Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

"You'll pardon me, Mr Kydd, but you're the darnedest Royal Navy officer I ever clapped eyes on." His frank gaze was unsettling. "I can tell a smart man when I see one. Don't have the airs of a King's man but I'll guess that's because you come from the people." He pondered for a moment. "So, do you hold it right to press men from under their own flag?"

"Sir, if these men are British they have a duty to—"

"They are American, sir."

"They say they are."

"They hold protections to prove it—and these are spat on by English officers."

"Yes! Th' rate for an American protection by your consul in Liverpool is one guinea and no questions asked."

Truxtun smiled. "We each have our views." The smile disappeared. "It's insulting to our flag for our merchant ships to be stopped and submit to search on the high seas. What do ye think of that?"

"Sir, Britain is a small island," he said carefully. "Trade is all we have. To survive we have to protect it, and—"

"You're right—and damn wrong. Do you know that most of the trade out of Nova Scotia is your cargo in our bottoms, on its way to ports of the world only a neutral can reach? You stop an American and you sink your own trade."

Kydd flushed. "You asked for views—I don't know y'r details but this I do know: if you're doin' the same for the French you're makin' a hill o' money out of it."

Truxtun's expression hardened, then a glimmer of a smile showed. "Well, as to that . . ."

It was the first that Kydd had heard of the true extent of the French attacks on American shipping and Truxtun's tone left no doubt of his feelings. "If we don't stand on our hind legs and fight 'em we deserve to be beat."

He looked directly at Kydd. "You're wondering why we don't declare war. So am I!" He glowered. Suddenly he got to his feet, crossed to his desk and abstracted a folded paper. "I'll show you this," he said, in an odd voice. "It came in today."

It was a single page, and bore the seal of the President of the United States. Kydd looked up in surprise. "Don't worry, the whole world's going to know about this tomorrow," Truxtun said heavily.

It began, "Instructions to Commanders of Armed Vessels, belonging to the United States, given at Philadelphia in the twenty-second Year of the Independence of the said States . . ." Truxtun leaned over and stabbed a finger at the second paragraph. "There!" "WHEREAS, it is declared by an Act of Congress . . . that armed Vessels, sailing under authority or Pretence of Authority from the French Republic, have committed Depredations on the Commerce of the United States . . . in violation of the Law of Nations, and Treaties between the United States and the French Nation . . ." Truxtun snorted. "And what must we do?" He tapped the last paragraph: "THEREFORE, and in pursuance of the said Act, you are instructed and directed, to seize, take and bring into any Port of the United States . . ."

"You see? It's on. A shootin' war against the French."

Kydd stared in astonishment—everything had changed. "But—"

Truxtun interrupted him: "But it's not. We haven't declared war, the French haven't. What kind of peace is it that requires me to fire into a Frenchman on sight? Some sort of—of quasi-war?"

Kydd was in no doubt. "Any kind o' war is fine. This is thumpin' good news—and c'n I say, sir, if we both have the same enemy then we must be friends."

"No! No—I didn't say that. I didn't say that at all. We just has the same enemy, is the truth of it. I'll be doing my duty at sea and you'll be doing yours as you see it." He took back the paper. "If it's any clearer," he said gruffly, "I mean to say I hope we meet at sea one day—as equals, Mr Kydd."

The convoy was finally ready to sail. Showers blustered in from the north in curtains of white, vivid against the sullen grey of the sky, and lines of foam-crested waves advanced seaward.

A sullen thump came from forward—the signal gun for departure; two cutters moved about the dozen merchantmen cajoling, threatening, shepherding. It was so similar to Kydd's sailing from Falmouth, yet there was a difference: the lift of a head, the ringing shouts of the petty officers, the brazen size of the flag at the mizzen peak, the length of the pennant at the mainmasthead. This was a unique experience: to be aboard the first frigate commissioned in the United States Navy, and the first to put to sea on a war cruise.

Kydd stood out of the way, to the side, buffeted by the wind and with rain dripping from his hat brim. He was in no mood to go below. Although he was a spectator, he knew that no one would forget the day: a navy brought in just months from nothing to one that could execute the will of the nation. From helpless acquiescence to a sea force that would now go against the country's enemy—and conceivably within hours.

He looked forward. Gindler strode ahead proudly, disdaining oilskins over his lieutenant's uniform. To starboard the square, lofty lighthouse of Cape Henry lay abeam. With Constellation in the lead, the convoy left the haven of Chesapeake Bay and sailed for the open ocean to the east and all that lay beyond.

Standing out to sea the frigate lifted to the swell, new men staggered to the businesslike roll, while others sniffed the wind as if eager to be out to sea—or was it in anticipation of bloody action? The merchant ships bunched together close to the American frigate: there had been talk ashore of a pair of big privateers lying in wait and self-preservation was a strong motive for keeping station.

The weather moderated as they made their offing, although Constellation needed only double-reefed topsails to stay with her labouring convoy. Kydd walked forward, keenly appreciative of the motion of a frigate once more and interested indeed in the weatherliness of the American.

After the sociability of the dinner he was now greeted with cautious nods and the occasional smile—even the intense Lieutenant Rodgers touched his hat to him at one point.

When the land had been sunk and a tossing wilderness of empty ocean had been reached, the convoy dispersed, some to the Barbadoes, others to Dublin and London, thousands of miles of hard sailing with small crews, with the constant fear of sighting the sails of a predator. But Constellation was free now to soar.

"Mr Kydd." Truxtun snapped, as though struck by a sudden thought. "We shall be cruising south tomorrow." The rest of the quarterdeck was listening intently. "Therefore I believe it would be most expedient for you then to take your leave from this vessel. I shall stop a Philadelphia packet for your convenience, sir."

Kydd had taken to standing beside the lee helmsman, willing the ship on, feeling her motion through the water, and turned in surprise. "Er—why, of course, Captain." It was a disappointment not to see the frigate at her best, and despite the circumstances of his passage, there was something about this ship and her crew . . .

In the dog-watches, as the ship shortened sail for the night, Kydd lingered on deck, then went below for his last dinner aboard the Constellation. He went to his accustomed place at the end of the table, but found a black steward there. "If y' please, sah," he said, and pointed to the head of the table, where all the American officers stood with glasses, grinning at him.

"Come 'n' set, Tom," one called. Kydd did as he was asked, and took the chair normally occupied by the first lieutenant, bemused.

"Just wanted t' wish you God speed, Mr Kydd," Rodgers said, proffering a glass.

Kydd took it and lifted it to them. "Your very good health, gentlemen," he called, touched beyond measure.

The group broke into warm conversation, and as dinner was brought he found himself talking as amiably as any. More wine, more dishes: Kydd felt a rush of feeling that came out as hot words of admiration for their fine ship, their spirit, their future.