And music: in L’Aurore the Royal Marines were stout hands with fife and drum but a society evening seemed to need a little more. The capstan fiddler, perhaps?
Boatswain Oakley could be relied on to see the lower rigging triced up out of the way, but what about the training-tackle ringbolts for the nine-pounders? Avoided without thought by any sailor, these iron rings, set in the deck inboard, would prove a sad hazard for a lady with eyes only for her partner.
Kydd left these questions to Curzon, while he bent his attention to whom else he should invite. The governor might well take offence were he not included. And this was a major naval station: the commander-in-chief must be on the list, but which others? By order of seniority, the captains of the ships-of-the-line must rate first – some had their wives and daughters but in all they would probably outnumber the Barbadians. The military? He had a hazy idea that there were three regiments garrisoned, implying three colonels of the same substantive rank as himself, who would frown at an all-naval gathering in an entertainment-starved island. And then there was …
It was getting out of hand – until a happy thought struck. ‘Oh, Renzi, dear fellow! I have a small task for you.’
Kydd rubbed his hands in glee. It was working out better than he had hoped. As they lay at anchor in the still, warm evening he reviewed arrangements. Guests would be arriving at dusk to a lanthorn-lit, gaily decorated quarterdeck, welcomed by the airs of a very creditable orchestra wheedled by Renzi from other ships. The deck was now clear of encumbrance: its guns had been trundled to the breast-rail at the forward end of the quarterdeck, then covered with deal planking and every tablecloth the gunroom possessed to form a creditable refreshments table. The ringbolts had been drawn by an obliging carpenter, which left the area abaft the mizzen-mast an enchanting ballroom.
Chairs were placed around the capstan-head for resting couples, and strung along the shrouds, a line of light cast a soft gold on the dance-floor, tended by a grinning ship’s boy dressed as a page. A party of smartly dressed seamen waited expectantly at the ship’s side, for ladies visiting L’Aurore would not be expected to scramble up: an ornamented boatswain’s chair was waiting to sway them aboard.
‘We have a “regret unable” from the governor but the admiral and his lady will be attending,’ Renzi murmured, ‘for a short time only, he pleading advancing age. The garrison commander and wife accept with pleasure – I’ve allowed him two officers of local birth, and it would be churlish to refuse the colonel of the West Indian Regiment, they so ardent in their loyalty. As to our naval friends, I found it necessary to set the bar at post-captain and that from only the larger sail-of-the-line. In all a very creditable response, I think you’ll agree.’
‘Well done, Nicholas. Were there, as who should say, hearts repining for want of an invitation?’
‘None,’ Renzi said smoothly. ‘Not when they learned that a second ball is projected, especially for officers of the middling sort and thereby promising to be of a livelier character.’
‘You wicked dog!’ Kydd laughed with delight. ‘So I must throw the ship over to a jaunting on another occasion. A rattling good plan, brother.’
He moved forward to greet the first guests, a puffing gentleman, who had insisted on taking the side-steps, while his wife alighted daintily to the deck from the boatswain’s chair, apparently no stranger to the device. They were followed by Captain Pym of Atlas and his lady, piped aboard by a well-scrubbed boatswain, then a brace of young misses exclaiming with delight as their parents, too, made their way aboard.
‘Punch, ladies and gentlemen?’ Kydd offered after the introductions. He beckoned a hovering midshipman forward and turned to nod to the orchestra, which quickened its pace.
More guests arrived, and he found himself at the centre of a gaily chattering throng, his heart lifting at the happy scene.
‘Upon my word, sir, but this is a pretty ship indeed!’ The young lady curtsied as she came under notice from the great captain. ‘I’ve heard it’s quite a flyer, sir.’
‘Why, so she is, my dear.’ Kydd tried frantically to remember her introduction at the levee, recalling in time that this was Amelia, the eldest of a substantial sugar factor. ‘As we sailors must call a ship “she” for her flightsome ways, Miss Amelia.’
She was in a filmy pale-blue muslin gown, well suited to the warmth of the evening. It did nothing to hide her comeliness.
‘I shall try to remember, sir,’ she said seriously, but dimpled prettily. ‘And you are her captain. How proud you must be!’
‘She has her quips and quillets, as it must be said – especially in a lasking breeze – but, yes, I own myself much taken with her.’ Out of the corner of his eye Kydd caught an envious look from several nearby officers.
The boatswain’s call sounded again and he raised his eyes to see which of the squadron captains would be next.
It was Tyrell. He stepped aboard, looking around suspiciously. Kydd excused himself to go to greet him. ‘Why, Rufus, we’re pleased you’re able to come. Will you-’
‘May I present my wife, Kydd.’
He had had no idea Tyrell was married or that his wife was on station with him. He gave a polite bow. ‘I hope you’ll enjoy the evening, Mrs Tyrell.’
‘Oh, I’m sure I shall!’ she exclaimed brightly. She was short and slender, her face lined but soft, almost wistful.
Tyrell took her arm firmly and snapped, ‘Come, m’ dear – we have our duty to the others.’
Kydd returned to his young lady. She had already attracted admirers: Lieutenant Bowden, handsome in his full dress uniform, and Lieutenant Clinton, of the Royal Marines, resplendent in his scarlet and gold. Both retreated in confusion at the arrival of their captain to snare their prize.
‘Shall I be your escort while we take a turn about the decks?’ Kydd said, offering his arm. A dazzling smile was his reward and they stepped off together. He was conscious that it had been too long since he had had female company of such quality, and he let her pleasant talk wash about him, contributing a little about this or that when it seemed appropriate.
The orchestra struck a chord and Curzon, as master of ceremonies, came forward to announce the first dance.
‘Miss Amelia?’ Kydd murmured, with an elegant bow.
‘Why, of course, my captain!’ she responded breathlessly, and they strolled back, past the motionless helm, its spokes intertwined with greenery and flowers, and on to the open area that extended to the curved taffrail over the stern.
There was immediate movement to the side and an outburst of clapping as it was assumed that Kydd had selected his partner to open the ball.
He beamed and bowed at Curzon, who took his cue and called the sets in foursomes. Amelia took her place at the head opposite and bobbed girlishly at Kydd’s flourish.
In view of the warm evening the steps were measured but, even so, Kydd was grateful for a spell at the end of the dance and went to fetch a cool lime cordial for them both. As he returned, he noticed a bent figure out of the lanthorn light beyond the chattering groups. It was Tyrell, inspecting the fall of one of the lines from aloft. In L’Aurore the contented seamen took pride in their ship, spending the occasional dog-watch to point rope – adding a tapered finish to the end in a show of seaman-like skill.
Kydd guessed that in Hannibal this was something they would never feel inclined to do – and he reflected on how much Tyrell was losing to his ship by treating his men as he did.
He looked around for Mrs Tyrell and saw her in shy conversation with Curzon, doing his duty to leave no guest unattended. He turned back in time to see Amelia claimed by Bowden. She flashed him a smile before she was whisked away for a Tartan Pladdie.