“Haaaands, t’ the braces!” Constrained by sandbanks close to larboard and the Nab still to round before clear water, there was little room for manoeuvre.
“He’s there, sir!” screamed a youngster, wildly pointing shore-wards. A sharp-lined wherry was putting off hastily from the Sally Port on a course to intercept.
“It’s Mr. Renzi, right enough,” confirmed Purchet, after snatching at the telescope.
Without hesitating, Kydd rapped, “Heave to, Mr. Dowse!” It was madness in the fast current and sandbanks past the entrance to be not under way . . . and close astern a heavy frigate was coming down on them at speed. With the wind large there was no other way than to wheel about awkwardly and place the fore aback, but Kydd was not going to lose Renzi.
The frigate plunged past with an energetic volley of abuse from her quarterdeck. The wherry stroked out manfully and at last hooked on at the main-chains. While Teazer paid off before the wind, willing hands hauled Renzi in, his bundles of books needing more robust hoisting.
“I do apologise, sir,” Renzi said formally.
Kydd, still in his quarterdeck brace, frowned but said nothing.
“We lost a wheel before Petersfield and—”
“Mr. Renzi! I rather feel that in this instance you might have been topping it overmuch the cunctator, as it were.”
Renzi was transfixed with astonishment at his friend’s cultivated words. The Latin cunctator— delayer—was indeed appropriate, an allusion to the tactic used by the Roman commander in the war with Hannibal, an attempt to deny the enemy a battle. “Why, thank you, sir!” He wasn’t about to let Kydd get away with this one, whatever the reason for its mysterious appearance.
“Thank you?” Kydd said, crestfallen.
“For the compliment, of course, dear fellow. It was by this very tactic that Quintus Fabius Maximus may have shamed the Roman Army but it undoubtedly won him the war and his nickname.”
The open Channel won and a fine westerly in their sails, by evening there was chance to sup together.
Renzi opened politely. “Er, at the risk of impertinence I cannot help but remark the elegance of your speech, its genteel delivery, the—”
“Quite simple, Renzi, old chap. I’ve given it a deal of thought. And it seems to me, the only way to move forward in this world is not to kick against the pricks . . .” a flash of smugness was quickly smothered “. . . but be agreeable to the customary forms of civility and breeding when in genteel company. In fine, if I’m to enter in on society, then I’m to be like them. And you have m’ word on it, enter in I will!”
“Then you have my most earnest admiration, Tom—er, Kydd, old trout. So recently shunned by society and cast into the very depths, yet you hold no grudge, no antipathy towards those who—”
“It’s past. I have a bright future now and I’m going to take it with both hands and do what I have to.”
“Are you certain that—”
“M’ dear friend. Since coming into my fortune, I stand amazed at the boldness and presumption as can be found from having a pot o’ gold at your back! I cannot fear the rich-dressed when I’m rigged the same, or stand mumchance while they talk wry, when I can, just as well.”
“There are other—”
“You must believe I’ve not trifled away my time, m’ dear Renzi. There’s quantities of professional gentlemen in Portsmouth who do rue our sailing, and I have a stand o’ books in my cabin as will keep me amused for voyages to come.”
“I honour you for it,” Renzi said.
“You’ll oblige me by maintaining a quality o’ discourse while about my person.”
“I shall endeavour to do so,” came the sincere response.
“Then m’ course is set. Tysoe, do attend to Mr. Renzi’s glass, if you please.”
The Downs! A fulcrum for the torrent of shipping that came and went around the corner of the North Foreland into the Thames and the mighty maw of London, where hundreds of ships of all flags might be lying anchored, waiting for a favourable wind to take them outward bound down-Channel, or inbound to the north, or across to the Baltic. The ten-mile stretch of the Downs was bordered five miles offshore by the notorious Goodwin Sands, since medieval times a fearful hazard, but this acted both as a shelter and a barrier. It was the point at which the Channel was at its narrowest, a bare eighteen miles from Dover to the French encampments at Cap Gris Nez. The last Kydd had seen of it had been as the master of a convict ship bound for New South Wales. After the desolate shingle spit of Dungeness, it was the wide sweep of bay that was the foreshore of the smugglers’ haunt of Romney Marsh, then the rising crags of Folkestone turning into the soaring white splendour of Shakespeare’s cliff, Dover, and on to the rounding of South Foreland.
In the bright early-morning light the massive chalk ramparts seemed to Kydd to stand four-square and proudly defiant against England’s foes, marching away north in impregnable array. Teazer closed within half a mile of them to round the foreland and make the southern reaches of the Downs. The vista of countless ships at anchor was opening up before them now: coasters, East Indiamen, colonial traders from far distant parts of the globe, an impressive multitude stretching for ten miles of open water. But Kydd had eyes only for the naval anchorage, that of the legendary Downs Squadron standing so valiantly at the forefront of England’s defence.
There. Across the anchorage. He would never forget her, ever: the seventy-four riding to two anchors, her lines old-fashioned but graceful. It was Monarch, the flagship. After the bloody battle of Camperdown not so many years before, Kydd had, in her, become one of the very few who had taken the incredible journey from before the mast as a common seaman to the quarterdeck as a king’s officer.
He let Hallum take Teazer inshore to moor while he took his fill of the sight. It seemed odd but only Monarch and two other minor ships-of-the-line were present, three frigates further distant and a number of sloops. Where was the battle squadron, if not with their commander-in-chief?
They would know soon enough. Tysoe had out his dress uniform and, buckling on his handsome sword, Kydd returned on deck to board his gig. Poulden, his coxswain, and the entire boat’s crew were smartly turned out in matching blue jackets—he was determined to be noticed in the new command.
“Teazer!” blared Poulden, importantly, in answer to the hail as they drew near to the flagship. A side-party could be seen assembling and Kydd’s heart swelled. He mounted the side of the old ship slowly, letting the moment touch his soul.
It was the great cabin he remembered; but Admiral Lord Keith, his commander-in-chief, was before him and this was no time for lingering sentiment.
“Do sit down, Mr. Kydd,” the august being said absently, taking papers from his flag-lieutenant and flicking his eyes down them. The lieutenant collected others, and, with a glance at Kydd, left the cabin.
“I do bid ye welcome to my command, sir.” The Scots brogue seemed to be one with his austere presence.
“Thank you, sir.”
He held up one particular paper and intoned mildly, “You’ve had some adventuring since last we met.” His cold eyes rose to meet Kydd’s.
“I’ve—that is to say, it’s been interesting enough for me, sir.” The last time they had met was in the previous war when Keith had been forced to give Kydd orders to lay up Teazer and resign his command in the retrenchment following the announcement of peace—but he had also bestowed that precious captaincy in the first place.
“I’ll have ye know, sir, that the Downs is a far different duty from what ye’re used to.” He paused significantly. “No more than six leagues distant, Napoleon Bonaparte and his hordes lie in an encampment ready to lunge at us across the water. Our duty is plain, sir.”
“It must be!” Kydd responded strongly.
“Is it?” Keith said pugnaciously, leaning forward. “I will say this to you, Mr. Kydd. If any captain returns from sea with a prize at his tail without he has an explanation, I promise I will break him.”
“Sir.”
“In these perilous times the first duty of a sea officer is the ruin and destruction of the enemy forces, not the pursuit of private gain.” Keith leaned back slowly. “That said, there’s everything in your record to encourage me to believe your service here will be a credit to the Royal Navy. When you return you may depend on an active employment.”
“When I return?”
“This is the most complex and fast-moving station in the realm. I will not have my commanders in any doubt about the strategics and dispositions of the situation in which they sail. You will this day take coach for London—the Admiralty—and within the span of a week acquaint yourself most thoroughly with the details of what faces us. Is this clear?”
“Er, yes, sir. My ship?”
“Your ship will relieve another here pro tem . Are ye in doubt of your premier, sir?”
“Mr. Hallum? No, sir,” Kydd said hastily. “A most reliable officer.”
“Your orders will be ready for your return. Good day to ye, Mr. Kydd.”
The capital was crowded, noisy and smelled as pungently of sea-coal smoke and local stenches as it always did, but Kydd was not of a mind to care. The hackney carriage creaked and swayed as it bore him towards the Admiralty Office in Whitehall, the jarvey swearing sulphurously at any who dared cross him while Kydd gazed from the grimy window.
He had left Renzi with Tysoe at the inn: he smiled to himself at the pathetic excuses Renzi had contrived at short notice to accompany him but was secretly pleased. It would not be all a duty visit and he had never before been with his friend in London.
They lurched from Cockspur Street into the broad reaches of Whitehall and came to a stop by the colonnaded screen of the Admiralty. Kydd paid off the jarvey and hastily pushed through the admiring throng outside and into the courtyard. He raised an arm in acknowledgement of the patriotic cries that rang out at the sight of his uniform and hurried inside.
Through the high portico the doorman showed him to the captains’ room—but this time it was not as a penniless commander begging for a ship in the days of the last peace but as the captain of a front-line man-o’-war about to be informed of the grave strategic questions that faced his country. There were other commanders in the room; they looked at him enviously as the first lord’s second secretary came down to spirit him away.
Earl St. Vincent was in the Board Room, seated at the long table beneath the legendary wind-gauge. A vast mass of papers was spread forth and he was flanked by several dour-looking men not in uniform. They did not rise or attempt to leave.
The first lord, however, got to his feet and returned Kydd’s civil bow. “So your flag-officer wants ye to hoist aboard an understanding of our situation,” he said bleakly.
“Aye—er, yes, sir.”
“Right and proper, too,” St. Vincent growled, sitting again heavily. He had aged since Kydd had seen him before, his thick-set figure bowed and stiff. This was the man who had taken it upon himself to root out the gross inefficiency and corruption of the royal dockyards, standing alone against the powerful timber cartels. In a bluff and uncompromising sea-dog fashion he had faced down the political storm that resulted. “The Downs command—you’ll be seeing as much action as ye’d wish, sir,” he said with a wintry smile. “As it’s rightly said, ‘The frontier of Britain is the coastline of the enemy.’ Do your duty, sir, and England need have no concern for its fate.”
An elegantly dressed post-captain appeared at the other door and waited diffidently.
“I’ve no time to attend to ye myself,” St. Vincent said, with an ironical glance at the seated figures. “Captain Boyd will see to the matter. Good fortune be with ye, Mr. Kydd.”
“Thank you, sir.” But the old earl had turned back to the grey men and he was dismissed.
“Boyd, late of Bellona . And . . . ?” He was a post-captain of one of Cornwallis’s major ships-of-the-line and had probably been moved closer to the centre of power to acquire the necessary experience before elevation to flag rank.
“Kydd, brig-sloop Teazer, ” Kydd said defensively at Boyd’s languid and polished manner.
“Joining the Downs from where, Mr. Kydd?” the officer said distantly, as they walked together.
“The Channel Islands, for m’ sins,” Kydd said, as lightly as he could.
Boyd raised one eyebrow. “A sea change of note,” he said drily. “You’ve seen active service, no doubt.”
“The Nile—and Acre following,” Kydd said, with a touch of defiance.
Boyd stopped. “Did you really, by God?” he said, suddenly respectful. The droll affectation fell away as he resumed walking. “Then you’ll relish the Downs—no end to the sport to be had there.”
They entered a small office and a worried-looking lieutenant glanced up from his desk. “Do carry on, Dukes,” Boyd told him testily, then asked Kydd, “You have somewhere to stay?”
“The White Hart in Charles Street.”
Boyd nodded, then crossed to gaze out of the window. His office overlooked the vast parade-ground behind Horse Guards, the army headquarters further along. Distant screams of sergeants and the regular tramp of soldiers in formation drifted up in the warm sunshine. He turned back to Kydd. “The volunteers. Always at their marching up and down, I see. Now, Mr. Kydd, I rather think you’ll need me to provide something a trifle more useful than I can at short notice. Shall we say tomorrow at ten?”
“At ten would be most civil in you, sir.”
“Oh, and it might be politic to present yourself at the Admiralty reception tonight,” Boyd added. “A Russian who thinks to mount some expedition that has our interest. Carriages at six—swords and decorations, I’m afraid.”
“No, sir. Mr. Renzi has not yet returned,” Tysoe informed him.
Kydd sighed and took an armchair. His friend could be anywhere in the vast, seething city, after some musty book or arranging to meet a savant—just when he needed reassurance before an important social occasion, both formal and diplomatic. Idly, he picked up the morning newspaper. A theatre scandal occupied all of three columns and trading figures for the stock exchange were neatly summarised on the right, but by far the majority of articles were in some way connected to the war.
One piece dealt at tedious length with a review by the Duke of York of the Medway militia battalions. A breathless editorial alerted the faithful readers to the dangers of a Baltic embargo on ship timber. Another item reported that the conveyance of a trade minister of Spain, said to be very soon an enemy state, had been set upon by a mob and lucky to escape with his life. The pretext had been a punitive increase on duty for imported Spanish wines. Hardly his fault, Kydd thought wryly.
He turned to the next page and stared in surprise at a detailed picture of a vast platform of heroic dimensions, fit to carry a regiment of men and horses and held aloft by a dozen fire balloons of the kind that the Montgolfier brothers had demonstrated before the French Revolution. In earnest words, the newspaper reiterated its promise to keep its readers informed of the plans of Napoleon Bonaparte to deploy such craft in great numbers for the invasion of Britain—ten thousand men and guns to cross the water as fast as a galloping horse, then descend from the skies in irresistible numbers, visiting upon Britain what the continent had already suffered.
It was pointed out gravely that if any would doubt it they had only to recall the historic first flight across the Channel by Jeffries and Blanchard, which had occurred all of twenty years before.
Kydd paused. He had no idea of the practicality of the scheme but if it were true then the Navy would be helpless to defend the shores as the giant platforms sailed across overhead to invade. It was a menace as unanswerable as that which he had heard from a garrulous army officer in the coach, that Bonaparte was employing his idle army in Boulogne to dig a tunnel under the Channel.
Kydd tried to dismiss a mental picture of battalions of crack grenadiers suddenly pouring out of the earth in the pretty countryside of Kent to overwhelm the local volunteers.
Yet who could say it was impossible? At one wheelbarrow of earth from each man every twenty minutes, with a quarter of a million men, it would not take so very long to tunnel the eighteen miles. Bonaparte had been preparing his invasion now for more than a year; the tunnel might be nearing completion at that very moment.
“How’s this, sir? As some might say, a brown study?” Renzi had returned unnoticed and came to sit in the other chair. “Here, old fellow, I have something for your diversion.” He slapped down a few garishly coloured prints.
Kydd picked up the top one, entitled, “A Correct View of the French Machine Intended to Convey Their Soldiers for the Invasion of England.” It was a gigantic raft and had what appeared to be windmills spaced along its sides. To give point to its size, troops of horses were galloping about its decks.
“Most ingenious,” Renzi murmured. “The mills may be turned into whatever direction the wind deigns to blow, and being in train each to a paddle-wheel, we have a means of locomotion for a vessel to enable it to proceed on any course it wishes. One may assume even directly into the wind’s eye,” he added thoughtfully.
Kydd perused the next, a French print of a vessel, La Terreur d’Albion, of extraordinary length and with an obligatory Liberty cap in bloody red atop an enormous forward turret, and what seemed to be an iron skeleton flourishing the grim reaper’s scythe on the after one. In gleeful detail a legend explained that the turrets were machinery towers, and inside a series of paddle-wheels would be powered by a great number of horses, whose combined strength would urge the craft to speeds unmatched by the noblest of English frigates.
Kydd’s eyes met Renzi’s in sombre reflection before he picked up the next. This was of a flat, lozenge-shaped raft fully seven hundred feet across with a central citadel and powered by a giant lateen sail on a swivel, itself five hundred feet long. It was soberly estimated to be capable of transporting thirty thousand troops. Other prints depicted man-carrying kites, unsinkable hide-covered cork boats and other bizarre contrivances.
Invasion Page 6
