The vast Admiralty dockyard was located along the east side of the Tamar River; for the best part of a mile the shore was pierced with graving docks and lined with ordnance wharves, quays and jetties without counting. And inland, as far as the eye could see, there were long stone buildings and chimneys, storehouses and smith's shops, sail lofts and mast houses in endless industrial display.
But Kydd had no eyes for these wonders. Even the impressive sight of ships-of-the-line in stately rows and the heart-catching sadness of the long file of little ships secured head to tail in mid-channel in ordinary did not divert him. There was one last service he could do for Renzi: his poor racked body, tightly wrapped against the late autumn misery, was landed and taken to the naval hospital at Stonehouse.
In the days that followed Kydd himself suffered: HMS Teazer had reached the end of her sea service and, by degrees, was rendered a shell fit to join the melancholy line of others at the trots. As they were de-stored, the ship's company was paid off and departed until, in an unnatural, echoing solitude, there was left only the purser, his clerk and the standing officers, who would remain until the ship was sold or disposed of—the boatswain, carpenter, gunner and cook.
Kydd tried to spend as much time as he could with Renzi; the prognosis was not good and he was visibly weakening, still in a febrile delirium. Then the day came when Ellicott laid out the last papers for his attention, and he signed away for ever his life at sea.
With an hour until the dockyard boat made its round Kydd had nothing to do but wander the forlorn husk of his ship. Empty space where once victorious carronades had roared out their defiance, over there a beautifully worked patch in the deck where once an iron-bound block had fallen from aloft. And on her bow the laughing maiden in white . . . Not trusting himself to keep a countenance, Kydd turned abruptly and went below.
The mess deck, now a deserted hollow space, still carried the same wafting odours of humanity and cooking it had always had and, leaving the boatswain to his rummaging, he passed for the last time into his cabin. The panels were bare but he had left the table and other furniture, for what use were they to him on land? His bedplace no longer contained his few possessions: they were on deck, ready to be taken ashore.
A lump came to his throat.
A soft knock and a low murmur interrupted his thoughts. "Sir." It was the boatswain, cradling something. "Sprits'l, sir. Thought ye'd like t' know he's going to be looked after, like, no need t' worry y'self on his account."
"Th-thank ye, Mr Purchet. I know he's in th' best o' hands . . ."
The boatswain left just in time: for the first time since his youth Kydd knew the hot gush of tears that would not end.
The solid, hard and hateful land was finally under his feet for good. Kydd knew what his first move would be, but little after that. He had no alternative than to return home to Guildford—but under very different circumstances from those he had dreamed of out in the bright Mediterranean. Now there was nothing of that life but memories.
His uniform was stowed with his baggage and his fighting sword. He needed to get used to the soft clinging of civilian garb—and even more quickly to the mysteries of shore ways.
Thinking of this final removal from the sea world now upon him brought a catch to his throat. And what would happen to Renzi? He might have only days, or perhaps the fever would break long enough for them to talk together for the last time.
There was only one thing possible: he would take Renzi with him and his mother would care for him. For one so ill there was only one way and that was to go by coach, which would probably mean the hire of the entire vehicle. Having lavished so much attention on Teazer Kydd's means were now severely stretched, but he could not desert his friend.
The long and tedious journey tried Kydd sorely. The eternal grinding of wheels and soul-destroying inactivity were not best suited to his mood. Renzi was as comfortable as he could make him, suspended in a naval cot across the seats, but the swaying and jolting were remorseless. If he did not survive the journey, Kydd had argued to himself, then it would be the same as if he had remained in a hospital bed to die. At least there were no wounds to hurt his friend and work open.
It took two days even with the turnpikes to reach Surrey and Guildford. The wartime years had been kind to the quiet township and little had changed. It seemed so small, tidy, placid. But he had changed: the places and scenes that had seemed so significant in his memories had receded into the picturesque tranquillity of a pretty market town.
They reached the river Wey, clattered over the old bridge and began the steep climb up the high street, past the little shops and taverns. It was as he remembered, but overlying it all was a detachment that put him over and above these scenes. Since last he had been here in these untroubled old lanes he had been at the grand and horrifying scenes of the Nile with Nelson, had stood with bloody sword at the gates of Acre—and been captain of a man-o'-war. What kind of person did that make him in the context of this gentle existence?
Under the splendid clock at the Guild Hall, then up towards School Lane. His heart beat faster for he was returning home— the only one he had now. The horses made the level, then continued the last hundred yards to the schoolhouse. Kydd was touched to see that the flag hoisted proudly over all was the blue ensign of Admiral Keith's Mediterranean squadron, no doubt strictly observed by Boatswain Perrott. It was quiet in the schoolrooms and he guessed that it was holidays.
"Here an' wait, if y' please," Kydd instructed the coachman, when they reached the small gate to the school. He descended, stretched his cramped limbs and made his way to the school cottage. He hesitated for a moment before he knocked: in the time he had been away on the high seas almost anything could have happened to the family. His father had not been so spry then and . . . He braced himself and knocked firmly. Holding his breath, he waited.
The door opened. "Th' Kydd residence. An' what's y' business, sir?" A young maid whom Kydd did not recognise was looking at him suspiciously.
"Mr Kydd t' see Mr Kydd," he could not help replying.
The maid's expression tightened. "I'll tell th' mistress, sir."
The door closed in Kydd's face. He heard light footsteps then the door opened.
"Thomas!" Cecilia shrieked, throwing her arms round him. "Darling Thomas! Do come in—where have you been? You're so dusty! Sit down, sit down! I'll get Mother."
In seconds Kydd learned that his father was well but frail, the school was doing splendidly, that Boatswain Perrott had taken the pledge—could it be believed?—and that Cecilia herself was now resting, following her release from the employ of Lady Stanhope after Lord Stanhope's resignation.
"It's so marvellous to see you!" Cecilia sparkled, holding Kydd at arm's length to see him. "I vow I can't wait until you tell us all about your wonderful ship." She linked his arm and drew him to the mantelpiece, her vivacity eliciting a reluctant smile from Kydd. "And Nicholas, do you ever see him at all?" she added gaily.
"Cec, I've been tryin' to say . . ."
Her hand flew to her mouth.
"He—he's very ill. Not as you'd say certain of a recovery."
Cecilia went white, all traces of gaiety gone. "Wh-where is he now, Thomas?"
"Well, er, he's in th' coach outside. I wanted to—"
She tore herself away and ran outside. Kydd hurried after her, disturbed by his sister's distraught reaction. "We'll take him inside, Cec—Mother will know what t' do."
Kydd sat at the old-fashioned writing desk, absentmindedly nibbling the end of his quill; the words of the letter were not coming easily. From the next room he could hear the steady murmur of Cecilia reading aloud to her patient. With that and the distracting sounds of animals being driven past to the North Street market, the cries of pedlars and street urchins, it was difficult to concentrate.