Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

"Indeed?"

"But that's by the by. Here is my main hope for L'tenant Kydd. He has no interest in politics. He's a tarpaulin mariner and cares only for his ropes and sails. He must be intelligent, he wouldn't hold a commission else, so he'll be able to tell me exactly what I want to know . . ."

Nothing could convey better to Kydd the continental vastness of the country than the overland coach journey with Gindler to Baltimore. From as fine a four-horse conveyance as any in England, they admired the spring-touched verdancy of the deciduous woodland that had replaced the northern conifers, the glittering lakes, rivers and blue-washed mountains far into the interior.

At stops to change horses, Gindler added to Kydd's impressions: he pointed out that beyond the mountains to the west the land was wild, stretching for more than sixty degrees of longitude; an unimaginable distance, more than the Atlantic was wide, and no one knew what was within it. Unsettled by the effect of this enormity Kydd was glad when they met the cobblestones of Baltimore.

"She'll be lying in the Patuxent river," Gindler said. "We're nearly ready for sea." There was no delaying: a fast packet on its way down the Chesapeake to Norfolk had promised to call at Patuxent and their ship.

The sight of naked masts and yards towering above the low, bushy point made Kydd's pulse quicken. The packet rounded the point into the broad opening of a river and there at anchor was the biggest frigate he had ever seen.

"A thing of beauty," breathed Gindler. "Don't you agree?"

Kydd concentrated as they neared the vessel. She was distinctive and individual; her lines and finish owed nothing to the conservative traditions of old-world shipwrights, and there was an alert purposefulness about her. There was much in her that a sailor could love. Nearly half as big again as the lovely Artemis, she seemed well armed. "Twenty-fours?" he asked.

"Indeed! I'd like to see any frigate that swims try to come up against the old Connie," Gindler said proudly.

"Old?" Kydd said wryly, observing seamen applying a tar mixture to the last remaining raw timber of the bulwarks.

"Well, I grant you she's newborn, but I have the feeling you'll be hearing from us in the future, my friend." His glance flicked up to the flag with its stars and stripes and he added softly, "I promise you that."

Kydd had seen far too many ships fitting for sea to be concerned at the turmoil on deck. He followed Gindler aft to the captain's cabin. Gindler knocked and an irritable bellow bade them enter.

"Mr Kydd, sir," said Gindler, and when the captain looked up in incomprehension he added, "Our supernumerary."

The captain's gaze swivelled to Kydd. Intelligent but hard eyes met his. Then the man grunted, "Mr Kydd, y'r service," and turned back to his papers. "Berth him in the fourth lootenant's cabin. He won't be sailing," he ordered, without looking up.

"Aye, sir," said Gindler, and withdrew with Kydd.

Picking their way through men at blocks and ropework— some seaming canvas, others scaling shot—they headed for the after hatchway. "I fear I must desert you now, Tom, duty calls. I'll take you to the wardroom, and I'm sure Captain Truxtun will want to see you when less pressed."

"Welcome back, Lootenant!" a fresh-faced seaman called, with a grin, to Gindler and waved a serving mallet.

"Thanks, Doyle," Gindler threw back. At Kydd's raised eyebrows he added, "A mort of difference from a King's ship, I think. Remember, aboard here every man jack is a volunteer on wages and, as Americans, they're not accustomed to bending the knee."

Kydd did not rise to the bait and privately wondered at their reliability in action when instant obedience was vital.

The wardroom was almost deserted. A black messman glanced at him curiously and left. Kydd looked about him. The raw newness had not yet been overcome to bring individuality. At the same time there was an alien air. The unfamiliar wood graining, the slant of the munnions — even the smell: striking timber odours, the usual comfortable galley smells subtly different, no waft of bilge.

He crossed to the transom seat. Reassuringly, it was still the repository of the ephemera of wardroom life and he picked up a Philadelphia newspaper, the Mercantile Advertiser. While he awaited Truxtun's summons he settled by the midships lanthorn and opened it. There was no ochre tax stamp and the paper was of good quality. He scanned the front page, which was given over to a verbatim setting out of a newly enacted statute. The next page, however, was vigorous and to the point: a growing feeling against the French gave colour to the local news and trade intelligence. Further inside there were advertisements and notices.

"Mr Kydd? Cap'n wants ye." He folded the paper, tugged his waistcoat into position and followed the messenger, apprehensive at meeting those hard eyes again.

Truxtun was standing, his back to Kydd, staring broodily out of the windows of his cabin. He turned and gestured to a chair. "Sit y'self down, Mr Kydd." He himself remained standing.

"I'll be plain with you, sir. Mr Secretary Stoddert thinks to provide me with an aide who'll tell me how they do it in King George's Navy. I can tell you frankly I don't give a solitary hoot how you do things—this is the United States Navy and I'm captain o' the Constellation, and I'll do things the way I want." His face had the implacability of a slab of oak. "Therefore your presence aboard is a waste. For Ben Stoddert's sake, I'll carry you these few days, but I'll have you know, sir, that I'll be giving orders that no United States officer or crewman shall hold converse with you—I don't want 'em getting strange ideas agin mine about how a ship o' war should be run. I'd be obliged if you'd keep your views to yourself.

"In return, you're welcome to sit at vittles in the wardroom and the fourth's stateroom is yours. You'll know to keep out from under while the ship's being worked, and should we meet an enemy you'll stay below. Have I made myself clear, sir?"

It was going to be a hard time for Kydd. He was not introduced when the wardroom sat for dinner. He was passed the condiments when he asked, but none caught his eye. Desultory talk went on about progress in the final run-up to sea trials in the morning, a few lame attempts at humour—this was a wardroom that had not been long together but would coalesce around individuals as the commission went on.

In the morning he caught Gindler, now a taut-rigged lieutenant, about to go on deck. "I'm sorry it has to be this way, Tom," he said softly. He touched his hat and left for the nervous bustle above.

Kydd hesitated: he could see down the length of the deck to the cable party readying the messenger; the tierers were moving down the hatchway for their thankless task at bringing in the cable.

He decided against making an appearance and returned to the wardroom. Although it was galling to be left in ignorance below decks, this was a first voyage with a new ship and a new company and he felt it was not altogether fair to witness the inevitable mistakes and dramas. He found a dog-eared copy of the North American Review and tried to concentrate, but the long tiller up against the deckhead began to creak and move as the man at the wheel exercised the helm. Then piercing calls from the boatswain and his mates told of the hoisting of boats, all suffused with the age-old excitement of the outward bound.

Rhythmic singing came from the men forward, and he felt a continual low shuddering in the deck that was, without doubt, the capstan at work. A sudden clatter and flurry of shouting would be a fall running away with the men while heavy thumps against the ship's side were the boats being brought in and stowed. The noises lessened until there was silence. They were ready to proceed.