Victory

That night Kydd found it difficult to sleep. The long history of the Royal Navy resounded with daring exploits in the face of impossible odds but none had gripped the public imagination so much as those of the famous frigate captains. Their names were known by every shepherd boy and mill-worker and some had returned home wildly rich to be feted by their country.

Would he join their select company or be found wanting? A frigate was an entirely different creature from a sloop; he now held the equivalent rank to colonel of a regiment and had the management of the same number of guns as the whole of Napoleon’s Horse Artillery – and twice their weight of metal. He was being given a serious and significant asset in Britain’s survival and must not fail.

Chapter 4

By the time his ship had been moved from the dry dock to the water alongside, Kydd’s orders had arrived, including his precious commission to take command of the ship. There for all to see, on crackling parchment, were the words that made him lord and master of a potent ship of war and several hundred souls:

. . . by virtue of the power and authority to us given, we do hereby constitute and appoint you captain of His Majesty’s Ship L’Aurore, willing and requiring you the charge and command of her accordingly: strictly charging and commanding all the officers and company of the said ship with all due respect and obedience unto you, their said captain . . .

So the frigate was to be known simply as L’Aurore and he now had the authority to incur expenditure and thus formalise arrangements with the dockyard to complete the conversions and render the ship in all respects ready for war.

The rest of the orders concerned the proper form for rendering accounts, while ‘under the cheque’ meant the dockyard was taking responsibility for payments on the Navy Office while fitting out.

It amused Kydd to note that, as a consequence of his elevation to a frigate command, the Admiralty clerks who had before signed themselves ‘Your obedient servant . . .’ were now punctiliously writing ‘Your humble and obedient servant . . .’

Later there would be the ceremony of reading himself in as L’Aurore’s lawful captain, and in the eyes of the Admiralty and the world, the ship would, from that precise instant, begin its existence.

Tysoe arrived from London with Kydd’s new uniform and an astonishing amount of gear that, it seemed, was absolutely essential to maintaining his new station in life. He had to be found accommodation until the ship was habitable but, aboard, matters were progressing apace.

The upperworks were duly strengthened and the bridle port seen to, then the small French oven on the lower deck was hoisted out and a respectable full Brodie galley stove was swayed on to a relaid hearth just beneath the fo’c’sle.

Kydd watched its installation – an amazing device, with smoke-jack driven spits, condensers for distilling water, range grates and all manner of cooking equipment, including an oven and monstrous boiler for the men’s salt beef. It was just in time – a cheerful peg-leg cook had reported with the purser, a Welshman named Owen.

Taking the opportunity to get about the ship before her crew embarked, Kydd discovered that her ballast was now pig-iron rather than the shingle of before; this would require that the great leaguer water-barrels must be stowed on the flat of the foot-waling with wedges, three tiers high. Would it hold secure in raging gales?

Other oddities were revealed: the cat-tail was bolted under the lower-deck beams, a stronger fitting he had to admit, but it was disturbing that she had no figurehead – only a contemptible billet-head and scrollwork. This would not be looked on favourably by a traditionally minded British crew for her first voyage under a new flag.

The gunner appeared two days later. A ponderous individual, Redmond had definite views about the need for eighteen-pounders and went off to see what could be done about it.

As work progressed, Kydd could see no reason to delay so he and the warrant officers transferred aboard. He had just received a blunt letter from the Admiralty advising that as the ship was urgently required for service he should bend his best endeavours to that end. This was unusual to say the least: he had no influence over the dockyard, and until he had a ship’s company, there was little he could do to help.

Time was pressing. In the next day or two the sheer-hulks would be alongside and the final stage would be reached, the frigate’s rigging, but the most valuable standing officer at this point was missing: the boatswain.

Then the sailing master courteously reported. Kendall was soft-spoken and held himself with dignity; his was a seamed, weather-beaten face and instinctively Kydd trusted him – as he had his first master when he was a green officer: the equally quiet Hambly in Tenacious.

‘Pleased to see you, Mr Kendall,’ he said, with feeling.

‘I did hear of y’r bo’sun, Captain Kydd,’ he said levelly. ‘Word’s as how he’s unable to sail wi’ ye. It’s not m’ place but I do know the bo’sun o’ Actaeon, now paid off, would admire for t’ ship out in an active ship, he bein’ at leisure, like.’

‘It’s an Admiralty matter, Mr Kendall, as you’d know,’ Kydd said, with regret. Any recommended by one of Kendall’s calibre would be worth having but all standing officers were appointed direct and he had no authority to take one on.

‘I knows, sir. He’s willin’ to present himself to ye now, hopin’ you’re able t’ get him confirmed later.’

Kydd didn’t hesitate. ‘Very well. Where is he—’

‘He’ll be aboard wi’ his dunnage within th’ hour, sir.’

‘I see. His name?’

‘Oakley. Oh, an’ savin’ your presence, he can be a mort hasty in his speech, like, says things too quick he should’ve kept under hatches. Ben’s rough-hearted but he’s a ver’ fine seaman, Mr Kydd,’ Kendall went on earnestly. ‘There’s none o’ the seven seas he don’t know like Falmouth high street. An’ he it was, in Jupiter gun-brig in the Caribbee, who—’

‘Get him aboard, Mr Kendall.’

Oakley was big, red-headed and heavily tattooed, with hands that looked capable of bending a cutlass. ‘Cap’n Kydd,’ he said warily, touching his forehead.