Quarterdeck

falling back on the two anchors. Black Jack Powlett of the Artemis would never have chanced his vessel so, Kydd thought indignantly, then took a deep breath. 'Coming boldly up t' the anchorage, I, er, would range both cables out on the gun-deck—veering parties double-banked, o' course—an' at m' furthest on, let go th' best bower. Then—'

'You do not feel it prudent to double bitt your cable first, sir?' the first commissioner interjected.

Then the second came in: 'And we have heard nothing of setting this bower a-cockbill in readiness.'

'That is, if your ship has not yet a trick stopper or similar,' the first added smugly.

Kydd forced his mind to an icy resolve. 'Aye, sir—I may have omitted t' say that in getting the anchor off the bows it is first necessary . . .'

It seemed to satisfy. He dared a glance at the third member of the board, who sat hard-faced and silent, Captain Essington, the captain of Triumph in which he had served at the bloody battle of Camperdown.

'Passing to navigation,' the first commissioner said flatly.

Kydd's anxieties returned: he had learned his skills at the hands of a merchant-service sailing master who had taught him a plain yet solid understanding of his craft, but Kydd knew that the Navy liked arcane descriptions and definitions.

'We'll begin with basic understanding, Mr Kydd. What is your conceiving of a great circle?'

'Er, the plane o' the equator when projected fr'm the centre on to a tangent plane becomes a straight line —'

'Thank you. The workings of an azimuth altitude will be familiar enough to you, no doubt—then clarify for me the correction of the right ascension of the mean sun, if you please.'

Kydd struggled, but could see frowns settling, glances exchanged. Failure was now more than a possibility and a cold dread stole over him. If only they would ask—

'Mr Kydd, you are aboard a two-decker.' It was Essington, leaning forward. Kydd shifted position to face him directly. There was no trace of compassion in the man's eyes. 'Shall we say in the Caribbean? You are scudding before a regular-going hurricane and you sight land—dead to loo'ard. You throw out both bowers.' The other commissioners looked at Essington with curiosity. 'They carry away, one after the other. Only a sheet anchor is left to you to prevent the ship being cast ashore. Detail your actions, if you will, sir, to forestall a wreck and grievous loss of life.' He leaned back, unnerving Kydd with his stare. His fellow captains held back in surprise as Essington finished acidly, 'And shall we have a coral bottom?'

Kydd cast about for something to say, the right action to take in such an extreme situation—but then it dawned on him: he had been in exactly this plight in the old Trajan, and himself had been the one to pass keckling to preserve their last anchor, called as lee helmsman by the master himself. 'Aye, sir,' he said crisply. 'First we need t' ride out the blow. A coral bottom means we'll have to pass a deal of keckling aroun' the first two or three fathom of cable above the anchor clinch, and then . . .' Those desperate hours off the unknown island were burned into his consciousness: that endless night, the screaming hurricane, the cold dawn and the fearful danger of their action in clawing off. It steadied him, the simple recounting of fine seamanship. 'But to make an offing will be hard, an' we must wait f'r the wind to shift a point or two, but then we must take our chance, and only one chance it is. Show small canvas, and at th' right time cut the cable an' run f'r the open sea.'

The commissioners nodded, expressionless. 'I think that's enough, gentlemen, do you not?' Essington said.

Kydd held his breath. There was mumbled conferring, more frowns. Was it possibly more than coincidence that Essington had brought forward that particular circumstance? As if he had particular knowledge of his past and . . .

'Where are your certificates?'

They were asking for attestations to his 'Sobriety, Obedience, Diligence and Skill in the Profession of a Seaman.' Kydd handed over the journals and documents in a floodtide of hope: if he had failed, why would they be wasting time on the formalities?

The journals were leafed through, but they had been meticulously kept for years and it seemed the certificates of age and rated service appeared acceptable. His heart leaped: the last hurdle was being overcome.

'If my reckoning is correct, we have a difficulty.' One of the commissioners held the original, if somewhat crumpled, certificate of service from Kydd's first ship, Duke William. 'From this, it does seem that Mr Kydd is, according to regulations, one year short of the requirement for sea-time.'

Kydd had known of this deficiency, but had prayed that the regulations would not be applied rigorously. Horatio Nelson himself had been promoted to lieutenant before time, but if a commissioner of the board wished to make an issue of it little could be done.

Essington took the paper, then looked up with a tigerish smile. 'Yes—but this is worthless! It is in error! I distinctly recollect when Captain Caldwell was removed from Royal Billy to Culloden. I rather fancy we would get a different date were we to ask him directly. As it is, Captain Caldwell is now in the West Indies, admiral of the Leeward Squadron if my memory serves. I doubt he is to be troubled on this trivial matter.'

His manner quelled all discussion. The other commissioners gathered up the papers and returned them to Kydd. 'Well, it seems we are of one mind. Our recommendation will go forward to the Navy Office that for the good of the service you shall be confirmed in rank to lieutenant. Good day to you, sir.'

CHAPTER 1

THE PORTSMOUTH MAIL MADE GOOD SPEED on the highway south from London. Inside, it smelt pungently of leather and old dust, but Thomas Kydd did not care: it would take a great deal more than this to subdue his growing excitement.

After the examination, Kydd had spent some days in Yarmouth, where Tenacious had been taken out of commission for battle repairs, and had prevailed upon the naval outfitter in the matter of a splendid lieutenant's uniform, determined to go home on leave in a handsome manner.

He stared out at the tranquil winter country scene of soft meadows and gnarled oak trees. This was England at last, his hearth and home after so many years away. The postillion's long horn blared, and he leaned out of the window. It was Cobham— Guildford was not far away. He glanced at his friend sitting next to him. 'An hour, Nicholas—an hour only, an' I'll be seein' m' folks again!'