‘Baltic? Surely they don’t think to-’
‘Don’t tease the brain so, Kydd. It’ll out in the end, and then I promise it will confound everyone. Be so good as to victual and store for a month or two, and we sail to join the main fleet in a few days.’
‘Main fleet! Then this-’
‘All will be made clear when we rendezvous at Gothenburg. I beg you will leave me to my work – I’m sore over-pressed you must believe.’
That afternoon Dillon arrived on board. He was met by a buzz of excitement and speculation; every member of Tyger’s crew had an opinion on what the future held.
Whatever was in the offing was of great moment: ships were joining by the hour, both great and small, summoned for an event that promised to be noticed by the world.
Kydd welcomed him warmly. ‘Good to see you, Edward.’ He motioned him to a seat. ‘You had a fair liberty, I trust?’
‘Well enough, Sir Thomas,’ he said, taking the other comfortable chair in Kydd’s cabin. ‘I had a mind to look up a friend, take refuge in his books. Can’t understand the fellow, not to be abroad and hoisting in life at the first hand.’
Kydd grinned. ‘Some will have it that way, I’ve no idea why.’
‘Sir, there’s quantities of rumours afloat as to our destiny. I don’t suppose …’
‘We’re at three days’ notice for sea, and now you know as much as I, your captain.’
Chapter 35
Captain 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.’
Chapter 36
The 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.