Invasion (5 page)

He reviewed his forces: the barque would be manned by a prize-crew only and should not present a serious difficulty for a prime man-o'-war's boarding party. The main object was to crowd seamen aboard in sufficient quantity that sail could be loosed and set before the fort could react. Too few, and with three masts to man, there would be a fatal delay. So it must be every boat and all the hands that could be spared.

There would be two main divisions: the armed boarders as first wave over the larboard bulwarks and the seamen to work the ship over the starboard. It was essential to have the best men in the lead, those who would not flinch at mounting the rigging in the dark and with the initiative and sea skills to know what needed doing without being told.

“Mr. Hallum, are ye familiar with the barque rig?”

“Er, no, sir.”

“Then I'll take command in the boats.” There were no barquerigged vessels in the Royal Navy and although the major difference was only in the fore-and-aft-rigged mizzen Kydd felt it was probably asking too much of this staid officer. And, of course, he himself had made a voyage to Botany Bay as the reluctant master of a convict-ship barque in the days of the last peace.

There was no point in delay. Divisions for boarding were quickly apportioned and equipment made ready—cutlasses, boarding pistols, along with a fresh-sharpened tomahawk for every fourth man to use in slashing through boarding nettings and the like.

Faces darkened by galley soot, the Teazers awaited Kydd's order. He peered into the blackness once more: nothing to see, no sound. They could wait for the last moment before moonrise just before midnight, but little would be gained by sitting about.

“Get aboard!” he whispered. Men tumbled into the boats silently, nesting their weapons along the centre-line and taking up their oars.

The pinnace left the comfort of the ship's side, lay off in the inky blackness and waited for the barge and cutter to take position. “On me,” Kydd called, in a low voice and the small flotilla set off for a point somewhere to the south of the twinkling lights of the fort where the barque must lie.

They pulled in silence, rags in the thole pins to muffle the clunk of oars and nothing but the swash of their passage to disturb the night. He'd spell the men before they—

Away to the right but frighteningly close, a scream in French—a boat out rowing guard! A musket banged into the night and another. Then a deeper-voiced command had the French boat's crew pulling for their lives—directly away.

Keyed up for a desperate clash at arms, Kydd couldn't understand why they were running. Then he saw. Starting as a wisp of flame, which mounted quickly then cascaded down in a flaming mass, bundles of straw had been lit and thrown over the walls of the fort. More fell and their flaring leaped up until the dark sea was illuminated by a pitiless red glare with themselves utterly revealed at its centre.

“Turn about!” Kydd bellowed, to the boats behind him. “Go back!”

Disbelieving, they hesitated. Then the guns of the fort opened up and the reason for the guard-boat's departure was apparent; it had hastily cleared the field of fire for the artillery and now the cannon thundered vengefully into the night at
Teazer
's fleeing boats.

Kydd flopped wearily into his cabin chair, his face still smeared with soot. “Be damned t' it!” he muttered. “To be beaten after such a handsome chase. At the least we got away with our skins.”

Renzi was in the other chair, looking grave. “It seems the Revolutionary Army does not know much about night firing over sea, Tom. You were fortunate.”

“Aye—but the Frenchy captain was a canny one. No codshead he—I should have smoked it.” He frowned, and added sorrowfully, “I should so have liked to set the English crew free, Nicholas. It's a hard enough life they face now.”

Renzi nodded, staring down. Then he lifted his gaze to Kydd. “There's conceivably still a prospect of a successful outcome, should we be so bold.”

“A direct assault on 'em by daylight? I think not. If I'm seen to hazard men's lives on a merchantman it's to be understood as I'm prize-takin' to the neglect of my orders.”

“Quite. But I'm not referring to courage before cannon and blade, rather the devious application of cunning and deceit to attain the same object.” At Kydd's puzzled look, he continued, “A stratagem as may secure your ship without need for overweening force, that asks the enemy to allay his fears and put down his arms . . .”

“Nicholas, ye're being hard to fathom. Are you saying we should creep up as they're not looking, then—”

“Not at all. Heaven forbid we should think to skulk about like your common spy,” Renzi said, with a shudder. “What crosses my mind is that we could perhaps turn our recent experience to account and . . .”

As dawn's early light stole over the little bay
Teazer
crept around Cap Lévi once more, her crew quietly at quarters and Kydd on her quarterdeck, tense and edgy. If Renzi's stratagem failed they would be sailing to disaster and it could only be his responsibility.

The bay opened up and the barque was still there. Now at two anchors it was heaved around ready for a rapid departure—and then
Teazer
had come on the scene. For now she lay watchful but at any moment . . .

All depended on the effectiveness of the ruse.
Teazer
eased slowly into full view; a trumpet call sounded distantly from Fort Lévi but there was no hint of alarm.

Boldly,
Teazer
continued on course, set to so on her way southward past the barque, yet still there was no clamour of the call to arms—could that be because she was being lured onwards? They rounded the last of the point, which now took them within range of the fort's cannon. And nothing.

Where was the cutter? It should be . . . but then, coming up fast,
Linnet
rounded the cape and, sighting
Teazer,
opened fire on her with six-pounders.
Teazer
answered shot for shot in desperation— encumbered with three invasion craft towing astern, she was in no position for rapid defensive manoeuvres.

Was it working? No point in wondering now. They were committed. On Kydd's order a string of random flags jerked uncertainly up
Teazer
's signal halliards but the wind was blowing them unreadably away from the French.

It was time. “Y' know what to do, Poulden,” he told the helmsman. The wheel went over—and
Teazer
headed directly for Fort Lévi.

The response was immediate. A gun cracked out from the highest turret but it was only to draw attention to the welcoming three-flag hoist. “By heaven, an' we've carried it off,” Kydd breathed, and glanced up at the ruddy ochre sails that had done their work so well.

Kydd had counted on the French having word passed of a brig with red sails due from Barfleur towing valuable invasion craft and, obligingly, had provided one. That it was being harried by the Royal Navy was only to be expected, of course, and that it was seeking protection beneath the guns of the fort was equally understandable.

Confident that no French soldier could be expected to know the difference between two similar-sized brig-rigged ships, Kydd took
Teazer
in, gliding along the foreshore before the fortifications until, at precisely the right position, they hove to, preparing to anchor. Under threat of the shore guns the cutter abandoned its attack and hauled off—then seemed to have second thoughts and, curving round once more, placed herself in a daring show of bravado squarely alongside the barque that had been captured earlier by the French.

Kydd played out the agreed scenario: the position this foolish brig captain had chosen to heave to in just happened to mask the fort's field of fire. Horrified by the cutter's audacious attack, he failed to notice the frantic signals from the fort and sent his men tumbling wildly into the boats and crossing to the barque's rescue. Meanwhile the cutter's men swarmed aboard in attack from the seaward side.

The brig's men scrambled over the other bulwarks and soon were fighting for their lives with the cutter's fierce crew—but any cool observer might have been puzzled at the surprising increase in the number of men racing up from below . . .

To all ashore it must quickly have become clear that the brig's gallant rescue attempt had been in vain; by some means sail was got on the barque and, cables slipped, it headed for the open sea.

But the brave souls in the brig were not going to let it get away— the invasion barges were hacked free and the ship turned seaward to chase after them. Under full sail the ships raced away until at last they had disappeared over the horizon.

“Well, upon my soul, sir!” Admiral Saumarez sat back in amazement. “It does you the utmost credit. When balked of your capture you turned to guile and artifice to accomplish what main force could not. To be quite frank I'd not have thought it, er, in your nature, Mr. Kydd.”

Fighting down the urge to give Renzi his due—he had been insistent that his role was not to be mentioned—Kydd responded, “'Twas easily enough done, sir. The moon rose just after midnight, an' by it we sighted the wreck an' stripped it of fore- 'n' main-topsails. The cut o' the canvas wasn't pretty but it sufficed an'
Linnet
we found floggin' gamely along. She seemed eager enough for the adventure. The rest, well . . .”

“You're too reticent, sir. Did you have a stiff opposition on boarding the Frenchy?”

“That's the pity of it, sir. They yielded t'
Linnet
as we came over th' bulwarks, so we needs must fight among ourselves.” He chuckled as he recalled goading the Linnets to have at the Teazers in order to keep up the pretence, and the bewilderment this had caused among the French.

“When we released the crew of the merchant ship from below they loosed and set sail tolerably quick.”

“No one can doubt that at this moment they are drinking your health in a bumper, Mr. Kydd,” Saumarez said drily. “A pity the French got back their invasion craft, I suppose.”

“For that, sir, ye can rest easy. The men took along the bungs for keepsakes, leaving 'em t' sink.”

This left Saumarez speechless. Then he laughed and clapped Kydd on the shoulder. “You've had a grand cruise, that's not to be denied.”

“Thank 'ee, sir.”

The admiral's expression turned thoughtful. “And it leaves me in something of a dilemma.”

“Sir?”

Saumarez crossed to the window and gazed down on the harbour scene. “This is a quiet station, as you know. Due mainly to the enterprise of officers of initiative such as yourself the enemy are kept cowering in their harbours and I should be grateful that one of your quality is under my command.” He turned back and regarded Kydd gravely. “Yet I cannot help but reflect that two elements converge that are in themselves unanswerable. The first, that the kingdom lies under a menace unparalleled in its history and in stern need of its most able warriors. The second, that your continued presence here will render it near impossible to achieve a distinguished action and hence preferment. In all conscience, I believe that your recent ill-usage deserves better.

“Mr. Kydd, with great reluctance I'm going to have you and your ship released to the very forefront of the struggle. The Downs Squadron.”

C
HAPTER 3

H
OLDING BACK HIS EXCITEMENT
,
Kydd peered from the window of the coach as it crossed the bridge and ground up High Street past well-remembered sights from his youth. Renzi had been anxious to visit London so this time Kydd had journeyed to Guildford on his own.

They approached the Angel posting house, the coachman cracking his whip to clear a path for the Portsmouth Flyer as it wheeled round and clattered into the courtyard. The snorts of the horses echoed in the confined space and their pungent aroma lay on the air as Kydd descended and went inside. He had taken rooms at the Angel as he didn't want to burden his mother.

There was a wondering unreality about it all: while
Teazer
was undergoing refit in Portsmouth before joining the Downs Squadron, he had snatched a week to go home for the first time since the beginning of this war of Napoleon. Now he was back in the place where he was born and had grown up. Soon he would be greeting his parents—and with such a tale to tell . . .

With a deep breath he stepped out into High Street. The noise and smell instantly transported him back to the days of his youth and his eyes sought out the sights: the big hanging clock on the hall opposite the Tunsgate market, the Elizabethan alms-house—and before it the little wig-shop where he had once worked. It was now a print-seller, the shop front filled with luridly coloured patriotic sheets.

That a war was on did not seem apparent. The business of the town was cheerily going forward with hardly a reminder of the titanic struggle gathering strength out at sea.

Things were the same—but different.

As Kydd strode up the street not a soul noticed him but he had now been away for some time. Towards the top he took the little path past the sombre Holy Trinity churchyard to School Lane.

Several years ago, with his father's eyesight failing and the wig trade in decline, Kydd's family had summoned him home in despair. He and Renzi had restored the family fortunes by establishing a small school run along naval lines. The enterprise had thrived, with Jabez Perrot its fierce and strict boatswain keeping order and Mr. Partington its keen young headmaster.

Kydd wondered if his sister Cecilia would be at home. Since securing a position as a companion to Lady Stanhope she had travelled the world. Kydd knew Cecilia would love to hear his tales as a rakish corsair, even if the reality was a little different. His voyages as a privateer captain had been successful, though, and he hugged to himself the anticipation of revealing his surprise to the family.

The trim school-house came into view; above it a blue ensign floating—Kydd smiled at the thought of the boatswain's face when he told him those were the colours he would fly in Admiral Keith's Downs Squadron. The school was neat and clean, and sounds of dutiful chanting issued from the classroom with the aroma of chalk dust and ink. Kydd crossed the little quadrangle to the residence.

“Thomas! It's you!” his mother squealed in delight at the door. “Do come in, son. Ye'll catch a death if y' just stands there!”

“Who is it, Fanny?” The querulous enquiry had come from his father, frail with years and now completely blind.

“It's Thomas. An' how fine he looks in his new cream pantaloons an' brown leather boots.”

“Is Cec here?” Kydd asked.

“No, dear. She's in America somewheres wi' th' marquess an' lady,” Mrs. Kydd said proudly. “Have ye brought that nice Mr. Renzi wi' ye?”

Letting the warmth of the homecoming wash about him, Kydd settled in the best armchair next to the fire while the wide-eyed maid proffered a hot caudle against the cold and chairs were brought up for everyone to hear his tale.

“So ye was a privateer, son. That's nice. Was it scareful a-tall, you wi' all those pirates about on th' boat?”

He was sparing in his account of battles and omitted any reference to the tragic loss of his fiancée, Rosalynd, but he made much of the thrill of the chase and exciting tempests until he saw that the old couple were visibly tiring. “How is the school, Ma?” he asked politely.

Jabez Perrott, the one-legged sailor who had been working in a Guildford bookshop until offered the position of school disciplinarian, was summoned to report, which he did most willingly and with the utmost dignity. He was a grave, upright figure who had taken to wife a respectable widow and become a man of repute at chapel.

Dinner was announced: Kydd took the place of honour at the other end of the table from his father and nodded to Mr. Partington, who respectfully asked about his sea career. He was lodging at the house but it seemed he had an understanding with a certain young lady and his hopes for connubial bliss were well advanced.

The unreality crept back. Each had found their place in life and, in a quiet way, had prospered. He, on the other hand, had experienced so much that to tell of it could only invite incomprehension of a world they could not be expected to understand. He was possessed of means beyond any of their imaginings and of memories that could never really be shared; there was now an unbridgeable distance between himself and his folk.

It wasn't meant to be like this, his homecoming. He glanced about the room, saw the darted admiring glances, heard the shy chatter, the awkwardly addressed conversation. Perhaps it was because he had been away for so long that they were unsure of him—but in his heart he knew this was not so.

After the cloth was drawn and he was left with his parents he would bring out his surprise. With rising elation he waited until he had their full attention. “Ma, Pa, I've somethin' to tell ye!”

“Aye, son?” his mother said quickly, clasping her hands over her knees in excitement. “Is she pretty a-tall?”

A shadow passed over his face. “No, Ma, it's not that. It's—it's that I've done main well in the article o' prize-takin' and it's to tell y' both I'm now going to see ye into a grand mansion—a prodigious-sized one as ye both deserve.”

Mrs. Kydd looked at him with some perplexity. “Thomas, dear, we're comfortable here, y' knows.”

Kydd looked at her fondly. “Aye, that's as may be, but here's the chance to live like the quality in a great house wi' rooms an' grounds an' things . . .”

“A big house'd be a worry, dear.”

“No, Ma! There's servants as'll take charge of it for ye. An' then, o' course—”

“Not now, Thomas, love.”

“Ma! Tomorrow I can talk to the—”

“Listen, dear. We're happy here. It's all we need an' don't f' get, y'r father's eyes might ha' failed him but he knows his way about here. A great big place, why, we'd
all
get lost. Not only that, but what would I put in all them rooms?”

Taken aback, Kydd could only say, “Ye'll soon be used to it, Ma. Then ye'll—”

“No, son,” his father said firmly. “Pay heed t' what your mother just said. We stays.”

“Yes, Pa.”

“But thank 'ee most kindly for thinkin' of us in that way, son.” “Yes, Pa.”

His mother brightly changed the subject. “I've jus' remembered. Mrs. Bawkins always has us t' tea on Thursdays. Would ye like t' come an' say hello?”

It was the best room in the Angel but Kydd did not sleep well. He took his breakfast early and, as he watched High Street come alive through the quaint windows of the dining room, tried to shake off a lowering dissatisfaction.

He started to walk to his parents' home, then realised it would be too early for them and turned back down the hill. The previous evening had not been what he had looked forward to and his parents' refusal of his offer had given him pause to think.

Guildford was just the same—or was it? The tradesmen were out in the old ways, their cries echoing in the streets as shops were opened and the town woke to another day. But it seemed subtly different.

He reached the bottom of the street and the bridge over the river Wey where the road led to the south and Portsmouth. He wanted time to reflect so he wandered down to the towpath, its curving placidity stretching away under the willow trees.

He had just turned thirty. Was it now time to take stock of his life? By any measure he was a success. He had left Guildford a perruquier and returned a well-to-do sea captain, with experiences of the wider world that any man would . . . But he had returned to Guildford expecting it to be as it always had been . . . He now saw that
it
had not changed,
he
had. Those very experiences had given him perspectives on the world that were very different. They had not only broadened his horizons but made it impossible to go back.

He stopped still. Guildford was of the past, not the future. It was no longer his home . . . but what, then,
did
he call home? Many men and most women of his age had settled in their ways and begun to raise a family. Was it now time for him to cease adventuring and put down roots somewhere? Guildford? The country? He had a not inconsiderable fortune and must be a most eligible bachelor. A stab of pain came at the thought of the death of his fiancée Rosalynd—but he had a duty now to his future.

The thoughts flowed on. Put down roots? Where? And as what? A gentleman of leisure whose glory days were past? No! Quite apart from the peril under which his country lay at the hands of the French, he knew that he was a man of the sea and belonged there. So was that what he must call home? He would not be at sea for ever and it was the expected and natural thing for any officer to acquire a property for the time when he swallowed the anchor and returned to the bosom of his family.

Since he had left Guildford, sea adventures had followed each other in exciting succession and his attention had been largely on the present. Perhaps now was the right time to consider where he was going with his life—and who he was.

There was no point in denying that he was a natural-born sailor who had the gift of sea-sense and tactics, and from long ago he had not been troubled by fear in battle: his end was just as near by land as sea, and duty was a clear path in war. No, there was no doubt that the probability was, given a reasonable run of luck, that he was destined for yet greater honours. Even to the dignity of post-captain? It was not impossible now, for with Napoleon Bonaparte declaring himself Emperor of the French there was no prospect in the near future of peace and unemployment.

His heart beat faster. To be made post—the captain of a frigate and later even ship-of-the-line, and firmly set on the path that led to . . . admiral!

It was not impossible, but there were many commanders and few post-captains. It would take much luck and, of course, interest at the highest level, which he did not have: he did not mix in the right circles. He must re-enter the society he had turned his back on when he had chosen Rosalynd, a country lass, over an admiral's daughter. That much was clear. A chill of apprehension stole over him at the thought of facing patrician gazes again, the practised swift appraisal and rapid dismissal.

But it had to be acknowledged that he was now a man of substance. He had no need to be intimidated by those grander than he. His situation was quite as fortunate as theirs, probably more so than that of some, and he could validly expect to step forward and claim his place among them.

The thought swelled. He could afford the trappings, need not fear lacking the resources to keep up with them in whatever pursuit the occasion demanded. He would be treated with politeness and deference, would be allowed and
accepted
into their company. He would make friends. He would be noticed.

It was a heady vision but to become a figure in society it was not enough to dress modishly. To be accepted he must comport himself as they did, assume the graces and accomplishments of gentility that Renzi had been so at pains to instil in him when he had first become an officer. He had no desire to be thought quaint, which meant he should quickly acquire the requisite elements of polish such as an acquaintance with the classics, musical accomplishments and, remembering Cecilia's exasperated comments, gentlemanly speech.

Was that so hard? If he was to achieve a credible finish then, with his other advantages, he could pass for one of them. Of course, there was the difficulty of his origins, his family, but was this not the way the great families of the day must have started? Northern iron-masters, Liverpool shipping lords, rising merchants of the City of London were all now laying down estates and being honoured in a modern world that was making way for men who were reaching the heights by their own efforts.

Damn it! He would be one of them and take his place among them by right. And if it took the hoisting in of a few ancient tomes and working on his conversation, so be it. He would meet his future squarely and seize any opportunity with both hands.

Suddenly impatient, he began to walk back quickly, letting his thoughts race. Above all, he had the means to see it through: if he was right about his prospects, then the sooner he was equipping himself for his destiny the better. It was going to happen. There would be a new Thomas Kydd.

Feeling surged. But did that mean he was turning his back on Guildford, the place of his birth, that until now he had called home? No. He would put this world gently but firmly to one side. It was just that it was no longer the centre of his universe.