Thunder and Spartiate wisely kept time on the flagship and the three ships-of-the-line were able to take up on the new heading, leaving the frigates in sad disarray.
A tumble of flags appeared at Conqueror’s mizzen halliards, with another hoist. At the same time a gun cracked out, peevishly drawing attention to them.
‘Sir, “squadron heave to” and “all captains”,’ Maynard said heavily.
Admiral Rowley stood in his great cabin before his captains, all sitting with varying expressions of truculence or sullen resentment.
‘A shameful and disgusting exhibition, which I will not tolerate in any fleet that His Majesty sees fit to give me to command.’ He took a lace kerchief from his sleeve and sniffed delicately, the arrogant eyes roving among them as if seeking out fault. ‘For the rest of this day you will exercise agreeable to my orders, and if there is not a marked improvement, the squadron will repeat the manoeuvres tomorrow.’
Kydd took in the pompous, self-important manner, the lift of chin to stare down his inferiors. This was nothing more than a posing fop playing at admiral, enjoying the power and circumstance with none of the intelligence and insights necessary for the job.
Rowley’s gaze flicked to Kydd and, despite himself, he tensed.
‘It’s clear to the basest fool where the fault lies. Not the sail-of-the-line – but the frigates. My order to Tyger was simple and direct, but what did I see? Sir Thomas Kydd of popular fame floundering in an attempt to obey, thereby imperilling the whole squadron.’
Kydd burned but did not give the satisfaction of an objection.
‘Likewise Jason, which at one time I suspected was falling asleep.’
There was no amusement on the assembled faces.
‘The less said concerning the staying about into line the better – a monstrosity that can only lead the unprejudiced observer to believe my frigates are inept and ill-conducted to a surprising degree.’
This time there were low growls of protest about the table.
‘I send you back to your ships with my warmest recommendation for improvement. Carry on, please.’
On Conqueror’s quarterdeck, while waiting for their boats, the captains stood stiffly, barely able to contain their resentment but not daring a critical comment while in the flagship.
Chapter 17
‘Be damned to the strutting peacock!’ Kydd ground out, as Dillon hovered solicitously. ‘God help us if this is what he thinks we should be about.’
It was back to manoeuvres in the afternoon: column to line, line ahead at differing lengths apart, wearing in succession. And not even a whisper of gun drill, let alone live firing. The talk of staying out for further exercise the next day was nonsense: Collingwood would never allow the inshore blockade of Cadiz to weaken for that time, and dusk saw them cast anchor opposite the twinkling lights of the old town at the end of the outer peninsula.
Unlike the Brest blockade, the station was an unrelentingly active post, engagements with the enemy not uncommon, with the prospect of a French break-out to the north and subsequent reinforcement of the dozen or so ships-of-the-line that lay in safety in the inner harbour always possible.
This should be the time when the Inshore Squadron got to work, a roster of frigates continually at sea up and down the coast, intercepting enemy communications, sea-borne supplies and reinforcements and generally making life hard for the enemy. Every day a pair of frigates should have looked into the inner harbour, at great risk from gunboats and frigates, to warn of sea preparations among the enemy anchored there while another sailed south to Tarifa to spy around the spiny rock guardian at the nest of privateers concealed within. But under Rowley none of this was happening.
Unexpectedly there was a calclass="underline" frigates for a special purpose. Rowley summoned three – Hayward of Vigilant, Mason of Riposte, and Kydd of Tyger.
‘I desire we take the war to the enemy by any means,’ he said, with a theatrical frown, ‘as will awake them to the presence of my squadron.’
Kydd held his silence. This could be anything – Collingwood ordering him to get on with his duty, a wish to be seen as an active admiral or simply more strutting.
‘Lisbon. The French under Junot have taken possession of our best port in these parts and I don’t propose to allow them enjoyment of it. I want to see a night attack by boats upon the vessels they’ve got in there such that they’ll not contemplate adding to their numbers in the near future.’
‘A cutting out?’ Hayward asked.
A destructive foray – in and out – was one thing. A cold-blooded attack on shipping, with a view to snatching prizes, was quite another. Were prizes Rowley’s hidden motive?
As if reading Kydd’s mind, Rowley went on, ‘Not prizes, no. Merely a descent on their ships.’
Kydd heard real regret in the tone. Almost certainly this was a direction from above, a stirring to action from Collingwood or even the Admiralty.
‘Do you have intelligence of what lies in Lisbon, sir?’ Kydd asked.
‘Of course I do, man! Why else would I trouble to mount an assault?’
Hayward lifted an eyebrow in unspoken sympathy, then asked mildly, ‘Who shall lead the venture, sir?’
‘Who then is the senior?’ Rowley said, looking pointedly between them.
‘I believe it to be me,’ Mason answered immediately.
‘Then it shall be you, Mr Mason,’ Rowley said as quickly, with a beaming smile. It had been too prompt – the two had been talking beforehand.
Hayward flashed a wry look at Kydd.
‘My intelligence is that there are worthwhile targets at Doca de Belem – a species of East Indiaman alongside, with a light frigate ahead of her, and quantities of barges on all sides, enough for one evening, I’d suggest.’
No Portuguese-flag ship was to be harmed – these would be at moorings off the waterfront; the French were in the superior berths alongside and convenient to the warehouses, as was their frigate.
‘The Doca – this is well past the entrance and before Lisbon,’ Kydd said quietly, ‘Three to five miles in from the Tagus bar. A hard stretch in without wakening the Frenchies, and even harder to come out when they are aroused.’
‘You seem well informed, Kydd,’ Rowley said sourly.
‘As I served ashore here at the evacuation of the royal family.’ There was no point in going into details.
‘We know all this, sir,’ Mason threw out impatiently. ‘Can’t we get on with it?’
Kydd held his tongue. Rowley had his pick of nine frigates and he’d chosen these three: himself to provide the fire and initiative, Mason to keep him in check and Hayward a relative nonentity. Not a well-thought unit. If Rowley really wanted to reap success from the backs of others, it would have been far better to give Kydd the lead and responsibility, then add ardent followers. As it was, the warlike talents of Tyger’s captain would be smothered by a mediocre Mason, leaving Hayward to follow the line of least resistance.
Kydd had a fleeting vision of Mason privately begging for command, getting even for the time at Bornholt when Kydd had humbled him. If this was what it was about, placing the satisfactions of petty boot-licking above the success of the expedition, his respect for Rowley diminished even further.
Well, let Mason make his moves. If they were reasoned, he would follow them to the success of all. If not?
It was a pretty dilemma. In terms of professional competence and skill at arms, he knew himself to be rarely gifted – this not in a boastful way but as a cold matter of fact. Some quirk of mind had fitted him for sea warfare above the usual run of men, and this he had to accept.
At the same time, as a consequence, there would be those set above him whose prowess was less than his. If they issued an order that Kydd saw was poor, did he object or did he obey without question as duty demanded? Even if it meant that men must go to their deaths? It was a moral quandary that would make for interesting debate with Renzi but, of course, his friend was not there.