Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

"Sir, in the front here we have our flags. This is the code of Admiral Howe that we carry, and it's just numbers—'ought to nine. We have some others, the 'affirmative,' 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, find the signal, and it's twenty-seven, which we hoist."

"Seems clear enough—but what if we want t' tell them to 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 flag 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 fire on th' closest enemy—so let's be having it. I find the code here . . ."

"Er, begging your pardon, Mr Kydd, but we hoists Trompeuse 's pennant first so he knows the signal is for him, which we finds here."

At the flag-locker a yellow and blue pennant was taken, deftly toggled to the signal halliard, then sent soaring aloft. On another halliard the two-flag 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!"

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 flags end-on. And in any kind of battle, with its vast amount of powder-smoke, flags 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."

Kydd smiled, but closed the book. He felt reasonably secure in his knowledge of signals and, despite Bampton's acid words, surely there could not be much more to add that he needed to say to a crowd of merchant seamen. With the ship about to sail, it made sense to sup on the fat of the land while they could. "Nicholas! I have a fancy to step ashore again, are you interested?"

"Falmouth?" Renzi ruminated, hiding a smile. "This is the Valubia of Virgil—you have probably overlooked that passage in The Aeneid describing Falmouth. Let me see: 'Est in recessu longo lo cus; insula portum . . it goes, as I remember. You will recognise the Dryden too: 'Where vale with sea doth join into its purer hands; 'twixt which, to ships commodious Port is shown—' "

"Sir!" It was a small midshipman at the door. "The captain, sir, desires Mr Kydd to attend on him before he lands, should it be convenient."

"The convoy instructions have arrived, Mr Kydd," Houghton grunted. His clerk scratched away to one side, a sizeable pile of paper mounting beside him.

"Sir."

"And the convoy will sail in two days." Houghton looked up at him. "I am senior officer and I will be calling a conference of ships' masters for tomorrow afternoon at two. You will attend, of course, and will probably wish to prepare. My clerk, when he's finished, will disclose to you my private signals and wishes in respect of the escorts.

"Mark my words, I mean to brook no insolence from the master of any merchant vessel, and I will have obedience. I want you to make this quite plain."

"Aye aye, sir," Kydd said, turning to go. "And may I have a convoy signal list?"

Houghton started in annoyance. "Of course not! Have you forgotten they are secret? The losing of just one such can lead our convoy into ambuscade, the loss of millions, disgrace to our flag. All are accounted for, sir, and are now under guard—I'm surprised you see fit to ask such a thing."

It was a shock: first, the level of secrecy to which he was now privy, but second, that he had not given it much thought. Simple courage and seamanship were no longer the only things that would matter in the future.

Houghton grunted. "Very well. You may study a signal list in the lobby while Mr Shepheard is working. Any notes you take will be kept by him also. That is all, Mr Kydd."

His heart sank; the mass of detail about fleet signals was exhaustive. Once under way and at sea each ship would be an island, unreachable except for these signals. Kydd leafed through the orders for distinguishing signals and vanes, then the instructions on to the formation of the convoy; it would apparently be a multi-column square advancing over the ocean. The name of each ship was filled in and assigned a number, which turned out to be its column and row position, and the three escorts were positioned around them, Tenacious, with a tiny flag added to her name, in the van.

The bulk of the details however, was taken up with resolving problems before they occurred. He turned more pages in dismay. Even putting to sea in good order required special flags to be hung out from odd places about the ship. A red and white weft at the mizzen peak indicated that a ship wished to speak, probably for some urgent concern; a signal of 492 required the unfortunate ship concerned to hoist a yellow flag and steer straight for an enemy in a warlike manner, imitating the action of a warship.

It went on: Kydd's eyes glazed. He began to resent the implied assumption that a naval officer could do anything at a moment's notice, and tried not to think of what he had to face in less than a day. Was it possible to get to grips with so much in that time?

Marines at the landing pier clashed to present arms when Captain Houghton stepped out of the boat, and more lined the way along Arwenack Street to the Customs House where the conference was due to take place.

With their marine guard Kydd paced along stoically behind Houghton and his first lieutenant, lugging the padlocked bag of signal instructions and trying to ignore the curious glances of the townsfolk. At the Customs House, a big, square-looking stone building with a brace of captured French cannon at the entrance, they were met by a prosperous-looking individual wearing an old-fashioned tricorne hat. "Cap'n Houghton? Raddles, Collector o' Customs. Welcome to Falmouth, an' your convoy gentlemen are a-waitin' within." They passed inside along a musty-smelling passage. "Been here before, sir?" Without waiting for an answer he went on, "The long room is where they meets mostly."

They entered a large room with barn-style beams and imposing, floor-length windows. It was noisy, as some hundreds of plainly dressed and weatherworn seamen were present. The babble died as they entered, and those standing in groups moved to take chairs.