‘The first rule,’ Kydd snarled inexorably. ‘At sea the captain’s word is law. The second, that under all and every instance your men keep clear of the sailors while they’re working ship, on risk of being swept overboard.’
It hurt unbearably to see the man standing so pompous and conceited beneath the portrait of Persephone in all her vivacity and decency, and he turned away to bring forward Tysoe. ‘Should you require something your own men cannot provide, they may consult my man, Tysoe, here.’
‘There will be no need …’ But Kydd had left.
He resumed the deck, breathing deeply of the good clean sea air. ‘What’s this damned bobbery?’ he barked, finding himself part of a milling crowd of lost-looking individuals on his quarterdeck.
Bowden had more sense than to answer.
‘Find a senior one who speaks English, make him your Frenchy bo’sun and responsible to you for getting ’em all below, out of my sight,’ Kydd growled at him.
He went to leave the deck while his orders were carried out, then realised he had no cabin to go to. Fuming, he cursed under his breath and paced up and down, knowing Brice was having to perform his watch-on-deck duties, then find time to clear his cabin for Kydd’s use.
It was an age before there was any kind of order, but Kydd took the opportunity of warning off the first division of the convoy that it would put to sea with Tyger on the tide the following morning. Not more than a week or so to Rochefort and they’d be rid of the insanity.
No sooner had the decks been cleared than French officers and idlers in ones and twos appeared, strolling about as though it was all a spectacle in a park. Bowden caught Kydd’s eye helplessly. About to give orders to pack them off below again, Kydd realised it was asking too much. But with his men trying to get about their duties, sooner or later there might be an interaction that would spark open conflict.
Kydd hid a smile as he saw the Tygers in their own way had found a solution, one that was apt and preserved their respect.
They turned their backs. If any seaman was approached by a Frenchman they would contemptuously face away. When the officers objected to this blatant disrespect, Kydd would have none of it – what else could they do? They didn’t have the Mongseers’ lingo, did they?
Junot came up and was immediately surrounded by his followers and began his evening peregrinations: how amazing it was that so many of Kydd’s officers did not have the French …
‘Haands to stations to unmoor ship!’
The call was as early as Kydd could contrive, knowing that the more Frenchmen still at their cots the better. It didn’t deter Junot, who stalked up the ladder to the quarterdeck, well swathed against the morning chill in a cashmere wrap, haughtily critical.
The first thing the general checked was that the tricolore was still in place at the foremast head, with Tyger’s ensign in its lowly place well to the rear. Satisfied, he went to the wheel and waited, legs abrace, looking forward in imperious fashion.
The age-old routine of winning the anchor began, but it was beneath the general to stay. A pity, for behind him, in accordance with routine, he could have seen Tyger’s ensign taken in as she got under weigh and the Union Flag of Great Britain bent to the main-mast halliards. As they left the forts at the entrance abeam, it soared up and took position at the truck, the highest point in the ship. And this was a battle flag, nearly twice the size of the standard colour.
On spying it after resuming the quarterdeck, Junot spluttered with outrage but Kydd pointed out politely that the tricolore still flew unchanged in exactly the same position as he’d approved earlier, that nothing in the convention required a British ship to strike its own colours and, finally, that he could always take it up at the next port of call, which just happened to be Rochefort.
After the Tagus bar had been crossed, and the first heaving swells came in from the Atlantic, Kydd sniffed appreciatively. This was a portent of a blow coming on, a west-north-westerly to be expected on the beam for their passage north to Finisterre and, if the gods were kind, veering more northerly and therefore still on the beam as they rounded the cape into Biscay for the run into Rochefort. A deep and screwing roll that would extract the maximum discomfort.
Cheered, he went below to his – to Brice’s cabin. It was neat and domestic but so diminutive, pocket-sized! He’d long forgotten what it was to sleep below where there was no opening to let through a refreshing breeze.
It was something over a week of this, little to see of the land except once a distant, furious tumbling of white against the louring heights of Finisterre, then further endless nothingness as the thirty-odd ships swept on in thanks for the fair winds.
Kydd ate in the gunroom with the rest – in a tense stillness: conversation in the presence of the four Frenchmen with sea-legs and a little English was not feasible, and he always left as soon as he decently could.
At last they raised the French coast: two remarkably flat islands with a broad channel between. This was the Pertuis d’Antioche strait, between Ile de Re and Ile d’Oleron. And their rendezvous for the final act.
On deck came crowding those to whom this was blessed home, a few with tears streaming, others on their knees and some with a faraway stare.
Kydd had seen much of France from seaward, from blockade duty to his ill-fated descent in the last war on Brittany with his shipmates of the old Duke William. And to him it was the land that had turned the world on its head.
He brought the convoy to a stop, spying vessels on their way out to them.
The first brought an officer in a resplendent uniform who sought out Junot. They embraced formally, salutes were given and, after a quick interchange, Junot marched over to Kydd, as contemptuous and arrogant as ever. ‘You will raise a white flag, then follow the boat with a yellow flag. Any attempt to divert from its directing will result in your instant destruction.’
Kydd hid a smile, but replied coldly that on the contrary it was his avowed intention to be away just as soon as he was able.
Nonetheless, in the bay ahead were two of the largest French ports, La Rochelle to the left and Rochefort to the right. As far as he knew, his was the only one of His Majesty’s ships ever to penetrate unhindered deep into this focus of France’s seapower, the legendary ports from which countless battle squadrons had sailed to fall on far parts of Britain’s empire, and it still commanded respect and a squadron of British men-o’-war to sustain its blockade.
As they got under way for the inner regions Kydd told Bowden to find all the midshipmen and send them into the tops with sketching gear, a compass, a small telescope and the strictest instructions to hunker down and make good views of all they could see.
They passed within the lee of Ile d’Oleron and ahead was the tiny Ile d’Aix – before it lay, in full view, what the blockade cruisers would give a barrel of gold to see. Buoyed together were overlapping rows of ships-of-the-line. At least four separate divisions and others of frigates, more of sloops.
They were at the heart of a great naval concentration. This must therefore be the fabled Rade des Basques, the Basque Roads, where the French Navy lay in all its puissance. Rochefort would be somewhere beyond the little island, with its dockyards, slips and all that was necessary to maintain an ocean-going navy. Kydd fought down an impulse to climb the mast to take a lingering look – he knew it would provoke fury – but trusted his midshipmen were hard at work.
The boat they were following dropped its yellow flag and a red one took its place. Anchor.
This was at a place well away from the ranks of men-o’-war and it soon became clear why. Scores of rafts, punts, barges and lighters were mustering to transfer the passengers and their chattels. They were going no further and Kydd’s attempts at espionage must end at this point.