man!”’
The room exploded with applause from all except Tyrell, whose face simply reddened.
Kydd took his seat, receiving congratulations from right and left and raising his glass in response to them all.
The evening was enlivened. Many brought chairs to sit by him and hear more of that momentous day; others passed by to touch his shoulder and murmur words of appreciation.
Then it was time to withdraw for brandy and cigars, an appropriate moment for the more staid to make their excuses and the others to form a companionable group close together.
‘Can’t top a Trafalgar yarn,’ Pym chortled, ‘but did I ever recount what happened when we raised the Spanish treasure fleet in ’ninety-seven?’
‘Yes!’ came from half a dozen throats.
‘Then I’ll tell you about it …’
The warmth and intimacy of a shared professional world reached out and enveloped Kydd, leaving him in a daze of contentment.
Then he noticed Tyrell on the fringe of the happy crowd, looking on expressionless, his glass near empty. Kydd realised what was going on: the others were ignoring him – his own fault, true, but sad for all that.
Dunn of
Acasta
followed Pym’s dit with an interesting tale of bluff and chicanery among the Malays and the Dutch in the East Indies. Then a young officer shyly came in with a simple but harrowing account of an Arctic traverse the previous year.
The numbers thinned as the night wore on but Kydd was reluctant to leave and break the spell. He valued Renzi’s companionship dearly but in any ship her captain had no professional equal with whom to make frank conversation, to offer advice, to exchange banter and risqué humour – to unbend and be at ease in like company. It was a precious occasion.
Finally Pym stood up and yawned elaborately. ‘I’m for the cot, I believe.’
‘I also,’ another added, but cocked his head meaningfully to one side. In one corner Tyrell sat, quite alone. There were two bottles on a side-table and he appeared to be talking to himself.
With a cynical smile, Pym looked at Kydd. ‘Well, m’ lad. You’re junior captain – the duty’s yours.’
It took him a moment to understand: Tyrell was in his cups and, for the sake of decency, had to be hustled out and sent safely home.
‘Lives ashore. The carriage knows where,’ Pym murmured and, with another yawn, left with the others.
Reluctantly, Kydd went across to
Hannibal
’s captain to see what he could do – and stopped short.
Tyrell wasn’t talking to himself, he was singing. In a tuneless, broken bass he was giving out the mournful ‘Valiant Sailor’ of Anson’s time, a century before.
It took Kydd aback – this was no hearty patriotic tune or lyrical trifle. It was a fore-bitter, one that seamen sang to each other and certainly not for the ears of the quarterdeck.
‘
Come all ye wi-ild young men,
A warning do take it by me,
And see you no more, my boys,
Sent off to a foreign countree …
’
Hesitantly he moved into Tyrell’s field of vision. ‘Rufus? We’re all away now. Are you ready to leave?’
There was no acknowledgement of his presence. Tyrell’s eyes were unfocused, his body swaying with the song. An empty glass in his hand beat time.
‘
… we sailed all that night and into the day
And the first ship we spied was a Frog man-o’-war!
We bore her head upright, a bloody flag we did fly
Each man was prepared, the Lord says who dies …
’
Kydd touched his arm. ‘Rufus! Time to be quit, now.’
With a bleary effort Tyrell looked up, but didn’t stop.
‘Your carriage is waiting!’ Kydd said, louder.
The singing went on, raucous and uncaring.
‘
Our yards, masts and rigging were all shot away
And begob our great guns did they roar!
Why can’t I be there with my Polly on the shore?
’
Kydd glanced around the near empty hall in despair. A couple of footmen were standing by the door in studied boredom. ‘Over here, you men. Bear a hand,’ he called
The room exploded with applause from all except Tyrell, whose face simply reddened.
Kydd took his seat, receiving congratulations from right and left and raising his glass in response to them all.
The evening was enlivened. Many brought chairs to sit by him and hear more of that momentous day; others passed by to touch his shoulder and murmur words of appreciation.
Then it was time to withdraw for brandy and cigars, an appropriate moment for the more staid to make their excuses and the others to form a companionable group close together.
‘Can’t top a Trafalgar yarn,’ Pym chortled, ‘but did I ever recount what happened when we raised the Spanish treasure fleet in ’ninety-seven?’
‘Yes!’ came from half a dozen throats.
‘Then I’ll tell you about it …’
The warmth and intimacy of a shared professional world reached out and enveloped Kydd, leaving him in a daze of contentment.
Then he noticed Tyrell on the fringe of the happy crowd, looking on expressionless, his glass near empty. Kydd realised what was going on: the others were ignoring him – his own fault, true, but sad for all that.
Dunn of
Acasta
followed Pym’s dit with an interesting tale of bluff and chicanery among the Malays and the Dutch in the East Indies. Then a young officer shyly came in with a simple but harrowing account of an Arctic traverse the previous year.
The numbers thinned as the night wore on but Kydd was reluctant to leave and break the spell. He valued Renzi’s companionship dearly but in any ship her captain had no professional equal with whom to make frank conversation, to offer advice, to exchange banter and risqué humour – to unbend and be at ease in like company. It was a precious occasion.
Finally Pym stood up and yawned elaborately. ‘I’m for the cot, I believe.’
‘I also,’ another added, but cocked his head meaningfully to one side. In one corner Tyrell sat, quite alone. There were two bottles on a side-table and he appeared to be talking to himself.
With a cynical smile, Pym looked at Kydd. ‘Well, m’ lad. You’re junior captain – the duty’s yours.’
It took him a moment to understand: Tyrell was in his cups and, for the sake of decency, had to be hustled out and sent safely home.
‘Lives ashore. The carriage knows where,’ Pym murmured and, with another yawn, left with the others.
Reluctantly, Kydd went across to
Hannibal
’s captain to see what he could do – and stopped short.
Tyrell wasn’t talking to himself, he was singing. In a tuneless, broken bass he was giving out the mournful ‘Valiant Sailor’ of Anson’s time, a century before.
It took Kydd aback – this was no hearty patriotic tune or lyrical trifle. It was a fore-bitter, one that seamen sang to each other and certainly not for the ears of the quarterdeck.
‘
Come all ye wi-ild young men,
A warning do take it by me,
And see you no more, my boys,
Sent off to a foreign countree …
’
Hesitantly he moved into Tyrell’s field of vision. ‘Rufus? We’re all away now. Are you ready to leave?’
There was no acknowledgement of his presence. Tyrell’s eyes were unfocused, his body swaying with the song. An empty glass in his hand beat time.
‘
… we sailed all that night and into the day
And the first ship we spied was a Frog man-o’-war!
We bore her head upright, a bloody flag we did fly
Each man was prepared, the Lord says who dies …
’
Kydd touched his arm. ‘Rufus! Time to be quit, now.’
With a bleary effort Tyrell looked up, but didn’t stop.
‘Your carriage is waiting!’ Kydd said, louder.
The singing went on, raucous and uncaring.
‘
Our yards, masts and rigging were all shot away
And begob our great guns did they roar!
Why can’t I be there with my Polly on the shore?
’
Kydd glanced around the near empty hall in despair. A couple of footmen were standing by the door in studied boredom. ‘Over here, you men. Bear a hand,’ he called
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