Quarterdeck by Julian Stockwin Page A

in good order required special fl ags to be hung out from odd places about the ship. A red and white weft at the mizzen peak indicated that a ship wished to speak, probably for some urgent concern; a signal of 492 required the unfortunate ship concerned to hoist a yellow fl ag and steer straight for an enemy in a warlike manner, imitating the action of a warship.
    It went on: Kydd’s eyes glazed. He began to resent the implied assumption that a naval offi cer could do anything at a moment’s notice, and tried not to think of what he had to face in less than a day. Was it possible to get to grips with so much in that time?
    Marines at the landing pier clashed to present arms when Captain Houghton stepped out of the boat, and more lined the way along Arwenack Street to the Customs House where the conference was due to take place.
    With their marine guard Kydd paced along stoically behind Houghton and his fi rst lieutenant, lugging the padlocked bag of signal instructions and trying to ignore the curious glances of the townsfolk. At the Customs House, a big, square-looking stone building with a brace of captured French cannon at the entrance, they were met by a prosperous-looking individual wearing an old-fashioned tricorne hat. “Cap’n Houghton? Raddles, Collector o’
    Customs. Welcome to Falmouth, an’ your convoy gentlemen are a-waitin’ within.” They passed inside along a musty-smelling 88

Julian Stockwin
    passage. “Been here before, sir?” Without waiting for an answer he went on, “The long room is where they meets mostly.”
    They entered a large room with barn-style beams and imposing, fl oor-length windows. It was noisy, as some hundreds of plainly dressed and weatherworn seamen were present. The babble died as they entered, and those standing in groups moved to take chairs.
    Kydd followed Houghton up the aisle to the front, conscious of heads turning. There was a small lectern, a chalkboard and a table. Just three chairs, facing the hundreds seated, waited.
    Houghton took the centre chair and Kydd the left. Bryant was on the right. The talking died away. The collector introduced the offi cers briefl y with a bow and a gesture, then left.
    The captain wasted no time. He stepped up to the lectern and fi xed his glare on the audience. “I am senior offi cer of the escorts. On this voyage you will have ships of force with you, and need fear nothing from the French, as long as you sail agreeable to the plan. Runners will not be tolerated unless arrangements are in hand. Do I make myself clear?”
    Kydd knew that runners were individual ships that tired of the slower speeds of a convoy and struck out ahead alone. They were taking a chance and were on their own, but stood to gain a lot when theirs was the fi rst cargo landed.
    “We have a favourable wind and I intend to proceed tomorrow forenoon with the tide. If you have any objections to the sailing plan you may see me in Tenacious up to six hours before we weigh. Otherwise I will take it that you agree to its provisions and will abide by them.” He gripped the sides of the lectern.
    “Have you any questions? No?” A restless stirring went through the meeting. Houghton relaxed his stance. “Lieutenant Kydd here will present the sailing plan and explain the signals.” Kydd felt a moment of panic, but remembered to nod and smile under the scrutiny of so many eyes. He had a deep sense of responsibility

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    that so many merchant seamen were putting their trust in the Navy.
    “Then it is only left for me to wish you fair winds and a successful voyage. Good day, gentlemen.”
    To Kydd’s relief, Houghton and the fi rst lieutenant strode together down the aisle and left. He had no wish for his performance to be seen by anyone from Tenacious. Aware of a rustle of expectation he moved to the lectern and stood before the sea of stony faces. “L’tenant Kydd, signal lieutenant in Tenacious. ”
    His voice came out thin and unconvincing. “I want