“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.
“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.