Quarterdeck

unmistakable bull roar of Truxtun erupted; he was grateful to be out of sight. He picked up the Review again and flicked the pages.

After an hour or so the motions were repeated but this time in a smooth sequence, the frigate taking up on the opposite tack. Again the manoeuvre and again an easy transition. Dare he emerge on deck? He waited for a space; the angle of heel increased gradually and he guessed that more sail was being loosed. Kydd could stand it no longer. He made his way to the aft companion and mounted the steps to the quarterdeck. In the tense scene, not a soul looked his way. Groups of men were at the bitts, the base of the masts, the forecastle, all looking aft to where Truxtun stood with folded arms, staring up at taut canvas.

'Stream!' he snapped, to the men at the taffrail. One held the reel of the log high while the log-ship, a triangular drag piece, was cast into the sea astern to uncoil the line from the drum. It hurtled out at speed and when the sand-glass had run its course a lanky midshipman called, 'Nip,' and then, 'Eleven knots an' a hair over.'

Truxtun's expression did not change. 'Not good enough. I'll have the lee stuns'ls abroad immediately.'

The spring breeze whipped the tops from the waves as Kydd edged his way behind Truxtun towards the wheel and binnacle. Under the unblinking eye of the quartermaster he got what he wanted—a sight of the compass. South-south-east, wind from the west with a touch of north in it. Ideal blue-water sailing for a frigate: no wonder Truxtun was letting her have her head.

They were passing a broad river mouth to starboard with small vessels of all kinds converging at the confluence. 'Potomac,' hissed the midshipman behind him.

'I beg y'r pardon?' Kydd said, taken off-balance.

'The river—Potomac.' He busied himself preparing the log for another cast.

'Thank ye,' Kydd said quietly.

With stuns'ls drawing and royals atop each mast, Constellation foamed ahead. It was remarkable for a new vessel to have achieved such speed so soon. The log went out and the excited midshipman yelled, 'A whisker less fourteen!' It was nothing short of extraordinary—and exhilarating. If Kydd was not to be an active participant at least he could enjoy the sensation.

Truxtun's eyes darting aloft, then aft, caught Kydd's eye. Kydd smiled broadly in open admiration. 'She goes like a racehorse!'

'Aye—like a Yankee racehorse!' But there was no rancour in his voice and his grim expression had eased. It would be a gratifying thing, thought Kydd, to be in command of a frigate that, with her twenty-four pounders, could outfight any other and, at the same time, run or chase as she chose.

In the darkness of late evening they came to single anchor in the shelter of Hampton Roads, within sight of the broad Atlantic. The wardroom was abuzz at the splendid showing of their ship and it seemed only right to invite their captain to a hearty dinner.

Kydd sat at the furthest remove from Truxtun's place of honour at the head, but he was grateful to be present, hearing the happy talk about him, seeing friendships being forged and strengthened that would stand by them all in the ocean voyages ahead.

The talk roamed over the chance of war with France, seeing The Glory of Columbia at the Chestnut Street theatre, the right way to treat a halibut—it was just the same as his own wardroom . . . but different.

The dishes came and went, and the cloth was drawn. Blue smoke spiralled to the deckhead, glasses were raised and confidences exchanged. The chatter rose and fell. Into a chance silence Gindler's voice was raised: 'Ah, Mr Kydd, you must have seen some sea service in your time. Pray tell us of it.'

Glances were shot at Truxtun but he gave no sign that he objected.

'Aye, well, I had th' good fortune to take a cruise around th' world,' Kydd said, thinking quickly. 'A frigate, nearly as fine as this.' He saw this was received well. 'Setting a parcel o' philosophers on a rock, an' keeping the cannibals in their canoes at bay . . .' He told them of the adventure, and when he concluded with the sad wreck of Artemis on the Azores, there was a general stirring of sympathy.

Midshipman Porter leaned forward and exclaimed, 'Have you b' chance seen action?'

'A little—Camperdown, which was where I got m' step.'

Kydd wouldn't be drawn on the experience and tried to move on to Venice, but Truxtun himself interrupted: 'Your fleet were in bloody mutiny before then.' A ripple of muttering showed that the dreadful events had been shocking news here as well. 'How did that affect you?'

The warmth of the evening fell away as he forced his mind to deal with the sudden release of memories. 'It— my ship mutinied, but I was not hurt.'

'Would you say the sailors had just cause?'

'At Spithead they had their reasons, and the Admiralty granted most and gave a pardon. But at the Nore . . .' He felt his face redden.

'Yes?'

'At the Nore, where I was, their cause was understandable but they went about it the wrong way.'

Truxtun growled, 'There's no treating with mutineers, ever.'

The next day a small convoy had yet to assemble, so the dark-featured First Lieutenant Rodgers was sent ashore to the settlement of Norfolk to open a recruiting rendezvous to bring in more volunteers. Kydd saw Truxtun hand him silver at the gangway, saying, 'Get some music going and grog for all hands—indulge their humour in a farewell frolic.' Rodgers grinned and went over the side.

From forward came the dull blang of scaling charges as they cleared the cannon of rust and debris. Men squatted on the fore-deck as they made up paper cartridges for the small arms, while others had the hatches off for the last of the sea stores still coming aboard.

By the early afternoon activity had died away. But Truxtun was not satisfied. He beat to quarters, and for two hours had the great guns exercised. Big twenty-four-pounders given resplendent names by their gun crews,