Quarterdeck(12)

‘Captain Houghton will want to see you immediately, I should think,’ the officer-of-the-watch said.

‘Aye aye, sir,’ Kydd replied carefully, conscious of eyes on him from all over the busy decks. He remembered little of her from the exhausted hours he had spent aboard after the battle, fighting to bring the damaged vessel to safe harbour, but all ships had similar main features. He turned and went into the cabin spaces aft.

Renzi reported first. There was a rumble of voices; then the door opened. ‘Seems pleasant enough,’ he whispered to Kydd.

Kydd knocked and entered. The captain sat behind his desk facing him, taking advantage of the wan light coming through the stern windows. He was glowering at a paper.

‘L’tenant Kydd come aboard t’ join, sir.’

‘Don’t sit,’ the captain said heavily. ‘You’re to hold yourself ready to go ashore again.’

‘But, sir, why?’

‘You are owed an explanation, I believe,’ Houghton said, looking at Kydd directly. ‘I’ve been given to understand that your origins are the lower deck, that is to say you have come aft through the hawse, as the expression goes.’

‘Er – aye, sir.’

‘Then this must be to your great credit, and shows evidence, no doubt, of sterling qualities of some kind. However . . .’ he leaned back in his chair, still fixing Kydd with hard, grey eyes, ‘ . . . I am determined that Tenacious under my command shall have a loyal band of officers of breeding, who will be able to represent the ship with, um, distinction, and who may be relied upon in the matter of courtesy and gentle conduct.

‘You should understand that it is no reflection on yourself personally, when I say that I am applying to the commissioner to have you replaced with a more suitable officer for this vessel. There is no question in my mind that your services will be far more valuable to the service perhaps in a sloop or gunboat, not in a sail-of-the-line.’ He stood. ‘In the meantime you may wish to avail yourself of the conveniences of the wardroom. Carry on, please.’

Kydd stuttered an acknowledgement and left. He felt numb: the swing from exhilaration to the bleakness of rejection was as savage as it was unexpected.

The mate-of-the-watch waited on the open deck. ‘Sir?’ Kydd’s chest and personal possessions lay in a small heap.

‘Leave ’em for now.’ Kydd felt every eye on him as he went below to the wardroom. The only inhabitant was a marine captain sitting at the table, pencilling in an order book. He looked up. ‘Some sort o’ mistake,’ Kydd mumbled. ‘I’m t’ be replaced.’

‘Oh, bad luck, old trout.’

Kydd took off his coat and sat at the other end of the table. As desolation built, he tried to subdue the feeling of homelessness, of not belonging in this select community. He got up abruptly and, pulling himself together, stepped out on deck. He had seen Renzi with a party forward getting the topmast a-taunt. Renzi would have no problems of breeding with this captain, and later he must find his friend and bid him farewell.

The officer-of-the-watch caught sight of Kydd and turned with a frown. Some waiting seamen looked at him with open amusement. Face burning, Kydd returned to the wardroom. It was half-way through the afternoon and the marine captain had left. A young wardroom servant was cleaning the table. ‘Ah, sorry, sir, I’ll leave,’ he said, collecting his rags.

‘No, younker, carry on,’ Kydd said. Any company was better than none.

He looked about. It was a surprisingly neat and snug space with louvred cabin doors looking inward to the long table along the centreline and the fat girth of the mizzen mast at one end. The bulkheads and doors were darkly polished rich mahogany, and at the other end there was plenty of light from the broad stern windows – even the privacy of a pair of officers’ quarter galleries. She would be an agreeable ship for far voyaging.

This old class of 64s were surprisingly numerous – still probably near thirty left in service – and were known for their usefulness. As convoy escorts they could easily crush any predatory frigate, yet at a pinch could stand in the line of battle. In home waters the mainstay of the major battle fleets was the 74, but overseas, vessels like Tenacious were the squadron heavyweights.

Kydd’s depression deepened as he wandered about the wardroom. On the rudder head he found a well-thumbed book, The Sermons of Mr Yorick. Raising his eyebrows in surprise he found that it was instead a novel by a Laurence Sterne, and he sat to read. Half-way into the first chapter and not concentrating, he heard a piping of the side and guessed that the captain had returned with news of his replacement.