A bare hour ago he had been an ordinary seaman in the old line-of-battle ship Duke William. Now, somewhere off the enemy coast of Revolutionary France, he was gazing back at her from a crack frigate as an able seaman, a replacement for prize crew. A hand lifted in farewell in the boat pulling back to the big ship-of-the-line. It was Whaley, and with a lump in his throat Kydd realised that he would probably never see his broad smile again or share a grog with his other old shipmates. It had started hard — as a young perruquier from Guildford Kydd had been seized by the press-gang six months before, but despite all he had suffered, he had come to admire the skill and courage of the seamen. And now, as a sailor himself, he was parting from the ship that had been his home for so long. He waved in return and forced his attention back inboard. Men were waiting on deck — a weatherbeaten older man in plain black and a much worn tricorne, a hard-looking lieutenant in serviceable sea-going blues, a child-like midshipman without a hat, and the man at the wheel, stolidly chewing tobacco.
