“How dare you lecture me, sir?” Jervis barked. “Are you to be counted in that poltroon’s camp? Then you’re sadly misguided! The Admiralty can brook no insolence from mercenary venturers such as he and they’ll show him no mercy when the verdict’s given.”
He leaned forward and, with a look of deadly intensity, went on quietly, “So have a care, Mr Kydd. If you shackle yourself to that mountebank I will not answer for your future. You understand me, sir?”
Afterwards Essington took Kydd aside. “That was not a wise thing in the circumstances, my dear fellow. He may now be retired but his word counts for much in the high councils.”
Kydd smiled ruefully. “I honour the old man with all my heart, but I’m persuaded there’s two sides to the business, and this being a social affair I thought I could-”
“St Vincent cares deeply for the staunch, true ways and will be merciless to those he sees failing to conform. You’re sailing close to the wind, my friend.”
The next day Kydd had other concerns, chief of which was the rendezvous to go riding with the winsome younger sister he had accompanied to the theatre, Miss Sophy.
He and Bazely had rented hacks, passable high-steppers, and Kydd was conscious of the fine figure he made as they cantered out to the broad perimeter roadway around Hyde Park, known as Rotten Row.
They were far from alone: there were carriages of every degree of opulence, tooling along with ladies twirling parasols as their beaus held the reins, weaving in and out of knots of dandies “on the strut” and promenading couples. Others passed by, their riders eyeing them to see if they were to be ignored or deferred to.
The sisters were waiting for them, sitting demurely side-saddle on matching brown mounts. The four set out together at a sedate walk, conversations light and gay. It was a perfect day and Kydd’s blood rose at the sight of the girl beside him in her fetching blue habit and prim chapeau.
“I do declare,” she said, with a pout, “it’s so perfectly unfair that you men do hold to yourselves all the excitement!”
“Why, what must you mean, Miss Sophy?” Kydd chuckled.
“You’re soon enough going back to the sea, to a great big ship searching for prey to fall upon, and after a huge battle you’ll take it, then come back to land with hatfuls of guineas in prize-and all the time your intended must wait alone for your return …”
“Ah,” Kydd said, aware of the prettiness of her downcast eyes. “The sea service does not always yield such, I’m persuaded. Have you not heard of storms and tempests? And what if the foe is bigger-what then?”
She looked up winningly. “The brave captain I see will not be dismayed by great odds!”
Bazely leaned over and said with a piratical chuckle, “Aye, this is true ’nuff. I’ve seen Tom Cutlass here stand with bloodied sword on his quarterdeck when all around-”
“Do stow it, Bazely, there’s a good fellow. I’ve a mind to enjoy myself. Where shall we victual, do you think?”
They finished the day with a promise of a visit to the races. If this was what he had to put up with while he waited for his new command, there were worse fates, Kydd mused.
But returning to the White Hart he found the post had brought a complication. The court-martial of Commodore Popham was to be held at HMS Gladiator in Portsmouth in three days’ time and his attendance as a witness was thereby required.
CHAPTER 5
KYDD PENNED A QUICK NOTE to Bazely, then he and Tysoe took the next coach for Portsmouth. No doubt the business would be concluded in a few days and he could be back in Town. Unlike the protracted deliberations of a civil case, court-martial proceedings consisted of naval officers trying their peers. There would be no need for lengthy explanations and all would be judged in the stark light of the Articles of War. It was incontrovertible that Popham had left his station without orders. That alone was sufficient to condemn the man, whatever mitigating circumstances were brought before the court.
Kydd knew the road well and gazed through the window at the garden-like countryside passing by, idly considering possible future entertainments with Miss Sophy when his life of leisure resumed.
The prospect of the old naval port loomed and the coach clattered over Portsea Bridge and into the busy town. In the matter of accommodation the Star and Garter was for lieutenants, the Blue Posts for midshipmen, so Kydd would be lodging at the George, Nelson’s favourite.
It seemed unusually crowded and it was some minutes before he was attended to.
“Staying for the trial, sir?” the innkeeper asked, summoning a porter. Kydd was in plain brown dress but he’d clearly recognised the bearing of a naval officer. Without waiting for an answer, the man added, “Then you’ll be interested in the newspapers, sir. We have them all in the parlour for your convenience.”
While Tysoe saw to the unpacking, Kydd sat in the bow window for the sake of the light and picked up the Portsmouth Post. Although ostensibly just reporting the facts, there was malice behind the words. “The Trial of Sir Home Popham … upon the most serious charge of abandoning his station … the unfortunate failure of the unsanctioned enterprise … must now answer for it before his peers …” In three dense columns the writer had laid out the essentials. The article began with the British army’s near-run conquest and subsequent control of the Dutch-held Cape of Good Hope, at six thousand miles distance of England, leaving the victorious army in control but the Navy’s small squadron under Popham on guard against a vengeful counter-stroke.
The narrative ran on: it was the “unaccountable desire of the naval commander to cross the Atlantic without orders on a brazen attempt to invade South America, which notwithstanding that the capital Buenos Aires had actually been captured in no way excused the action, still less the consequent shipping back of millions in silver bullion.”
The piece pointed out that the adventure had failed, with the ignominious surrender of the British forces to the rag-tag Spanish colonial forces, which was greatly to be regretted. Then, in ponderous, elliptical prose, it scouted the rumours that the entire venture had been for the personal profit of this distinguished officer.
Kydd threw the paper aside. The author had not even mentioned the immense strategic advantage of detaching Spain from her colonies and their sustaining wealth-if successful, it would almost certainly have thrown her out of the war.
The Hampshire Register took a different and more sympathetic tack, wondering if the entire affair was the work of Popham’s enemies, seeking to destroy his reputation. The undoubted benefit to British commerce of opening up the Plate river trade in hides and grain and as a market for industrial goods, it claimed, was never going to be recognised by stiff-necked Tories intent on bringing down Popham.
That was the daily newspapers. The radical Cobbett in his Annual Register had ranted against the expedition as having “originated in a spirit of rapacity and plunder” and even questioned whether Popham “had ever been placed in a situation to have had a single shot fired at him.” There had been pamphlets too, some making direct accusations of avarice and corruption and others of sordid dealings in India.
What was it about Popham that roused such emotions? Kydd shook his head and decided to take a stroll in the warm evening air.
There were many about, some no doubt on their way to Governor’s Green to an open-air meeting on the trial he’d seen posted up, so he shaped course towards the seafront with its view of the fleet at Spithead.
He hadn’t gone far when he heard a cry and saw a figure hurrying towards him. It was his former second lieutenant.
“Good day to you, Mr Bowden. What brings you here?”
“The trial in course, Sir Thomas. As I have a certain interest and … and I find myself at leisure at the moment,” he added.
They began to walk together.
“Your own presence I gather, sir, is rather more than a passing curiosity?”