Quarterdeck(13)

Word was not long in coming. A midshipman pelted down and knocked sharply. ‘Lootenant Kydd? Sir, cap’n desires you wait on him.’

On deck the officer-of-the-watch looked at him accusingly. His chest and bags, obviously a hindrance, had been moved to the base of the mainmast. ‘Be getting rid o’ them soon,’ Kydd said defiantly, and went inside to see the captain.

This time Houghton stood up. ‘I won’t waste our time. We’re under notice for sea, and there’s no officer replacement readily at hand. I see you will be accompanying us after all, Mr Kydd.’

A leaping exultation filled Kydd’s thoughts. Then a cooler voice told him that the explanation for his change of fortune was probably the inability of the commissioner’s office to change the paperwork in time – an officer’s commission was to a particular ship rather than the Navy as a whole, and could not easily be put aside.

‘I’ll not pretend that this is to my liking, Mr Kydd,’ the captain continued, ‘but I’m sure you’ll do your duty as you see it to the best of your ability.’ He stared hard at Kydd. ‘You are the most junior officer aboard, and I need not remind you that if you fail me then, most assuredly, you will be landed at the first opportunity.’

‘I will not fail ye, sir.’

‘Umm. Quite so. Well, perhaps I’d better welcome you aboard as the fifth of Tenacious, Mr Kydd.’ He held out his hand, but his eyes remained bleak. ‘Show your commission and certificates to my clerk, and he will perform the needful. My first lieutenant has your watch details and you will oblige me by presenting yourself on deck tomorrow morning for duty.’

Excitement stole back to seize Kydd as he stood in the wardroom supervising his gear being carried down. His cabin was the furthest forward of four on the larboard side, and he opened the door with trepidation: only a short time ago this had been officers’ private territory.

It was small. He would be sharing his night-time thoughts with a gleaming black eighteen-pounder below, and his cot, triced up to the deckhead for now, ensured that he could never stand upright. He would have to find room for his chest, cocked-hat box, sword, personal oddments and books. A cunningly designed desk occupied the forward width, taking advantage of the outward curve of the ship’s side. He pulled at its little drawers and wondered which dead officer had unintentionally left it behind for others.

The gunport was open. At sea it would be closed and then the cabin would be a diminutive place indeed, but he had been in smaller. He tried the chair at the desk. It was tiny, but well crafted to fit into such a space, tightly but comfortably enfolding his thighs. He eased into it and looked around. Spartan it might be, but it was the first true privacy he had ever experienced aboard ship. His eyes followed the line of intersection where the bulkhead met the overhead beams. The thin panels were slotted: at ‘beat to quarters’ this entire cabin would be dismantled and struck down in the hold below. Over the door he noticed a ragged line of colour, where a curtain had once been fastened to cover the door space; he could have the door open and still retain a modicum of privacy.

It was adequate, it was darkly snug – and it was his. He went to his chest and rummaged around. Carefully stored at the bottom was his commission. Undoing the red silk ribbon he unfolded the crackling parchment and read it yet again.

By the Commissioners for executing the Office of Lord High Admiral of Great Britain . . . Lieutenant Thomas Kydd . . . we do appoint you Lieutenant of His Majesty’s Ship the Tenacious . . . strictly charging the Officers and all the Ship’s Company . . . all due Respect and Obedience unto you their said Lieutenant . . .

Kydd savoured the noble words.

It concluded sombrely:

Hereof nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer to the contrary at your peril. And for so doing this shall be your Warrant . . .

It was signed Evan Nepean, secretary to the Admiralty, and the date of seniority, 20 January 1798, with the scarlet Admiralty seal embossed to the left. This single document would figure prominently for the rest of Kydd’s life, defining station and position, rank and pay, authority and rule. He creased it carefully and put it away. A deep breath turned into a sigh, which he held for a long time.

He turned and found himself confronting a black man. ‘Tysoe, sir, James Tysoe, your servant,’ he said, in a well-spoken tone.

Kydd was taken aback, not that Tysoe was black but at the realisation that here was proof positive of the status he had now achieved. ‘Ah, yes.’ He had had a servant in the gunroom before, but this was altogether different: then it had been a knowing old marine shared with all the others; here the man was his personal valet. ‘Do carry on, if y’ please,’ Kydd said carefully.