Victory Read online

  Renzi looked dumbstruck.

  ‘As must be a gentleman of some learning, one in whom the captain might need from time to time to confide matters of delicacy . . .’

  At Renzi’s expression, he continued, more strongly, ‘You’ll have the character of gentleman with a perfect right to the wardroom, Nicholas, your duties questioned by none. There’ll be no more ship’s books of account or your bo’sun’s stores – this is a job for the ship’s clerk, o’ course.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Do accept, old fellow.’

  For a moment Renzi did not reply. Then, with a sigh, he answered, ‘And here I stand, my studies about to be crowned with the laurels of imminent publication. How could I desert my scholard’s post at such a time . . . ?’

  It was too much, and the friends roared with laughter as they shook hands on it.

  ‘Tonight we shall wet your swab in bumpers!’ Renzi laughed, then added, ‘But if we’re travelling south tomorrow . . . ?’

  ‘No, Nicholas. I’ve a notion that all is sadly ahoo there at the moment. I will leave tomorrow, but pray do stay here until I’m able to send for you.’

  The journey seemed never-ending, notwithstanding Kydd’s travelling with all the speed of a costly post-chaise. At Guildford they changed horses at the Angel, and in the familiar surroundings of the Tudor hall set about with minstrel’s galleries he took to wondering at the unreadable workings of Fate that had so quickly transformed him from the contemplation of a genteel retirement in the country to that of hastening to his destiny in command of a frigate.

  He hugged the knowledge to himself yet again but ever more insistently came a thought. He had not been able to call on any ‘interest’ in his cause, no patron in high places who could speak for him, raise him to notice. To what did he owe his elevation, then? It was a deepening mystery for he knew that while his recent action had attracted favourable comment there were others, certainly, with equal or better claim to advancement.

  He shrugged. No matter: he had achieved his transmogrification and would join the tiny number of common seamen who had risen this far – Admiral Benbow, James Cook, even William Bligh, who was at this moment firmly set on course to fly his flag as admiral. The mystery would remain; he would probably never know why it had been him.

  The rain had cleared by the time they made the Landport gate, Portsea and then the short distance to the George posting house. He had no wish to see his rooms – in a fever of excitement there was only one thing he wanted to set his eyes on, and she was lying somewhere in the dockyard past the Hard.

  He paused at the dockyard gates and looked up at the pair of golden globes that surmounted the entrance. It brought him back to the time that seemed so distant, when he had passed through these gates as a young sailor to adventures that could fill a book. His eyes misted and he stood for a while, letting the feelings surge.

  A moment later he stepped resolutely forward. The porter’s lodge was just inside and he sought the man out. Nothing escaped the eye of the gate porter of a royal dockyard. ‘Can you give me a steer for L’Aurore d’Égalité, frigate just caught?’

  ‘Le Roar? Aye, I can. Past yon ropewalk an’ th’ basin and hard by y’r block mills. She’s docked, havin’ her lines taken off, y’ knows.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Kydd smiled, leaving the man staring at the crown piece in his hand.

  He strode off through the busy dockyard, past the mast ponds and ropewalk, between the steaming kilns and dock basins with their mastless hulls in all stages of fitting out and repair, and on to the new block mills, said to be the wonder of the age.

  There was only one dry dock in front of them and Kydd knew that there he would find her. He hurried forward. His first sight was of three stumpy lower masts protruding above the dock edge. The docks were designed to take the mightiest first-rate battleships and the frigate was swallowed up in the space.

  And then there she was! HMS L’Aurore d’Égalité, or whatever she would be named eventually. Sitting neatly, even primly, on keel-blocks was the naked hull of his new command. In the muddy depths of the dock, teams of men were at work and, on impulse, he found the chain-guarded stone steps leading down to the bottom and descended.

  The gigantic immensity of the dark hull above him was awe-inspiring. Then his seaman’s instincts translated what he saw into the actuality of a seaway. That fine entry forward and long, clean run aft spoke of speed but at the same time, no doubt, meant her being wet in anything of a head sea. Her unusually steep turn of bilge would help with leeway and the pronounced tumblehome might imply tender handling, but Kydd was left with one overriding impression: speed.

  The work-gangs looked at him curiously as they plied their chains and plumb-bobs. It had long been Admiralty practice to take off the lines of captured ships such that if they showed exceptional qualities in service the quirks of their design would be adopted.

  And this was what was going on: the distance of the hull out from the keel at different heights was being measured at regular intervals; later these points would be faired into the familiar sheer draught and half-breadth plans that shipbuilders had evolved down the centuries, and – who knew? – a new class of warship might be born.

  Filled with new excitement, Kydd puffed his way back up the vertical side of the dock and turned to take in her length. There was no one on deck: the gangboard had been roped off. Disappointed, he had to be content with what he could see from the outside.

  And there was much to admire. L’Aurore d’Égalité was in truth a full-blooded frigate and pierced for thirty-two carriage guns. He exulted at the discovery – she was a fifth-rate. He had skipped over the smaller sixth-rate and, apart from the despised fifty-gun fourth-rate, he was, in theory, next down from his old ship-of-the-line Tenacious.

  Compared to Teazer, she seemed enormous, her unbroken deck-line stretching all the way from where he stood to the distant beakhead. Impulsively he began stepping out for the bows, counting the paces. Ten, twenty, thirty – fifty-six. A hundred and thirty or forty feet long at least!

  She was not looking at her best without her topmasts, her top-hamper struck down and rigging laid along by uncaring dockyard workers, but he could still take in her modest, sheer, clean lines and somewhat old-fashioned trim.

  Her stern-lights were lofty and spacious, however, the characteristic high arched curve of the French-style transom pleasing in its symmetry, the quarter-galleries noble and well proportioned. Her stern-piece was more vertical than a British shipwright would have it but it allowed a broader-bladed rudder and . . .

  He ached to get aboard. It was the hallowed custom to allow captains a certain latitude when it came to the necessary conversion work for Royal Navy service and he was already forming ideas. The diminutive poop cabin must go, of course, and—

  ‘Your business, sir?’

  He swung round. An important-looking official, with two attendants carrying plans, was eyeing him distrustfully. ‘I’m appointed to be her captain,’ Kydd said apologetically, knowing he was not in uniform.

  ‘Well, now, Captain,’ the man said, thawing. ‘Hocking, master shipwright. You’d be wanting t’ get aboard, I’ll wager.’ He chuckled drily.

  ‘I would,’ Kydd replied.

  ‘Come wi’ me, then,’ Hocking said, and motioned to one of his assistants, who freed the barrier. They stepped across above the great pit to the dock floor and then Kydd was aboard his ship.

  For a long moment his gaze took in the sweep of the deck-line, the rearing bowsprit, the pleasing square drop at the drift rail and he smothered a sigh. ‘Mr Hocking – I see there’s not so much action damage. Do you know aught of how we came by her?’

  ‘Why, there’s none t’ be found, is all. She thought to make a break from Rochefort in the fog an’ had the crass bad luck for it to lift – an’ she finds herself in the middle o’ our blockade squadron. With six o’-the-line sightin’ down their guns, a decision wasn’t hard t’ make.’

  Kydd felt a momentary sympathy with the un
known captain and crew, whose voyage and future had thus been settled in an instant. ‘A pretty lady,’ he murmured appreciatively, looking about him. ‘I’d be beholden for your opinion, Mr Hocking.’

  There was a fleeting smile and Kydd suspected that Hocking was not often consulted for his opinion by naval officers.

  ‘I’m not taken wi’ the Frenchy ways much, m’self – scantlings are too light an’ that there fine-run hull’ll mean a smaller hold an’ that means her sea endurance won’t be worth a spit.’

  ‘That may be so,’ Kydd said, ‘but she’s going to be a fast ’un, I’m thinking.’

  ‘Aye, an’ she’ll be plunging into every comber God sends,’ Hocking went on remorselessly.

  ‘No sailor I know ever pines over a wet shirt,’ Kydd replied defensively.

  ‘And every Frenchy I know is crank and heels her lee gun-ports under in anythin’ of a blow.’

  ‘And so we bring in high sail as is needful.’

  ‘Hmmph. Look, Mr Captain, survey’s complete but we’ve work t’ do. How’s about you take yourself off for a look-see and come back in an hour. Then we’ll have your opinion.’

  Delighted, Kydd took his leave and began to make his acquaintance.

  She was not a new ship. Over here were scores in the deck that could not be planed out, and there he noted smooth new timber scarphed into older. More clues of her maturity became evident: the shape of the knight-heads of a previous age, the pair of davits over the stern as an afterthought – she must be close to ten years old at least. She had therefore first kissed the waves at the time he had embarked on the voyage around the world that had changed him from a youth to a man and formed him as a seaman. In Artemis frigate he had sailed from this very port, the fearsome Captain ‘Black Jack’ Powlett in command. As clear as yesterday he recalled the pugnacious blue-black jaw, the terrifying stare – and now he, the former Able Seaman Kydd, was in his shoes . . .

  He returned his attention to L’Aurore d’Égalité. Like all frigates, the topmost deck was flush from bow to stern but this was deceptive. In reality there was a raised fo’c’sle forward and a poop aft; but these were joined into one by broad gangways each side. The open space in the middle was straddled by spare spars and on these would be nested the ship’s boats.

  He found the after ladderway down to the next level. This was their single gun-deck, and the frigate’s main armament would be found arrayed all the way down each side. It was now deserted, all ordnance landed before docking, and the space seemed limitless, stretching away distantly to the bows.

  Behind him were the cabin spaces – his living quarters. All other officers and men would berth below, in the perpetual gloom of the lower deck where, in the absence of ports or windows, no natural light could penetrate.

  Turning aft, he moved towards a bulkhead: it spanned the ship right across in an intimidating show of exclusion – the captain’s apartments. It was finished in polished red wood. The brass handles of the two doors still glowed with the efforts of her last sea-watch, now miserably under guard in a prison-hulk somewhere.

  Feeling like a trespasser, he pushed on the larboard door. It opened into the coach, bare patches underfoot showing where items of furniture must have been, the fat girth of the mizzen-mast solidly to one side. A more elaborate door was at the far end. Tentatively he eased it open, walked in and stopped. This was the great cabin – and it was vast.

  A blaze of light streamed in through the broad stern windows, bringing out rich colours of decoration that would not have been out of place in a fine country mansion. Oddly, an ornate little cast-iron charcoal stove still perched to one side; this had been a captain whose means and inclination had allowed him to consult his comfort above the ordinary.

  However, what took his attention immediately was a substantial secretaire against the forward bulkhead. It was richly veneered and polished, and shaped to fit into the ship’s structure, which was probably why it was still there. On impulse he pulled down the integral writing surface; inside was a perfect maze of compartments and miniature drawers – all empty, of course.

  A discreet door led to his stateroom. It was sizeable, so much so that it sported not one but two gun-ports. A cot was still there, complete with an ingenious pulley system that allowed the lying occupant to raise and lower himself. At one end a cunningly contrived wash-place shared space with a dresser across the width of the compartment, and there was a fitted wardrobe opposite.

  He stood back in awe. This was his kingdom and it was princely. In effect there was the splendour of a spacious great cabin right aft, then beyond the partition the coach to one side, private quarters the other, all his.

  As he was about to leave, a ghostly sense of the last inhabitant’s presence stole over him. He could picture the man – older, more careful, probably of the ancien régime, with a need for the certainties of gracious living and order in all things. He would not have been one to hazard his ship in valorous escapades or carry sail until the last moment.

  He felt a rush of guilt that, here, he was an intruder, violating the little world that was the ship the unknown capitaine de vaisseau had shaped to his desires and satisfaction. He tried to shake it off as he left, closing the door softly behind him.

  The lower deck was a hollow, echoing space, illuminated by the splashes of light coming through the gratings from above. Neat rows of tables, each with its rack against the ship’s side, were spaced all along it for at this level, at or below the waterline, there were no guns, therefore no requirement to clear them for action.

  He moved to the closest. Not unlike the familiar British domestic models, with the seamen’s chests as seats, the tubs at the inner end for the ship’s boys – and further down, canvas screens triced up to the deckhead. On impulse he unlaced one: it tumbled down to reveal a traditional scene of mermaids and King Neptune but done in a delicate and artistic manner rather than the hearty treatment of a British sailor. It was, of course, the demarcation of the petty officers’ mess.

  Aft was another excluding bulkhead, with two doors. This would be the place of the officers’ cabins and wardroom – or gunroom, as it was called in a frigate. He went inside. It was shadowed and gloomy, with light entering only from the open door, but it was enough to see that it was as he had expected: there were cabins down each side, the two furthest the biggest. A long table occupied the centre, and in the far recesses there were lockers, probably stores or bread-rooms.

  Here it was that his officers would have their being: the first and other lieutenants, sailing master, purser, officer of marines. This would be their unchanging home during whatever lay ahead for them all. He stepped out again; beyond the sanctity of the gunroom there were separate cabins for the warrant officers, the boatswain and gunner, carpenter and one other, making this particular after ladderway the unlikely intersection between the officers, warrant officers and the ship’s company.

  It was all he needed to see. There were no surprises with the layout; she appeared in good fettle and he felt he had her measure – older, without the brute strength of the latest English frigates but with a willing air, a desire to please. Only the open sea would search out her moods and delights and he could hardly wait to seek them.

  ‘To y’r satisfaction, Captain?’

  He hadn’t noticed the master shipwright looking at him narrowly from beyond the main-mast and went to him. ‘The poop cabin must go,’ Kydd said briskly, ‘and I will have the wheel forrard o’ the mizzen.’

  ‘O’ course.’

  ‘I’d like to see tougher bulwarks and the breast rail more in the way of a barricade. And what do you think of raising the bridle port to take a pair o’ chase guns?’

  ‘Ye know she’s a twelve-pounder only?’

  ‘Then we’ll ship eighteens,’ Kydd retorted. ‘She’s sound in her particulars?’

  ‘She is,’ Hocking admitted. ‘Out of Nantes in ’ninety-four by Jacques Sané, one o’ their best. An’ you’ll be wanting as much stowage below as we
c’n give ye. Y’ saw the middle part o’ the hold as is your cable tier?’

  He hadn’t – and that a third of the space in his precious hold would be taken up with the anchor cable was not welcome news. ‘I know you’ll do your best for me, Mr Hocking,’ Kydd said, with feeling. There would be a keg and spread waiting for him and his men tonight as an earnest for the future.

  There would be other things, but they could take their turn – the Navy Board had its own ideas of what was meet and proper in a warship of the Royal Navy, and if it was not within the ‘establishment’ for this class of ship, he would need persuasive arguments to secure what he wanted.

  He bade the master shipwright a good day and set out for the George. There was thinking to do.

  The most pressing was the matter of the eighteen-pounders. There had not been any twelve-pounder frigates built for the British since as far back as he could remember, and the French had ceased constructing them in the last war. If he met another frigate in combat then almost certainly he would be facing eighteens and would be badly outclassed. It was as much a matter for the Board of Ordnance as the Navy Board and he was hazy as to the procedure.

  Earlier he had been told that he should hold himself in readiness for an order to take the vessel into service – to commission her and thereby incur expense to the Crown in fitting her out. She would then formally exist and in all the signal books in the fleet her name would appear next to her unique pennant number. L’Aurore d’Égalité: the name could not be suffered to continue – but would a new one be as resonant?

  And, of course, the standing officers would start arriving to stand by the fitting out: the boatswain, gunner, carpenter, cook – and, most importantly at this stage, the purser. He could open his books and life would begin.