“I’m summoned as witness. A sad business.” Then Kydd said offhandedly, “Look, if you’ve nothing better, shall you wish to sup with me? The George is famous for its lamb cutlets, as I remember.” They dined together in a quiet corner, the young man respectful and attentive.
But Kydd needed someone to whom he could speak in confidence. It was the inevitable consequence of the sea service: at any time the odds were that his friends and fellow captains were away in their ships, scattered over the globe in the vast oceanic arena that was now modern war.
“You knew Commodore Popham well,” prompted Bowden.
“As far as any man can penetrate his character,” Kydd replied. “A vastly intelligent fellow-you remember Fulton and his submarine boats, his inventing of the telegraph code we used at Trafalgar, the catamaran torpedoes, his raising of the Sea Fencibles-he’s a fellow of the Royal Society and knows more about conjunct operations than any man alive.”
“Conjunct?”
“Where the navy and army join to effect some blow against the enemy that neither may achieve on their own. He was with the Duke of York in Flanders, and that successful destruction of the sluice gates at Ostend in ’ninety-eight? It was his plan, not to mention his transport of Indian soldiers across the Red Sea to take the French in the rear when we were hard-pressed in Alexandria.”
“Then why …?” began Bowden, carefully.
“I can’t answer that. I’ve got along with him well enough but I can see how his superior ways could upset some of the blue-bloods. He’s a genius for making enemies-and friends, for that matter.”
“So the charge is leaving station, sir.”
“A very severe one, young fellow. If the Admiralty thinks you to be in one place, and makes plans to use your fleet in that belief, then finds too late you’re off somewhere else, can you blame them for feeling peeved?”
“Our talk in the gun-room was that he had secret intelligence he was acting upon. Did you believe him, sir, or should I not be asking this of you?”
“No, you should not, but I’ll tell you, as it has to come out in the trial. He told me at the time, without any evidence about him, that he was in thick with the prime minister and others and that they’d together devised a plan of attack on South America and that this was interrupted by Trafalgar. This means that the whole thing against Buenos Aires could have been an official move, not his own idea.”
“Ah. I see that the only way he can prove this is to call the prime minister as witness, but he’s-”
“Quite. Pitt dying is a big blow to his story. That is, if it wasn’t all a bit of a stretcher from the beginning.”
“Sir, can I ask you a personal question, as bears on the trial?”
“You can-but I’m not bound to answer it.”
“Sir, can you tell me why you fell in with his proposal to quit station?”
“I … I judged it more in keeping with a naval officer’s duty to do something in a rush of events than sit idle waiting for orders. I conceived that there was an opportunity of strategical significance that, if missed, would be a betrayal of the higher cause.”
“Sir, there were those in L’Aurore who observed you close to him, even as his special confederate in the whole matter. I hope you will excuse my plain speaking, but they might be forgiven for wondering why you are not standing next to him at the trial.”
“Do you think I should be?” Kydd asked.
“No, sir,” Bowden said. “You showed loyalty to your superior as so you should. And, besides,” he added, with a twist of a smile, “were you not following orders, as you must?”
“You’ll go far in the service, young whipper-snapper.”
“Then may I know what position you’ll take in court?” Bowden persisted.
“Position? There’s only one possible, as you should know.”
“Oh?”
“I tell the whole truth.” Kydd paused, then said with a slow smile, “That is, I answer every question put to me, neither more nor less than the matter being asked. If certain questions are not put, then …”
“And if they require to know whether you believe Commodore Popham was right to-”
“That is a matter of opinion, not evidence, and has no place in a court-martial,” Kydd barked.
He had thought hard about his position and this was the only one he could square with his conscience. On the one hand he felt sympathy with what the man had been trying to achieve in the larger picture, but on the other he did not want to be seen in the ranks of those trying to tear him down.
Yet there was still one niggling concern: might he eventually find himself accused of being an accomplice and arraigned?
In the morning, at eight precisely, a single gun thudded out from Gladiator and a Union flag mounted to her masthead.
The court-martial of a senior officer of the Royal Navy in what some were calling the trial of the age was beginning with the summoning of the court.
The majority were admirals and, as was the custom, mere captains took boat first from the man-o’-war steps. There was a sizeable crowd to see them go, held back by redcoats from the garrison, and an excited buzz rose. Kydd was in his full-dress uniform, his star and crimson sash marking him out as one of the sea-heroes so talked about, and he gravely acknowledged the cheers.
In the boat were other witnesses of like rank, with two older captains who were to sit in judgement. They avoided each other’s gaze until they reached the venerable ship’s side and disembarked one by one.
An immaculate side-party in white gloves piped them aboard, then the captain of Gladiator welcomed them and saw the witnesses aft to a special area where they would wait until called.
The great cabin was arranged with a long table and chairs, several side-chairs and small tables for officials and attendants.
One by one the members of the court filed in, in strict order of seniority, the glitter of gold lace and the steely gleam of the sword of the provost marshal adding to the solemn majesty of the moment.
Last to enter was the president of the court, Admiral Young, who took his high-backed chair with ponderous deliberation. Next to him was the judge advocate who would advise on points of law and procedure. At one end was a bewigged civilian supported by another, the prosecuting counsel for the Admiralty; at the far end two others stood beside an empty chair, Popham’s legal counsel.
After a muttered consultation the president was ready.
“Carry on, the Admiralty marshal.”
This was the warrant for proceedings, under the signature of the highest authority possible.
A clerk took up a paper and read, in a thin, reedy voice, “‘Whereas Captain Sir Home Popham left the Cape of Good Hope without orders to attack the Spanish settlement on the Rio de la Plata, now this is to command you that you take the said Sir Home Popham under arrest preparatory to his trial by court-martial for his said offence.’”
Each of the members of the court were then individually put on oath.
“Bring in the prisoner.”
Popham wore a faint smile as he stood erect before the court.
His sword was produced by the provost marshal and handed to the president.
“You are Captain Sir Home Popham?”
“I am.” The voice was calm and even. “Mr President, I have thought it advisable to seek legal assistance upon this occasion and I beg leave to ask permission of this court to have this assistance attend me during the trial.”
“Sir Home, any assistance you may require, the court is very willing to allow you.”
Popham gave a slight nod in acknowledgement, and the opening gentlemanly play was over.
Although he was not in the great cabin, Kydd knew what would be happening. A court-martial was a straightforward affair: the precise charge facing the prisoner would be read out, then the prosecution would make its case, producing the entirety of evidence in support of the charge. Following this, the defence would begin with its own evidence, then witnesses would be called and examined by both sides. On completion, after the customary closing address by the prisoner, the court would be cleared for deliberation to a verdict.