The orders that had come so soon after the wedding had been blunt about the need for dispatch. Kydd wasted no time in calling upon the port admiral and received his pack for the coming voyage, as well as yet more letters and messages imploring a place on his quarterdeck as midshipman for a son, a nephew, others-all begging for a chance to ship with the now famous frigate captain.
It wasn’t so very long ago, in dear old Teazer, that he’d been snubbed by those who believed a captain who’d come aft the hard way not really the thing but now, it seemed, it was quite another situation.
Kydd had his views about a lean and hungry frigate being overrun with youngsters, and although he could ship up to six midshipmen, he’d settled for just another two.
One was William Clinch. Kydd had received a dignified letter from a Mr Jarman, sailing master of Ramillies 74 of the North Sea Squadron. Even before he had begun to read he remembered the lowly merchant-service sailing master of Seaflower cutter who had taken Able Seaman Tom Kydd and taught him his figuring, as well as how to use a sextant and work up a position. It had been his first step to the glory of the quarterdeck and he still had the man’s worn octant, presented to him in admiration after a difficult open-boat voyage.
Jarman had written on behalf of the only son of his sister, who desperately wanted to go to sea, like his uncle, but unless interest could be found he would necessarily have to ship before the mast. In painfully crafted phrases it was implied that Kydd’s sound grounding in seamanship that he’d learned in Seaflower would ensure his nephew received a prime nautical education.
The wording of the other request that he’d acceded to could not have been more different. It had come from Boyd, the urbane and patrician flag-captain, now a retired admiral, who had taken Kydd, the raw sloop captain, aside in the fearful days of Bonaparte’s plans for invasion before Trafalgar, to give him his first lessons in strategics for a naval officer. In mellifluous prose, Boyd warmly complimented Kydd on his honours and begged he might oblige him extremely by taking up his godson, Josiah Willock, his own circumstances being a family of daughters only.
L’Aurore had completed her refit, not a lengthy one as it was still less than two years since she had left dock in this very place just before Trafalgar. She now lay at anchor in Spithead and Kydd begged a dockyard launch to go out to her.
As always, it was a deep satisfaction to approach her from seaward and admire her elegant lines.
The boatman’s hail back was practised and sure. It sparked instant activity on deck and Kydd feigned not to notice as a full side-party was assembled and the boatswain summoned from below, the officer-of-the-watch with his telescope watching anxiously.
The launch curved round, oars tossed smartly, and the bowman hooked on at the main-chains.
L’Aurore’s captain had arrived to resume his command.
After the peal of the boatswain’s call had died away, Curzon stepped forward and removed his hat. “Sir Thomas-and I know I speak for the entire ship’s company of L’Aurore-welcome back aboard!”
Kydd had taken in the trim appearance of his vessel, the spotless decks with not a line from aloft out of place. Considering that he was not yet expected, this spoke volumes for the care she had been given.
“The first lieutenant?” he prompted.
“Not aboard, sir,” Curzon said, adding respectfully, “Do we have orders for sea, Sir Thomas?”
“As shall be made known to you all, just as soon as my dunnage is struck aboard.”
The sound of the call had brought others on deck. Bowden came up and gave a bow of respect. “My deepest sensibility of your elevation, Sir Thomas,” he said warmly. “And I-”
He was interrupted by a sudden noise from forward. The fo’c’slemen, stealthily lined up on the foredeck with their caps in their hands, broke into a masculine roar with “See the Conquering Hero Comes!”
From these old sailors it was a deeply affecting honour and Kydd removed his hat and waited while they finished.
Going below, the peace and orderliness of his quarters reached out to him. Tysoe, his valet, came up to remove his boat-cloak and accoutrements.
“A right handsome job you’ve done here, Tysoe.”
“Thank you, Sir Thomas. I’m happy to be of service to you.”
There was a faint fragrance of lavender and beeswax and the cabin spaces were spotless.
Kydd suppressed a sigh. In their relatively short commission he had been fortunate in his ship’s company. Originally pressed from an inward-bound frigate just arrived back in England, they had overcome their sullen resistance in the fires of Trafalgar and the two supporting actions following, and now were a tried and true weapon forged from the very best.
“Pass the word. Officers and warrant officers in my cabin in one bell.”
They arrived with suspicious promptness.
“Before I begin, I’ll have your reports. Mr Curzon, if you please?”
It was all very satisfactory: the ship had left dock six days ago and had readied for sea. Not under sailing orders, she was under watch for liberty, and omitting stragglers-those locally adrift from leave less than three days-there had been only two desertions. Storing and victualling must await orders before a line of expenditure could be opened, but in all other respects L’Aurore was trim and taut in her particulars.
“Thank you, Mr Curzon. The first lieutenant still not aboard?”
“Ah.” Curzon smothered a grin as he glanced at the others. “Soon after you left for London he received news he was promoted commander into Fly, sloop o’ war. He begged to be remembered to you but thought it proper to take up his command directly.”
There were knowing looks about the table.
Kydd guessed what had happened. “So it was a right gleesome frolic he had that night?”
“As required the watch to be turned out to carry him ashore, Sir Thomas.”
Kydd chuckled. His tarpaulin first lieutenant had at last achieved his greatest wish-command. It was, of course, a gesture to Kydd, promotion out of the ship of his first lieutenant, but Gilbey wouldn’t care about why: he could now eventually retire from the service a sea captain, not a lowly lieutenant, and with all the honour and veneration that that description commanded ashore.
“So we’re short a first lieutenant.”
There was an instant quiet: what followed could be either the introduction of a tyrannous new first lieutenant imposed from the outside or the wholesale promotion of the existing officer complement-or anything in between.
“Before we go on, I’d like to make something clear. I thank you all for your warm wishes on my … good fortune. Yet I’m an old-fashioned sort and I’d rather you keep the ‘Sir Thomas’ for shore-side. Aboard L’Aurore I’d be satisfied with being addressed in the usual sea-kindly fashion.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Then we’ll proceed. Without we have a first, we cannot put to sea, and in course I’ve petitioned the Admiralty to provide one. And they have.”
He watched their faces. He’d only known their lordships’ pleasure in the orders he’d picked up from the flag-lieutenant earlier that morning.
“You should know that our new premier will be taking up his duties this very day, I’m told.”
There were significant glances about the table.
“What’s his name, sir?” asked Curzon, carefully. Hard characters were legendary and life could suddenly turn very difficult.
“His name? Why, Curzon is his name.”
“You mean … ?”
“I do, sir. You are now the first of L’Aurore.”
Curzon’s widening smile told it all. If the frigate was fortunate in action, and L’Aurore invariably was, he, too, could look to a promotion out of her-at the least to a substantial sloop command or possibly to a flagship directly under the eye of a commander-in-chief.