It was really only a short pull from the Sally Port to the anchored frigate L’Aurore across the legendary stretch of water called Spithead, but he was already shivering; whether from the excitement that gripped him or the keen cold, he couldn’t say.
It really was exhilarating: here he was, in a ship’s longboat, hard-faced seamen at the oars glancing at him curiously, the young officer at the tiller barking orders, like a captain. And they were on their way to go aboard the crack frigate that had been so recently in the newspapers, with its famous captain, Sir Thomas Kydd.
He couldn’t take his eyes off the trim ship, sitting low in the water but with a pent-up grace that told of speed and aggression, much like a panther. The lofty rigging and spars were of an impossible complexity but for some reason added a sense of mission, of purpose, and the blue, white and gold of the figurehead under the bow gave a pleasing touch of humanity. And at the end of the ship a large flag, the ensign of Great Britain’s Royal Navy.
They drew nearer; there were figures on deck moving, the glitter of gold lace on one, and suddenly they were alongside the black, varnished ship’s side. Orders rapped out and they hooked on next to a set of steps and he was helped up to land staggering on the open deck.
Men were hurrying everywhere but here and there groups were conversing and watching others. He spotted gold stripes and an important cocked hat on one and went over.
“Captain Sir Thomas Kydd? May I introduce myself-”
“Who’s this idiot?” spluttered the harassed first lieutenant. “We’re putting to sea! Get him off my deck until we’ve time to deal with him.”
The mate-of-the-watch hurried over. “You there! What’s your business, then?”
“Oh, well, I’m expected. The captain,” he answered, leaping out of the way of a line of seamen clapping on to a rope in a hearty pull.
“What do you mean, fellow? You’re volunteering for this ship?”
“Why, yes. You didn’t really think that in my place I’m taken by the press-gang against my will?” He felt pleased that he seemed to be holding his own among these old shellbacks.
“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?
“Simmonds!” he called over to one of the seamen. “Take him below to your mess and sit him down. He’s not to move until we’re at sea and stood down from stations. We’ll see if anyone’s got time for him then.”
“And my baggage, if you please.”
“Baggage?” said the mate-of-the-watch in amazement.
“Aye, sir. Still in the boat,” the coxswain intervened, with a twisted smile. Few volunteers had anything beyond a small bundle.
“Very well, get it in,” Bowden said impatiently. “We’ll sort it all out later.”
Dillon was hurried below, sat at a mess-table and told firmly to stay there.
In the gloom, hearing the anonymous thuds, rumbles and squeaks as the ship prepared to meet the sea once again, for the first time he felt doubt. Had he done the right thing to exchange the security and comfort of his position at Eskdale Hall for this?
L’Aurore’s pulse quickened. Boats were stowed on their skids, lines laid for running, and the age-old mingled exhilaration and apprehension of the outward bound mounted.
Signal flags rose and snapped in the stiff breeze and stations for unmooring were piped.
Captain Kydd came on deck and sniffed the wind appreciatively. “Nor’easterly, Mr Kendall. Fair for the Channel for once.”
“It is, Sir Thomas,” said the sailing master. “Yet I have it in my bones it could freshen a mite.”
“How’s the convoy?” he demanded of Bowden.
“Fair, sir. Still sorting themselves by the look of it.” Off Shag Rock there was a cloud of sail, as usual in a hopeless tangle. Once in the open sea, the chaos would diminish as it always did.
“Then I believe we’ll not delay further. Carry on, Mr Curzon-take her out.”
The new first lieutenant licked his lips nervously. “Aye aye, sir,” he managed.
There was the anchor to be won, sail to be spread at just the proper moment-and the correct quartermaster at the wheel, top-men in place, fo’c’sle party under the right petty officers to cat and fish the anchor in time, all the outworking of his painful hours at the watch and station bill, which would now be tested to the full.
At the side of the quarterdeck stood the two new midshipmen trying to look important but clearly nervous and excited. Kydd hardened his heart-they’d better not let him down.
Under eye from his captain, the sailing master and a prudent boatswain, Curzon’s manoeuvre was successfully completed and the frigate stood away. She passed the milling sail and, in a fine show, leaned to the wind for the open sea where, as agreed, she would deter by her presence any lurking predators watching for a chance.
The wind was keen and fair and Kydd saw no reason why they shouldn’t make good time in the voyage south. He glanced up at the expanse of curving sail, his pennant streaming away to leeward, and felt a lifting of the heart-he was back where he belonged.
Eight bells sounded forward: the forenoon watch closed up and the morning watch went to breakfast. Sea routine had begun.
Reluctantly he quit the deck and went below for his own meal. As he ate alone he was suddenly touched by melancholy. Before, Renzi and he had started their day together with intelligent conversation between equals, friends. Now he was as most other captains were, solitary grandee at the pinnacle of the hierarchy where, by definition, he had no equal to unburden himself to or seek opinion from on a course of action.
He had long since not needed Renzi’s guidance and advice in the social graces. While his friend’s erudite observations on the world’s condition had always been appreciated, he had now to make his own discovery of how higher matters were concluded, take his decisions unaided.
But, more than anything, he was putting to sea without his dear friend and he felt a poignant twist.
Life had to go on, but he gave a small smile at the thought that at this very moment Renzi-the Earl of Farndon-would be sitting down to a lordly breakfast with Cecilia. An even bigger life-change for him, no doubt.
He finished his coffee and resumed the deck. The convoy had nearly completed forming up, four columns with nine merchantmen in each, backing and filling while the last found their place, shepherded by the distraught antics of the escort.
At last the head marker ships let fly their pennants and the convoy got under way-down Channel.
“Station astern of the convoy, Mr Bowden. Eyes on Weazel, any trouble let me know instantly.”
“Station astern, Weazel senior, aye aye, sir.”
He turned to go but was stopped by Curzon. “Sir Thomas, I-”
“Belay that, if you please.”
“Sir? Oh, yes. Well, sir, there’s one of the volunteers insisting he’s to see you. I do apologise, but he was most insistent. Unusual sort of chap.”
“Very well. In my cabin in ten minutes.”
Dillon was shown in briskly. In trepidation he looked about him. It was a spacious but neat cabin, stretching right across the deck, with a fine set of ornamental windows at the end. A handsome escritoire stood up against the opposite end, and the domestic touches were masculine and spare.
“Leave him with you, sir?”
“Yes, carry on.
“You’re a volunteer. What is your objection to service in this vessel?” Kydd snapped.
Dillon straightened. “You are the captain, sir?” The officer had a taut, unforgiving air, with more gold lace than the others, albeit somewhat sea-tarnished, and dark, strong looks. He had to be the famous and recently elevated hero of Curacao-and Dillon was daring to put himself forward as his personal secretary?
“I am.”
“Sir Thomas Kydd?”
“Yes.”
“Then I beg to introduce myself. Edward Dillon, lately in the employ of the Earl of Farndon.”