Renzi raised an eyebrow. "A junior lieutenant with such ardour? Where is the old Tom Kydd that I knew?" He gave a smile, then added, "I admire your fervour and respect your passion for the laurels, but you will have noticed, of course, that Fortune bestows her favours at random. You stand just as much a chance of having your head knocked off as winning glory."
Less than three weeks later, they passed the distant blue peak of Morro Alto to starboard, marking the island of Flores at the western extremity of the Azores. Their passage in the steady westerlies had been fast and sure and it was becoming a point of honour to win every advantage, gain the last fraction of a knot. HMS Tenacious was answering the call.
Noon. The hallowed time of the grog issue for the hands. A fife at the main hatchway started up with the welcome strains of "Nancy Dawson," and Kydd waited for the decks to clear. It was time, too, for the ceremony of the noon sight.
Officers readied their instruments. At local apparent noon, while the men were below, they would fix the line of longitude passing through their position and thus compute the distance remaining to their rendezvous off Cadiz.
A crisp horizon, and the ship's motion predictably even: it was a good sighting. Most officers retired to their cabins for peace in the concentrated work of applying the necessary corrections and resolving the mathematics resulting in the intersection of latitude and longitude that was the ship's location at midday.
From first one then another cabin came disbelieving shouts: "Well, damme—five degrees of longitude noon to noon!"
"Two hundred and fifty miles off the reel in twenty-four hours!"