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

The dinner proceeded well, a talented hidden violinist adding to the mood – he must later offer Saumarez the services of Doud, Tyger ’s gifted singer, Kydd thought.

‘Wine with you, sir,’ he proposed to Mason, who was sitting opposite and giving slavish ear to Graves of Brunswick on his right.

To his surprise he was ignored. Louder this time: ‘I said, wine with you, Mr Mason.’

Graves broke off his description of a Leeward Islands fever epidemic and glanced enquiringly at Mason, who grudgingly picked up his glass and half-heartedly saluted Kydd before returning to hear more of the fever.

At a loss, Kydd could only frown at the discourtesy, then brought to mind that Keats, seated not far to his left, had never once acknowledged his presence. Neither had Byam Martin, sitting next to him. Were they jealous of his successes at sea or was it that they had been put out to see one of their number hobnobbing in high society, cutting a dash above his station?

There was nothing he could do about this and he didn’t intend to let it affect him. The real question was whether Saumarez took the same view; the admiral had been until now in the same station where he’d known him before, the tranquil Channel Islands that Kydd had left to enter the greater war and eventual fame.

He had his chance as the evening drew to a close and a small number of officers remained with a convivial brandy before taking boat for their ship.

‘A fine evening, sir,’ Kydd ventured, edging into Saumarez’s view. The eyes regarded him steadily. ‘Lady Saumarez is well, I trust? I have the most lively recollections of her kindness to me.’

‘She is well, thank you,’ Saumarez answered evenly.

The other officers drifted away, leaving them alone together.

‘Then you’d oblige me, sir, should you convey my sincere regards and inform her that I am recently married, to a woman who commands all my love.’

Saumarez softened. ‘I’m delighted to hear it. The marriage state is the richest blessing we might attain under Heaven and I’m persuaded is to be commended even to the most stiff-necked bachelor.’

This was the decency in the man responding – but it said nothing about his view of Kydd professionally.

‘A hard field to plough, their lordships have presented you with, I fancy,’ he dared.

Saumarez gave a polite smile. ‘As we must strive to achieve, of course. All hands to the traces, as it were, in the common cause.’ He paused significantly. ‘Even the most ardent of our band must needs rein in his steed to stay with the labourers, I believe.’

So Kydd’s reputation as a thrusting frigate captain had reached him. Was he seeing this as the last thing he needed in a delicate, complex theatre of operations? ‘I understand, sir. You will have my wholehearted support in your mission.’

‘Thank you, Sir Thomas,’ Saumarez replied, with a slight bow of acknowledgement. ‘We will meet again in Gothenburg.’

Chapter 8

Heart thudding, Christopher Rowan gazed up at the big frigate from the sternsheets of the cutter bringing him to be one with her company. Tyger – her lines were strong, uncompromising; this was a pugnacious fighter, which had achieved daring feats that had set the whole country talking.

They were close enough now that he could see figures moving about the decks, one smartly swinging into the main-mast shrouds, another sitting astride a fore-royal yard, hundreds of feet up, apparently working a splice.

He gulped. Could he ever think to match up as one of the crew under the famous Captain Kydd?

‘Aye aye,’ bawled back the bowman, in answer to the hail from the quarterdeck. It would be a long time, if ever, that this cry would be for him, signifying an officer in the boat demanding due respect to his rank.

He felt strange and awkward, almost as if he was in disguise, for it was only his second day in uniform, that of a warrant officer no less! It had been a miraculous transformation from the insignificance of a volunteer with no formal duties, apart from that of keeping out of the way of every single man aboard, to this, someone who could roar orders at any, short of the exalted beings who strode the quarterdeck.

Roar orders – he cringed at the thought. Would they laugh at him? Would Captain Kydd regret taking him aboard?

Closer still, and the majestic lines of the frigate took on the fullness of a living structure, details of scrollwork, gun-port lids and well-tended rigging all complementing the underlying sweep of sturdy timbers and wales fore and aft.

In a practised curve, the boat came alongside and hooked on at the main-chains. A bluff, unspeaking lieutenant had shared the journey out and Rowan sat rigid and unmoving as the officer rose to leave the boat. He wasn’t about to make the cardinal blunder of getting out first: it was the inviolable custom for the senior to board last and leave first and he duly waited until he could mount the side-steps.

At the top he swung clumsily over the bulwark, his dirk scabbard catching in something as the drop to the deck was less than he’d anticipated after Brunswick . He straightened and looked around. No one seemed interested in his arrival but he knew his duty and marched smartly up to the officer-of-the-day.

‘Midshipman Rowan reporting as ordered, sir,’ he announced.

The officer, in comfortable blues and faded lace, looked at him with a faint curiosity. ‘To join ship?’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘Well, well. They get younger every day. Get your chest and we’ll find you a berth.’

Rowan hesitated.

‘Out of the boat and on deck, here,’ the officer said, as if to a simpleton.

Face burning, Rowan went to the side and looked down into the boat. Heart in his mouth, he hailed down to the upturned faces, ‘Er, send up my chest, there, you men.’

They looked at each other in astonishment.

‘That is, this instant, you – you blaggards!’ he shouted as loudly as he could.

It got attention, but not from the men. Watched by the frowning officer, one of those talking at the main-mast bitts detached himself and went over to him.

‘Now, m’lad, we does things properly in Tyger ,’ he said kindly. The jolly-faced man must be the sailing master, for he wore their newly introduced uniform with the stand-up collar. ‘We rigs a whip an’ hoists our dunnage inboard in one, saves the men straining their backs, like.’

‘Thank you, sir, I’ll remember.’

‘Miller, see to it, will ye?’ he threw at an idle seaman.

A little later two men hefted his chest as though it was a feather-weight and, taking it down the main hatchway, they deposited it before the polished door in the centre of a sweep of panels that partitioned off the after end of the ship. Brunswick had a wardroom, but he knew enough that a frigate had a gunroom, which this would be and which he had no right to enter. The more humble compartment set out to one side would be his home – the midshipmen’s berth.

It was panelled only to half-height, with drawn curtains for the rest and another serving for a door. He could hear the murmur of conversation within. Tucking his brand-new cocked hat under his arm he took courage and went to the curtain ‘door’ but then found himself at a loss – how did you knock? He compromised by tapping hesitantly on an upright.

The voices stopped.

‘Come!’ The voice was manly and commanding. Rowan pulled the curtain aside and stepped in.

There were just two sitting at the table, a splay of cards in front of them.

‘Good God! A ghost – an apparition!’ cried an older midshipman of about sixteen, goggling at him in mock horror.