Something was wrong but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
A couple of lieutenants stood together to one side, talking in low tones.
‘Boney’s master-stroke, I believe,’ said one, his face grave. ‘As not to say, a war-winner.’
‘It’s got Dacres in a whirl, right enough,’ the other agreed. ‘Helpless, can’t do a thing to stop it.’
Kydd went over to them. ‘I’ve been at sea – what’s this about Bonaparte striking back?’ he demanded. He couldn’t help recalling Renzi’s foreboding that there would be some form of malevolent avenging of Trafalgar – was it now to be revealed?
‘Ah, I do think the admiral should give you the news himself, sir.’
Before Kydd could press the matter, the first lieutenant returned. ‘He’ll see you now, Captain – if you’ll be quick,’ he added, with embarrassment.
Dacres was at his desk, his flag-lieutenant by his side and two clerks at work nearby. He looked up, distracted. ‘Kydd. Um, a fine sight, your prizes. Well done. Anything to report?’
‘Sir,’ Kydd began guardedly, ‘I saw fit to employ my first prize as a tender in the getting of more and-’
‘Yes, quite, but we have more pressing concerns at the present time. You’ve been at sea and won’t have heard. Napoleon Bonaparte has made his move, and I cannot deny that it’s a great blow to this nation. The man’s a devil and a genius.’
‘But, sir, what is it that-’
‘You wouldn’t credit it! Conceives of a way to reach out and destroy us here in the Caribbean where all the time we’ve been living in a fool’s paradise thinking he could not.’
‘Sir, if you’d-’
‘No time to explain it now. Here – take this. It’ll tell you everything. We’ll be having a council-of-war shortly to see if we can do anything at all to head off the worst, and until then I’ll bid you good-day, sir.’
Kydd tucked the single sheet he’d been passed into his waistcoat and left. Outside, the first lieutenant was apologetic. ‘It’s not a good time for him right at present. There is a meeting tonight at Spanish Town. Every planter and bigwig in these islands will be there baying for blood – anyone’s!’
Consumed by curiosity, it was all Kydd could do to wait until he was seated in his gig on the way back before he drew out the paper.
It was ill-printed on cheap stock and in French, manifestly produced in mass for wide circulation. ‘From the Imperial Camp at Berlin. Napoleon, Emperor of the French and King of Italy …’
It was a decree. He scanned it quickly. To begin with there were nine clauses: aggrieved reasons why his enemy was in breach of international law and usage:
‘… that England does not admit to the right of nations as universally acknowledged by all civilised people …’ Kydd snorted. The hypocrisy of Bonaparte, whose armies on the march routinely robbed and plundered rather than trouble with a supply train.
And ‘… this conduct in England is worthy of the first ages of barbarism, to benefit her to the detriment of other nations …’ This was only the usual diatribe fawningly reported by the Moniteur – or was it?
The second part was a series of eleven articles to constitute henceforth ‘the law of empire’ for France and her dominions in retaliation.
Riffled by the wind and with the motion of the boat it was difficult to take in all the details from the sheet – maritime law, blockade, prizes and neutral trade. What was it that had caused such consternation? This would need more careful attention than he could give here and he put it away, aware of curious eyes on him.
As soon as he was in his cabin he sent for Renzi.
‘Flag’s in an uproar, Nicholas.’ He slapped down the paper.
Renzi scanned it once, then reread it carefully. ‘A blockade of all of Great Britain? This is unprecedented in history, of course. Blockade is for the purposes of investing a port or ports for a military purpose, not for the strangling of a whole nation.’
Kydd got up abruptly. ‘I’m calling a meeting of all officers. This has to be known. I’d like you to stay.’
They appeared suspiciously promptly, and the paper was passed around.
‘Barbaric,’ Curzon said, with studied cynicism. ‘Here it says every subject of England found anywhere, whatever their rank or condition, is hereby made prisoner of war. So Boney is making war on women and children, then?’
‘Yes, but to the main points,’ Kydd said brusquely. ‘For the benefit of those without French, could I ask Mr Renzi to summarise?’
‘Well, to begin with, the British Isles are declared to be in a state of blockade.’
‘And?’
‘Consequently, all commerce with such in the wider sense is prohibited. This to include such things as correspondence – Bonaparte here is even going to the length of condemning any letter or packet addressed in the English language itself.’
‘Thank you, Nicholas. The main points?’ Kydd prompted.
‘All trade or merchandise exchange with England or its possessions is forbidden. This is defined as any property that is in any way to the interest of a subject of the Crown, anywhere in the world, and is subject to confiscation on the spot. Any vessel on the high seas that contains the property of an Englishman is an accomplice to our iniquity and is therefore declared good prize.’
Renzi gave a dry smile, adding, ‘And half the proceeds of such confiscation go to merchants who have suffered at the hands of our evil frigates and privateers.’
It didn’t get a response.
‘And, finally, it seems that a vessel of any flag touching first at an English or colonial port is to be treated as if it flew the British flag and is condemned.’
There was silence as the implications became clear. ‘This is nothing less than a complete lock-down of England,’ Curzon said in awe. ‘Nothing can move.’
‘The admiral is in a taking, I’ll confide,’ Kydd said. ‘There’s really nothing he can do. We’re stretched thin and he can’t possibly provide more escorts. I’d think Barbados is in the same way. Weaken the squadron by taking escorts and we lie open to being crushed by a raiding battle-fleet.’
‘In this station we’d be in a similar moil, I’d think,’ Curzon came in, ‘should we be asked to provide escorts. We’ve nowhere near enough, and if that’s what they have to do all the time, then the privateers will take their chance to return in strength, the vermin!’
There was little point in going further in a formal way so Kydd extended an invitation to supper that night where discussion over wine would allow feelings to be expressed.
He turned to Renzi. ‘Nicholas, there’s to be some kind of meeting in Spanish Town, the chief people of the island to muster together to contemplate developments. I dare to say the Navy will not be invited in particular. I’m wondering if you can perhaps lay alongside your brother and let me know which way the wind blows?’
‘It’s ruination! We’re to be pauperised!’ The anguished voice rang out clear above the bedlam in Merchant’s Hall.
‘Sit down, you ninny!’ Renzi’s brother shouted in exasperation. ‘We’ll work something out – but only if we keep our heads.
‘I do apologise, Nicholas. They’re rare exercised and can’t see that this is a time for cool thinking if ever there was.’
Fuming, the chairman threw down his gavel and folded his arms while he waited for order as other despairing shouts echoed about.
‘What about demurrage?’ a hoarse voice near them boomed. ‘Costing me guineas an hour, stap me.’
‘I’ll have y’ know I’m out for two hundred thousands if I can’t get away this season’s yield.’
It was becoming impossible.
The one point of agreement had been that the decree struck at the very heart of their enterprise – and at the moment they could see not a thing they could do about it. Angry and frightened, they were lashing out at anything.
A neatly dressed planter with a spade beard twisted round in his seat and said soberly, ‘You’ll be selling up by year’s end, Richard, mark my words.’
‘Damn Bonaparte’s hide!’ Laughton ground out. ‘Just past a difficult year and now we’re to lose everything. It’s insupportable.’