‘Hmmph. Look, Mr Captain, survey’s complete but we’ve work t’ do. How’s about you take yourself off for a look-see and come back in an hour. Then we’ll have your opinion.’
Delighted, Kydd took his leave and began to make his acquaintance.
She was not a new ship. Over here were scores in the deck that could not be planed out, and there he noted smooth new timber scarphed into older. More clues of her maturity became evident: the shape of the knight-heads of a previous age, the pair of davits over the stern as an afterthought – she must be close to ten years old at least. She had therefore first kissed the waves at the time he had embarked on the voyage around the world that had changed him from a youth to a man and formed him as a seaman. In Artemis frigate he had sailed from this very port, the fearsome Captain ‘Black Jack’ Powlett in command. As clear as yesterday he recalled the pugnacious blue-black jaw, the terrifying stare – and now he, the former Able Seaman Kydd, was in his shoes . . .
He returned his attention to L’Aurore d’Égalité. Like all frigates, the topmost deck was flush from bow to stern but this was deceptive. In reality there was a raised fo’c’sle forward and a poop aft; but these were joined into one by broad gangways each side. The open space in the middle was straddled by spare spars and on these would be nested the ship’s boats.
He found the after ladderway down to the next level. This was their single gun-deck, and the frigate’s main armament would be found arrayed all the way down each side. It was now deserted, all ordnance landed before docking, and the space seemed limitless, stretching away distantly to the bows.
Behind him were the cabin spaces – his living quarters. All other officers and men would berth below, in the perpetual gloom of the lower deck where, in the absence of ports or windows, no natural light could penetrate.
Turning aft, he moved towards a bulkhead: it spanned the ship right across in an intimidating show of exclusion – the captain’s apartments. It was finished in polished red wood. The brass handles of the two doors still glowed with the efforts of her last sea-watch, now miserably under guard in a prison-hulk somewhere.
Feeling like a trespasser, he pushed on the larboard door. It opened into the coach, bare patches underfoot showing where items of furniture must have been, the fat girth of the mizzen-mast solidly to one side. A more elaborate door was at the far end. Tentatively he eased it open, walked in and stopped. This was the great cabin – and it was vast.
A blaze of light streamed in through the broad stern windows, bringing out rich colours of decoration that would not have been out of place in a fine country mansion. Oddly, an ornate little cast-iron charcoal stove still perched to one side; this had been a captain whose means and inclination had allowed him to consult his comfort above the ordinary.
However, what took his attention immediately was a substantial secretaire against the forward bulkhead. It was richly veneered and polished, and shaped to fit into the ship’s structure, which was probably why it was still there. On impulse he pulled down the integral writing surface; inside was a perfect maze of compartments and miniature drawers – all empty, of course.
A discreet door led to his stateroom. It was sizeable, so much so that it sported not one but two gun-ports. A cot was still there, complete with an ingenious pulley system that allowed the lying occupant to raise and lower himself. At one end a cunningly contrived wash-place shared space with a dresser across the width of the compartment, and there was a fitted wardrobe opposite.
He stood back in awe. This was his kingdom and it was princely. In effect there was the splendour of a spacious great cabin right aft, then beyond the partition the coach to one side, private quarters the other, all his.
As he was about to leave, a ghostly sense of the last inhabitant’s presence stole over him. He could picture the man – older, more careful, probably of the ancien régime, with a need for the certainties of gracious living and order in all things. He would not have been one to hazard his ship in valorous escapades or carry sail until the last moment.
He felt a rush of guilt that, here, he was an intruder, violating the little world that was the ship the unknown capitaine de vaisseau had shaped to his desires and satisfaction. He tried to shake it off as he left, closing the door softly behind him.
The lower deck was a hollow, echoing space, illuminated by the splashes of light coming through the gratings from above. Neat rows of tables, each with its rack against the ship’s side, were spaced all along it for at this level, at or below the waterline, there were no guns, therefore no requirement to clear them for action.
He moved to the closest. Not unlike the familiar British domestic models, with the seamen’s chests as seats, the tubs at the inner end for the ship’s boys – and further down, canvas screens triced up to the deckhead. On impulse he unlaced one: it tumbled down to reveal a traditional scene of mermaids and King Neptune but done in a delicate and artistic manner rather than the hearty treatment of a British sailor. It was, of course, the demarcation of the petty officers’ mess.
Aft was another excluding bulkhead, with two doors. This would be the place of the officers’ cabins and wardroom – or gunroom, as it was called in a frigate. He went inside. It was shadowed and gloomy, with light entering only from the open door, but it was enough to see that it was as he had expected: there were cabins down each side, the two furthest the biggest. A long table occupied the centre, and in the far recesses there were lockers, probably stores or bread-rooms.
Here it was that his officers would have their being: the first and other lieutenants, sailing master, purser, officer of marines. This would be their unchanging home during whatever lay ahead for them all. He stepped out again; beyond the sanctity of the gunroom there were separate cabins for the warrant officers, the boatswain and gunner, carpenter and one other, making this particular after ladderway the unlikely intersection between the officers, warrant officers and the ship’s company.
It was all he needed to see. There were no surprises with the layout; she appeared in good fettle and he felt he had her measure – older, without the brute strength of the latest English frigates but with a willing air, a desire to please. Only the open sea would search out her moods and delights and he could hardly wait to seek them.
‘To y’r satisfaction, Captain?’
He hadn’t noticed the master shipwright looking at him narrowly from beyond the main-mast and went to him. ‘The poop cabin must go,’ Kydd said briskly, ‘and I will have the wheel forrard o’ the mizzen.’
‘O’ course.’
‘I’d like to see tougher bulwarks and the breast rail more in the way of a barricade. And what do you think of raising the bridle port to take a pair o’ chase guns?’
‘Ye know she’s a twelve-pounder only?’
‘Then we’ll ship eighteens,’ Kydd retorted. ‘She’s sound in her particulars?’
‘She is,’ Hocking admitted. ‘Out of Nantes in ’ninety-four by Jacques Sané, one o’ their best. An’ you’ll be wanting as much stowage below as we c’n give ye. Y’ saw the middle part o’ the hold as is your cable tier?’
He hadn’t – and that a third of the space in his precious hold would be taken up with the anchor cable was not welcome news. ‘I know you’ll do your best for me, Mr Hocking,’ Kydd said, with feeling. There would be a keg and spread waiting for him and his men tonight as an earnest for the future.
There would be other things, but they could take their turn – the Navy Board had its own ideas of what was meet and proper in a warship of the Royal Navy, and if it was not within the ‘establishment’ for this class of ship, he would need persuasive arguments to secure what he wanted.