Kydd knew what was coming next, and waited for it.
“You being much the senior, Sir Thomas, you will, of course, have the honour of commanding the convoy.”
“Not at all,” Kydd came back. “The honour remains with Weazel and your own good self.” There was no way he would take on the onerous task of maintaining the convoy paperwork-signals, identification vanes, sailing diagrams and the like-the inevitable consequence of having issued his own orders.
“Thank you, sir.”
“At sea I shall be under your orders, Mr Lawson, and if we fall in with an enemy you will dispose of this frigate as you see fit.”
“Why, sir, if-”
“The convoy is your responsibility. And responsibility without command is an impossibility, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll be employing the Channel Squadron’s signal book?”
“Sir.”
“Then we’re in agreement. Kindly send across a copy of your convoy sailing-order folder, if you please, and I’ll undertake to give you twelve hours’ notice of our readiness to proceed.”
“That would be appreciated, Sir Thomas.”
It would be even more so by the merchant captains whose ships would be consuming stores while they idled at anchor.
“I’ve a notion we’ll be at sea the day after tomorrow. Good day to you, Mr Lawson.”
Storing complete, the powder barges were summoned and, with very great care, the copper-banded barrels were swayed aboard and stowed snugly in the magazines in the bowels of the ship.
That evening Kydd saw fit to declare himself at twelve hours’ notice to sail.
The last hours of a ship in her home port were always bittersweet. In the excitement of the outward bound every man in her also realised that, once anchor was weighed and sail set abroad, there was no longer any chance to provide for himself for the months-or years-to come within the wooden bounds of his sea world.
Small comforts in the misery of stormy night watches made all the difference: seal-fur warmers to slip under tarpaulin jackets, patent nostrums for chilblains, neat little sewing kits, an illegal Crown and Anchor throwing mat and dice, and other distractions, all eased a hard sea life.
Officers needed to ensure they were well stocked in reading matter, spare dress uniform accoutrements, perhaps a pistol, a pack of cards, a pocket spyglass, sketching gear or a private journal.
For Kydd it was also the laying in of cabin stores, having on hand pickled or canned delicacies and tracklements for entertaining important visitors aboard. A married officer would come well provided with touches a woman’s practical sense could produce: a lovingly embroidered cot quilt, an extra-long muffler, a dozen hand-stitched shirts. Fortunately Kydd’s valet, Tysoe, had spent most of his adult life at sea and could be relied upon in the article of personal comforts.
Their last night was an active time for those who could get ashore, but by nine the following morning the last boat was returning with newspapers, a small sack of mail-and a new addition to the frigate’s company.
Dillon pulled his cloak more tightly around him-it was so unexpectedly raw and blustery out here on the open water, away from the shelter of hedgerows and buildings. Here the wind ran wild and unconstrained, a metaphor perhaps for the freedom of the high seas.
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.