Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

Kydd hurried down to the quarterdeck but Houghton had anticipated the summons and was waiting at the entry port, resplendent in full dress and sword. His barge hooked on below the side-steps and, snowflakes glistening on his boat-cloak, he vanished over the side.

Duty done, Tenacious settled back to harbour routine. The snow began to settle. Deck fitments and spars, brightwork and blacked cannon, all were now topped with a damp white.

As expected, "All officers" was signalled at eleven. Boats put off from every English man-o'-war in the harbour to converge on the flagship; the officers were in full dress and sword, with a white ensign to denote their presence.

It was the pomp and majesty of a naval occasion, which Kydd had seen many times before but from the outside. He stood nervously with the others as they were welcomed cordially by the flag-lieutenant on the quarterdeck and shown below by a serious-faced midshipman.

The great cabin of Resolution extended the whole width of the deck; inside a large, polished table was set for dinner with crystal and silver. Kydd, overawed by the finery, took an end chair.

Next to him a lieutenant nodded amiably, and Kydd mumbled a polite acknowledgement. The hum of conversation slackened and stopped as Vice Admiral of the White, George Vandeput, commander-in-chief of the North American Squadron, came into the cabin.

The massed scraping of chairs was deafening as the officers rose, murmuring a salutation. "D'ye sit, gentlemen," he called, finding the central chair. He whirled the skirts of his frock coat around it as he sank into it, and beamed at the company.

"I'd be obliged at y'r opinion of this Rhenish," he said affably, as decanters and glasses made their appearance.

Kydd's glass was filled with a golden wine that glittered darkly in the lanthorn light. He tasted it: a harder, mineral flavour lay beneath the flowery scent. Unsure, he sipped it again.

Vandeput looked down the table but most officers remained prudently noncommittal. Renzi sat three places along, holding his glass up to the light and sniffing appreciatively. "A fine workmanlike Rheingau," he said, "or possibly a Palatinate, though not as who should say a Spatlese."

The cabin fell quiet as several commanders and a dozen senior lieutenants held their breath at a junior lieutenant offering an opinion on his admiral's taste in wine, but Vandeput merely grunted. "Ah, yes. I feel inclined t' agree—a trocken it is not, but you'll excuse me in th' matter of taste. Its origin is a Danish prize whose owner seemed not t' value the more southerly whites."

Renzi nodded and the admiral shot him an intent look, then steepled his fingers. "Gentlemen, f'r those newly arrived for the season, a welcome." He held attention while he gazed around the cabin, recognising some, politely acknowledging others. "We have some fresh blood here following our famous victory at Camperdown so I'm taking the opportunity t' meet you all. The North American Squadron—often overlooked these days, but of crucial importance, I declare. The convoy of our mast-ships alone justifies our being. Where would the sea service be without its masts and spars? An' half the world's trade flows through this port, including the West Indies, of course."

Kydd was transfixed by the glitter of the admiral's jewelled star, the gold facings of his coat, the crimson sash, which were grand and intimidating, but Vandeput's pleasant manner and avuncular shock of white hair set him almost at his ease.

"Therefore our chief interest is in the protection of this trade. I rather fancy we won't be troubled overmuch by French men-o'-war—rather, it's these damn privateers that try my patience. Yet I would not have you lose sight of the fact that we are a fleet—to this end I require that every ship under my command acts together as one, concentrating our force when ordered, and for so doing you signal lieutenants shall be my very nerves."

A rustle of amusement passed around the table: the flagship's smartness was well marked and life would not be easy for these junior officers.

"We shall be exercising at sea in company as opportunities arise. I commend my signal instructions to you, with particular attention to be given to the signification of manoeuvres. My flag-lieutenant will be happy to attend to any questions later.

"I wish you well of your appointment to the North American Squadron, gentlemen, and ask that you enjoy the entertainment."

A buzz of talk began as the doors swung wide and dishes of food were brought in. Kydd was about to help himself to the potted shrimps when the stout officer next to him half stood over the biggest salver as its cover was removed. "Aha! The roast cod. This is worth any man's hungering. Shall you try it, sir?"

The fish was splendid—buttery collops of tender white, and Kydd forgot his duty until the officer introduced himself: "Robertson, second of the Acorn. Damn fine cook our admiral has, don't y' know?"

"Kydd, fifth o' Tenacious." He hesitated, but Robertson was more concerned with his fish, which was vanishing fast. "Acorn— the nine-pounder lying alongside?"

"Is her," Robertson agreed. "I suggest only the chicken pie afore the main, by the way. Ol' Georgie always serves caribou, an' I mean to show my appreciation in spades."

"May I?" Kydd had noticed the disappearing fish and was pleased to have remembered his manners so far as to help him to a handsome-sized slice of cold chicken pie. The Rheingau was perfectly attuned to the cold food and his reserve melted a little. "Nine-pounder frigate—hard livin' indeed."

"Aye," Robertson said, his mouth full, "but better'n a ship-of-the-line."

"And how so ?"

"Prize money, o' course. Ol' Georgie's no fool—sends us out all the days God gives after anything that floats, French, Spanish, Scowegian—even American, if we can prove she has a cargo bound for the enemy. If it's condemned in court, cargo 'n' all, then shares all round."

The rumours of caribou were correct, and to the accompaniment of a good Margaux, the dark flesh was tender with an extraordinary sweet wild meat flavour. Kydd sat back, satiated. Renzi was toying with a breast of spruce partridge while deep in serious talk with an older, lean-faced officer.

Kydd stole a look at the admiral: he was genially in conversation with a hard-looking officer to his left. Kydd wondered at the simple fact that he himself was sharing a meal with such august company.

"Wine with you, sir!" It was the officer opposite, who had not said much before.

Kydd held his glass forward. "Prize money b' the bucketful!" he toasted.

The other seemed restless. "That would be fine, sir, but while we're topping it the sybarite, others are fighting. And by that I mean winning the glory. There's no promotion to be gained by lying comfortably at two anchors in some quiet harbour — only in a right bloody battle." He held up his wine to the light and studied it gloomily. "To think it—we've been thrown out of the Med since last year, there've been descents on Ireland, and at home I hear Pitt has admitted the collapse and destruction of the coalition and none else in sight. We stand quite alone. Can things be much worse? I doubt it."

Kydd said stoutly, "I'm come fr'm the Caribbee and I can tell you, we've been takin' the French islands one b' one, and now the Spanish Main is ours. And who c'n doubt? The Mongseers have reached their limits, baled up in Europe tight as a drum. To the Royal Navy, gaol-keeper! And may she lose the keys!" But the officer remained grave and quiet. Kydd frowned. "Do ye doubt it, sir?" The wine was bringing a flush, but he didn't care; he seemed to be holding his own in this particular conversation.

With a weary smile the officer put down his glass. "I cannot conceive where you have been this last half-year that you have not in the least understood the motions of the French Directory— intrigues at the highest, or at the point of a bayonet, they have now secured the subjugation or acquiescence of the whole of the civilised world.