Kydd was in no mood to enjoy the spectacle. As each rigid line passed he mechanically rose and removed his cocked hat with the rest but his mind was elsewhere: to seas far over the horizon where, without a shadow of doubt, the destiny of England was to be decided—not here with these well-meaning amateur soldiers.
At last it was over and they could return. Inside their little room again, Boyd’s expression tightened as he pulled out a long map covered with ciphers in red and tiny scrawled notes. He studied it for a moment. “This is our situation as of this morning. The disposition of our major fleets need not concern you—the Brest blockade with Cornwallis is holding, Nelson is in the Mediterranean and the North Sea Fleet is watching over the Dutch.
“What is of more intimate concern is the disposition of Bonaparte’s forces.” He glanced at Kydd, as if weighing what he should say. “I will not hide it from you, since it is you who must oppose them. The number of line-of-battle ships he has to command is many and will be still greater if Spain moves against us, as it must surely do, but these are matters of high strategy and change from day to day. You will want to know more of what faces your own part of the field.
In fine, it is the forefront of the battle. The invasion Grande Armée is massing with three corps—Marshals Davout, Soult and Ney, if you’re interested—with more than a hundred thousand picked troops ready to embark for the first assault, the Emperor Bonaparte himself to take command. For this, as you will know, he has been fast assembling the largest invasion flotilla in history with specialist craft only some of which we have knowledge of.”
Kydd stared at the map. The dense-packed notations on the French side seemed endless, stretching away down the coastline. Across the Channel—so very close—a single line of dots and squares was brought right up against the line of the sea.
“You will be informed about the details of these vessels later. Take it from me that they are in their thousands and under the direct command of Admiral Bruix, a most experienced and canny officer. They have been in the building at every boatyard and river port on the coast and are being assembled at the main ports. To the north of Cap Gris Nez we have Calais, Dunkirk, Gravelines and so on to Ostend and Flushing, to the south Wimereux, Ambleteuse, Boulogne and Étaples, of which Boulogne has by far the largest concentration.
“Now, Bonaparte is no sailor. He believes the Channel is a ditch to be crossed as in any other military operation, but he will find it very different. However, he is the devil incarnate in the arts of war and is vigorously pursuing great works to assist his cause. For instance, at Boulogne he is creating an embarkation quay a mile long and an artificial basin capable of floating a hundred vessels. He is not to be underestimated—some say he is mad, but it were folly to take him so. With his immense resources, and a surprise by your infernal devices or a feint at Ireland, he could be across in the space of a tide or two only. No, sir, make no error, we’re under the greatest peril that ever was . . .”
“Then what is our force, sir?” Kydd said evenly.
“Stand fast the main battle fleets, we have three lines of defence against the immediate prospect of invasion,” Boyd replied. “The first is of sloops and gun-vessels, and it is the inshore squadron of Admiral Keith’s Downs command against the French coast,” he added drily. When Kydd held silent he continued, “The second is of heavier metal and consists of frigates and older sail-of-the-line and it is in with the English coast to contest any landing in the southeast, as well within the Downs command. The third may be found in every creek and estuary from Hartland Point in north Cornwall to Great Yarmouth on our east coast. By this I am referring to the Sea Fencibles, who at this moment are some twenty-five thousand strong and manning some eight hundred vessels of, er, all kinds.”
“Then . . .”
“Quite. The first line of defence must be our strongest. There is no doubt but that you must brace yourself for the hardest-fought struggle this age. I do wish you well in this, Commander.”
“Sir.”
“We’ll go on to the details now. Signals, chart emendations, the invasion craft and their characteristics as known, rendezvous positions—there’s much to take in. First we shall look into the new signal book . . .”
Kydd was troubled and apprehensive. The mass of operational particulars had done nothing to lessen the effect of Boyd’s first words, that this was a situation of such dire consequence as had never been faced by his country before. Now, knowing the details, he was only too aware of the knife edge of chance factors that could determine the future of the world. As head of the entire military strength of the kingdom, the Duke of York had nevertheless solemnly pronounced that, “The fate of the nation is in the hands of the Navy.” And he must be right: the war was as much the Royal Navy’s to lose as Napoleon’s to win. A faint-hearted admiral, a deceitful piece of intelligence to send a fleet in the wrong direction, any or all could ensure Bonaparte got the unfettered hours he needed.
Returning to the White Hart, Kydd found his chair and sat quietly, eyes closed, letting the tensions drain. In two days he would return to the Downs and take Teazer to war. Would she come through? Would he? The only thing that was certain was that the immediate future would test both himself and his ship to the limit. Half a million Frenchmen under arms opposed by just a few thousand storm-tossed seamen in worn ships . . .
“Do I intrude, brother?” Renzi’s gentle voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Oh, er, not so much, m’ friend,” Kydd said, opening his eyes. “Renzi, there’s a matter I need to talk to you about, if y’ will.” It was coming out too stiffly but he had to say it. “That is, it touches on the future, you see.”
“Why, certainly,” Renzi said, sitting.
“I’ve—it’s been an . . . interesting week. And now I’m much clearer what is to be facing us.”
“And what is that, pray?”
“If Bonaparte crosses, it’s nothing less’n a fight to the finish—the last extremity, if you catch m’ meaning.”
“If he crosses.”
“The invasion fleet is ready—near a hundred thousand men in the first assault. Only the Navy to keep ’em off. The first line o’ defence is ourselves, m’ friend, up against the French coast. If they break through us and launch their monstrous flotilla there’s precious little to give ’em pause before they’re flooding ashore.”
“If I may be so bold, dear fellow, might I observe that this agitation of spirit is quite unlike the Tom Kydd of yore?” Renzi said lightly, but his eyes were sombre.
“You’ve not heard what I have,” Kydd retorted grimly then caught himself. “No, m’ point is this, that shortly Teazer is sailing into, um, uncertain times. It’s possible we’ll need to stand against Bonaparte’s whole armada—and, m’ dear friend, I’d rather I had no distractions, if you understand,” he said firmly.
“Am I to apprehend . . . ?”
“Nicholas. It’s a hard enough thing that I must place Teazer athwart their bows. It’s hard, but it’s necessary. What is not so is that I put the life of a learned scholar to hazard.”
“Are you—”
“Hear me, if you will. You must agree there’s clerks a-plenty to be had, but not such a one who’s as well a philosophical gentleman, one whose work mankind will soon surely set a value to.” Kydd faced Renzi squarely. “Nicholas, I’m asking that you take y’ books and remain ashore until this business is concluded.”
“That will not be possible,” Renzi said immediately.
“Pray why not?”
“Grant me that my sense of duty is as . . . consequential as your own. And for all that there is little enough I can do for my country in its extremity. All I ask is that I be allowed to continue in my post of duty to the satisfaction of my conscience.”
“It—a time might come that—”
“As we agreed in the beginning, if the ship is in imminent danger of boarding or some such, you may rest assured I will take up arms to defend it. As to the value of my carcass to posteri
ty, you will allow me to be the judge of that.”
“Nicholas, this is not—”
“Dear chap, there is nothing further to discuss. Rather, your attention should be better reserved for the item addressed to you, so recently brought by messenger.” He found a slim packet and handed it over.
It was a substantial sized invitation of stiff pasteboard and edged with gold. A ducal crest was prominent. With it was a hastily scrawled note from Boyd, indicating that he had been able to contrive an invitation for Kydd before he left to an evening of entertainment and fireworks at the estate of the Duke of Stanwick further up the Thames in the country.
A duke! This was far beyond anything Kydd had experienced before and despite his anxieties he felt a quickening of excitement. It was generous of Boyd to think of him. At this level there would be the wealthy and famous, statesmen and nobility, and before going to war, he would at least taste the heady delights of the highest society. “Nicholas, you must come o’ course,” Kydd said impulsively, giving him the card.
Renzi studied it carefully. “The Duke of Stanwick. At such an eminence you will not lack for fine victuals or the company of ladies of quality, I believe. An evening assembly—it will be by the river in as elegant a landscaping as Mr. Repton has ever achieved.”
“Then I’ll send to Captain Boyd to say—”
“I thank you, no.”
Kydd drew in his breath sharply. “At times I find you a mort hard t’ fathom, my friend. Here I am asking you to enter in on society again—”
“Again?”
Kydd hesitated only a moment. “Nicholas, we’ve been particular friends for a long time. And, please believe me, I’ve tried to understand, but why it is you’ve never talked about your family, always kept mumchance concerning your real past, no letters from home, no visits. You’re a gentleman o’ the first rank, that’s plain to any simkin. And on Jamaica I met your brother as is the same. His name is Laughton, so this is yours as well. I know something of the moral feelings that made you turn your back on ’em and go to sea as a foremast jack—but you became a king’s officer and can be proud of it, return to your family with honour. Why do you not?”
Renzi sat as still as a statue and did not speak.
“Your family is wealthy, you told me so yourself. So why, then, do you top it the poor scholar? Why do—”
“It is a matter for myself alone, how I conduct my own affairs,” Renzi snapped. “This is not a subject I wish to pursue.”
Kydd lifted his head and said softly, “But I rather think we must, sir.”
“Wha—? Your presumption on our friendship is astonishing!”
“Nicholas, if you are to marry my sister one day I’m bound t’ satisfy myself on the particulars. No, wait, let me finish. There are those who’d say that any in your circumstance must surely have offended the family honour in a grievous way, and been cast out to fend how they may. I’m not in their number, but I’m most . . . curious as to why your family has so deserted you and why you’re so . . . shy of showing your face in society.”
Renzi looked away, then returned Kydd’s gaze steadily. “I can see how it must appear. There is good and proper reason for this, I can sincerely assure you.”
Kydd said nothing.
“Very well.” Renzi sighed. “If you must. It’s easy enough said. I’m the eldest, the heir presumptive. After a disagreeable contretemps with my father concerning my unwillingness to give up the sea, he has seen fit to disown me so the estate passes to another. Thus I’m to find my own way in the world, you see.”
“And o’ course this is why you cannot—”
“Not at all. My father’s character is not unknown to society and no doubt there is ready sympathy to be discovered, but the chief reason for the discretion you have observed is my profound disinclination to come upon my father in a social situation. He is often to be found in London for the season—but I seem to feel secure within the purlieu of the Royal Society.” He smiled thinly.
“Er, it seems hard t’ say, but might I ask,” Kydd said awkwardly, “if you are—if it can be said you’re of noble birth?”
“Certainly. My father is the fifth Earl Farndon, of Eskdale Hall in Wiltshire. It cannot escape you that had matters passed in another vein then in the usual course of events, at my succeeding to the title Cecilia might rightly look to the style of the Countess of Farndon, wife of the sixth Earl, and mistress of Eskdale Hall.”
Struck dumb with the revelation Kydd could only wait for Renzi to resume.
“As it is, I shall endeavour to earn her respect and attention with my philosophies, which I am sanguine will bear fruit within a conscionable time. I, er, feel it, um, inappropriate to apprise her of what can never be and most fervently trust and hope she will be satisfied to be—Mrs. Renzi.”
For the first time Kydd had full measure of the truth of his friend’s moral compass, the deep well of conviction from which he found the strength and courage to see through his logical decisions to their conclusion, and he was humbled.
“Nicholas,” he said, in a low voice, “as t’ that, I c’n tell ye—er, you—for a certainty she will be satisfied, m’ very dear friend.”
In the early-summer evening the mist-hung Thames was enchanting, the darkening waters a-glitter with the red of the flaming torches set at the edge of the grassy slopes before the stately hall.
“Your Grace, Commander Kydd of the Royal Navy, shortly to take ship for the French coast.”
Amiable words from the elderly duke, gracious attentions from the duchess, a sweeping curtsy and thoughtful gaze from the eldest daughter, then into the throng, bowing to right and left, making agreeable conversation in the excitement of the warm evening.
Kydd worked his way to the long table of refreshments. A full orchestra arrayed just beyond struck up with a grandiose “Rule, Britannia!” at which he found himself immediately occupied in acknowledging the civil bows in his direction.
Boyd passed, in conversation with an imposing lady whose pearls alone would have been sufficient to buy Teazer complete with her crew. She glanced across to Kydd and drew herself up. “Boyd, is this one of your young men?” she asked imperiously.
“Indeed it is not, milady. This is Commander Kydd of Teazer, sloop-of-war.”
“Do you introduce me then, sir,” she commanded.
“Mr. Kydd, please meet Lady Musgrave, Dowager Marchioness of Winchcombe.”
“Enchanted, m’ lady,” Kydd said with a well-practised leg. “A fine evening.” He rose to meet a quizzical look.
“A handsome blade indeed. And I vow quite wasted, floating about on all that sea. Tell me, Mr. Kydd, are you in London for the season or . . . ?”
“I’m desolated to say, ma’am, but Mr. Bonaparte has quite spoiled my plans. I’ll be back aboard to sail very soon.”
“A tiresome and disagreeable fellow, your Bonaparte. I say, Canning,” she called to a distinguished gentleman nearby, “what are we to do with this Napoleon Bonaparte? He’s quite ruined Mr. Kydd’s season.”
“Why, Lady Musgrave, surely the young gentleman is best placed of us all to chastise the fellow.” The man gave an exquisite bow and returned to his conversation.
“Ah—quite. A political can always be relied upon to conjure some words to sport with.” She held up her lorgnette. “Now, Boyd, I’ve decided Mr. Kydd will escort me tonight. Be off with you!” She took Kydd’s arm and they moved away together.
The orchestra was playing a spirited “Britons Strike Home,” and followed with some delicate Purcell. Kydd was swept up in the charged atmosphere, part excitement and part defiance at the fearful danger they were all facing.
Dusk fell, more lights were brought and the hubbub increased. Kydd met statesmen and nobility, ladies of quality and young bucks of the fancy in a dizzying whirl. And with more champagne it was becoming difficult to tell which was the greater reality—this fantastic gathering of jewelled splendour under the torchlight or the private knowledge that he was a sea
captain about to go forth to defend his country.
At one point, nibbling at a sweetmeat and listening to a somewhat racy account of a country weekend, he happened to look at the black river sliding silently past and over to the opposite bank. As his vision adapted to the darkness, he saw that hundreds of people were silently standing there, watching. It was unnerving. Were these the common folk come to see the quality on show in their finery? Was he really one of them? With a guilty surge he realised that tonight he must be numbered among the well-born. Indisputably he had now won a place at the highest levels.
He gulped at the heady realisation, but before he could dwell on it there was a tap of the lorgnette on his arm. “You’re not paying me attention, Mr. Kydd.” But the frown turned to a smile and she confided, “A charming picture, is it not? I do so adore these outside entertainments.”
Kydd bowed. “It is an evening I will not soon forget, m’ lady,” he said, with perfect sincerity.
“The best is yet to come—and I do believe that now is the time.”
Mystified, Kydd tried to look knowing but she laughed. “Mr. Handel’s music for the Royal Fireworks, silly!” The orchestra began the noble, dignified piece, and Kydd felt peculiarly elevated.
There was general movement to the water’s edge. At the bend of the river he saw a procession of boats coming, some with lights strung around the canopy, each with oarsmen in striking uniform keeping perfect stroke. These men need have no fear of the press-gang for they were in the livery of the Worshipful Company of Watermen.
A sudden whoosh startled everyone as a rocket soared up from a nearby raft concealed in the blackness of the river. It was the signal for others and, as the music swelled, the sky was lit with vibrant detonations while the reek of powder-smoke drifted down in the still night air.
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