Victory

Filled with new excitement, Kydd puffed his way back up the vertical side of the dock and turned to take in her length. There was no one on deck: the gangboard had been roped off. Disappointed, he had to be content with what he could see from the outside.

And there was much to admire. L’Aurore d’Egalite was in truth a full-blooded frigate and pierced for thirty-two carriage guns. He exulted at the discovery – she was a fifth-rate. He had skipped over the smaller sixth-rate and, apart from the despised fifty-gun fourth-rate, he was, in theory, next down from his old ship-of-the-line Tenacious.

Compared to Teazer, she seemed enormous, her unbroken deck-line stretching all the way from where he stood to the distant beakhead. Impulsively he began stepping out for the bows, counting the paces. Ten, twenty, thirty – fifty-six. A hundred and thirty or forty feet long at least!

She was not looking at her best without her topmasts, her top-hamper struck down and rigging laid along by uncaring dockyard workers, but he could still take in her modest, sheer, clean lines and somewhat old-fashioned trim.

Her stern-lights were lofty and spacious, however, the characteristic high arched curve of the French-style transom pleasing in its symmetry, the quarter-galleries noble and well proportioned. Her stern-piece was more vertical than a British shipwright would have it but it allowed a broader-bladed rudder and . . .

He ached to get aboard. It was the hallowed custom to allow captains a certain latitude when it came to the necessary conversion work for Royal Navy service and he was already forming ideas. The diminutive poop cabin must go, of course, and—

‘Your business, sir?’

He swung round. An important-looking official, with two attendants carrying plans, was eyeing him distrustfully. ‘I’m appointed to be her captain,’ Kydd said apologetically, knowing he was not in uniform.

‘Well, now, Captain,’ the man said, thawing. ‘Hocking, master shipwright. You’d be wanting t’ get aboard, I’ll wager.’ He chuckled drily.

‘I would,’ Kydd replied.

‘Come wi’ me, then,’ Hocking said, and motioned to one of his assistants, who freed the barrier. They stepped across above the great pit to the dock floor and then Kydd was aboard his ship.

For a long moment his gaze took in the sweep of the deck-line, the rearing bowsprit, the pleasing square drop at the drift rail and he smothered a sigh. ‘Mr Hocking – I see there’s not so much action damage. Do you know aught of how we came by her?’

‘Why, there’s none t’ be found, is all. She thought to make a break from Rochefort in the fog an’ had the crass bad luck for it to lift – an’ she finds herself in the middle o’ our blockade squadron. With six o’-the-line sightin’ down their guns, a decision wasn’t hard t’ make.’

Kydd felt a momentary sympathy with the unknown captain and crew, whose voyage and future had thus been settled in an instant. ‘A pretty lady,’ he murmured appreciatively, looking about him. ‘I’d be beholden for your opinion, Mr Hocking.’

There was a fleeting smile and Kydd suspected that Hocking was not often consulted for his opinion by naval officers.

‘I’m not taken wi’ the Frenchy ways much, m’self – scantlings are too light an’ that there fine-run hull’ll mean a smaller hold an’ that means her sea endurance won’t be worth a spit.’

‘That may be so,’ Kydd said, ‘but she’s going to be a fast ’un, I’m thinking.’

‘Aye, an’ she’ll be plunging into every comber God sends,’ Hocking went on remorselessly.

‘No sailor I know ever pines over a wet shirt,’ Kydd replied defensively.

‘And every Frenchy I know is crank and heels her lee gun-ports under in anythin’ of a blow.’

‘And so we bring in high sail as is needful.’

‘Hmmph. Look, Mr Captain, survey’s complete but we’ve work t’ do. How’s about you take yourself off for a look-see and come back in an hour. Then we’ll have your opinion.’

Delighted, Kydd took his leave and began to make his acquaintance.

She was not a new ship. Over here were scores in the deck that could not be planed out, and there he noted smooth new timber scarphed into older. More clues of her maturity became evident: the shape of the knight-heads of a previous age, the pair of davits over the stern as an afterthought – she must be close to ten years old at least. She had therefore first kissed the waves at the time he had embarked on the voyage around the world that had changed him from a youth to a man and formed him as a seaman. In Artemis frigate he had sailed from this very port, the fearsome Captain ‘Black Jack’ Powlett in command. As clear as yesterday he recalled the pugnacious blue-black jaw, the terrifying stare – and now he, the former Able Seaman Kydd, was in his shoes . . .

He returned his attention to L’Aurore d’Egalite. Like all frigates, the topmost deck was flush from bow to stern but this was deceptive. In reality there was a raised fo’c’sle forward and a poop aft; but these were joined into one by broad gangways each side. The open space in the middle was straddled by spare spars and on these would be nested the ship’s boats.

He found the after ladderway down to the next level. This was their single gun-deck, and the frigate’s main armament would be found arrayed all the way down each side. It was now deserted, all ordnance landed before docking, and the space seemed limitless, stretching away distantly to the bows.

Behind him were the cabin spaces – his living quarters. All other officers and men would berth below, in the perpetual gloom of the lower deck where, in the absence of ports or windows, no natural light could penetrate.

Turning aft, he moved towards a bulkhead: it spanned the ship right across in an intimidating show of exclusion – the captain’s apartments. It was finished in polished red wood. The brass handles of the two doors still glowed with the efforts of her last sea-watch, now miserably under guard in a prison-hulk somewhere.

Feeling like a trespasser, he pushed on the larboard door. It opened into the coach, bare patches underfoot