"Er, a beer?"
"Beer? That's spruce, birch, sassafras?"
A nearby toper closed his eyes and chanted, " ' Oh, we can make liquor t' sweeten our lips —of pumpkins, o' parsnips or walnut-tree chips. ' "
"Aye, well, it's the sassafras, then."
It was the strangest-tasting brew. "Er, what do ye mix with this'n?" Kydd inquired carefully.
"We don't mix anythin', Mr Englishman. That's straight beer, it is, bit o' y'r beet tops, apple skin, roots all boiled in, gives it taste, o' course."
Kydd downed it manfully, then called for something different. Darby slipped a china mug across to him. "Flip—now there's a drink f'r a man." Kydd lifted the creaming brew doubtfully and was not disappointed at the strength of the rum that lay within.
"To th' American flag!" Kydd called.
There was a surprised roar and Kydd found faces turning his way. The reddest called across to him, "Well, I can't drink t' your king, friend, but I can t' your good health."
The drink was doing its work and Kydd beamed at his new friends. In the corner a pitch-pipe was brought out and after a few tentative whistles two young men launched into song.
Come, join hand in hand, brave Americans all,
And rouse your bold hearts at fair Liberty's call;
No tyrannous acts shall suppress your just claim
Or stain with dishonour America's name!
"Let's hear an English song, then!" Darby demanded, grinning at Kydd and shoving another flip across.
"I'm no sort o' hand at singin'," protested Kydd, but was overborne. He thought for a moment, recalling what had most stirred him in times past. "Well, this is a sea song, shipmates, an' we sing it around the forebitts forrard—an' I warn ye again, I'm no singer."
Come, all ye jolly sailors bold,
Whose hearts are cast in honour's mould;
While English glory I unfold
On board o' the Arethusa!
He found his voice and rolled out the fine old words heartily.
And as he sang his mind roamed over the times and places where he had enjoyed the company of true deep-sea mariners in this way, beside him his shipmates through the gale's blast and the cannon's roar, and in all the seas over the globe. As he never would experience again.
Tears pricked and his voice grew hoarse, but in defiance he roared out the final stanza:
And now we've driven the foe ashore,
Never to fight with Britons more,
Let each fill a glass To his favourite lass;
A health to the captain and officers true
And all that belongs to the jovial crew
On board o' the Arethusa.
Something of his feeling communicated itself to the tavern: not a soul moved and when he finished there was a storm of acclamation. Even the pot-boy stood entranced and the tapster abandoned his post to stand agog.
"Ah, Mr Kydd—he'll have a whiskey o' your best sort, Ned," one man said, and when Kydd had taken it, he raised his own glass and called, "T' Mr Kydd an' his Royal Navy!"
The morning was a trial. With a throbbing head, he had to endure an icy, disapproving silence at breakfast. "Guess you'll be on y'r way now," Hay said meaningfully.
He left after breakfast for a walk in the cool morning to consider his situation. It was obvious that he must admit defeat. He would display the noon signal that would have the boat return to take him off.
At the end of the cross-street he went to turn down the road but, catching sight of the French privateer, he decided to go the other way. As he did so he caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure slipping out of sight. He frowned and continued, but stopped sharply and turned, to see the figure behind duck away again.
This might be a French agent on his trail or a crazed citizen seeking revenge on an Englishman—and Kydd was unarmed. He remembered the trees where he had met Peter. He walked on rapidly and, at the end of the road, turned the corner, then sprinted towards them. He heaved himself up among the leaves and on to a branch overlooking the path by the road.
His shadower swung round the corner and stopped, looking baffled. He moved forward cautiously but did not appear armed. Kydd waited. The man increased his pace and came nearer, treading carefully. Kydd tensed and, when the man passed beneath, dropped on his shoulders. The two fell in a heap, but Kydd was faster and wrenched the man over, gripping his throat one-handed in restraint.
The man ceased struggling and stared up at Kydd, who slowly released his hold. "Er, if you'd kindly let me up, I'll try to explain." The voice was American, polite and apologetic.
"Do, if y' please." Kydd had never heard a footpad so well-spoken, but did not drop his guard.
The man dusted himself off and smiled ruefully. "My name's Edward Gindler—Lootenant Gindler—and this kind of work is not t' my liking, I'll have you know."
"Lieutenant—Army?"
"Navy."
"Don't try t' gull me—the United States doesn't have a navy."
The visitors had left. Liston climbed the stairs painfully to his private room, ruing the onset of age with its aches and pains, but he knew his duty.
He sat down and reached for paper, then selected a pen abstractedly. A woman's hand placed a glass of brandy by him, and her lips softly touched his hair. He twisted round, reached for her hand and kissed it tenderly. "My dear," he said softly.
His wife said nothing, just looked down at him for a long moment. Then she left, closing the door behind her.
Liston sighed and collected his thoughts.
In respect of the biggest question of the moment—would the United States enter the war against France—there was no answer . . . yet. Liston smiled grimly as he penned his appreciation of the difficulties faced by the beleaguered President.
Following the commercial success of the contentious Jay treaty of two years before, the French had retaliated by insisting on the letter of the law in their own treaty, which granted free passage to any vessel carrying a French role de l'equipage. Now a vessel without it would be subject to seizure.
The consequences to the expanding trade of the young country had been nothing short of catastrophic. Liston picked up Pinckney's Congressional Report on European Spoliation of American Trade to refresh his mind on the figures.
It was staggering—worse even than the dire predictions of the fire-breathing Hamilton. In the Caribbean, worst hit, no less than three hundred ships had been taken and, counting the dangerous waters on the approaches to war-ravaged Europe since the Jay treaty, nearly a thousand American flag vessels had hauled down their colours and been carried into French ports; ship, cargo and crew.
Liston could barely credit that the proud Americans would submit to such intolerable and cynical actions by a so-called ally—but they had. President Adams had stoutly resisted all attempts by Liston and even his own party to be embroiled in a European war, whatever the provocation, but there had to be limits.
Even so, Liston could see his difficulty. The opposition Republicans were led by the astute and learned Jefferson, talked about as the next president, who would never allow him to declare war on an ally. In any case he did not have the means: he had only a few frigates that had been left part built after a brief alarm over Algerine pirates nearly half a dozen years ago.
Yet something had to give. In the last few months, insurance rates in the Caribbean had soared to an impossible 25 per cent of ship and cargo value.
The French were defeating whole nations; coalitions against them had crumbled and they were clearly about to break out of Europe to the wider world. It had made them arrogant and confident, but Liston felt that the latest act was beyond sufferance: envoys of the United States in Paris, attempting to negotiate an amelioration of French attitudes, had been met with a demand for two hundred thousand dollars as a pre-condition for any kind of talks.