Victory

The sense of unfairness had returned in a flood and made the answer rather more curt than he would have wished. ‘So I’m to petition for another command, as you see.’

‘I – I do hope you find success, sir,’ Bowden said uncomfortably, aware of what this meant for Kydd. ‘I’ll take my leave now, if you will, sir, and – and do wish you well of the future.’

‘Thank you,’ Kydd said briefly, and lifted a hand in farewell as the young man left. It had been another time, another world, and different things had to be faced now.

In his waistcoat Kydd had a letter – a petition he had paid to have professionally drafted, addressed to the first lord himself and laying out in honeyed phrases all the reasons why he should be granted employment at this time.

It had to be faced that if this had no effect it would be a trial to know what to do next and he delayed, treasuring the moment while hope was still on the flood. Then, reluctantly, he drew it out: there was no point in wasting time.

It cost three guineas, an exorbitant bribe to the chief clerk, to ensure its insertion into the first lord’s morning pack; when he turned to resume his chair he saw all eyes on him – they knew very well what was being done. Face burning, Kydd sat and buried his face in the newspaper, summoning patience.

He couldn’t keep this up for ever: his means were sufficient but for a man used to an active life, with responsibility and the requirement at any time for instant decisions, a passive existence was hard to bear. What should he do if a command was not in prospect? A commander could not be un-promoted – he could not revert to being a lieutenant and take a menial post in another’s ship – so what could he look forward to? His mind shied from the implications.

When the reply came he was quite unprepared. It had been less than three hours, and envious stares followed the porter crossing importantly to Kydd with a single folded sheet on his silver tray. After Kydd had taken it, the man bowed, turned and left – no reply expected therefore.

The room fell into a hush. Kydd nervously threw off a casual remark before he opened it, knowing that probably his entire future was about to be revealed.

It was a short but undoubtedly personal note and from the great man himself – he recognised the energetic, sprawling hand. At first the words didn’t register – he had to read it again to let their shocking burden penetrate.

Mr Kydd,

I find it singular in the extreme that after this time you are still here demanding a sloop to command. For you this is not possible as well you should know. Your continued attendance here is neither welcome nor profitable to yourself and if you persist I shall regard it an insolence.

Y^robed^tserv^te tc

In cold shock he stood staring down at it.

A portly commander from across the room called loudly, ‘Well, old fellow, what did he say, then?’

‘I – I’m not to trouble him with my presence any further,’ Kydd said faintly. The note was snatched and handed about in consternation.

‘Remember Bartholomew!’ one red-faced officer blurted.

Pandemonium erupted. It had been only the previous year when an importunate officer begging a sea appointment right in these very rooms had tried the patience of Earl St Vincent too far. He had boomed, ‘I’ll serve ye a sea berth this very instant, y’ villain!’ and had him pressed there and then in the entrance hall.

The scandal had gone to Parliament and then to a Select Committee, which was still sitting on the case, but the last anyone knew of the unfortunate man was that he was still before the mast somewhere in the West Indies.

Kydd retrieved his note and, with pathetic dignity, took his leave.

Renzi heard the news with a sinking heart. Kydd handed over the note diffidently and he inspected it carefully. There was absolutely no questioning its authenticity. Neither was there any doubting the intent of its vigorous phrasing.

Thomas Kydd, it seemed, was going to remain ashore, a half-pay commander for the rest of his life.

‘This is the end for me,’ Kydd said, in a low voice.

‘As a sea-going commander, perhaps – but there’s always the Transport Service, the Fencibles, the um . . .’

‘Thank you, Nicholas, for your concern,’ Kydd said distantly. ‘There’s much to think on. I do believe I’ll take some air.’ He reached for his cloak, then thought better of it and left the room. He returned in mufti – plain civilian dress. ‘Pray don’t wait on my account. I may be gone some time.’

Heart wrung with pity, Renzi saw him to the door then turned back to his work.

It was no good – he couldn’t concentrate. Too much had happened and what he had feared had come to pass. Could their friendship survive without the common thread of the sea? Each to his own retreat, seldom to meet?

Selfishly he must mourn the passing of the opportunity he had had to enrich and inform his studies of man in all his diversity from that most excellent of conveyances, the deck of a far-voyaging ship.

Now he would continue his study in some depressing room that would offer the same tedious prospect of the world every morning and—

It was much worse for Kydd. Where would he find a calling in life to equal the previous? What was there to occupy his talent for daring and quick-thinking in the world where he now found himself stranded? That he had come so far to this . . .