Renzi nodded and the admiral shot him an intent look, then steepled his fingers. "Gentlemen, f'r those newly arrived for the season, a welcome." He held attention while he gazed around the cabin, recognising some, politely acknowledging others. "We have some fresh blood here following our famous victory at Camperdown so I'm taking the opportunity t' meet you all. The North American Squadron—often overlooked these days, but of crucial importance, I declare. The convoy of our mast-ships alone justifies our being. Where would the sea service be without its masts and spars? An' half the world's trade flows through this port, including the West Indies, of course."
Kydd was transfixed by the glitter of the admiral's jewelled star, the gold facings of his coat, the crimson sash, which were grand and intimidating, but Vandeput's pleasant manner and avuncular shock of white hair set him almost at his ease.
"Therefore our chief interest is in the protection of this trade. I rather fancy we won't be troubled overmuch by French men-o'-war—rather, it's these damn privateers that try my patience. Yet I would not have you lose sight of the fact that we are a fleet—to this end I require that every ship under my command acts together as one, concentrating our force when ordered, and for so doing you signal lieutenants shall be my very nerves."
A rustle of amusement passed around the table: the flagship's smartness was well marked and life would not be easy for these junior officers.
"We shall be exercising at sea in company as opportunities arise. I commend my signal instructions to you, with particular attention to be given to the signification of manoeuvres. My flag-lieutenant will be happy to attend to any questions later.
"I wish you well of your appointment to the North American Squadron, gentlemen, and ask that you enjoy the entertainment."
A buzz of talk began as the doors swung wide and dishes of food were brought in. Kydd was about to help himself to the potted shrimps when the stout officer next to him half stood over the biggest salver as its cover was removed. "Aha! The roast cod. This is worth any man's hungering. Shall you try it, sir?"
The fish was splendid—buttery collops of tender white, and Kydd forgot his duty until the officer introduced himself: "Robertson, second of the Acorn. Damn fine cook our admiral has, don't y' know?"
"Kydd, fifth o' Tenacious." He hesitated, but Robertson was more concerned with his fish, which was vanishing fast. "Acorn— the nine-pounder lying alongside?"
"Is her," Robertson agreed. "I suggest only the chicken pie afore the main, by the way. Ol' Georgie always serves caribou, an' I mean to show my appreciation in spades."
"May I?" Kydd had noticed the disappearing fish and was pleased to have remembered his manners so far as to help him to a handsome-sized slice of cold chicken pie. The Rheingau was perfectly attuned to the cold food and his reserve melted a little. "Nine-pounder frigate—hard livin' indeed."
"Aye," Robertson said, his mouth full, "but better'n a ship-of-the-line."
"And how so ?"
"Prize money, o' course. Ol' Georgie's no fool—sends us out all the days God gives after anything that floats, French, Spanish, Scowegian—even American, if we can prove she has a cargo bound for the enemy. If it's condemned in court, cargo 'n' all, then shares all round."
The rumours of caribou were correct, and to the accompaniment of a good Margaux, the dark flesh was tender with an extraordinary sweet wild meat flavour. Kydd sat back, satiated. Renzi was toying with a breast of spruce partridge while deep in serious talk with an older, lean-faced officer.
Kydd stole a look at the admiraclass="underline" he was genially in conversation with a hard-looking officer to his left. Kydd wondered at the simple fact that he himself was sharing a meal with such august company.
"Wine with you, sir!" It was the officer opposite, who had not said much before.
Kydd held his glass forward. "Prize money b' the bucketful!" he toasted.
The other seemed restless. "That would be fine, sir, but while we're topping it the sybarite, others are fighting. And by that I mean winning the glory. There's no promotion to be gained by lying comfortably at two anchors in some quiet harbour — only in a right bloody battle." He held up his wine to the light and studied it gloomily. "To think it—we've been thrown out of the Med since last year, there've been descents on Ireland, and at home I hear Pitt has admitted the collapse and destruction of the coalition and none else in sight. We stand quite alone. Can things be much worse? I doubt it."
Kydd said stoutly, "I'm come fr'm the Caribbee and I can tell you, we've been takin' the French islands one b' one, and now the Spanish Main is ours. And who c'n doubt? The Mongseers have reached their limits, baled up in Europe tight as a drum. To the Royal Navy, gaol-keeper! And may she lose the keys!" But the officer remained grave and quiet. Kydd frowned. "Do ye doubt it, sir?" The wine was bringing a flush, but he didn't care; he seemed to be holding his own in this particular conversation.
With a weary smile the officer put down his glass. "I cannot conceive where you have been this last half-year that you have not in the least understood the motions of the French Directory— intrigues at the highest, or at the point of a bayonet, they have now secured the subjugation or acquiescence of the whole of the civilised world.
"They are arrogant, they care not who they antagonise, for in every battle they triumph, whole nations kneel at their bidding, and for what purpose? While these lie beaten, they have a mighty general, Buonaparte, who is ready to venture forth on the world! Mark my words, before this year's end there will be such a bursting forth by the French as will make the world stare!"
He leaned back in his chair and resumed his wine, looking reprovingly at Kydd. Deliberately, Kydd turned back to Robertson, who was now engrossed with the task of picking at a pretty corner dish. "Sweetbreads?" he mumbled, and offered the dish.
Kydd took one and tried to think of an intelligent remark to make. "The Americans'll be amused at our troubles wi' the French," he said hopefully.
Robertson raised his eyebrows. "Ah, not really, I think." He looked at Kydd curiously. "You must know they've done handsomely out o' this war—being neutral an' all, I mean. Can trade with any and all, if they can get away with it, o' course."
Kydd's blank look made him pause. "How long've you been made up, then?" he asked directly.
"Just this January," Kydd answered warily.
"Then I'd clap on more sail an' get as much o' this business hoisted aboard as you can. You're boarding officer an' take in a fat merchantman that the court decides is innocent, expect to explain yourself to the judge in damages!" He grinned broadly and turned to a pyramid of syllabubs.
The warm glow of the wine fell away. These men were of a different origin, brought up from the cradle with discernment, education, the talk of politics continually around them. How could he conceivably claim to be one of them? Kydd stole a look at Renzi, holding forth elegantly on some exemplary Greek, then at the admiral, listening with his head politely inclined to a fine story from a young lieutenant, and finally at the officer opposite, who was now yarning with his neighbour.
Kydd closed the door of his cabin. There was nobody in the wardroom, but the way he felt he did not want to see another face. His experience of the previous night had left him heartsick, unable to deny any longer that trying his hardest was not enough: he just did not belong in this society. He was a deep-sea sailor, true, but as an officer he was a fish out of water; talk of fox hunting and the Season was beyond him, the implications for his acceptance by them only too clear.