to one side of the desk with Teazer ’s lively motion Dacres stared at Kydd. His eyes were dark pits and he seemed to have difficulty forming the words. Kydd felt a stab of apprehension.
Dacres tensed, his eyes beseeching. Then he swung away in misery, scrambling to get out. Kydd heard the sound of helpless retching from beyond the door.
The south-westerly hauled round steadily, now with more than a little of the north in it until Teazer was stretching out on the larboard tack in a fine board deep into the eastern Mediterranean.
More close-hauled, the motion was steadier but the angle of the waves marching in on the quarter imparted a spirited twist to the top of each heave.
This rendered Dacres helpless with seasickness. Kydd left him to claw back his sea legs, trusting in his sense of duty to return to his responsibilities as soon as he was able. For a sailor it was different: seasickness was not recognised as a malady and any man found leaning over the side was considered to be shirking and failing his shipmates. A rope’s end was hard medicine, but who was to say that it was not a better way to force attention away from self-misery?
The morning wore on: it was approaching noon. “Mr Bowden!
2
Julian Stockwin
Where are y’r young gentlemen? The heavens wait f’r no man. I will see them on th’ quarterdeck one bell before noon or know the reason why, sir!” Kydd growled.
The two new midshipmen could not have been more different. Attard, the nominee of the dockyard, was slightly older at fifteen. Wary but self-possessed, he clearly knew his way about ships. The other, Martyn, was diffident and delicately built, with the features of an artist.
“Carry on, Mr Bowden,” Kydd said, but stayed to observe their instruction in the noon sight ceremony.
Martyn struggled with his brand new sextant. It was a challenge to any to wield an instrument in the lively motion of the brig and Kydd sympathised. Attard had a well-used piece that seemed too heavy but Bowden’s easy flourishes encouraged them both.
Kydd adopted a small-ship straddle, standing with legs well apart, feet planted firmly on the deck with a spring in the knee, then lifted his octant. He noticed Bowden’s imitation—he was learning quickly.
Local apparent noon came and went; Bowden and the young lads importantly noted their readings and retired for the calculations. Kydd delayed going below: the prospect from the quarterdeck was grand—taut new pale sails and freshly blacked rigging against the spotless deep-blue and white horses of the sea. With the brisk westerly tasting of salt, Teazer was showing every sign of being an outstanding sailer.
The four days to the rendezvous saw Dacres recover and Teazer become ever more shipshape. The boatswain twice had the brig hove to while the lee shrouds were taken up at the lanyards where the new cordage had stretched, and the marks tied to the braces to indicate the sharp-up position were moved in. And, as Kydd had surmised, a light forefoot made for a drier fo’c’sle but livelier
Command
3
motion. He was getting to know his tight-found little ship—and loving her the more.
At fifty miles north of Alexandria the fleet rendezvous was an easy enough navigational target, a line rather than a point, the latitude of thirty-one degrees forty-five minutes.
Kydd felt anxious at the thought of meeting an admiral for the first time as a commander. Sir John was known to be a stickler for the proprieties and probably had his powerful force arrayed in line ahead with all the panoply of a crack squadron at sea—
gun salutes of the right number, frigate scouts to whom a humble brig-sloop would tug the forelock and all manner of other touchy observances.
Yet Teazer was the bearer of dispatches—news—and for a short time she would be the centre of attention. As the rendezvous approached Kydd saw to it that her decks were scrubbed and holystoned to a pristine paleness, her brightwork gleaming and guns
Dacres tensed, his eyes beseeching. Then he swung away in misery, scrambling to get out. Kydd heard the sound of helpless retching from beyond the door.
The south-westerly hauled round steadily, now with more than a little of the north in it until Teazer was stretching out on the larboard tack in a fine board deep into the eastern Mediterranean.
More close-hauled, the motion was steadier but the angle of the waves marching in on the quarter imparted a spirited twist to the top of each heave.
This rendered Dacres helpless with seasickness. Kydd left him to claw back his sea legs, trusting in his sense of duty to return to his responsibilities as soon as he was able. For a sailor it was different: seasickness was not recognised as a malady and any man found leaning over the side was considered to be shirking and failing his shipmates. A rope’s end was hard medicine, but who was to say that it was not a better way to force attention away from self-misery?
The morning wore on: it was approaching noon. “Mr Bowden!
2
Julian Stockwin
Where are y’r young gentlemen? The heavens wait f’r no man. I will see them on th’ quarterdeck one bell before noon or know the reason why, sir!” Kydd growled.
The two new midshipmen could not have been more different. Attard, the nominee of the dockyard, was slightly older at fifteen. Wary but self-possessed, he clearly knew his way about ships. The other, Martyn, was diffident and delicately built, with the features of an artist.
“Carry on, Mr Bowden,” Kydd said, but stayed to observe their instruction in the noon sight ceremony.
Martyn struggled with his brand new sextant. It was a challenge to any to wield an instrument in the lively motion of the brig and Kydd sympathised. Attard had a well-used piece that seemed too heavy but Bowden’s easy flourishes encouraged them both.
Kydd adopted a small-ship straddle, standing with legs well apart, feet planted firmly on the deck with a spring in the knee, then lifted his octant. He noticed Bowden’s imitation—he was learning quickly.
Local apparent noon came and went; Bowden and the young lads importantly noted their readings and retired for the calculations. Kydd delayed going below: the prospect from the quarterdeck was grand—taut new pale sails and freshly blacked rigging against the spotless deep-blue and white horses of the sea. With the brisk westerly tasting of salt, Teazer was showing every sign of being an outstanding sailer.
The four days to the rendezvous saw Dacres recover and Teazer become ever more shipshape. The boatswain twice had the brig hove to while the lee shrouds were taken up at the lanyards where the new cordage had stretched, and the marks tied to the braces to indicate the sharp-up position were moved in. And, as Kydd had surmised, a light forefoot made for a drier fo’c’sle but livelier
Command
3
motion. He was getting to know his tight-found little ship—and loving her the more.
At fifty miles north of Alexandria the fleet rendezvous was an easy enough navigational target, a line rather than a point, the latitude of thirty-one degrees forty-five minutes.
Kydd felt anxious at the thought of meeting an admiral for the first time as a commander. Sir John was known to be a stickler for the proprieties and probably had his powerful force arrayed in line ahead with all the panoply of a crack squadron at sea—
gun salutes of the right number, frigate scouts to whom a humble brig-sloop would tug the forelock and all manner of other touchy observances.
Yet Teazer was the bearer of dispatches—news—and for a short time she would be the centre of attention. As the rendezvous approached Kydd saw to it that her decks were scrubbed and holystoned to a pristine paleness, her brightwork gleaming and guns
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