly polished silver bell and rang it self-consciously.

“Sir?” A manservant in blue, with a plain bob wig, appeared.

Renzi pulled himself upright. “Should you unlock my grey valise you will fi nd a brace of cognac. Pray be so good as to open one for us.”

“Certainly, sir,” the man said, with a short bow, and withdrew.

Kydd tried to look unconcerned and toasted his rear until the servant returned bearing a gilt tray.

“À votre santé,”
Renzi said.

“À votter sonday,”
Kydd echoed awkwardly. The brandy burned a passage to his empty stomach.

Renzi stood up, raising his glass to Kydd. “Our present fortune. May this indeed be a true augury of our future.”

“Aye, an’ may we never fi nd th’ need t’ deny our past ever,”

Kydd responded. “Nicholas. M’ true friend.” He looked sideways at Renzi and, seeing he was attending politely, pressed on:

“I’ve been a-thinkin’—you don’t care if I say my mind?”

“My dear fellow! If it were any other I would feel betrayed.”

“Well, Nicholas, this is all more’n I could ever hope for, somethin’ that can only happen if—if y’r destiny is written somewhere, I reckon. So I’m takin’ this chance wi’ both hands!

I’ll give it m’ rousin’ best copper-bottomed, double-barrelled, bevel-edged try, I will!”