"A handsome blade indeed. And I vow quite wasted, floating about on all that sea. Tell me, Mr. Kydd, are you in London for the season or . . . ?"
"I'm desolated to say, ma'am, but Mr. Bonaparte has quite spoiled my plans. I'll be back aboard to sail very soon."
"A tiresome and disagreeable fellow, your Bonaparte. I say, Canning," she called to a distinguished gentleman nearby, "what are we to do with this Napoleon Bonaparte? He's quite ruined Mr. Kydd's season."
"Why, Lady Musgrave, surely the young gentleman is best placed of us all to chastise the fellow." The man gave an exquisite bow and returned to his conversation.
"Ah—quite. A political can always be relied upon to conjure some words to sport with." She held up her lorgnette. "Now, Boyd, I've decided Mr. Kydd will escort me tonight. Be off with you!" She took Kydd's arm and they moved away together.
The orchestra was playing a spirited "Britons Strike Home," and followed with some delicate Purcell. Kydd was swept up in the charged atmosphere, part excitement and part defiance at the fearful danger they were all facing.
Dusk fell, more lights were brought and the hubbub increased. Kydd met statesmen and nobility, ladies of quality and young bucks of the fancy in a dizzying whirl. And with more champagne it was becoming difficult to tell which was the greater reality—this fantastic gathering of jewelled splendour under the torchlight or the private knowledge that he was a sea captain about to go forth to defend his country.
At one point, nibbling at a sweetmeat and listening to a somewhat racy account of a country weekend, he happened to look at the black river sliding silently past and over to the opposite bank. As his vision adapted to the darkness, he saw that hundreds of people were silently standing there, watching. It was unnerving. Were these the common folk come to see the quality on show in their finery? Was he really one of them? With a guilty surge he realised that tonight he must be numbered among the well-born. Indisputably he had now won a place at the highest levels.
He gulped at the heady realisation, but before he could dwell on it there was a tap of the lorgnette on his arm. "You're not paying me attention, Mr. Kydd." But the frown turned to a smile and she confided, "A charming picture, is it not? I do so adore these outside entertainments."
Kydd bowed. "It is an evening I will not soon forget, m' lady," he said, with perfect sincerity.
"The best is yet to come—and I do believe that now is the time."
Mystified, Kydd tried to look knowing but she laughed. "Mr. Handel's music for the Royal Fireworks, silly!" The orchestra began the noble, dignified piece, and Kydd felt peculiarly elevated.
There was general movement to the water's edge. At the bend of the river he saw a procession of boats coming, some with lights strung around the canopy, each with oarsmen in striking uniform keeping perfect stroke. These men need have no fear of the pressgang for they were in the livery of the Worshipful Company of Watermen.
A sudden whoosh startled everyone as a rocket soared up from a nearby raft concealed in the blackness of the river. It was the signal for others and, as the music swelled, the sky was lit with vibrant detonations while the reek of powder-smoke drifted down in the still night air.
Caught up with the spectacle Kydd's attention was skywards—but a muttered warning from the marchioness brought his eyes down. To his astonishment all conversation suddenly ceased. From his left the lords and ladies faced the river and were taken one by one in deep obeisance, held motionless.
"The King, you fool!" his companion hissed from the depths of her curtsy. Kydd dropped hastily to one knee, too flustered to recall the details of the elaborate court bow. Head still bowed, he tried to glimpse the royal barge in progress. It approached slowly and majestically, and then, by the sharp flash of firework clusters, Kydd caught sight of the person of his sovereign and liege lord, His Britannic Majesty, King George III of Great Britain and Ireland.
CHAPTER 4
". . . AND TWO IN IRONS on account of disagreements with the soldiery ashore." The first lieutenant finished his report, visibly relieved that Kydd had returned. The crew had been restless, keyed up to play a leading part in a desperate resistance to Napoleon's legions. Instead, they had been idle in Teazer, anchored all week in the Downs.
"Very well, Mr. Hallum."
"Er, and we're to hang out a signal immediately you're back on board."
"Make it so, if y' please."
Kydd lost no time in going below to get out of his dusty travelling clothes and into his comfortable sea rig. Monarch did not bear her commander-in-chief's flag indicating Keith was aboard his flagship so he had no need to report. It would give him time to—
"Mr. Hallum's compliments, sir, an' boat putting off from Actaeon," an eager midshipman blurted at the door.
Kydd knew he would not have been disturbed unless the boat was heading for Teazer and bore someone of significance.
He lost no time in appearing on deck and watched while the gig threaded expertly towards them through the anchored vessels, her ensign at the transom indicating a king's officer aboard.
"Boat ahoy!" Poulden's challenge was answered immediately from the gig. "Actaeon!"
"Mr. Purchet!" roared Kydd, for this meant it was the captain of the thirty-eight-gun frigate and, as such, he must be piped aboard by the boatswain.
"Charles Savery, sir," the man introduced himself, after punctiliously saluting Teazer's quarterdeck. "If we could repair to your cabin . . . ?"
There, he looked about appreciatively at the quality of the appointments. "Then you've done well in the article of prize-money?" he said equably.
"I've been fortunate enough, sir," Kydd replied cautiously, aware that his appearance was not best suited to greeting a senior post-captain.
Savery gave a dry smile. "I'm here on behalf of Admiral Keith to enquire your readiness, he being detained on another matter." The man was large in Teazer's neat little cabin but his round, jovial features were reassuring.
"Sir."
"He particularly wishes to assure himself that you are in no doubt concerning the operational details of the Downs command. I take it that you have been well informed at the Admiralty of the strategical objectives?"
"I have, sir—and I will confess, t' me it's been a caution to learn what it is that faces us."
"Yes, as it would to most, I'd agree. However, to details. You know the strength of Admiral Keith's command?"
"Sir. It was told to me as six o'-the-line, thirty-two frigates and some hundred or more sloops."
"Quite so. You should understand that the sail-of-the-line are old and unseaworthy, each moored permanently to defend estuaries and therefore unavailable to us. The frigates and sloops you will find anywhere from Selsey in the Channel all the way up the east coast to Scotland, and of those to stand directly against Bonaparte's invasion we are disposed in two divisions.
"One, to defend the Channel coast of England, the other before the French coast. Of the latter we are again of two forces: the first, those sloops and cutters in constant warfare against the enemy flotillas, the other in the form of two more powerful flying squadrons based here at a moment's notice to sail. Your orders, which I have, attach you to the one commanded by myself.
"Both squadrons have the same vital imperative: to harass the invasion craft by any means, clamping a hold on the harbours up and down the enemy coast to prevent their leaving and concentrating in overwhelming numbers at the main invasion ports. I have to remind you that there is a deeper duty, Mr. Kydd, which is to immediately apprise the commander-in-chief of any intelligence that bears on the deployment and motions of the invasion fleets."