leaving.
The first of the shipwrecked men padded in. Taken utterly by surprise, Kydd saw standing before him a man he had admired even from his first few days as a pressed man in the old Duke William, a mariner he had fought beside as a common seaman in the wild single frigate action that had preceded his famous voyage round the world and who had been such a figure in his adventures in the Caribbean.
“Be damned t’ it—Toby Stirk!” blurted Kydd in delight, rising. “It’s been s’ long—let’s see, Seaflower, th’ Caribbean . . .” If anything, Stirk had hardened further: a leathery toughness now matched a ferocity that was almost visceral. “How are ye, cully?”
Kydd said, unconsciously slipping back into foremast lingo.
Stirk hesitated, delight vying with shock at the meeting. Then impulsively he grasped Kydd’s outstretched hand. “Right oragious t’ see you, Tom.” The well-remembered rasp had deepened with time. “Ah—that’s t’ say, sir.” His face crinkled with pleasure.
Kydd resumed his seat. “I’m right glad t’ see you, er, Mr Stirk.
Y’ have m’ word on that,” he added firmly. If Stirk, a gun captain of years and the hardest man Kydd knew, was to ship in Teazer, the temper of the whole gundeck would be transformed. “An’
very glad to have ye aboard Teazer, ” he said carefully. “Can I ask, what was y’r rate in your last ship?” It was said as kindly as he could.
“Quarter gunner, sir,” Stirk said easily, as though it was the most natural thing in the world for the young quartermaster’s mate he had known to be a commander rating him for service in his own ship.
“I’d like ye to be gunner’s mate—if I c’n square it with Mr
Command
45
Duckitt,” Kydd said warmly. This was by no means a given: it was the gunner’s prerogative to choose his mates. It would, however, go with Kydd’s most significant recommendation and would put Stirk as the most senior petty officer gunner and the only one carried in Teazer.
“That’s very kind in ye, Mr Kydd, but as y’ knows, I don’t have m’ letters—”
“That’s as may be,” Kydd interrupted. “I doubt that’ll trouble a gunner who’s keen for his mates t’ be as fine as you. You’re rated gunner’s mate fr’m this moment.”
After he had dealt with the two others, memories washed over Kydd. Hard ones, full of violence and terror—but also those of the wonder and beauty of a voyage around the world, the fires of experience that had formed him as a seaman—and a world within a world that he had now left behind for ever.
Stirk had been a part of it from the beginning, until an open-boat voyage in the Caribbean had seen Kydd raised to master’s mate, his hammock no longer slung before the mast. But now there was the gold lace of an officer and the final majesty of command. How was he to face an old shipmate like Stirk? And how was Stirk going to regard him?
Chapter 3
“Well, sir? You’ve had two weeks—surely it don’t take for ever to fettle your little barky for sea duty!” Major General Pigot rumbled, then dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “Take ’em away,” he told the hovering footman testily, and the breakfast dishes were swiftly removed.
“She’s not an English-built ship, sir,” Kydd tried to explain.
“We’ve had to make changes—an’ it’s not been so easy t’ find hands t’ man her this far from the fleet—”
“Tosh! Other Navy boats manage, why not you?” Before Kydd could reply he continued, “Is it because you’re a new-minted captain, b’ chance?”
Kydd stiffened, but held himself in check. This was the Officer Commanding Troops and Military Representative of His Britannic Majesty in Malta. In the delicacies of line-of-command the Malta Service to which Kydd had been detached was a civil affair, including requirements for naval action, but when there were matters requiring a military presence, the general would be consulted. However, Kydd’s
The first of the shipwrecked men padded in. Taken utterly by surprise, Kydd saw standing before him a man he had admired even from his first few days as a pressed man in the old Duke William, a mariner he had fought beside as a common seaman in the wild single frigate action that had preceded his famous voyage round the world and who had been such a figure in his adventures in the Caribbean.
“Be damned t’ it—Toby Stirk!” blurted Kydd in delight, rising. “It’s been s’ long—let’s see, Seaflower, th’ Caribbean . . .” If anything, Stirk had hardened further: a leathery toughness now matched a ferocity that was almost visceral. “How are ye, cully?”
Kydd said, unconsciously slipping back into foremast lingo.
Stirk hesitated, delight vying with shock at the meeting. Then impulsively he grasped Kydd’s outstretched hand. “Right oragious t’ see you, Tom.” The well-remembered rasp had deepened with time. “Ah—that’s t’ say, sir.” His face crinkled with pleasure.
Kydd resumed his seat. “I’m right glad t’ see you, er, Mr Stirk.
Y’ have m’ word on that,” he added firmly. If Stirk, a gun captain of years and the hardest man Kydd knew, was to ship in Teazer, the temper of the whole gundeck would be transformed. “An’
very glad to have ye aboard Teazer, ” he said carefully. “Can I ask, what was y’r rate in your last ship?” It was said as kindly as he could.
“Quarter gunner, sir,” Stirk said easily, as though it was the most natural thing in the world for the young quartermaster’s mate he had known to be a commander rating him for service in his own ship.
“I’d like ye to be gunner’s mate—if I c’n square it with Mr
Command
45
Duckitt,” Kydd said warmly. This was by no means a given: it was the gunner’s prerogative to choose his mates. It would, however, go with Kydd’s most significant recommendation and would put Stirk as the most senior petty officer gunner and the only one carried in Teazer.
“That’s very kind in ye, Mr Kydd, but as y’ knows, I don’t have m’ letters—”
“That’s as may be,” Kydd interrupted. “I doubt that’ll trouble a gunner who’s keen for his mates t’ be as fine as you. You’re rated gunner’s mate fr’m this moment.”
After he had dealt with the two others, memories washed over Kydd. Hard ones, full of violence and terror—but also those of the wonder and beauty of a voyage around the world, the fires of experience that had formed him as a seaman—and a world within a world that he had now left behind for ever.
Stirk had been a part of it from the beginning, until an open-boat voyage in the Caribbean had seen Kydd raised to master’s mate, his hammock no longer slung before the mast. But now there was the gold lace of an officer and the final majesty of command. How was he to face an old shipmate like Stirk? And how was Stirk going to regard him?
Chapter 3
“Well, sir? You’ve had two weeks—surely it don’t take for ever to fettle your little barky for sea duty!” Major General Pigot rumbled, then dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “Take ’em away,” he told the hovering footman testily, and the breakfast dishes were swiftly removed.
“She’s not an English-built ship, sir,” Kydd tried to explain.
“We’ve had to make changes—an’ it’s not been so easy t’ find hands t’ man her this far from the fleet—”
“Tosh! Other Navy boats manage, why not you?” Before Kydd could reply he continued, “Is it because you’re a new-minted captain, b’ chance?”
Kydd stiffened, but held himself in check. This was the Officer Commanding Troops and Military Representative of His Britannic Majesty in Malta. In the delicacies of line-of-command the Malta Service to which Kydd had been detached was a civil affair, including requirements for naval action, but when there were matters requiring a military presence, the general would be consulted. However, Kydd’s
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