Kydd peered out. Flickering torches were being borne along towards them, and in their light he saw marching figures, gesticulating, shouting.
"Had 'em here before, the wicked dogs. Here, lend me a hand, sir." They moved over to each window and secured the folding shutters, the smell of guttering candles in the gloom of the closed room now oppressive.
A maid came from the rear, hands to her mouth. "We'll be quite safe, Mary," Dwight said, and pulled open a drawer. Kydd caught the glint of a pistol. "They're only here 'cos they've had a skinful of Schroeder's liquor—they'll be away after they've had their fun."
He eased open the shutter a crack. "See that? They're wearing a tricolour cockade in their hats! Republicans do that so there's no mistake who it is they support."
The noise grew close. A drum thudded in an uneven rhythm, while harsh shouts and laughter came clearly through the closed shutters. Suddenly there was a sharp thud and tinkling glass, then another. Dwight stiffened and swore. "Breaking windows. I'll have Schroeder's hide—no need f'r this."
But, as he had prophesied, the influence of drink faded and the small crowd dispersed. "I'm truly sorry you've been inconvenienced, Mr Kydd," Dwight said, with dignity, "but in my country we value free speech above all things. Good night to ye."
Kydd did not sleep well and was up at cockcrow, pacing along the single cross-street to get the stiffness from his limbs.
It did not take long for the gang of youngsters to find him and begin chanting again, but Kydd grinned broadly and gave them a cheery wave. They soon tired of the sport and darted away. After a few minutes one returned and took station next to him. Kydd guessed he was about ten.
"Are you English?" the boy blurted out.
"Aye. I come fr'm Guildford, which is in Surrey," Kydd said.
"What's your ship's name?"
"Oh, she's His Britannic Majesty's sixty-four-gun ship Tenacious, an' I'm her fifth l'tenant, Kydd, so you have t' call me 'sir'!"
"Yes, sir," the boy said smartly. "I'm Peter Miller." They walked on together. "How do ye keelhaul a man, sir?"
"What? No, lad, we don't keelhaul sailors. We flog 'em, never keelhaul." Kydd chuckled.
"Have you ever bin flogged, sir?" Peter asked, wide-eyed.
Kydd hesitated. It was not an admission he would make in polite company. "Yes, a long time ago, before I was an officer."
Peter nodded seriously. "I want t' join the Navy like you, but my pap says we ain't got a navy," he added defensively.
"We have Americans in the Royal Navy, lad. Ye could—"
"No, sir!" Peter said with spirit. "I'll not serve King George. Er, that's any king a'tall, not just your king, sir."
Kydd laughed, and the boy scampered off.
He reached the end of the street, turned the corner and found himself heading towards the French privateer alongside the commercial wharf. At the thought of seeing the ship at such close quarters he quickened his pace. There were idle onlookers standing about on the quay taking their fill of the novel sight; Kydd could see no reason why he should not be one of them.
A shout came from behind him. "There he is—the English bastard! Come t' spy on our friends." He recognised the voice of a hothead who had been at the boat. Several men hurried towards him, one hefting a length of paling wood; an authoritative-looking figure watched from the foredeck of the privateer. Kydd stiffened. There would be no help from the spectators by the vesseclass="underline" they were too busy gawping and the few looking in his direction seemed disinclined to intervene.
Kydd stood his ground with folded arms. He knew he could probably make a good account of himself, but he would not be the first to make a move.
"Spyin' dog! Y' knows what happens t' spies?"
"Are ye as chuckle-headed as y' look? I'm no spy, skulkin' around. I've got just as much right t' take the air here as—as y'r Frenchy there."
One of the bystanders came up. "He's right, y' knows. Both furriners, stands t' reason y' can't pick one over the other."
"Hold y'r noise, Darby." Schroeder strode across. "You, sir!" he called at Kydd, standing aggressively between him and the ship. "Will you account for your presence as an officer of a belligerent power at the lawful mooring-place of a ship of the opposing nation? Or shall it be spying?"
Kydd held his temper. "No."
Schroeder started. "You're saying—"
"I said, 'No,' which is to say I do not have t' account to you or any man for what I'm about on m' lawful business on a public highway."
Schroeder's jaw hardened, but Kydd looked past him to the privateer. Scores of men were pouring on to the wharf, scattering the onlookers.
Kydd waited. Surely they would not dare anything in broad daylight, before witnesses. But then they spread out in a line and moved towards him. Kydd tensed, the features of individual seamen resolving, alien chatter quietening to a purposeful advance.
Kydd stood firm. They came closer and stopped in front of him, undeniably seafarers, but with their sashes, floppy liberty caps and Mediterranean swarthiness, there was something distorted and menacing about them. They shuffled together to form a barrier, and when Kydd moved to go round it, they blocked his way again. Kydd spotted the figure on the foredeck and bellowed, "Let me pass, y' villains!" The officer shrugged and called out an unintelligible stream of French. It was stalemate: there was nothing for it but as dignified a retreat as possible.
Kydd stalked off, seething at being outwitted by the French. At the very least he had hoped to report back on the ship, her state for sea, guns, anything he could see. Now he would have to admit he hadn't been able to get close.
He forced his mind to focus on the situation and by the time he'd reached the cross-street he had a plan: he would see the other side instead. That implied a boat; the tide was on the make, which would allow him to drift past and take his fill of the scene.
Kydd found the young lads playing in the same place and he called across to Peter, "A silver sixpence wi' King George's head on it should you tell me where I c'n hire a fishin'-boat."
The dory was double-ended and handy. In borrowed oilskins, Kydd set the little boat drifting along, an unbaited line over the side.
The privateer, the Minotaure de Morlaix, was big. Work was going ahead on the mizzen, a new spar chocked up ready on the wharf, but there appeared to be no hurry. Kydd scanned the vesseclass="underline" her clean lines meant speed but also implied limited sea-endurance, given the large crew.
His attention was caught by a peculiar break in the line of bulwarks with their small gunports. A whole section amidships had been lowered on hinges—inside Kydd glimpsed the astonishing sight of the black bulk of a long gun, mounted on some sort of pivot, another barely visible trained to the other side of the ship. But this was no ordinary gun: it was a twenty-four-pounder at least. The armament of a ship-of-the-line on a near frigate-sized vessel.
This must have been the origin of the sound of heavy guns that had mystified Tenacious at sea earlier, and although there appeared to be only one on each side, it would be enough to terrorise any victim and certainly give pause to a similar sized man-o'-war; a grave threat let loose on the trade routes of the continent. It was sheer chance that had placed the only other ship-of-the-line in North America across the Frenchman's path.
After returning the boat and gear he walked back along the tree-lined road, deep in thought, but the only conclusion he could come to was the impossibility of his situation.
A man in an old-fashioned black tricorne hat stopped him. "Are you Lootenant Kydd?"
"I am."
"I'm a constable o' Exbury township," he said importantly, "an' I'm instructed by the selectmen to advise ye that a warrant fer a town meetin' has been issued concernin' you."
"Ah—does that mean they wish me t' attend?"
The constable looked aghast. "No, sir! Only citizens o' this town c'n attend a town meeting. Mr Dwight jus' wants ye to know that y'r matter is being looked into, is all."