"There are other—"
"You must believe I've not trifled away my time, m' dear Renzi. There's quantities of professional gentlemen in Portsmouth who do rue our sailing, and I have a stand o' books in my cabin as will keep me amused for voyages to come."
"I honour you for it," Renzi said.
"You'll oblige me by maintaining a quality o' discourse while about my person."
"I shall endeavour to do so," came the sincere response.
"Then m' course is set. Tysoe, do attend to Mr. Renzi's glass, if you please."
The Downs! A fulcrum for the torrent of shipping that came and went around the corner of the North Foreland into the Thames and the mighty maw of London, where hundreds of ships of all flags might be lying anchored, waiting for a favourable wind to take them outward bound down-Channel, or inbound to the north, or across to the Baltic. The ten-mile stretch of the Downs was bordered five miles offshore by the notorious Goodwin Sands, since medieval times a fearful hazard, but this acted both as a shelter and a barrier. It was the point at which the Channel was at its narrowest, a bare eighteen miles from Dover to the French encampments at Cap Gris Nez. The last Kydd had seen of it had been as the master of a convict ship bound for New South Wales. After the desolate shingle spit of Dungeness, it was the wide sweep of bay that was the foreshore of the smugglers' haunt of Romney Marsh, then the rising crags of Folkestone turning into the soaring white splendour of Shakespeare's cliff, Dover, and on to the rounding of South Foreland.
In the bright early-morning light the massive chalk ramparts seemed to Kydd to stand four-square and proudly defiant against England's foes, marching away north in impregnable array. Teazer closed within half a mile of them to round the foreland and make the southern reaches of the Downs. The vista of countless ships at anchor was opening up before them now: coasters, East Indiamen, colonial traders from far distant parts of the globe, an impressive multitude stretching for ten miles of open water. But Kydd had eyes only for the naval anchorage, that of the legendary Downs Squadron standing so valiantly at the forefront of England's defence.
There. Across the anchorage. He would never forget her, ever: the seventy-four riding to two anchors, her lines old-fashioned but graceful. It was Monarch, the flagship. After the bloody battle of Camperdown not so many years before, Kydd had, in her, become one of the very few who had taken the incredible journey from before the mast as a common seaman to the quarterdeck as a king's officer.
He let Hallum take Teazer inshore to moor while he took his fill of the sight. It seemed odd but only Monarch and two other minor ships-of-the-line were present, three frigates further distant and a number of sloops. Where was the battle squadron, if not with their commander-in-chief?
They would know soon enough. Tysoe had out his dress uniform and, buckling on his handsome sword, Kydd returned on deck to board his gig. Poulden, his coxswain, and the entire boat's crew were smartly turned out in matching blue jackets—he was determined to be noticed in the new command.
"Teazer!" blared Poulden, importantly, in answer to the hail as they drew near to the flagship. A side-party could be seen assembling and Kydd's heart swelled. He mounted the side of the old ship slowly, letting the moment touch his soul.
It was the great cabin he remembered; but Admiral Lord Keith, his commander-in-chief, was before him and this was no time for lingering sentiment.
"Do sit down, Mr. Kydd," the august being said absently, taking papers from his flag-lieutenant and flicking his eyes down them. The lieutenant collected others, and, with a glance at Kydd, left the cabin.
"I do bid ye welcome to my command, sir." The Scots brogue seemed to be one with his austere presence.
"Thank you, sir."
He held up one particular paper and intoned mildly, "You've had some adventuring since last we met." His cold eyes rose to meet Kydd's.
"I've—that is to say, it's been interesting enough for me, sir." The last time they had met was in the previous war when Keith had been forced to give Kydd orders to lay up Teazer and resign his command in the retrenchment following the announcement of peace—but he had also bestowed that precious captaincy in the first place.
"I'll have ye know, sir, that the Downs is a far different duty from what ye're used to." He paused significantly. "No more than six leagues distant, Napoleon Bonaparte and his hordes lie in an encampment ready to lunge at us across the water. Our duty is plain, sir."
"It must be!" Kydd responded strongly.
"Is it?" Keith said pugnaciously, leaning forward. "I will say this to you, Mr. Kydd. If any captain returns from sea with a prize at his tail without he has an explanation, I promise I will break him."
"Sir."
"In these perilous times the first duty of a sea officer is the ruin and destruction of the enemy forces, not the pursuit of private gain." Keith leaned back slowly. "That said, there's everything in your record to encourage me to believe your service here will be a credit to the Royal Navy. When you return you may depend on an active employment."
"When I return?"
"This is the most complex and fast-moving station in the realm. I will not have my commanders in any doubt about the strategics and dispositions of the situation in which they sail. You will this day take coach for London—the Admiralty—and within the span of a week acquaint yourself most thoroughly with the details of what faces us. Is this clear?"
"Er, yes, sir. My ship?"
"Your ship will relieve another here pro tem. Are ye in doubt of your premier, sir?"
"Mr. Hallum? No, sir," Kydd said hastily. "A most reliable officer. "
"Your orders will be ready for your return. Good day to ye, Mr. Kydd."
The capital was crowded, noisy and smelled as pungently of sea-coal smoke and local stenches as it always did, but Kydd was not of a mind to care. The hackney carriage creaked and swayed as it bore him towards the Admiralty Office in Whitehall, the jarvey swearing sulphurously at any who dared cross him while Kydd gazed from the grimy window.
He had left Renzi with Tysoe at the inn: he smiled to himself at the pathetic excuses Renzi had contrived at short notice to accompany him but was secretly pleased. It would not be all a duty visit and he had never before been with his friend in London.
They lurched from Cockspur Street into the broad reaches of Whitehall and came to a stop by the colonnaded screen of the Admiralty. Kydd paid off the jarvey and hastily pushed through the admiring throng outside and into the courtyard. He raised an arm in acknowledgement of the patriotic cries that rang out at the sight of his uniform and hurried inside.
Through the high portico the doorman showed him to the captains' room—but this time it was not as a penniless commander begging for a ship in the days of the last peace but as the captain of a front-line man-o'-war about to be informed of the grave strategic questions that faced his country. There were other commanders in the room; they looked at him enviously as the first lord's second secretary came down to spirit him away.
Earl St. Vincent was in the Board Room, seated at the long table beneath the legendary wind-gauge. A vast mass of papers was spread forth and he was flanked by several dour-looking men not in uniform. They did not rise or attempt to leave.
The first lord, however, got to his feet and returned Kydd's civil bow. "So your flag-officer wants ye to hoist aboard an understanding of our situation," he said bleakly.
"Aye—er, yes, sir."
"Right and proper, too," St. Vincent growled, sitting again heavily. He had aged since Kydd had seen him before, his thick-set figure bowed and stiff. This was the man who had taken it upon himself to root out the gross inefficiency and corruption of the royal dockyards, standing alone against the powerful timber cartels. In a bluff and uncompromising sea-dog fashion he had faced down the political storm that resulted. "The Downs command—you'll be seeing as much action as ye'd wish, sir," he said with a wintry smile. "As it's rightly said, 'The frontier of Britain is the coastline of the enemy' Do your duty, sir, and England need have no concern for its fate."