Julian Stockwin - Command

Renzi came to a stop. His face had the pallor of death and his eyes were wells of misery. Kydd waited apprehensively. "Dear fellow," Renzi began, in a dreadful caricature of his usual way of opening a philosophical discussion, "you—will know I am a man of reason," he coughed twice and continued hoarsely, "and I have to tell you now, my friend, that I am—betrayed by my own logic." His voice broke on the last words, tears brimming.

"Why? How c'n this be?" Kydd said softly. Renzi looked directly at him and Kydd was appalled by what he saw in his face.

"As I lay on my fever bed things were made plain to me. I shall not bore you with details—but I became aware that, for all the advantages of birth and intellect, my life is a waste. I can point to not a single achievement. Not one! Nothing!"

He covered his face and his shoulders began shaking. Kydd was shocked: this was worse than he had supposed and made little sense. "Why, Nicholas, t' win the quarterdeck is an achievement that any might think—"

"No! There are coxcombs strutting the deck who owe it all to the accident of good breeding. This is no matter for pride. But you are a naval officer so above your station in life by right of striving and courage. You are now the captain of a ship! That is what any might call an achievement."

Renzi's chest heaved with emotion. "We will be at war with the French in months—with their arrogant posturing, there is nothing surer. You will be given a King's ship and go on to win renown and honour. That is equally sure." Irritably he waved aside Kydd's protestations. "This is your nature and your achieving, and you must glory in it. But I—I do not have the fire in my blood that you have. I am contemplative and take my joy in the fruits of the intellect, in the purity of creation, in—in—" He broke off with muffled sobs. Then, with an effort, he rallied. "It seemed the logical course, to leave the old world and enter the new where I might wrest from nature— ab initio —a kingdom of the soil, a fine achievement to—to . . ."

"To what, Nicholas?" Kydd asked quietly.

"To lay before Cecilia."

Defiantly Renzi looked up at Kydd, his hands working. "Cecilia . . . who, I own before you this day, is dearer to me than I can possibly say to you. One whom I would dishonour were I to press my suit without I have achieved something worthy of her attention. And—and—I have failed! I have failed her." His face distorted into a paroxysm of grief. He dropped hopelessly to his knees and broke into choking, tearing sobbing.

It was as if the world had turned upside down for Kydd to see Renzi, who had been so calm and staunch by his side through perils and adventures beyond counting, brought so low. Kydd's heart went out to the tortured soul who was his friend but what could he do? Tentatively, his hand reached out—then his arm went to the shoulder until he was holding Renzi's shaking body as the racking sobs took him. Renzi did not resist and Kydd held him until the storm had passed.

"All—all is t-to hell and ruin in Marayong, and so I w-wanted to see if the sealing industry would answer instead, b-but when I saw the slaughter I thought that if Cecilia knew of it how she would d-despise any fortune won from the blood and lives of i-innocent animals and—and therefore I have n-nothing left to me!"

Cruel sobs shook his gaunt frame again and Kydd knew that the last months must have been a living hell for his friend. What Renzi needed now was the will to live, a future, hope that things could be different.

"Then you are free, brother," Kydd tried brightly.

Renzi raised his head. "Wh-what did you say?"

"Forgive me talkin' wry, I was never a taut hand wi' words, but do ye not think that fate is a-calling you t' tack about, make an offing fr'm what was?"

"Thomas, p-please—"

"Nicholas, you've tasted life t' the full, been t' places others c'n only dream on. You have a rare enough headpiece as can tangle with any—is it not th' time to give a steer to the rest of us? Can ye not bring order t' the cosmos and tell we mortals how it will be with us?"

He lowered his voice. "Dear friend, can ye not remember those night watches? I can, an' now I admit before ye that those yarns on the fo'c'sle I hold precious in m' memory. Your destiny is never to be a slave o' the soil—can ye not see it in you that a pen suits afore a plough?"

Renzi held still.

"I put it t' ye, if you set to it heart and hand, you'd make a better fist of explaining this ragabash existence than all th' philosophic gentlemen who've never passed beyond their own front door. Nicholas, this is y'r future. You shall write a book o' sorts that settles it f'r good an' all. This, dear chap," Kydd brought out all the feeling he could muster, "is an achievement as no one of the ordinary sort can lay claim to, and therefore must be worthy o' Cecilia's notice."

As with any brother, it was hard to conceive that his sister might be the one to evoke passion and turmoil in an otherwise admirable character but it had to be accepted. He waited apprehensively for a response.

Renzi drew himself up with a long, shuddering sigh. "Just so." He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and trumpeted into it. "But it would be more apposite—in view of my fortune in the matter of travel—to consider, perhaps, a more ethnical approach. Possibly a study of sorts, a comparing of the human experience— of a response if you will, of the multitude of the tribes of man to the onrush of civilisation, a Rousseau of our time if I were to be so bold. It would have to be in volumes and—"

"As I thought as well," Kydd said, in huge relief. "A great work. Worthy of a great mind." Then, as furtive as a thief in the night, an idea sprang into being, a wonderful, incredible idea. "Nicholas," he began innocently, "o' course you shall have passage back t' England in the Castle but what happens then? Shall ye not have y'r voyages an' adventures that will give you grist for y'r mill? It does cross m' mind—that is, if'n you're right about Gen'ral Buonaparte—that I'll get m' ship." He paused significantly. "Now, if that happens as ye say, then there'll be a need f'r the captain t' have one by him whom he might confide in, one as knows how th' world turns, c'n tell me why things are—an' can be a true friend."

Kydd hesitated, then went on, "So I'm offering—that whatever ship I'm in the post of captain's secretary will always be there for y'r convenience, y'r guarantee that you'll be able t' hoist in y'r ethnical experiences wherever we might cast anchor th' world over. Just a convenience, o' course, y'r right t' be aboard, we say."

The words tailed off. Renzi looked seaward, then slowly turned to Kydd with a half-smile. "It does seem that the conceit has some degree of merit. I'll think on it."

AUTHOR'S NOTE

In many ways Command is a watershed book in the Thomas Kydd series. My hero has actually achieved the majesty of his own quarterdeck, and his life will never be the same again. It may seem an improbable transformation of a young perruquier of Guildford, press-ganged into His Majesty's Navy less than ten years before, but the historical record tells us that there were Thomas Kydds, not many admittedly, but enough to be tantalising to a writer's imagination. Yet we have so few records of their odysseys—how they must have felt, what impelled them to the top.

What actually triggered this series were some statistics that I came across. It seems that in the bitter French wars at the end of the eighteenth century, there were, out of the hundreds of thousands of seamen in the Navy over that time, 120, who by their own courage, resolution and brute tenacity made the awe-inspiring journey from common seaman at the fo'c'sle to King's officer on the quarterdeck. And of those 120, a total of 22 became captains of their own ship—and a miraculous 3, possibly 5, became admirals!