Quarterdeck by Julian Stockwin

short their sport, and Kydd went below with the signal book. The system seemed rational enough but he could foresee problems. What if the wind was gusting towards them from a ship? It would set her fl ags end-on. And in any kind of battle, with its vast amount of powder-smoke, fl ags would be invisible.
    “So signals is the life for you?” Adams said.
    “Seems t’ be all plain sailing to me. And is a mort better than chokin’ on smoke in the gun-deck!”
    Adams adjusted his cravat. It was an open secret that a certain landlady was bestowing her favours liberally, under certain expectations not unconnected with Adams’s solitary visits ashore.
    “Pray don’t be too cocksure, dear chap,” he said, with feeling.
    “A reputation can be destroyed by false bunting just as easily as putting a ship ashore.”
    Kydd smiled, but closed the book. He felt reasonably secure in his knowledge of signals and, despite Bampton’s acid words, surely there could not be much more to add that he needed to say to a crowd of merchant seamen. With the ship about to sail, it made sense to sup on the fat of the land while they could. “Nicholas! I have a fancy to step ashore again, are you interested?”
    “Falmouth?” Renzi ruminated, hiding a smile. “This is the Valubia of Virgil—you have probably overlooked that passage in The Aeneid describing Falmouth. Let me see: ‘Est in recessu longo lo cus; insula portum . . .’ it goes, as I remember. You will recognise the Dryden too: ‘Where vale with sea doth join into its purer hands; ’twixt which, to ships commodious Port is shown— ’ ”
    “Sir!” It was a small midshipman at the door. “The captain, sir, desires Mr Kydd to attend on him before he lands, should it be convenient.”
    “The convoy instructions have arrived, Mr Kydd,” Houghton 86

Julian Stockwin
    grunted. His clerk scratched away to one side, a sizeable pile of paper mounting beside him.
    “Sir.”
    “And the convoy will sail in two days.” Houghton looked up at him. “I am senior offi cer and I will be calling a conference of ships’ masters for tomorrow afternoon at two. You will attend, of course, and will probably wish to prepare. My clerk, when he’s fi nished, will disclose to you my private signals and wishes in respect of the escorts.
    “Mark my words, I mean to brook no insolence from the master of any merchant vessel, and I will have obedience. I want you to make this quite plain.”
    “Aye aye, sir,” Kydd said, turning to go. “And may I have a convoy signal list?”
    Houghton started in annoyance. “Of course not! Have you forgotten they are secret? The losing of just one such can lead our convoy into ambuscade, the loss of millions, disgrace to our fl ag. All are accounted for, sir, and are now under guard—I’m surprised you see fi t to ask such a thing.”
    It was a shock: fi rst, the level of secrecy to which he was now privy, but second, that he had not given it much thought. Simple courage and seamanship were no longer the only things that would matter in the future.
    Houghton grunted. “Very well. You may study a signal list in the lobby while Mr Shepheard is working. Any notes you take will be kept by him also. That is all, Mr Kydd.”
    His heart sank; the mass of detail about fl eet signals was exhaustive. Once under way and at sea each ship would be an island, unreachable except for these signals. Kydd leafed through the orders for distinguishing signals and vanes, then the instructions on to the formation of the convoy; it would apparently be

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    a multi- column square advancing over the ocean. The name of each ship was fi lled in and assigned a number, which turned out to be its column and row position, and the three escorts were positioned around them, Tenacious, with a tiny fl ag added to her name, in the van.
    The bulk of the details however, was taken up with resolving problems before they occurred. He turned more pages in dismay.
    Even putting to sea