Sea of Treason

Book 53: Thomas Kydd

by Julian Stockwin

Genres: Sea Adventures; Historical Fiction; War & Military

Synopsis

The 26th Kydd adventure from veteran writer Julian Stockwin.

Following his recovery after a savage wounding in America, Kydd returns to England to re-assume command of his ship-of-the-line, Thunderer, which is sent to the remote station of Bermuda.

'Paints a vivid picture of life aboard the mighty ship-of-the-line' Daily Express

(P)2023 Hodder & Stoughton Limited

Release date: October 5, 2023

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 320

Sample

*indicates fictional character

Thunderer, ship’s company

‘Do sit, old fellow! A tincture of the right sort, would you say?’ Viscount Melville offered genially.

Kydd had never seen the admiral in such an elevation of spirits. He had expected a measured approval of his conduct, or some classical allusion to laurels from this careful and reserved individual.

Melville leaned forward in concern. ‘The wound is troubling you less, I trust?’

Kydd had been seriously injured in the thigh at the hands of a Yankee sharpshooter several months before. ‘A twinge at times only, my lord.’

Melville nodded and sat back. ‘Well now,’ he continued, ‘and what shall we do with the hero of the hour, hey?’

Kydd gave a cautious smile. Could it be that the First Lord wanted him to know that the unpleasantness over his recent unsuccessful support of the adoption of steam power in the Navy was over and done with? Also that if he’d made enemies because of it, they were powerless to harm him now, and he was being welcomed back into the fold at his previous standing?

‘If truth be told I’d be more than happy to feel my own deck under me again, sir.’

Melville gave a hearty chuckle. ‘As so you should, so you should – no other way to win your flag, now is there?’

Kydd flushed in pleasure. This, from the very summit of the Admiralty, was the broadest of hints that he was in favour for the ultimate distinction of all – an admiral’s flag. Post-captains could be made admiral without ever serving in that rank – a yellow admiral, as it was termed – but Melville, it seemed, was referring to an active sea appointment, commanding a squadron or fleet and sailing against the enemy.

It would have to be at some later point, the political winds set fair, the war grinding endlessly on, the interest from on high remaining his – but he had been led to believe he was in good odour with those who made the vital decisions, and might well, in time, be granted the felicity of a real flag.

The First Lord continued warmly, ‘As it happens, two circumstances happily coincide: your availability for command and HMS Thunderer now completed her great repair. How does that satisfy?’

‘Right well, sir!’ Kydd said fervently. He was more than ready to renew acquaintance with the graceful sail-of-the-line he’d taken through the worst that Neptune could throw at her. It would no doubt be blockade duty along the French or Spanish coasts, but also a chance to let the healing complete.

‘I rather thought you would,’ Melville said, with a mischievous grin. ‘And are you not interested in which station?’

‘Sir?’

‘In respect of the wound you suffered recently, a post in reach of the Biscay gales would be a trial, I believe. More to be desired is a fortifying and salubrious spell somewhere in the sun – how does the Bermudas appeal?’

‘In a 74?’ Kydd replied, in amazement.

‘Certainly. They have an ancient 56 as guardship but in view of the American war it’s desired to make a flourish off their south with something of more respectability. Not that we expect anything in the nature of an alarum in those quarters, it merely being an augmentation of force for the time being.’

Bermuda – the winter quarters of the North American Squadron and one of Britain’s oldest colonies. He’d never been there but he understood it to be the quietest station of all – and the most pleasant. There would probably be no distinction to be won but from what he’d just heard he’d no need of such, for the time being.

‘A fine prospect, sir.’

‘Good. I’ll instruct your orders be made up accordingly. Now I’d wish to let you know more of why you’re being sent. Don’t be misled – Bermuda is a sovereign possession of ours, lying as it does off the American coast and in the approaches to the Caribbean. It’s well guarded by quantities of wicked reefs that make for a near impregnable situation for the defenders. Thus whoever possesses it will stand astride the sea lanes and dominate this part of the world. God forbid, but if our Yankee cousins lay hands on Bermuda we will be in a pretty pickle. You’re there to show that any motion towards a landing will be met with insuperable force. I rather feel it will be enough.’

‘A single ship?’

‘I would think so.’

The Americans had nothing larger than a frigate and would never risk an assault at this stage, so life on station was set fair to be an uninterrupted tranquil cruise.

‘As to your line of responsibility, you’ll be on detached duty from Sir Borlase Warren and the North American Squadron, but as they’ll soon be returning to Halifax, it’s unlikely you’ll be having many dealings with them, apart from books of account. Should the occasion demand, you’ll be reinforced, of course, but given the current showing of Cousin Jonathan I’m doubting you’ll still be there when they return at the end of the year.’

Kydd knew that, in other parts, the war with Bonaparte was still raging and, with a pang of guilt, he asked about the latest news.

‘Boney? At his most dangerous, I’d have to say. Returned to Paris after Moscow and an appalling retreat, yet the devil has the gall to demand of his people they give him a fresh army, which they have, in the amount of a quarter-million – so far. He’s about to strike back and I fear we’re to be in thrall to the villain for a long time to come.’

Melville came around the desk and offered his hand. ‘I do sincerely wish you good fortune, Sir Thomas. Commanders of your stripe we’re in grave need of, both now and in the future.’

It was a pleasant post down to Portsmouth dockyard where Thunderer lay. Kydd was sharing the coach with a fellow captain of a ship-of-the-line on his way to the Mediterranean and Admiral Pellew.

At Hindhead they took time to enjoy a very acceptable beef pie in the company of a London-bound colonel headed the opposite way, but they were soon back on the road, speeding on.

The last approach, Portsdown Hill, with its fine view of Spithead and the sea, provoked the usual stirrings of excitement for Kydd and he alighted at the George Hotel with eagerness. He hauled out his fob-watch. There was just time to clap eyes once again on his beloved ship.

Still in plain clothes, he made his way through the well-remembered streets to the golden spheres at the dockyard gate. He was recognised by the porter who, blank-faced, directed him to Thunderer, newly emerged from her docking and in an alongside berth. Her bare masts towered above the jumble of buildings as a course to steer.

She was not in commission and wouldn’t be until the formalities had been enacted at the mainmast. He therefore had no right to go aboard but nothing could stop him now. She looked in remarkably good fettle, given her many months under dockyard care. There was activity everywhere and he approached the brow in anticipation.

He took in her no-nonsense, uncompromising British lines that spoke of defiance of the waves rather than a craven gliding over them.

An affronted dockyard matey saw him come aboard and made to stop him but shrank back under Kydd’s glare.

And then he was standing once more on Thunderer’s quarterdeck. There were curious stares from the riggers and a figure in worker’s garb stopped and hastened across. ‘Sir Thomas!’ he called. It was Roscoe, his former first lieutenant who had been put ashore at the de-commissioning.

‘Roscoe, old fellow. Are you …?’

‘Received word out of the blue, on half-pay in Yarmouth, from their lordships, that Thunderer was to commission, and as her premier before, was I able to resume at short notice?’

‘And I’m main glad to see you,’ Kydd said, happy to have the young man where he belonged. ‘Even not knowing her new captain?’ he teased.

‘Well, er, I was hoping that …’

‘Then indeed know that I shall be her captain, and we shall see through the next commission together.’

There was a broad smile and a hesitant, ‘Er, and what waters will that be in, sir?’

Kydd smiled back. ‘We’ll hear about it when I get my orders. Can you tell me what state the ship is in?’

Roscoe had obviously taken his appointment seriously and had done what he could to priddy the ship in readiness with only dockyard workers to chivvy.

‘Let’s have a look at what they’ve done for her,’ Kydd said, hearing that, beyond provisions for a sudden flood of crew coming aboard, Thunderer was to all intents and purposes ready for the life that would then infuse her.

Her wounds, mostly below the waterline, were now healed with oaken strakes of unimpeachable strength, and the few blemishes above board had been neatly and elegantly made right.

‘Er, no other officers have made their number to you?’

‘No, sir.’

So Thunderer was going to start her next adventure with an unknown team at the top and a ship’s company largely provided by the press-gang.

‘Standing officers?’ The boatswain, gunner, carpenter, purser, cook. Those tasked to stand by their ship as she was brought back to fitness as a ship-of-war – and the only faces he would know from the old days.

‘All present, although I suspect that Mr Lawlor is desirous of smelling powder as soon as he might.’ The gunner had had the least to do in the long months of her repair as Thunderer’s guns had been landed during her docking.

Much still lay ahead for the ship before she could set sail for Shakespeare’s still-vex’d Bermoothes.

Thunderer had been taken to the fitting-out wharf and was well under way to being ready for sea. With the first draft of volunteers settled in, and three of the four officers having arrived, Kydd decided it was time to set the ship’s heart to beating. ‘Mr Roscoe, we shall commission at ten tomorrow, do prepare for such. And ask my officers to attend on me in one hour.’

The new second lieutenant, Ambrose, was a quiet but intelligent individual. His previous service was in a light frigate, ending in a wrecking, various ships-of-the-line and a last voyage in a gun-less transport to Cape Town. Steady and reliable – the best kind of officer in Kydd’s estimation.

The third lieutenant, Martyn, was careful, possibly too respectful, and somewhat retiring. Having served in nothing larger than a brig-sloop, this was understandable and in Kydd’s eyes even laudable. In a small ship, leadership and the rapid, faultless exercise of nautical skills was essential for everyone’s survival.

Fourth Lieutenant Clinch was another matter. His appearance was curious. A markedly older man, his uniform was near threadbare, the lace of cheaper pinchbeck and his blue frock-coat faded. His features were hard, however, almost resentful. As soon as he spoke it became clear. He was a tarpaulin officer – one who’d worked his way aft the hardest way and believed he was of another tribe to the well-educated society favourites bred to the quarterdeck.

Hearing his service Kydd understood more. Lately snatched from being lieutenant-in-command of a cutter and finding himself most junior lieutenant in a battleship, his world had shrunk from being lord over all in his little command to being at the beck and call of many above him. Kydd sympathised but he expected loyalty and dedication from him in just the same way as the others.

He greeted the standing officers formally: the one-eyed Bull Opie, a boatswain of the old school, utterly staunch and dependable; the crotchety gunner, Lawlor; the pinch-faced but shrewd carpenter, Upcot. The purser, Gubb, was ready as always with a hill of papers; and the cook moaned about the quality and quantity of the victuals being haled aboard.

One of his papers requested an exchange of Royal Marine officers from a 98-gun ship bound for the Baltic and Thunderer. It seemed a Captain Clinton was unduly anxious to ship out in a vessel headed westward rather than the more lucrative Baltic station. Kydd smiled softly. It would be good to have William Clinton with him once again.

Later in the morning the sailing master made his appearance.

‘Mr Joyce! Am I to understand you’re …?’

‘Aye, sir!’ The jolly features of the old master creased in pleasure. ‘I’m t’ take up m’ place as is right ’n’ proper for the barky.’

The wily individual had heard of Kydd’s appointment and had lost not an instant in petitioning for a warrant to Thunderer as being known to the captain – and immediately available.

‘So happy to see you, Mr Joyce. I believe we’ll have sore need of your services where we’re going.’ Before Joyce could get a word out, Kydd gave a slow and meaningful wink. In the event the master would be the first to know, needing to lay in the chart folios involved. Perplexed but happy, Joyce stumped off on his wooden leg, now a lighter and stylish cork article.

Craddock quickly had the books in order, and when further drafts of seamen came aboard, they were duly mustered and entered. They were just numbers now but within days of sea-time the individuality of each would emerge and Kydd would have a measure of Thunderer’s ship’s company.

And then as the vessel neared readiness for sea there was a hesitant knock at Kydd’s cabin door. Martyn diffidently leaned in. ‘Sorry to disturb, sir, but we have a volunteer who won’t have it ’less he sees you.’

Kydd’s hopes rose. It had happened this way before and he had a good notion of who it might be.

‘Mr Stirk!’ he exclaimed, with genuine pleasure. ‘So good to see you! Thank you, Mr Martyn, I’ll see to this man.’

After the lieutenant had left he came out from behind the desk to greet the mariner whose influence on his forming as a seaman would never be forgotten.

‘Toby – you’re shipping with us?’

The piratical gleam in Stirk’s dark eyes had not diminished in its intensity and the lithe, muscular figure had lost nothing to the years. ‘Heard you was the owner agin,’ he growled. ‘Like as t’ take us in the way of some sport.’

‘Yes,’ Kydd agreed. ‘As can see you snugged down in a gunner’s mate berth this hour.’ The gunner would be more than content to see his old mate restored to him.

Stirk hesitated. ‘Depends.’

It was not like the bluff old seaman to make conditions and Kydd waited, allowing a slight frown to cloud his features.

‘As I don’t fancy a v’y’ge without I has shipmates I c’n trust.’

‘Well—’

‘You’ll swear on it as if I put the word out to m’ friends you’ll find ’em a prime situation if they volunteers for the barky?’

It was more than Kydd could ever have hoped for!

‘You mean, Doud, Pinto—’

‘An’ the others as who can be found – aye, sir.’

‘We sail in a few days.’

‘Leave it t’ me, sir, if y’ please,’ Stirk said firmly.

True to his word, Thunderer’s company was made complete by the addition of some of the most deep-dyed seamen to be found anywhere on the high seas. To see the hulking Swede Halgren nonchalantly mounting the brow with his sea-bag slung over his shoulder by his left-hand hook not only solved the question over who was to be his captain’s coxswain, but guaranteed that if it ever came to any kind of close-quarters fight his back would be safe.

And the others – their features were older but there was no mistaking the easy lope of the prime seaman. Shipmates for years, their staunch friendship and trust would spread to others, an unspoken example to the rest of the hands, raw and fearful as many would be.

As their departure drew near it was time to embark the passengers. The passage would take weeks. He had Persephone and Francis, with her maid, accommodated in his bedplace, while he rigged a comfortable hammock in the great cabin. Craddock gladly found sanctuary in the captain’s clerk’s larboard side cabin.

Kydd was assailed by quantities of doting parents who, having heard of a voyage to Bermuda, desired their sons to be set on his quarterdeck, for he was both a legend and bound for a station in a place reputed both quiet and safe. He took three as midshipmen.

Soon it was the final hours, with bundles of newspapers to be stowed, chests of specie struck below, awkward spars laid along for the new dockyard, and a garrison-bound detachment of the 52nd of Foot looking about in bewilderment.

And then, almost guiltily, Thunderer set forth from a wartime Portsmouth heading for the sunlit seas of the south, her little flock of transports and lesser naval craft obediently taking station on the two-decker, her passengers gazing back pensively on the fading blue-grey of England.

‘As I were quartermaster’s mate in Minotaur, right after we gave ’em best – the Americans, that is,’ the sailing master puffed importantly, ‘an’ we has t’ fall back on Bermuda, all as is left to us from Nova Scotia right t’ the Caribbean.’

‘Really? Then you’re no stranger to these waters,’ Kydd replied politely, his gaze steadily ahead.

‘Not as who would say,’ Joyce agreed modestly. ‘Didn’t have time t’ note it all down.’ Kydd hid a smile. If Joyce had been a quartermaster’s mate, as he himself once was, it would never have been his business to do so.

‘I remembers it as what sent Ol’ Jack – our master as was – near lunatic.’

‘Oh?’

Joyce looked at Kydd with pitying eyes. ‘Y’ hasn’t seen a hell-place f’r mariners like it, sir. Near thirty mile across o’ rocks an’ reef, most land no higher’n twenty-five feet. Means from seaward ye’ve no sighting and then it’s two fathom shallows and a wrecking.’

‘So how …’

‘By exact attention to y’r four Ls only.’ Kydd knew what he meant: latitude, longitude, lead and lookout – all prudent position-fixing measures. So a Bermuda landfall was to be made by immaculate navigation.

‘And I didn’t know Bermuda was that big.’

‘It ain’t,’ Joyce said positively. ‘Guernsey is larger by miles, an t’would fit in the Isle o’ Wight eight times over. All islands in one place.’

‘Then how best to approach?’ Kydd knew the answer but wanted to hear Joyce as a measure of his knowledge of the waters.

‘Right at the norrard edge o’ the reefs. North Rock. A wicked bunch o’ rocks, all of ’em together up sharp, like crocodile teeth. We lays these t’ starb’d and claims a pilot who takes us through the channels t’ the inner lagoons. A fearful navigation.’

‘Have you returned to Bermuda since then, Mr Joyce?’

‘Er, no, sir.’

Kydd, however, had made it his business to secure the most reliable word on this remote outpost. ‘Well, I have it from the latest rutter as takes advantage of a great survey a dozen years ago by a Captain Hurd, saying as the best way to St George’s, the main harbour, is from the eastwards. We raise Five Fathom Hole to the east and from there if we’re a lesser draught vessel we can go direct into St George’s or if a sail-of-the-line we take up on a channel around the north and we find a dockyard and an anchorage fit for a fleet. And buoyed all the way.’

‘Hmmph. Only takes one rock out o’ place. Can we be sure on the reckoning?’

‘I rather think we can. Captain Hurd spent nine years on his survey.’

In the event it was even easier. They simply ran down the latitude of 32° 23’ until the low blue-grey of Bermuda firmed ahead. The small squadron heaved to at a marked buoy, Thunderer in the van. The red and white flag at her mizzen peak signified the need for a pilot and before long a slim cutter was on its way out.

Used to the usual hoary brass-buttoned mariner in sea-boots, Kydd found this pilot of quite another sort. A young, barefoot and grinning Black man introduced himself as Jacob, king’s pilot, with an assistant Jeremy, and a grubby paper to prove it. They got to work immediately. Jacob loped off and took position right forward on the fo’c’sle, while Jeremy remained by the helm, careful to keep the pilot within sight.

‘Under way, Cap’n,’ he said. ‘An’ bear away larb’d.’

‘What course?’

‘I don’ know, Cap’n,’ Jeremy said cheerfully. ‘We go where Jacob says.’ The distant figure raised an arm, crooked it downward and waited. ‘Easy all – a touch t’ starb’d.’

Kydd could see what was happening. The pilot was gazing into the limpid transparency of the water ahead to spy out the mysterious dark patches against the light sea-bed to piece together an underwater picture that would provide direction to the desired channel. It was masterful, the result no doubt of years’ conning ships of all kind through the maze of sub-sea crags.

The land resolved into distinct islands, and as they drew nearer Kydd could make out the conical red- and green-painted channel-marking buoys pacing away around the modest headland to the fleet anchorage, and was comforted. The run-of-the-mill entrances and exits would be straightforward, thanks to Hurd’s hard work.

As they came closer it was possible to make out a fort – two, three. These would be guarding the narrow passage to the inner St George’s harbour and capital. But for them, the helm went over and they passed north and sharply around St Catherine’s Point to head in a direct line to a broad anchorage with an island sprawling across their bows. The chart indicated that this was Grassy Bay.

Kydd’s little squadron had reached its destination.

There was no welcoming fleet of line-of-battle ships at anchor. Admiral Warren had left for Halifax and the larger war and they had the anchorage to themselves, and the freedom that implied.

Who then did he report to? His hasty instructions indicated that the Bermudas had a governor and commander-in-chief, whatever that meant in practice, but his true line of responsibility was to the absent Warren. To confuse the issue he could clearly make out a commodore’s pennant lazily flapping among the dockyard buildings. If he was to make obeisance first to the senior naval officer it could well be seen as a slight by the civil authorities and—

‘Boat putting off, sir.’

It bore a naval ensign, indicating an officer on board, and shortly Kydd was made aware that Commodore Evans would appreciate knowledge of who they were and what they were doing in his anchorage. That is, after he’d first presented himself to the governor, Sir James Cockburn. Dilemma solved, Kydd was informed that the governor’s residence was only a mile or two away on the heights of the southern shore, from which, no doubt, he was observing them at that very moment.

Sir James Cockburn, 9th Baronet of Langton, greeted Kydd loftily, his manner reflecting his feelings at being obliged to acknowledge a mere sea-captain, however noticed by the powers-that-be.

‘You’ve visited the Bermudas before?’ he opened.

‘No, sir,’ Kydd answered politely. The house was in cool stone and the reception room well furnished – but something was not as it should have been and he couldn’t put his finger on it.

‘Then you should be aware that this is a remarkable place, not to say peculiar in its peoples and ways. Yet do bear in mind they’ve been here since the year 1612, our oldest colony, and may therefore be suffered a trifle of forbearance.’

They, not we?

‘Nevertheless, I do account your presence a distinct asset here, an access of strength to my defences of immeasurable value to me.’

Kydd’s hackles rose. If the governor thought that Thunderer was under his orders there could be troubles to come.

‘Sir, my orders are to act specifically as a deterrent. To this end I intend to cruise the American coast from time to time as I see the need and—’

‘Quite so. We shall speak later of my extensive plans for the defending of these islands and until then I make suggestion that you do become familiar with Bermuda, don’t you think?’

That was it! The room, possibly the main one in the mansion, had no fireplace. The social focus, the natural centre of attention in any English drawing room, was missing, probably in deference to the climate.

‘I will do so, sir.’

‘Most naval officers of a certain quality do maintain a presence on shore, Sir Thomas. I shall direct my aide to make advice as to how this might be done. A fashionable lease would probably answer?’

‘Thank you for your consideration, sir. As it happens I’m accompanied by my wife and young son and would be contented to see them accommodated well.’

Cockburn reached for a bell-rope.

A pleasant officer of the Royal Marines appeared and bowed to Kydd.

‘This is Captain Ferrers. He is available to consult as his duties will permit.’

The governor abruptly moved towards the door, then hesitated and said in an odd tone, ‘I do wish you well of your stay, Sir Thomas. If there is anything I can assist you with, then pray do not hesitate to ask.’

Outside, the amiable Ferrers suggested they make enquiries in the right quarters concerning lodgings and meet on the . . .