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

‘If I can manage sleep in this palace,’ Bazely grumbled.

Kydd grinned. He knew how much more splendid his quarters in Tyger were compared to those in a little brig-sloop.

‘You will, old trout. But first we’ll—’

‘I needs to know my company are safe and well fettled in this heathen barky. Later.’

Kydd settled back in his comfortable armchair, a whisky magically appearing by his elbow, and closed his eyes.

Some time later he opened them again – he’d heard a garbled account of his third lieutenant being brained, now resting in the sick bay; the pinnace coming under enemy fire, with one casualty, left in the care of the flagship doctor; and a midshipman bracing the commander-in-chief.

He summoned Rowan. Was it his imagination or had the lad changed from a fresh-faced, wide-eyed youngster to a lean, confident youth, who was now telling him why he’d carried on after taking casualties, and in wry good humour describing his encounter with the commander-in-chief himself?

‘Mr Rowan, I confess I stand amazed. Do you remember reporting afore me in this cabin just small months ago?’ In a surge of feeling he recalled the shy, eager lad, whose countenance had quite unmanned him. And now all that he saw formed before him could only have been brought about by his service in Tyger , the ship of which he himself was captain. It was nothing less than a swelling wash of pride that came over him as he regarded the young man.

‘Aye, sir.’

‘And what did I say?’ Kydd said gruffly.

‘I shall be acting midshipman only, and if I didn’t earn your trust I’d be put out of the ship.’

‘Quite so. And this is to say, young fellow, you’ve well earned that trust and from this hour on you’re no longer an acting reefer, you’re confirmed in rank and are one with the ship’s company of HMS Tyger .’

‘Th-thank you, sir!’ The ardent youngster who lay not so far under the new-found manly confidence flashed through with shining eyes and a huge smile, and Kydd had to turn away for a moment.

‘You shall claim a bottle of best claret from my servant to take back to the midshipmen’s berth, there for all to drink to your elevation. Carry on, Mr Midshipman Rowan.’

When Bazely returned a little later, he subsided into the other chair and sat unblinking, gazing through the sweep of stern windows at the line of warships anchored in the glittering seas.

Kydd said nothing. He motioned quietly to Tysoe, who nodded and brought another whisky, a large one.

Bazely hesitated, then downed it in one, avoiding Kydd’s eye.

‘A right hard thing, to lose a ship,’ Kydd said softly. ‘After all those years and so many miles under your keel.’

There was no response, the bluff seaman he knew so unnaturally twisted by some inner grief.

The man held out his glass. ‘I’ll need another,’ he said hoarsely, ‘As I has something t’ say.’

‘Fill ’n’ stand on,’ Kydd said gently, invoking the sailor’s invitation to lay open a hard thing.

‘Aye. Well, it’s not Fenella – who I’ll never forget all m’ days.’

He finished the whisky quickly and at last turned to Kydd. ‘No, shipmate, it’s not – it’s you.’

‘Me?’

‘I’m here t’ admit I was adrift in m’ bearings when I said … the things I did.’ He paused, gathering his words. ‘If you was a flag-chaser, a glory-hunter, why, you’d never have done what you did today. Nothing in it as would be talked on in y’r clubs an’ salons, a fine triumph t’ make the ladies gawp. Only a damn fine piece o’ seamanship as saved a ship’s company from a sailor’s grave.’

‘Just a jackstay and—’

‘And a cove who has the salt t’ bring out the line at risk of his own skin,’ Bazely continued, in a charged voice. ‘Who did it only … f’r a friend.’

‘Well, and it’s all finished now, Edmund. We’ll—’

‘Not finished!’ Bazely said thickly. ‘I did ye wrong, cuffin, and for that I begs pardon. You’re no boot-licker o’ royalty, no politicking shabbaroon – ye’ve won all ye have by copper-bottomed seamanship an’ a rattling good headpiece. There’s not a man I know can stand alongside ye in the article o’ bein’ a hero and I must have ye know it.’

The hand came out hesitantly but Kydd gripped it hard. ‘From you, my friend, I do value it above all things.’

‘Then … then we’ll step ashore t’gether sometime, on the frolic, like – raise a wind as we did afore?’

‘Count on it, dear fellow,’ Kydd answered, with a deep sincerity. ‘I’d wish for nothing more gleesome. To tell it right, I’ve found this fame and the public eye is something of a poisoned chalice. The pettish misunderstandings, jealousy, the friends I’ve lost, it doesn’t bear the reckoning.’

‘Aye, this must be so. But there’s square sorts like Keats who’ll see you back on the briny where you belong an’ will come around to it in the end, while you’re always going to clew up with a flotilla o’ green-dyed shicers like Mason in the offing, an’ these you c’n leave t’ stew in their own envy.’

‘You’re in the right of it, Edmund. But for now what I’d reckon best is to pay my dues to a fine and true sailorman who showed a prime frigate the way in to an enemy anchorage and come out with the news.’

The two friends solemnly raised their glasses and drank – to each other.

Chapter 59

The Great Cabin, HMS

Victory

As the dinner progressed, the formality of a commander-in-chief’s entertainment in the great cabin of his flagship eased, then melted away. Flushed faces, happy talk and open laughter filled the hallowed space as was to be expected from those whose destinies had so recently passed from uncertain to assured.

Captain Sir Thomas Kydd was well content with life and sat back to listen to Byam Martin of Implacable tell of the last hour of gallant Vsevolod , which, he swore, deserved a better fate than to be deserted by her comrades.

Hearing the tale, now in the warmth of the company of his peers, it was ironic to be calmly at anchor and enjoying such fine fellowship and a splendid meal so close to the enemy, now skulking in what could only be fear and trembling of Nelson’s heirs.

The cloth drawn, brandy and cigars made their appearance.

Talk died away and faces turned to the centre of the long table: the admiral was getting to his feet.

‘Fellow captains. Brothers-in-arms of the Baltic Fleet. I shan’t speak for long.’ His usual cool-headed, aloof features were lined, strained. ‘I entered the Baltic at the beginning of the year with the most grievous burden it has been the lot of any commander to bear – the preservation of the last and only channel for the exports of our industries, which alone pay for this war.’

He looked about him, at the score or more captains, anxious or mature, seasoned mariners or fresh-faced young men, all joined in the one great endeavour, and smiled. ‘The Great Belt and Sound are now highways on which our trade is secure, no matter the enduring of gunboats and the worst the weather can bring. Tireless patrols by greater and lesser have near exterminated the privateer vermin and we have finally devised a gateway for our merchant shipping opening directly into the continent of Napoleon Bonaparte.’ The smile vanished. ‘Yet from the very first there has always been a dire vision, a sceptre that has haunted me since first we passed into these waters. You will probably know to what I refer – the Russians and their fleet.’

There were knowing looks around the table.