Invasion (10 page)

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.

Caught up with the spectacle Kydd's attention was skywards—but a muttered warning from the marchioness brought his eyes down. To his astonishment all conversation suddenly ceased. From his left the lords and ladies faced the river and were taken one by one in deep obeisance, held motionless.

“The King, you fool!” his companion hissed from the depths of her curtsy. Kydd dropped hastily to one knee, too flustered to recall the details of the elaborate court bow. Head still bowed, he tried to glimpse the royal barge in progress. It approached slowly and majestically, and then, by the sharp flash of firework clusters, Kydd caught sight of the person of his sovereign and liege lord, His Britannic Majesty, King George III of Great Britain and Ireland.

C
HAPTER 4

“
. . . AND TWO IN IRONS
on account of disagreements with the soldiery ashore.” The first lieutenant finished his report, visibly relieved that Kydd had returned. The crew had been restless, keyed up to play a leading part in a desperate resistance to Napoleon's legions. Instead, they had been idle in
Teazer,
anchored all week in the Downs.

“Very well, Mr. Hallum.”

“Er, and we're to hang out a signal immediately you're back on board.”

“Make it so, if y' please.”

Kydd lost no time in going below to get out of his dusty travelling clothes and into his comfortable sea rig.
Monarch
did not bear her commander-in-chief's flag indicating Keith was aboard his flagship so he had no need to report. It would give him time to—

“Mr. Hallum's compliments, sir, an' boat putting off from
Actaeon,
” an eager midshipman blurted at the door.

Kydd knew he would not have been disturbed unless the boat was heading for
Teazer
and bore someone of significance.

He lost no time in appearing on deck and watched while the gig threaded expertly towards them through the anchored vessels, her ensign at the transom indicating a king's officer aboard.

“Boat ahoy!” Poulden's challenge was answered immediately from the gig.
“Actaeon!”

“Mr. Purchet!” roared Kydd, for this meant it was the captain of the thirty-eight-gun frigate and, as such, he must be piped aboard by the boatswain.

“Charles Savery, sir,” the man introduced himself, after punctiliously saluting
Teazer
's quarterdeck. “If we could repair to your cabin . . . ?”

There, he looked about appreciatively at the quality of the appointments. “Then you've done well in the article of prize-money?” he said equably.

“I've been fortunate enough, sir,” Kydd replied cautiously, aware that his appearance was not best suited to greeting a senior post-captain.

Savery gave a dry smile. “I'm here on behalf of Admiral Keith to enquire your readiness, he being detained on another matter.” The man was large in
Teazer
's neat little cabin but his round, jovial features were reassuring.

“Sir.”

“He particularly wishes to assure himself that you are in no doubt concerning the operational details of the Downs command. I take it that you have been well informed at the Admiralty of the strategical objectives?”

“I have, sir—and I will confess, t' me it's been a caution to learn what it is that faces us.”

“Yes, as it would to most, I'd agree. However, to details. You know the strength of Admiral Keith's command?”

“Sir. It was told to me as six o'-the-line, thirty-two frigates and some hundred or more sloops.”

“Quite so. You should understand that the sail-of-the-line are old and unseaworthy, each moored permanently to defend estuaries and therefore unavailable to us. The frigates and sloops you will find anywhere from Selsey in the Channel all the way up the east coast to Scotland, and of those to stand directly against Bonaparte's invasion we are disposed in two divisions.

“One, to defend the Channel coast of England, the other before the French coast. Of the latter we are again of two forces: the first, those sloops and cutters in constant warfare against the enemy flotillas, the other in the form of two more powerful flying squadrons based here at a moment's notice to sail. Your orders, which I have, attach you to the one commanded by myself.

“Both squadrons have the same vital imperative: to harass the invasion craft by any means, clamping a hold on the harbours up and down the enemy coast to prevent their leaving and concentrating in overwhelming numbers at the main invasion ports. I have to remind you that there is a deeper duty, Mr. Kydd, which is to immediately apprise the commander-in-chief of any intelligence that bears on the deployment and motions of the invasion fleets.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“And especially should they sail on their enterprise. Neither ship nor man should be spared in the need to raise the alarm.”

“May I know, sir, what's t' be our action here consequent on receiving this?”

“The first intelligence of an invasion fleet at sea is to be conveyed to Deal. There, the shutter telegraph will have the news to the Admiralty in ten minutes. At the same time we have General Craig's flags. These are a chain of posts on church steeples and similar that constantly fly a white flag. Receiving word of an invasion, they will be replaced by a red, which will be the signal to loose the messengers, picked men whose duty it is to set forth on horseback, fly inland and raise the alarm. At night we shall have beacons of furze faggots on hilltops as will instantly call the volunteers to arms and set in motion the evacuation plans—but the details of that we can leave to the military.”

“Sir.”

“To return to our own operations. You're to maintain at all times sea and ordnance stores conformable to a two-hour notice to sail, and when at alert, a watch of the hands closed up at stations for unmooring, yourself and principal officers on board.”

“At alert, sir?”

“Wind and tide favourable for a sortie, an intelligence that Bonaparte is contemplating a descent. The signal tower hangs out a red warning pennant with a gun—you'll see all this in the orders.”

“I understand, sir.”

“To the squadron instructions. You'll observe that there's little enough on manoeuvres and signals. This is because when we shall be called upon for service it will of a surety be a pell-mell action as will not be of a character to allow the forming of line and so forth.”

Savery spoke calmly, but there was no mistaking the icy determination. “As well, of course, we are all of different sailing qualities and in this I will be clear. At an alarm, the duty of every captain is to crowd on sail as best he might to close with the enemy, not an instant's delay. How this is achieved is of secondary consideration.”

“Sir.”

“We are all of one band and must rely on each other—in this you will see each must trust the other in the prime cause. No signals, no permissions, no hesitation. Lay yourself alongside an enemy and you will have fulfilled your duty, sir.”

It was a level of trust in a commander that Kydd had never encountered before: to rely implicitly on a subordinate's tactical judgement, seamanship and brute courage without issuing a direct order, this was what it was to be a sea officer of such a supremely professional navy. “Aye aye, sir,” Kydd responded. “You may rely on
Teazer
and her company.”

“Very well. Do complete your stores and, as of noon tomorrow, consider yourself under orders. Er, and it would be my pleasure to see you at our little gathering in the Three Kings at seven tonight. You'll find some of the other captains of the flying squadron there and they'll be pleased to meet you.”

In the early afternoon Kydd went ashore with the purser and Renzi. He wanted to inspect the capability of the King's Naval Yard in Deal and also to see something of the town.

He had read the orders. Keith's were straightforward and to the point, with no duty explicit other than the defence of the realm in so far as it meant harrying the enemy by every means possible. The usual commander-in-chief's Fighting Instructions were almost nonexistent, confirming Savery's earlier comments that a grand fleet action was not likely—for the moment.

Savery's orders, too, were sparse, emphasising individual initiative and deprecating caution but with the proviso that the preservation of his ship was a central concern for every captain. Throw himself at the enemy or hold back: it would be Kydd's decision. Kydd realised that Keith's constant fear would be that his forces would be so whittled down by taking the war to the enemy shore that at a sudden invasion breakout they would prove of insufficient numbers.

It was a warm, sunny afternoon and, with the breezy north-westerly a foul wind on the French coast, there was little likelihood of an alert. Kydd walked quietly with the other two to the King's Naval Yard, letting the character of the place seep in.

Deal was a curious place, a town at a seemingly random position along a lengthy stretch of flat shoreline, nestled right up to a shingle beach. It was said to be one of the biggest ports in England—yet it had no harbour.

But there were reasons for its existence there: the lethal Goodwin Sands offshore were also a barrier to Channel storms and the ships that gathered in its embrace, waiting for a fair wind, needed provisions, stores and chandlery. Passengers favoured boarding their ships at Deal, thereby avoiding the tedious river trip to London. With naval forces to support in addition, the town was lively and prosperous.

The King's Naval Yard at one end of the waterfront was impressive, with sawpits, smith's shops, sail lofts and the like. A ship could be victualled for an entire ocean voyage from the brewhouses, compendious storehouses and the bakery producing vast quantities of ship's biscuits. Yet without a harbour—no quays, jetties or wharfs—tons of stores, masts and yards, weighty lengths of new-spun cordage, all had to be taken out to the ships in boats.

This meant that the heavy craft must be manhandled down to the water over the steep shingle, loaded and, after delivery, heaved back up again. At the yard there were eight slipways, oaken balks settled well in with a massive capstan at the top of each. Kydd watched as a three-ton frigate launch was hauled up for repair. Even with thirty men at the capstan and others steadying the boat it was a hard grind.

Their business concluded, the Teazers returned to their ship. Kydd knew he had paperwork to deal with but felt restless. He went to the shrouds and gazed out across the sparkling sea to the hard, clean line of the horizon where the distant sombre headlands of France were stark and clear.

There was now no doubt: the gathering storm that was about to break on England could be stopped by only one agency, the Royal Navy.
Teazer
was at the cutting edge, the furthest forward she could be on the field of battle. And Kydd was her captain.

“Ah, Mr. Kydd, come meet this merry band of mariners!” Savery said heartily, stepping back from the fireplace. A half-dozen officers looked at him inquisitively. “Commander Kydd is new-joined in
Teazer,
brig-sloop, from the Channel Islands,” he boomed. “Claims he wanted a more
interesting
station.”

There were murmurs of welcome and a shuffling to allow him a sight of the fire.

“This is Commander Dyer, of
Falcon,
ship-sloop.”

A cautious-looking older officer nodded.

“And L'tenant Keane,
Locust,
gun-brig . . .”

The cheerful, red-faced young man winked at him playfully.

“L'tenant Mills out of
Bruiser,
gun-brig.”

The big man grunted defensively. “Service?”

“Oh, North American station t' begin with,” Kydd said amiably. There would apparently be no standing on ceremony in this company. “The Med,” he added. “And the Nile,” he finished lightly.

There was a general stir. “Doubt we can find anything to top that, Mr. Kydd,” said Keane, respectfully.

“I'm not so sure,” Mills said forcefully. “Boney's down on 'em hard if they don't put on a brave show defendin' afore their own soldiers on the shore. Why, in that mill we has last month off Calais . . .” The talk ebbed and flowed.

The Three Kings, like so much of Deal, was on the edge of the waterfront, its entrance set at right angles for shelter. The naval officers favoured rooms to seaward that looked out over the Downs and, in the strengthening north-westerly, the windows shook and rattled.

Savery glanced out to sea at the miles of bobbing ships and white caps, then suggested, “Cards, gentlemen? No alarums to be expected in this blow.” There was a general move to the table. “I do hope the claret is agreeable to your taste, Mr. Kydd,” he said, as the cards were cut. “For our Friday gathering we make it a point that the enemy provides for our wine. Out of a prize, of course.”

Kydd did not shine at cards; his heart was not in it. His memory refused to take note of which had been successively dealt and he was regularly trumped. In this company, however, it was no chore, and gave him an insight into the personalities of those with whom he would go to war.

Savery was cool, precise and deadly, clearly enjoying the exercise. Keane was impulsive but ingenious, while Mills was stolid but infinitely patient, marshalling his assets until he could bang down his winning hand with a colourful oath.

It was an experience more pleasurable than he had expected: there was relief to be had from sharing anxieties and fears with those who were in the same position as him, and took strength from the sense of brotherliness in adversity, of fellow warriors awaiting the dawn.

The following morning the wind still held to a north-westerly but had moderated somewhat. There was no alert at the semaphore tower and Kydd held court with Hallum and Purchet over how best to bring the ship to a knife edge of readiness.