The ship in an unnatural quiet, he made himself comfortable in his best armchair, reached for the package and opened it carefully and lovingly.
There was a letter, a long one, he noticed, with a warm thrill. But the bulk of the package was two newspapers, The Times and the Exeter Flying Post. As much to defer the pleasure of the letter he opened The Times.
It was alive with the ecstatic tidings from Iberia – the news from Cadiz had reached England well before and this was the response from an eager public. And it was as wholehearted and strident as any Kydd could remember seeing.
What a magnificent series of events is passing before us in Spain! I cannot describe to you the interest I feel in the Spanish cause. It exceeds anything except perhaps that which I felt in the first moments of the French Revolution. May the Spaniards obtain perfect liberty and raise the Goddess for the admiration of mankind from that abyss in which the French have left her!
He went on to read of the stirring and noble speeches from both benches in the Commons, Sheridan and Canning, the calls for immediate aid to the plucky Spaniards, the army vote increased.
Bemused, Kydd saw that nearly the entire newspaper was crowded with articles and opinions, all on the subject of Iberia and Bonaparte’s probable coming fate. Turning to the Post, he saw much of the same but also some hard-headed speculation. Barrelled pilchards and salted cod would be wanted in quantity in a newly opened trade, and Devon and Cornwall were well placed to supply them as of old. Spanish coast-wise trade, until now wiped from the seas by the navy, would require its multitude of brigs and barques replaced, a chance for the many tiny seaport slipyards in the south-west.
After a hurried perusal he had the papers sent to the gunroom and settled to his letter.
My very dear darling man! I’m before the fire, scratching away on this and you’re somewhere off the land that everyone’s talking about, having all the excitement. You’ll write everything down, won’t you, my love, just so we can curl up together and you can tell me?
In a daze of contentment he heard about progress on the herb garden, the bronze weather-cock, which she knew he’d be interested to learn had shown winds steady from the west all this last week, and the success of Farmer Davies at the county show in Widdecombe, notwithstanding the ill-fortune with his sheep earlier. Rufus the cat had taken to the chimney nook and was apparently adorable beyond words, while she herself was well advanced on a romantic portrayal of Tyger beset in a storm, and she prayed she had the ropes and sails all correct, this being her first cast at a sea piece.
A quiet knock intruded: it was Dillon. ‘Ah, sir. Sorry to disturb but the gunroom is holding a dinner tonight to make notice of the peace and are wondering if …?’
‘So kind in ’em. Of course I shall come. Delighted.’
The dreamlike air of unreality had not lifted when the officers came together in the hastily but splendidly decorated space. In an affected quiet they greeted one another, sat and toasted, and every so often could be seen staring into an unseeable distance, their minds and hearts somewhere out of this place, this time, to some personal encounter. An ordeal, a triumph, a loss, a tragedy.
Talk went on, but no one felt inclined to break into song or merriment. It didn’t seem right.
The mess broke up before midnight, not a few officers feeling the need for a solitary turn about the upper deck in the whispering summer night, wrapped in their own thoughts.
In the morning Bray briskly asked, ‘Sir – in the matter o’ liberty?’
‘Er, yes. Of course.’ It was only right and proper that, in making a friendly port, shore leave would be granted. That the said port had turned overnight from an enemy to an ally was no reason for age-old customs to be ignored, as long as the port authorities permitted the sending ashore of floods of red-blooded sailors, something not always welcomed. But the opening of the port to trade from now on was going to do this anyway, and gleeful scenes would soon return to the Cadiz waterfront north of the Trocadero.
Something of the delight of the liberty men transmitted itself to Kydd, and when Dillon suggested they step ashore themselves to see the sights of the ancient Phoenician city he readily agreed.
It was a pity that Renzi had left with Morla for England but his confidential secretary was more than equal to both the language and the navigating and he found himself contemplating the sight of the old Cadiz of the Carthaginians, Rome, the Moors and Francis Drake.
There were quantities of churches, merchant miradors that enabled them to spy ships inward-bound leagues out to sea – and on the seawall, antique round sentinel closets with conical roofs and arrow slits that must have been manned continuously for half a thousand years.
Crossing from one side of the peninsula to the other in the maze of alleyways, Kydd became conscious of a regular beat, an undercurrent of excitement, swelling crowds.
‘A procession!’
They hurried in its direction and saw a colourful, noisy parade marching along the sea-front road, raucously encouraged by spectators. The marchers were more military than religious and were being enthusiastically cheered on by a great crowd. ‘I thought as this would be a papist procession, carrying a statue or some such,’ Kydd remarked. ‘Is it for our welcome?’ he added, with a grin.
Dillon tugged the sleeve of one of the crowd, enquiring. The man pulled free irritably and snapped something, his eyes only for the procession.
‘Not us, I fear. It seems there’s just arrived news that the French lunge towards Cadiz to put down their rising has been defeated at a place called Bailen. No details, but this city is now safe – thanks to themselves only.’
Chapter 45
The stamp and go of seamen’s feet sounded above Kydd’s cabin as the larboard watch of the hands exercised at the main, the braces led aft. He knew the sequences and idly concluded that this must be Brice at exercise to furl the main topsaiclass="underline" the canny officer always waited to the last possible moment to lay the yard and allow the men out on it for hard work with gaskets and lines.
Kydd’s thoughts turned to the broader picture. It had been somewhat of an anti-climax that had followed the capture of Rosily’s ships and, more notably, the Spanish peace. Collingwood was now back in the Mediterranean and his orders had been received. Kydd had hoped that Admiral Rowley might have been sent away with the dissolution of his command, the Inshore Squadron, but it hadn’t happened. True to Collingwood’s word, there were now three separate flag commands and Rowley had retained the middle one, centred on Lisbon.
There was some talk of sending an army to join the struggle, presuming Britain could find one, but even if they could, it would be sent to Spain, not Portugal, which must wait.
This cruise was not going to be exciting. Tyger had been tasked to rove off the northern third of the country, intercepting coastal reinforcements for the French and enforcing the wider blockade. It was a necessary and important role but promised to be quiet, the prime location in Rowley’s jurisdiction naturally being the capital, Lisbon, where Junot, the French military ruler of Portugal, held court. In effect, Kydd had been sent to a backwater, not part of Rowley’s standing fleet.
There was an advantage nevertheless: detached for the task, he was his own master.
Not that there was much he could achieve. The only action they could hope to join was to intercept French transports and store-ships, attempting to resupply their armies. And this would mean having to share the prey with their smaller brethren, sloops and cutters more suited to inshore work.