Quarterdeck(23)

At ten minutes before the hour Bampton mounted the main companion to the deck. He was in comfortably faded sea rig, with the modest gold lace allowed a lieutenant bleached to silver. A few months at sea would have Kydd’s brand-new blues in the same way. Kydd was at his post early, and he said peevishly, ‘I thought to see you below, Mr Kydd.’

‘Sir.’ Kydd touched his hat.

‘No matter. Pray keep station on me, and don’t trouble to interrupt, if you please.’ Bampton waited impatiently for the captain to notice him. ‘Sir, to take the deck, if you please.’ Kydd heard the captain’s wishes passed – course and sail set, special orders.

‘I have the ship, sir,’ Bampton said formally, and thereby became commander pro tem of HMS Tenacious. His eyes flickered to Kydd, then he turned to the mate-of-the-watch. ‘I’ll take a pull at the lee fore-brace,’ he said, ‘and the same at the main.’ He looked up, considering. ‘Send a hand to secure that main t’gallant buntline – and I mean to have all fore ’n’ aft sail sheeted home in a proper seamanlike manner, if you please.’

He turned on his heel and paced away down the deck. Kydd didn’t know whether to follow or stay at attention. He compromised by taking a sudden interest in the slate of course details stowed in the binnacle. ‘Nobbut a jib ’n’ stays’l jack,’ he overheard the quartermaster’s low growl to his mate, and saw no reason to correct the observation.

It was a hard beat down Channel, a relentless westerly heading them and the brood of merchant shipping that was taking advantage of the company of a ship of force. They clawed their way tack by tack, driven by the need to make Falmouth and the convoy on time.

The wind strengthened, then fell and eased southerly, allowing a tired ship’s company to shape course past the Eddystone, albeit in an endless succession of rain squalls.

The master put up the helm and bore away for Falmouth. As the yards came round and the wind and seas came in on the quarter – a pleasant lift and pirouette for him, a lurching trial for the landmen – Kydd looked ahead. He’d never been to Falmouth, the legendary harbour tucked away in the craggy granite coast of Cornwall. It would be the last stop in England before the vastness of the Atlantic Ocean.

The master stood hunched and still, raindrops whipping from his dark oilskins and plain black hat. This man held a repository of seamanship experiences and knowledge that even the longest-serving seaman aboard could not come close to: he could bring meaning and order into storm, calms, and the unseen perils of rock and shoal.

Kydd moved up and stood next to him. ‘My first visit t’ Falmouth, Mr Hambly,’ he said. ‘I’d be obliged should you tell me something of the place.’

The head turned slowly, eyes cool and appraising. ‘Your first, Mr Kydd? I dare say it won’t be y’r last while this war keeps on.’ He resumed his gaze forward. ‘A fine harbour, Falmouth, in the lee of the Lizard, and big enough for a fleet. At the beginning o’ last year, you may recollect the great storm – ’twas then four hundred sail sheltered f’r three weeks in Falmouth without we lost one. Fine port, Mr Kydd.’

‘Then why doesn’t we have the Channel Fleet there instead of Plymouth?’

The master’s expression cracked into a smile. ‘Why, now, sir, that’s a question can’t concern an old shellback like me.’

‘Th’ hazards?’

‘No hazards, sir, we have nine mile o’ ten-fathom water inside, Carrick Roads, and no current more’n a knot or two . . .’

The coast firmed out of the clearing grey rain, a repelling blue-black only now showing here and there a tinge of green. To larboard of them the great promontory of the Lizard thrust into the Channel. The hurrying seas had changed direction and were now heading in the same direction as Tenacious.

Hambly pointed to a jumble of broken coastline: ‘The Manacles.’ Kydd had heard of their reputation. ‘An’ here is where you’ll find the great sea wrack and th’ bloody sea dock,’ Hambly added. ‘Seaweed, in course.’

‘The bottom?’

‘Grey sand, mixed wi’ bits o’ shell and brown gravel, but as soon as y’ finds barley beards or cornets, think t’ turn up th’ hands an’ shorten sail.’ When approaching a coast in fog or other murk the only indication of its proximity was a change in the appearance of what was brought up in the hollow base of the hand lead-line armed with tallow. To Kydd this was singular – these tiny sea mites had been born and died deep in the bosom of the sea. The first time they met the light of this world was when they were hauled up by a seaman, to convey the means of preserving the life of half a thousand souls. Held in thrall, Kydd stared over the grey seascape.