He left with a clutch of books and hurried back. The Greek grammar was hopelessly obtuse and required him to learn by rote the squiggly characters of the alphabet before ever he could start. It could wait for later. The other looked more promising; an interlinear copy of Caesar's commentaries on the campaign in Gaul, the Latin on one line, English on another. At least it was about the manly pursuit of war, not the fantastical monsters and gods of antique Greece.
"Omnia Gallia in tres partes divisa est. . ." Did he really have to get his head round all this? Or could he learn some of the more pithy sayings and casually drop them into the dinner-table conversation to the pleased surprise of all? That sounded much the better idea.
In the matter of polite discourse there could be no hesitation. He would be damned as of the lower orders by his own words just as soon as he opened his mouth in company. Since the days of Cecilia's patient efforts on his speech, he had slipped back into his comfortable old ways.
No, this required an all-out effort—and he must apply himself to it this time. Resolved, he gave it careful thought. This was not to be learned casually with others or from books, he needed professional assistance. In the Portsmouth Commercial Directory he found what he was looking for.
"Mr. Augustus DeLisle?" he asked politely, at the door of a smart Portsea terrace house.
"It is, sir, at your service," the rather austere gentleman answered with a slight bow, appraising Kydd's appearance, then bestowing on him a professional smile.
"Th' language coach as can be engaged t' fit a gentleman for converse even at the Court o' St. James?" Kydd persisted.
"The same," the man said with a sniff. "You should know that I count most of the noble houses of Hampshire among my satisfied clients and—" "Are ye available for immediate engagement, sir?" Kydd asked abruptly.
"Why, at such notice—"
"I've ten guineas to lay in y'r hand as says it'll fadge."
"Er, very well—but be aware, sir, I cannot abide the fugitive aspirate, still less the cruelly truncated participle! You shall bring along your child and he will—"
"Not a younker, sir, it's t' be me."
"I—I don't quite understand you, sir," the man said uncertainly.
"M' name's Kydd, and I want t' speak wi' the best of 'em. Ye've got me half a day, every day until I can stand up an' be taken for a lord."
"Every day?" he spluttered. "My young masters usually attend but twice a week and—"
"M' time is limited, sir," Kydd said impatiently. "I'd be thinkin' ye a rare 'un if I sees ye refuse half a year's fee for a few weeks' work."
The refit ground forward in the dockyard but the day came not so many weeks later when Teazer was released and became inhabited once more by her rightful denizens. She stored, watered and took in an overseas allowance of powder and shot, the Downs Squadron being considered so active a station as to warrant a maximum loading.
There was no time to be lost: Admiral Keith needed every vessel that swam in his crucial command, and Kydd was determined for Teazer to play her part.
"Er, I have to report, ship ready for sea, sir," Hallum said awkwardly.
Kydd grunted. It was now common knowledge about the ship that their clerk was still at large, adrift from leave. A letter of recall had been sent to him, which had been acknowledged, but he had not appeared and it now seemed that the ship would sail without him.
It was no use. They could not delay. Kydd sighed heavily and went on deck, searching vainly for a hurrying figure on the dockside. "Single up!" he ordered. All lines that tethered them alongside were let go save two. Away from the wharf, dockyard work-boats attended for the sloop to warp out, and in Teazer there was the age-old thrill of the outward bound.
Sail bent on, men expectantly at their posts, Kydd reluctantly gave the command. "Take us out, Mr. Dowse."
Ropes splashed into the murky water and Teazer was ready to spread her wings. Colour appeared at the signal tower. "Our pennant, 'proceed,' sir," squeaked their brand new midshipman, Tawse, wielding the big telescope importantly.
"Acknowledge," Kydd said heavily. With the ebb tide Teazer loosed sail and left to meet her destiny.
The narrow entrance was difficult and needed concentration. They passed the rickety jollity of Portsmouth Point close abeam, then King Henry's tower on one side with Haslar and Fort Blockhouse only a couple of hundred yards to the other, and they were through.
"Haaaands, t' the braces!" Constrained by sandbanks close to larboard and the Nab still to round before clear water, there was little room for manoeuvre.
"He's there, sir!" screamed a youngster, wildly pointing shore-wards. A sharp-lined wherry was putting off hastily from the Sally Port on a course to intercept.
"It's Mr. Renzi, right enough," confirmed Purchet, after snatching at the telescope.
Without hesitating, Kydd rapped, "Heave to, Mr. Dowse!" It was madness in the fast current and sandbanks past the entrance to be not under way . . . and close astern a heavy frigate was coming down on them at speed. With the wind large there was no other way than to wheel about awkwardly and place the fore aback, but Kydd was not going to lose Renzi.
The frigate plunged past with an energetic volley of abuse from her quarterdeck. The wherry stroked out manfully and at last hooked on at the main-chains. While Teazer paid off before the wind, willing hands hauled Renzi in, his bundles of books needing more robust hoisting.
"I do apologise, sir," Renzi said formally.
Kydd, still in his quarterdeck brace, frowned but said nothing.
"We lost a wheel before Petersfield and—"
"Mr. Renzi! I rather feel that in this instance you might have been topping it overmuch the cunctator, as it were."
Renzi was transfixed with astonishment at his friend's cultivated words. The Latin cunctator—delayer—was indeed appropriate, an allusion to the tactic used by the Roman commander in the war with Hannibal, an attempt to deny the enemy a battle. "Why, thank you, sir!" He wasn't about to let Kydd get away with this one, whatever the reason for its mysterious appearance.
"Thank you?" Kydd said, crestfallen.
"For the compliment, of course, dear fellow. It was by this very tactic that Quintus Fabius Maximus may have shamed the Roman Army but it undoubtedly won him the war and his nickname."
The open Channel won and a fine westerly in their sails, by evening there was chance to sup together.
Renzi opened politely. "Er, at the risk of impertinence I cannot help but remark the elegance of your speech, its genteel delivery, the—"
"Quite simple, Renzi, old chap. I've given it a deal of thought. And it seems to me, the only way to move forward in this world is not to kick against the pricks . . ." a flash of smugness was quickly smothered ". . . but be agreeable to the customary forms of civility and breeding when in genteel company. In fine, if I'm to enter in on society, then I'm to be like them. And you have m' word on it, enter in I will!" "Then you have my most earnest admiration, Tom—er, Kydd, old trout. So recently shunned by society and cast into the very depths, yet you hold no grudge, no antipathy towards those who—"
"It's past. I have a bright future now and I'm going to take it with both hands and do what I have to."
"Are you certain that—"
"M' dear friend. Since coming into my fortune, I stand amazed at the boldness and presumption as can be found from having a pot o' gold at your back! I cannot fear the rich-dressed when I'm rigged the same, or stand mumchance while they talk wry, when I can, just as well."