Invasion (17 page)

It was not long before they were lighter one anchor and cable, and the barque was in possession of a third anchor to windward. Taking advantage of their lee,
Daisy May
was put about for a rapid trip back before the wind. The absence of the deadweight of an anchor resulted in a lively roll in the beam seas before they were able to shape course into Kellett Gut, away from the chaos of the gale.

“Hoy, Jack!” cried Neame, urgently, throwing out an arm to seaward. At first it was difficult to make out what he meant, but then a passing squall lifted the mist and revealed the stark outlines of a small derelict—a coaster perhaps, dismasted out to sea and now driving to her inevitable doom on the Goodwins.

Kydd's heart went out to the unknown mariners who had suffered this calamity for he knew they could not be helped;
Daisy May
was too far committed into the narrow passage of the Gut and the wreck would be cast up well before others could come to their aid.

Nevertheless, perhaps out of some sense of brotherly feeling towards them in their extremity, Cribben luffed up and came to in the lee side of the immense sandbank. “Killick,” he threw at Neame laconically. The man cleared away their little bow anchor, which plummeted down while all eyes followed the final act of the drama.

Figures on the derelict were jerking about in some sort of frantic activity, but the end could not be long delayed. Soon the huge breakers roaring in would rise up as they felt the solid bank under them, bear the derelict aloft and smash it to flinders on the unyielding sand.

As Kydd looked on, mesmerised, he realised that the activity on deck had been that of some hero who had fashioned a steering oar from a plank and had succeeded in wrestling the bow resolutely shoreward. And he also recognised the vessel, with her rakish lines, she was a
chasse-marée,
a French privateer.

Nobody spoke as a giant breaker curled and fell—and as the boiling surf raced up the sand, it sent the wreck shooting forward. The hero's final actions were rewarded, for as soon as the dark shape of the craft came to rest, the figures stumbled from it on to the blessed firmness. The sea returned in a hissing roar and pushed the craft crazily broadside but the men were not running for safety: they were struggling with something in the wreck. It was a body—no, an injured seaman, and they were dragging him out, then making hastily for the higher ground.

Kydd felt like cheering but Cribben's look was bleak as he grunted, “They've got t' come off of there—tide'll have 'em in a couple of hours.”

“Can't we close with th' bank an' take 'em?” Kydd asked.

“Why? They's only mongseers, is all. Let 'em take their chances.”

“They're sailors, jus' like us all.”

“No.”

Kydd felt his blood rise but held himself in check. “Five guineas t' lay off the bank.”

Cribben looked at him in astonishment, then peered into Kydd's face as if for reassurance as to his sanity. “Seven.”

“Done.”

The others looked at Kydd warily, but helped to pull the lugger in as far as was prudent and Kydd signalled to the stranded seamen with exaggerated beckoning movements. There was a distracted wave back but no sign that they understood the urgency of their situation.

Kydd swore; in a short time they would be beyond mortal help. He repeated the signal, then got everyone aboard
Daisy May
to join in, but the Frenchmen were not going to risk the tide-rips.

“Leave 'em be, the silly buggers,” Cribben said dismissively, clearly ready to leave.

Kydd said nothing but began to strip off to his trousers.

“What're ye up to?” Cribben demanded.

“I knows th' French lingo,” Kydd retorted, “an' in common pity they have t' be warned.”

“We only gets th' bounty fer bringing back bodies, not live 'uns.”

Standing on the gunwale Kydd leaped clumsily into the cold shock of the sea and struck out. The current seized him and carried him along but after frantic strokes his toe caught the hard roughness of the sandy bottom and he staggered upright, looking for the castaways.

The chill of the wind's blast nearly took his breath away and when a Frenchman hurried up to him he could hardly control his shuddering.
“V-vous êtes i-ici dans un g-grand péril, m-mon brave,”
he stuttered, and tried to convey the essence of the danger.

It was surreal: he was standing on hard-packed brown sand that was about to plunge beneath the sea, talking to a French privateersman whom it was his duty to kill—and himself, a commander of the Royal Navy, taking orders from a Deal hoveller.

The Frenchmen chattered among themselves, then explained that for reasons of humanity they could not abandon their injured comrade—he had been the one to wield the steering oar—and besides, like many seamen, none could swim. There was such poignant resignation in their faces that Kydd was forced to turn away.

Staggering with the force of a vicious wind squall across the flat banks he tried to flog his frozen mind to thought. Cribben would not keep
Daisy May
among the leeward shoals for much longer. It was—

A faint shout drew his attention to the lugger. He saw Stirk jump into the sea and strike out for them, Redsull back in
Daisy May
furiously paying out a line.

Stirk splashed into the shallows and Kydd helped him up. A small double line was threaded through his belt at the small of his back, which he released. Hoarsely, he panted, “They hauls 'em out b' this rope. Cribben's in a rare takin'—but them others'll be good 'uns.”

The light line was handed rapidly along as an endless loop until a heavier line arrived and, with a piece of timber for flotation, the rescue was rapidly made complete.

“S' then, Mr. Hoveller, where's our Luke Calloway?” Kydd demanded. Cribben was at the head of the beach with his arms folded, watching
Daisy May
hauled out of the surf and up the shingle in the fading light.

“Where's m' seven guineas?” snapped the man, keeping his eyes on the straining capstan crew.

“You'll get 'em by sunset t'morrow,” Kydd replied tightly.

Then Cribben turned to him with a smile. “I don't rightly know who you is, Mr. Tom, but youse a right taut man o' th' sea as ever I seen, an' I honour ye for it. Follow me.”

“I'll go, Toby—no need f'r you,” Kydd said.

Cribben stamped up the shingle and into the maze of alleyways. He stopped at the gaunt old edifice of a deserted maltster's and gestured contemptuously. “I know they's got their heads down in that there loft. Take him an' be damned to the shab.”

Kydd eased open the ancient double doors and entered into the smelly darkness, the wind covering the noise of his entrance. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he saw dust-covered mash-tubs, long planked floors and, to the side, a flight of rickety steps leading up to the blackness at the top of the building.

Kydd tiptoed to the stairs ears a-prick for any sound.

Halfway up he heard muffled giggling. He completed the climb, arriving at what appeared to be an overseer's office. Within it, he heard furtive movement and beneath the door saw dim light.

He crashed it open. “Mr. Midshipman Calloway! Y'r duty t' your ship, sir!”

With a horrified shriek, a naked girl snatched for covering. Calloway sat up groggily, and glared resentfully at him.

“T' break ship is a crime and an insult t' your shipmates, Luke. Why . . . ?”

“Er, me 'n' Sally, um, we're—”

“Y'r country lies under such a peril as never was. Are ye going t' tell me you're comfortable t' leave the fighting to others while ye cunny burrow with y' trug?”

Calloway reddened and reached for his clothes. “I'm done with roaming,” he said stubbornly. “I want t' cast anchor next to m' woman, an' she won't be found in a poxy man-o'-war.”

“Leave my Luke be!” screeched the girl. “Him 'n' me's gettin' spliced, ain't we, darlin'?”

Kydd ignored her. “Your duty calls ye, Luke,” he said remorse-lessly.

“I—I'm not . . .”

“I c'n have you taken in irons and haled aboard as a deserter.”

The lad stiffened.

“But I won't. I'm leaving—now. And if y' follows me, it's back aboard, no questions asked, all a-taunto. And if y' don't, then you'll have t' live with y'r decision for the rest o' your life . . .”

C
HAPTER 6

R
ENZI CONTEMPLATED THE WIND-TORN SEAS
of the Downs through
Teazer
's salt-encrusted stern windows. Years in Neptune's realm had inured him to the motion and he knew he would miss the honest liveliness and daily challenges of the elements if ever he was obliged to go ashore for good.

For now, though, that was not in question and he blessed his luck in securing a situation that ensured food, board and the company of his friend while he pursued his scholarly quest. It was proceeding well: he had settled back into his studies after the catastrophe of the failed plot against Napoleon and, just recently, had reached a delightful impasse in his careful building of the edifice of support of his central hypotheses: the Nomological Determinist position was threatening the entire substructure of his “Economic Man,” but once again the sturdy pragmatism of Hobbes, two centuries earlier, was coming to the rescue. In fact, conflated with the naturalistic philosophies of Hume, the so-called “Compatibilists” had—

The distant wail of the boatswain's call sounded. Kydd was being piped aboard after his enforced delay ashore. Voices echoed in the tiny companionway to the great cabin, then Kydd poked his head in, shaking water everywhere.

“I'll be with you in a brace o' shakes, old chap,” he said, and disappeared to change, then returned quickly to down a restorative brandy. “A tolerably divertin' time of it yesterday,” he said expansively, “and one young fussock back aboard as is considering his position.” He wedged himself in his chair against
Teazer
's jerking at her moorings, which was her way of indicating her impatience for the freedom of the open sea. Eyeing the canvas dispatch bag, he added, “I see the boats are running again—is that the mail?”

Guiltily, Renzi emptied the contents on to the table. Only one item seemed at all official; any concerning officers would be conveyed personally by a midshipman or lieutenant, so this was probably in regard to a member of the crew or yet another routine fleet order that
Teazer,
still awaiting repairs, would be unable to comply with. He passed it to Kydd.

“Why, I do believe you're found out, Renzi. Listen to this: ‘The ship's clerk, HMS
Teazer,
to attend at the flag-officer's . . . forthwith.'” Kydd laughed, “Don't worry. I'll send along a hand to bear a fist with all your workings.”

The trip out to
Monarch
was uncomfortable, wet and not a little irksome. The order had not specified which papers were due for a surprise vetting so Renzi had been obliged to take along as many as he could manage, carefully protected in two layers of oilskin.

His irritation increased when no one seemed to know why he had been sent for. Finally, the first lieutenant appeared and regarded him curiously. “Ah, yes. It
is
Renzi, is it not?”

“Sir.”

“Then my instructions are to convey you to Walmer Castle with all dispatch. They're expecting you, I believe. Er, pray refrain from discussing your visit with anyone. That is, anyone whomsoever. Do you understand me?”

“Aye aye, sir,” Renzi replied, taken aback.

“Very well. I shall call away our own boat immediately. There's no need to detain yours. And do get rid of that raffle—I hardly think Walmer are likely to be interested in your weekly accounts or similar.” He chuckled.

This was strange indeed. Renzi had seen Walmer Castle from the sea, a low, round edifice like Deal Castle, also dating back to the eighth King Henry. He had heard that it was now home to the Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, an honorary position under the Crown whose origins were lost in medieval antiquity.

The castle was near the edge of the beach at a secluded location a mile to the south of Deal. A tight-lipped lieutenant accompanied Renzi as they trudged up the shingle and approached the ancient bastions.

“Halt, an' who goes there?” It was the first of many sentinels who challenged them before they reached the round Tudor gate-house and Renzi felt stirrings of unease. Army sentries at a private residence?

The lieutenant spoke to the gatekeeper sergeant, who took Renzi in charge, gruffly telling him to follow. They went through the echoing gateway and upstairs, eventually entering a distinguished residence with hanging pictures and velvet curtains. With kitchen odours and the distinctive serge and leathery smell of soldiery, it appeared well tenanted too.

They passed into a central corridor, then mid-way along the sergeant stopped and knocked at a door. It was answered by a well-dressed civilian. “Renzi? Do come in, old chap.”

Warily, he entered the small room, with its single desk and visitor's chair opposite illuminated by a mullioned gunport. “Sit down, make yourself at home. Tea, or . . . ?”

Renzi declined refreshments.

“Hobson, Aliens Office. You must be wondering why we've asked you here,” he began mildly.

Renzi remained silent.

Hobson went on, “We have the warmest recommendation from Commodore d'Auvergne in Jersey as to your probity and reliability, which leads us to consider whether in the matter of—”

“No!”

“—a particular and delicate service—”

“I am never a spy, sir.”

“—of the highest importance to the interests of this country, that you would consider—”

“Understand me now, sir. I find the practices of spying repugnant to my character and odious in the extreme. Should you—”

“Mr. Renzi. No one has mentioned spying that I recall. This concerns an entirely different matter and I confess I'm quite at a loss to account for your hostile manner, sir.” He paused, then resumed stiffly, “You will be aware of the humane and practical custom between belligerents of the exchange of prisoners-of-war, both of paroled officers and the common sort.”

“I am, of course,” Renzi replied.

“Then you will be as dismayed as His Majesty's government at the abhorrent actions of the French in detaining our prisoners with no hope of repatriation in any wise, contrary to the usages of war, which, until the present conflict, have always served perfectly adequately.”

Renzi knew of the unprecedented act of barbarism by Bonaparte at the outset of the war in seizing every Englishman, high or low, military or harmless tourist, and incarcerating them, along with their women. Was this to be some crazy rescue attempt?

Hobson continued in the same tone. “There is to be noted a marked imbalance in prisoners held. At the moment we hold some three or four times as many French as they do ours, and it is our belief that this may be the means to bring Napoleon to a more rational standing on the matter.”

“To negotiate?”

“Quite so. Agreement has recently been reached with the French government through an intermediary for a diplomatic mission to be sent by us to explore the question.”

“You wish
me
to—”

“No, Mr. Renzi, we do not. The foreign secretary, Lord Hawkes-bury, has appointed a Mr. Haslip, lately of the Transport Board, to conduct the mission. It is his wish to be accompanied by one in the undoubted character of gentleman who, at the same time, might be relied upon to undertake the humbler—but nevertheless vital—tasks as they present themselves.”

Despite himself, Renzi could not smother a cynical chuckle.

“Come, come, sir. This is not an occasion for humour. Consider, if you will, the families of the unfortunates in the fortress prisons of France with no hope of release. The hardships they must daily face, the—”

“I thank you for your consideration, Mr. Hobson, but I have to tell you I am perfectly content where I am.”

Hobson steepled his hands in thought. “You do surprise me, Renzi. Clerk of a brig-sloop, now to be given the opportunity to visit Paris, the home of Diderot, Rousseau and Enlightened Man—and, while under diplomatic protection, to be quite free to take your fill of the sights and mingle in learned company . . .”

He had Renzi's avid interest now. This was another matter entirely. Savants of sufficiently adequate stature on both sides were—after considerable fuss at the highest level—sometimes given safe-conduct for the express purpose of furthering human knowledge and were thereby able to pass unhindered between warring nations. That he, unpublished and unknown, could enjoy the same privilege would be an
incredible
stroke of fortune.

“Er, there is no question of my abusing such a position to engage in activities in the nature of spying, of course.”

Hobson frowned in exasperation. “Mr. Renzi! This continual adverting to some form of espionage does you no credit at all. You have my word on it that no spying is involved. In point of fact, should you be so far in want of gentlemanly conduct as to undertake such on a private basis, then His Majesty's ministers will utterly condemn you. You will go openly, under your own auspices and with stated diplomatic objectives, while no doubt you will be, from the first, subject to a form of surveillance by the authorities. Provided you are earnest and diligent in the discharge of your duties and refrain from being seen near locations of a military nature, I can see no difficulties pursuant to an interesting and rewarding experience.”

“I shall proceed in cartel, as a full member of the mission to . . . ?”

“Mr. Renzi, if you have a stated moral objection to assisting at such a level then please to let me know at this point,” Hobson said, with a touch of impatience. “I shall then be obliged to find another.”

“No, not at all. I was merely—”

“Then shall we continue? An accreditation to the mission requires more than a few diplomatic formalities, which should be put in hand without further delay. Mr. Haslip has let it be known he wishes to depart at the earliest possible opportunity.”

“Of course,” said Renzi, hastily. “I shall immediately put my affairs in order in my ship and—”

“There will be time for that later. Now, to the first. Do you wish to travel under your own name or another? Some feel it more congenial to their privacy to discourage curious prying by a foreign power.”

“Oh? Then, er, ‘Smith' will answer, I believe.”

“Certainly. There are other details we shall need to record, and then, under your signature, these will be sent to Whitehall by special messenger for your formal accession to the body of the mission. I suspect Mr. Haslip will therefore wish to be aboard the cartel ship, departing this Thursday night from Ramsgate.

“There may be final matters to discuss before you leave, so perhaps we shall meet once more on Wednesday. Oh, and as no doubt you have already been told, the invariable custom in these affairs is that complete secrecy is to be observed. Not even your captain must know.”

He looked Renzi directly in the eye. “You have no conception of the villainous creatures who inhabit the nether world, ready to take advantage.”

“Quite, quite,” Renzi said, with feeling.

“You're taking a holiday?” Kydd asked, in surprise, as Renzi assembled his bags in the larger space of the great cabin. “Where will this be, old trout?”

Renzi fought with the temptation to mention casually that he intended to spend the weekend in Paris. “It did seem the most suitable opportunity,
Teazer
being under repair for the time being.”

Light-headed with exhilaration at the prospect before him, he deliberated whether the old but finer blue coat would more suit in a Paris of fashion and gaiety, or was it to be the newer but sombre brown? In the end he decided that if he was to put up a decent showing as a diplomat then perhaps he would visit a fashionable tailor while he was there. After all, he was representing his country.

Kydd would not let it rest. “Fine weather, just the ticket for a bit o' sporting in the sun?” He tried again. “Do you have anyone to go with, Nicholas?”

“You mean in the character of a female?”

Kydd grinned. “I see, you wicked dog.”

“No.”

“Then where?”

Renzi picked up one of the bags, as though checking its weight. Thwarted, Kydd stumped off to annoy the officer-of-the-watch.

The day before the cartel ship was due to sail Renzi made acquaintance of Haslip. He was a humourless, pompous bureaucratic functionary but Renzi knew how to handle such as him.

Hobson greeted him warmly. “So you're leaving tomorrow for Paris? I envy you, Renzi. My position seldom allows me such diversions.” He closed the door. “Now, one thing has come up, old fellow. Do see if you can help us. While you're in Paris there is one chap we'd like you to look up. He's an artist, portraiture and such, the Duke of Devonshire and similar. Rather good, too—he's hung in the Royal Academy, no less.”

“Oh?”

“Yes indeed,” Hobson said smoothly. “You see, he's an odd kind of cove, head full of strange notions, but we'd like you to let him know that we're quite keen to see him back in the old country. I'll let you have a sum of money to that end—you'll sign and account for it in the usual way, of course, but we are rather concerned to have him return.”