"Volunteers?" asked Kydd, as they clattered down the stairs.
"Do you have any objection?" Boyd said cuttingly. "The Loyal London Volunteers. These men may well be hazarding their lives in the very near future. To attend a parade seems little enough in return."
"A parade? In that case, sir, o' course I'll be present," Kydd hastened to say.
Mollified, Boyd went on, "It's a duty to be performed by those in the Admiralty who can from time to time be spared, as you must count yourself."
They left the rear of the Admiralty and emerged onto the great expanse of the parade-ground. Opposite, two long lines of redcoats stood motionless. Kydd's mind, though, was on what had been passed on in the office. Of rumours he had had his fill, but he had been shaken to hear the final dissolution of his country discussed in such clinical terms.
A stand was erected on one side, flags of all kinds proudly aloft and flanked by a guard in different regalia. "Be so good as to make a countenance, sir," Boyd hissed icily. "There are those who look to us for assurance in these times." His own demeanour was pleasant and confident and he stepped out forcefully, Kydd quickly falling in beside him assuming a like pose. They mounted the stage, nodding to the other officers in uniforms of every possible description, and sat nonchalantly. A corpulent and red-faced general puffed on to the central dais, and to the left, with a spirited whirl of drumsticks and crash of cymbals, a band stepped out.
Kydd was in no mood to enjoy the spectacle. As each rigid line passed he mechanically rose and removed his cocked hat with the rest but his mind was elsewhere: to seas far over the horizon where, without a shadow of doubt, the destiny of England was to be decided—not here with these well-meaning amateur soldiers.
At last it was over and they could return. Inside their little room again, Boyd's expression tightened as he pulled out a long map covered with ciphers in red and tiny scrawled notes. He studied it for a moment. "This is our situation as of this morning. The disposition of our major fleets need not concern you—the Brest blockade with Cornwallis is holding, Nelson is in the Mediterranean and the North Sea Fleet is watching over the Dutch.
"What is of more intimate concern is the disposition of Bonaparte's forces." He glanced at Kydd, as if weighing what he should say. "I will not hide it from you, since it is you who must oppose them. The number of line-of-battle ships he has to command is many and will be still greater if Spain moves against us, as it must surely do, but these are matters of high strategy and change from day to day. You will want to know more of what faces your own part of the field.
In fine, it is the forefront of the battle. The invasion Grande Armée is massing with three corps—Marshals Davout, Soult and Ney, if you're interested—with more than a hundred thousand picked troops ready to embark for the first assault, the Emperor Bonaparte himself to take command. For this, as you will know, he has been fast assembling the largest invasion flotilla in history with specialist craft only some of which we have knowledge of."
Kydd stared at the map. The dense-packed notations on the French side seemed endless, stretching away down the coastline. Across the Channel—so very close—a single line of dots and squares was brought right up against the line of the sea.
"You will be informed about the details of these vessels later. Take it from me that they are in their thousands and under the direct command of Admiral Bruix, a most experienced and canny officer. They have been in the building at every boatyard and river port on the coast and are being assembled at the main ports. To the north of Cap Gris Nez we have Calais, Dunkirk, Gravelines and so on to Ostend and Flushing, to the south Wimereux, Ambleteuse, Boulogne and étaples, of which Boulogne has by far the largest concentration.
"Now, Bonaparte is no sailor. He believes the Channel is a ditch to be crossed as in any other military operation, but he will find it very different. However, he is the devil incarnate in the arts of war and is vigorously pursuing great works to assist his cause. For instance, at Boulogne he is creating an embarkation quay a mile long and an artificial basin capable of floating a hundred vessels. He is not to be underestimated—some say he is mad, but it were folly to take him so. With his immense resources, and a surprise by your infernal devices or a feint at Ireland, he could be across in the space of a tide or two only. No, sir, make no error, we're under the greatest peril that ever was . . ."
"Then what is our force, sir?" Kydd said evenly.
"Stand fast the main battle fleets, we have three lines of defence against the immediate prospect of invasion," Boyd replied. "The first is of sloops and gun-vessels, and it is the inshore squadron of Admiral Keith's Downs command against the French coast," he added drily. When Kydd held silent he continued, "The second is of heavier metal and consists of frigates and older sail-of-the-line and it is in with the English coast to contest any landing in the southeast, as well within the Downs command. The third may be found in every creek and estuary from Hartland Point in north Cornwall to Great Yarmouth on our east coast. By this I am referring to the Sea Fencibles, who at this moment are some twenty-five thousand strong and manning some eight hundred vessels of, er, all kinds."
"Then . . ."
"Quite. The first line of defence must be our strongest. There is no doubt but that you must brace yourself for the hardest-fought struggle this age. I do wish you well in this, Commander."
"Sir."
"We'll go on to the details now. Signals, chart emendations, the invasion craft and their characteristics as known, rendezvous positions—there's much to take in. First we shall look into the new signal book . . ."
Kydd was troubled and apprehensive. The mass of operational particulars had done nothing to lessen the effect of Boyd's first words, that this was a situation of such dire consequence as had never been faced by his country before. Now, knowing the details, he was only too aware of the knife edge of chance factors that could determine the future of the world. As head of the entire military strength of the kingdom, the Duke of York had nevertheless solemnly pronounced that, "The fate of the nation is in the hands of the Navy." And he must be right: the war was as much the Royal Navy's to lose as Napoleon's to win. A faint-hearted admiral, a deceitful piece of intelligence to send a fleet in the wrong direction, any or all could ensure Bonaparte got the unfettered hours he needed.
Returning to the White Hart, Kydd found his chair and sat quietly, eyes closed, letting the tensions drain. In two days he would return to the Downs and take Teazer to war. Would she come through? Would he? The only thing that was certain was that the immediate future would test both himself and his ship to the limit. Half a million Frenchmen under arms opposed by just a few thousand storm-tossed seamen in worn ships . . .
"Do I intrude, brother?" Renzi's gentle voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Oh, er, not so much, m' friend," Kydd said, opening his eyes. "Renzi, there's a matter I need to talk to you about, if y' will." It was coming out too stiffly but he had to say it. "That is, it touches on the future, you see."
"Why, certainly," Renzi said, sitting.
"I've—it's been an . . . interesting week. And now I'm much clearer what is to be facing us."
"And what is that, pray?"
"If Bonaparte crosses, it's nothing less'n a fight to the finish—the last extremity, if you catch m' meaning."
"If he crosses."
"The invasion fleet is ready—near a hundred thousand men in the first assault. Only the Navy to keep 'em off. The first line o' defence is ourselves, m' friend, up against the French coast. If they break through us and launch their monstrous flotilla there's precious little to give 'em pause before they're flooding ashore."
"If I may be so bold, dear fellow, might I observe that this agitation of spirit is quite unlike the Tom Kydd of yore?" Renzi said lightly, but his eyes were sombre.