Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

"Mates, if y' wants a lesson in honour, Mr Kydd's yer man. Won't stand fer anyone takin' 'im fer a villain without 'e stands up fer 'isself, an' that's why 'e sees me 'ere—a duel, like. An I 'ave ter say, I didn't reckon 'e'd 'ave the sand t' see it through, sling 'is mauley like a good 'un, 'im bein' an officer an' all."

He turned back to Kydd and touched his forehead. "I'd take it kindly in ye should y' shake m' hand, sir."

A roar of wild applause burst out, going on and on, until Dobbie held up his arms. "M' lads—I want yer t' unnerstand, this 'ere Kydd is one of us, but 'e's done good fer 'imself, an' that's no crime. An' I f'r one is going ter foller Lootenant Kydd."

"All bets 'r off, gennelmen!" bawled Akins.

The press of spectators broke into riotous commotion. Kydd's comprehension of events rapidly disintegrated—he was being slapped on the back and idolised by dozens of drunken seamen. An unwilling Tysoe was plied with beer; women's gleeful painted faces danced before him; and Dobbie, now the centre of a throng of seamen, was telling the story of the great mutiny of the Nore.

Admiral Vandeput and his squadron returned three days later, joining Tenacious at her anchorage. Kydd was in the boat returning from the flagship, and could see Renzi waiting on the quarterdeck of Tenacious, and dared a brief wave. It was good to see his friend and the clouds lifted from his spirit.

Clutching the precious pouch of despatches and confidential signal information, Kydd hauled himself up the side and took Renzi's hand. "I'd thought to see you flag-lieutenant b' now," he said.

"Flag-lieutenant? Not if the present incumbent can help it." Renzi chuckled drily. "And while you've been in this Arcadia resting, I've been privy to secrets concerning the cod fishery that would stand you amazed, dear fellow."

"You'll tell me of y'r secrets this very afternoon. You get y'r gear inboard while I get these t' Captain Houghton. I have it from on high that the adm'ral will want t' have his squadron to sea f'r exercises as soon as he's stored—that's t'morrow, I'll wager."

"If it were at all possible, a light walk ashore among the spring blooms would be pleasant, Tom. Our admiral does not spare his minions, you may believe."

The Dartmouth side of the harbour was speckled with green shoots and the ground was firming. They paced it out in the hesitant sunshine, feeling the country awake out of its winter retreat.

"A singular place, Newfoundland," Renzi said, at length. "At times I believed that the island should be entirely covered by curing fish, were it not that room has to be made for the vats of that monstrously malodorous fish oil."

"Your secrets?" Kydd wanted to know.

"Nothing, really. It's a turbulent place that requires the admiral to show firm on occasion—the fisher gentry from Devon have it that Newfoundland is their personal fief, and deliver rough justice to those who say otherwise. You'd smile to hear the talk in an assembly at St John's—you'd swear it was Exeter or Bideford on market day."

They walked on companionably. "So, all has been uneventful in the meantime?" Renzi enquired.

Kydd hesitated. Renzi was the soul of discretion, but that was not the point at issue—his uncle had left the resolution of his problem to him alone: Should he involve his friend in a matter of family?

There was no question: he had been on his own for too long.

"Nicholas, the strangest thing—I met m' uncle f'r the first time not long since." His tone made Renzi look at him sharply.

"Yes—m' father's brother, here in Canada." Kydd went on to tell of his discovery and his quandary—and his decision neither to conform to the story of the bear nor to reveal his uncle's current whereabouts to his family.

"An admirable, even logical decision, Tom, and I honour you for it," Renzi said sincerely.

They strolled on in the quietness at the edge of the forest. "That's not all of the matter, is it, brother?" Renzi said, stopping and facing Kydd directly. "I'd be honoured to share whatever it is that lays its hands on my friend."

Kydd looked away, staring at the jack-pines carpeting the landscape, all seeming the same but when looked at separately every one an individual, uncountable thousands into the blue-grey distance. "Nicholas, it doesn't answer. I have t' face it. I'm not t' be one of y'r deep-dyed, gentleman officers who knows their fox-hunting an' Seasons. I know seamanship an' navigation, not dancin' and talking to ladies."

"Dear fellow, this—"

"When I got my step t' the quarterdeck it was hard t' believe. Then it seemed to me that there was no end t' it—captain of my own ship, even. But I know better than that now. The King's service needs l'tenants for sure, but only the gentlemen will find 'emselves promoted—an' I'm no gentleman, an' now I know it."

"No gentleman? What nonsense—"

"Spare me y'r comfortin' words, Nicholas," Kydd said bitterly. "For my own good, I have t' hoist this aboard an' stop pining f'r what can't be, and that's that."

"But it only requires you learn the marks of civility, the — "

"Is that all it is to be a gentleman, jus' know all the tricks? I don't think so." Kydd fell silent, morosely kicking a pine cone.

"Do you despise gentlemen?" Renzi asked quietly.

Kydd flashed him a suspicious look. "Not as who should say— they were born to it, that's their good luck . . . and yours," he added, with a sardonic smile.

They walked on for a space, then Kydd stopped again. "T' be honest, it sticks in m' gullet that I'm t' leave promotion to others — and I'm of a mind t' do something about it."

"What?"

"Well, in a merchant ship they have no care f'r gentle ways—a berth as mate in an Indiaman would suit me right handsomely, one voyage a year out east, an' my own freight . . ."

"Leave the Navy?"

"And why not?"

Kydd obstinately avoided Renzi's gaze as his friend stared at him.

In a brisk south-easterly early next morning the North American Squadron put to sea for one week's exercising in the waters between Nova Scotia and the United States, the 74-gun HMS Resolution as flagship in the van, the seven ships a picture of grace and might.

In Tenacious, at the rear, the picture was more apparent than real: the file of ships that stretched ahead to the flagship in perfect line also obscured her signals, and the little fleet could not stretch to the luxury of a repeating frigate.

Despairing, Kydd hung out from the rigging to weather, trying to steady his big telescope against the thrumming in the shrouds and bracing himself to catch the meaning of Resolution 's signal flags end-on. They were clawing their way out close-hauled; if they were to end on an easterly course passing south of the Thrumcap they would have to pass through the wind's eye.

It was the admiral's choice, to tack about or wear round, and with the Neverfail shoal waiting ahead and the same unforgiving rocks under their lee that had claimed Tribune so recently. Tack or wear—put the helm down or up—it all depended on the signal that would be thrown out to the fleet in the next few minutes.

Captain Houghton stumped up and down the quarterdeck, nervous midshipmen scuttling along behind him, the master keeping a respectful distance to his lee. It was impossible to send the men to their stations until it was known the action to be taken, and they stood about the decks in uneasy groups.

Devil's Island, the most seaward part of Halifax, lay abeam: now there was no reason why they could not bear up—and then there was a tiny flutter of bunting on Resolution's poop.

Kydd concentrated with his glass. A quick refresh from his pocket book had shown him that there was only one flag in the two hoists that differentiated "tack" and "wear"—a yellow diagonal on a blue background—and this was number three, "tack." If he just glimpsed that flag, he could ignore the rest and they would gain a vital edge. Houghton stopped pacing and faced Kydd. Around the ship men followed suit, every face turning towards him.