Inferno (17 page)

C
aptain Kydd's officers' invitation to join them for dinner had not been unexpected, and as he took his seat at the head of the table in the gunroom, he was not unaware of the silent presence of seamen and marine servants, agog for every word.

After the customary pleasantries he launched straight in: ‘I'm desolated to tell you that their lordships have not seen fit to inform me of their intentions. That is a fact. And so your views on what will be are as well to the point as any I might conjure.'

Surprisingly it was the sailing master, Joyce, who first spoke. ‘We're not for Europe, that's lost t' us. No, gennelmen, there's only one design worthy o' this cloud o' battleships an' similar.'

A suspicious gunroom waited for him to continue.

‘Why, not islands in the Caribbee but the whole sea! It's Spanish Florida, that's where! You take Florida, you're gate-keeper to the sugar islands as can't be beat. I've a friend there, tells me them Indians and settlers can't wait t' be set free and would welcome we British and—'

‘I respectfully disagree,' Dillon came in. The cabin turned to him in interest. ‘There's only one thing of consequence that's happened which warrants such a show of naval muscle.'

‘Tilsit?'

‘Just so. The treaty is a master-stroke of Bonaparte that sets Tsar Alexander's face against his old ally. What we're seeing is an assembly of might that's to sail into the Baltic to check Russia's ambitions and demonstrate that we're still a force to be reckoned with.'

It was received with a murmur of respect, until a quiet but insistent voice intervened: ‘I'm not one to dispute strategics with a scholar, as we must say, but there's a difficulty.'

‘Say on, Mr Brice,' Kydd called encouragingly.

‘If we take a look from the deck, we don't see a naval squadron as can fight a Ruskie fleet. There's transports, bombs, frigates and sloops. And of 'em all, I say the transports are the tell-tale. They've soldiers aboard, and this can't be but a landing. It has to be Hanover, the Austrian Netherlands, who knows? Anything to distract Mr Bonaparte.'

The following morning brought still more ships and a rare sight for Yarmouth: several columns of marching redcoats, the faint sounds of martial bands carrying out to the watching sailors, the heady thump of the drums suddenly ceasing when they reached the open spaces to the north.

Within a short time tent cities had been erected and the wisps of cooking fires arose. These soldiers would not board the gathering transports until the last minute to preserve victuals and water. Another column arrived from a different direction, this time led by a headquarters staff all a-glitter and mounted on black horses. Later, even more soldiers
marched in, but by that time the novelty had worn off and
Tyger
continued with her routines.

Kydd saw no reason to go ashore and took the time to read his passage orders once again – really, a direct voyage to Gothenburg, and
Tyger
knew the way.

A knock at the door broke into his thoughts. It was the young master's mate whom he'd seen mature so quickly in the striving and destruction of
Tyger
's recent action.

‘Mr Maynard?'

‘Sir. I've been passed a note and, well, sir, it seems my brother is with the 52nd in camp ashore. He's to sail with the expedition and desires he might see me before we leave. Sir, it would—'

‘Certainly you shall,' Kydd replied. ‘Back aboard by gunfire, mind.'

T
he shore boat had waited and Master's Mate David Maynard lost no time in boarding it, conscious of a lifting warmth at the prospect of seeing his younger brother – and in army uniform. It was hard to imagine the sensitive, fine-featured Francis in the red coat of a soldier.

He'd heard of it from his parents, who'd despaired of keeping the boy in the family business with news of such dire peril for England in the newspapers every day. They had found a vacancy for an ensign in a regiment of light infantry and purchased a commission for him.

David had a spasm of guilt at the thought that Francis had probably been swept up in the tales of heroism and victory with which he'd regaled his brother on leave and didn't want the elder to bear all the glory. Now he would find out the other face of war.

Yarmouth was heaving with soldiery. Some glanced at him curiously but a sentry amiably pointed out the encampment where the 52nd might be found.

It wasn't long before he saw striding towards him a proud
and resplendent junior officer, who snatched off his tall, plumed shako and swept down in a low bow. ‘David!' he cried. ‘I'm so glad you could come.'

The sailor eyed his younger brother in a mix of envy and pride. The lobsterbacks certainly knew how to cut a figure: red coat ornamented with silver, buff breeches and long black gaiters; a high collar with silver gorget, and crossbelt, the gilt belt plate embossed with a bugle-horn and the number ‘52'; a scarlet sash around the waist. A fearsome curved regimental sabre nestled on his left hip.

Catching his glance, Francis made a wry grimace. ‘Better part of four guineas, brother, the damn villains.'

Despite his seven years' sea service David was not yet entitled to bear a sword but kept his views to himself. In his plain blue frock coat with its single row of polished brass buttons, relieved only by discreet white piping, and his perfectly plain round black hat, he was no match for this vision.

‘Shall we lift a jar together, bro? The chaps of the mess rather favour the Star and Mermaid.'

They walked off together to town. Salutes were thrown to the young military officer, who acknowledged them airily.

‘Have you been told our destination at all?' Francis asked.

‘As I hoped you would know. All the fleet's in a taking.'

‘It must be an occasion – why, with your Kydd o'
Tyger
and our Major General Wellesley it's set fair to be as entertaining as any venture I've heard of.'

The touching hint of bravado brought out a surge of protectiveness. ‘Shall we leave aside the supposing, Francis? I'd like to hear more how you're faring as a redcoat.'

The taphouse was overflowing and they were content to sit in the sun on the outside benches.

A foam-topped jug and tankards arrived and they toasted each other, David covertly sizing up his brother. So young and innocent, taken with writing and poetry, those big brown eyes the same, childlike and artless. He hoped the junior officers' mess, or whatever a cockpit was in the army, was less barbarous to the untainted than in his own experience.

‘So you took the King's shilling. What did you then?'

‘The 52nd is a light infantry regiment.' Francis waited for understanding, then, not seeing it, explained, ‘We're different from your regular line regiment. They stand in mass against the enemy with volleys of musketry. We go out on our own in groups to harass the enemy and … other things.'

David grinned. ‘No doubt a mort to take on board.'

‘A quantity of field commands you'll believe. All passed by bugle-horn and drums. And drills – my God, every day we drill, rain or shine. Two things – musket and manoeuvre. Firelock exercise by number until we can do it blindfold, then still more. Marching – forming fours, column to line, line to square and such all day long. At Shorncliffe – that's our home – Colonel Moore will not have it other than every officer new to the regiment does fall in with the men and drill with them until he's satisfied. A good notion, I'm persuaded, as will bring respect. Then it's to be advanced exercise. For the light bobs, it's things like advancing in extended order while firing so each may cover his fellow.'

‘So now you're a regular-borne officer.'

‘To be clear, I'm to take a body of men with the adjutant through any or all field evolution by word of command until he's happy to let me loose on the enemy. And, as you see,
I'm with my regiment now on active service. Ensign Francis Maynard,' he added, tasting the words. ‘Of the second battalion, the 52nd Regiment of Foot.' There was pride and immense satisfaction in his voice.

‘Aye. Francis – I'm proud of you.' David leaned across and gripped his brother's hand.

For some moments they did not speak. Then Francis said, in a low voice, ‘David. We'll be on our way very soon. We … we may not have a chance to see each other again. You'll tell Mama that—'

‘Of course, dear fellow.'

‘It's just that …' He paused. ‘Well, to tell it straight, David, you've seen the enemy, you've taken fire and had men fall by your side. Not once, but many times.'

‘Not so many, old chap.'

‘What I'm trying to say is that I've never even had a Frenchman make a face in my direction, let alone look down his musket at me with death in his heart. I – I'm an officer, but how can I know I'll behave well when it, er, happens? Dear brother, is there anything you hold to that … takes you through … to the other side?'

David was at a loss for words. They were only a brace of years apart in age but an aeon in what they'd lived through. Should he reply with words of glory and honour or tell it as it really was – stark terror conquered only by the burning need not to let his shipmates down?

‘Really, dear fellow, it's not so bad. Once you get into the battle, you've too much to worry on to get a fit of the frighteners.' This was at least half right. ‘And all there's left to remember is what you're taught and go at it like a good 'un,' he finished lamely.

What was a tender, innocent soul like Francis doing in the
midst of the hellish cauldron of mortal combat? He managed a small smile. ‘We'll meet afterwards and have a rollicking good time, won't we at all!'

‘Right, David. I won't let you down, I promise …'