Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

"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 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-office 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 fifteen 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-office 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 office will recompense them for a loss at sea to an enemy, profit may just as readily be won from the insurances."

A crack of gunfire drew their attention to the brigantine. Her Blue Peter was jerking down, with vigorous activity at her fore-deck 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 find. Pray wait until Halifax and you will quickly acquire an 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 fish.

"Then if you must, here is one such." With a pang, Kydd reflected 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 fine range o' stock," Kydd said, fingering 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 fish, ivory walkin' stick with sword—"

"Aye, that will do," said Kydd, ignoring the ingratiating tone. "I'll think on it."

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 fit to linger ashore at your pleasure, when as signal lieutenant you know there is a convoy conference to conduct. You must be confident 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 first 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 flagship, thought Kydd, as he left the first 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!"

With a bored look on his face, the duty master's mate was standing by the main shrouds with his telescope of office. 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 flagship, 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-five-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 officer-of-the-watch in a major warship.

The afternoon saw a changed Rawson, respectful, increasingly confident 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 firmly.

"Aye aye, sir," Rawson said hastily. It took some time to find the other signal midshipman and four seamen, and just as long to find the little table for the signal log.

"Are we ready?" Kydd checked on his signals crew—Rawson and three of the seamen at the flag-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 fine 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 flag-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 flag.

"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.