After reporting to Captain Faulkner in full dress uniform, as befitting a visit to the flag-officer, he was stroked across to Leviathan in the gig, thinking warmly that life could not be bettered at that moment. The day before, he had come back aboard and spent an uproarious evening in the wardroom telling of his adventure, being heartily toasted in the warmth of deep camaraderie. Now, dare he think it, he had been noticed and therefore was on the golden ladder of preferment and success. His instinct had been right—Nelson was showing the way. Seize the moment when it came!
He was politely received by a flag-lieutenant and conducted to the commodore in his great cabin. "Ah, Kydd. Sit ye down, I won't be long," Duckworth said, waving Kydd to a chair. The commodore was writing, a frown on his open face as he concentrated on the task. He finished with a scrawl and put his pen down with a sigh. "L'tenant Kydd," he said heavily, "I do believe that you should bear much of the credit for the success of this expedition. From what I hear, your initiative and courage did much to secure the safety of the force. Do tell me now what happened."
Kydd began, careful to be exact in his recollections for this would be a matter of record for all time. But as he proceeded he became uneasily aware that he did not have the commodore's full attention. He fiddled with his pen, squared his papers, inspected the back of his hand. Somewhat put out, Kydd completed with a wry account of his boarding of the frigate and told him of the conclusion of hostilities, but the commodore failed to smile.
Duckworth stood. "May I take the hand of a brave man and a fine officer?" he said directly, fixing Kydd in the eye. "I see a bright future for you, sir." Kydd glowed. "Good day to you, Mr Kydd," the commodore said, and took up his papers once more.
Kydd hovered uncertainly. "What is it, Mr Kydd?" the commodore said testily.
"Sir, dare I say it, but should I be mentioned in y'r dispatches, I'd be infinitely obliged if you'd spell m' name with a y—Kydd, sir, not like the pirate Kidd." There had been instances of promotion awarded for valour to the wrong officer entirely, which regrettably it was impossible to undo at the Admiralty.
Duckworth leaned back, eyeing Kydd stonily. "The dispatches for this engagement will be written by another. I haul down my flag tomorrow, Mr Kydd."
At a loss, Kydd excused himself and withdrew.
"I would have thought somethin' a bit more rousin'," Kydd said morosely, not sure at all of what had been transacted in the great cabin.
Adams was sympathetic, and put down his book on the wardroom table. They were alone and Kydd had returned disconsolate from what should have been a memorable interview.
"Luck o' the draw, old trout. You'll understand that Duckworth is out of sorts. His mission complete, he has to strike his flag and revert back to plain old captain now."
"But his dispatches—"
"Dispatches? He's not the expedition commander, Tom, Stuart is. And I've strong reason to know from a friend at Headquarters that he's a man to seize all the credit that can be scraped together. His dispatches will say nothing of the navy—all we did was sally out to meet half a dozen Spanish frigates, which instantly put about and had the legs of us. No creditable battle, no mention for anyone."
"I should've smoked it," Kydd said. Stuart was certainly the kind of man to dim another's candle in order that his become the brighter. "So the general won't want th' world to know that he'd got special intelligence as would give him th' confidence to stretch out an' take Minorca?"
"I fear that must be the case," Adams murmured.
"I was present at th' takin' of Port Mahon!" Kydd continued stubbornly.
"Dear chap, any battle won swiftly, efficiently and with the minimum of bloodshed must be a bad battle by any definition. For your triumph and glory you need a good butcher's bill, one that has you blood-soaked but standing defiant at the end, tho' many at your side do fall. And we had the bad luck to lose not a single man ..."
"You're bein' cynical, I believe."
Adams shrugged.
"Besides, m' name must be mentioned once in high places in the navy, must it not?"
Adams gave a small smile. "I should think not. The successful practice of creeping abroad at night is not an accomplishment that necessarily marks out a future admiral."
As he strolled along in the sun with Renzi on the road to Mahon, Kydd brooded; no doubt there would be other opportunities for dash and initiative but unless a similar conspiracy of circumstances came up how was he to be noticed? Duty was not enough: he must show himself of different timbre from the others.
They had landed below George Town, Es Castell as it was now known. From there it had been a precipitous pathway to the top—the harbour of Port Mahon was a great ravine in a high plateau, opening to a capacious sea cove three miles long. The town of Mahon was perched along the top, the skyline an exotic mix of medieval casements, churches, windmills and several inclined roadways to the water's edge.
A pleasant two miles of open country lay ahead. Wearing plain clothes in deference to the sensibilities of the inhabitants, they passed through Es Castell, a relic of past English occupation, still with its parade-ground four-square in the centre, and found the road west to Mahon.
"So grateful to the spirit," Renzi mused. At sea there was a constant busyness; even in the most placid of days the flurry of waves, the imperceptible susurrus of breeze around the edge of the sails and the many random sounds of a live ship were a constant backdrop to life aboard. It was only on land, where a different quietude reigned, that its absence was noticed.
Kydd's naturally happy temperament bubbled to the surface. "S' many windmills—you'd think it Norfolk or Kent."
"Yet the soil is poor and difficult of cultivation, I think," said Renzi, as they passed tiny garden-like plots and endless dry-stone walls. A little further on the wafting scent of orange groves filled the air. "But there could be compensations ..."
In front of each white stone farm there was a distinctive gate of charming proportions, an inverted V, probably made from the ubiquitous wild olive wood. The road wound round the end of a deep cleft in the cliffs, a sea cove a quarter of a mile deep with buildings on the flat ground at its head. Kydd recognised it as the chief watering-place, Cala Figuera—English Cove. The English ships, Tenacious among them, were clustered there.
Mahon could be seen ahead, past a racket court in use by two rowdy midshipmen, the houses by degrees turning urban and sophisticated. The two nodded pleasantly to local people in their pretty gardens; Kydd wondered how he would feel if conquering officers passed his front door. Nevertheless there was more than one friendly wave.
Several paths and avenues led from the one they were on and it became clear that they needed directions. "Knock on th' door?" Kydd suggested.
After some minutes they heard, "¿Que quiere?" A short man wearing round spectacles emerged suspiciously.
"Ah, we are English officers, er, inglese," Kydd tried.
Renzi smiled. "Your Italian does you credit, my friend, but what is more needed now—"
"Goodness gracious me!" Both turned in astonishment at the perfect English. "So soon! But—dare I be as bold—your honourable presence is made more welcome by your absence, these sixteen year."
Kydd blinked. "Er, may we ask if this is th' right road f'r Mahon?"
"Ah! So many years have I not heard this word! Only the English call it Marn—the Spanish is Ma-hon, but we Minorquin call it Ma-o, you see."
"Then—"
"You are certainly on the highway to ciudad Mao—forgive me, it has been many years ... Sadly, though, you will now find Mao in the comfortable state we call siesta."