‘We’ve agreed to form a commission as will decide whether disputed items may be considered legitimate under the terms of the convention or no. Carry on, please.’
A table was brought up and they sat stiffly together.
‘This officer swears he bought these paltry baubles at a country church, there being no question of receipt from those ignorant peasants.’
‘Passed,’ snapped Kellermann. ‘Or do you propose to challenge the word of a gentleman?’ he sneered.
Kydd ground his teeth, then held up his hand. ‘Hold! Sergeant, double away and bring before me the priest who mans that cathedral.’
The black-frocked cleric appeared promptly. ‘Ask him if he’s ever seen these “baubles” before.’
At the dawning joy and happy babble, there was no need to go further. The French officer was stripped of his loot and sent aboard.
Others were harder to crack. And the higher the rank of officer, the worse the peculation. In one, gold bars worth a million francs were claimed to be the official reparation of the Portuguese government to the French Empire, a perfectly genuine and verifiable levy. Kydd disposed of this with savage pleasure: if it was indeed properly certified official, how could it possibly be personal property?
Beresford intervened when a regimental chest of some weight of specie was produced as ‘military equipment’. He allowed it, but cunningly enquired where the accounting was that proved in the usual form all shore debts had been cleared when the regiment sailed?
They were less successful with others, whose more anonymous thefts were untraceable, but it wasn’t until the baggage of Junot, the commander-in-chief, was searched under furious protest from his aide that the outrageous scale of the ransacking was revealed.
Fifty-three large chests of Brazilian indigo worth a fortune, fourteen volumes of a priceless Florentine Renaissance Bible, and many other works stolen from the Royal Library. And the general had even ordered the bare-faced breaking into the Deposito Publico and seizure of all coin as private booty. Nothing was too shameful or despicable for one of Napoleon’s heroes.
‘When will you want to clap eyes on your guest?’ Beresford murmured at one point.
‘Guest?’
‘Junot himself, in course.’ There was nothing but sympathy in his expression. ‘Demands royal treatment in the flagship by right of equality, old man. Has a point, too.’
‘When I’m ready for the damned thief and not before.’ If he had to give passage to a self-appointed potentate, the Tygers would be hard to handle. He’d have to give it thought or end up with crew and passengers at each other’s throats.
By this point the boundary of French ‘territory’ was beginning to contract. Outlying forts and encampments were marching in, dumping their equipment and demanding ships. As numbers crowding onto the transports increased, so did pressure on Kydd’s stores of victuals and water. And the inhabitants of Lisbon, sensing their freedom and the humiliation of their previous occupiers, were now screaming threats and defiance.
A report came in from the suburbs that a detachment of Frenchmen had been set upon and battered to death by enraged townsfolk before they could reach the safety of the British bayonet squares. From now on, any finding themselves isolated could expect a rapid and squalid end.
Beresford approached Kydd. ‘His Nibs is getting restless, old fellow. Can’t you get him away from this deadly mess? I’ll do the introductions for you.’
The headquarters tent turned out to be a Persian sybarite’s den, with Oriental carpet, hangings, fragrant candles smoking and, in a curved Romanesque chair the image of Napoleon’s, a sullen Junot. Thin-faced and slight his voice was high and demanding. ‘I shall go aboard my flagship now, I believe. Are you its master?’
‘No, I’m not,’ Kydd snapped coldly.
Confused, Junot looked quizzically at Beresford, who, equally at a loss, could not answer.
As though to a child, Kydd explained in French: ‘Your maitre is demeaning to me. A maitre pilote, the only maitre we have aboard, ranks below a lieutenant in the Royal Navy and is responsible to me, a capitaine de vaisseau.’
A distant squealing in a street beyond made the general wince.
‘I rather think it time to go, don’t you, mon brave?’
Kydd stood silent and unblinking.
‘What the devil’s the matter with this dolt?’ spat Junot, peevishly. ‘He doesn’t seem to-’
‘I rather think “capitaine” would answer, mon general.’
‘So, Capitaine. We go, hein?’
This was someone who’d risen through the ranks in the lethal feverishness of the Directorate and later furthered his ambitions in slavish devotion to the Bonaparte empire, not a man to cross. Further humiliation would not be in anyone’s interest.
‘A boat will be sent in one hour.’ Kydd doffed his bicorne and left.
Chapter 57
Tyger was seething with speculation, which Kydd put down at once.
‘The chief Frog takes my cabin, his staffers in the first two lieutenants’ cabins, I will take the third’s. I dare to say he’ll bring his own cook and there’ll be servants and stewards by the dozen. They’ll all doss down at the after end of the mess-deck, hammocks or nothing. Baggage in roped off area of the orlop. Clear?’
Clayton delicately asked, ‘Just as an observation, sir – security? I wouldn’t think it impossible that once off Rochefort they could try something foolish and …’
‘Relieve ’em of all weapons as we’ll be looking after ’em. They’re a scurvy crew of land-lubbers and can’t stand up to a jack tar in anything of a mill.’
‘And if’n the Crapauds make mock of our men, who’s to blame ’em for getting back at the shicers?’ Bray’s fierce rumble intervened.
‘Hear me well, Mr Bray. Any who lays a fist on a Frenchman will get a striped back at the gangway in front of the same party. Compree?’ Even the slightest incident could flare into a wholesale affray, which would inevitably end with Tyger being blamed for it.
Junot’s boat arrived alongside promptly, at the tiller Halgren’s features a study in blankness.
Helped up by the boat’s crew Junot stood on Tyger’s deck while the boatswain’s call pealed out, smoothing his tunic and looking about scornfully. ‘You’ve forgotten something, Capitaine.’
‘You shall be introduced to my officers in-’
‘Where is the tricolore of France, sir?’
‘This is a ship of His Britannic Majesty,’ Kydd ground out thickly, ‘and a French flag has no business-’
‘The convention, Capitaine. “The honours of war to be afforded in full” is the specification. As on the march, so are we on the sea. I shall not be suffered to proceed except under our glorious colours. Kindly hoist them.’ He folded his arms and turned his back.
With Tyger at anchor, the blue ensign of the Lisbon squadron floated at the taffrail; Kydd would be rather seen in hell than lower his ship’s colours to a Frenchman but he had an idea. ‘Mr Bray – the French standard. At the fore masthead.’
One was found and mounted slowly up the signal halliards. ‘There, sir. Right at the fore and higher than our own, you see.’
Junot squinted up then gave a lazy smile. ‘That will do very well, Capitaine.’
The remainder of his entourage awkwardly made their way up the side, looking about apprehensively.
Brice scratched his head with a twisted grin. ‘What about that dunnage, sir?’ Over the side in two barges was the astonishing sight of tons’ weight of impedimenta.
‘Strike it below as you may,’ Kydd said shortly. ‘As long as it clears the guns.’
He turned to Junot. ‘If you’ll accompany me to your quarters, General, you shall hear the rules of the ship.’
Affronted, but unable to find reply, the officer followed Kydd down to his cabin and stared about in distaste. ‘This is hardly worthy of one of rank, Capitaine. Have you no better?’