He reached for a pen and began to write.
The evening passed in a haze of exhilaration, splendour and moment. The glitter and array of so much gold lace on dark blue, medals, honours – and the sea of faces looking politely up at him when he got to his feet for the crowning occasion of his speech.
The room settled into a respectful silence while Kydd composed himself.
‘Your Excellency, Sir Alexander, distinguished guests, fellow officers …’
The governor and Cochrane were seated to either side of him at the high table but he could see L’Aurore’s officers together on the right and, close by, Tyrell. Renzi was well down the room; as a retired naval officer he had been accorded the honour of attending.
‘It’s difficult for me to conceive that it’s been but a single year since that day off Cape Trafalgar when …’
He told the tale simply but powerfully, giving fervent credit to the man who had himself raised Kydd to the eminence of post-captain. He tried to give a feeling for the events his audience had only read about in the newspapers and chronicles, a sense of the unbearable tension of the great chase and its resolution in the final cataclysm of the coming together of two vast fleets.
He paused. The room was in utter stillness. ‘Gentlemen, before we toast the immortal memory of Lord Horatio Nelson, let me read to you words he wrote that, to me, are at the heart of his humanity and greatness as a leader.’
Reaching down, he found a slim book and opened it.
‘This is just a single quotation taken from his ‘Memoir of My Life’ written in 1799.’
There was a rustle of appreciation. Anything the legendary admiral had said concerning his naval life should be worth hearing.
Kydd had no need to read, for he would never forget. Lowering the book, he let the resounding words echo out into the vast hall. ‘Gentlemen, Admiral Lord Nelson wrote, of the officers aft on the quarterdeck and the seamen of the fo’c’sle: “Aft the most honour – forward the better man!”’
The room exploded with applause from all except Tyrell, whose face simply reddened.
Kydd took his seat, receiving congratulations from right and left and raising his glass in response to them all.
The evening was enlivened. Many brought chairs to sit by him and hear more of that momentous day; others passed by to touch his shoulder and murmur words of appreciation.
Then it was time to withdraw for brandy and cigars, an appropriate moment for the more staid to make their excuses and the others to form a companionable group close together.
‘Can’t top a Trafalgar yarn,’ Pym chortled, ‘but did I ever recount what happened when we raised the Spanish treasure fleet in ’ninety-seven?’
‘Yes!’ came from half a dozen throats.
‘Then I’ll tell you about it …’
The warmth and intimacy of a shared professional world reached out and enveloped Kydd, leaving him in a daze of contentment.
Then he noticed Tyrell on the fringe of the happy crowd, looking on expressionless, his glass near empty. Kydd realised what was going on: the others were ignoring him – his own fault, true, but sad for all that.
Dunn of Acasta followed Pym’s dit with an interesting tale of bluff and chicanery among the Malays and the Dutch in the East Indies. Then a young officer shyly came in with a simple but harrowing account of an Arctic traverse the previous year.
The numbers thinned as the night wore on but Kydd was reluctant to leave and break the spell. He valued Renzi’s companionship dearly but in any ship her captain had no professional equal with whom to make frank conversation, to offer advice, to exchange banter and risque humour – to unbend and be at ease in like company. It was a precious occasion.
Finally Pym stood up and yawned elaborately. ‘I’m for the cot, I believe.’
‘I also,’ another added, but cocked his head meaningfully to one side. In one corner Tyrell sat, quite alone. There were two bottles on a side-table and he appeared to be talking to himself.
With a cynical smile, Pym looked at Kydd. ‘Well, m’ lad. You’re junior captain – the duty’s yours.’
It took him a moment to understand: Tyrell was in his cups and, for the sake of decency, had to be hustled out and sent safely home.
‘Lives ashore. The carriage knows where,’ Pym murmured and, with another yawn, left with the others.
Reluctantly, Kydd went across to Hannibal’s captain to see what he could do – and stopped short.
Tyrell wasn’t talking to himself, he was singing. In a tuneless, broken bass he was giving out the mournful ‘Valiant Sailor’ of Anson’s time, a century before.
It took Kydd aback – this was no hearty patriotic tune or lyrical trifle. It was a fore-bitter, one that seamen sang to each other and certainly not for the ears of the quarterdeck.
‘Come all ye wi-ild young men,
A warning do take it by me,
And see you no more, my boys,
Sent off to a foreign countree …’
Hesitantly he moved into Tyrell’s field of vision. ‘Rufus? We’re all away now. Are you ready to leave?’
There was no acknowledgement of his presence. Tyrell’s eyes were unfocused, his body swaying with the song. An empty glass in his hand beat time.
‘… we sailed all that night and into the day
And the first ship we spied was a Frog man-o’-war!
We bore her head upright, a bloody flag we did fly
Each man was prepared, the Lord says who dies …’
Kydd touched his arm. ‘Rufus! Time to be quit, now.’
With a bleary effort Tyrell looked up, but didn’t stop.
‘Your carriage is waiting!’ Kydd said, louder.
The singing went on, raucous and uncaring.
‘Our yards, masts and rigging were all shot away
And begob our great guns did they roar!
Why can’t I be there with my Polly on the shore?’
Kydd glanced around the near empty hall in despair. A couple of footmen were standing by the door in studied boredom. ‘Over here, you men. Bear a hand,’ he called to them.
They came unwillingly, but Kydd made them take one arm while he took the other and they lifted Tyrell bodily. He made to struggle but saw it was useless and allowed himself to be dragged away, raising his voice in rebellious conclusion:
‘The decks were aswim in blood dire and red,
It’s then that I’m wounded full sore;
Dear Polly my love, with her black rolling eye
Here I lie bleeding, it’s for you I do die …’
There was no hiding it now, and as soon as they made the open air, Kydd roared, ‘Cap’n Tyrell’s carriage, ahoy! Lay alongside now, you villains!’
A small conveyance with an expressionless driver stepped up. Tyrell was hoisted in by the footmen, his cloak and cocked hat tossed in beside him, leaving him to sprawl in confusion.
Kydd felt a stab of pity at the sight of such a man brought low. The least he could do was to see him safe home. He pushed Tyrell to the other side and clambered into the vehicle next to him, propping him upright in a semblance of dignity. As an afterthought he found the cocked hat and clapped it on; it seemed to steady him and the singing stopped.
‘Cast off,’ Kydd snapped, and obediently they started away, clopping down the road.
By the time they had made Tyrell’s residence, a modest house at the fringes of the smarter Georgetown, he seemed to be back in possession of his wits. The carriage ground to a stop and Kydd got out, ready to hand Tyrell down, but he was imperiously waved aside while the other alighted, staggering a little before holding himself erect with drunken dignity.