personally ensured that every fire channel between pan and vent was clear and bright: there had been cases when zealous blacking had resulted in a perfect appearance but a blocked touch-hole had rendered the gun useless in action.
Decks had a snowy lustre where holystone and bear had been plied with salt water, and on all sides, if a touch of colour might bring a fitment to more pleasing prominence, paint was produced and the more artistic seamen set to wielding a brush.
The visit was a perfect excuse to break the monotony of harbour service and to build on the pristine condition of the recently cleansed ship to produce a state of perfection not normally possible. For the rest of the commission, they would have a standard by which to judge themselves.
‘Boat approaching!’ called the mate-of-the-watch, importantly.
‘Side-party!’ growled Curzon. A line of white-gloved midshipmen and lieutenants assembled at the side-steps by the hances, each with a grave expression, Kydd taking position at the inboard end.
The barge curved about and hooked on at the main-chains with a showy display of seamanship. Hidden from view, it was not possible to see what was keeping the general, and the boatswain continued to lick the mouthpiece of his call nervously. Finally, Kydd peered over the side and saw a red-faced general awkwardly trying to fasten his sword-belt and fending off Poulden’s well-meaning assistance. Ashore, army officers scorned the loose-fitting naval arrangement for a tight, soldierly fit but this was quite impossible to wear in boats as the general was now finding.
Kydd jerked back and rearranged the side-party, placing the boatswain’s mate and a brawny seaman by the ship’s side. ‘See the general doesn’t kiss our deck – compree?’ he hissed.
At last the general’s plumed hat and solemn face appeared as he mounted the side-steps. Twisting his highly polished boots awkwardly over the bulwark and catching sight of the ceremonial line, he made to raise his hat – and the inevitable happened. His sword caught behind him and he toppled forward. In a flash the two seamen had him firmly by the arms, while his cocked hat was caught by a quick-thinking midshipman who clapped it back on his head before scurrying to his place in the line.
While General Beresford recovered his composure, the boatswain’s call pealed out and he advanced down the line of blank-faced sidesmen to be greeted by
‘You’re most welcome aboard, sir. Might I present my officers . . .’
In the captain’s cabin a restorative taste of naval-issue rum had Beresford in good humour and ready for his day.
‘Shall we venture on to the upper deck? There you’ll see our sturdy tars at as hard work as ever you’ll see them,’ Kydd invited.
The capstan, situated in
‘Carry on, Mr Curzon!’ Kydd ordered. A fife and drum struck up a jaunty tune and the men stretched out with a will. Beresford was shown the cable ranged along the main-deck below coming in dripping, hauled from forward by the messenger line before it fed down into the cable tiers amidships. It tautened and the pace slowed; men strained and heaved until the boatswain, with his foot on the cable coming in the hawse, roared, ‘Anchor’s aweigh!’
‘Ah. Then I have to inform you, sir, that the anchor is won clear and this ship is now legally at sea.’
‘Lay out and loose!’ The waiting topmen raced out on the yards and sail magically blossomed. Braces were manned and, with a graceful sway of acknowledgement to Neptune, the frigate took up on the larboard tack, the familiar swash and creak of a ship under way growing in volume as Beresford found his sea legs on the slightly canting deck.
Kydd was soon explaining to his intelligent and attentive guest the relative forces between the sails and their resulting course through the sea, the strains to be expected aloft and the options for trimming.
‘Course nor’-west, Mr Curzon.’
Beresford then took in the work on deck necessary to bring the canvas aloft to a proper accommodation to this new direction and the helmsman’s interplay between binnacle compass and set of the sails that ensured the course was maintained. He and Kydd paced the deck together, speaking of the functions of lines and spars, blocks and tackles, until Kydd ordered the ship close-hauled, by the wind as close as she could lie.
The different motion was immediately apparent, much as a horse changes gait when moving from a canter to a gallop, with seas taken on the bow resulting in a spirited pitching and spray carrying aft in exhilarating bursts. Kydd’s intention, though, was to show the limitation of a square-rigger, that she could come up no closer than six points to the wind’s eye.
They made fine speed, and when the land was sunk, all but the far distant blue-grey flat rectangle of Table Mountain, the frigate shortened sail and took up a more sedate pace for the next show: the great guns at drill.
To Kydd, a fine sailing ship was a thing of majesty but what decided battles were the guns, and every man aboard
Beresford took a keen interest in the guns: while they were the lightest frigate main armament in the Navy they were twice the calibre of the largest field gun his army possessed. And quite different: a more compact carriage than horse-drawn artillery, they were on trucks, small wooden wheels, and were tethered to the ship’s side by thick breeching ropes with tackles each side to run them out.
When all gun-crews were closed up, Kydd went to a gun-captain and told him to show the general his equipment – slung powder horn and a pouch with spare flints, cartridge pricker, quill tubes and the rest. Each gun number was told to prove his gear: worm, rammer, sponge and crow, a powder monkey proudly holding out his salt-box for carrying the charge.
‘Slow time, Mr Gilbey.’
His first lieutenant clapped on his hat. ‘Fire! Gun has fired!’ he roared.
The exercise had begun. Tackle falls were eased and the guns rumbled back down the canted deck. The gun- crew got to work – sponge and rammer, invisible wad and shot, the gun-captain showily bruising his priming and slamming the gun-lock down before the gun was run out once more.
Then it was quick time: the fearful muscle-bulging round of heaving the gun in and out in a synchronised choreography, four men furiously serving their iron beast each side, nimbly sharing the limited seven feet of space between each gun with an adjacent crew. After ten minutes of frantic activity, Kydd called a halt.
‘We’ll have three rounds apiece from numbers three and five guns, Mr Gilbey, and to make it interesting we’ll stream a mark.’
The float was found, and on its mast a red flag was fixed, its nine feet square looking enormous on the frigate’s deck.
‘A trifle large, wouldn’t you think?’ Beresford murmured.
Kydd gave a tight smile but said nothing as it was heaved over the side, sliding rapidly astern. While
At three hundred yards the jaunty bobbing of the flag was in clear view on the grey-green sea but Kydd took Beresford to the first gun. ‘Do see if you feel the gun is rightly pointed, if you will, sir.’
Gingerly, the general bent to look. ‘There’s no sights!’ he said, astonished. Only a bare barrel looked out into the broad expanse of sea. ‘How do you lay the weapon?’
Kydd pointed out the quoin under the breech for elevation and the handspike to lever the gun bodily from side to side. ‘The gun-captain must lay the gun to his own satisfaction.’ Obligingly, the man did so, with hand signals to his crew.
‘There, sir.’
Once more Beresford bent down, squinted along the barrel to the muzzle, then rose ruefully. ‘As I fail to even see your target, Captain.’
It was a common mistake for first-time gunners. The trick was to locate the target first and draw the muzzle to it, rather than the other way round. After explanations, Beresford picked up on the flag, now a tiny thing set against
