Quarterdeck(2)
Some glanced curiously at the two men, others with admiration. Self-conscious, Kydd waited for someone to recognise him, but perhaps the dark blue, white and gold of his handsome uniform put paid to that. He saw Betty, the fishmonger’s attractive daughter, who stopped and stared in shock at the sight of him. Kydd doffed his brand-new cocked hat.
They reached the red-brick church of Holy Trinity, and turned off past the glebe cottages to Schoolhouse Lane, as it was now known. There was no mistaking the little naval school ahead: a huge blue ensign floated above for all the world to see – the flag under which Kydd had fought at Camperdown. And as they drew near they could hear a muffled chanting on the air: ‘ . . . three sevens are twenty-one, four sevens are twenty-eight, five sevens . . .’
They stepped into the tiny quadrangle, two King’s officers returned from the sea. A youngster emerged at the run from a classroom and teetered to a halt. He whipped off his cap and shrilled, ‘I’ll fetch th’ bo’sun, if y’ please, sir!’
Jabez Perrott emerged out of the building and stumped importantly towards them. His eyes widened, and he gasped, ‘Be buggered! It’s Master Kydd, be gob!’
Kydd opened his mouth, but Perrott, reddening with pleasure, grabbed for his silver call and emitted a piercing blast. Then, in a lower-deck bellow that had not softened with the years, he roared, ‘Aaaaall the hands! Haaaands to muster – clear lower deck, ye swabs! Haaaands to muster!’
Children boiled out of the classrooms, screeching in delight at the antics of their strict boatswain.
‘Mr Perrott! Mr Perrott! What are you doing?’
Kydd recognised the voice and, holding back tears, advanced to meet his mother.
‘Oh! Tom! It’s you! M’ darling boy, it’s you! And you’ve . . .’ The rest was lost in a fierce embrace that went on and on, knocking his hat askew.
‘Mother! So long . . .’
Kydd’s father had aged: his form was stooped and his eyes sightless. Nevertheless, he bore himself nobly in the black breeches of a headmaster. ‘Er, is that you, son?’
‘It is, Walter!’ his mother said, as the old man moved uncertainly towards Kydd, holding out his hand. Kydd took it, then hugged him.
‘Walter, Tom is an officer!’ She looked anxiously to Kydd for confirmation – the idea was so enormous.
‘Aye, Mother, it’s “Lieutenant Kydd, Royal Navy” you must call me now, or I’ll clap ye all in irons!’ He spoke loudly so his father would make no mistake about what he was hearing.
‘Carry on, sir?’ Perrott said to Kydd, touching his hat.
‘Er, please do,’ said Kydd.
‘Ship’s comp’ny, ahoy! I’ll have yez in two lines afore the mast – let’s be havin’ ye!’ he bawled at the children. They shuffled eagerly into line. ‘Now, we dips our colours t’ a pair o’ ’eroes ’oo has jus’ come back ’ome fr’m such a battle as never was, an’ we’re going t’ show how much we admires ’em!’
Lieutenants Kydd and Renzi stood solemnly to attention as ‘God Save The King’ and ‘Rule Britannia’ were sung enthusiastically by the wide-eyed youngsters.
A piercing squeal on the boatswain’s call brought quiet, and the colours were dipped reverently to half staff. With great dignity Perrott turned to face Kydd, removing his hat. Taken by surprise, Kydd raised his own cocked hat, at which the colours rose again.
‘Silence!’ Perrott thundered at the awed children. ‘Now, Lootenant Kydd will talk t’ you about y’ dooty.’
Kydd managed to splutter a few words: ‘Y’r duty is . . . steadfast in all weathers . . . courage at the cannon’s mouth . . . King and country.’
It seemed to be enough. An eager child broke ranks and held up his hand. ‘Please, sir, I want t’ be a sailor – how do I be a sailor?’
Soon a pink-faced Kydd was mobbed by shouting boys.
‘Pipe down, y’ scurvy crew, ’n’ listen to the l’tenant!’ growled Perrott happily.
Kydd glanced across at his mother, who was bursting with pride, and knew there was only one thing to do. He turned to his father and touched his hat. ‘Cap’n, sir, permission f’r liberty ashore t’ both watches!’
‘Oh, er, liberty?’ his father stuttered. ‘Yes, yes, er, Lieutenant Kydd. A half-holiday to, er, all hands!’ The children screamed with delight and poured out of the school, leaving a dazed, happy Kydd family standing in the quadrangle.
‘I shall withdraw at this point, if I may,’ Renzi said quietly.
‘No, no, Mr Renzi,’ Mrs Kydd insisted. ‘You must stay an’ tell us where you have been on the sea – you’ll both have such tales, I do declare!’ She turned to Kydd. ‘Now, I’ll ask Mr Partington to spare us his room for you – he can stay with his friend Jonathan. For Mr Renzi . . .’ She trailed off. Then she resumed stiffly: ‘But, then, now Thomas has a reputation, he’ll want t’ have his own establishment.’