Chapter 1
Lieutenant Thomas Kydd turned in his chair to Tysoe, his servant. ‘An’ I’ll have another soup, if y’ please.’ He smiled at his friend Renzi, and loosened his stock in the warmth of the crowded wardroom of HMS Tenacious. ‘Thunderin’ good prog, Nicholas, d’ye think?’
‘Moose muffle,’ Pringle, captain of marines, called over the hubbub. He inspected the piece of meat he had speared. ‘Spring moose is better in June, you’ll find, once the beast has a mort of fat on him.’
The wardroom echoed to gusts of laughter in response to a sally by Captain Houghton at the head of the table – his officers had invited him to dine with them this night. The older of the seamen servants glanced at each other meaningfully. The ship had pulled together in fine style: with officers in harmony so much less was the likelihood of interference in their own community.
Kydd’s soup plate was removed. ‘Ah, I think the baked shad,’ he said, and turned to Pybus, the surgeon. ‘Not as I mean t’ say I’m wearying of cod, you know.’
‘That, in Nova Scotia, is a felony, Mr Kydd,’ Pybus said drily, reaching for the chicken. As usual, he was wearing an old green waistcoat.
Kydd nodded at the servant, and his glass was neatly refilled. He let his eyes wander beyond the colour and chatter of the occasion through the graceful sweep of the stern windows to Halifax harbour, the darkness relieved by scattered golden pinpricks of light from other ships at anchor. Just a year ago he had been under discipline before the mast, accused of treason after the Nore mutiny. He had joined the insurrection in good faith, then been carried along by events that had overwhelmed them all. But for mysterious appeals at the highest level, he should have shared his comrades’ fate and been hanged with them; he had never dreamed of elevation to the sanctity of the quarterdeck. Now he had won another great prize: acceptance by the other officers as an equal. Where might it all lead?
‘Pray assist me with this Rheingau, Tom,’ Renzi said, reaching across with a white wine. There was a contentment in him too, Kydd observed. His friend, who had come with him from the lower deck, was now settled at this much more agreeable station, which befitted his high-born background.
‘Mr Kydd – your health, sir!’ The captain’s voice carried down the table.
Kydd lifted his glass with a civil inclination of the head. ‘Votter santay,’ he responded gravely.
Houghton had risen above his objections to his fifth lieutenant’s humble origins after a social coup had established Kydd’s connections with the highest in the land. Unaware of her identity, Kydd had invited Prince Edward’s mistress to an official banquet – to the great pleasure of the prince.
‘I c’n well recommend th’ ruffed grouse, sir,’ Kydd said. A seaman picked up the dish and carried it to the captain, who acknowledged it graciously.
Tall glasses appeared before each officer, filled with what appeared to be a fine amber fluid. The captain was the first to try. ‘By George, it’s calf’s foot jelly!’ he said. ‘Lemon – who’s responsible for this perfection?’ he demanded of his steward.
‘Lady Wentworth’s own recipe, sir. She desires to indicate in some measure to His Majesty’s Ship Tenacious her sensibility of the honour Lieutenant Kydd bestowed on her by accepting her invitation to the levee.’
‘I see,’ said the captain, and flashed a glance at Kydd.
The third lieutenant, Gervase Adams, shifted in his chair. ‘No disrespect intended, sir, but it gripes me that we wax fat and indolent while our country lies under such grave peril.’
Houghton frowned. ‘Any officer of honour would feel so, Mr Adams, but the safeguarding of trade and securing of naval supplies is of as much consequence to your country as the winning of battles. Pray bear your lot with patience. There may yet be a testing time ahead for us all.’
Houghton motioned to his steward and the last dishes were removed, the cloth drawn. Decanters of Marsala and port were placed at the head and foot of the table and passed along, always to the left, as custom dictated. When all glasses had been filled, Houghton nodded almost imperceptibly to Bryant, first lieutenant and president of the mess, who turned to Kydd as the most junior lieutenant present. ‘Mr Vice – the King.’
Kydd lifted his glass and paused for quiet. ‘Gentlemen, the King.’
The words echoed strongly around the table. The simple ceremony of the loyal toast seemed to Kydd to draw together all the threads of his allegiance to king and country, and with others he followed with a sincere ‘God bless him.’