Quarterdeck(106)
Kydd dropped clumsily out of his cot and reached for his clothing. Nearby, thumping feet sounded urgently. He struggled into breeches and shirt, flung on his coat and raced barefoot up the companion to the upper deck.
In the cold of daybreak, out of the thin drifting rain ahead, the dark shape of a ship lay across their path. Constellation’s helm was put up to bear away. Even in the bleak grey half-light it was plain that they had come upon a man-o’-war, a frigate, who had instantly challenged them.
‘Get out of it, damn you!’ Truxtun bawled, catching sight of Kydd. ‘Get below!’
There was something about this enemy frigate – Kydd knew he had seen her before.
‘Now, sir!’ Truxtun bellowed.
It was the characteristic odd-coloured staysail, the abrupt curve of her beakhead. But where? Her colours flew directly away and were impossible to make out; the two signal flags of her challenge flickered briefly into life as they were jerked down and, her challenge unanswered, her broadside thundered out.
In the seconds that the balls took to reach them Kydd remembered, but before he could speak, Truxtun roared, ‘Get that English bastard below, this instant!’
Shot slammed past hideously, gouting the sea and sending solid masses of water aboard. One slapped through a sail. Kydd urged Truxtun, ‘Sir, hold y’r fire, for God’s sake – she’s a British ship!’
Incredulous, Truxtun stared at him. ‘She fired on the American flag! She’s got to be a Frenchman, damn you!’
‘That’s Ceres thirty-two, I’d stake m’ life on it!’ But how fast would Ceres take to reload and send another, better-aimed, broadside?
‘An English ship!’ Truxtun’s roar carried down the deck and pale faces turned, then darkened in anger, menacing growls rising to shouts. ‘I’ll make ’em regret this! Mr Rodgers—’
‘Do ye want war with England as well?’ Kydd shouted. Livid, Truxtun hesitated.
‘Hoist y’r white flag!’
‘Surrender? Are you insane?’
‘No – flag o’ parlay.’ All it needed was for one over-hasty gunner on either side and the day would end in bloody ruin.
For a frozen moment everything hung. Then Truxtun acted: ‘White flag to the main, Mr Rodgers,’ he growled.
‘He’d better be coming with an explanation!’ Truxtun snapped to Kydd, as a boat under a white flag advanced, a lieutenant clearly visible in the sternsheets.
‘Sir, be s’ good as to see it from his point o’ view. His private signals have not been answered and as far as he knows there is no United States Navy with a ship o’ this force. You have t’ be a Frenchy tryin’ a deception.’
Truxtun gave an ill-natured grunt and waited for the boat. When it drew near Kydd saw the lieutenant stand and look keenly about him as the bowman hooked on. As he mounted the side angry shouts were hurled at him by seamen, which Truxtun made no attempt to stop.
‘Now, before I blow you out of the water, explain why you fired into me, sir,’ Truxtun said hotly, as the lieutenant climbed over the bulwark.
He had intelligent eyes and answered warily, ‘Sir, the reason is apparent. You did not answer my ship’s legitimate challenge and, er, we have no information about an American frigate at sea. Our conclusion must be obvious.’ Before Truxtun could answer, he added, ‘And remembering we are under a flag of truce, sir, I believe I might respectfully demand that you offer me some form of proof of your notional status – if you please.’
‘Be damned to your arrogance, sir!’ Truxtun punched a fist towards the huge American flag above them. ‘There is all the proof anyone needs!’ Shouts of agreement rang out and seamen advanced on the quarterdeck. The lieutenant held his ground but his hand fell to his sword.
Kydd held up a hand and stepped forward. ‘L’tenant, a word, if y’ please.’
The lieutenant looked in astonishment at Kydd’s bare legs, his civilian coat and breeches, soaked and clinging to him. ‘Er, yes?’
Drawing him aside, Kydd spoke urgently. ‘I’m L’tenant Kydd of HMS Tenacious, supernumerary aboard. I have t’ tell ye now, this is a United States frigate true enough, and no damn Frenchy.’
The lieutenant’s disdain turned to cold suspicion. ‘You’ll pardon my reservations, sir,’ he said, giving a short bow, ‘but can you offer me any confirmation of your identity?’
Kydd pulled his wet coat about him: a great deal hung on his next words. ‘Very well, I can do that,’ he said softly. ‘Off Devil’s Island not a month ago, Ceres was there when Resolution hangs out a signal to tack – in succession. Tenacious makes a fool of herself. I was that signal lieutenant.’