Quarterdeck

The weather moderated as they made their offing, although Constellation needed only double-reefed topsails to stay with her labouring convoy. Kydd walked forward, keenly appreciative of the motion of a frigate once more and interested indeed in the weatherliness of the American.

After the sociability of the dinner he was now greeted with cautious nods and the occasional smile—even the intense Lieutenant Rodgers touched his hat to him at one point.

When the land had been sunk and a tossing wilderness of empty ocean had been reached, the convoy dispersed, some to the Barbadoes, others to Dublin and London, thousands of miles of hard sailing with small crews, with the constant fear of sighting the sails of a predator. But Constellation was free now to soar.

'Mr Kydd.' Truxtun snapped, as though struck by a sudden thought. 'We shall be cruising south tomorrow.' The rest of the quarterdeck was listening intently. 'Therefore I believe it would be most expedient for you then to take your leave from this vessel. I shall stop a Philadelphia packet for your convenience, sir.'

Kydd had taken to standing beside the lee helmsman, willing the ship on, feeling her motion through the water, and turned in surprise. 'Er—why, of course, Captain.' It was a disappointment not to see the frigate at her best, and despite the circumstances of his passage, there was something about this ship and her crew . . .

In the dog-watches, as the ship shortened sail for the night, Kydd lingered on deck, then went below for his last dinner aboard the Constellation. He went to his accustomed place at the end of the table, but found a black steward there. 'If y' please, sah,' he said, and pointed to the head of the table, where all the American officers stood with glasses, grinning at him.

'Come 'n' set, Tom,' one called. Kydd did as he was asked, and took the chair normally occupied by the first lieutenant, bemused.

'Just wanted t' wish you God speed, Mr Kydd,' Rodgers said, proffering a glass.

Kydd took it and lifted it to them. 'Your very good health, gentlemen,' he called, touched beyond measure.

The group broke into warm conversation, and as dinner was brought he found himself talking as amiably as any. More wine, more dishes: Kydd felt a rush of feeling that came out as hot words of admiration for their fine ship, their spirit, their future.

He sat with flushed face and beamed at them all. No cool talk of the London Season, not a word about fox- hunting or estates in the country, this was good sturdy conversation about horses, prospects of prize money, scandalous theatre gossip—here he could safely say his piece without fear of being thought a boor.

'Fr'm Kentucky, friend, you'll hanker after this . . .' Bourbon whiskey was added to the list of Kydd's American experiences.

'Did I ever tell ye of Gibraltar? Now there's a rare place, one thunderin' great rock . . .'

Happy and muzzy, he did not notice that Truxtun was in the wardroom until he suddenly saw him sitting at the other end of the table. He froze—but Truxtun raised his glass. 'Ye share the same forename as me, Tom, and I'd like to say that, should you find it in your heart to become an American, there could be a berth aboard Constellation if you choose.'

Kydd turned in to his tiny cot, unable to control his whirling thoughts. An American? Thomas Paine Kydd, citizen of the United States, gentleman of the land and lieutenant of the United States Navy? It was not impossible—he had no ties, no wife and family back in England.

Excitement seized him and his eyes opened wide in the darkness. Why not start a new life in a country where there did not seem to be any difference between gentleman and commoner, a nation that seemed to have so much land and so few people— opportunity unlimited?

But he held the King's commission. Would he be betraying his country in her time of need? What about other officers in foreign navies? Well, they had been allowed to resign their commissions to take service, and was there not one in the Russian Navy who was now a grand duke? And, above all, if he were in the American Navy he would be fighting the King's enemies even if it was under another flag.

And there were so many English seamen already serving-he had heard aboard Constellation the accents of Devon, the North, London. He could always be among his countrymen if he felt lonely. They had made the choice, even if many had chosen desertion. Could he?

He tossed and turned until finally sleep came mercifully to claim him.

It seemed only minutes later when he jerked awake. He knew that he had heard a cannon shot and sat up. Almost immediately the urgent rattle of a drum beating to quarters set his heart hammering.

Kydd dropped clumsily out of his cot and reached for his clothing. Nearby, thumping feet sounded urgently. He struggled into breeches and shirt, flung on his coat and raced barefoot up the companion to the upper deck.

In the cold of daybreak, out of the thin drifting rain ahead, the dark shape of a ship lay across their path. Constellation's helm was put up to bear away. Even in the bleak grey half-light it was plain that they had come upon a man-o'-war, a frigate, who had instantly challenged them.

'Get out of it, damn you!' Truxtun bawled, catching sight of Kydd. 'Get below!'

There was something about this enemy frigate—Kydd knew he had seen her before.

'Now, sir!' Truxtun bellowed.

It was the characteristic odd-coloured staysail, the abrupt curve of her beakhead. But where? Her colours flew directly away and were impossible to make out; the two signal flags of her challenge flickered briefly into life as they were jerked down and, her challenge unanswered, her broadside thundered out.

In the seconds that the balls took to reach them Kydd remembered, but before he could speak, Truxtun roared, 'Get that English bastard below, this instant!'

Shot slammed past hideously, gouting the sea and sending solid masses of water aboard. One slapped through a sail. Kydd urged Truxtun, 'Sir, hold y'r fire, for God's sake—she's a British ship!'

Incredulous, Truxtun stared at him. 'She fired on the American flag! She's got to be a Frenchman, damn you!'

'That's Ceres thirty-two, I'd stake m' life on it!' But how fast would