Victory Page 20

  Howlett’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you suggesting some sort of charade? As soon as I give my orders it’ll be seen—’

  ‘Sir, I shall be speaking Italian, as is the way at sea in these parts. The men know what to do and will be instructed not to utter a word of English. This way none on the tekne can testify later to any evidence as to our origin.’

  ‘You will be speaking Italian? And what do you suppose I speak?’

  ‘You are the Russian officer in charge, of course. I am merely the humble translator.’

  ‘I can’t speak Russian, damn it.’

  Renzi held himself in check. ‘Then, sir, may I put it to you that any mumbo-jumbo you can contrive will answer.’ If there were any Russian speakers on this Turkish coaster or among the French themselves they would be seen through, of course, in which case there would be no help for it.

  ‘Very well, we’ll be Russians.’

  Renzi relayed this to the boats’ crews, who grinned delightedly at the conceit.

  The afternoon passed slowly but as evening began to draw in there were faint shouts from the lookouts on the skyline. At last!

  ‘Into the boats!’ bellowed Howlett.

  Sails taut and straining, they rounded the headland – and there, startlingly close, was a tekne. They quickly took position off its absurdly curved and ornamented stern-quarters and Stirk loosed off their twelve-pounder carronade. The shot sent up a mighty plume ahead of the little vessel, which lost no time in dousing its sails.

  Renzi tensed. It was now the testing time. This could be the one – or not. The French might be aboard or the documents sent by hand of an anonymous messenger. The vessel might contain soldiers or even French sailors – there were infinite reasons why they should fail.

  ‘Lay us alongside,’ growled Howlett, fiddling with his foul-weather coat. ‘Silence in the boat!’ he snapped.

  ‘In Russian, if you please, sir,’ Renzi murmured.

  As they neared the low gunwale of the tekne, the midshipman stood and roared at the bowman, ‘Wagga boo-boo ratty tails!’

  ‘Ahrr, moonie blah blah,’ the man replied, knuckling his forehead and obediently hooking on.

  Red-faced, Howlett clambered over the gunwale and was confronted by a small group of men. One stepped forward and snarled some words angrily. Renzi felt a huge wash of relief. It was in French. And obviously these were not military men.

  ‘Mi dispiace, Signore, non capisco,’ he said mournfully, spreading his hands wide in the Italian gesture of incomprehension.

  ‘The cretin doesn’t know French,’ the first man said openly in that language to the older standing next to him, then beckoned irritably to the florid Turkish master. ‘Tell him to explain why he’s stopped us – we’re on urgent business.’

  The message was passed. Renzi bowed politely and turned to Howlett. ‘Moo-juice blitter foo-bah sing-song . . .’ He fought down exultation – apparently there were no Russian-speakers at hand.

  Howlett looked at the deck and mumbled, his very evident held-in anger perfectly suited to the performance. Blank-faced, Renzi replied in Italian to the cowed Turk, ‘My officer has been advised of the activities of pirates in this area and wishes to know what is this matter that is so urgent.’

  ‘Tell him it’s none of his business.’

  Renzi came back: ‘He says your appearance is not the usual to be found in a Turkish trader. This close to Russian territory, my officer believes you to be spies, sir. Have you any evidence to the contrary?’

  The Frenchman pulled back in dismay, saying to the other, ‘The idiot Ivan thinks we’re spies, Claude. What’s to be done?’

  The older muttered, ‘Bluff it out . . .’

  The first turned back and blustered, ‘This is outrageous! We’re on a mission to Count Mocenigo himself.’

  The indignation faded as Stirk, summoned by Renzi’s quick wink, came across with five men fingering cutlasses.

  ‘My officer regrets that in the absence of such evidence you are to be arrested for questioning.’

  Stirk tested the edge of his weapon with a horny thumb and gave an evil grin. ‘Watchee gundiguts barso!’

  ‘Think of something, Claude,’ the first muttered, ‘We could be choking for years in some stinking prison.’

  Howlett leaned across to Renzi. ‘What the devil’s going on?’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I demand to know.’

  ‘Fidgety fee t’ blarney,’ Renzi answered gravely, and passed on, ‘My officer says further that this vessel apparently without cargo is most suspicious and is to be confiscated as well.’

  ‘It’s intolerable, Claude!’

  The older snapped, ‘I’ll show these péquenades something that’ll set ’em by the ears!’ He wheeled about and stormed off below, returning minutes later bearing an ornamented red box set about with golden tassels and an elaborate central cypher.

  ‘You recognise this?’ It was relayed on. ‘It’s from the Sublime Porte, Sultan Selim himself, who would take it personally should you further delay his friends.’

  Howlett could hardly believe his eyes and spluttered with excitement.

  Renzi bowed. ‘The officer admits he is mistaken and asks to be forgiven. Further, he wishes to make amends by conveying your box under our guard to Count Mocenigo himself.’ He firmly took the box from the dumbfounded Frenchman and handed it to Howlett with another bow. ‘Leave instantly!’ he whispered, and led the way over the side.

  Back aboard L’Aurore the atmosphere changed markedly for the better after the success ashore and they continued their Adriatic duties with renewed purpose.

  The gunroom became deferential to Renzi after it was gleefully told how in heathen Italian he had had Johnny Crapaud well a-tremble before telling one of them to duck below and bring him up the required document to hand over. Renzi felt that it might be better, perhaps, to leave it to a later time to explain how the French themselves had simply produced it for effect. The French rights were useless to the British, of course, but at the least it meant the playing field was now level again.

  For Kydd, there was immense satisfaction on his return to La Maddalena. Invited to a dinner of captains in Victory, he sat in the glow of warm laughter and congratulations following his recounting of the adventure, receiving an approving nod from Nelson himself.

  L’Aurore gave her place in the Adriatic to Phoebe and resumed her watch with Active outside Toulon, a ceaseless beat across the wide bay overlooked by craggy mountains that ensured their every movement was known, regardless of how far offshore they sailed. However, the commander-in-chief’s policy of open blockade – keeping the battle-fleet out of sight many leagues away to entice the French out – required the watching frigates to close with the port past Cape Cepet and its guns to look directly into the enfolding roads, which they did by turns.

  On a fine day it was exhilarating but in the more usual cold bluster it was miserable work – and dangerous. In the past one frigate had heaved to for repairs and been taken in the night by a daring French sally. And there was no relaxing the watch as the winds chased the compass before the sudden rush of the mistral and prudent mariners sought the open sea.

  In the deep abyssal waters off Toulon there was no anchoring as with Cadiz: ships on blockade here were continually under sail and therefore had no rest in any weather. And always there was the chill. The Mediterranean in winter was capable of a frigidity that put the dire winters of the north of England to shame. It was a mind-sapping almost liquid cold that penetrated until the body retreated to a last core of precious warmth and frozen hands fumbled the knots to be tied far aloft, out on a bucking yard.

  At times like these Kydd did what he could for his men but his own experience told him that in rough weather with the galley fire out there was little they could look forward to except the comfort of a hammock in the heaving darkness of the lower deck. Yet something held the men’s devotion to duty such that midnight had them turning out of that hammock yet again to the cold and spite in the same hatef
ul stretch of sea for another watch.

  For the ship’s company the something that was driving them on was the belief that anything was tolerable other than letting Nelson and their shipmates down. This was how excellence was achieved – it was how England was facing Napoleon Bonaparte and his vaunted invasion, and for Kydd this was how they would win.

  The days turned into weeks, the weeks ripened to spring. L’Aurore was sent for a cruise to the west, to Gibraltar and along the arid coast of North Africa, then up the length of Italy back to Agincourt Sound once more to refit and recover. In the sheltered waters L’Aurore received onions, lemons and greens from local gardens and even bullocks and sheep were waiting, along with that precious commodity – mail from home.

  While there, Kydd made small improvements to his frigate. The ship’s side below on the lower deck was whitewashed, immediately raising light levels in the enclosed space and therefore cheering the atmosphere below decks. A manger was built forward, right in the eyes of the ship, and a pair of Sardinian piglets and two goats were installed. A chicken coop was constructed abaft the fore ladderway and one of the quota men received aboard in Portsmouth found himself once more employed as he had been before: taking care of livestock.

  As the weather improved, Kydd took the opportunity to cleanse the mess-deck. The men set to with a will for it was their own home that was being sweetened; scrubbed fore and aft, then dried with borrowed stoves, it was sluiced well and painstakingly cleaned. The cables were roused out and laid on deck while the cable tier itself was also attended to.

  And the gunroom acquired small graces of living. Most welcome was the well-used library that was being built up, with exchanges between ships freshening the offerings. Renzi furthered his reputation by contributing some of his own treasured favourites – Wordsworth and a crudely printed Shakespeare vying with startling accounts of the inhabitants of distant parts.

  Gilbey proved gifted in running the mess, the subscriptions laid out to good effect whenever the ship touched port. His choice of commensal wine in the cask for mealtimes was voted exceeding fine, and sharing the captain’s cook, a chef from Guernsey called Missey, ensured that Gilbey’s little extravagances were given due attention. With regular milk and eggs and the prospect of roast chicken and pork cutlets in the near future it was a congenial mess.

  The captain was royally maintained by the good offices of Tysoe, who ruled his kingdom with dignity and adroitness, his hair now tinged with grey adding a touch of severity to his demeanour. Mason, the thin-faced captain’s steward, knew better than to stand against Tysoe and was set to bringing the captain’s meals while Tysoe himself performed the honours of the table.

  Potts and Searle, the young volunteers first class, found duties under Tysoe also: attending at table when permitted and with the grave responsibility for the captain’s bedplace, toilette and every piece of brightwork that could be found in his quarters. When they compared themselves to the two others, who served only the midshipmen, the honour was keenly felt.

  Kydd now believed he had the measure of his ship, her strengths and foibles, the little quirks that had to be allowed for, no matter the stress of the situation. A good captain had to know a ship like a dancing partner – to detect and respond to intimate cues, to foresee and counter over-spirited steps and figures and become one together in the complex pas de deux that was sail and sea.

  Each morning at six Kydd would rise, wash and go on deck informally to sniff the air, feel what the weather would bring that day and set himself to rights. The watch-on-deck would carefully not notice him.

  At breakfast he liked to entertain the off-going officer-of-the-watch and sometimes to invite a midshipman or two while the ship geared up for the working day. And at the noon sight he made a point of attending with his octant and later working a position in the coach with the anxious young gentlemen, correcting and encouraging.

  Thus the ship’s routine became a mirror of life itself. As the weather warmed, the sea sparkling under blue skies in place of the hard glitter of winter, the rhythm quickened. The full panoply of a Sunday at sea now became possible with no fear of rain and biting cold.

  Under easy sail eight miles out, under a promising sun with the seas slight and a pleasing royal blue, L’Aurore prepared for her special day.

  It would be Kydd’s first Divisions, the formal inspection of the ship’s company. He looked forward to the ceremony: it would give him a chance to see every part of his own ship, a privilege paradoxically denied him as captain for it would never do for him to appear suddenly among the men working or off-watch.

  As well it would give him a rare insight into the temper of the company in so many small but significant ways. Most of all he was anxious to see if what he hoped for was coming to pass: that the Alcestes were now reconciled in body and spirit to their new ship.

  It was vital that they were: the interdependence they had built up must now embrace the whole, new and old, and if it did, he would be very gratified. These were no raw crew, they were prime man-o’-war’s men, stout fighters and mariners, each with an individuality formed and seasoned by years of seagoing.

  No mere cyphers to order about at a whim, they would have their own expectations of their captain and officers. A first-class seaman was valued for his initiative, the ability to work far out on the yards on his own and make instant decisions without the need for orders. If properly led, this was what would happen, but if not, Kydd knew how they could retreat inside themselves to become, so easily, blank-faced mechanicals.

  He drew on his white gloves. The marine trumpeter had called the men to Divisions an hour ago, with a bold flourish, but the captain must wait. Beyond his door the seamen were being mustered by division, one under each officer, and were even now being inspected by their lieutenant.

  At length there was a polite knock. ‘Ship’s company mustered for Divisions, sir,’ Howlett reported smartly. It was his competence above all that would be tested today: responsible for partialling the company not only into watch and station but divisions as well, he was also directly answerable to the captain for the day-to-day smooth running of the complex organisation that was a warship.

  ‘Very good,’ Kydd said, in the age-old way, and accompanied him out into the brightness of the day.

  There was absolute quiet, the slight movement of the ship causing the lines of men to sway gently together. Clinton, resplendent in scarlet regimentals, threw him a dazzling salute. ‘Royal Marines, sah! All present and correct, sah!’

  Kydd assumed a grave and formal air and stepped forward to inspect the Royals. As expected, they presented faultlessly, glazed leather headgear, pipe-clayed cross-belts and gaiters against their red coats a splendid show. ‘A fine body of men, very well turned out, Mr Clinton,’ he pronounced, trying not to sound pompous, and was obliged to accept another energetic salute.

  ‘Ah, Mr Curzon.’

  ‘Sir, my division of the hands: all present and sober.’

  And it was what he was hoping for. In their best rig, the men stood easily, fearlessly. He stopped to inspect one closely. A glossy tarpaulin hat with ‘L’Aurore’ picked out on a black ribbon, a short blue jacket, with several rows of brass buttons and white seams on the sleeve and back, over a blue striped white shirt and set off with a red neck-cloth. Tight white duck trousers and gleaming long-quartered black shoes with buckles – the very picture of a deep-sea sailor. And the whole hand-made and lovingly embroidered – it sang of pride in himself and his ship, and Kydd was touched and humbled.

  He passed man after man, each distinct and idiosyncratic in his dress and features. These were supreme professionals: the daring young topmen, the steady fo’c’slemen, the creased features of the old hands. With a word for one, an admiring comment to another, he advanced along the lines.

  There was nothing to fault here, no frowsty evidence of a sailor lost to drink, no shabby carelessness from a man not one with his shipmates. They were a handsome division and Kydd told a pink-faced
Curzon so.

  He moved to the other divisions. The same strength and character, the same prideful appearance. Here was evidence of rivalry, the healthy expression of regard and comradeship. He nodded to a blank-faced Stirk, smiled to see Doud his cheerful self once more, and beside him Pinto, in an English sailor’s rig intricate with Portuguese ornamentation.

  His barge crew were distinctive with white ribbons sewn through the sleeve seams of their jackets and trousers; the gunner’s crew each wore a blood-red kerchief; the fo’c’slemen sported large anchor buttons.

  It had happened: the collection of individuals that were the Alcestes and the L’Aurores had come together and were now one.

  After the inspection of the men, it was the turn of the ship. With his entourage of first lieutenant, boatswain and his mate and a Royal Marines escort, Kydd set off.

  Galley, dispensary, stores – even the hold was not exempt. This was not an inspection of masts and spars, guns and carriages – those could be relied upon to be seen to on a daily basis. This was a tour of all the hundred and one places never regularly looked into; a hard grind of scouring and painting had necessarily preceded it.

  The mess-deck he held until last. It would be the most revealing of all, for this was more than the usual sailors’ dwelling place set among the hulking presence of the cannon with their gun-ports to the outer world. A frigate had no guns on the mess-deck and did not need to be cleared – the men’s living space was their own.

  Howlett looked at him meaningfully as they entered and Kydd dutifully sniffed. This deck was the next lowest in the ship and was ventilated and illumined only by the three hatchway gratings above; the effluvium of hundreds of men living together could be an overpowering fug but here there was only a pleasing sharp tang of the vinegar and lime used to sweeten the wood.

  ‘Very good, Mr Howlett,’ he said, moving a tub at the end of a table, but there was no tell-tale discolouring of the planking, evidence of a ‘holiday’ in the cleaning of the deck. Straightening, he looked about at the mess-tables up against the ship’s side and saw what he had hoped for.