I hav saved for you my dearist mor than eihtgteen gineas to this date. I doant know when wi will return it is a hard time wi are having but my dear it wuld make yuo smil to see the rare drubbing we ar giving the frogs and we not lobsterbaks but jack tar!
Kydd felt his eyes sting but he kept reading.
Wi will win, sweethart there is no dout of that. Yuo see we hav the best men and the best oficers and yuo may beleive that like sir sidny and mr kidd who I hav seen miself with his fine sowrd at the breech in the wall. He giv hart to us all to see him alweys there he is a leson in currage if we see him in charg of us wi will allways tak after him wher he tell us to go ...
The rest dissolved in a blur of tears. Any torturing doubts were now behind him for ever.
"Sir? One hour t' dawn."
Renzi was fully awake but politely thanked the marine, who touched a taper to a little oil-lamp. He lay for a few more moments, then, with a sigh of resolution, threw off the single sheet. He had barely slept and wondered at Kydd's stamina after the much longer perils and hardships he had endured.
Something had spoken to him during the night, a tendril of presentiment reaching out that the day would see a culmination of all their striving. For himself, Renzi had no doubts. When it chose to strike, death could come in so many ways—disease, shipwreck, a round shot. It really was of no consequence. What was of importance was the manner of leaving life. With courage, and no regrets.
In the mirror his face looked back at him, grave but calm. He raised an eyebrow quizzically and silently acknowledged that there was one matter, trivial in the circumstances, but a loose end that his logical self insisted should be resolved to satisfaction, if only to impose a philosophic neatness on his life to this date. It was the decision in the matter of his father's demand that he take up his place as eldest son and heir-apparent to the earldom.
The stakes were plain: if he acceded he would be in the fullness of time the Earl of Farndon and master of Eskdale Hall. If he did not, his father would have no compunction in taking the legal steps necessary to disinherit and disavow him in the succession.
Therefore, in this hour he would make his decision, before he and Kydd went together to meet the dawn and all it would bring. He knew too well the arguments—his life at sea had opened his eyes to the human condition and made all the more precious the insights he had gathered on his adventures. This would cease: the vapid posturings of society were a poor substitute.
Then there was the undeniable fact that he had matured in the face of calls upon his courage, fortitude and skills—he had become a man in the true sense of the word. And had about him the society of others who had been equally formed. Where would he find these on a country estate?
No, he was deluding himself. If he was honest, the true reason was that in essence he wanted excitement before security, stimulation before tranquillity, change before monotony. The sea life.
His instincts were telling him that he should refuse his father. But was this the proper course? He must examine the consequence.
Could he foresee his life as a disavowed son of the aristocracy? He was content to continue with his persona as Renzi. He had means, a small enough competence, but his needs were little as a sea officer. He valued his books far beyond a fashionable lifestyle—it would be sufficient.
This, therefore, should be his decision.
Why, then, was he not convinced of it? At heart he knew that there was one looming consideration that forced the issue, one that his father had used against him without realising its power to move him. His duty. It was his obligation and responsibility to prepare himself to inherit the earldom, and no consideration of personal preference or taste could be allowed to take precedence.
Therefore this was his proper answer, his determination.
"No!" The passion in his outburst surprised him. Hypothetical the argument might be, yet it was not a natural conclusion. It had been forced upon him and, with rising excitement, he saw another path of reason that led to a different decision.
The true meaning of his duty was not solely to his father— or even to his family. It was to the wider community: to those who would depend on him—tenants, families, the estate men of business. It was to the caring husbandry of the land, the enlightened management of the estate—it was to descendants unborn. Would he make a worthy earl to them all? Or would he be a crabbed, uninterested and ultimately miserable aristocrat of the species he had seen so often before? No, indeed—he would leave the title to Henry and may he have the joy of it.
A shuddering sigh overtook him. A burden had been lifted that had weighed on him since he realised his five-year exile had turned first into a blessing, then a fear that it must all end and he would be compelled to return to the claustrophobia of a sedentary life. He was free at last! He buckled on his sword in a glow of deep satisfaction.
Renzi found Kydd alone at the top of the Cursed Tower, staring into the void of the night even now delicately touched with the first signs of light. "Brother," he said softly, but he could not find the words befitting this time of supreme trial that lay so close for them both. Instead he held out his hand, which Kydd took solemnly. Neither spoke as the dawn broke.
After the ladies had withdrawn the gentlemen settled comfortably to their brandy and port, replete after as fine a dinner as ever had graced the table at No. 10. The guests looked appreciatively at the Prime Minister as he raised his glass.
"A splendid repast as always," Addington said affably, noting Pitt's evident contentment, "and, if I might remark it, improved upon only by the intelligence you have disclosed to us tonight."
"Indeed," Pitt said, with satisfaction. "And the damnedest thing it was too! At dawn Smith and his doughty mariners stand to, expecting to fight for their lives, but what do they see? Nothing but an empty landscape. Our glorious Buonaparte—crept away in the night. Gone!"
"Does this mean that Buonaparte is finished at last?"
"Umm. We shall see. We do have intelligence that's unimpeachable for once—I can tell you in confidence that we took the singularly aptly named La Fortune at sea, and aboard by extraordinary good luck we found the general's dispatches to Paris." He smiled boyishly. "And in them he tries so hard to find a victory in his ruination that I nearly feel pity for the man. Now he has to explain to France how his grand design for glory and empire has failed. How the fine army that he led to victory and conquest across all Europe is now lost to plague and starvation in the deserts of Syria. And also why he has cynically abandoned his men to their fate—it seems he seeks to flee secretly to Paris."
Pitt's smile widened. "But when he arrives, the hardest task he will face is to explain the fact that the army he vastly outnumbered yet who defeated him—for the very first time on land—was not in the character of the military at all, but common sailors!"
AUTHOR'S NOTE
It is one of those happy coincidences that Tenacious was first published in 2005, the year of the Bicentenary celebrations of Nelson's great victory of Trafalgar—and a time when we had the opportunity to value anew the achievements of such a great sea leader. This book is dedicated to Sir Horatio Nelson.
When I began the Kydd series, as I plotted out the general content of each book, I knew my central character Thomas Kydd would meet Nelson at some time. No writer in this genre can tell of the stirring events in the great age of fighting sail without being aware of Nelson at the centre. But it was not Trafalgar that I selected for this first meeting; it was at the Battle of the Nile—in my mind Nelson's finest hour.
In the course of my research for this book my admiration for Nelson—which was already considerable—has increased immeasurably. He was undoubtedly a true genius as a leader of men, but he also had a great humanity, and such respect for the lower deck that he insisted on adding common seamen to his coat of arms.
In terms of background historical material for Tenacious I was spoiled for choice. It was a time of titanic global stakes. If the Nile or Acre had been lost we would h
ave seen Napoleon dominating a world which would have been very different today. And it was a time of deeds so incredible that they may seem like fantasy but are not—Nelson personally saving the king and queen of Naples at cutlass point, Minorca taken without the loss of a single man—and above all, the astonishing but little-known fact that Napoleon was first defeated on land not by a great army but a rag-tag bunch of sailors.
As usual, I do not have the space to acknowledge all the institutions and people I have consulted in the course of writing Tenacious but there are a number to whom I owe a special debt. The National Maritime Museum holds priceless material on the thrilling Nile chase, much of which is now going online. In Minorca, Roy Wheatley and his charming wife Mary took Kathy and myself under their wing when we were there on location research. The Admiralty Hydrographic Office at Taunton could not have been more helpful in sourcing charts of the time, including one of the actual maps used in the siege.
And, my deep thanks are due to my wife and literary partner, Kathy. As well as maintaining a strict and professional eye on my developing manuscript, she has contrived to become my "reality manager," keeping the intrusions of everyday life at bay to enable me to fully immerse myself in the eighteenth-century world I write about. It is a source of great gratification to me to know that so many of you share my passion for these fascinating times and I look forward to sailing with you for many books to come ...
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