At White Hall stairs the wherry lay off while Kydd fumbled for silver. Then he went quickly through to the broad avenue that was White Hall, opposite Horse Guards, a right turn and then the colonnaded façade of the Admiralty offices with their imposing buildings beyond offset by the curious structure of a shutter telegraph on the roof.
Kydd's pulse quickened at the sight. Within those grey stone walls had been enacted all the sea dramas of the century: great battles had been planned; the shocking news of mutiny in the British fleet had been received there. And following the victory of Camperdown off the Dutch coast the decision to approve the field-of-battle promotion of a master's mate, one Thomas Paine Kydd, had been taken.
Clutching his small case with the precious petition inside it, Kydd passed into a cobbled courtyard; before him was a portico and the main door, massive and oaken. The Admiralty. He went up to the doorman and slipped him his "fee." The man took the money with a bored expression and showed Kydd through the buff-coloured entrance hall with its gleaming brass lamps to the second door on the left. "Cap'n's room," he said laconically.
He entered the high, beautifully arched room. It was full of people, talking, playing cards, pacing about, dozing. Few looked up at Kydd's entrance, and from their conversations he realised they were there for much the same purpose, seeking promotion or ships—and had been there for a long time.
Kydd kept to himself while he awaited a summons. One came, but that was to part with guineas to the First Lord's keeper to ensure delivery of his petition. There was apparently no indication to be had as to the timing of a possible audience and Kydd went back to the waiting room. First minutes, then hours passed.
He struck up a desultory conversation with others, but the talk was despairing and bitter, touching mostly on the fearful reduction of the Navy to peacetime numbers and the consequences for employment.
The hours dragged unbearably in a tense yet mind-numbing tedium but nothing eventuated. He would have to return the next day. And the next. On the third day, well into the morning, word finally came: the First Lord would see him at four precisely.
Excitement flooded in—at long last! As a commissioned officer Kydd had every right to call on the Admiralty and be heard. And by a sea officer, not a civil appointee, as the previous incumbent. This had to be where his fortune changed.
Time passed even more slowly; his nervous pacing and rehearsal of his words was watched cynically by the others but Kydd knew this was his only chance. At five minutes to four he presented himself and was ushered upstairs to a large room.
"Commander Kydd, m'lord," the functionary said, and withdrew, closing the doors.
Kydd stood before the great desk and tried to meet the hard grey eyes of Earl St Vincent, whose splendid uniform and decorations filled his vision. "S-sir, it is kind in ye to see me at this time."
The eyes were level and uncompromising—and red with tiredness. "You wish a ship." The words were bitten off as though regretted.
"Sir. As ye can see fr'm my—"
"I can read as well as the next man, sir." He had Kydd's painfully written petition in his hands and glanced once at it, then resumed his impaling stare. "If this were a time o' war you should have one, Mr Kydd. Since we are not in that state, I cannot give you one—as simple as that, sir."
"Then, sir, any sea appointment would be more than acceptable . . ."
"If you were a l'tenant, that might have been possible, but you are not. As a commander you must command, and I have no ships."
"Sir, not even—"
"Sir—do tell me, which vessel do you propose I should turn out her captain that you should take his place? Hey? Hey?"
At Kydd's silence he went on in a kinder tone: "Your situation is known. Your services to His Majesty's Navy are well noted, but I can give you no hope of a ship—no hope, do you understand me, sir?"
Kydd stared unseeingly at the damp walls of his rooms, his mind full of bitter thoughts. St Vincent was upright and honourable and he had had a fair hearing. Probably no amount of interest or influence could overturn the odds against him. The very situation he had feared since that fateful talk with the cutter lieutenant had now come about, ironically so soon after he had secured the distinction he had sought.
His means were fast dissipating and there were few alternatives. He had gone over these in his mind many times—there was the Impress Service that ran the press-gangs, the Sea Fencibles that were in effect a naval militia, the Transport Board with its storeships and craft for the Army, and finally hospital and prison ships. Even supposing he could find a berth, there was the undeniable fact that any would be poison to his future career as a first-rank sea officer: it was generally expected that a gentleman officer should retire to his country estates to await a call if there was another war.
A knock at the door brought a quickly scribbled letter from Cecilia. Kydd bit his lip as he read that Renzi had disappeared— had simply vanished from his sick-bed without hint or warning and was presumably wandering the streets, disturbed in his intellects and not responsible. Remembering the doctor's strictures about depression and suicide Kydd's first thought was to rush back to look for Renzi. Then cold reason came and told him that Cecilia would ensure that measures were taken to find him and he could add little by returning to Guildford. He set the letter down.
The cheap candle guttered like his hopes. Things had gone now from disappointment to real worry. Living in London was ruinously expensive and at some point he would find that he must let go his hopes of any more sea employment—and return home. To what?
A sudden thought struck. There was little difference between a merchant ship and a warship if ship-rigged. He was a known quantity in the matter of leading men and, as for the seamanship, he was sure he could make a better fist of it than many he had seen in his convoy days. He would do as the common sailor always did—slip easily between man-o'-war and merchant jack.
The cream was the East India Company, vessels run on naval lines of discipline and efficiency and with ample prospect of profitable ventures for the captain. But John Company was known for its closed structure and there was probably no opening for an outsider. The élite Falmouth Packet Service? Greyhounds of the sea, these little ships would race across the Atlantic with mails and even chests of gold to the New World, again with rich pickings for the captains. Was it worthwhile to make the long trip to Falmouth on the off-chance that he, among so many in like circumstances, would be able to break into such a sea community and secure a command? Probably not. London was, however, the premier maritime centre of the kingdom and if he could not achieve something here, then . . . The heart of this activity was just downstream of the Tower of London, at the final resting place of the ceaseless stream of vessels from all parts of the world. The factors, agents, owners and others all had their offices nearby. He tried to remember company names, any who would favour a naval officer as captain. That was it—Burns, Throsby and Russell; they had been the prickly owners, he remembered, of the brig once chartered for a cartel voyage to the Mediterranean. He set to work to prepare an approach that would persuade them to take on a new captain.
The Burns, Throsby and Russell building was set back from the noise and stench of the Ratcliffe Highway, a haughty paean to the empire of trade. It seemed that Mr Burns was unavailable but Mr Russell would be in a position to accept Kydd's calling in half an hour.