Kydd was well pleased at the unfeigned delight. He had learned how to make a prick of tobacco from one of the gunner’s mates with whom he had shared a watch in one of the hanging magazines. A wad of good strong tobacco leaves was spread on flannel. Sprinkled with rum, it was rolled up and tied to a deckhead cleat with spun yarn, rotated tightly along its length and left for a week or so. The resulting hard plug was then cut with a razor-sharp knife into thin disks of shag.
Appreciatively, Renzi drew out his clay pipe and rubbed himself a fill. Soon a powerful fragrance was on the wind and Renzi settled back against the carronade slide with a comfortable sigh.
Kydd picked up the waistcoat. Renzi’s body had responded to seaboard life by becoming whipcord thin, and the garment would certainly need another tuck. He threaded the needle. “So much for the Mongseers!” Kydd grimaced. “Never a sign of ’em, and we trail our coats off their ports f’r weeks!”
Renzi’s eyes were closed. “I wonder what’s happening in Paris,” he mused. “The mob will be baying for blood – but whose? The Jacobins ride the tiger – Robespierre needs victories if he is to prevail.” It was not easy to live in this total isolation, without a newspaper, journal or even a rumor when to his certain knowledge the world was in flames.
Doud came up beaming with a tankard of small beer. “Well, Jack Tar, ahoy! I reckon we can’t ask Tom Kydd now to desire the sextant for to pray fer us!” He gave the beer to Kydd, looking at Renzi sideways as he did so.
“You want a wet, Renzi?” he enquired.
“That is most kind in you, Ned,” Renzi said, “and it’s Nicholas, by the way.”
“You are most welcome, Nick,” Doud said, in mocking tones.
“It’s Nicholas,” Kydd said.
Doud grinned and left.
It was glassy smooth, only a long swell moving under the glittering surface of the sea. The sails drew, but only just, Duke William inevitably falling away in the line of three ships as they exercised together.
A distant thud was heard. Another – it sounded like a far-off door slamming. On the quarterdeck, telescopes whipped up and trained on the distant land. Another gun thudded – and a flurry started among the officers.
“What’s that?” Kydd asked. He and Renzi were together now in the mizzen top as Kydd’s station had changed since his advancement to seaman. With a grandstand view of the quarterdeck, they saw the marine drummer boy hastily take position at the main hatch.
“Quarters!” Renzi exclaimed.
They looked at each other and descended hastily to the deck, moving past the raucous volleying of the drum at the main hatch to their respective stations.
“What cheer, mates?” said Salter. “What’s the alarum, then?” His eyes glittered in the lower-deck gloom as he cleared away the muzzle lashing of their gun.
“No idea, Will. Did see sail close inshore, but that’d be one of our frigates, I’ll wager.” Kydd had not been prepared to risk a rope’s end by hanging about to find out.
This was a call for a full sweep fore and aft – anything that could not immediately be struck down into the hold was dumped overboard, and the sea astern was studded by floating debris. The men worked fast – this was no drill.
Renzi’s action quarters was at one of the upper-deck twelve-pounders. There was perhaps a chance that Kydd would see him if he was called away to handle sails, which was his secondary battle station.
Down the fore hatch ladder clattered Midshipman Cantlow, still buckling on his dirk, his cocked hat askew. Kydd disliked him – the gangling man was older by far than the others, in his late twenties at least, not having the interest or ability to pass for lieutenant. He had once ordered a starting for Kydd over some trivial matter; it was not the colt whipping painfully across his shoulders that he remembered, it was the spite that had triggered it – Cantlow was embittered at his lot.
“What news – sir?” asked Stirk. He was ignored, Cantlow adjusting his cross-belt and scabbard over the threadbare uniform coat. He would take charge of the foremost six guns under a lieutenant of the gundeck. With a significant look, Stirk called over to Doggo loudly, “Looks like we got ourselves a right smashin’ match, mate. Yer’ve made yer arrangements, then?”
Kydd looked at him sharply.
“Why, o’ course – but it ain’t no use, there won’t be many of us left after the fightin’ really gets started, we bein’ down here in the slaughterhouse ’n’ all,” Doggo replied, his face blank.
“What are you yattering about, you useless swabs?” Cantlow said irritably, fiddling nervously with his dirk.
“Seen the doc sharpenin’ his saws,” Salter said gloomily. “Shoulda got the carpenter to do a better job – never could stand a blunt saw at me bones.”
“An’ where’s the priest?” Velasquez added mournfully. “’Ow we can die wi’out we ha’ a priest?”
“Silence! Do you think to bait me? You stinking, worthless scum!” Cantlow glared around.
“Why, sir,” Stirk said, with a saintly expression, “we’re cruel a-feared, ’n’ we need some words, some strong words, from an orficer to steady us in our time o’ need-sir!”
Cantlow’s venomous glare was interrupted by the arrival of Lieutenant Lockwood. “Report, Mr. Cantlow,” he ordered.
“Well, sir, I – ”
“You’re useless, and stupid,” Lockwood said, “so muster your men again and report.” Lockwood took position on the centerline. Although he was young, his voice already had the crack of authority. “Still!” All activity on the gundeck ceased. “We have just been alerted by Amphion frigate that the French have taken advantage of this easterly to put to sea. But not from Brest. Four ships-of-the-line and frigates have sailed from Douarnenez to the south of here, and we think they mean to proceed to the Caribbean and our valuable sugar islands. They did not reckon on our vigilance, and now we will make sure that they never arrive!”
A savage growl arose from the gun crews.
“The weather in this light blow is not in our favor – but they have formed line and are offering battle. We will oblige them!”
A deeper-throated sound swelled into cheers.
“Haaaands to make sail!”
The boatswain’s calls pierced into the excitement. Kydd ran topsides with the others of the gun crews assigned to sail trimming. The brilliant sun made him screw up his eyes, but he knew by instinct the position of the mizzen shrouds and his leap took him into the ratlines. He swarmed up to the mizzen top.
It was a chance to take in the scene of impending battle. Far ahead against the nondescript line of the coast were the enemy – four small clusters of ivory sails emerging from Douarnenez Bay and sailing large before the light easterly wind, four big vessels in line formation, taking advantage of the offshore winds of the morning. They were headed from right to left across Duke William’s bows, standing out for the Atlantic, but seemingly in no hurry to close and grapple.
On the starboard tack Duke William was heading toward a point of intersection ahead of them, clawing her way to windward in the frustrating light winds, doing her best to get within range. The ripple under her forefoot sounded like the contented chuckle of a country millstream at a sleepy knot or two.
“’Less we can get the old barky to lift up her skirts ’n’ run, we’re goin’ to lose ’em,” the captain of the top said bitterly. He looked over the flat seas to their fellow ships-of-the-line in staggered line abeam. Tiberius led Royal Albion by a short head, and both were significantly ahead of Duke William.
“Know what that is?” the man said sharply to Kydd, without turning his head. “That there’s gun money ’n’ head money ’n’ mebbe even a mort o’ prize money, that is. One chance we get in this bucket to lay ’ands on an honest guinea or two and we meets wi’ a dead calm.”