"This seems reasonable enough," Pitt replied. "But I'll wager there's somewhere a price in gold being asked."
"A considerable sum was mentioned but this is contingent upon his satisfying the committee in the particulars."
"Then I see we have a way forward. Ask the gentleman concerned to prepare his plans for the craft, which he will then present in due course. This will satisfy the immediate problem."
"Er, which is that, Prime Minister?"
"That while he is working for us, he is not for the French," Pitt said. "And we buy ourselves time to consider our position. I'm not altogether convinced that this is something we, a maritime nation of the first rank, should necessarily be involved with."
He went on, "We'll give him his chance, see what he comes up with. We'll have a strong committee—philosophers, scientificals, engineers of note and all of some eminence—to judge his work. Then we'll decide what to do. Agreed?"
At the polite murmuring he declared, "I shall ask the Treasury to open a disbursement account against my discretionary funding for now, this to include some form of emolument, say a monthly subsistence draw, and desire the Navy Board to afford him access to the dockyards and so forth. Oh, and he's to have a place of work that shall be secure—we can't discount that the French will seek to interfere with our new submarine navigator."
"And to keep him under eye," Melville added drily.
"Of course. Dover Castle springs to mind, being convenient should he wish to try his toys on Mr. Bonaparte's flotilla."
"There is one more consideration, Prime Minister," Harrowby said smoothly. "It seems that Mr. Francis—as he wishes to be known—is rather in the nature of an American with decided republican views and, er, somewhat novel, not to say whimsical, ideas on marine war."
"Just so, Foreign Secretary." Pitt reached wearily for the decanter of port. "I'll bear it in mind. As well, he will be needing a form of regular liaison with the Navy in an operational sense. Don't want him getting our admirals huffy. A trials vessel too. Dover—that's Keith's bailiwick. Desire him to make a man-o'-war and crew available for both purposes, not too big."
"Yes, Prime Minister."
"And we'll have to find a commander who knows Americans," he said sourly. "Shall we move on?"
It had been more than a month but now Teazer was complete. Kydd looked up from his journal as the door to his cabin opened. It was Renzi. "Reporting for duty, Captain," he said, with a tired smile.
"Good God, Nicholas, you look dreadful. Sit down, dear fellow. Tysoe! A hot negus on the instant for Mr. Renzi."
"Pay no mind to me, Tom. I'm—It's that I'm out of sorts is all." Renzi took the armchair and sank into it, turning his face to catch the sun streaming in through Teazer's stern windows.
Kydd rose. "So good t' see you again, even if a mort weather-torn!" He contemplated Renzi then continued softly, "I don't wish t' pry but—"
"A rather disagreeable episode I would much rather forget," Renzi said distantly, then added, "But it was kind in you to remember the Wordsworth."
"The commander-in-chief was not amused when I was hauled out of my ship by some rum coves from Whitehall to answer some strange enough questions. Er, they didn't say what it was all about?"
"Nor should they. I'm sworn to mortal secrecy still, else I should tell you all. It was a singular enough experience. Perhaps later." He closed his eyes, drained.
"And it has put you to some measure o' grief, I fear."
Renzi opened one eye. "It will pass, should I be granted the sublimity of a space of peace and quiet—and a good book."
Kydd knew Renzi well enough to be disturbed by his manner. What was it that he had endured? More than a physical trial, certainly, for he was like a man returned from the dead. "That you'll get, Nicholas," he said warmly. "For his sins young Calloway has been taking care o' the ship's books—if you find 'em out o' kilter, let me know."
Kydd cleared his throat. Renzi's tiny quarters in an operational ship-of-war were not what was wanted to heal him after his nameless ordeal. "We've lately been with the Downs inshore forces, another having taken our place in the flying squadron, so our days are not so exciting," he said, as breezily as he could, "but I do think you'll find you'll need more in the way of a constitutional." He paused. "Nicholas, there is a favour I'd ask of you."
"Of course."
"I want you to go to Bath for the waters. For as long as you need—not forgetting to hoist in some reading while you're there, of course."
Renzi sighed, too tired to protest. "I—that is, it is well taken, and I confess I'm in sore need of respite. I do believe I'll take up your handsome offer, dear brother."
The next morning Kydd saw his friend safely off in the coach. They had been through so much together and he was grateful he had the means to do this for him.
Then his mind returned to the war. Sober estimates of the size of the invasion flotilla were now nearer two thousand than one, and the flying squadron had taken a recent mauling that had left two shattered wrecks on the dunes near Calais. Fortunately the battleships of the French fleet had not ventured from port but this was widely held to be their admiral husbanding his forces until such time as they would be called on to lock in mortal combat with the British at the grand climax of the invasion. The threat could not have been greater, but Kydd and Teazer were kept back on the shores of England in the second tier of defences and he felt the frustration acutely.
At last the summons came. A peremptory order to report to the commander-in-chief for redeployment.
Keith kept him waiting for twenty minutes, then called him in. "Mr. Kydd, you're of this hour relieved of duty in these inshore waters." Why should the commander-in-chief himself tell him that he was to resume in a flying squadron? The usual order pack would normally suffice. Kydd felt uneasy.
"Tell me, does the record speak true? While you were on the North American station you were sent ashore in the United States to resolve some dispute that ended well enough, then spent a little time at sea in their new navy."
"I did, sir."
"So therefore it would be true to say that you know Americans?"
"Well, sir, I—"
"Capital. You and your sloop are stood down from active duty on this station. My condolences on the loss of opportunity for distinction, but we all have our cross to bear."
"Sir! May I know—"
"Since you have shown yourself inclined to furtive intrigue I have given you over to the Foreign Office in their service."
At Kydd's evident shock, Keith gave a cold smile. "Don't imagine you'll be out on some wild adventure. I gather it's to be acting as dogsbody to some American charlatan inventor. You'll remain in my command, Mr. Kydd—as Inspector of Fencibles."
Surely not. The Sea Fencibles—a home-defence force of dabblers and seamen past their prime. At one stage the doughty Earl St. Vincent, first lord of the Admiralty, had muttered dismissively, "The Sea Fencibles are there only to calm the fears of old ladies, both within and without Parliament."
What had he done as a fighting seaman that he should be relegated to this? Kydd bit his lip in frustration. "Aye aye, sir," he said bleakly.
Keith waved his hand in dismissal. "Flags will tell you the rest."
How things had changed. From service in the very front line of the war at sea to nursemaid of well-meaning amateurs and whoever the American was. The flag-lieutenant was unable to add much. Sympathetically, he explained that the commander-in-chief had received his orders from a higher level and had complied, with Kydd the unlucky choice. It was apparently a discreet affair, and while his line of responsibility lay with Whitehall, his appointment as Inspector of Fencibles was to give him cover and keep him administratively within Keith's command.