Julian Stockwin - 19 The Baltic Prize (Thomas Kydd #19)

‘Um, my name’s Rowan and I’ve come to join Tyger ,’ he stammered.

‘It speaks! Ye gods and little fishes, it speaks!’

‘Can I put my chest here?’

‘Why?’

Unable to think of a reply he didn’t move, feeling foolish.

‘Come on in, then, apparition,’ the older said, with a sudden grin. ‘Sit y’self down and tell us all about it.’

The compartment was all of twenty feet in length, mostly occupied with a long table and lit by a single guttering lamp. Homely implements were hung on the bulkheads and a colourful but grimy print took pride of place at the forward end.

Self-consciously Rowan came forward but there were no chairs.

‘We use our chests to park our arses.’ There was no hostility in the tone but no warmth either.

He dragged in his sea-chest, aware of their gaze on him.

Once seated, he looked up to meet their eyes.

‘I’m Daniel.’ It was the other, younger, midshipman. ‘Daniel Teague, that’s Tilly to you. And this is Neb Gilpin. Where are you from?’

It wasn’t his home town they were asking after. ‘ Brunswick , 74, Captain Graves.’

‘My, you’ve done well to be quit o’ the old hooker into a crack frigate.’ Gilpin looked genuinely puzzled. ‘As our sainted captain swears he can’t abide snotty-nosed reefers aboard his ship, how did you swing it, whatever-your-name-is-again?’

‘I … I wrote him a letter.’

Gilpin’s face hardened. ‘Don’t flam me, fish-scut! You got family or what?’

‘No, no – that’s how it happened, honest!’

‘I don’t believe you, but we’ll leave it for now.’

‘It’s as I said, er, Neb – and my name is Christopher.’

‘Kit Rowan? It’ll do. Methinks we need to drink to it.’ He fished around under the table and came up with an anonymous brown bottle. Three chipped china mugs were found and coarse red wine gurgled out into them.

‘ Tyger , as never a finer frigate swam.’

‘ Tyger! ’

Rowan had never drunk wine before: his father was abstemious and disapproving. It nearly made him gag.

‘Another!’

‘Thank you, no. I have to report to the captain and—’

‘Not aboard till sundown. We’re a hard-drinking crew in the middie’s berth, aren’t we, Dan? So drink up. Now, who’s family?’

‘Oh, my father’s a well-respected articled clerk with Hanson and Hanson and—’

‘That’ll do. Mine’s something in stock-jobbing. Never could work out what he did for his cobbs but it pays him well. Dan’s folks are—’

‘My father has the living of Bicknoller, which is in Somerset.’

Gilpin was about to retort when the curtain was yanked aside and a gleeful messenger poked his head in. ‘New mid. Desired to report t’ the cap’n right now! An’ he’s in a right taking he’s to wait upon your leisure!’

Stricken, Rowan got to his feet and raced for the upper deck and aft to the august and fearful quarters of his captain. In the confines of the lower deck he hadn’t heard the boatswain’s call piping him aboard for, unlike Brunswick , there were no guns and therefore no open gun-ports. Of all the disasters possible to start his time in Tyger !

Breathlessly he entered the coach and announced himself to the marine sentry, who half opened the door to the great cabin and blared, ‘Midshipman Rowan, sir.’

Inside a muffled voice called something and the sentry closed the door and grunted, ‘Busy. Will see yez shortly.’ Without expression, he resumed his vigil.

The waiting was hard to take and Rowan tried to occupy himself coming up with an alibi. Then he remembered Perrott’s gruff words. ‘In the navy you can have y’r reasons but never an excuse. Tell it like it was, an’ take it like a man.’

It steadied him, and when the time came, he marched in, cocked hat under his arm, and stood rigid before Captain Sir Thomas Kydd. ‘Reporting aboard, sir!’ he blurted.

‘Oh, yes. Sorry to keep you waiting,’ Kydd said mildly, giving something to what was presumably his secretary. So much for the messenger’s dire prophecy – he’d made sport of him.

‘Um, yes, sir.’

Kydd looked him over politely. ‘A fine showing, Mr Rowan. We’re to sea very soon, however, and I’d suggest a seaman’s trousers more the thing than breeches. Have you found your berth?’

‘Sir.’

‘Then we must see about your duties. You shall be under Mr Bowden for divisions and he will be responsible to me for your instruction. Make yourself known and he’ll take care of the details.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

‘Good. You didn’t say where you come from?’

‘Chilworth, sir, which is near—’

‘Yes, where they make the gunpowder as gives us our bite and roar. Well, Mr Rowan, you’ll be very much occupied so I won’t delay you further. Good luck, apply yourself diligently, and we’ll both be satisfied. Off you go, now.’

In a gust of relief, Rowan made his way back to his berth. But it was now a different place: at the far end of the table in the unnatural quietness sat a master’s mate, who was writing at his journal, while the two midshipmen sat opposite doing the same – Teague industriously scrawling, but Gilpin leaning back, glassy-eyed and sucking the end of his quill.

The master’s mate looked up sharply, then laid down his pen. ‘Ah, Johnny Raw now aboard,’ he said lazily. ‘I’m David Maynard – Mr Maynard to you. And I’m to welcome you to the Tyger Cockpitonians. You’ve made acquaintance with …?’

‘I have, sir.’

‘None o’ that, fellow. Only when I get my step to l’tenant, which has to be soon. Now, tell us about yourself, curly-top.’

All his personal details were laid bare: that he was not of noble ancestry, apparently an asset, and that he came from the same part of the country as Kydd was accounted his good luck. As advised, he kept his time at the Kydd School to himself.

‘You’ll do. I see Mr Gilpin has yet to finish his journal so I call on young Tilly here to take you on a grand tour of our noble barky – and if you can’t tell me where everything is a-low by the first dog, you’ll do it again in the last.’

‘Yes, Mr Maynard.’

‘And square away your chest and ditty bag first. Mr Bowden has the deck – you can see him after eight bells.’

The tour was thorough but, in a way, an easing of anxiety: all rated ships were largely the same. Tyger , as a frigate, lacked a poop-deck and had only one line of guns instead of two but, apart from small things, he could find his way about just as easily as he’d learned so painfully in Brunswick .

More useful was the information he was absorbing about her company.

Captain Kydd was as fierce and demanding as any crack frigate commander and all that he’d heard about his audacious exploits was true. And, if Tilly were to be believed, even in this unpromising fleet situation their captain could be relied on to snatch an adventure or two.

The frightening first lieutenant thankfully found midshipmen beneath his notice and the other two lieutenants were good sorts, but strict.

Maynard was a square-sailing cove, who didn’t stand for young gentlemen to disturb his quiet, but Gilpin would bear watching. Older, confident, his seamanship had brought praise even from the well-seasoned boatswain but his navigation was an ill-tempered trial. For the rest, he would find out in due course.

As foretold, in two days the fleet put to sea.

On the quarterdeck in his new uniform and dirk, Rowan was thrilled to the core as Kydd rapped orders that had them weighing anchor, men leaping to the shrouds and doing incomprehensible things that would be his study from now on.