There was no question: he had been on his own for too long.
"Nicholas, the strangest thing—I met m' uncle f'r the first time not long since." His tone made Renzi look at him sharply.
"Yes—m' father's brother, here in Canada." Kydd went on to tell of his discovery and his quandary—and his decision neither to conform to the story of the bear nor to reveal his uncle's current whereabouts to his family.
"An admirable, even logical decision, Tom, and I honour you for it," Renzi said sincerely.
They strolled on in the quietness at the edge of the forest. "That's not all of the matter, is it, brother?" Renzi said, stopping and facing Kydd directly. "I'd be honoured to share whatever it is that lays its hands on my friend."
Kydd looked away, staring at the jack-pines carpeting the landscape, all seeming the same but when looked at separately every one an individual, uncountable thousands into the blue-grey distance. "Nicholas, it doesn't answer. I have t' face it. I'm not t' be one of y'r deep-dyed, gentleman officers who knows their fox-hunting an' Seasons. I know seamanship an' navigation, not dancin' and talking to ladies."
"Dear fellow, this—"
"When I got my step t' the quarterdeck it was hard t' believe. Then it seemed to me that there was no end t' it—captain of my own ship, even. But I know better than that now. The King's service needs l'tenants for sure, but only the gentlemen will find 'emselves promoted—an' I'm no gentleman, an' now I know it."
"No gentleman? What nonsense—"
"Spare me y'r comfortin' words, Nicholas," Kydd said bitterly. "For my own good, I have t' hoist this aboard an' stop pining f'r what can't be, and that's that."
"But it only requires you learn the marks of civility, the — "
"Is that all it is to be a gentleman, jus' know all the tricks? I don't think so." Kydd fell silent, morosely kicking a pine cone.
"Do you despise gentlemen?" Renzi asked quietly.
Kydd flashed him a suspicious look. "Not as who should say— they were born to it, that's their good luck . . . and yours," he added, with a sardonic smile.
They walked on for a space, then Kydd stopped again. "T' be honest, it sticks in m' gullet that I'm t' leave promotion to others — and I'm of a mind t' do something about it."
"What?"
"Well, in a merchant ship they have no care f'r gentle ways—a berth as mate in an Indiaman would suit me right handsomely, one voyage a year out east, an' my own freight . . ."
"Leave the Navy?"
"And why not?"
Kydd obstinately avoided Renzi's gaze as his friend stared at him.
In a brisk south-easterly early next morning the North American Squadron put to sea for one week's exercising in the waters between Nova Scotia and the United States, the 74-gun HMS Resolution as flagship in the van, the seven ships a picture of grace and might.
In Tenacious, at the rear, the picture was more apparent than reaclass="underline" the file of ships that stretched ahead to the flagship in perfect line also obscured her signals, and the little fleet could not stretch to the luxury of a repeating frigate.
Despairing, Kydd hung out from the rigging to weather, trying to steady his big telescope against the thrumming in the shrouds and bracing himself to catch the meaning of Resolution's signal flags end-on. They were clawing their way out close-hauled; if they were to end on an easterly course passing south of the Thrumcap they would have to pass through the wind's eye.
It was the admiral's choice, to tack about or wear round, and with the Neverfail shoal waiting ahead and the same unforgiving rocks under their lee that had claimed Tribune so recently. Tack or wear—put the helm down or up—it all depended on the signal that would be thrown out to the fleet in the next few minutes.
Captain Houghton stumped up and down the quarterdeck, nervous midshipmen scuttling along behind him, the master keeping a respectful distance to his lee. It was impossible to send the men to their stations until it was known the action to be taken, and they stood about the decks in uneasy groups.
Devil's Island, the most seaward part of Halifax, lay abeam: now there was no reason why they could not bear up—and then there was a tiny flutter of bunting on Resolution's poop.
Kydd concentrated with his glass. A quick refresh from his pocket book had shown him that there was only one flag in the two hoists that differentiated "tack" and "wear"—a yellow diagonal on a blue background—and this was number three, "tack." If he just glimpsed that flag, he could ignore the rest and they would gain a vital edge. Houghton stopped pacing and faced Kydd. Around the ship men followed suit, every face turning towards him.
There! A cluster of flags mounted swiftly in Resolution's rigging, their fluttering edges making the hoist nearly impossible to read—but Kydd's straining eyes had spotted the distinctive number three as the flagship's signal crew bent it on as part of the hoist. Before the flags had reached the peak he roared triumphantly, "It's tack!"
Men raced to their stations; running gear was thumped on the deck and faked for running, afteryards manned by the starboard watch and headyards the larboard, double manning for the greatest speed. The signal jerked down aboard the flagship — execute!
The wheel spun as the quartermaster at the wheel and his mate threw themselves at the task and Tenacious's bluff bow began to move. At the waist, ropes' ends were out as the petty officers ensured the foresheet was let go smartly and the lee brace checked away. In growing excitement Kydd saw that of the file of ships only Tenacious herself at the rear and the flagship at the head had begun a swing round into the wind. His pride swelled at the evidence of his enterprise—they were well into their tacking about while in front, Andromeda, was still in line ahead.
"Helm's a-lee!" Big driving sails began shaking, the yards bracing round while the foreyards took the wind aback to lever her round. "Mainsail haul!" The ship passed slowly through the eye of the wind and all hands heaved and hauled with all their might to make the sails belly out comfortably on to the new tack. It was neatly done.
"Sir!" It was Rawson, tugging on his sleeve urgently. Kydd turned irritably. The midshipman pointed mutely at the line of ships: Resolution had tacked about as fast as they, but all the rest were still thrashing along on the old tack, not one even attempting to go about.
A feeling of growing apprehension crept over Kydd. Something was wrong. Resolution was now in plain view to weather, her entire beam to Tenacious instead of her stern—and as they watched, a flutter of bunting mounted at her main, the original signal. But ominously, there for the whole fleet to see was Tenacious's pennant climbing brazenly aloft. A gun thudded out peremptorily for attention.
"What, in the name of God?" Houghton roared at Kydd. The admiral was telling the world that HMS Tenacious had blundered and should conform to his signal.
"It's tack, but in succession, sir," Rawson whispered urgently, pointing to an entry in the signal book. It was the order to tack, sure enough, but the maddening additional flag at the end indicated that instead of turning into line like a file of soldiers, the admiral wanted the column of ships to reach a fixed point, then wheel round to follow him, thereby preserving their line ahead formation.
"Sir, the signal is 'tack in succession.' I—I'm sorry, sir . . ." Kydd's voice seemed thin and weak.
Houghton's chest swelled and his face reddened, but before the explosion another gun sounded impatiently from the flagship. There was nothing for it but public ignominy.