There was an air of excitement and anticipation as the far-off soft green and gray-black of the land resolved into the Isle of Wight, and Portsmouth, with its sheltered naval anchorage of Spithead. The weather had held, and there was nothing to disturb the winter-bright pearlescence in sea and sky. Duke William glided in under all plain sail toward the long dark smudge ahead that was the Fleet at anchor.
A wearisome forenoon had been spent on the ship’s appearance, for it was well known that Admiral Howe was no friend to the indolent. Besides a thorough holystone fore and aft, salt-stained sides were sluiced with fresh water, brightwork brought to a thorough gleam and the seadulled colors around the beakhead and figurehead touched up to their usual striking splendor.
Around the catted bower anchors and aloft, men had been working since daybreak. It was clear from the short tempers on the quarterdeck that more than appearances would shortly be judged.
Along the line of the deck the gunner’s party were busy at the twelve-pounders with wadhook and shot ladle, removing the live charge and shot from each new-blacked gun. At sea a ship had to be ready to meet any enemy appearing unexpectedly with immediate fire. Now the guns would carry nothing more lethal than a blank saluting cartridge.
The hawse bucklers were removed from the eyes in the bows, the massive twenty-five-inch cable roused out from the tiers below and passed through them before being secured to the bower anchor. Finally the sea lashings were removed, leaving the anchor suspended only by a single stopper. Amidships, the barge and cutter were readied for lowering, the barge crew going below to shift into their smart gear. Kydd noticed activity on the poop deck around the flag locker. Bright bunting, vivid on the gray day, was carefully checked, with the ensign and jack laid out ready for the staff.
Duke William neared the land, which now took on more detail. Kydd marveled at the number of ships about — tiny tan and white specks of sails up and down the coast as far as he could see: merchantmen, passenger craft and cumbersome naval auxiliaries. But dominating all, stretching over a mile of sea, there were at least a score of great ships-of-the-line at anchor, all arrogance and lofty grace. Closer still, it was possible to note the details of the small craft ceaselessly moving against the low-lying shoreline and the medieval white stone ramparts. At the narrow entrance of the harbor, he saw an untidy clutter of small, rickety buildings perching close by.
It soon became apparent that they were making for the outer end of the cluster of moored ships.
“All hands, bring ship to anchor!”
Hardly a soul stirred, long since standing to at their posts. A rope thrust into his hands, Kydd snatched a glance aft at the small group on the quarterdeck.
The Captain, easily recognized with his large gold-laced cocked hat and imperious bearing, stood in the center of the deck. Next to him was Tyrell’s restless stumpy form, with Garrett close behind. Within earshot, but at a respectful distance, were the Master in his plain black coat and a group of midshipmen. Lieutenant Tewsley watched the quarterdeck while Elkins kept his eyes on Tewsley and Bowyer watched Elkins.
Kydd held the lee main topgallant clewline as though his life depended on it and waited for whatever would come.
“Stand by to take in topgallants — man topgallant clewlines, fore and main clewgarnets and buntlines!”
Bowyer made no move; neither therefore did Kydd.
“Haul taut! In topgallants — up foresail, up mainsail!”
Bowyer threw off his turns and went to it furiously, frantically imitated by Kydd, bringing in the rope hand over hand, the wind spilling thunderously from the big sail above them.
Duke William slowed perceptibly, progressing parallel to the shoreline under topsails and staysails. Kydd could not keep his eyes from the scene — so many huge vessels, so much power and threat.
Bowyer moved over to the clewline and Kydd followed. “Which is the Admiral’s ship?” he asked.
Bowyer’s hands on the rope, he cocked his head toward the largest. “Queen Charlotte, a hundred guns — Chatham built, same’s Victory, but much newer.” His eyes rested dispassionately on the big ship. “But not ever as sweet a sailer on a bowline as that old lady.”
Silently they neared the anchorage, but even to Kydd’s eye, they appeared to be passing well to seaward of the dense gathering of ships. His not to reason why, he waited, grateful for the warmth generated by his recent exertions.
Caldwell raised his speaking trumpet. “Helm a-lee! Topsail clew-jiggers, buntlines! Man jib downhaul!” The ship exploded into action, almost the entire company energetically at some task. Kydd tensed, noticing that the vessel was ponderously beginning a turn toward the anchored Fleet and incidentally the shore.