The commissioners nodded, expressionless. "I think that's enough, gentlemen, do you not?" Essington said.
Kydd held his breath. There was mumbled conferring, more frowns. Was it possibly more than coincidence that Essington had brought forward that particular circumstance? As if he had particular knowledge of his past and . . .
"Where are your certificates?"
They were asking for attestations to his "Sobriety, Obedience, Diligence and Skill in the Profession of a Seaman." Kydd handed over the journals and documents in a floodtide of hope: if he had failed, why would they be wasting time on the formalities?
The journals were leafed through, but they had been meticulously kept for years and it seemed the certificates of age and rated service appeared acceptable. His heart leaped: the last hurdle was being overcome.
"If my reckoning is correct, we have a difficulty." One of the commissioners held the original, if somewhat crumpled, certificate of service from Kydd's first ship, Duke William. "From this, it does seem that Mr Kydd is, according to regulations, one year short of the requirement for sea-time."
Kydd had known of this deficiency, but had prayed that the regulations would not be applied rigorously. Horatio Nelson himself had been promoted to lieutenant before time, but if a commissioner of the board wished to make an issue of it little could be done.
Essington took the paper, then looked up with a tigerish smile. "Yes—but this is worthless! It is in error! I distinctly recollect when Captain Caldwell was removed from Royal Billy to Culloden. I rather fancy we would get a different date were we to ask him directly. As it is, Captain Caldwell is now in the West Indies, admiral of the Leeward Squadron if my memory serves. I doubt he is to be troubled on this trivial matter."
His manner quelled all discussion. The other commissioners gathered up the papers and returned them to Kydd. "Well, it seems we are of one mind. Our recommendation will go forward to the Navy Office that for the good of the service you shall be confirmed in rank to lieutenant. Good day to you, sir."
CHAPTER 1
THE PORTSMOUTH MAIL MADE GOOD SPEED on the highway south from London. Inside, it smelt pungently of leather and old dust, but Thomas Kydd did not care: it would take a great deal more than this to subdue his growing excitement.
After the examination, Kydd had spent some days in Yarmouth, where Tenacious had been taken out of commission for battle repairs, and had prevailed upon the naval outfitter in the matter of a splendid lieutenant's uniform, determined to go home on leave in a handsome manner.
He stared out at the tranquil winter country scene of soft meadows and gnarled oak trees. This was England at last, his hearth and home after so many years away. The postillion's long horn blared, and he leaned out of the window. It was Cobham— Guildford was not far away. He glanced at his friend sitting next to him. "An hour, Nicholas—an hour only, an' I'll be seein' m' folks again!"
Renzi had been quiet since London, his withdrawn, ascetic expression discouraging talk. He nodded politely and smiled, then looked away.
Heaven only knew what he was thinking about. Their years together had been full of perils and adventure, but Renzi's friendship had brought Kydd an insight into learning, and respect for the riches of the mind. And now they were returning to where their long adventure had started.
Yet again Kydd brought to memory how he had last left home, when he and Renzi had stolen away back to sea, to Artemis, the famous frigate, after founding a school to secure his family's livelihood. There had been a world voyage that had ended in shipwreck, rousing times in the Caribbean, adventures in the Mediterranean. It seemed half a lifetime, but it was only four years or so. Here he was, just twenty-five, and . . .
The coach jerked to a stop, and the horses were changed for the last stage to Guildford. The door swung open, and a young lady was handed up, her tall bonnet catching on the roof sill. She settled opposite in a rustle of pale-blue silk, her eyes downcast.
An older gentleman followed, acknowledged Kydd and Renzi, then sat beside her. The ostler offered a hot brick in worn serge, which the man manoeuvred under the young lady's feet. "Thank you, dear Papa," she said demurely, snuggling her hands into a muff.
The man favoured a belly-warmer, which he settled inside his long coat. "Uncommon cold for this time o' year!" he grunted.
Long inured to conditions far worse, Kydd caught Renzi's amused but discreet sideways glance. "Er, I'm sure y'r right."
The girl looked up, and noticed their uniforms. "Oh!" she said prettily, her hand at her mouth. "You're sailors!"
The man coughed irritably. "They're officers, m'dear, naval officers, not sailors, d'ye see?"
"It is what I meant to say, Papa. Pray, sirs, were you in that dreadful battle of Camperdown? I have heard that it was quite the most shocking fight this age!"
The man clicked his tongue in exasperation, but Kydd's heart swelled with pride. Their coach still bore laurel branches from the helter-skelter celebrations of only a week or so ago.
"Indeed, this is so, Miss, and you will understand how truly weary we are, that we yearn for the blessings of peace and solitude for a period . . ." Renzi said quietly.
"Of course, sir, please do forgive me." Her eyes rested briefly on Kydd. Then she turned determinedly to stare out of the window.
Kydd felt a pang of irritation, but understood that Renzi was sparing him idle chat so that he could enjoy the anticipation of his homecoming.
The mention of Camperdown, his first big fleet action, brought back emotions that were still too raw and recent, images of the nightmare of the great mutiny at the Nore and its sequel; his mind shied away from them and instead concentrated on the incredible fact that he had been promoted on the field of battle and officially confirmed. He was now Lieutenant Kydd! It was still too heady a thought, so he let his mind return to the excitement of his homecoming.
The coach jolted over the infamous potholes at Abbotswood: Guildford Town was now minutes away. Almost too quickly, the square, grey-stone Elizabethan grammar school passed on the left, and the town proper began, familiar buildings at the top of the high street. The post-horn's baying echoed off the almshouse opposite Holy Trinity, drawing mildly curious glances from the townsfolk.
Clattering over the old cobbled road, they passed under the big clock, and the driver tooled the mail-coach through the narrow black and white half-timbered entrance of the Angel posting-house.
Kydd and Renzi left their bags with the obsequious landlord, then emerged on to the high street and turned left, past shops and alleys well known to Kydd. The reek and colour of the town, the bustle and shouts, the passing tide of people all seemed to advance like a dream.
Some glanced curiously at the two men, others with admiration. Self-conscious, Kydd waited for someone to recognise him, but perhaps the dark blue, white and gold of his handsome uniform put paid to that. He saw Betty, the fishmonger's attractive daughter, who stopped and stared in shock at the sight of him. Kydd doffed his brand-new cocked hat.
They reached the red-brick church of Holy Trinity, and turned off past the glebe cottages to Schoolhouse Lane, as it was now known. There was no mistaking the little naval school ahead: a huge blue ensign floated above for all the world to see—the flag under which Kydd had fought at Camperdown. And as they drew near they could hear a muffled chanting on the air: ". . . three sevens are twenty-one, four sevens are twenty-eight, five sevens . . ."
They stepped into the tiny quadrangle, two King's officers returned from the sea. A youngster emerged at the run from a classroom and teetered to a halt. He whipped off his cap and shrilled, "I'll fetch th' bo'sun, if y' please, sir!"