He knew well what was in store: others who had "come aft by the hawse" had found their place—as a tarpaulin officer. Known in the Navy as characters, they were bluff, hard on the men they knew so well and had no pretensions to gentility or learning. Utterly reliable at sea, they were outcasts in polite social situations, and usually took refuge in hearty drinking. As for promotion and ambition, improbable.
Was this his fate? He had tasted the sweets of a higher life with Renzi—their leisurely talking of philosophers and logic under a tropic moon, the dream-like times in Venice; the dinner with Renzi's brother in Jamaica had been a taste of what should be, but now . . .
Thought of his friend brought with it a wave of desolation. Renzi was in his element now, clearly headed for the highest levels and thoroughly enjoying his change of fortune. He had aided Kydd as much as he could, teaching him the forms and appearances, but there was no help for it. This was not a matter of learning the ropes, it was breeding.
His depression deepened: logic would say—and Renzi was a servant to logic—that in truth his friend no longer needed a sea companion to lighten his intellectual existence and ease his self-imposed exile. Now Renzi had the chaplain to dispute with whenever he felt inclined, Kydd thought bitterly. All told, perhaps it would have been more merciful if Kydd had never known another existence—had never encountered Renzi, even.
He felt despair and flung open the door for Tysoe. When his servant did not immediately appear he roared his name.
Tysoe arrived, his hands showing evidence that he had been at work boning Kydd's best shoes. He wore a perfectly composed expression. "Sir?"
"Fetch me one o' my clarets."
Tysoe's eyes flickered. "Will that be two glasses, sir?"
Kydd coloured. "No, damn y'r eyes—just th' one!"
When it came, he snatched bottle and glass, slammed his door, then splashed the wine into the glass, hands shaking with emotion. He drank hard, and it steadied him. He stared morosely at the ship's side in his tiny cabin, forcing himself to be calm. "Tysoe! Another bottle an' you can turn in f'r the night," he shouted.
It was obvious now. There was only one cause for his despondency: loneliness. An outsider in the wardroom, he was cut off from the rough, warm camaraderie before the mast that he knew so well. Now he had no one. And Renzi would be moving on soon, probably taken up as a flag-lieutenant.
The second bottle was half-empty already, but Kydd's pain was easing. He allowed the warm memory of Kitty to return: she had stood by him during the terrible days of the Nore mutiny—she had a strength he'd rarely seen in a woman. With her, he might have . . . There was a lump in his throat and he gulped another glass. If only she were here, if only . . .
He stared at the glass in his hand. Already he was turning into what he dreaded to be—a tarpaulin officer. Through self-pity he was sliding down the same slope as they all must have: to find acceptance they had turned themselves into a patronised caricature, then found a steady friend in the bottle.
"God rot me, but I'll not be one." His harsh croak in the confined space startled him. He seized the bottle and pushed it away. So shameful was the thought that he lurched to his feet and threw open the door, clutching the bottle by its neck. The wardroom was still deserted, all others no doubt gone ashore together.
"Tysoe!" he called. The man came quickly and silently and Kydd knew why: he had conceived it his duty to stand by his master while he got helplessly drunk, then tumble him into his cot.
The realisation hurt Kydd: it bore on his spirit that others would now be making allowances for him, and he stiffened. "If ye'd like the res' o' the wine . . ." He awkwardly held out the bottle. "I shan't need any more."
Renzi was not at breakfast but Kydd found him later in the day in his cabin. "The admiral plans to visit his realm in Newfoundland," he said, "and for some unaccountable reason he wishes me to accompany him. A vexation—if you remember I planned to join the Shiptons for whist." He seemed preoccupied. "There will be no sea exercises with the admiral in Newfoundland counting his cod, dear fellow. If you can bear to leave your signal books, why do you not see more of the country? You really should get away more."
Kydd murmured something, watching his friend rummaging in his chest.
Renzi looked up, shamefaced. "I'd be obliged should you lend me a shirt or two, Tom—there will be a quantity of social occasions in Newfoundland, I've heard." A surge of feeling surprised Kydd with its intensity as he fetched them, but he said nothing. A stubborn pride still remained, which would not allow him to burden Renzi with the problem.
Renzi left with a hasty wave. Pringle emerged from his cabin the picture of military splendour, a pair of pigskin gloves in one hand, a swagger stick in the other. He noticed Kydd, gave a noncommittal grunt, then he, too, strode away. Servants came to clear the afternoon clutter, looking at Kydd warily. There was nothing for it but to retire to his cabin.
Pride would not let him inveigle himself into another's invitation—besides, he might find himself in a situation that would end in his making a spectacle of himself again. He burned with embarrassment at the recollection of his conversation at table. What could they think of an officer as crassly ignorant as any foremast hand?
The wardroom was clear again; he paced about, morose. A book lay on the rudder-head. He wandered over idly and pulled it out: Observations on the Current War, by an Officer of Rank. It was full of maps and diagrams, painstakingly hatched with tiny lines and minuscule lettering. It covered in great detail every military campaign of the war so far.
He had never had an interest in the interminable toing and froing that seemed to be the lot of the Army, but this book had an introductory treatment for each theatre of war, which sounded robust and useful. His spirits rose a little. This at least was something constructive he could do—learn some facts to ward off assumptions of ignorance.
It was a workmanlike book, and the treatment was clear and direct but, even so, talk of why the Duke of York had considered the Austrian Netherlands worth a hopeless campaign was baffling, mainly because it assumed a degree of familiarity with the political background that he did not have.
He persevered, going to each introduction in turn and stitching together a basic understanding on which he could hang his facts. Yet as he did so, he found his attention held by the implications of what he was reading: armies and trade—expressions of a nation's economic strength, but vulnerable to the quixotic twists of fate and man's plotting.
It was a new experience for Kydd. He read on until a fundamental realisation stole over him. He set down the book and stared into space. Until now he had unconsciously thought of his ship as a boundary to his world. He could step ashore in foreign parts and see sights impossible for most, but he could always return to his snug little world and sail away. There, the dangers of the sea and the malice of the enemy were reality.
Now it was all changed. Events in one part of the world could reach out and touch an officer, have grave military and legal consequences if a wrong decision was made. They might conceivably damn his career or even cause an international incident. In essence, an officer dealt with the wider world; the common seaman did not.
"Mr Kydd!" Bryant's bellow reached effortlessly from the quarterdeck to the fo'c'sle where Kydd had taken refuge from the marines drilling loudly on the poop-deck under an enthusiastic Lieutenant Best.
Hastily Kydd made his way aft. "I've been called away, damn it, an' just when we're due a parcel o' new men. Should be coming aboard this hour. Bring 'em aboard, if y' please, and take all the able-bodied but, mark this, send all the rubbish back—we don't want 'em, right?"
"Aye aye, sir. Are they pressed men?"
"Not all. We've got a press warrant out, but most o' these are merchant jacks, tired of winterin', and odd sods off the streets. We can be satisfied with a dozen. I'll rate 'em when I get back this afternoon." Bryant jammed on his hat and stalked off.