Victory Page 10

  ‘That’ll do. Make it up fair and find a jobbing printer and we’ll have ’em up all over town – and Lymington too. I’ll have Gilbey man the rondy. That’s our second luff – you’ll meet him tonight with the others. Tomorrow we shift berth to the gun-wharf and ship our twelve-pounders so I’m having a dinner at the George while we can.’

  The meal passed off heavily: L’Aurore’s officers were little more than strangers at this point but the gesture had to be made.

  Howlett was polite but thin-lipped. As administrative head of the ship, he had to make some sense of the few hands they possessed in terms of duties and it was an impossible job. Gilbey and Curzon had little to do until they had a full watch of the hands and were at sea, but their present idleness had its own tedium in a ship only half alive.

  Renzi was taken warily after Kydd introduced him as his confidential secretary, but then accorded a civil respect when it was learned that he was a past naval officer in his own right before a near mortal fever. Clinton sat wide-eyed and silent before his superiors while Surgeon Peyton looked patently bored.

  Kydd longed with all his heart to get to sea. It would throw them together in the age-old interdependence and brotherhood of the wardroom and their true character would then emerge. As it was, there was not much more he could do to bring the L’Aurores together.

  In the morning a passage crew from the dockyard came aboard for the short tow to the gun-wharf close to the harbour entrance and, with sulphurous and imaginative cursing from Oakley, L’Aurore was brought alongside. Kydd left him and the gunner to sway aboard the twelve-pounders one by one, each with its matched carriage that would stay with it through all its service life.

  Watching the main-deck being populated with L’Aurore’s teeth of war, Kydd tried to console himself with the thought that, lesser in calibre though they were, these were one and the same as were carried by the mightiest first-rates – along their upper of three gun-decks.

  Gunner’s stores, pyramids of shot – but not yet powder, which would be last aboard – arrived and the remaining vestiges of dockyard occupation fell away as the artisans and riggers concluded their last labours and left.

  Then it was the final move in the fitting out: L’Aurore was brought out into the broad naval anchorage of Spithead and moored in lonely splendour, the fleet away in close blockade and other strategic deployments.

  Kydd sent for the rest of his hands, the pressed men. Tenders brought them from the receiving ships and holding cells ashore: a straggling, resentful and dispirited rabble looking to desert at the first opportunity. And so few!

  ‘Sir, in all we’ve hardly half a watch aboard, counting the marines. Unless we—’

  ‘There’s some error, Mr Howlett. We’ll never sail with this complement. Get ’em on the books and I’ll step off and sort it out.’

  The port-admiral listened courteously, but made it quite clear that the battleships of Britain’s strategic defences took priority and if Kydd was facing difficulties in manning, well, he was never the first, and enterprising captains would always find tricks to complete a crew.

  As he made to leave, the admiral smiled thinly and produced a pack of orders. ‘As you’ve indicated to me that you’re in all respects ready for sea, Mr Kydd, here are your orders, which you’ll sign for in the usual way. Good luck in your commission, and if there’s anything further I can do for you . . . ?’

  Burning with the injustice of it all, Kydd returned to L’Aurore where he was met by Curzon, who bitterly complained that the first lieutenant had not addressed him in a manner to be expected of a gentleman. Kydd gave him short shrift and demanded to know what the bedlam was below. It seemed that grog had got aboard and there was fighting between decks. He glared at Howlett and stalked off to his cabin.

  With pitifully few petty officers there was no real chain of command, let alone a cohesive structure with perceivable limits of behaviour. The ship was descending into chaos before even it had established a character. All it needed was men – to fill the empty spaces but, more than anything, to form a connected whole and begin the process of coalescing into a single instrument of purpose.

  Kydd took out the orders. Unless they had a bare minimum to handle sail it was futile to think L’Aurore could even weigh anchor, let alone form a useful addition to the fleet. He knew that it was not unknown for a captain to be removed in favour of another for failing to get his ship to sea.

  He paused. Why wasn’t his confidential secretary present? At last Renzi had every right to be privy to ship’s secrets and he was going to take full advantage of it.

  Renzi was in the coach, the next compartment forward, which had evolved into something approaching a ship’s office. There, also, the master was correcting his charts, the ship’s clerk was about his business and later the young gentlemen would be there, painfully going through their ‘workings’.

  ‘I’m opening our orders, Nicholas. To see what we should be about if L’Aurore had a crew,’ Kydd said. He tore off the wrapper and spread out the sheets in order.

  And the first said it all – in cold words that blazed with meaning.

  He was being instructed to join with all dispatch the fleet of Lord Nelson in the Mediterranean. The first prize of all the Service could offer! The foremost fighting admiral of the age placed in the very forefront for the cataclysmic fleet action that everyone said must come!

  ‘Our Nel!’ Kydd gasped, staring at the page. He snatched up another – this was a part-order signed by Nelson himself, the impatient left-hand scrawl unmistakable. Yet another listed vital stores to be carried out to the fleet when L’Aurore sailed, again with the same signature. And addressed to Captain Thomas Kydd!

  Thrilled, he laid the paper down. He was now one of Nelson’s captains. He was part of the most famous league of fighting captains in all of history. It was . . . incredible!

  ‘Dear fellow, I’m sure you’ve noticed something quite singular, not to say suspicious . . . ?’ Renzi’s cool voice penetrated his racing thoughts.

  He looked up sharply. ‘I did not!’

  ‘The date, old chap. Here we have His Eminence issuing orders to one Captain Kydd from before Toulon, at least a few weeks’ sail away from England and the Gazette had not even the time to reach him so he might read of your promotion. If I was of a sceptical cast of mind, I’d believe those forgeries. Otherwise . . .’

  It hit Kydd with all the force of a blow. ‘You mean – you’re suggesting it was he who . . .’

  ‘I would suggest that for a peradventure our doughty commander-in-chief, sorely in need of frigates, on hearing of the capture of L’Aurore asked for it to be sent to him instantly, and for its captain, one of recent record – Teazer’s last fight was much talked about, you’ll remember.’

  ‘But, Nicholas, even so—’

  Renzi smiled openly. ‘Nelson always had a tendre for those of humble beginnings, as you’ll know. Why, I’ve heard that he was not content until he had a first lieutenant of Victory herself who was once a pressed man.’

  ‘And—’

  ‘Quite so. In Minorca he’s been quoted: “Aft the more honour – forward the better man!” and by this I’d conceive that your claiming no interest among the highest now no longer holds.’

  Kydd sat rigid as the realisation flooded him. Nelson had not only made him post, given him his ship but now – it had to be faced – needed him! All the frustration of his situation beat in on him. He couldn’t let his hero down. Men had to be found, whatever it took.

  He leaped to his feet, strode to the door and, opening it, roared at the astonished clerk, ‘Pass the word – all officers to lay aft this instant!’

  He returned, pacing impatiently up and down his broad great cabin until all his lieutenants had arrived. ‘Gentlemen, I won’t waste words. We have our orders, and they’re to clap on all sail – to join Admiral Lord Nelson in the Mediterranean.’

  There were gasps of incredulity. A raw and untried frigate being sent to join the f
amed Nelson was a huge honour but a greater challenge. The ship and her men would be tried to the limit and if found wanting would be mercilessly cast aside by the fiery admiral.

  ‘Men!’ Kydd snapped. ‘I need men and I’ll get them no matter the cost. Mr Howlett, what’s our ship’s company number now?’

  ‘Eighty-seven,’ he growled.

  Well over a hundred to find – petty officers, prime hands, all the varied skills needed in a man-o’-war, not the dregs of the seaports or useless farmers.

  ‘Mr Gilbey. How’s your feeling of the volunteering at the rendezvous?’

  ‘Ah. Not s’ good, Mr Kydd. They saw your posters but, beggin’ your pardon, it’s t’ be your first frigate command and they’re distrustful as you’ll be able to show ’em how to lay a prize by the tail.’ At Kydd’s expression he hurriedly added, ‘Besides, word’s out that we’re likely enough t’ be sent to the blockade fleets, s’ no chance at prize-taking.’

  ‘I see. Mr Howlett, you spoke to the regulating captain. Did he give you a sense o’ the prospects for more pressed men?’

  ‘No, with Ajax and Orion 74’s having prior claim and the port stripped clean he doesn’t hold out any hope in the matter.’

  ‘Then we’re on our own. Any ideas, gentlemen?’

  The discussion ebbed and flowed, but the outcome was indeterminate. In a bracket of days they had to find a full crew – or a cleverer captain with answers would replace him.

  Kydd dismissed them and slumped into his chair, gazing stonily out of the stern windows. Unbelievably he had gained his heart’s desire and to have it snatched away so easily would be painful beyond belief – was there nothing he could do to prevent it?

  After a sleepless night he was no further forward. Then in the early dawn light an idea came to him, but one so shocking he was astonished that he had thought of it. It was vile, dishonourable, a scurvy trick to be loathed by any true sailor. But it had one, and one only, saving grace: it was guaranteed to work. He would have his men.

  Precisely at morning gun he was at the port-admiral’s office. ‘Sir, I’m grieved to say I’m sadly under strength and with urgent sailing orders for Admiral Nelson. I have a request which I beg you’ll consider . . .’

  Two days later when Alceste frigate hove into Portsmouth harbour to pay off after three long years in the West Indies, her men were turned over into L’Aurore without once setting foot on English soil. Kydd stood well back as they came aboard. Whatever else, these men were the best – deeply tanned, fit and, after three years together in a crack frigate, were a known quantity and a priceless contribution to his ship.

  But they also looked dazed and bewildered, massing protectively together by the main-mast, occasionally glancing aft bitterly.

  He knew how they would be feeling. As they’d sailed back across the Atlantic their thoughts had been with homes, loved ones and the little gifts and curios they would present on their happy return. And as the ship made landfall on the Lizard and began that last beat up-Channel, even the most hardened shellback would have been caught up in the all-consuming excitement – ‘Channel-fever’, the last hours of the voyage passing in a dream-like delirium.

  Instead there had been the unaccountable diversion to the Motherbank anchorage, quickly followed by the ship being surrounded by boats from the guard-ship and L’Aurore, together with press-tenders, hoys, launches full of marines. It would have been all over very quickly, the men given minutes to find their sea-bags and chests.

  Just an hour or two ago they had thought their voyage had ended but, thanks to Kydd’s cruel decision, it was not to be. He crushed the hot thoughts of injustice that rose, his face stony. There was no other way.

  ‘Keep the guard-boats!’ Kydd called to Curzon, at the gangway.

  The ship had boarding nettings rigged under the line of gun-ports and all boats at the lower boom were kept at long stay. Their entire detachment of Royal Marines patrolled the upper decks and there were even discreet parties in the tops with swivel guns.

  The most effective, however, were the boats rowing guard, slowly and endlessly circling the ship at a hundred yards distant, ready to intercept any daring enough to make a break by leaping from the yards or in other desperate moves.

  The first lieutenant set up his table to rate the Alcestes and one by one they came up, strong faces, men with pride in their bearing and contempt in their voices. Howlett processed them swiftly for it had been agreed that it made sense to keep the men in the same position they had been in Alceste and fit the lesser number of L’Aurores around them.

  ‘What are you about, Mr Curzon?’ Kydd roared. ‘My orders are t’ let no boat approach whatsoever!’ A slim Portsmouth wherry had slipped past the circling pinnaces and was hooking on at the main-chains.

  The boat hailed L’Aurore – Curzon turned, and shouted back, ‘Two to come aboard, sir – saw your poster and want to join,’ he added incredulously.

  The pair hauled themselves inboard, their dunnage thrown after them. It was Stirk and Poulden, survivors of Teazer. Kydd couldn’t bring himself to speak to them; they’d find out what he’d done soon enough. ‘Enter ’em in under their old rate, Mr Howlett,’ he said gruffly, and left the deck.

  His first lieutenant reported with jocular satisfaction: ‘A fine haul, sir! She mans more than we, so I took the liberty of turning away any I didn’t like the look of.’ Kydd grimaced. To those held aboard, the sight of the lucky few escaping to freedom would only make their own situation harder to bear.

  ‘I want ’em in two watches and messed before the dog-watches, if y’ please,’ he snapped. ‘Ship goes to routine after supper.’

  It was asking a lot, but this would occupy them with the choosing of mess-mates for each six-to-eight-man mess-table, the stowing of their chests and ditty-bags, and settling the unwritten assumptions of the pecking order.

  Howlett would have overnight to produce a watch and station bill for sailing; that for quarters could wait until later. Kydd would then himself take decisions on divisions. This was the partialling of the ship’s company behind each officer so that, with a fair cross-section of skills in each, they could undertake risky tasks such as a cutting-out expedition – storming aboard an enemy ship in its own harbour, setting sail on a strange ship and getting it to sea.

  Divisions was as well the Navy’s way of ensuring the men were cared for, that there was his own particular officer a humble seaman could call on whenever things turned against him.

  Then it was a matter of storing ship for foreign service and putting to sea, away from the continual sight of what the men could not have. Days only!

  Kydd slept well and was up before dawn. Gilbey had nothing of significance to report overnight, but at first light a wretched sight unfolded. Word of Alceste’s turning over had leaked out and a number of boats bobbed beyond the watchful row-guard. From the ship Kydd could see the colours of the dresses of wives and sweethearts who had watched and waited so long for their men to come home from their far voyaging and now expected to be let on board.

  A murmuring spread along the deck as men came up from below to see. An occasional hopeful wave from the boats was returned with shouts, but Kydd was stony-hearted. It was asking for trouble to let some men have women and others not and, no doubt, they were bringing more spirituous than spiritual comforts – the ship would be in uproar in a very short time.

  ‘Keep ’em away!’ he told the officer-of-the-deck.

  When hands were piped to muster for Howlett’s watch and station bill to be handed out to the senior rates to acquaint every man with his duties, Kydd decided it was the right time for their captain to address the L’Aurores and tell them of their stern calling to Nelson’s side.

  The men assembled on the main-deck, chivvied by petty officers, looked down on by Clinton’s marines from the gangways and hectored by the pig-eyed master-at-arms, Jolley, whom Kydd had inherited from Alceste. They were quiet and sullen.

  ‘L’Aurores – I can call you that n
ow, as we’ve finally our full company.’ There was little movement, only a hard muteness. ‘This I’ll tell you, there’s no greater service than we’re about to do for our country: to join Admiral Lord Nelson and his fleet and throw ourselves athwart Napoleon’s course for invasion.’

  He could sense the officers behind him stirring at the words but it was the seamen he had to win over. ‘I’m sorry this has been so – so difficult for you all, but at the same time you’ll agree that England stands in greater peril now than at any time in her history.’

  He paused, looking down on the mass of sailors. He saw strong-featured characters, long-service seamen with carefully maintained pig-tails, neatly stitched clothes, standing tall but scowling resentfully at him. Others had glassy expressions and the characteristic loose-limbed look of the old shellback.

  He knew he wasn’t getting through.

  ‘We’ll start storing as soon as you’ve got your parts-of-ship, and never forget, it’s all England that will thank you.’ He waited for reaction, and when it was obvious there wasn’t one, he turned to Howlett and barked, ‘We’ll start taking ’em aboard by five bells, Mr Howlett.’

  The lack of reaction disturbed him. Usually some kind of shout or cheer went up and the hostile reserve was disquieting.

  When the storing began he tucked his hat ostentatiously under his arm and went about the ship. It was a mistake: on every hand he met contemptuous silence and flashing glances of naked hatred. Tension radiated from each group. They worked slowly, grudgingly, calling to each other in mocking tones, testing the limits. As he passed the fore-hatch there was a sudden squeal of a block and rushing slither of rope followed by a crash as a cask of dried peas smashed at the bottom of the hold. Harsh laughter broke out: when Kydd looked about him the eyes did not drop but caught his in open challenge. It was getting out of hand, and not helped by an outer ring of boats hopelessly waiting, expectant bum-boats irritated and frustrated.