"Why Keith gave me th' step I still don't understand."
"Nor will you ever. My guess is, he had others waitin' that by movin' the one into a sloop the other would protest. You were to hand and got th' berth—but if half th' reason was fortune, the other half must be y'r shinin' past. That must still the tongues o' those who would object."
Kydd leaned forward and refilled his glass. "But you—"
"Do I hear a dash o' pity on my account? Pray don't trouble y'self, sir. I'm content with m' lot because I'm a philosophical. I'm a tarpaulin an' know it—I never hoisted aboard y'r polite ways, I had no one t' teach me. My pride is in good deepwater seamanship an' prime sailing."
Looking steadily at Kydd he continued, "I'll be straight—I've been in the sea service long enough t' take inboard some hard facts, which I'll share with ye.
"The first: y' speaks of a cruise you means to take. That's a brave thing t' do when y'r Articles of War—I mean th' thirteenth— says much about any who, an' if I remember th' words aright, hangs back fr'm 'pursuing the chase of any enemy, pirate or rebel,' which chasin' prizes instead must surely be."
He sipped his wine, regarding Kydd calmly. "An' the seventeenth—pain o' death or other, should ye fail in protecting trade, which is goin' after the privateers and similar and not lookin' after th' merchant jacks." He paused, then added, "Y'r flag officer likes prize-money shares but likes better zeal agin the enemy—just ask His Nibs, Adm'ral Nelson!"
Kydd coloured. "I know the Articles well enough," he muttered.
Fernly went on remorselessly: "Still an' all, I've knowledge that the eastern Med squadron will be returning here shortly f'r their regular repair 'n' store, which will be fatal to your enterprise in any case." So much for his independence, Kydd thought resentfully, but waited for the older man to say his piece.
"Then shall we speak o' your situation." Fernly glanced meaningfully about the cabin and added, "You must feel content with y'r lot."
Kydd nodded.
"Then consider this: it's not th' best but the worst thing f'r an officer, being away on y'r own like you are. In the sea service you'll agree the only way t' get promotion is to be noticed. Some fine action, with a butcher's bill to follow, sort o' thing you're well acquainted with, I believe. Now, what chance have ye got t' be noticed in a small ship that you're frightened of the smallest frigate? You're out o' sight, no one knows y' exist. You do well, an' you're accounted a reliable, safe pair o' hands, which will suit their lordships fine t' keep you so for ever."
It was galling but there was no arguing with it. Fernly leaned over and made a show of smoothing the hang of Kydd's coat with its lustrous gold lace, continuing mildly, "I give ye joy on y'r promotion—I hope it brings satisfaction."
Kydd kept mute. Clearly Fernly was about to make some point.
"A commander? I once saw service in a flagship. A real caution, some of th' things you'd see." He twirled his glass by the stem as he considered Kydd, a lop-sided smile in place.
"The Commander-in-Chief—a lot o' things he has t' worry over. Enemy fleet, state o' the ships, spies 'n' such, but y' know what troubles him most? How t' satisfy those he owes an obligation by way of a place. Relatives o' his, of others, even th' highest in the land, all clamouring f'r preferment.
"So, he removes a favoured l'tenant into a brig as commander. He's now out o' sight an' mind at the other end o' the Med for, say, a year, two. Then someone's nephew gets uppity, has t' be quieted with a ship. What then? It's sad enough, but th' first has had his chance for distinction and must give way to another. As simple as that, m' friend."
Fernly's expression held sorrow and Kydd felt the warmth of the wine and fellowship fall away.
"It gets worse. Our first commander, what is he t' do without he has a ship? If he was a lieutenant—like m'self—we can see him entered back into a ship-of-the-line, second l'tenant or some such. But a commander . . . There's above a hundred commanders more'n there are King's ships I've been told, so what's his fate? A commander may not undo his promotion; and so we see that while th' country fights f'r its life, our brave officer cannot be found employment—an' must retire fr'm the sea.
"Mr Kydd," Fernly said softly, "I do believe you're under notice. T' make yourself remarked upon—or perhaps learn how to grow turnips . . ."
CHAPTER 6
KYDD GLOWERED AT THE PAPERWORK on his desk, his dark mood sinking fast into depression. It had been a cruel let-down, the intrusion of hard reality into the euphoria of first command. It was not as if he was unaware of the things Fernly had said—every naval officer knew something of the situation—it was more the cold realisation that, like the diagnosis of a disease, it now applied inescapably to him.
He picked up a scrawled sheet, trying to fix his thoughts on stations for fire-fighting, but his eyes glazed. There was no way he could concentrate. The cruise would have to be cancelled: he could not risk being away without real orders when the squadron arrived back in port. His so-brief days of roving free were over. Teazer's fate would revert again to fetch and carry, convoy escort, dispatches—he would be the menial of any who cared to make use of his little ship, with never a chance at true battle and glory.
Yet the worst part was that he could see now that if he failed to distinguish himself in Teazer his longed-for elevation would ironically ensure that he must abruptly leave the sea, and without appeal.
One thing was certain, though: a report to the admiral had to be rendered. He had been putting it off as long as he could but there would be no time to spare after he had arrived. Kydd sighed and took a fresh sheet of paper—and a dozen sharp needles clamped themselves to his stockinged leg. As he shot to his feet, banging his head on an overhead deck beam, his eyes flicked down.
There was a terrified squeak and a pair of imploring black eyes looked up into his. Kydd opened his mouth to roar for Tysoe but stopped; he bent and picked up the warm little body, which lay trustingly in his cupped hands. "Ye're nothing but a tiger, young Sprits'l," he found himself cooing. A tiny pink tongue gave a tentative lick at one finger and Kydd's heart was lost to the little creature. It had been years before, but he had not forgotten the ship's cat of the old Duke William that had shared his first night in the Navy.
The kitten let go and scampered across the deck, then disappeared under a side table, its face reappearing mischievously. Kydd smiled: if this little creature could not only brave the unknown world but turn it into a place of fun and play, who was he to complain at his lot? His depression began to lift and he turned back to his report.
Attard, midshipman of the watch, knocked timidly at the door. "S-sorry to disturb, sir, but, er, have you—"
"Under the table yonder—an' I'll thank ye t' keep it forward," Kydd growled, hiding a grin.
It was amazing how such a tiny life had brought proportion to his own. Now he could turn his mind to a more constructive course. His independence was about to be checked—but then was not this at heart a falsity anyway? An admiral had seniors; even the great Nelson must take orders from above. Nelson— now there was his example: to do his duty to the utmost and when the big chance came to seize it full-heartedly and without hesitation. And, meanwhile, he would try to be like little Sprits'l, taking joyously all that life had to offer of the moment . . .
"Never mind that," Admiral Warren said, slapping Kydd's report down on the desk, "I haven't the time. Tell me what you've been doing with yourself."
"Well, sir," Kydd began carefully, "in th' absence of direction fr'm a senior officer I conceived it m' duty to fit out th' ship immediately by any means. Being ready in all respects I proceeded to sea."
He paused—this was the delicate part. "I came up with a corsair plunderin' a merchant ship an' tried to catch him but as a xebec he went about close to th' wind and—and I lost him."