“Then …” the third lieutenant dared.
“Yes, Mr Bowden. You are now second lieutenant.”
There was relief, satisfaction and exulting all round.
“And for our new third, it will be a Mr Brice, whom I’d like you to welcome in the usual way.”
“Have you word of our deploying, sir?”
Kydd hesitated. They would know soon enough and there was no easy way to break it to them. The far-ranging frigate of Cape Town and Caribbean fame was headed to a much different place.
He’d treasured the oblique offer from the first lord to remove from L’Aurore into another, larger, command but had felt reluctant to leave his pretty little frigate. He had to concede, however, that she was looking increasingly old-fashioned, and her slight twelve-pounder main armament was the lightest in the establishment.
But she was L’Aurore-his first ship as a post-captain, a frigate command, whose dainty and sometimes whimsical ways he had come to know and respect.
“We’re to join Admiral Collingwood in the blockade of Cadiz.”
“Blockade?” Curzon’s groan was echoed around the table.
“Yes! And an honour for all that,” Kydd said sharply. “The Mediterranean squadron, Nelson’s own command. And we, a light frigate, can count on action a-plenty, I’d wager. The closest inshore reconnaissance, and as the fastest ship, we’ll not lack for interesting voyages with the most important dispatches, I’ll remind you.”
“So … not much chance of-”
“And if you think yourselves hard done by, then as you bask in our southern sunshine, Mr Curzon, do take thought for our brothers keeping the seas off Brest in damnably ugly winter Atlantic blows.”
There could be no answer to that.
“Very well. We’ve orders to put to sea without delay. Mr Curzon will ready his watch and station bill and we’ll begin storing against these orders in the forenoon tomorrow.
“Yes, Mr Kendall?”
The sailing master rubbed his chin. “Charts f’r where, sir?”
“Iberian coast, Gib, western Med-I don’t fancy we’ll be elsewhere in a hurry.”
The meeting broke up in a buzz of expectation. Resting peacefully at anchor off the fleshpots of Portsmouth was all very well, but there was a war to win and distinction to be gained out where L’Aurore belonged-at sea.
“Do sit down, Mr Brice,” Kydd said mildly, regarding his new third lieutenant.
He was young but of a very different stamp from Bowden.
There was no trace of the social refinements, the confident ease of the well-born. Not with those hard lines about his mouth, the controlled tension. The look he returned was guarded but direct.
“What then was your last ship?”
“Raven, brig-sloop. Sir.” He had a northern burr, and there was no relaxing of the watchful gaze.
“Oh?”
“Leith, east-coast patrols, some Baltic convoys.” Kydd nodded: a small ship perpetually at sea in the often ferocious conditions of the North Sea, a thankless and dangerous existence but a priceless schooling in seamanship. That the man had not tried to make something of it to his new captain was curious, though.
Was this the taciturn attitude to be seen in some tarpaulin officers, those whose origins were from before the mast, like Gilbey, who felt the need to assert a salty distinction to set them apart from the usual well-born officer class?
“Do you have experience as a common seaman at all?” Kydd enquired carefully.
“I beg pardon, sir?”
“That is to say, did you come aft through the hawse, so to speak?”
“I did not.” The reply was instant and defensive.
“As I did myself,” Kydd added casually, before asking, “Your service previous to that?”
“Midshipman, Triumph, North American station. Master’s mate and lieutenant in Boadicea, the same, sir.”
“So this is your first frigate.”
“Sir.”
There was something unsettling about his manner, which raised a niggling question. Just how had one from such an undistinguished background landed one of what must be the most sought-after lieutenancies in the service? He had seen no major battles, had served no top-flight admirals. It must therefore have been the workings of “interest,” the favour of a higher power who had exercised preferment on his behalf.
“You’ve done well, if I might remark it, Mr Brice. Tell me, is there any who do take a special concern in your career? Who-”
“Would you wish to see my commission, Sir Thomas?” Brice said tightly.
“No, no. I merely wished to get some idea of your background. Time presses-I believe for now I will second you to Mr Bowden until we are more sure of you.”
Kydd leaned back, considering. Why was his new third lieutenant not more anxious to please? This was a plum appointment: why was he not more … joyful?
“Will that be all, sir?” The tone was even and polite, but it was unsmiling, tense.
“Mr Brice. This is a happy ship and we’ve had adventures aboard together that must satisfy any. If you desire it, your place in our band will be professionally rewarding and personally gratifying-if you make it so by a whole-hearted commitment to L’Aurore, your ship and her company.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you any questions?”
“No, sir.”
“Then I do welcome you aboard, Mr Brice.”
There were two others joining L’Aurore. He was very busy but the least he could do was cast an eye over them.
“Pass the word for Midshipmen Clinch and Willock.”
It was some time before they appeared, breathless and wide-eyed.
“So. My two young gentlemen. Which one is Clinch?”
They were both so young-mere children in fancy-dress.
“S-sir.” The boy clutched his absurdly large cocked hat under his arm and stood awkwardly in his brand-new uniform. His eyes were a startling blue and seemed so innocent.
“Welcome aboard, Mr Clinch. Your sea service, sir.”
There was hasty fumbling inside his waistcoat and a paper was produced. It was a certificate of service for two years as a first-class volunteer in an Irish Sea dispatch cutter.
“Well, unusual sea-time but acceptable for all that. What were your ports-of-call generally?”
The boy stood in mute horror until it dawned on Kydd. “Ah, this is book-time, not sea-time, I gather.”
The lad nodded miserably, unable to speak, for at that moment his sea career could well be brought to an end. Regulations were that none could be rated midshipman without two years prior sea service. It was commonly flouted by the device of having the child’s name entered on a ship’s book while still at school, a course so widespread that Nelson himself had thought nothing of practising it. The crime was not so much in the false muster of the books, but in the venality of drawing pay for a fictitious boy.
“So you’ll need to try double-tides to earn your place on my quarterdeck,” Kydd said gruffly.
“Sir,” he whispered. Touchingly, the child’s relief had nearly brought him to tears.
Kydd turned to the other. “Right. Well, you must be Willock.”
“I am, Sir Thomas.” The cultured accent would endear him to Curzon but would be a sad liability to him in the gun-room.
“And your sea service?”
The boy blushed. “Um, none that would stand with a frigate.”
“Well, what ship, then?”
“Squirrel, sir.”
“I can’t say I can bring her to mind. What rate is she?”
The boy hesitated, then blurted, red-faced, “Tender to Royal William, s-sir.”
“Tender to a guardship?” Kydd said, aghast. It would be unlikely that the little craft would even have left Portsmouth harbour, tied to such a virtual hulk. He then realised that this was his admiral godfather, doing just the same thing as Jarman.
“Then no sea-time for you either, younker?”
The boy hung his head.
“Clinch-how old are you? Say up, and no stretchers!”
“Oh, fourteen, sir.”