the George, I believe. Ship’s accommodation won’t be ready yet and there’s much to be done.’
‘Without a clerk?’
Kydd turned away suddenly as he was taken by a spasm that left his shoulders heaving. ‘W-without a c-clerk,’ he managed, then turned back, his eyes streaming with laughter.
‘An’ I had you gulled, Nicholas! Admit it – I had you trussed like a chicken!’ he chortled.
‘Th-then the post of ship’s clerk . . . ?’
‘You shall never have, as long as I’m captain!’
‘But—’
Kydd pulled himself together and looked affectionately at his old friend. ‘Nicholas. Do recollect – I’m now post- captain of a King’s Ship, an officer of stature. It would certainly be remarked upon should I neglect to maintain a retinue. And in the first rank of these must stand . . . the captain’s confidential secretary.’
Renzi looked dumbstruck.
‘As must be a gentleman of some learning, one in whom the captain might need from time to time to confide matters of delicacy . . .’
At Renzi’s expression, he continued, more strongly, ‘You’ll have the character of gentleman with a perfect right to the wardroom, Nicholas, your duties questioned by none. There’ll be no more ship’s books of account or your bo’sun’s stores – this is a job for the ship’s clerk, o’ course.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Do accept, old fellow.’
For a moment Renzi did not reply. Then, with a sigh, he answered, ‘And here I stand, my studies about to be crowned with the laurels of imminent publication. How could I desert my scholard’s post at such a time . . . ?’
It was too much, and the friends roared with laughter as they shook hands on it.
‘Tonight we shall wet your swab in bumpers!’ Renzi laughed, then added, ‘But if we’re travelling south tomorrow . . . ?’
‘No, Nicholas. I’ve a notion that all is sadly ahoo there at the moment. I will leave tomorrow, but pray do stay here until I’m able to send for you.’
The journey seemed never-ending, notwithstanding Kydd’s travelling with all the speed of a costly post-chaise. At Guildford they changed horses at the Angel, and in the familiar surroundings of the Tudor hall set about with minstrel’s galleries he took to wondering at the unreadable workings of Fate that had so quickly transformed him from the contemplation of a genteel retirement in the country to that of hastening to his destiny in command of a frigate.
He hugged the knowledge to himself yet again but ever more insistently came a thought. He had not been able to call on any ‘interest’ in his cause, no patron in high places who could speak for him, raise him to notice. To what did he owe his elevation, then? It was a deepening mystery for he knew that while his recent action had attracted favourable comment there were others, certainly, with equal or better claim to advancement.
He shrugged. No matter: he had achieved his transmogrification and would join the tiny number of common seamen who had risen this far – Admiral Benbow, James Cook, even William Bligh, who was at this moment firmly set on course to fly his flag as admiral. The mystery would remain; he would probably never know why it had been him.
The rain had cleared by the time they made the Landport gate, Portsea and then the short distance to the George posting house. He had no wish to see his rooms – in a fever of excitement there was only one thing he wanted to set his eyes on, and she was lying somewhere in the dockyard past the Hard.
He paused at the dockyard gates and looked up at the pair of golden globes that surmounted the entrance. It brought him back to the time that seemed so distant, when he had passed through these gates as a young sailor to adventures that could fill a book. His eyes misted and he stood for a while, letting the feelings surge.
A moment later he stepped resolutely forward. The porter’s lodge was just inside and he sought the man out. Nothing escaped the eye of the gate porter of a royal dockyard. ‘Can you give me a steer for
‘
‘Thank you.’ Kydd smiled, leaving the man staring at the crown piece in his hand.
He strode off through the busy dockyard, past the mast ponds and ropewalk, between the steaming kilns and dock basins with their mastless hulls in all stages of fitting out and repair, and on to the new block mills, said to be the wonder of the age.
There was only one dry dock in front of them and Kydd knew that there he would find her. He hurried forward. His first sight was of three stumpy lower masts protruding above the dock edge. The docks were designed to take the mightiest first-rate battleships and the frigate was swallowed up in the space.
And then there she was! HMS
The gigantic immensity of the dark hull above him was awe-inspiring. Then his seaman’s instincts translated what he saw into the actuality of a seaway. That fine entry forward and long, clean run aft spoke of speed but at the same time, no doubt, meant her being wet in anything of a head sea. Her unusually steep turn of bilge would help with leeway and the pronounced tumblehome might imply tender handling, but Kydd was left with one overriding impression: speed.
The work-gangs looked at him curiously as they plied their chains and plumb-bobs. It had long been Admiralty practice to take off the lines of captured ships such that if they showed exceptional qualities in service the quirks of their design would be adopted.
And this was what was going on: the distance of the hull out from the keel at different heights was being measured at regular intervals; later these points would be faired into the familiar sheer draught and half-breadth plans that shipbuilders had evolved down the centuries, and – who knew? – a new class of warship might be born.
