"An' not before time, Sergeant," Kydd said. "We're t' sea directly."
"With only one midshipman?" murmured Renzi beside him. "A mort hard on Mr Prosser, I believe."
"Do him good, th' lazy villain!" Kydd flared. But he knew this was no minor quibble: the lack of a midshipman in the opposite watch was going to affect more than just the watchkeepers for in any kind of action they were effective in standing between officers and men.
He rounded on Renzi: "So, if y'r polite society doesn't see Teazer a fit berth f'r their sons, why, I'm th' captain, an' it's m' right to set on the quarterdeck as midshipman any I please!" he retorted. He turned back with a sardonic smile. "Send Able Seaman Calloway aft, if y' please."
Teazer put to sea on the tide and stood out into the Channel. Seen from the rolling green hills of Devon, there was nothing to suggest that this was anything other than one of the many small men-o'-war going about their vital business in great waters. Her spars and rigging properly a-taunto, her pennant streaming out, sails trimmed to perfection, she was a picture of grace and warlike beauty—but on her quarterdeck, with the marks of grief and misery on his face, a figure stared astern over the widening seas at the receding coast.
Renzi watched Kydd unnoticed. It would be long months before England was sighted once more. Was there a chance that his friend could heal, away from the memories? He made his way below, guiltily aware that for himself the exile would not be wasted: he had heard enough of the Channel Islands, with their neither truly English nor certainly French character, to be looking forward keenly to his time there. An earnest guidebook was waiting on the bookshelf and opportunities in the future for exemplary ethnical comparisons would be limitless.
At daybreak they raised the south-west of Guernsey and, with the customary pilot aboard for entry into harbour, rounded the south-eastern tip. The island itself was only a few miles long, but a dismaying number of vicious rocks, reefs and islets were visible in the approaches to the harbour, scores of black fangs waiting on every hand.
St Peter Port was guarded by the brooding mass of Herm offshore, and closer to, a squat castle on a rocky islet before an inner harbour. Between, there was a broad expanse of clear water, sheltered from the prevailing westerlies. There, upwards of thirty ships were moored, including three warships riding to anchor.
"Ye'll be wantin' the two-decker, o' course," the pilot said respectfully. "Diomede, an' flagship o' y'r admiral." She was only a 50 but boasted a splendid gallery with a real, old-fashioned sternwalk. "Teazer's small swivel cracked in salute as six marines—all that could be found room for on the afterdeck—were drawn up and, with much stamping and slapping of muskets, brought proudly to attention.
"Away the gig." Kydd, in full dress uniform, stepped gravely into the boat. Renzi watched it stroke smartly away for the flagship. The twittering of pipes carried over the water as Kydd mounted the side and was gone.
"I'll be below," Standish announced, a bored look on his face. He clattered down the hatchway, leaving Renzi with the pilot, whose work would not be done until Teazer had anchored safely.
"This is Admiral Saumarez," Renzi pondered aloud to the pilot.
"Aye, it is."
"And something of a hero, I believe," Renzi added. "Was it not Orion at St Vincent and the Nile? And, of course, Algeciras . . ."
"A Guernseyman first an' always," the pilot said stoutly.
"This is his fleet?" Renzi said, gesturing at the other two ships, both frigates of some maturity. Even the small flagship Diomede was of an obsolete and derided class, not big enough to fight in the line of battle or fast enough to stay with frigates.
"Well, an' there's another two frigates out on a cruise, like," the pilot said defensively. "Plenty an' enough for Sir James t' see away Johnny Frenchman, I'll believe."
To Renzi it was unsettling: at a time when England stood in such peril why consign one of Nelson's band of brothers, a proven leader and experienced admiral, to be a full commander-in-chief of a tiny island or two and a handful of frigates?
He held his doubts, but that didn't stop the boatswain pressing the case: "As it may be, cully, but it don't say why such a right copper-bottomed fightin' man as him tops it the admiral-in-chief here when a little one'll do, does it?"
The pilot drew himself up. "No mystery, m' friend. He's a Guern', as I said, an' he's come back t' stand by his people in their time o' need. Anything y' can see wrong wi' that?"
* * *
Kydd returned, his face set. "Great Road, astern o' Cerberus," he ordered Standish, who had come back on deck and was awaiting the order to moor. "Mr Renzi, please t' attend on me," he added, and disappeared below.
There was a marine on duty outside the captain's cabin. As a naval officer, Renzi had been accustomed to due obeisance but as a ship's clerk he was not to be noticed; Kydd, however, received the respect of a musket clash as they passed into "Teazer's great cabin.
Kydd emptied his dispatch case of papers. "I'd be obliged if ye'd see t' these. Orders o' the station as will touch on "Teazer's standin' orders, forms o' the sort as y' will see bear on our new standing."
"New standing?"
"Aye," Kydd snarled. "As second t' Cerberus 32. Attached t' her for victuals an' stores, f'r duties as her captain will fr'm time t' time direct."
"Attached? This will—"
"It means no cruisin' on our own any more."
Renzi frowned. Apart from the obvious loss of independence, the natural assumption of honours for the senior in any combat that might eventuate and the halving or less of any prize money, there would be little chance now for challenges and diversions to lift Kydd from the pit of despair. "My commiserations, dear fellow. How shall you—"
Kydd's expression was hard. "I shall do m' duty, as will you, an' every man aboard this barky. Those orders t' be transcribed directly, an' the purser t' lay aft now." Kydd's eyes gleamed fiercely, his drawn features bleak and forbidding—almost callous in their estrangement from the world. Renzi felt deep disquiet.
The papers complete, Kydd left for Cerberus to make his number with her captain. He returned quickly, without comment, in time to receive the seven local men coming aboard who had volunteered. Unlike the general run of seamen in England they could be sure that service would be in their home waters, defending their own kith and kin.
At six bells Mr Queripel, a small but well-built man in nondescript old-fashioned dress, arrived aboard. His certificate showed him approved by the commander-in-chief to act locally as a form of on-board permanent pilot, insisted upon by Saumarez for all non-native naval vessels in his command. Renzi saw Dowse, their own sailing-master, take wary measure of him.
Standish turned to Kydd. "Sir, might I ask—"
"When Cerberus puts t' sea, so does Teazer, " Kydd grated. "Until then we remain in attendance at anchor. Is that clear?"
"Aye aye, sir," Standish said sulkily.
That night there was no invitation for Renzi to dine with the captain; he supped with Standish and the others in what passed for a wardroom, the cramped space outside the cabins below.
"Tut, tut," the master said, after the meal had advanced sufficiently for tongues to be loosened. "Where are our spirits? Why are we cast down? Th' chances are we'll soon have our heart torn out on some Godforsaken rock and out o' this 'un quick enough."
"Mr Dowse! F'r shame!" said the boatswain, Purchet. "Could be th' Frogs are out an' then—"