‘Sir, there is a service you may do us,’ Renzi said. ‘If you could indicate a chandlery or such that is able to outfit us in the article of cold-weather clothing . . .’
‘That I can certainly do, and close by, at Forman’s – you shall need my advice, I suspect.’ The emporium in question was well patronised, and they were met with curious looks from weather-worn men and capable-looking women. An overpowering smell lay on the air.
‘Sea gear, if you please,’ Greaves told the assistant.
‘Goin’ north?’ The broad Canadian twang was noticeable against Greaves’s more English tones.
‘He means to Newfoundland and the Arctic. Would this be so, do you think?’
‘Not in a sail-of-the-line, I believe.’
‘Well, Capting, here in Forman’s we has somethin’ fer all hands. Aloft, it’s tarred canvas th’ best, but there’s many prefers their rig less stiff sort o’ thing, uses boiled linseed oil instead. An’ regular seamen on watch always takes heavy greased homespun under their gear as well.’
He swung out a set of what seemed to be heavy dark leather gear. ‘Norsky fishermen swear by this’n.’ Selecting an impossibly sized mitten, he added, ‘Boiled wool, then felted – you don’t fear fish-hooks in the dark wi’ this!’
Watching their faces for a reaction, he chose another garment. ‘Er, you gents are goin’ to be more satisfied wi’ these, I guess.’ The jacket was of heavy cloth, but much more flexible. However, with every proud flourish he made, a rank animal miasma arose, catching at the back of the throat. ‘See here,’ the assistant said, opening the garment and revealing pale, yellowish smears along the seams. ‘This is guaranteed t’ keep you warm ’n’ dry. Prime bear grease!’
Forewarned by Lady Jane schooner, Halifax prepared for the arrival of the North American Squadron from its winter quarters in Bermuda. As if in ironic welcome, the morning’s pale sun withdrew, lowering grey clouds layered the sky with bleak threat and tiny flakes appeared, whirling about the ship. Kydd shuddered. Obliged to wear outer uniform he had done his best to cram anything he could find beneath it, but the spiteful westerly chilled him to the bone.
Long before the squadron hove in sight, regular thuds from the outer fortresses marked its approach. Six ships in perfect line finally emerged around the low hump of George’s Island, indifferent to the weather.
‘Resolution, seventy-four,’ someone said, pointing to the leading ship’s admiral’s flag floating high on the mast. The rest of the conversation was lost in the concussion and smoke of saluting guns as the two biggest ships present, Resolution and Tenacious, acknowledged each other’s presence, then deigned to notice the citadel’s grand flag.
Just as her first anchor plunged into the sea the flagship’s launch smacked into the water, and sails on all three masts vanished as one, drawing admiring comments from Tenacious’s quarterdeck.
Kydd tensed, aware of a warning glance from Bryant standing next to the captain, but he was ready. In Resolution, the white ensign at her mizzen peak descended; simultaneously, in Tenacious, the huge red ensign of an independent ship on its forty-foot staff aft dipped. In its place, in time with the flagship, a vast pristine white ensign arose, signifying the formal accession of the 64 to the North American Squadron.
The snow thickened, large flakes drifting down endlessly and obscuring Kydd’s sight of the flagship. If he should miss anything . . .
A three-flag hoist shot up Resolution’s main; Kydd anxiously pulled out his signal book, but Rawson knew without looking. ‘“All captains!”’ he sang out gleefully, almost cherubic in his many layers of clothing.
Kydd hurried down to the quarterdeck but Houghton had anticipated the summons and was waiting at the entry port, resplendent in full dress and sword. His barge hooked on below the side-steps and, snowflakes glistening on his boat-cloak, he vanished over the side.
Duty done, Tenacious settled back to harbour routine. The snow began to settle. Deck fitments and spars, brightwork and blacked cannon, all were now topped with a damp white.
As expected, ‘All officers’ was signalled at eleven. Boats put off from every English man-o’-war in the harbour to converge on the flagship; the officers were in full dress and sword, with a white ensign to denote their presence.
It was the pomp and majesty of a naval occasion, which Kydd had seen many times before but from the outside. He stood nervously with the others as they were welcomed cordially by the flag-lieutenant on the quarterdeck and shown below by a serious-faced midshipman.