Renzi waited patiently, gazing astern.
Kydd continued weakly, "Y' see, I don't feel an officer—it's as if I was playin' a role, dressin' up for the part like a common actor." The frustrations boiled up and he gulped with emotion. "I know th' seamanship, the orders an' things but—Nicholas, look at me! When the others talk t' each other, they're talkin' to the squire, the gentry—their father is lord o' the manor of some fine family, they talk of ridin' with the hounds, calling on the duke in London, what's the latest gossip . . ." His voice thickened. "And me, what can I talk about at table without I open m' mouth and be damned a yokel?"
Renzi murmured encouragement. Paradoxically, this made it all the worse for Kydd, and his frustration took a new path. "It's easy enough f'r you. You've been born into it," he said bitterly, "lived that way all y'r life. This is why you can talk y'r horses an' estates 'n' politics with the others. And have you thought how it is f'r me? I sit there sad as a gib cat, hearin' all this jabber and feelin' as out of it as—"
The carpenter interrupted them with his report and Kydd processed the information mechanically. Twenty-four inches in the welclass="underline" if he left it, the night watch would have to deal with it, manning the big chain pump with all its creaking and banging, rendering sleep impossible for the watch below. He'd see to it before he left the deck.
Renzi spoke quietly: "Tom, do you consider awhile. We all have had to learn the graces, the manners and ways of a gentleman. It's just that we've had much longer than you to learn. You see? You will learn in time, then—"
"Be damned!" Kydd choked. "Do ye take me f'r a performing monkey? Learn more tricks and bring 'em out in company? Is this how to be a gentleman?"
Renzi's face set. "You're being obnoxious, my friend," he said softly.
"An' I'm gettin' sick o' your word-grubbin' ways! You're no frien' if all you can say is—"
Renzi turned on his heel. "Nicholas! I—I didn't mean t' say . . ." Renzi stopped. Kydd's hand strayed to his friend's shoulder but there was no response: Renzi merely turned, folded his arms and looked coldly at him. "I've been thinkin' a lot, Nicholas. About who I am, is the short of it." He lifted his chin obstinately. "Afore now I've been proud t' be a man-o'-war's man. Life f'r me has been simple an' true. Now I've gone aft it's all gone ahoo. I've lost m' bearings—an' all my friends." "Do I take it that you still wish to be an officer?" Kydd looked away for long moments. "Nicholas, you may account me proud or stubborn—but I will not be a tarpaulin to pity f'r his plain ways. An officer left t' one side when it comes to society an' promotion. Gentlemen officers laugh at the poor sot behind his back—gets a-fuddle wi' drink ashore 'cos he don't know what t' say. I'd rather be cream o' the shit than shit o' the cream, damn it."
Renzi winced. "You may regret turning your back on fortune."
"Did I say I was? I just don't know, is all."
Renzi coughed gently. "Possibly I am in no small measure to blame in this, dear fellow, but still I feel there is only one logical course, and one you seem to have already rejected. For as long as it will take, you must apply your best and most sincere endeavours to fitting yourself out for a gentleman officer—in look, word and deed. Then, and only then, you may take your rightful place in society, my friend."
At Kydd's moody silence Renzi insisted on an answer. "I'll think on it," was all he could achieve.
They were heading north to where the Labrador current from the icy fastness of the polar region met the unseen river of warm water driving up from the Caribbean, the Gulf Stream. Such a confluence was highly likely to result in the navigator's nightmare: fog.
Ahead there were several days of slow sailing across the mouth of the great St Lawrence before they made the shallower waters of the Grand Banks, then the doubling of Cape Race for St John's and landfall.
The Halifax-bound leaver division of the convoy had parted, and now the convoy was mainly smaller ships, bringing out supplies for the important cod fishery, with some larger vessels who would touch at St John's before making south for the United States. Kydd knew them all by sight now, and it would be strange after a month and a half of ocean travelling when their familiar presence was no longer there.
With the wind dropping all the time, the seas lost their busy ruckling of the long, easy swell. There was hardly a gurgle or a splash from the ships' languorous sliding through the grey water. Quite different from the fetid heat and glassy calms of the doldrums, this was simply the removal of energy from the sea's motion.
A sudden cry came from the masthead lookout. "Saaail hoooo! Sail t' the nor'ard, standin' towards!"
A distinct stir of interest livened the decks. This was much too early for the sloops and gunboats of St John's they were to meet, and a single sail would be bold to challenge a ship-of-the-line.
"My duty to the captain, and I would be happy to see him on deck," the officer-of-the-watch, Adams, told his messenger, but it was not necessary. Houghton strode on to the quarterdeck, grim-faced.
"You'd oblige me, Mr Kydd, should you go aloft and let me know what you see."
Kydd accepted a telescope from Adams and swung up into the rigging, feeling every eye on him. His cocked hat fell to the deck as he went round the futtock shrouds—he would remember to go without it next time—and to the main topmast top, joining the lookout who politely made room for him.
"Where away?" Kydd asked, controlling his panting. Breaking the even line of the horizon was a tiny smudge of paleness against the grey—right in their path. He brought up the telescope. It was difficult to controclass="underline" even in the calm sea the slow roll at this height was sufficient to throw off the sighting. He wedged himself against the topgallant mast, feet braced against the cross-trees, then got his first good look at the pale pyramid of sail head on. His heart jumped. The glass wandered and the small image blurred across.
"What do you see?" Houghton bellowed from below.
Kydd swept the telescope to each side of the pyramid. Nothing. Tantalisingly he caught brief glimpses of it, now getting sharper and larger, but there was never enough time to fix on it. He prepared to lean over to hail the deck, then noticed wan sunlight shafting down close to it. He would give it one last try.
A glitter of light moved across the sea towards it. He raised his telescope—and saw it transformed. "Deck hooo! An ice island!"
The whole incident had gone unnoticed by the convoy, for the height-of-eye of Tenacious's lofty masts ensured she saw it well before any other, but all were able to take their fill of the majestic sight as they passed hours later. Up close, it was not all pure white: there were startling pale blues, greens and dirty blotches— and such a size! There was an awed silence along the decks as men came up to stare at the silent monster from the frozen north.
The wind died, leaving a lethargic swell and the ship creaking and groaning under a dull, pearly sky. While Houghton paced up and down in frustration, Kydd noticed one of the larger vessels of the convoy far to the leeward edge. As with all ships, her sails hung lifeless from her yards but for some reason she had none on her foremast, not even headsails. "Odd," he mused to the master. Then a signal jerked hastily aloft from her mizzen peak halliards. Without wind to spread the flags it was impossible to make out the message, but there was clearly activity on deck.
"Damn the fellow!" Houghton snapped. Virtually dead in the water, there was little Tenacious could do to investigate further.
"I thought so," the master said, seeing the dead white of a fogbank advancing stealthily in eddying wreaths that hugged the sea surface and eventually engulfed the ship in a blank whiteness. The muffled crump of two guns sounded from somewhere within the white barrier; in conjunction with the flags this was the agreed signal for distress.