Joining with others in expressing their wishes to the couple for a long and fruitful marriage, he was taken aback when Cecilia leaned forward and whispered fiercely, “The carriage! Thomas, you forgot to send for it!”
He hid a smile and shook his head in sorrow. “Sorry, Cec-no carriage, I’m afraid.”
She looked at him, speechless.
Then he clapped on his cocked hat with a flourish. It was the signal.
From around the corner came a frightening bellow. “Billy Roarers-forward!”
The crowd fell into a stunned silence-and into view came a boat.
It ran on wheels and was pulled by a dozen Jack Tars as large as life, tailing on to ropes, driven by a roaring Stirk.
“Handsomely, y’ lubbers,” he bawled. “Star’b’d a touch forrard, there.”
It was gaily ornamented from stem to stern and had huge imitation anchors and mermaids, ribbons streaming everywhere and on its stumpy mast it flew an enormous Union flag. On the centre thwart, a pair of dainty cushions.
The people were delighted. It was very seldom that the Navy, so popular after its recent victories, could show itself so far inland and they immediately gave a raucous appreciation.
Stirk, in an exaggerated sea roll, went to Renzi and snatched off his cap. “An’ yer boat’s alongside, y’ lordship.”
“Thank you, Mr Stirk. You and your Billy Roarers all. My dear?”
They sat in state, waving regally as the boat set off to the sudden skirl of fife and drums of the Surrey Militia, which had magically appeared and was now marching behind.
Grinding up the steep High Street, the din and revelry were deafening. They brought shopkeepers and customers on to the street and children screaming and running by the incredible sight.
Under the projecting clock of the town hall, past the Tunsgate, and followed in procession by the lords, nobles and honest townsfolk of Guildford in an unstoppable show of happiness and pride.
Then, at the top of the hill where the old Elizabethan grammar school stood, and the road out of town ran, they stopped.
There, with liveried footmen attending, was Lord Farndon’s four-horse open landau. Its gleaming black with the scarlet, gold and green swirl of its crest spoke of another world, unattainable to the mortals who looked on.
The merriment ebbed while the newly married earl and his bride disembarked.
And then, in the short distance between the boat and the carriage, Kydd saw Cecilia transmogrified from his young sister into a countess-from a laughing girl into a noble lady.
The landau glided away. Cecilia turned to wave, blowing him a kiss, and then they were off into their future together.
He watched them disappear and his eyes misted.
In that moment he had lost both his sister and his best friend.
CHAPTER 3
PORTSMOUTH WAS THE SAME: somewhat grubby and showing not a little wartime drab-but there was magic, too, and as he peered from the window of the stagecoach Kydd could just make out the distant sight of slender masts and yards soaring above the mean roofs. Among them would be L’Aurore, his command and his love-his true home.
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.