Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

He sat with flushed face and beamed at them all. No cool talk of the London Season, not a word about fox-hunting or estates in the country, this was good sturdy conversation about horses, prospects of prize money, scandalous theatre gossip—here he could safely say his piece without fear of being thought a boor.

"Fr'm Kentucky, friend, you'll hanker after this . . ." Bourbon whiskey was added to the list of Kydd's American experiences.

"Did I ever tell ye of Gibraltar? Now there's a rare place, one thunderin' great rock . . ."

Happy and muzzy, he did not notice that Truxtun was in the wardroom until he suddenly saw him sitting at the other end of the table. He froze—but Truxtun raised his glass. "Ye share the same forename as me, Tom, and I'd like to say that, should you find it in your heart to become an American, there could be a berth aboard Constellation if you choose."

Kydd turned in to his tiny cot, unable to control his whirling thoughts. An American? Thomas Paine Kydd, citizen of the United States, gentleman of the land and lieutenant of the United States Navy? It was not impossible—he had no ties, no wife and family back in England.

Excitement seized him and his eyes opened wide in the darkness. Why not start a new life in a country where there did not seem to be any difference between gentleman and commoner, a nation that seemed to have so much land and so few people— opportunity unlimited?

But he held the King's commission. Would he be betraying his country in her time of need? What about other officers in foreign navies? Well, they had been allowed to resign their commissions to take service, and was there not one in the Russian Navy who was now a grand duke? And, above all, if he were in the American Navy he would be fighting the King's enemies even if it was under another flag.

And there were so many English seamen already serving-he had heard aboard Constellation the accents of Devon, the North, London. He could always be among his countrymen if he felt lonely. They had made the choice, even if many had chosen desertion. Could he?

He tossed and turned until finally sleep came mercifully to claim him.

It seemed only minutes later when he jerked awake. He knew that he had heard a cannon shot and sat up. Almost immediately the urgent rattle of a drum beating to quarters set his heart hammering.

Kydd dropped clumsily out of his cot and reached for his clothing. Nearby, thumping feet sounded urgently. He struggled into breeches and shirt, flung on his coat and raced barefoot up the companion to the upper deck.

In the cold of daybreak, out of the thin drifting rain ahead, the dark shape of a ship lay across their path. Constellation 's helm was put up to bear away. Even in the bleak grey half-light it was plain that they had come upon a man-o'-war, a frigate, who had instantly challenged them.

"Get out of it, damn you!" Truxtun bawled, catching sight of Kydd. "Get below!"

There was something about this enemy frigate—Kydd knew he had seen her before.

"Now, sir!" Truxtun bellowed.

It was the characteristic odd-coloured staysail, the abrupt curve of her beakhead. But where? Her colours flew directly away and were impossible to make out; the two signal flags of her challenge flickered briefly into life as they were jerked down and, her challenge unanswered, her broadside thundered out.

In the seconds that the balls took to reach them Kydd remembered, but before he could speak, Truxtun roared, "Get that English bastard below, this instant!"

Shot slammed past hideously, gouting the sea and sending solid masses of water aboard. One slapped through a sail. Kydd urged Truxtun, "Sir, hold y'r fire, for God's sake—she's a British ship!"

Incredulous, Truxtun stared at him. "She fired on the American flag! She's got to be a Frenchman, damn you!"

"That's Ceres thirty-two, I'd stake m' life on it!" But how fast would Ceres take to reload and send another, better-aimed, broadside?

"An English ship!" Truxtun's roar carried down the deck and pale faces turned, then darkened in anger, menacing growls rising to shouts. "I'll make 'em regret this! Mr Rodgers—"

"Do ye want war with England as well?" Kydd shouted. Livid, Truxtun hesitated.

"Hoist y'r white flag!"

"Surrender? Are you insane?"

"No—flag o' parley." All it needed was for one over-hasty gunner on either side and the day would end in bloody ruin.

For a frozen moment everything hung. Then Truxtun acted: "White flag to the main, Mr Rodgers," he growled.

"He'd better be coming with an explanation!" Truxtun snapped to Kydd, as a boat under a white flag advanced, a lieutenant clearly visible in the sternsheets.

"Sir, be s' good as to see it from his point o' view. His private signals have not been answered and as far as he knows there is no United States Navy with a ship o' this force. You have t' be a Frenchy tryin' a deception."

Truxtun gave an ill-natured grunt and waited for the boat. When it drew near Kydd saw the lieutenant stand and look keenly about him as the bowman hooked on. As he mounted the side angry shouts were hurled at him by seamen, which Truxtun made no attempt to stop.

"Now, before I blow you out of the water, explain why you fired into me, sir," Truxtun said hotly, as the lieutenant climbed over the bulwark.

He had intelligent eyes and answered warily, "Sir, the reason is apparent. You did not answer my ship's legitimate challenge and, er, we have no information about an American frigate at sea. Our conclusion must be obvious." Before Truxtun could answer, he added, "And remembering we are under a flag of truce, sir, I believe I might respectfully demand that you offer me some form of proof of your national status—if you please."

"Be damned to your arrogance, sir!" Truxtun punched a fist towards the huge American flag above them. "There is all the proof anyone needs!" Shouts of agreement rang out and seamen advanced on the quarterdeck. The lieutenant held his ground but his hand fell to his sword.

Kydd held up a hand and stepped forward. "L'tenant, a word, if y' please."

The lieutenant looked in astonishment at Kydd's bare legs, his civilian coat and breeches, soaked and clinging to him. "Er, yes?"

Drawing him aside, Kydd spoke urgently. "I'm L'tenant Kydd of HMS Tenacious, supernumerary aboard. I have t' tell ye now, this is a United States frigate true enough, and no damn Frenchy."

The lieutenant's disdain turned to cold suspicion. "You'll pardon my reservations, sir," he said, giving a short bow, "but can you offer me any confirmation of your identity?"

Kydd pulled his wet coat about him: a great deal hung on his next words. "Very well, I can do that," he said softly. "Off Devil's Island not a month ago, Ceres was there when Resolution hangs out a signal to tack—in succession. Tenacious makes a fool of herself. I was that signal lieutenant."

The lieutenant stared, then smiled. "I really believe you must be."

He turned to Truxtun and removed his hat. "Sir, you have my condolences that this unhappy incident took place, but cannot concede any responsibility. This will be a matter for our governments to resolve. Good day, sir."

The furious Truxtun did not reply, glowering at the man as he solemnly replaced his hat and went down the side to his boat, followed by yells of defiance.

What if it had been Tenacious instead? Kydd's thoughts raced—a ship-of-the-line thundering out her broadside? How could two proud navies cruise the seas without it happening again? They were at war with the same enemy—that was the main point. All else was pride.

"Sir." Truxtun drew a deep breath and Kydd went on quickly, "Be so kind as t' honour me with a minute of y'r time—in private."