Victory

It would be Kydd’s first Divisions, the formal inspection of the ship’s company. He looked forward to the ceremony: it would give him a chance to see every part of his own ship, a privilege paradoxically denied him as captain for it would never do for him to appear suddenly among the men working or off-watch.

As well it would give him a rare insight into the temper of the company in so many small but significant ways. Most of all he was anxious to see if what he hoped for was coming to pass: that the Alcestes were now reconciled in body and spirit to their new ship.

It was vital that they were: the interdependence they had built up must now embrace the whole, new and old, and if it did, he would be very gratified. These were no raw crew, they were prime man-o’-war’s men, stout fighters and mariners, each with an individuality formed and seasoned by years of seagoing.

No mere cyphers to order about at a whim, they would have their own expectations of their captain and officers. A first-class seaman was valued for his initiative, the ability to work far out on the yards on his own and make instant decisions without the need for orders. If properly led, this was what would happen, but if not, Kydd knew how they could retreat inside themselves to become, so easily, blank-faced mechanicals.

He drew on his white gloves. The marine trumpeter had called the men to Divisions an hour ago, with a bold flourish, but the captain must wait. Beyond his door the seamen were being mustered by division, one under each officer, and were even now being inspected by their lieutenant.

At length there was a polite knock. ‘Ship’s company mustered for Divisions, sir,’ Howlett reported smartly. It was his competence above all that would be tested today: responsible for partialling the company not only into watch and station but divisions as well, he was also directly answerable to the captain for the day-to-day smooth running of the complex organisation that was a warship.

‘Very good,’ Kydd said, in the age-old way, and accompanied him out into the brightness of the day.

There was absolute quiet, the slight movement of the ship causing the lines of men to sway gently together. Clinton, resplendent in scarlet regimentals, threw him a dazzling salute. ‘Royal Marines, sah! All present and correct, sah!’

Kydd assumed a grave and formal air and stepped forward to inspect the Royals. As expected, they presented faultlessly, glazed leather headgear, pipe-clayed cross-belts and gaiters against their red coats a splendid show. ‘A fine body of men, very well turned out, Mr Clinton,’ he pronounced, trying not to sound pompous, and was obliged to accept another energetic salute.

‘Ah, Mr Curzon.’

‘Sir, my division of the hands: all present and sober.’

And it was what he was hoping for. In their best rig, the men stood easily, fearlessly. He stopped to inspect one closely. A glossy tarpaulin hat with ‘L’Aurore’ picked out on a black ribbon, a short blue jacket, with several rows of brass buttons and white seams on the sleeve and back, over a blue striped white shirt and set off with a red neck-cloth. Tight white duck trousers and gleaming long-quartered black shoes with buckles – the very picture of a deep-sea sailor. And the whole hand-made and lovingly embroidered – it sang of pride in himself and his ship, and Kydd was touched and humbled.

He passed man after man, each distinct and idiosyncratic in his dress and features. These were supreme professionals: the daring young topmen, the steady fo’c’slemen, the creased features of the old hands. With a word for one, an admiring comment to another, he advanced along the lines.

There was nothing to fault here, no frowsty evidence of a sailor lost to drink, no shabby carelessness from a man not one with his shipmates. They were a handsome division and Kydd told a pink-faced Curzon so.

He moved to the other divisions. The same strength and character, the same prideful appearance. Here was evidence of rivalry, the healthy expression of regard and comradeship. He nodded to a blank-faced Stirk, smiled to see Doud his cheerful self once more, and beside him Pinto, in an English sailor’s rig intricate with Portuguese ornamentation.

His barge crew were distinctive with white ribbons sewn through the sleeve seams of their jackets and trousers; the gunner’s crew each wore a blood-red kerchief; the fo’c’slemen sported large anchor buttons.

It had happened: the collection of individuals that were the Alcestes and the L’Aurores had come together and were now one.

After the inspection of the men, it was the turn of the ship. With his entourage of first lieutenant, boatswain and his mate and a Royal Marines escort, Kydd set off.

Galley, dispensary, stores – even the hold was not exempt. This was not an inspection of masts and spars, guns and carriages – those could be relied upon to be seen to on a daily basis. This was a tour of all the hundred and one places never regularly looked into; a hard grind of scouring and painting had necessarily preceded it.

The mess-deck he held until last. It would be the most revealing of all, for this was more than the usual sailors’ dwelling place set among the hulking presence of the cannon with their gun-ports to the outer world. A frigate had no guns on the mess-deck and did not need to be cleared – the men’s living space was their own.

Howlett looked at him meaningfully as they entered and Kydd dutifully sniffed. This deck was the next lowest in the ship and was ventilated and illumined only by the three hatchway gratings above; the effluvium of hundreds of men living together could be an overpowering fug but here there was only a pleasing sharp tang of the vinegar and lime used to sweeten the wood.

‘Very good, Mr Howlett,’ he said, moving a tub at the end of a table, but there was no tell-tale discolouring of the planking, evidence of a ‘holiday’ in the cleaning of the deck. Straightening, he looked about at the mess-tables up against the ship’s side and saw what he had hoped for.

The vertical racks there were filled with mess kit as individual as the men who owned it. Crockery, small japanned boxes of herbs and, at the top corners, carved pieces and dainty pictures set about with miniature ropework. Their ditty-bags hung along with them, canvas with an opening near the top, each lovingly embroidered by its owner.

The seamen were showing that they had made L’Aurore their home. It meant therefore that when they went to battle this, too, was what they were defending. He could have fussed at searching out faults – and he knew where to look – but he was satisfied.

‘Well done, Mr Howlett,’ he pronounced. ‘We’ll rig for church, I believe.’

He affected not to notice the discreet sign given and, seconds later, a drum volleyed and rattled above. The men tumbled down the hatchways, seizing benches and stools in disciplined silence, and by the time Kydd had