Command

CHAPTER 7

"RUN OUT!" The eight larboard six-pounders rumbled and fetched up against the solidity of the bulwark at the gun-port with a crash, the sailors at the side-tackles heaving like madmen at the cold iron. The gun captain threw up his hand to indicate that the exercise was finished—but three aimed rounds in four minutes was not good enough.

"Mr Stirk, y'r men would not stand against a Caribbee mudlark," Kydd called irritably down the deck. "Shall we see some heavy in it this time?"

It was now sure: thanks to Gindler, there would be a meeting shortly. And not with a despised privateer—this was a fully fitted out man-o'-war, an eight-pounder corvette of the French Navy, bigger, heavier and possibly faster than Teazer.

Now that the reality was upon him the looming fight was awaking all kinds of feelings in Kydd; before, he could always glance back and see the captain standing nobly on his quarterdeck, a symbol of strength and authority to look to in a time of trial, the one who would see them safely through.

But did he, Thomas Kydd, former perruquier of Guildford, have it in him? The simple act of taking command had become complicated by so many elements that were not amenable to plain thinking and common logic: men's character, the probability of the enemy taking this course or that, and now the requirement that he should show himself as a strong commander, contemptuous of danger and sure of himself—a leader others would follow.

His back straightened as he watched the men at their gunnery exercise. It was not simple duty and obeying orders that was making them sweat: an alchemy of character and leadership was turning their mechanical actions into a willing, purposeful working together. But was it for him or their ship? Or both?

He was still in his twenties, but Kydd's face was hardening. Lines of responsibility and authority had deepened and changed his aspect from the carefree young man he had been. The simple ambition that had driven his thirst for laurels had become multi-faceted; his need for personal triumphs was now tempered by the knowledge that men were following him, trusting him, and he had a bounden duty to care for them. His quest for professional distinction must now be subordinate to so much else.

The gun crews stood down, drinking thirstily at the scuttled butt after the strenuous exercise, but Kydd's thoughts rushed on. They would be meeting the enemy shortly and much depended on him. The combat, when it came, would be far from the country he had sworn to defend, far out of sight of the Admiralty and the statesmen who had decreed that he and his men should be there to fight for them. He would strive to his utmost for a victory—but would he be able to forge that precious spirit of steadfast devotion in their cause that would bring Teazer's company with him?

When Stirk roared at a gun captain, Kydd threw off the mood and focused his thoughts. Lampedusa: a wretched little island to the south of the Sicily Channel, hardly inhabited. A temporary base for their quarry? Possibly, provided there was a suitable haven. Bonnici had surmised it could be Capo Ponente and a cove beyond of the sort apparently common there—rocky cave formations and small beaches well protected with ugly shoals.

This left the question of the plan of attack. In the absence of any charts of scale worth the name it was a waste of time to attempt anything detailed. The only course he could see was simply to appear at where his best guess was for the corvette's lair and be prepared for anything—assuming it was there and not on its trail of devastation on the high seas.

The immediate future of Teazer and her entire ship's company were now in his hands: in the morning men were going to live or die depending on the cunning and effectiveness of the course of action that he alone must come up with.

He remembered Nelson's tactics at the Nile. Expecting a classic fleet action at sea he had instead been confronted by the enemy securely at anchor, a wall of guns. Immediately he had conceived a brilliant and original plan. He sailed before the wind but had stern anchors ready to swing them to a stop alongside the enemy and his fleet had gone straight on to achieve a legendary victory. What was his own strategy compared to this?

Kydd did not spend a good night: they would be off Capo Ponente at daybreak, ready at battle quarters.

He was on deck well before the first light stole in to bring form and life to the dark waves. Then, the black mass of the island resolved into a featureless low tumbling coastline of bleached grey, and the masthead lookout screamed, " Deck hooo! Ship at anchor close in wi' the land! "

Kydd snapped from his muzzy fatigue. There was no doubt that this was Lampedusa, and there, in a cove between two small headlands about four miles away, was a ship-rigged vessel at anchor.

Excited chatter broke out. "Still!" he roared. All eyes were upon him. This was the moment—the point at which he must justify his captaincy of a man-o'-war, and he needed to think.

His senses brought the picture to him immediately: a coastline trending to the north-west from where the steady morning breeze was coming—winds would be parallel with the shore. If the ship was going to strike for the open sea then at best it could beat out at an angle from no better than seventy degrees off the wind close-hauled, to sail down the coast running free.

With rising hope he knew what he must do. If he closed quickly with the entrance of the cove he would be in a position to force the enemy to battle as he emerged. The clear image of the ship through his telescope showed no sail bent on and therefore no capability to flee. Realisation dawned: he had trapped his quarry!

A new respect showed in Dacres's eyes as he approached for orders. "Remain at quarters," Kydd said crisply, "We take him as he comes out—loose courses."

Teazer sped towards the distant ship. The enemy was at bay! Excitement took hold of Kydd as he went over in his mind what had been done to prepare.

He noticed that he had increased the speed of his pacing about the decks and forced himself back to a confident stroll. "Pass th' word for my sword," he ordered. Fighting would start in hours.

Then doubt rushed in like a returning tide. What proof had he that this was the ship he was pursuing? There were no colours, no one knew its distinguishing features. Was this all to be in vain? But, on the other hand, what was an innocent ship-rigged European-built vessel doing in such a place? Somehow he knew that this was La Fouine.

If it was, they were in for a sharp fight. By eye he appeared about a quarter as big again as Teazer, and there were nine ports along that graceful side, an eighteen against their sixteen. If the report of eight-pounders was correct, Teazer was appreciably outgunned as well as out-manned. A twisted smile acknowledged the irony that he, the smaller, was assuming the role of aggressor.

There was a chance, but he was raw and untried in the art of captaincy at war, while a significant unit of the French Navy on an independent cruise far from home would surely have an experienced and formidable commander.

In all probability, within hours, the lovely Teazer would be a shattered ruin and . . . He fought to keep himself expressionless while he crushed the betraying thoughts. His ship would need every ounce of his strength and will in the near future and he would give it.

"A cool one, sir," Dacres said, beside him. "No sign of a fluster aboard even as we close."

Kydd said nothing, gazing through his glass at the vessel. Indeed, there were figures just visible on deck but, puzzlingly, none in the rigging as they bore down. "They know we're here. That is sufficient," he said.

"Sir!" Bonnici was wearing a small-sword for the first time. Kydd wondered if the older man expected to be in a boarding party but assumed that it was probably more as a gesture for personal protection if they themselves were boarded.

"Yes?"

"I cannot advise but you mus' not keep in wi' the land. There are rock offshore, so many an' not to be seen!" In the breakdown of his English there was no mistaking the man's urgency. It brought a complication: if they remained offshore for their prey, the ship, with superior local knowledge, could slip through the shoals and away.

"We take th' risk," Kydd snapped. But advancing with a leadsman in the chains forward was no way to go into battle and he had reluctantly to concede that there was a seaward limit to his approach. He lifted the telescope again. This time there was movement about his mizzen peak halliards and a flash of colour jerked aloft. The ensign of a French man-o'-war.

There was now no doubt, and scattered cheers about the decks of Teazer showed that it had not been lost on the men. At this point it would be usual for the captain to step forward and deliver a stirring call to arms, to excite and inspire—but it was the last thing Kydd felt capable of doing. He was only too aware of the nervous excitement building and the challenge to his confidence, and was afraid that anything he said would come out too weakly.

"We'll shorten sail, I believe," he ordered instead. They were close enough now that whatever La Fouine did they would be up with him quickly. They would be fighting in topsails. There was no point in racing past their target: the more sail-trimmers aloft the fewer on the guns.

Kydd had decided how far in he was prepared to risk Teazer. They were rapidly approaching that point and still there was no move from the French to put to sea. He lifted the telescope and braced it, steadying the image, staring long and hard.

He had been mistaken: there was sail bent to the yards, but it was in such a fine stow along the yardarms that he had not noticed it: La Fouine's captain was a seaman. He was anchored side towards but then Kydd noticed the line dropping away from the stern-quarters. So it was at no chance angle that he lay—the captain had laid out a mooring by the bow and stern both, which kept his broadside trained resolutely on any who would dare enter the little cove.

"They're anchored by th' stern as well," he grunted, keeping the glass up.

"Sir," said Dacres.

But it was not his problem, Kydd thought sourly; it was the captain's. "Heave her to," he growled, still searching with his telescope. Not a single move to ready for sea—they might as well have been alongside in their home port. "While he's there we can't touch him."

To approach the vessel they would have to present their unprotected bow for an unendurable pounding before they reached him—and, with unknown rocks lurking, tricky manoeuvring would be impossible. La Fouine was quite safe where she lay.

"Sir, that point—"

"God rot it f'r a poxy—!" Kydd exploded in useless anger. Although they were hove to and stopped in the water, an insistent current was slowly but surely urging them towards the low, rocky southerly point of the cove. And stretching well out from it were the tell-tale hurry and slop of dark irregularities in the wave pattern that betrayed the threat of unknown rocks below the surface. "Get sail on an' take her out."

He bit his lip in frustration: this was not how it should be. Keyed up for a desperate clash of gunpowder and blades he had not expected a long wait until the Frenchman decided he was ready.

"Boats, sir—a cutting out?"

"No." Dacres was a fool or worse to suggest that. Boats pulling madly towards a prepared warship would be blown out of the water even at night—and this captain would certainly have lookouts to detect an approach in any direction.

"Er, land a gun an' drive 'im out?" Purchet countered.

Kydd ground his teeth. "No, damn y'r eyes—he'd be a prize simkin should he neglect t' land sentries on both points, an' that's not the kind o' man I think he is." His sister's patient tuition in polite discourse on his promotion to King's officer was wilting fast under the strain.

The quarterdeck fell into silence, Teazer obediently stretching out away from the shore—and Kydd's only chance of making his name. "Wear about an' keep us with th' land," he threw at Bonnici, whose expression remained blank.

And still no sign of movement in the anchored vessel. Was it ever going to make a break for the open sea?

Teazer closed rapidly with the coast again. "Pass th' word for the purser."

"The—the purser, sir?" Dacres said in astonishment.

"Yes, you heard. The purser."

Kydd kept his silence while Ellicott scrambled up the hatchway. "How many days' vittles do we have at hand?" he asked the man.

Ellicott shot a shrewd glance at the motionless French vessel. "Sir, as you remember, you gave directions—"

"How—many—days ? "

"Er, no more'n three, five if we're three upon four."

All La Fouine had to do was sit tight until Teazer had sailed away and then he could depart into the unknown. Kydd clenched his fists. No glorious fight, no conclusions, just a hungry and miserable return to Malta to report that he had seen the corvette, but had done nothing but leave him in peace.

There had to be something. A rammer clattered to the deck at a nearby gun and the seaman shamefacedly retrieved it. Kydd swung round at the distraction, then realised the gun crews had been at quarters since dawn. "Stand down at y'r weapons," he ordered loudly. There was no question about dismissing them in the face of the enemy but at least they could take a measure of relaxation at the guns. "And they shall have their grog. Mr Dacres?"

The gun crews accepted their three-water rum on the upper deck from the grog-monkeys with hushed voices and stifled laughter. They would usually be in a roar of jollity below on the mess decks at this time. By the long custom of the service they were entitled to a double tot before battle and Kydd had ensured they got it. Besides, it gave him precious time to think.

He paced up and down, oblivious of the glances that followed him. His passion had cooled and he now directed all his resources into cunning. La Fouine was bigger in all respects—by definition that probably meant defeat if they attempted a land battle even if he sent every last soul ashore to storm him. And a sea battle? He was more than willing to stand against this foe but how the devil was he going to drive him out?

Then it came to him. "Mr Dacres, find me a trumpet, an' someone who knows how to play one! This minute, d'ye hear?" Without waiting for a reply from the dumbfounded lieutenant he turned on his heels and went below. "Mr Peck! Rouse out y'r writing tackle an' please to wait on me in ten minutes." It would give him time to jot down a few ideas.

He settled at the table. Now just how was it done? He knew what he wanted, but was hazy in the details. Was it not a chamade he was contemplating? A formal parlay? No, that was just the flourish of a trumpet necessary to get attention and a cease-fire. What was it called? Did it matter? He scrawled away.

"Sir?"

He motioned Peck to the other side of the table. "You c'n write Frenchy?" he said severely.

"I do, sir, yes."

"Then write this—in y'r best round hand." Peck busied himself with his quill and Kydd focused his thoughts. His mind produced an image of the French captain in his own cabin, frowning over a paper handed to him by a shadowy petty officer. He began composing.

"Au capitaine de vaisseau—" No, this was an unrated vessel, so, "Au capitaine de frégate La Fouine, au mouillage à Lampedusa . . ." He presumed it was spelled the same way in French, if not then they could guess. Then the meat. That he was disappointed with the dull spirit of the famed French Revolution that they felt unable to try the fortune of their flag against such an insignificant and lone brig-sloop of His Majesty's Navy. That for their convenience he was shortening sail and holding fire until they were both fairly on the open sea and would salute their flag with the utmost politeness before any act of hostility. In effect this was no less than a personal challenge.

He waited for Peck to finish, then snatched the paper and scanned it quickly. The painful hours of learning with Renzi had yielded a workmanlike competence in the language but by no means a familiarity with the high-flown courtliness that seemed to be the style required in high diplomacy. But with a savage smile he decided that if he had erred on the side of plain speaking then so much the better. "Ask Mr Dacres t' attend me," he said to Peck. Dacres was fluent but Kydd did not want to be told what to say: they had to be his words—but with no misunderstandings.

Dacres took the paper as if it would catch fire but manfully worked his way through it. "Sir, if I could suggest . . ." To Kydd they were footling changes but he allowed them in the final draft.

"Did you find a trumpet?" he asked, when they had regained the deck.

"Er, Able Seaman Ridoli—it would seem he has tolerable skill at the flügelhorn, which he assures me is a species of trumpet. As he will never be parted from his instrument, he therefore has it on board—"

"Get him in the boat. Mr Bowden, ye know what to do? When you reach th' rock, set Ridoli t' play for a space, then return."

"May I know what he should play, sir?"

"Damn it, I don't know!" Kydd said irritably. "Some kind o' tan-tara as the lobsterbacks like playing—use y'r initiative."

The boat left Teazer under a huge white flag of truce and headed shorewards. There was no response from the French, and through his telescope Kydd saw Bowden head purposefully for a prominent flat rock. There was a wild leap from the bowman and then Bowden and Ridoli clambered uncertainly through the seaweed to stand atop the craggy outcrop. Ridoli took up his instrument, glittering brassily in the sunlight and the mellow, haunting strains of some Italian air floated back across the wave-tops. Bowden waved him to silence and they boarded the boat again for the pull back.

But there, in plain view, resting on top of the rock, was the white dot of the letter that Bowden had left. "Stay in th' boat, if y' please," Kydd ordered. He stared at the French vessel until his eyes watered. This was his last throw of the dice.

"Sir!" Attard's eyes had caught sight of something around the bow of the corvette; then a boat pulled smartly into view. It also had a flag of truce and it headed for the rock. The letter was snatched up and handed down into the boat, which lost no time in returning.

It had worked! So far. By now word of Kydd's action would have spread the length and breadth of Teazer and the deck was crowded with excited men who had no business being away from their quarters for battle but Kydd could not deny them.

Time dragged. Teazer wore round for another stretch out to sea—but the boat reappeared and again headed for the rock. A figure mounted the highest point and sounded off a meticulous and elaborate call on his trumpet, so much more martial than their offering. And when the boat headed back there was a letter waiting in the precise centre of the rock.

"Go!" Bowden and his crew needed no urging, pulling directly for the rock and claiming the letter. In a fever of anticipation Kydd took it below, in passing snapping at Dacres to send the men properly to quarters.

It was exquisitely written, the wordy introductory paragraphs ornate with unnecessary curlicues. Kydd's eyes went to the closing salutation; it seemed the commander of La Fouine had the honour to be Capitaine de Frégate Jean Reynaud. There was no other clue about the man he had the duty to kill or vanquish—or who would do the same to him.

Kydd began the laborious task of penetrating the thicket of verbiage then, too impatient to continue, he summoned Dacres. "There—what do ye think o' this?" he said.

Skimming the text with a frown Dacres looked up. "Er, it seems plain enough, sir," he said, with a degree of wary puzzlement.

"I asked ye what you make of it, Mr Dacres."

"Well, sir, he, er—"

"Read it out, man—in English, th' main heads."

"Aye aye, sir. Starts with compliments on our fine vessel—"

"Th' main heads."

"Yes, sir. Er, he accepts that we are in a state of war and therefore we have a certain duty to assault his ship . . . but notes that while he is tranquil in a secure anchorage, well supplied, we are obliged to ply the sea until he decides to quit it. And, er, as this is not convenient to him at the present time he is desolated to be obliged to decline your gracious invitation . . ."

Kydd's spirits sank. The French captain knew that Teazer could not wait indefinitely and had made exactly the decision he himself would have made in like circumstances. For the French captain it was a hostile sea with no friendly harbours or dockyards for repair; there was no compelling reason for him to risk damage that would cut short his cruise of depredation, and therefore he would lie at anchor until Teazer left. Quite the logical thing to do, in fact.

But Kydd had had to try. Before they left, could he think of any other card to play? What would Renzi have said? Perhaps this was not the kind of problem he would have been best placed to resolve, he being such a martyr to logic . . . Of course. "Mr Dacres! Time is short an' I'd take it kindly if you would assist me!" With Dacres sitting at the desk writing French in a flying hand at Kydd's dictation and Mr Peck hovering by, the task was quickly completed.

It was nothing elaborate, no cunning scheme of deception, it merely pointed out that as the clandestine anchorage was now known, Teazer would have no alternative but to lie off waiting for a period of time before quitting to secure provisions— or she would leave immediately and soon return; La Fouine would never know which, and the chances were that he would be set upon almost immediately he departed. The logical course therefore would be to stop wasting time, deal with his tormentor at once, and so be sure of the situation.

The letter was sealed and taken out to the rock with all due ceremony and Teazer waited once again. The answer was prompt and unequivocal. One by one, at every masthead, the ensign of France floated free. At the same time the yards were manned and activity at bow and stern revealed work at the anchor cables.

Nervous exaltation seized Kydd. He had what he wanted: this was now to be no less than a duel between two ships-of-war, and more than pride was at stake. "Shorten t' tops'ls," he ordered, conforming to his promise.

Under easy sail, Teazer slipped along in a feather of water, all aboard at a knife-edge of tension. There was one final thing Kydd wanted to do. "With me, Mr Attard," he said, to the solemn-faced youngster. "I'm taking a turn about the decks, Mr Dacres. If anything—"

"Aye aye, sir," said Dacres, who crossed to the helm, his expression grave and resolute.

The gun crews turned to watch Kydd pass, some with studied nonchalance, others with a smile or an air of bravado. "Where's y'r stations f'r boarding?" he challenged the most cocksure.

"Why, sir, th' foremast wi' Mr Bowden," he said easily.

"And?"

"Oh, well, barkers an' slashers in course—jus' follows Mr Bowden, sir."

"Aye, that's well said," Kydd said gruffly, and moved on.

It was the way of it. Nelson always had said that if in doubt no captain could go wrong if he placed his ship alongside that of an enemy, and in this he was only taking to a higher plane the lion-hearted spirit of the seamen that was so much the reason for the invincibility of the Royal Navy.

Forward, Bowden touched his hat; his gaze was direct and untroubled. "All forrard ready and waiting, sir," he said gravely.

"Thank 'ee, Mr Bowden. I hope . . ." But Kydd could not finish and turned away abruptly.

The gunner was imperturbable in his tiny, claustrophobic magazine; the carpenter and his mates waited patiently at the forward end of the mess deck for the first smashing cannon strike through Teazer's side.

Acknowledging the boatswain's sketchy salute as he handed out from his store the tackles and stoppers for emergency repair to the rigging Kydd mounted the fore hatchway, nearly tripping over the sailmaker who was mustering his gear. "Ye're going t' be busy in a short while, Mr Clegg," he said.

"Sir," he acknowledged, in his dry, whispery voice. The man had probably seen more service than that of any other two aboard put together.

Kydd moved to go, then paused. "Ah, I'd like t' be very certain Teazer is properly at quarters in every part. Er, can ye tell me—slipped m' mind—what's the quarters f'r battle of, er, Able Seaman Sprits'l?"

Clegg's face creased into a pleased smile. "Why, sir, you'll find him in y'r cabin safe 'n' snug," he said, without embarrassment, "Mr Tysoe standin' by."

La Fouine took the wind to starboard and gathered way, his bowsprit as unwavering as an arrow, fixed on Teazer, who lay quietly under topsails two miles offshore.

"He's comin' out!" The yell went up from all parts of the ship, dissolving into high-spirited cheers. If there was to be any doubt about the outcome it would not be from before the mast.

Kydd stared forward resolutely, trying to penetrate the mind of the man who opposed him but receiving no hint from the cloud of canvas the ship carried as he pressed on through the entrance. What would be his next move? A flying pass, bow to bow, followed by a sudden turn to rake across Teazer 's stern? A stand-off bombardment, given his greater range guns? Close-in carnage? He must foresee every possible move and be ready to parry. And have his own counter-moves.

La Fouine came on fast with all plain sail set, no topsails for him. Kydd grew uneasy: what did it imply? He was just about to send topmen aloft when, clearing the mouth of the cove, La Fouine put up his helm and plunged downwind through the unknown coastal shoals, making for the open sea at the south end of the island.

"Be buggered! He's runnin', the shy cock!"

It was totally unexpected and Kydd had no option but to throw Teazer round and follow at a safe distance offshore, losing ground until his own courses were set and drawing. The straggling headland at the last of the land came and went; there was nothing now but a vast and empty sea, the ultimate battlefield.

Was La Fouine enticing Teazer towards a more powerful consort? Or simply making a break? At least his duty was plain: to use all possible means to close with the enemy and bring him to battle. But La Fouine was making fine speed away to the southeast and Teazer had yet to get into her stride.

There was one niggling fact, however: if La Fouine was trying to get away, why had he not set stuns'ls and all other possible aids to speed in running before the wind? Whatever the reason Kydd would not set them either; if La Fouine saw them laboriously rig stuns'l booms and bend on such sail he need only wait until all was in place, then go hard up into the wind, leaving Teazer to thrash along for the time she needed to take them in again.

The two ships stretched out over the sea until it became evident by sextant that the angle from waterline to La Fouine's masthead was increasing. Teazer was gaining! For all La Fouine's fancy ship-rig and smart seamanship Teazer was the faster vessel before the wind.

Thumping the rail Kydd urged his little ship on. La Fouine was now visibly nearer and a plan for close action would be needed. Through his glass Kydd thought he could pick out the blue and white figure of the captain on his quarterdeck: what was he thinking of Teazer now?

Then, not more than a quarter of a mile ahead, La Fouine spun at right angles to take the wind hard on his starboard cheek, angling away to the right. At the same time as his side lengthened his whole broadside bore on Teazer —he did not waste his chance and up and down his length hammered the flash and smoke of his guns, the breeze gaily sending the smoke rolling away over him to leeward.

Teazer's guns could not bear, but she made a narrow target, bows on; as far as Kydd could detect there was no damage.

Quickly he bellowed orders that had her pirouetting round as fast as the braces could be won, but La Fouine had gained vital points by reducing Teazer 's advantage to weather.

In the contest of ships' speeds it did not take the sextant to tell that close-hauled Teazer was even faster. Kydd guessed that La Fouine was overdue a careening, and a brig-sloop had the edge over the less handy ship-rigged species, but even so he felt a jet of pride.

A conclusion was now inevitable, and Kydd's mind raced. In the chase to windward he had the same kind of quandary: close-hauled, the best advantage to be gained was to toggle bowlines to their bridles and stretch forward the weather edge of the sails. This took time and, in just the same way as with the stuns'ls, if La Fouine were to revert back before the wind they would need removing. Again, he took his cue from the Frenchy: no bowlines, therefore none for him.

Kydd stepped over to the quartermaster at the wheel. "Luff 'n' touch her," he ordered. Tentatively Poulden eased the helm, watching for the slightest flutter at the taut, windward edge of the sail, at which point they were straining as close to the north-westerly as it was possible to be. Kydd was bargaining that Teazer had the speed to overcome the disadvantage of being so tight to the wind compared to one slightly fuller, and thus claw back some distance into the breeze. It would take longer to overhaul their quarry but the advantage would be priceless.

By two in the afternoon the end was in sight. After miles of a sea chase Teazer was comfortably to windward of her opponent and was about to establish an overlap—the guns would be speaking soon.

Kydd had done all he could to prepare his ship and her company. Now it was time.

"Firing to larb'd," Kydd warned. There was no doubt of their target, slashing along just ahead of them and to leeward, but by this he was indicating that he would not be putting his wheel over suddenly and crossing the enemy stern for a savage raking broadside from his starboard side—that would offer one chance only and, with six-pounders, it was not a battle-winning tactic. Instead he would continue coming up, then pound away broadside to broadside until there was a result—one way or another.

And because of Teazer's hard-won weather position his foe could not turn away from the onslaught as that would present his vulnerable stern-quarters to a double broadside. The French commander must have come to the same conclusion for he could see aboard La Fouine that they were shortening sail: it could only be in readiness for combat.

At last: no more tactics, manoeuvring, hard racing. This was the moment.

Kydd allowed Teazer to move ahead before he ordered sail shortened and their frantic speed faded to a purposeful trot as they squared away to their opponent. As he had seen his captain do at the Nile, he started pacing slowly up and down to throw off the aim of muskets in the fighting tops of the enemy picking him out as an officer.

Along the exposed decks the gun crews tensed, held to a hair-trigger, seeing their enemy so brutally clear. Kydd saw no reason to delay: as soon as the last gun had slewed round and could bear it was time to begin. "Mr Dacres, fire when ready."

All along the larboard side the six-pounders woke to violent life, eight ringing cracks joining in one ear-splitting discharge, which, Kydd noted again, was quite unlike the deep smash of Tenacious's twenty-four pounders. Still, when the smoke cleared there were several tell-tale dark blotches on La Fouine's sides.

But there would be pay-back. The gun crews worked like maniacs; Kydd remembered from his past at the lower-deck guns that the best cure for cannon-fever was furious work at the guns. Then La Fouine's eight-pounders replied in a vicious stabbing of gunflash and smoke. A musical twang sounded as a stay parted, and a single scream came from forward, cut off almost as soon as it began. Teazer seemed to have escaped serious injury.

Firing became general, guns spoke as soon as they were loaded in a harsh cycle of labour and pain, which was now the lot of the gun crews. Kydd's glance went down to the facings on his coat, smeared with the soft grey of gun-smoke. This was now a smashing duel and it was only just beginning.

He turned at the mainmast and began his pace back to the wheel. He knew only too well that the helmsman had the hardest task: the target of so many sharp-shooters, he could neither move nor retaliate, but at the same time he had the vital responsibility of keeping the ship from veering wildly off course, a fatal matter in the heat of battle.

He glanced across—it was still Poulden at the wheel, calm and measured, a fine example to all who saw him.

From far forward there was a distinct strike of shot, the shock transmitted down the ship through her frames, even to where Kydd stood. Then followed a slow, rending crack as of a tree falling—which could have only one meaning.

"Hold her! " he bawled at Poulden. Teazer was sheering up out of control into the wind, her sails banging and flapping as they were taken full aback and her speed dropped away to nothing.

A seaman pelted up, wild-eyed. "Sir, we took a shot in th' bowsprit at th' gammoning an' it carried away." Chest heaving, the man seemed to be looking to Kydd for some sort of miracle, but with the bowsprit and therefore all the headsails gone there was nothing his captain could think of that would salvage the moment. One thing was imperative: to stop the wild flogging of the sails—even as he glanced over the side they were slowly gathering sternway under their impetus.

Mercifully, La Fouine had shot ahead, leaving them flailing astern, his guns falling silent as they ceased to bear. Kydd hurried to the bows. Teazer's dainty bowsprit had taken an eight-pounder shot squarely at its base and now lay in the sea under her forefoot, shattered and tangled in an appalling snarl of ropes and blocks. With the ruin so complete, Teazer was now dead in the water.

A single lucky shot: it was unfair so early in the fight—and in the worst possible place. Completely out of balance Teazer could neither turn away nor keep a straight course and was now terribly vulnerable.

Over the fast-opening stretch of sea La Fouine continued on, the smoke around him dissipating quickly. Now was his chance to make his escape to continue unimpeded on his voyage of destruction.

But he did not. He wore round in a lazy circle that would end with the methodical annihilation of his helpless opponent.

A cold pit of fear opened in Kydd's stomach, not so much for himself but for the men who had trusted him, for his lovely ship that had minutes of life left—and he knew for a certainty there was nothing he could do about it.

The circle was closing. As a carnivore stalks its kill, La Fouine was going to make sure of his prey. Out of range of Teazer's little six-pounders he was coming round to cross her stern—a true deciding blow, for with perfect impunity he could slowly pass by, sending every shot in his broadside in deadly aim smashing through her pretty stern windows and on into her vitals, unstop-pably down the length of the ship. It would be an onslaught of death and devastation that would be unimaginably violent.

It was the end. The only question left was, at what point did Kydd stop the carnage by yielding to the enemy?

La Fouine came round and steered straight for Teazer's forlorn stern. If war was logical, thought Kydd, dully, now would be the time to give up and strike his colours. But war was not logical; if he hauled down his flag, after mere minutes of fighting, he and the Navy would be damned for ever as cowardly. Therefore there was no alternative: Teazer and her people must endure what came until—until Teazer's commander put a stop to it . . .

As he straightened for the final run, La Fouine's cannon showed in a sinister line along his side. Kydd imagined he could see the slight movements at their black muzzles as gun captains triumphantly trained their weapons for maximum damage. He closed silently, aiming to pass no more than ten yards away.

Just before he reached Teazer Kydd roared, with all the passion of his frustration and sorrow, "On th' deck! Everyone—get down!"

The gun crews, seamen with pikes waiting to repel boarders, the boatswain and his party, all lay prone, cringing in anticipation at the hideous storm about to break over them. Kydd was about to follow suit when some scrap of foolish pride—perhaps a death wish—kept him standing tall and glaring contemptuously at the nemesis gliding in for the kill. Then he became aware of others: Dacres, standing with him, Bowden, the little midshipmen coming up, Poulden, more.

He tried to order them down but the lump in his throat was too great. La Fouine slowed; they were going to take all the time they needed. His bowsprit reached them not thirty feet off, sliding past, men on the deck in every detail, watching them, waiting for the single shout of the order to fire. At any second . . .

The shout came—but there was no sudden eruption of violence. The shout was repeated but Kydd's mind refused to accept what was going on until he realised that the guns were still silent. La Fouine slid past slowly while the shouting grew strident. They were calling on him to surrender! A figure in blue and white on the quarterdeck was shouting angrily through a speaking trumpet.

Now was the sensible time to admit to his helplessness and to save lives, finish Teazer's plucky resistance. Inside he was in a maelstrom of emotion, his first command, the pinnacle of his life, all to end so bleakly. It just could not—

"Non!" he thundered back. "Je ne capitule pas!" The corvette glided silently past and began circling again. On his return there would be no mercy shown and there would be death and blood in the afternoon. Defiantly, Kydd and his ship waited.

CHAPTER 8

"DEAR FELLOW, IT WAS NOTHING! We were signalled to investigate the firing and there you were, helpless as a sucking shrimp under the guns of the Frenchy." Winthrop, the frigate Stag's captain, looked amiably over his glass and chuckled. "Never does to vex those who are bigger than you."

"Aye, sir, but I must thank ye on behalf o' the ship," Kydd said stiffly. It had been a hard time for him during the lengthy tow to Malta coming to terms with Teazer's hair's-breadth escape and its implications for his future.

Winthrop sighed. "Do forgive me if I appear . . . unfeeling, Mr Kydd, yet I am obliged to remark that my providential appearance on the scene seems as much a fortune of war as the cannon strike on your bowsprit—do you not agree?"

It was nothing but the truth, Kydd had to admit. "The fortune o' war, yes, sir—but where is m' reputation, my prospects with th' admiral? Sadly out o' countenance, I'd wager."

"Not necessarily," Winthrop replied, topping up Kydd's glass. "Consider, while you are not distinguished in any measure, you have disgraced neither yourself nor your flag. If I catch your meaning aright, then unless Lord Keith at this moment has a particularly shining young officer he is desirous of advancing in the service then your position is secure . . . for the time being, of course."

Kydd felt his spirits rising, but he could not help adding, "'Twould be a fine thing if y'r same fortune c'n throw me a chance of a bold stroke as would set th' world t' talking—and me t' notice."

Winthrop regarded him soberly. "You may discover your chance earlier than you think. We are all placed in the way of opportunity. You will not have heard yet, but it seems the late and much lamented Abercrombie is to be replaced by the grand General Hely-Hutchinson. And I have it from a valued source that the Egypt campaign will therefore take a decidedly active turn. Do try to get yourself to sea as soon as you may, Kydd. I feel this is not to be missed."

"Then, sir, you'll see Teazer there right enough!"

There was a vehemence in Kydd's voice that evoked a frown. "Sir, all the world applauds an officer of audacity and character— but, if you'll forgive me remarking it, where is the line that marks off for him the aspiration to laurels from vainglory and rash imprudence?"

Receiving no answer, he let it hang, then said gently, " Distinction will attend a virtuous endeavour, never doubt it, but the pursuit of peril and hazard in the expectation of glory will damn for ever the officer who sets his course thus."

The loss of a bowsprit was catastrophic in the heat of battle, yet was an easy enough repair for a dockyard: the stump was withdrawn, the new spar stepped and the original jibboom heeled to it. There was little other damage and therefore Teazer could look forward to getting back to sea soon.

A ship from England had arrived with precious dockyard stores—among them Teazer 's carronades and a stern instruction from the Board of Ordnance to ship them in place of her entire current fit of carriage guns in accordance with latest practice in England for the smaller classes of warship.

Teazer's present six-pounders were to a carronade as a cutlass to a rapier. They were short, brutish weapons with a vicious recoil—but they multiplied by four times the weight of metal of her broadside. At short range to any opponent the twenty-four-pounder carronade would be indistinguishable from the guns of a ship-of-the-line—but it had to be close-in fighting for the lighter-charged weapons to reach out and do their work.

Kydd was not so sure: the entire armament, bar a pair he would replace the small chase guns with? His whole experience in the Navy had been with ships whose main weapon was the long cannon. With refinements such as a ringed cascabel for angled fire and dispart sights, action could be opened at a remarkable range and only at the climax would any carronades carried come into play. Now he was being asked to retire all but two of his six-pounders in favour of an all-carronade armament. Would he come to regret this?

Stirk was in no doubt. "Remember th' Glatton, Mr Kydd." She was an old Indiaman that had been outfitted entirely with carronades. A few years previously she had been set upon by no less than four frigates and two corvettes and had destroyed two of the frigates and set the remainder to flight.

"That's true enough," Kydd said, allowing himself to be mollified.

Orders for the attention of the commander of HMS Teazer soon arrived. From Admiral Keith himself, they were terse and to the point. Being in all respects ready for sea, she should forthwith attach herself to the forces before Alexandria commanded by Captain Sir Sidney Smith.

Kydd laid down the orders with satisfaction. Smith—now there was a fighting seaman! There was sure to be a chance for bold deeds with his old leader at the great siege of Acre in command.

* * *

Teazer sailed within the week. It was an easy passage and four days later they were in sight of Pompey's Pillar, the distant white sprawl of Alexandria and, ahead, the disciplined and purposeful progress of a small squadron of the Royal Navy under easy sail.

"Well met, Mr Kydd." Sir Sidney Smith held out his hand. The sensitive features, the odd, almost preoccupied air brought back a floodtide of memories from when Kydd had been truly blooded in personal combat. "It seems I must offer my felicitations," he continued, eyeing Kydd's epaulette.

"Aye, sir—a mort unexpected, I have t' allow," Kydd said modestly, his broad smile betraying the satisfaction beneath.

"And ready to try your worthy craft in an early meeting with the enemy?" Smith spoke drily, apparently ignorant of Kydd's recent encounter, or perhaps he had chosen to ignore it. Kydd knew that Smith was still in his original ship Tigre, unaccountably with little to show for his epic defence of Acre, Napoleon's first personal defeat on land.

"Sir, would ye be so good as t' lay out for me the situation ashore?" Before, he had been merely a lieutenant on secondment; now he was commander of a not insignificant unit of the fleet, with a valid interest in the larger picture.

Smith got to his feet, went to the broad sweep of windows and stared out pensively. "Very well. Since the glorious Nile the French have been cut off, some might say stranded, in this land of vast antiquity and endless desert. And following our late success in Acre, Napoleon has cravenly fled, leaving his great army to its fate."

He folded his arms and continued to gaze out wordlessly; Kydd thought he had been forgotten. "Nevertheless," he resumed suddenly, "they have not been idle. Under Kleber, their second before his assassination, they brazenly faced the Turks—who are still the nominal rulers of Egypt—and bested them at every turn.

"It is vital to our interests to eject the French Army from Egypt, for it is folly in the extreme to leave a still potent force in being, ready to do untold mischief if loosed. And, besides, it costs Lord Keith a sizeable portion of his ships of force to stand before Alexandria and many lesser vessels to enforce a blockade of the French forces."

"And our army, sir?" Kydd knew it had made a successful and courageous amphibious landing some months before but at the cost of its general, Abercrombie, and had heard nothing since.

"Yes, yes, I was coming to that. In essence, our army is heavily outnumbered and has been in a state of stalemate since. With the French in strong possession of Cairo, the capital, and Alexandria, the chief port, there is little they can do."

"An' therefore nothing we can do," Kydd said, seeing his chance of action ebb away.

"I didn't say that," Smith said sharply. "I have laid out a plan before General Hely-Hutchinson that I am sanguine has sufficient merit to interest him. For its accomplishment it will require participation by the Navy."

Kydd brightened. "May I know y'r plan, sir?"

"No, you may not. You will, of course, as a commander of one of His Majesty's ships be required to attend the general's councils at which, if the general is in agreement, the plan will be divulged to the meeting. Until then, I would be gratified at your attentions to squadron orders—your immediate tasks will become apparent at the council."

"And Commander Kydd, sir, of HMS Teazer, brig-sloop."

Kydd bowed studiously to the splendid vision of the Army officer before him. "Delighted t' be part o' your force, sir," he said.

"Quite so, Commander. We shall find work for ye soon enough." The eyes moved on and Kydd yielded obediently to the next in line.

"The sea officers will sit by me," Smith announced, when the ceremonies were complete and they had moved into the stuffy operations room with its vast table. Half a dozen naval officers clustered defensively round him, opposite the imposing chair at the head.

Kydd nodded to them; to his gratification a good half of Smith's squadron were luggers, gunboats and other small craft, which merited no more than a lieutenant-in-command, and therefore over all of them he was nominally senior.

Further introductions concluded and Hely-Hutchinson opened proceedings. "Gentlemen, I have been accorded the privilege of the overall command of this endeavour, and I do not propose to waste time. The French are undefeated and lie before us in superior numbers. I intend to strike fast and thrust deep into Egypt, thereby separating the two main concentrations of French." He paused and looked round the table before continuing.

"I shall first reduce Rosetta. This will secure the Canopic mouth of the Nile for us, of course. Then I shall follow the river as my path of advance inland through the desert and set Cairo to the sword before the French in Alexandria can achieve a junction with them."

It was a bold and imaginative stroke.

"Sir, if I may—how will we—"

"The Navy will be told to precede the attacking columns up the river to sweep the banks clear with cannon fire. Is that clear?"

Kydd saw Smith's blank expression, his fixed staring at the table and knew immediately where such audacity had originated.

"Splendid! Now we shall get to the details . . ."

An Ottoman squadron of Turks and Albanians joined the English soldiers landing opposite Rosetta. The town duly surrendered and the way was now clear for their daring thrust into the heart of Egypt.

But that did not include Kydd. "No, sir! Do you not see that upriver your otherwise charming sloop would be sadly discommoded by her draught? This work is for others." There was no shifting Smith, and Teazer was left to watch the dust of the troops disappearing round a bend in the river, leaving nothing but date palms and dunes behind them.

It was galling to be beating up and down guarding the seaward approaches to the Nile delta while Smith had taken personal command of the flotilla of gunboats clearing the way for the Army's advance. There was now every prospect of a titanic struggle in the trackless sands before the immeasurably ancient pyramids; 4,500 untried British soldiers against 10,000 men and 300 guns of the most experienced army in the world, safe behind the walls of the capital of Egypt. Only the surprise and daring of the approach was in their favour.

Days stretched to weeks: the endless sailing along past the low, ochre sands and straggling palms bore down on the spirit. There was no glory to be had in this—no French vessel worth the name was going to risk the ships-of-the-line of the blockade force, while the smaller feluccas, djerms and the rest were no prey for a man-o'-war.

Kydd could feel time slipping—with nothing in view that would give any kind of opportunity to win recognition and secure him in his command. He forced himself to patience.

News from the interior was slow and confused: there was talk of a general rising among the population against the French, but that transmuted into a petty insurrection against the Mamelukes. Word then came that Hely-Hutchinson had reached Cairo and had had the gall to demand the instant surrender of General Belliard and his army. With double the English numbers it was hardly surprising that the French had refused. The stage seemed set for either catastrophe or headlong retreat.

Returning gunboats appeared and made straight for the little harbour at Rosetta with the news that, by an astonishing mix of diplomacy and bluff, Hely-Hutchinson had persuaded the French general to capitulate. The price? That his troops would be shipped safely back to France. Shortly thereafter, a flood of vessels of all sizes converged on Rosetta from upriver, each packed with unarmed French soldiers.

It was a brilliant stroke: in one move the British had driven a wedge between the French, eliminated one side and forced the other to draw in their defensive lines around the city and port of Alexandria. At last it appeared that, after a miserable start to the war, the Army could now feel pride in themselves.

With the return of the victorious Hely-Hutchinson, plans could be made for the investment of this last stronghold. A council-of-war was ordered, Commander Kydd in attendance with Sir Sidney Smith and the other naval captains.

Smith made a late entrance: in a room dominated by the gold frogging and scarlet of army field officers, he appeared dressed in Turkish robes and a blue turban, with side-whiskers and moustache in an Oriental style. In scandalised silence, he took his place, remarking offhandedly as he sat, "The Grand Vizier calls me 'Smit Bey.'"

With a brother the ambassador in Constantinople, and his consuming interest in the Levant, Smith was known as an authority on the region and Kydd had heard him speak easily with the Arabs and Ottomans in their own languages. Perhaps, Kydd concluded, his outlandish appearance was Smith's notion of a gesture of solidarity with them, the lawful rulers of Egypt.

An ill-tempered "Harrumph!" came from Hely-Hutchinson. "Why, Sir Sidney, I had no notion that you meant to be a character," he added, and without waiting for reply took up his papers. "The reduction of Alexandria. We have been attempting that very object since the first. Some say 'impregnable' but I say 'vulnerable.' And this is the reason: Lord Keith tells me that the twin harbours are not to be assailed in a frontal manner from the sea—but offers us a landing place on the shores of Aboukir. This I reject out of hand because we would be constrained to fight our way on a narrow front all the way to the city. Nonsense.

"So here is what I shall do. It has come to my attention that the low region to the inland side of Alexandria was known to the ancients as a lake—Mareotis, if I recall correctly."

Kydd stole a sideways glance at Smith, who caught the look and rolled his eyes furtively. Not knowing how to respond, Kydd gave a weak smile and returned his attention to the general.

"I am going to cut every waterway, every canal and every rivulet and send their waters cascading against the French—Lake Mareotis will live again! And by this means I will be empowered to trap Menou and his troops in an impassable enclave. They may neither be supplied nor can they run away. By my reckoning, with the timely assistance of the Navy, it can only be a short period before we entirely extirpate the French from this land." A stir of interest rippled about the stuffy room: this was more bold thinking, the kind that won wars—or cost men their lives.

Smith leaned back in his chair. "Sir, you may be assured that the Navy is ready to play its part," he said languidly. "In fact, such is the urgency of the matter that I have this day placed Commander Kydd in a position of absolute authority over the plicatiles."

Cold grey eyes bored into Kydd, who quailed. What, in heaven's name, were the plicatiles?

"I have always placed the utmost reliance on Mr Kydd's technical understanding and take the liberty of reminding the general that this is the same man who fought by my side so valiantly in Acre."

The meeting moved to details—troop movements, lines of advance, field-sign colours for the order of battle—but Kydd was in a ferment of anxiety concerning his role with the plicatiles. The developing plan gave no further clue: the Army would advance on Alexandria but at the same time there would be a determined and noisy diversion from the sea, the squadron commanded in person by Sir Sidney. Yet another element would be the clandestine transfer of troops around the rear of the French made possible by the flooding of Lake Mareotis.

At least the Navy's role was clear enough—and who knew? There might well be chances in the deadly scrimmages likely at the entrance of the port—a great deal of shipping lay at anchor inside, including frigates, and Teazer would not hang back.

The meeting broke up. A worried young lieutenant tried to ask Kydd about his role in a gunboat but Kydd brushed him off: he had other things on his mind. Smith was deep in conversation with a Turkish field officer and he waited impatiently for it to end, then the two began to move off together.

"S-sir! If y' please—"

Smith broke off and turned to Kydd.

"Sir, about y'r plicatiles . . ."

"And do I hear an objection? Let me remind you, Mr Kydd, that I've gone out of my way to accede to your evident desire for the opportunity of distinguished conduct by an independent command—are you now about to renounce it?"

"B-by no means, sir!" Kydd stuttered. "I shall bend m' utmost endeavours. It's—it's just that . . ."

"You find the service too challenging?" Smith's eyebrows rose.

"No, sir!"

"Then I can safely leave the matter with you." He turned his back and resumed his animated conversation with the Turk.

"Be damned t' you, sir!" the elderly colonel spluttered, his fist waving comically in the night air. "I'm not about to risk m' men in that contraption! What kind o' loobies d' ye think we are?"

A seaman patiently held the blunt prow of a boat for the milling and distrustful soldiers to board. But this was no stout and seaworthy naval launch—it was a flat, awkward beast built in sections joined with leather seams, a portable boat that had been carried across the desert on the backs of soldiers: a plicatile. It was now ready to take to the waters of the rejuvenated Lake Mareotis to catch the unsuspecting French in the rear. And it leaked like a colander.

Kydd took a ragged breath. It had been a nightmare, ensuring that there were enough reliable seamen to conn the hundreds of craft and that each had a boat compass and dark-lantern, repair kits, balers and so on as well as the right fit of army stores. The tedious and bitingly cold night march through the anonymous sand had been preceded by days of Kydd's organisation and planning that had taken its toll on his stamina, and he was in no mood to debate the wisdom of embarking the troops in the transport provided.

"Then, sir, I'm t' tell Gen'ral Hely-Hutchinson that his regiments refuse t' move forward?" he retorted. "Th' colonel says he might get his feet wet?"

"Have a care, sir!" the officer spat dangerously. "I'll remember your name, sir!"

"Aye, Kydd it is—meanwhile . . . ?"

All along the reedy "shore" of the new lake more and more of the plicatiles took to the water. It was vital that a credible force was assembled ready at the appointed point on the opposite shore at dawn. This implied a departure time of not later than two in the morning if they were to avoid being revealed by a rising moon. They had to board now.

Stumping along the shoreline, shouting himself hoarse, goading, wheedling, ordering, it was a nightmare for Kydd. If the night succeeded, there would be not much more than an avuncular pat on the back: if he failed, the whole world would hear of it.

He had also come to realise bitterly that Smith had probably engineered his removal ashore during this phase to remove a hungry rival for glory in the only true naval enterprise on offer. Dacres had been at first surprised, then transparently avaricious at the prospect of temporary command of Teazer and was now somewhere out to sea in her while Kydd stormed about in the marshes ashore.

It was time: ready or not, they had to start. He fumbled for his silver boatswain's call, set it to his lips and blasted the high and falling low of "carry on." It was yet another thing to worry about, setting some thousands of men into an advance without the use of trumpets or other give-away signals. From up and down the line of shore came the echoing peal of other pipes sounding in a caterwaul of conflicting notes. They died away but then the first plicatiles tentatively began their long paddle across the invisible dark of the lake.

In a fever of impatience Kydd watched their slow progress, but then more and more ventured out until the dark waters seemed full of a cloud of awkward shapes disappearing onwards into the night. Energised to desperate hope, he scrambled aboard the nearest and they pushed off. Water instantly began to collect in the flat bottom and sloshed about; Kydd growled at one of the nervous redcoats and threw him the baler.

The boat felt unstable and Kydd was grateful for the absolute calm of the waters. He snapped at the four paddlers for greater efforts; he wanted to close with the main body ahead before they reached the other side. To his right despairing cries turned to shrieks. Why the devil could they not drown quietly? he mused blackly.

Ahead, from what must be over the dunes to seaward, a rocket soared. Several others answered and distant gunflashes lit the sky, with continuous dull crumps and thuds. The sea diversion was beginning: if the French thought it was the main assault it would draw them there and the rear assault would have a chance—but if not . . . Kydd knew that if their own attack attracted the majority of defenders, the enterprise of the Navy would attempt a landing of their own: marines and seamen would be establishing a vital bridgehead while his lightly armed force was cut to pieces.

"Stretch out, ye haymakin' shabs!" he ground out fiercely, at the hapless soldiers plying the paddles. He had to be up with the others when they made their surprise move—but when they did, exactly what orders would he give?

A soft edge to the darkness was turning into the first delicate flush of dawn. He could see ahead much further and the reed-fringed bank of the opposite shore materialised. Mercifully it seemed they had not yet been seen, and under cover of a low ridge the boats were touching ashore and being pulled up.

An impossible mass of men was assembling at the water's edge; he had not realised the minimum area of ground a thousand men or more must occupy. His feverish imagination rushed stark images into his mind of the muzzles of cannon suddenly appearing at the skyline to blast a storm of grape-shot and canister into the helpless crowds—what could he do? What orders should he give the moment he landed?

The boat nudged into sandy mud and he splashed into the shore, urgently looking about and swallowing his concern. Then from random parts of the mass came stentorian bellows—he recognised the colonel's—and up and down the milling mass other military shouts. Here and there pennons were raised high with regimental colours, attracting men to them. Order coalesced out of chaos and, with a sudden emptiness, Kydd knew his job was done. The Army was taking charge of its own.

Columns formed, scouts and pickets trotted forward and the force prepared to move out in disciplined silence. The fireworks display was still playing out to sea but now the deeper thuds of heavier guns could be heard in the distance; closer to, the light tap of muskets became more insistent, then a marked flurry before dying away. The men moved forward into battle.

* * *

"That was clean done, Mr Kydd," Smith said equably, seated in a tent in an encampment overlooking the city. He had resumed his Turkish raiment and, with the pasha of Egypt, was bubbling away on a hookah with every indication of enjoyment. "Achieved its object. With our fearsome motions from seaward and the sudden appearance of an unknown number of men in their rear, where before they felt safe they now have no other option than to retreat into the city. Well done, sir!"

It was all very well for Smith to feel so complacent, Kydd thought sourly. He was the one mentioned in the general's account.

"I rather think it is now a matter for the French of treating for the most honourable capitulation they can get—they cannot continue, of course." Polite words were exchanged with the pasha, who beamed at Kydd, accepting his best bow with an airy gesture.

"It only remains to make a show of strength sufficient to allow Menou to yield honourably," Smith continued. "Probably the squadron forcing the harbour entrance with guns run out should suffice." He took another puff and finished smugly, "Then the whole of the Levant, north and south, east and west, will be ours. Makes you a mite proud at this time, don't you think?"

"Aye, sir," Kydd said heavily. "Should I square away Teazer for th' entering?" At least he would be one of the triumphant ships entering the ancient port.

Sir Sidney came back smoothly, "Sadly, that will not be possible. I require that you will take my dispatches to Malta. Their secure arrival is of importance."

Dispatches. While the last grand scenes of a great army of conquest capitulating to one of lesser number were played out, brought about by the unanswerable exercise of sea power of which HMS

Teazer was a proud representative, she would not be present.

Tysoe came in to set the table for dinner but saw Kydd staring through the stern-lights at the ship's wake stretching away on a rapidly darkening sea. He left as quietly as he had entered.

The situation was complex and not at all as Kydd had expected. With the final ejection of the French from the eastern Mediterranean it was probable that this part of the world would revert to a backwater, as far as naval occasions were concerned, but in the hours since they had left Alexandria for Malta he had made a reappraisal of his situation.

It was not Teazer 's fault. Neither was it his. It was, as Renzi would strongly concur, in the nature of her being, that as a brig-sloop she had been designed for humble roles on a larger stage. It was therefore inappropriate and foolish to dream of glory and daring while his ship was faithfully doing the job for which she had been created.

Now that the war had subsided there was never going to be a chance of real distinction. The wise course would be to take comfort and pleasure from her willing performance of these tasks and, while he could, taste to the full the sensations of command. There was only a short time left to him, perhaps a few months, before the commander-in-chief needed to satisfy a situation and he was replaced. His eyes pricked, but only for a moment: he would make the most of the days left to him before it was time to coil and belay his sea-going life.

Tysoe appeared with wine, the glass glittering in the candlelight. Kydd did not make a habit of drinking alone, fearing it might take hold in the solitude of his great cabin, but this night was different.

If it had to finish now there was much he could be proud of: there were precious few in the Navy who had made the awesome step from fo'c'sle to quarterdeck, and even fewer who had gone on to command their own ship. When he settled back in Guildford he would be a gentleman of consequence, one whom the townsfolk would point out to each other. When he settled . . .

The cabin was now as he wished it; his eyes roamed wistfully over the miniature sideboard for his silver and the polished panelling with his pictures and a small framed old sea-chart of Anson's day. He could sit six at the table at a pinch, although no occasion for such entertaining had presented itself, and he had been able to secure a neat little Argand lamp in its own gimbals for reading at night. There were other ornaments, keepsakes and a handsome mercury barometer, but without a woman's touch it retained a pleasing masculine order.

A swell lifted Teazer's bows; as prettily as a maid at a dance she acknowledged with a lissome dip and unhurried rise as it passed down her length. Kydd warmed to the grace and charm that was so natural in these, her native seas. With such a lovely ship it would be brutish not to take pleasure in her embrace.

Suddenly restless, he got to his feet, opened the door and pushed past a surprised Tysoe out on deck. The night had a velvety soft darkness that allowed the stars to blaze in unusual splendour in a celestial vastness so low it seemed possible to touch, while the light north African night breezes brought dry, pungent scents to blend with the comfortable smells of shipboard life.

He became aware that the quiet drone of voices from the dark shapes around the wheel had ceased: the captain had come out on deck.

Kydd moved across to them. "Good evening, Mr Dacres," he said agreeably, and sensed the other relax—the captain was not on the prowl. "All's well?"

"Yes, sir," Dacres answered cautiously.

As captain, Kydd could expect no light conversation in the night watches; this was one of the crosses he must bear.

Kydd turned to the midshipman. "Tell me, Mr Attar d, where do I look t' find the Pleiades?"

The lad swivelled and pointed. "There, sir, the head o' the bull—Taurus, I mean."

"Just so. Not as we'd use 'em f'r our navigating. And—"

"The Arabs say El Nath, that's 'the one who butts,' sir—and it's the first of their zodiac, which they calls Al Thuraya, 'the crowd,' by which they mean a crowd of camels, and—"

"Thank 'ee, Mr Attard. Ye knows the tongue o' the Moors, then?"

"Sir. Most who are born in Malta know it." Now abashed before his captain he retreated into silence.

Kydd looked up at the dark splash of sails against the star-field, moving gently, never still. He stood for a precious moment, then returned below.

The next day was bright and clear and Kydd had no doubt of what he wanted. "A right good scrubbing, Mr Dacres. Brightwork a-gleam an' get some hands aft to point every fall that ends on th' quarterdeck." He had no idea who his guests would be, but Commander Kydd would be entertaining in Teazer when they arrived in Malta.

He was insistent, nonetheless, that there would be a live firing of the carronades; a round from three guns after loading practice. It was odd not to hear the squeal of gun-carriage trucks or men straining at the training tackle to simulate recoil. The sound of their firing was different as well: deeper-throated, perhaps, even though the powder charge was less. What was most satisfying was the massive plume sent up by the twenty-four-pound ball, but the scant range was still of some concern.

By evening Teazer was trim and neat; they would be at moorings under the guns of the fortress of Malta by this time the following day and Kydd's thoughts turned to those whom he felt he could invite to his little entertainment. It would be gratifying to a degree to have ladies attend; for some reason their presence always seemed to bring out the best in conversations and politeness. What his sister Cecilia would not give to host the evening, he thought wistfully.

The final day of the voyage dawned with a light drizzle and murky skies, but later in the morning a fresh wind from the northwest cleared it away and the watch-on-deck was set to swabbing the wet decks dry.

Over on the south-east horizon to leeward the lightening sea contrasted pleasingly with the uniform dark grey of the retreating cloud masses in a precise line, lighter sea to darker sky, the inverse of the normal order. The new wave of Romantic artists should take a sea voyage, thought Kydd, and capture striking scenes such as this, particularly when the white sails of a distant ship showed so dramatically against the dark grey, like the one now lifting above the horizon—"Be damned! Th' lookouts, ahoy! Are you asleep? Why did y' not sight that ship t' loo'ard, ye rogues?"

There was a lookout at the fore-topmast head, another at the main, but their attention was forward, each vying with the other to raise the cry of "Land ho!" when Malta came into view ahead.

"Hold y' course, Mr Dacres," Kydd ordered. Carrying dispatches took precedence over all and therefore there was no need to stand towards and go through the motions of intercepting possible contraband. In the unlikely event of an enemy of force the security of the dispatches was paramount but Teazer was well on her way to Malta some dozen hours ahead.

The brig plunged on close-hauled in the freshening breeze, the other vessel on the hard line of the horizon stood at a slight angle away, crossing her stern. "Sir, I do believe he's signalling." Dacres handed over his telescope: there was indeed a distinct dash of colour at the mizzen halliards but directly to leeward it was impossible to make out the flags.

"Is she not Stag, sir?" Dacres asked. The vessel was now visible as ship-rigged and had come round to the wind and bore towards them. If it was Stag she must have good reason to wish to speak them and it would be prudent to await her.

"We'll heave to, I think," Kydd ordered, still watching the vessel. Bows toward, it was difficult to make an identification. "Mr Bowden, hang out the private signal, if y' please."

An answering hoist appeared at the main. "Er, still can't make it out, sir," Bowden reported. Kydd waited for the ship to come up with them.

Then he stiffened. There was something about . . . He jerked up the glass and screwed his eyes in concentration. That fore topgallant, the dark patching that looked like stripes—it had to be! If that vessel was not La Fouine he was a Dutchman!

Instantly his mind snapped to a steely focus: this was now much more than a simple incident at sea. The need for instant decision forced itself to the front of his consciousness—all matters such as the corvette's reason to be so close to Malta would wait. Fight or flee? That was the question now.

Arguments raced through his mind: dispatches were the priority, therefore strictly he should fly for the safety of Malta. Yet there had been occasions in the past when vessels carrying dispatches had offered battle, even tiny cutters, but they had generally been in a threatening situation and had had to fight for their lives. Could he justify it before a later court of inquiry if he decided to close with La Fouine and lost the day?

On the other hand La Fouine was most certainly a grave danger to the trade of the islands as well as lying athwart the lines of supply to Egypt. Did he not have a duty to deal with such a threat?

But all internal debate was a waste of time. In his heart he knew that he would fight. As simple as that: no explanations, no analysis—in the next few hours Teazer would face her enemy again and force a conclusion.

Once this was decided Kydd's mind raced over the alternatives. The overriding necessity was for Teazer to get her carronades close—La Fouine's eight-pounders far out-ranged them and she could end lying off and being bombarded at leisure.

What did Kydd have on his side? There was the element of surprise—but that only counted if he could manoeuvre Teazer to a killing range. What else? Yes! There was still surprise! At that very moment La Fouine was crowding on sail, thinking Teazer had been deceived by his false signals. Furthermore, he knew Teazer as a six-pounder brig and would have no hesitation in moving in for the kill. Finally, he had had the better of Kydd before, and would not be inclined to think it might be different this time. They had a chance.

"Hold her at this," he ordered the conn, and roared, "Clear f'r action!" Seeing Bowden about to bend on the two huge battle ensigns he intervened and instead a puzzled "please repeat your last signal" rose slowly up while they wallowed in the brisk seas. To any spectator Teazer 's raw captain had clearly been taken in by La Fouine's stratagem: he believed the other ship to be British and her signals unclear.

It would take nerve, and precise judgement: they had to be under way and manoeuvring before La Fouine reached them, but too early would not achieve their object of luring him near. There was apprehension on the quarterdeck—what was Kydd thinking, to lie helpless before the onrush of their enemy?

La Fouine knifed towards them; at the right distance Kydd hoisted an ensign and loosed his men in a panic-stricken effort to get away. A desperate last-minute attempt at tacking had them fall away helplessly in stays and, with savage delight, Kydd saw La Fouine shape course to come down and fall upon them.

Kydd sent for Stirk and told him what he was planning to do; the man grinned and went to each gun captain in turn. Dacres looked grave when he received his orders; Poulden's reaction was a gratified salute. Now nothing more could be done.

La Fouine drew closer, coming in from astern as Teazer tried to make way after the "failure" of her tacking, her guns run out along her length, men standing forward to catch sight of their victim. There was an unmistakable air of triumph aboard: his bowsprit drew level with Teazer's quarterdeck. Kydd was relying on the corvette's cupidity: that they would not wish to damage their future prize unduly.

The first guns spoke: balls whistled overhead from La Fouine's eight-pounders aimed high, and Teazer continued to claw into the wind, apparent panic on her decks. The corvette sheered confidently across, men massed on the fo'c'sle. Their purpose was all too plain—boarders!

Kydd watched the distance narrow and held his order until the moment was right—there would be only the one chance. He roared the command: Teazer 's helm went down and as she slewed across towards La Fouine the carronades blasted out together. Shot three times bigger still than La Fouine's smashed into his vitals—but every other gun was loaded with canister on grape-shot and these turned his decks into a bloody charnel-house.

The shock and surprise were complete and the two ships came together in a splintering crash. Acrid gun-smoke hid Kydd's final throw. Drawing his sword he leaped for the bulwarks and on to the enemy deck. Impelled by both dizzying nervous excitement and desperation he battered down a cutlass-wielding seaman's defence then mercilessly impaled him. A pistol banged off next to him, catching another in the belly as a wild-eyed Frenchman lunged at Kydd with a pike, then dropped screaming. An officer with a rapier flicked it venomously at him but at that moment the two ships ground together again and they both staggered. Kydd regained his footing first and his blade took the man in the neck; the victim's weapon clattered down as he clutched at the blood spurting over his white uniform facings.

"Teazers t' me!" Kydd bellowed, seeing a gap in the milling mass and pounding aft towards the wheel. He heard others behind him and hoped they were his men; the two Frenchmen at the helm fled, leaving the area clear about the wheel. They were in a position to turn the tables on their attacker—but, to Kydd's dismay, the smoke cleared to reveal the worst. The two ships had drifted apart and he was left stranded on the enemy deck with only the men who had been able to scramble across before it happened.

He looked round rapidly; none were behind him on the after end of the ship but, forward, the French had recognised the situation and were beginning to regroup. Teazer's hull slid further away—there could be no help from her. Then the French charged and once again there was frantic hacking and slashing: Kydd had learned in a hard school and fought savagely.

They were being driven to their last stand—the afterdeck with the mizzen mast in the centre, then nothing further but the taff-rail and the sea. Still the widening gap of sea between the two ships. Should he cry, "Enough," then surrender and save lives?

In a split-second glance about the decks he noted a skylight in the centre of the deck and did not hesitate. "Here!" he bawled, and leaped feet first, smashing through the glass into the cabin below. Others tumbled after him in disarray. Staggering to his feet he saw that, as he had guessed, this was the great cabin. A flash and bang of a pistol from a side cabin made him wince, the bullet's wind passing close to his face, but the man paid for his temerity at the point of Poulden's cutlass.

Kydd reached the ornate door to the cabin spaces and barred it crudely, only just in time. There came the unmistakable sounds of men clattering down the main hatchway forward and battering at the door as the French seamen realised where they had gone. Soon there were ominous thumps and the wicked point of a pike pierced the door with a ringing thud. It was only a matter of time before the maddened men broke through.

The eyes of the men trapped below showed the whites—but then came the most beautiful sound in the world: the heavy smash of Teazer's carronades. Those aboard had seen Kydd disappear below, leaving the deck clear and had obliged with grape-shot and canister once more.

The buffeting at the door faltered and stopped: the French were hastily returning to man the upper-deck guns but were being cut down by the murderous carronades. On the edge of reason with blood-lust, Kydd forced himself to cold control but when the crunch and grind of the ships' coming together again sounded he threw back the door and, cheering frantically, he and his men burst on to the deck to take the defenders from behind just as they were overwhelmed by waves of Teazers swarming over the bulwarks.

They had won.

The great cabin of HMS Teazer was alive with laughter, feminine faces and excitement, the candlelight glinting on the ladies' adornments and Captain Winthrop's gold lace, and it was hard to concentrate in the hearty bedlam. Kydd, flushed and happy, sat at the head of the table and beamed at the world.

"Wine with ye, Mr Dacres!" he called across the table. It had been difficult to know whom to invite to his victory dinner and he had settled on Teazer's other officer, with the frigate captain and an envious lieutenant-in-command of the only other man-o'-war in harbour. The two ladies were of Winthrop's acquaintance and had been nearly overcome to be chosen to attend the most famous event in Malta.

Miss Peacock's tinkling laugh at a sally by Dacres brought a smile to Winthrop's weathered features. "My dear Kydd, I do wish you joy of your evening—it does one's heart good to see audacity and courage at the cannon's mouth rewarded in such measure!"

"I thank ye, sir, but do y' not think—"

"No, I do not, Mr Kydd! You are fortune's darling, for you have seized what she's offered and turned it to best account. Go forth in trust to take your portion of glory and never again repine. Your health, sir!"

Red with embarrassment Kydd raised his glass and mumbled something.

"Of course things have changed for you now," Winthrop said archly.

"Sir?"

"Why, it's not every officer who may claim a gazette," he said significantly.

"You think . . . ?"

"I do."

With a sense of unreality, the implications of what Winthrop was saying dawned on Kydd. A famous action at sea was a matter of the deepest interest to the whole nation and it was now the established tradition that the personal dispatches of the senior officer concerned would be published in full in the London Gazette, the government's publication of record, for all to peruse. His actual dispatch—his words—would appear along with the Court Circular, the highest legal notices and the weightiest of news and would, of course, be read by every noble and statesman in the land. Even the King himself would read it! The Naval Chronicle, of course, would want a fuller account and his few hours of madness would later be taken in thoughtfully by every ambitious naval officer . . .

"And it hardly needs remarking, no flag officer would dare to contemplate the removal from command of an established hero. Sir, you have your distinction—you may nevermore fear that your ship be taken from you."

When it had penetrated, a profound happiness suffused Kydd's being to the very core. No more to fear the brusque letter of dismissal, the dread of being cast up on an uncaring land, the—

A scream of terror pierced the merriment and the cabin fell rapidly into a shocked silence. Everyone turned to Miss Peacock, who was staring into a corner, struck dumb with fright. Kydd hurried over to her and followed her pointing finger. Chuckling, he bent down and retrieved a petrified scrap of fur. "Sprits'l, bless y' heart!" he said, turning to the throng. "Doesn't care f'r cannon fire—we've searched the whole barky, fore 'n' aft, looking for the little rascal!"

Miss Peacock came to see for herself. "Why, it's a wee-bitty kitten!" she cooed, offering her finger to be licked. "It's so thin, the poor bairn—to be kept in this awful ship to be fired at with guns! Whoever could do such a thing?"

"Miss Peacock," said Kydd, "this is Able Seaman Sprits'l, a member of Teazer's ship's company, an' he has his duties." The button eyes moved about in sudden interest and the tiny nose twitched. "I've an idea he'll need t' be used to the sound o' gunfire if he's going to be a Teazer!"

CHAPTER 9

TEAZER WAS HEADING NORTH to the trading routes around the heel of Italy. She had been sent on a cruise of her own with the barely concealed purpose of acquiring a prize or two to line the pockets of her brave commander and crew.

They had been fortunate indeed: there had been remarkably little damage and only a small number with wounds, such was the speed with which it had all happened. The French captain, Reynaud, had been mortified at his misreading of Teazer and the result of his overweening confidence, and had sulked below during the short but triumphant journey back to Malta at Teazer's tail.

It had done wonders for the Teazers' morale, and as Kydd strolled about the decks that fine morning he was met with grins and respect; even Tysoe assumed a regal bearing.

For Kydd only one thing mattered: he had achieved distinction and his command was secure. He and Teazer would be together from now on.

And that meant he could make plans for both Teazer and her company. In Malta he had seen a new ship fitted with patent windsails for ventilation that would be perfect for keeping a flow of fresh air through the length of the mess deck. There were other things he had in mind: Yates, his coxswain, had been among the wounded left at the hospital and he would take the opportunity to rate up the cool-thinking Poulden to the position. Perhaps tonight he would invite the two midshipmen to dinner—they had grown considerably in both stature and confidence and were a lively pair . . .

His pleasant musings were interrupted by the lookout's call of "Sail hoooo!" There had been sightings aplenty since their departure but only feluccas and other small vessels, not worth the wear and tear of a chase.

"Deck, ahoy! Ship-rigged, an' holding f'r the north!"

A sizeable vessel. Was it predator or prey? That they had overhauled it under full sail suggested a fat-bellied merchant ship. This would be confirmed by a sudden sighting and hopeless bid for escape, but it would take a racehorse of a ship to outrun Teazer.

Kydd waited for the expected outcome—but, to his puzzlement, there was neither the instant reaching for the weather position of a man-o'-war nor the consternation and fleeing of a merchant vessel, simply a steady northward course.

Why such confidence? It might be a guiltless neutral or, even more unlikely in these waters, a friend, but its actions were not natural to either. Unknown sail was a threat until proved otherwise and this one seemed to have not a care in the world—or was it leading them into a trap?

"T' quarters, Mr Dacres. I don't trust th' villain." There were no colours evident but that was not significant: owners of merchant packets were not inclined to waste money on flags that would blow to tatters in weeks at sea.

By early afternoon they had come within gunshot of the vessel, which still held to its course. Doubled lookouts at the masthead could spy no skulking sail, no gathering jaws of a trap—it was deeply unsettling.

"It's a plague ship, sir," Dacres suggested unhappily.

It fitted the facts: the lack of activity in the rigging, the monotonous and unvarying course, the lack of fear. Kydd took his pocket telescope and trained it on the vessel's decks. There were the usual small number of merchant-ship crew, just a couple about the wheel and a few others around the forebitts.

"Mr Dacres, there's something amiss. Give 'em a gun." A two-pounder ball sent up a plume ahead of the vessel. It had no effect. The ship stood on regardless, curious gazes on Teazer as she hauled up on them. Another gun brought a sudden burst of angry shouting that was incomprehensible, but no action.

"Half pistol shot t' wind'd, Mr Bonnici," Kydd grunted, at a loss to comprehend the situation. They closed and Kydd added, "This time I'll have ye sight close enough t' scratch his varnish."

The threat brought a grudging heaving to, a sullen wallowing with backed sails. "Board him, Mr Dacres, an' find out what he's up to," Kydd ordered. He had considered leading the party himself but he did not want to leave Teazer in this unknown situation.

"If it has plague—" Dacres protested feebly.

"He has nothing o' the sort. He's under our guns an' you'll take no nonsense. Two shots fr'm us to return directly, a wave of y'r hat should ye want assistance. We're looking to a possible prize. Do y' have the latest interrogatories?" he asked, referring to the questions issued by the Admiralty to assist boarding officers in their assessments.

"Aye aye, sir," Dacres muttered.

The cutter pulled away smartly and disappeared round the leeward side of the ship while Kydd went below to his paperwork. It generally took an hour or so for the preliminaries of a prize boarding to be concluded.

After just ten minutes there was a knock on his door, and the message, "Sir, our boat is returning." This made no sense and Kydd hurried on deck.

Dacres climbed over the bulwarks with an acutely worried expression. "Sir, may I see you privately?" he said urgently.

In Kydd's cabin he looked about carefully, then closed the door firmly. "Sir, I have to inform you . . . If you'd please to read this."

It was a French commercial newspaper, not the government Le Moniteur, notorious for its lies and sweeping claims, but a sober publication from Marseille, intended for merchants and others in trade. A phrase blazed out in the headlines: "La Paix"—peace!

Kydd stumbled through the rest, and the impossible became real. Apparently for more than a week it had been known that negotiations for peace from the English government had been accepted and an armistice declared, pending full ratification.

Peace? It was not possible! Had not the French been thrown so recently out of their Oriental empire at great cost? And with brilliant victories this was not a time to be treating for peace! He held up the newspaper. It seemed ordinary enough, a little grubby, with a pencilled column of trading figures. There was nothing to suggest it was a forgery.

Now he understood the reason for the con?dence, the steady course probably to a port on the other side of the Adriatic. Peace! The implications were endless—the treaty that must follow had to decide the fate of empires, colonies, whole peoples. Peace! In a world at war for nearly ten years it was hard to think in any other terms.

"Er, sir?" Dacres looked anxiously at his captain. "The people—when shall I . . ."

The men: how would they take the news? Kydd's mind spun. He knew he could not keep it from them long. "Get back to th' ship with our apologies an' let 'em go. We return t' Malta."

The news had arrived in Malta the day after Teazer had sailed. Addington's government had seen fit to accept humbling terms to secure any kind of peace in a war that was reaching titanic proportions, spreading over the globe and waged now by Britain on her own at an appalling cost.

It seemed that, for Downing Street, the limits had been reached, the price finally too great. From now on England would have to learn to live side by side in a world dominated by the colossus of France and First Consul Bonaparte.

Kydd landed in Malta amid a ferment of rumour and anxiety; there was widespread fear on the small island, which had done well under the umbrella of British protection. The population now faced a return to the rule of the ancient knights who had allowed in the French.

Cameron had no information and Pigot was less than helpful. Kydd's only option was to report himself and his ship to the Commander-in-Chief, Keith, in person. Kydd realized the admiral would no longer be on blockade off Toulon: he would be falling back on Minorca and its capacious fleet anchorage.

The three-day voyage passed in a haze of unreality; the sea seemed full of ships going about their lawful occasions. Neither friend nor foe, all were now simply fellow seafarers. Dawn was not met at quarters, the guns' charges were drawn and Teazer proceeded with only a signal swivel gun loaded. It was unnatural.

What did the future hold? Increased trade in the Mediterranean would require the guarantee of a naval presence but what would peacetime life be like? With a wry smile Kydd acknowledged that he had no idea: his entire time at sea, from pressed man to commander, had been spent at war.

There was one bright prospect, however: with all the fleet in harbour he would at last see his great friend Renzi, first lieutenant of Tenacious. There would be so much to tell and, for the first time since he had assumed the mantle of command, Kydd would know the company of one to whom he could at last unburden his soul.

Teazer raised the distant blue of the conical peak of Mount Dacres climbed over the bulwarks with an acutely worried expression. "Sir, may I see you privately?" he said urgently.

In Kydd's cabin he looked about carefully, then closed the door firmly. "Sir, I have to inform you . . . If you'd please to read this." It was a French commercial newspaper, not the government Le Moniteur, notorious for its lies and sweeping claims, but a sober publication from Marseille, intended for merchants and others in trade. A phrase blazed out in the headlines: "La Paix"—peace!

Kydd stumbled through the rest, and the impossible became real. Apparently for more than a week it had been known that negotiations for peace from the English government had been accepted and an armistice declared, pending full ratification.

Peace? It was not possible! Had not the French been thrown so recently out of their Oriental empire at great cost? And with brilliant victories this was not a time to be treating for peace! He held up the newspaper. It seemed ordinary enough, a little grubby, with a pencilled column of trading figures. There was nothing to suggest it was a forgery.

Now he understood the reason for the confidence, the steady course probably to a port on the other side of the Adriatic. Peace! The implications were endless—the treaty that must follow had to decide the fate of empires, colonies, whole peoples. Peace! In a world at war for nearly ten years it was hard to think in any other terms.

"Er, sir?" Dacres looked anxiously at his captain. "The people—when shall I . . ."

The men: how would they take the news? Kydd's mind spun. He knew he could not keep it from them long. "Get back to th' ship with our apologies an' let 'em go. We return t' Malta."

The news had arrived in Malta the day after Teazer had sailed. Addington's government had seen fit to accept humbling terms to secure any kind of peace in a war that was reaching titanic Toro, then shaped course for the south-east of the island and the grand cliff-sided harbour of Port Mahon. Passing the ruined fortress of San Felipe at the entrance to larboard, they entered the port.

The entire Mediterranean fleet was at anchor in the three-mile-long stretch of water. These ships, their sombre lines marked by ceaseless sea-keeping, the gloss and varnish long since gone from their sturdy sides but their appearance still neat and Spartan, had kept faithful watch on Toulon over the long months to make it impossible for Bonaparte to impose his will on the world. And now they were withdrawn, idle and without purpose. It was as if the world had gone mad.

As they passed by the massive ships-of-the-line, Kydd tried to make out Tenacious but could not find her: there were just too many vessels. Teazer's anchor fell from her bows and Kydd reappeared on deck in full-dress uniform with white gloves and sword to call on the Commander-in-Chief.

He mounted the side steps of Foudroyant with mixed feelings: as a victorious captain he could be certain of a warm welcome, but in these circumstances who knew what lay ahead? After he was piped aboard he was ushered respectfully into the admiral's presence. In the vast great cabin there were three other officers who, to Kydd's surprise, did not make their excuses.

Keith looked up, his face drawn and tired. "Ah, Mr Kydd. Joy of your encounter with La Fouine, of course. Your actions were in the best traditions of the service and do you much credit." He shook Kydd's hand vigorously but was clearly distracted. "In more tranquil times you should most certainly be my guest at dinner, but I do beg forgiveness in this instance and hope to receive you at another time." His legendary chilliness melted into something akin to melancholy as he added, "But, then, these are not normal times and I can promise nothing."

He paused, staring into space for long moments, then seemed to focus again. "I have this hour received Admiralty instructions. Your orders are being prepared, Commander, and will be delivered by hand to your vessel by evening gun."

Kydd murmured something, but Keith cut him short. "You will be desirous of returning to your ship. Pray do not delay on my account." As he turned to go, Kydd felt Keith's hand on his arm. The flinty eyes bored straight into his. "Please believe, Mr Kydd, I would wish you well for your future."

Kydd went down the side to the strident squeal of the boatswain's pipe and into his boat. What did this mean? Was Keith conveying more than approval of his recent triumph? Perhaps he was to be accounted as an admiral's favourite.

As they made their way back to Teazer a chance veering of the wind direction had the great ships swinging to their anchors, and past two 74s he saw at last the familiar shape of the ship he had spent so much of his sea life aboard, HMS Tenacious.

"Stretch out f'r that sixty-four," he ordered Poulden.

"Aye aye, sir," his new coxswain replied.

As they approached Tenacious she seemed dowdy and downcast; she was well ordered, but in small things she wasn't the fine old warhorse he remembered. In places the gingerbread— the gilded carved adornments round her stern and beakhead—no longer gleamed with the lustre of gold leaf and had been economically painted over in yellow. The rosin finish between the wales of her side was now a dull black and her ensign seemed limp and drab.

But for Kydd this was a moment long coming. The first satisfaction—to be well savoured—would be in encountering Rowley once more. How would he find it in him to utter the words of civility due to a fellow captain?

Poulden answered the hail from Tenacious with a bellowed "Teazer!" indicating that not only was a naval officer to board but that this one was a captain of a King's ship. They approached slowly to give the ceremonial side party time to assemble and to warn Tenacious's captain to stand by to receive.

Mounting the side steps Kydd saw with a jet of warmth all the familiar marks left by countless encounters with the sea and malice of the enemy still there.

The blast of the boatswain's call pealed out the instant his head appeared above the level of the bulwark and Kydd gravely removed his hat and acknowledged the quarterdeck, then the small group who awaited him.

A young lieutenant stepped forward anxiously. "Sir, L'tenant McCallum, second o' Tenacious."

"Commander Kydd, Teazer," Kydd said crisply. "To visit th' first lieutenant."

Hesitantly McCallum replied, "Captain is ashore, sir, and the first lieutenant at the dockyard, but he'll be back aboard presently. Er, we'd be honoured if you'd accept the hospitality of the wardroom in the meantime."

One satisfaction deferred, then, but another pleasurably delayed. Renzi could be relied on to manage the niceties of a captain come to visit a lieutenant instead of the more usual summoning in the reverse direction.

"First l'tenant's sairvant, sir, an' would ye desire a wee drop?" It was not like Renzi to have a youngster with a Scottish brogue as manservant—he normally favoured a knowing and dour marine.

"No, thank ye," Kydd answered, and settled automatically into his old second lieutenant's chair, looking around the well-remembered intimacies of the first ship in which he had served as an officer. So many memories . . . When the servant had left he tiptoed self-consciously to the end cabin, larboard side, the most junior officer's. He guiltily pulled aside the curtain and peered in at the ludicrously tiny space that he had once considered the snug centre of his domestic world. The cunningly crafted writing desk was still there, a small gilded portrait of someone's young lady peering shyly at him from the bulkhead above it.

He let the curtain fall and feeling washed over him. From the anguish of those long-ago times to now, captain of his own ship. Could fortune bring more?

"Ahem. Sir?" A tall, stooped officer stood at the door looking mystified.

"Yes, L'tenant?" Kydd answered pleasantly.

"Well, er, sir," he said in embarrassment, "Edward Robbins, first lieutenant."

It took Kydd aback. "Oh, er, Mr Renzi is not y'r first—he's been moved on?"

"Oh, no, sir," said the officer. "I've only been in post these three weeks since Mr Renzi was landed with the fever. It's been a busy time keeping in with things."

"Fever?" Kydd said blankly, a cold presentiment creeping into him.

"Why, yes, sir—did you know Mr Renzi at all?"

"I did—do."

"Oh, I've sad news for you then, sir. Mr Renzi was taken of an ague, let me see, this month past off Toulon. The doctor exhausted his quinine and having only a few leeches remaining there was little that could be done."

"He is . . ." began Kydd, but could not finish.

"We sent him in a lugger—to here, sir, the Lazaretto, but our doctor told us then that he was not responding and we should be prepared." Seeing Kydd's stricken face, he finished lamely, "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, sir."

Icy cold with the fear of what he would shortly know, Kydd headed down the harbour past Bloody Island and to the landing place on the bleak-walled Lazaretto Island. The nervous boat's crew insisted on lying off while Kydd went in to enquire. It took him moments only to discover that Renzi was no longer there; apparently he should have gone to Isla del Rey, the round island up the harbour where the hospital and its records were.

"L'tenant Renzi of Tenacious," he insisted yet again, to the man at the door. This time it brought results: an intense, dark-featured Iberian appeared. "Yes?" he asked brusquely, wiping his hands on a towel. Kydd explained himself. "He lives still," the man grunted. Hope flooded back. "But not for long. If you wan' say goodbyes, come now."

The cloying, sickly smell of suffering humanity hit him like a wall, bringing back unbearable memories of his time in a yellow-fever hospital in the Caribbean. "Here," the Iberian said, with a gesture, and stood back cynically.

Kydd bent over the pitiable grey form. It was Renzi. "M' friend—" he said huskily, but a lump in his throat prevented him continuing.

"He c'n not hear you."

"May I know—the fever, is it—"

"Is not infecting. Th' fools on your ships know nothing."

"How—how long?"

"It is th' undulant fever—do you know this?"

"No," said Kydd, in a low voice.

"He has a week—a month. Who know? Then . . ."

"Is there any cure, at all?"

"No." The finality in his voice sounded like the slam of a door. Then he added, "Some believe th' change of air, but I cannot say."

The boat trip back to Teazer in the bright sunshine was a hard trial; all he wanted now was the solitude of his cabin to grapple with what he had seen. His dearest friend on his deathbed, a motionless grey form. So different from the man who had roped himself to Kydd when they cast themselves into the sea at the wreck of Artemis, who had been by his side at Acre with bloody sword as they defied Napoleon himself. More images came and Kydd bit his lip and endured until the boat finally reached Teazer.

After he had come aboard Dacres handed him a packet. The promised orders had arrived. But Kydd needed time to face what had happened. His particular friend, who had shared so many of the adventures that had formed him, and given him the chances that had led to this, the culmination of his life, was dying—and he could do nothing.

His fists balled while helplessness coursed through him. Then he took a deep breath to steady himself.

He took up his orders, now his only link with normality, the real world, and his duty. Life—naval life—had to go on, and if there was anything to which Renzi had scrupulously held, it was his duty.

The packet of orders was thin. Normally containing signals in profusion and pages of ancillary matters, this appeared to consist only of a single folded paper. He slit the seal and opened it out: it was curt, precise and to the point. Teazer was to sail for England with immediate effect. She was to proceed thence to Plymouth, the nearest big port. There, her commission would come to an end and she would be placed in ordinary, laid up, her masts, riggings, sails and guns removed. Her ship's company to disperse, her officers' commissions to terminate and her commander to become unemployed.

It was the end of everything.

CHAPTER 10

IT WAS NOT AS IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN, his return to the land of his birth. Still numb with shock at the way his fortunes had changed so precipitously, the sight of the sprawling promontory of the Lizard, bleak against the desolate cold grey autumn seas, left him sad and empty.

The disintegration of the life he had come to love so much had started almost immediately when the Maltese had refused to continue to England and had left the ship. He had let Bonnici go with them and the few others who preferred a Mediterranean sea life to the uncertainties of peacetime Britain, and sailed short-handed.

Some of Teazer's company were eager to return, those with families, loved ones, a future. Others were subdued, caught by the sudden alteration in their lives and the uncertainty of what lay ahead.

The Eddystone lighthouse lay to starboard as they headed for Plymouth Sound and shaped course for the naval dockyard. There seemed to be so many more craft plying the coasts than Kydd remembered and each seemed bent on throwing herself across Teazer 's track.

The desolation Kydd felt had only one small glimmer of light: Renzi still clung to life. Kydd had seized on the one thing that he had heard might benefit his friend: a change of air. He had cleared out his great cabin, then stretchered Renzi aboard and set Tysoe to caring for him. The fever was still in full spate, coming in spiteful waves, and while Kydd sat with him there was no sign that Renzi understood what was going on.

Time passed in a series of final scenes: the growing definition of land to greens and blacks and the occasional scatter of village dwellings, passing Drake Island and the grandeur of Plymouth Hoe, then the concluding passage to larboard and around Devil's Point to the wider stretch of the Hamoaze.

The vast Admiralty dockyard was located along the east side of the Tamar River; for the best part of a mile the shore was pierced with graving docks and lined with ordnance wharves, quays and jetties without counting. And inland, as far as the eye could see, there were long stone buildings and chimneys, storehouses and smith's shops, sail lofts and mast houses in endless industrial display.

But Kydd had no eyes for these wonders. Even the impressive sight of ships-of-the-line in stately rows and the heart-catching sadness of the long file of little ships secured head to tail in mid-channel in ordinary did not divert him. There was one last service he could do for Renzi: his poor racked body, tightly wrapped against the late autumn misery, was landed and taken to the naval hospital at Stonehouse.

In the days that followed Kydd himself suffered: HMS Teazer had reached the end of her sea service and, by degrees, was rendered a shell fit to join the melancholy line of others at the trots. As they were de-stored, the ship's company was paid off and departed until, in an unnatural, echoing solitude, there was left only the purser, his clerk and the standing officers, who would remain until the ship was sold or disposed of—the boatswain, carpenter, gunner and cook.

Kydd tried to spend as much time as he could with Renzi; the prognosis was not good and he was visibly weakening, still in a febrile delirium. Then the day came when Ellicott laid out the last papers for his attention, and he signed away for ever his life at sea.

With an hour until the dockyard boat made its round Kydd had nothing to do but wander the forlorn husk of his ship. Empty space where once victorious carronades had roared out their defiance, over there a beautifully worked patch in the deck where once an iron-bound block had fallen from aloft. And on her bow the laughing maiden in white . . . Not trusting himself to keep a countenance, Kydd turned abruptly and went below.

The mess deck, now a deserted hollow space, still carried the same wafting odours of humanity and cooking it had always had and, leaving the boatswain to his rummaging, he passed for the last time into his cabin. The panels were bare but he had left the table and other furniture, for what use were they to him on land? His bedplace no longer contained his few possessions: they were on deck, ready to be taken ashore.

A lump came to his throat.

A soft knock and a low murmur interrupted his thoughts. "Sir." It was the boatswain, cradling something. "Sprits'l, sir. Thought ye'd like t' know he's going to be looked after, like, no need t' worry y'self on his account."

"Th-thank ye, Mr Purchet. I know he's in th' best o' hands . . ."

The boatswain left just in time: for the first time since his youth Kydd knew the hot gush of tears that would not end.

The solid, hard and hateful land was finally under his feet for good. Kydd knew what his first move would be, but little after that. He had no alternative than to return home to Guildford—but under very different circumstances from those he had dreamed of out in the bright Mediterranean. Now there was nothing of that life but memories.

His uniform was stowed with his baggage and his fighting sword. He needed to get used to the soft clinging of civilian garb—and even more quickly to the mysteries of shore ways.

Thinking of this final removal from the sea world now upon him brought a catch to his throat. And what would happen to Renzi? He might have only days, or perhaps the fever would break long enough for them to talk together for the last time.

There was only one thing possible: he would take Renzi with him and his mother would care for him. For one so ill there was only one way and that was to go by coach, which would probably mean the hire of the entire vehicle. Having lavished so much attention on Teazer Kydd's means were now severely stretched, but he could not desert his friend.

The long and tedious journey tried Kydd sorely. The eternal grinding of wheels and soul-destroying inactivity were not best suited to his mood. Renzi was as comfortable as he could make him, suspended in a naval cot across the seats, but the swaying and jolting were remorseless. If he did not survive the journey, Kydd had argued to himself, then it would be the same as if he had remained in a hospital bed to die. At least there were no wounds to hurt his friend and work open.

It took two days even with the turnpikes to reach Surrey and Guildford. The wartime years had been kind to the quiet township and little had changed. It seemed so small, tidy, placid. But he had changed: the places and scenes that had seemed so significant in his memories had receded into the picturesque tranquillity of a pretty market town.

They reached the river Wey, clattered over the old bridge and began the steep climb up the high street, past the little shops and taverns. It was as he remembered, but overlying it all was a detachment that put him over and above these scenes. Since last he had been here in these untroubled old lanes he had been at the grand and horrifying scenes of the Nile with Nelson, had stood with bloody sword at the gates of Acre—and been captain of a man-o'-war. What kind of person did that make him in the context of this gentle existence?

Under the splendid clock at the Guild Hall, then up towards School Lane. His heart beat faster for he was returning home— the only one he had now. The horses made the level, then continued the last hundred yards to the schoolhouse. Kydd was touched to see that the flag hoisted proudly over all was the blue ensign of Admiral Keith's Mediterranean squadron, no doubt strictly observed by Boatswain Perrott. It was quiet in the schoolrooms and he guessed that it was holidays.

"Here an' wait, if y' please," Kydd instructed the coachman, when they reached the small gate to the school. He descended, stretched his cramped limbs and made his way to the school cottage. He hesitated for a moment before he knocked: in the time he had been away on the high seas almost anything could have happened to the family. His father had not been so spry then and . . . He braced himself and knocked firmly. Holding his breath, he waited.

The door opened. "Th' Kydd residence. An' what's y' business, sir?" A young maid whom Kydd did not recognise was looking at him suspiciously.

"Mr Kydd t' see Mr Kydd," he could not help replying.

The maid's expression tightened. "I'll tell th' mistress, sir."

The door closed in Kydd's face. He heard light footsteps then the door opened.

"Thomas!" Cecilia shrieked, throwing her arms round him. "Darling Thomas! Do come in—where have you been? You're so dusty! Sit down, sit down! I'll get Mother."

In seconds Kydd learned that his father was well but frail, the school was doing splendidly, that Boatswain Perrott had taken the pledge—could it be believed?—and that Cecilia herself was now resting, following her release from the employ of Lady Stanhope after Lord Stanhope's resignation.

"It's so marvellous to see you!" Cecilia sparkled, holding Kydd at arm's length to see him. "I vow I can't wait until you tell us all about your wonderful ship." She linked his arm and drew him to the mantelpiece, her vivacity eliciting a reluctant smile from Kydd. "And Nicholas, do you ever see him at all?" she added gaily.

"Cec, I've been tryin' to say . . ."

Her hand flew to her mouth.

"He—he's very ill. Not as you'd say certain of a recovery."

Cecilia went white, all traces of gaiety gone. "Wh-where is he now, Thomas?"

"Well, er, he's in th' coach outside. I wanted to—"

She tore herself away and ran outside. Kydd hurried after her, disturbed by his sister's distraught reaction. "We'll take him inside, Cec—Mother will know what t' do."

Kydd sat at the old-fashioned writing desk, absentmindedly nibbling the end of his quill; the words of the letter were not coming easily. From the next room he could hear the steady murmur of Cecilia reading aloud to her patient. With that and the distracting sounds of animals being driven past to the North Street market, the cries of pedlars and street urchins, it was difficult to concentrate.

After the flurry of his arrival, arrangements had been put in hand: Kydd was to take lodgings in the town with Renzi, Cecilia insisting that she be trusted to supervise his care and treatment. Luckily the family doctor knew of undulant fever from another case—he snorted at the talk of leeches and quinine, and pronounced confidently that the febrile spasms would diminish in their own good time on Renzi's return to a cooler clime. With his sea constitution, there was every prospect of a good recovery.

They listened gravely, however, as he had gone on to warn of the danger to be apprehended from a marked tendency to depression in those suffering from the illness, leading in some cases even to suicide.

While the weakened Renzi began slowly to take an interest in the world, Kydd's fears for his own future were confirmed. His first letter to the Admiralty indicating his availability for appointment was acknowledged curtly with not the slightest indication of interest and he was working now on some excuse to broach the subject again. He was on half-pay—enough to exist in genteel carefulness but no more. With Renzi's half-pay they could stay in their rooms indefinitely, but on full recovery Renzi would be on his way back to his own family, leaving Kydd to half a living and a hole in his pocket from the fifty pounds he had paid for the coach.

Cecilia was in no doubt where his best course lay. "This is your chance to settle down, take a wife—raise a family! You're a hero. The war is over and you've played your part. You're a retired sea-captain, dear brother, free to do anything you want!"

His mother had as strong feelings on the matter as Cecilia but was wise enough not to press the issue. Kydd did, however, notice that the sword yielded to him by the French captain, which he had proudly presented as a trophy to her and which had been accepted and reluctantly displayed over the mantelpiece, was now put away safely, as were the other keepsakes and stout sea ornaments that had been so much a part of his life but now appeared out of place and quaint.

Weeks succeeded days and Kydd's waking hours were a comfortable nothingness; there had been no further word from the Admiralty and despondency settled in. It was now most unlikely that there would be a ship.

Renzi improved slowly until he reached the point at which he could hold a conversation. Guarded by a jealous Cecilia, he was weak but his mind seemed focused. However, there was a change from the urbane, light-textured conversation of the past to a darker, introspective vein. And when Cecilia read to him he would sometimes turn obstinately to face the wall.

With Renzi so out of character Kydd could not bring his own situation to him. Yet something must be decided: he could not go on as he was. A pitiable eking out of his means in an attempt to be seen as a gentleman was a bitter prospect.

The weeks became a month, then two, his sea life a memory too poignant to bear. He knew in his heart he was not intended for the land, with its complexities and odd obsessions, and made up his mind to travel to London. There, he would go personally to the Admiralty and, exerting every ounce of influence and interest he could muster, he would lay siege until he found employment at sea; he would accept any position, any vessel that floated, as long as it took him back to the bosom of the ocean.

The faded wallpaper and damp corner of the little room did not dismay Kydd unduly—he had endured far worse. What had taken him aback was the way London had grown and changed. It was now generally acknowledged the biggest city in the world with the unthinkable population of one million souls. A stinking, strident and energetic city, it nevertheless had an animation, a vitality that at first reached out to Kydd and did much to temper the universal dank smell of sea-coal smoke, crowded streets and concentrations of squalor.

His first day in the capital had been spent in finding accommodation; near to the Admiralty in White Hall was his goal but he soon found the rents there ruinous. Weary hours later, it was plain that he could not afford any of the more fashionable residences to the west, and having passed through the commercial heart of the city to the east, he could see there was nothing that could be termed fit for a gentleman officer.

The south bank of the Thames opposite, although it was connected by the imposing Westminster Bridge, was nothing but roads away to the timber-yards and open fields where wooden tenter-frames spread gaily coloured textiles; further to the east, it transformed into the stews of Southwark.

But the sheer size of the city became intimidating and depressing, endless miles of jostling humanity, which set Kydd's nerves a-jangle. In Charing Cross near the public pillory he had spied a tap-house and soon found himself a pot of dark, foaming beer. He drank thirstily and it calmed him.

A stout gentleman next to him, jovial and in an old-fashioned periwig, was quite taken with making the acquaintance of a naval officer and loudly insisted on shaking his hand. Kydd took advantage of the situation and made enquiry about lodgings, touching lightly on the fact of his temporary inconvenience in the matter of means. He learned that as a rule naval gentlemen found Greenwich answered, being half-way between the Royal Dockyard at Woolwich and the Admiralty and served by the river wherries.

Kydd now reviewed his plans for an early call at the Admiralty Office in White Hall. He had to present a petition for the attention of the First Lord of the Admiralty that would set out why he was so deserving of a ship, a hard thing indeed when this was no less than Sir John Jervis, Earl St Vincent and a national hero, recently in post and said to be beginning a massive reform of the Navy's administration and support.

In this it would be vital to bring to bear every scrap of "interest" that he could; he concentrated on recalling who could possibly put in a word for him. First, there was Lord Stanhope, highly placed in diplomatic circles and with whom he had shared an open-boat voyage in the Caribbean. But he had resigned from his post in protest at the terms of the peace. Captain Eddington? His nephew Bowden had shaped up well for Kydd—but, if rumours were to be believed, Eddington was in the country on his estates awaiting any call. The Commander-in-Chief Mediterranean, Admiral Keith, had given every indication of his approbation of Kydd's conduct but that very morning's newspaper detailed how he had returned to Scotland for a well-merited retreat. Was there no one?

The next morning he had not been able to think of more, but set off for the Admiralty Office with hopes high. His gazette had been duly published and the Naval Chronicle was talking about a small biography piece. He was not unknown, therefore, and his request for a ship of any kind would surely be looked upon with sympathy if it were made in person.

The fast-skimming wherry revealed quite a different London. Around the Isle of Dogs and its docks was a dense forest of masts from vast amounts of shipping, rafted up together and in continual commotion of lighters and barges. The wherry darted through the vessels, the hard-jawed waterman with his distinctive round cap leaning into his oars with the lithe ease of long practice. Then past the cargo wharves with their pungent fragrances of cinnabar and ginger, and on to shipbuilders' slips and the last green fields before the Port of London proper.

With the ancient walls of the Tower of London on the right, the craft approached London Bridge, the first crossing possible across the powerful river. Kydd heard the booming rush of water past the stout piers of the bridge. It did not seem to daunt the waterman who lined up the light boat and brought it under the bridge with short, fast strokes. Beyond it was a much more capacious river, free of sea-going vessels and with the sights grander. The dome of St Paul's on the right was followed first by Fleet Ditch and the nearby Puddle Dock, then graceful Somerset House, and ahead, as the river straightened the great heart of London, Westminster Abbey, Parliament in its ancient palace where, no doubt, the last details of the peace were being debated at that very moment. Then there was the distant line of the noble Westminster Bridge.

At White Hall stairs the wherry lay off while Kydd fumbled for silver. Then he went quickly through to the broad avenue that was White Hall, opposite Horse Guards, a right turn and then the colonnaded façade of the Admiralty offices with their imposing buildings beyond offset by the curious structure of a shutter telegraph on the roof.

Kydd's pulse quickened at the sight. Within those grey stone walls had been enacted all the sea dramas of the century: great battles had been planned; the shocking news of mutiny in the British fleet had been received there. And following the victory of Camperdown off the Dutch coast the decision to approve the field-of-battle promotion of a master's mate, one Thomas Paine Kydd, had been taken.

Clutching his small case with the precious petition inside it, Kydd passed into a cobbled courtyard; before him was a portico and the main door, massive and oaken. The Admiralty. He went up to the doorman and slipped him his "fee." The man took the money with a bored expression and showed Kydd through the buff-coloured entrance hall with its gleaming brass lamps to the second door on the left. "Cap'n's room," he said laconically.

He entered the high, beautifully arched room. It was full of people, talking, playing cards, pacing about, dozing. Few looked up at Kydd's entrance, and from their conversations he realised they were there for much the same purpose, seeking promotion or ships—and had been there for a long time.

Kydd kept to himself while he awaited a summons. One came, but that was to part with guineas to the First Lord's keeper to ensure delivery of his petition. There was apparently no indication to be had as to the timing of a possible audience and Kydd went back to the waiting room. First minutes, then hours passed.

He struck up a desultory conversation with others, but the talk was despairing and bitter, touching mostly on the fearful reduction of the Navy to peacetime numbers and the consequences for employment.

The hours dragged unbearably in a tense yet mind-numbing tedium but nothing eventuated. He would have to return the next day. And the next. On the third day, well into the morning, word finally came: the First Lord would see him at four precisely.

Excitement flooded in—at long last! As a commissioned officer Kydd had every right to call on the Admiralty and be heard. And by a sea officer, not a civil appointee, as the previous incumbent. This had to be where his fortune changed.

Time passed even more slowly; his nervous pacing and rehearsal of his words was watched cynically by the others but Kydd knew this was his only chance. At five minutes to four he presented himself and was ushered upstairs to a large room.

"Commander Kydd, m'lord," the functionary said, and withdrew, closing the doors.

Kydd stood before the great desk and tried to meet the hard grey eyes of Earl St Vincent, whose splendid uniform and decorations filled his vision. "S-sir, it is kind in ye to see me at this time."

The eyes were level and uncompromising—and red with tiredness. "You wish a ship." The words were bitten off as though regretted.

"Sir. As ye can see fr'm my—"

"I can read as well as the next man, sir." He had Kydd's painfully written petition in his hands and glanced once at it, then resumed his impaling stare. "If this were a time o' war you should have one, Mr Kydd. Since we are not in that state, I cannot give you one—as simple as that, sir."

"Then, sir, any sea appointment would be more than acceptable . . ."

"If you were a l'tenant, that might have been possible, but you are not. As a commander you must command, and I have no ships."

"Sir, not even—"

"Sir—do tell me, which vessel do you propose I should turn out her captain that you should take his place? Hey? Hey?"

At Kydd's silence he went on in a kinder tone: "Your situation is known. Your services to His Majesty's Navy are well noted, but I can give you no hope of a ship—no hope, do you understand me, sir?"

Kydd stared unseeingly at the damp walls of his rooms, his mind full of bitter thoughts. St Vincent was upright and honourable and he had had a fair hearing. Probably no amount of interest or influence could overturn the odds against him. The very situation he had feared since that fateful talk with the cutter lieutenant had now come about, ironically so soon after he had secured the distinction he had sought.

His means were fast dissipating and there were few alternatives. He had gone over these in his mind many times—there was the Impress Service that ran the press-gangs, the Sea Fencibles that were in effect a naval militia, the Transport Board with its storeships and craft for the Army, and finally hospital and prison ships. Even supposing he could find a berth, there was the undeniable fact that any would be poison to his future career as a first-rank sea officer: it was generally expected that a gentleman officer should retire to his country estates to await a call if there was another war.

A knock at the door brought a quickly scribbled letter from Cecilia. Kydd bit his lip as he read that Renzi had disappeared— had simply vanished from his sick-bed without hint or warning and was presumably wandering the streets, disturbed in his intellects and not responsible. Remembering the doctor's strictures about depression and suicide Kydd's first thought was to rush back to look for Renzi. Then cold reason came and told him that Cecilia would ensure that measures were taken to find him and he could add little by returning to Guildford. He set the letter down.

The cheap candle guttered like his hopes. Things had gone now from disappointment to real worry. Living in London was ruinously expensive and at some point he would find that he must let go his hopes of any more sea employment—and return home. To what?

A sudden thought struck. There was little difference between a merchant ship and a warship if ship-rigged. He was a known quantity in the matter of leading men and, as for the seamanship, he was sure he could make a better fist of it than many he had seen in his convoy days. He would do as the common sailor always did—slip easily between man-o'-war and merchant jack.

The cream was the East India Company, vessels run on naval lines of discipline and efficiency and with ample prospect of profitable ventures for the captain. But John Company was known for its closed structure and there was probably no opening for an outsider. The élite Falmouth Packet Service? Greyhounds of the sea, these little ships would race across the Atlantic with mails and even chests of gold to the New World, again with rich pickings for the captains. Was it worthwhile to make the long trip to Falmouth on the off-chance that he, among so many in like circumstances, would be able to break into such a sea community and secure a command? Probably not. London was, however, the premier maritime centre of the kingdom and if he could not achieve something here, then . . . The heart of this activity was just downstream of the Tower of London, at the final resting place of the ceaseless stream of vessels from all parts of the world. The factors, agents, owners and others all had their offices nearby. He tried to remember company names, any who would favour a naval officer as captain. That was it—Burns, Throsby and Russell; they had been the prickly owners, he remembered, of the brig once chartered for a cartel voyage to the Mediterranean. He set to work to prepare an approach that would persuade them to take on a new captain.

The Burns, Throsby and Russell building was set back from the noise and stench of the Ratcliffe Highway, a haughty paean to the empire of trade. It seemed that Mr Burns was unavailable but Mr Russell would be in a position to accept Kydd's calling in half an hour.

Kydd sat in a high-backed chair and tried not to appear too obvious as he looked about the great hall. The entire floor was populated with scores of identical raised desks, each with its clerk and scratching quill. An overpowering musty odour of old paper and ink pervaded the air in much the same way as the fug of a frigate's berth deck but here there was no sound other than an echoing susurrus of half a hundred pens.

"Cap'n Kydd?" A kindly old clerk hovered in front of him. "Mr Russell can see you now."

Russell was old-fashioned in appearance, punctilious, his small pince-nez glittering as he peered at Kydd. "Well, Captain, it is certainly not every day we are able to receive such a distinguished sea officer as your own good self, sir."

"You know of my action with La Fouine?" Kydd said, in surprise.

"La Fouine? I'm not sure I follow you, sir. I was simply referring to your remarkable sagacity in devising a stratagem to preserve a convoy off Sicily from depredation. Our agent in Malta speaks highly of you, Mr Kydd."

Kydd looked down modestly. Was he right to hope . . . ?

"And now, sir, of what service may we be to you?" Russell said mildly, taking off his spectacles to polish them.

"Mr Russell, as ye will be aware, with th' late peace, the King's service is less a place f'r an enterprising officer. As a mariner of ambition I see that th' merchant service may provide me more of a future, an' I ask if ye will consider me as suitable f'r your ocean-going trade—" he took a deep breath "—as a master."

The polishing stopped. At first Kydd thought that Russell had not heard, but then he answered, with no change in his expression: "You'll be sound in your nauticals, I will believe," he said, "Pray tell me, sir, your notion of the monetary risks the master of a merchant vessel incurs on behalf of the owner under a charter party voyage."

Kydd shifted uncomfortably.

"Or the rule for calculating per diem demurrage should a particular freight require re-stowage by cause of the consignee? The bottomry premium if calculated on . . ."

At Kydd's embarrassed silence he stopped, then resumed gently, "You will see, Commander, our ways are different, we have other concerns. You will understand if I say that I do wish you well for your future, but at the moment there does not appear to be a marine post now open with us that would be suitable for a gentleman of your undoubted quality."

"I do understand," said Kydd, meekly, "an' I thank ye for your time, sir."

He had come full circle: now there was nothing more. With a polite bow he turned and left, joining the streaming bustle of the street. He felt light-headed and detached; in a way he was relieved that it was all over, no more pretence, no more futile hoping.

Stepping round a pair of drunken, brawling sailors he made for the river but became aware of someone distant calling his name. He looked back and saw the old clerk hurrying after him. "Sir, Cap'n, Mr Russell begs you will grant him a further minute of your time, should you be at liberty to do so."

Russell sat Kydd down and did not waste time. "Mr Kydd, my junior partner has just informed me that, indeed, we may well have a position vacant such as you describe. Due to an illness, one of our senior masters is unable to take post and we stand embarrassed in the matter of our obligations. Is it at all possible that you may consider taking the situation, bearing in mind that this will be an ocean voyage of some months and at short notice to sail?"

Kydd fought to appear calm. "Er, could ye tell me more of th' ship, Mr Russell?"

"The Totnes Castle. A fine barque of four hundred and twenty tons, fully rigged and lying now at Deptford. I should think you will find yourself well satisfied with her."

Trying to hide his soaring hopes, Kydd asked, "Th' cargo? As y' know, I have no experience in cargo handling." He was dimly aware that cargoes such as textiles and rice were stowed differently from exotics like joggaree and Prussian blue.

Russell leaned back expansively. "She's under government contract for the far colonies, so you will have nothing to worry about there—in any case you will have the first mate, Cuzens, to assist you," he added smoothly.

On a long voyage Kydd knew he would have plenty of time to learn the ropes before they made port to discharge. And, glory be, he would be back at sea—as the captain of a ship once again. Elation flooded him. "I'll take her!" he blurted.

"Splendid!" Russell purred. "Then there's just the matter of the formalities, Captain. We are a business, you know."

Papers were sorted, presented and signed. Kydd sighed deeply. He was now master of a ship in the employ of Burns, Throsby and Russell, expected to step aboard and take command directly.

"Er, what will be m' first voyage?" he asked tentatively.

"The Totnes Castle will probably call at Tenerife before sailing south. You're familiar with the Atlantic? Then it would be usual to touch at the Cape before dropping to forty south until you feel able to bear up for New South Wales."

"New Holland!" The other side of the earth—four, five months at sea. And then, at the end of it, what in heaven's name could be there to justify a trading voyage? Sudden suspicion dawned.

"My cargo—"

"Will be stores, grain, tools and so on, the usual supplies for our colonies in Port Jackson."

"And . . . ?"

"A small number of convicted felons, of course, but naturally you will have guards."

A convict ship. His mind froze in horror. He was to command one of those hell-ships that transported unfortunates beyond the seas to Botany Bay? It was . . .

"Mr Kydd," Russell continued earnestly, "we have the utmost faith in your abilities at this very short notice and recognise that the post may not meet with your entire satisfaction. Therefore, subject to a successful conclusion to this voyage, we shall look to offering you a more permanent berth on your return.

"Now, sir, shall we look more closely at the details?"

CHAPTER 11

KYDD GRIPPED THE PAPER FIERCELY. "This Charter Party of Affreightment made and Concluded upon . . . to Port Jackson in New South Wales, on the Terms and Conditions following, Viz . . . and shall be fitted and furnished with Masts, Sails, Yards, Anchors, Cables, Ropes, Cords, Apparel and other . . . the said Burns, Throsby Russell, do Covenant that . . . the said Convicts, their Births, Sickness, Behaviour, or Deaths . . . at the rate of Seventeen Pounds Seven Shillings and Sixpence per head for each Convict . . ."

It was a bewildering and disturbing sea world he was entering. The familiar sturdy dimensions of conduct of the Navy were replaced by a different imperative: success in his profession was now to be measured in cost and profit, his acumen in dealing with traders and authorities to the best advantage of the owners, and the securing of an uneventful and minimally expensed voyage. However, it was the life he had chosen: if he was to move up to a better class of vessel on his return then he had to make a good fist of this, whatever it took—and so little time to learn!

The master's cabin of Totnes Castle was small and utilitarian, gloomy with dark, oiled wood and a smell of close living. The ship herself was of a size, nearly double that of the lovely Teazer, but her interior was undoubtedly for one overriding purpose: the carrying of cargo.

As ship's master he had a dual role, as captain, and as representative to the world of the merchant company Burns, Throsby and Russell. In token of this, his signature was sufficient in itself to incur debt and expenditure without apparent limit in the company's name. To Kydd's disquiet, he had discovered that Totnes Castle did not rate a purser and he was expected to function as one, with the assistance of the steward, whose other duties were to wait at table.

Then there were the officers. The mate Cuzens, a fat, blustering man, did not inspire Kydd; neither did the second mate, a sharp-featured Dane. The third was not yet appointed. In deep-sea three watches, if he sailed without one he would end up himself taking the deck. And the others: a sly boatswain, elderly carpenter and witless sailmaker, whose senseless muttering as he worked had got on Kydd's nerves when he had first come aboard. That left only the eighteen seamen and four boys—apprentices they were termed but they had the knowing look of the London dockside.

Kydd had so little time left. He had worked into the night, trying to get on top of the terrifyingly large number of matters needing his attention. Even the most familiar were subtly different; he was beginning to feel punch-drunk at the onslaught.

With a casual knock at his door Cuzens entered before Kydd could reply. "Y' papers, Mr Kydd," he said, slapping down a thick envelope on his table. He had the odd habit of seldom looking directly at people—his eyes roved about restlessly. "Hear tell they're comin' aboard when y' tips the wink," he grunted.

Totnes Castle was moored out in Galleon's Reach, within sight of both the Woolwich Royal Dockyard and Deptford, making ready to take aboard her cargo of criminals. The banging and screeching Kydd could hear was the carpenter and his crew preparing the 'tween decks for use as a prison.

"Thank ye, Mr Cuzens," Kydd said heavily. "That'll be all." With ill-natured muttering, the man left and Kydd spread out the contents.

One document of thicker quality than the others caught his eye: "The Transportation Register." He smoothed it open: columns of neatly inscribed names—and sentences. This was the reality of what was about to happen: the meaningless names were under sentence of law to be Transported to Parts Beyond the Seas for terms ranging from seven years to the heart-catching "term of his natural life"—and Kydd was under the duty of ensuring that this took place.

He pushed the papers away in a fit of misery. That he had been brought so low! To be master of a prison-ship and personal gaoler to these wretches. Their crimes were dispassionately listed: the theft of lodging-house furniture, probably sold for drink; a soft-witted footman pawning a master's plate that no doubt bore an incriminating crest; a cow-keeper thinking to add to his income by taking game in the woods at night. A pickpocket, a failed arsonist. It went on and on in a monotonous round of idiocy and venality. These, of course, were the lucky ones: there were others at this very moment in Newgate prison whose next dawn would be their last.

At another knock on the door, Kydd called wearily, "Come!"

He looked up dully as a stranger entered. "Mowlett," the man said quietly, and helped himself to Kydd's only armchair.

"Oh?" said Kydd, noting the deeply lined yet sensitive face.

"Dr Mowlett—your surgeon," he said, in a tone that was half casual, half defiant.

"Ah. I was told—"

"I would think it imprudent to be too credulous about what one is told in this business, Mr, er, Kydd," Mowlett said. "Do you object?" he added, taking out a slim case and selecting a cheroot.

"If ye must, sir," he said.

Mowlett considered for a space, then replaced the small cigar. "Are you in any wise ready to show me your preparations, sir?"

"My preparations?"

"Of course." Mowlett smiled. "In that as surgeon I am also, as of this voyage, your government superintendent. You are responsible for landing the prisoners in a good state of health—in accordance with your government contract, I hasten to add. Shall we inspect their quarters?"

Kydd had quickly made his acquaintance with Totnes Castle before. Her capacious hold was still being readied; the carpenter had done the job before and seemed to know what was needed. Kydd had simply let him get on with it.

He and Mowlett stepped gingerly through the half-constructed bulkhead, studded with heavy nails and with loopholes. Their entry was a small door, but it was more like a slit, requiring them to squeeze through sideways. At sea if the ship was holed this would be a hopeless death-trap.

With hatches off, the entire drab length of the space was illuminated pitilessly, a reeking grey-timbered cavity with iron bars fitted as a barrier at midships, another further forward. As soon as the convicts were aboard, the hatches would be battened down securely with gratings and this would change to a dank hole. The carpenter straightened and offered, "Men 'ere, females the next, an' the nippers right forrard."

Kydd had forgotten that he was to carry women and children as well; with a lurch of unreality he realised that nothing in his previous sea experience had prepared him for it. Mowlett moved over to the side of the ship where most of the work was going on. Two levels of berths were being fitted along the sides with a narrow central walkway. They were like shelves: four or more would be expected to sleep together. It was all a hideous travesty of sea-going and Kydd's gorge rose.

He glanced at Mowlett and saw his lips moving as he counted. The surgeon swivelled round to count on the other side, then turned to Kydd and drawled, "Upwards of two hundred human beings confined in here, for four, five months. All weathers, half the world over and in chains."

What was he expected to do? Kydd wanted to retort. The contract was for 214 convicts and the ship was being stored and victualled accordingly. Kydd stepped forward doggedly and checked the fore hatchway; the compartment led up the ladder to the foredeck, where pens for cattle and poultry were ready. Barricades had been erected at each end of the open deck with firing slits facing inwards, and everywhere bore evidence of the real purpose of the ship.

Four or five months at sea in this! It was inconceivable, and with not a soul aboard who could in any sense be called a friend to share with him the grievous assaults on his soul. He turned and tramped back to his cabin.

Glowering out through the salt-misted stern windows at the busy Thames, Kydd was startled by a light laugh behind him. It was Mowlett, who must have followed him in, now sitting at his ease in the armchair. "So you're Kydd, a victor of the Nile and now prison-ship master! What possessed you to take the post I can't possibly conceive."

Something in Kydd's look made him add, "Easy enough. An unusual name and I do read the Gazette sometimes." He went on offhandedly, "So we can take it that it's in your interest to land the convicts in Port Jackson fit and healthy at more than seventeen pounds a head, then."

"Aye," said Kydd, cautiously.

"No, it's not," retorted Mowlett, half smiling, "It's much more in your interest to have a sickly voyage with half the convicts shaking hands with Davy Jones. Claim their rations and sell it on in New South Wales—on that alone you'll make twice your figure for landing 'em healthy."

Kydd was speechless.

"But, then, of course you'll be venturing privately? A decent freight of baubles and trinkets will have all Sydney a-twittering. It's expected, you know, and if you come all that way without you have something, well, consider the disappointment." As captain, Kydd was free to arrange cargo stowage for any such speculation and it did not take much imagination to conjure the effect in the desperately isolated colony of the arrival of the latest London items of fashion. It would be a captive market.

"You are a man of the world, Mr Kydd, and you will know that this is not where the greatest profit lies—oh, no . . ."

"So then, what is—"

"Why, I'm astonished you confess ignorance! All the world knows the one cargo perfectly sure of a welcome, that will be snatched from your hands by free and bound alike, and that is— rum! Rivers of the stuff are thrown down throats daily to dull the pains of exile, to make brave the weak, to blind the eyes to squalor. I should think the whole colony will be safely comatose in a sodden, drunken stupor for at least three weeks after our arrival . . ."

The bitterness he could detect under the banter eased Kydd's misgivings and he replied gravely, "Then they'll be disappointed, Mr Mowlett, for there'll be no rum cargo f'r Totnes Castle."

Mowlett seemed taken aback, then added, in a milder tone, "We shall hope that our squalid cargo of humanity does not bring the usual gaol-fever or worse—you have the easier task. I ask you to conceive of my dilemma in the selecting of physic to meet all and any scourges of the flesh brought aboard by the poor wretches and which invariably will become apparent only in the midst of the ocean."

He got to his feet. "Good luck, Doctor," Kydd said quietly.

"It's you who will need the luck, Captain."

Kydd watched the lighters approach with bleak resignation. The vessel was as prepared for the convicts as it was ever likely to be: the 'tween decks were now one long prison-cell. He and the officers would inhabit the raised after cabins, what the Navy would call a poop, while the seamen had a corresponding raised fo'c'sle forward. Apart from store-rooms and hideaways for the boatswain and carpenter, the rest was so much prison lumber. There was, however, a state-room on either forward wing of the officers' cabins. These were prepared for two free settler families apparently booked for the passage; they would board at the last possible moment before they sailed to minimise any distasteful exposure to the prisoners.

The lighters had put off from the dark hulks moored further along; foetid, rotten and stinking, they were worse even than the disease-ridden bridewells ashore. Later there would be carts with unfortunates from Newgate and other London gaols to crowd aboard.

In his pocket was a letter just received from Cecilia. She had understood Kydd's need to be away to sea again and had avoided reference to his ship, only stating a forlorn request for a souvenir of the far land they would reach after so much voyaging. Renzi was still missing but Cecilia stoutly believed they would find him soon. Kydd felt there was little hope if he had not been found by now, and he could not shake off an image of his friend lying dead in a ditch somewhere like any common pauper.

Totnes Castle had been warped alongside the wharf. A scruffy troop of redcoats arrived, took station at either extreme and, with musket and bayonet, stood easy, taking no notice of the fast-growing numbers of spectators. Kydd was determined to get away on the afternoon tide; once the hundreds had come aboard they would be consuming ship's stores and precious water.

More worries nagged at him: he had sent for the usual charts from Falconer's in the Strand but all they had of New Holland were the meticulous but single-track charts of Cook and hopeful productions from the small number of those who had passed that way in the score and a half years since, and whose accuracy could not be guaranteed. For his own cabin stores he had relied heavily on the placid steward, Cahn, who had made a previous voyage. Was he trustworthy? Should he have taken on a speculative freight? It had been tempting but he had no idea of how to go about it and, in any case, he had neither the time nor the capital.

The lighters neared. Kydd's gaze strayed to the plain, blocky deck-line of his ship. Within the compass of its small length more than two hundred souls would spend the next four or five months under his care and command. Had he taken enough aboard to see them safely through the months ahead?

A surge of interest rippled through the throng as a lighter bumped alongside the small landing place ahead. The crowd pressed forward with a buzz of excited comment and were met by the redcoats who held them at bay to form a clear path behind them. Then there was an expectant quiet and rustle of anticipation.

Suddenly a loud sigh went up: the head of a pathetic caterpillar of ragged individuals appeared, shuffling and clinking along, a line of humanity that went on and on. Sharp orders from the black-coated guards brought them listlessly to a halt at the end of the gangway.

Two officials went up to Kydd. "Cap'n?" The moment he had dreaded was upon him. He looked once more at the column of human misery. Some were apathetic, their fetters hanging loosely, others gazed defiantly at the ship that would tear them from the land of their birth; all had the deathly pallor of the cell. He took the book and meekly signed for 203 convicted felons, the rest to be picked up at another port.

Nodding to the guards he retreated to the afterdeck; it seemed indecent to peer into the faces of the pale wretches as they shuffled up the gangway. The gawping onlookers, however, appeared to feel no shame, revelling in the delicious sensation of being in the presence of those condemned to a fate that, after a dozen years, was still a byword for horror: transportation to Botany Bay.

More shambled aboard; it did not seem possible that there was room for the unending stream. The unspeaking Dane and brash new third mate were below with the seamen and the stiffening of soldiers who oversaw the embarkation and berth assignments. Kydd was glad that it was they who had to bear the brunt. He could hear the wails of dismay and sharp rejoinders as the unwilling cargo of humanity saw their home for the next half a year, and tried to harden his heart.

The female convicts began to come up the gangway: hard-faced shrews, terrified maids, worn-out slatterns, some in rags, others in the drab brown serge of prison garb. As they filed below there was an immediate commotion, squeals of protest mingling with lewd roars and anonymous screams.

"Mr Cuzens, I'm going to m' cabin," Kydd said thickly, and hurried below. He flopped into his chair and buried his face in his hands.

A bare minute later there was a casual knock and Cuzens entered. Kydd pulled himself together. "Mrs Giles," Cuzens said, as though this was all Kydd had to know.

"Who?"

"Ma Giles. Come t' see the women."

Kydd made his way up. On the quayside a lady of mature years was angrily waving a book at him. Her shrill cries were overborne by the Bedlam between decks. Kydd went down the gangway to see her. "Sir, are you the captain of this ark of misery?"

Something about her fierce determination made him hesitate. "I am that, madam."

"Then is there no spark of godliness in you, sir, to deny those unfortunates the solace of their faith?" The book, he saw, was a well-worn Bible. "They are condemned to a life of—" Kydd gave her permission to board and, accompanied by a guard, she primly mounted the gangway to perform her ministry.

Kydd hesitated before he followed her—above the clamour he could hear tearing sobs nearby. It was a woman prostrate with grief, far beyond the tears and cries of the others, her face distorted into a rictus of inconsolable tragedy. The man who held her was himself nearly overcome and admitted to Kydd, through gulps of emotion, that their daughter was one of the female convicts aboard.

A daughter: betrayed and abandoned, now about to be torn from their lives for ever. Was it a mercy to allow them aboard to a tender farewell in the hell and chaos that was the 'tween decks? What kind of last memory of their child would they take away?

"Mr Cuzens," Kydd croaked loudly, "two t' come aboard." Instantly he was besieged by other tear-streaked faces shouting and weeping.

Kydd glared venomously at the gawpers taking in the spectacle and mounted the gangway again. Pitiful bundles in piles on the foredeck were, no doubt, personal possessions. It was within his power to refuse them but Kydd knew he could not. Time pressed; he tried to persuade himself that once under way at sea things would settle down.

"Everyone off th' ship b' two bells, Mr Cuzens. I'll have the crew mustered forrard afore we single up," he ordered, grasping for sanity. There was no mercy in delaying; there were now but three hours left for goodbyes. "An' send word t' the Shippe that the free settlers c'n board when convenient."

The hard-faced leader of the guards reported all secure: he could be relied upon for the final roll-call and, with luck, there would be no need to go below before sailing. Leaving the deck for Cuzens to attend to the terrified, bellowing cow that was being pushed into its pen forward, Kydd took refuge in his cabin once more.

He closed his eyes. It was a hideous nightmare and it was only just beginning.

Roused by the announced arrival of the first free settlers, a disdainful family from Staffordshire whom he welcomed and showed to their cabin, he returned and closed his eyes once more. Again a knock and Cuzens waddled in. "Trouble," he said with just a hint of satisfaction. "Y' other settler kickin' up a noise. Came wi' a chest bigger 'n the longboat an' won't board wi'out it."

Kydd held in his temper. "Where?"

Cuzens pointed to the wharf. A thin man in plain brown sat obstinately facing away on a vast case, a good six feet long. Next to it was neat, seamanlike baggage that, on its own, would stow perfectly well. Kydd clattered down the gangway and approached him. "Now then, sir, ye can't—"

The man jerked to his feet in consternation and spun round.

It was Renzi.

"N-Nicholas!" Kydd gasped, shocked and delighted at the same time. Renzi was thin, sallow and painfully bent, but his sunken eyes burned with a feverish intensity. "Why, dear friend, what does this mean? Do y' really—"

"Thomas. Mr Kydd, I did not think to see you . . ." He had difficulty continuing and Kydd heard an impatient Cuzens behind him.

"Y'r books, I believe?" he guessed. "Yes," Renzi said defiantly.

"Mr Cuzens, take this aboard and—and strike it down in m' cabin f'r now." The mate ambled off, leaving them with the few remaining onlookers. "Nicholas, if you—"

Renzi straightened and said carefully, "This is my decision. I ask you will have the good grace to respect it.

"You may believe I have had time to think long and deeply about my situation and there were aspects of it that were distressing to me. It is now my avowed intention to find a fresh life—and cut myself off from a wasted past. There is a new land waiting, one where hard work and imagination will yield both self-respect and achievement."

"Nicholas—you?" It was beyond belief that Renzi could— "It is not a matter open to discussion. I have formally resigned my commission and am now a free agent, and therefore as a citizen whose passage money has been paid I believe I have a right to my privacy. Do you understand me?"

Kydd was lost for words, then stuttered, "M' friend—" "Mr Kydd. Our friendship is of long standing and I trust has been of service to us both, each in his own way. That friendship is now completed. I have . . . warm memories, which I will . . . treasure in my new existence. Yet I will have you know that as our paths have now irrevocably diverged I wish no longer to be reminded of a previous life and as such ask that I be addressed and treated as any other passenger."

"Then, Nicholas . . . er, Mr Renzi, if there's anything I c'n do for you—is there anything at all?" But Renzi had turned on his heel and was painfully mounting the gangway.

Torn by happiness that his friend lived and anxieties about the ship, Kydd took his place near the wheel and tried to focus on the task in hand. Totnes Castle must be under weigh for New South Wales very shortly, but was Renzi in his right mind? Would he finally come to himself too late, far out on the ocean with no turning back? Or was he on a slow decline to madness?

Kydd bit his lip: the first part of his world-spanning voyage was going to be the most difficult, the winding route of the Thames to the open sea through the most crowded waterway on earth. An ignominious collision with a coal barge at the outset would be catastrophic, and although they would carry a pilot, the actual manoeuvring would be by his own orders. They would tide it out, a brisk ebb in theory carrying them the thirty-odd tortuous miles to the Isle of Sheppey and the open sea—but this had its own danger: while being carried forward with the press of water the rudder would find little bite. It did seem, however, that the south-westerly would hold and therefore their way was clear to cast off and put to sea at the top of the tide.

"Hands to y'r stations!" Apart from the huddled, tearful groups watching sadly, no one was interested in yet another vessel warping out to midstream for the age-old journey downriver. No taste of powder-smoke from grand salutes or streaming ensigns and brisk signals, just a nondescript barque flying the red-and-white pennant of a 'Bay ship with yet another cargo of heartbreak and misery.

Totnes Castle pulled slowly to mid-channel, slewing at the increasing effect of the tide. The taciturn pilot stood next to the wheel, arms folded, while Cuzens stood back, watching Kydd with a lazy smile. He must have done the trip dozens of times, thought Kydd, resentfully. On impulse he said quietly, "Mr Cuzens, take her out, if y' please."

The mate jerked in astonishment. "You mean—"

"Aye, Mr Mate. Let's see what ye're made of." Kydd stepped back. He was quite within his rights, for among the terms of his articles was an injunction to see that the first mate was "instructed in his duties" as what amounted to deputy master.

Cuzens hesitated, then cupped his hands. "Lay aloft, y' bastards."

They made the depressing flat marshes of the estuary late in the afternoon and by nightfall had dropped the pilot and were making sail for open sea—and a land unimaginably remote.

The same south-westerly that had helped them to sea was now foul for the Channel. Kydd decided prudence was called for in the darkness and felt his way into the crowded anchorage of the Downs and let go anchor for the morning.

Now he had to face his human freight: they had been battened down for the run to the sea, but the nocturnal hours were not the time to be letting them roam the decks: they must remain under lock and key below.

With the guard leader, he went down the hatchway, rehearsing words of admonishment and encouragement. At the bottom of the ladder he turned—and the sight that met his eyes was closer to that of a medieval dungeon than a ship's 'tween decks. The fitful gleam of the lanthorn into the darkness forward revealed scores of bodies draped listlessly over every part of the hold, some on the shelf-bunks clutching thin blankets over four and even six, and still more wedged upright against the ship's side as if afraid to seek release in lying asleep. Moans, coughs, occasional mumbling and muttering mingled with the deep creaking from invisible waves passing beneath the hull in an endless counterpoint. A miasma rose to Kydd's nostrils of more than two hundred bodies and the unmistakable rankness of vomit. Even the movement of the slight seas round the Foreland had brought on spasms in some, which in the closeness of the prison hold had set others to retching. Along with the sour stink of the night-buckets, it was all Kydd could do to stop himself fleeing back on deck.

A few raised their heads at the light and disturbance. Kydd's words died in his throat: for the inmates, darkness was for sleep and enduring until morning. He turned to the guard who stolidly returned his gaze. What might be going through these poor wretches' minds was beyond imagining—half a year confined to this?

Shaken, Kydd clambered back to the blessed night air and stared out at the calm sea scene denied to those hidden under his feet: dozens of vessels placidly at rest with golden light dappling the sea under their stern windows, a half-hidden moon playing hide-and-seek in the clouds.

He took a deep, ragged breath and turned to go below. Mowlett stood before him as though to bar his way. "An agreeable enough scene, Mr Kydd," he said softly.

Kydd could not find pleasantries in reply.

"Surely you are not discommoded by what you have seen below. You may view its like at any time in any gaol in the land. It is of no consequence."

"It was not as I . . . Damn it, they're human beings, same as we," Kydd said raggedly.

"Of course not," Mowlett responded, as though to a child. "They're not human at all, old fellow—they stopped being human when sentenced in the dock. Now they are government property, exported for the term specified, and form the freight you are being paid for. When you deliver them to the colonials in New South Wales they will go into a storehouse and be handed out to whoever lays claim to a free government issue of labour. They have no other purpose or existence."

The Isle of Wight lay close to larboard in all its dense verdancy but Kydd's gaze was to starboard, to the tight scatter of houses and grey-white fortifications that was Portsmouth Point and the entrance to the biggest naval harbour in the land.

Totnes Castle's anchor took the ground at the Mother Bank, well clear of Spithead, the famed anchorage of the Channel Fleet. Before, there had been fleets of stately ships-of-the-line riding at anchor, but now in these piping days of peace, there was emptiness: only ghosts remained of the great ships that had fought to victory at St Vincent and the Glorious First of June. And his own Duke William in which he had learned of the sea.

Eleven more convicts were embarked by hoy and Kydd's orders were complete. Sail was loosed, and in a workmanlike southerly he shaped course for Plymouth, their final port-of-call in England for last-minute provisions and water.

They sailed past the triangular mass of the Great Mew Stone and into the Sound, then across to Cawsand Bay. Leaving the mate to take men to Drake's Leat to fill casks with clear Dartmoor water, Kydd made ready to go ashore, his the unenviable task of cozening down the costs of fresh greens, fish and potatoes that would allow his ship to face the months of voyaging that lay ahead.

Far off he made out Teazer, one among many in the Hamoaze, mastless and high in the water, still and unmoving in a line of small ships. It was a sight of infinite melancholy.

It was a hard, crisp January morning when Totnes Castle finally left English shores, the winter beauty of the country never so poignant. The ship's bows were headed purposefully outward bound and even those fortunates who could look forward to returning in due course would not see it again in much less than a year.

As soon as Rame Head was safely astern and the ship irrevocably committed to the ocean, the first convicts appeared on the foredeck. Pale, unsteady and shivering at the sudden change in air, they stumbled about, manacles clinking dolefully. Some went to the side where they hung unmoving, others stared back at the receding land for a long time. Still more shuffled about endlessly with not a glance at the country that had given them birth.

Kydd tried to read their faces: there were case-hardened men, some of whom would have been reprieved at the gallows, along with a scatter of sensitive faces distorted by misery, but the majority looked blank and wary, muttering to each other as they moved slowly about their defined area of deck.

At the main-hatch a barrier stretched across: forward the convicts shuffled and clinked, aft was a broad expanse of deck for the passengers. The only ones embarked were the free settlers; Kydd had entertained the family from Staffordshire at the captain's table for dinner; the man was going out with plans to establish an industrial pottery but had little else in conversation. He and his insipid wife were huddled in deck-chairs to leeward while the daughter sat at their feet and worked demurely at her sewing.

Alone in a deck-chair on the other side was the Castle's other settler and passenger. Kydd had been repelled at every approach: at the very time he so needed a friend, his closest had withdrawn from his company. He knew better than to try to press his attention, even though the book Renzi held had not advanced a single page.

The crew seemed to know what was expected of them and, for the most part, kept out of his way. They were few compared to the manning of a warship where the serving of guns required so many more—and had a different relationship with a ship's master: they had signed articles for a single voyage with specified duties and wages.

In the afternoon the female convicts took the deck. Prison-pale and ragged they blinked in the sunlight, tried to comb their hair and make themselves presentable.

Kydd called all the officers to his cabin. When they were assembled he opened forcefully: "Now we're at sea I want th' people to be out on the upper decks as much as possible. How do we do this?" He looked at Cuzens, then at the others, but saw only incomprehension and veiled irritation. Not waiting for a reply he went on, "An' why do they need t' be in Newgate irons the whole time? Strike 'em off, if y' please."

There was a confused murmuring and Cuzens said darkly, "Guard commander makes them kind o' decisions, Mr Kydd."

"An' I'm in charge o' the guards. If they needs fetters we use leg-cuffs an' a chain—what th' Army calls a bazzel."

"You ain't seen a mutiny, then?" the young third mate said, with a sneer.

Kydd held a retort in check: he would certainly never forget the bloody Nore mutiny. "With guns on th' afterdeck charged with grape and ball, each o' you with pistols an' swords and the crew with muskets—an' you're still a-feared?" He let his contempt show and the murmuring faded. "I mean to—"

"Ven we get th' vimmin?" the close-faced Dane spat. At first Kydd thought he had misheard.

"He means, when d' we get our rights an' all?" Cuzens came in forcefully.

He was quickly supported by the third mate. "No sense in ma-kin' the cuntkins wait! " he chortled.

Kydd exploded. "The women? Ye're asking me f'r—" He could not continue. That the law required degradation and misery he could not question; that he was the agent of it was wounding to a degree, but where was the humanity and natural kindliness that any soul, however taken in sin, might expect from a fellow-creature? What right did these men think they had to prey on any more helpless than they?

All his frustrations and pent-up feeling boiled up. "Get out! All o' you!" he shouted hoarsely. "Now! G' damn ye!" He stood up suddenly, sending his chair crashing to the floor.

Then he slumped, trembling with anger but trying for composure. It was not only the base demands they were making but the whole sordid business of penal servitude that was sapping his humanity. Yet if he was to return to claim a proper master's berth his only chance was to deal with it and make a success of the voyage. If only Renzi would—

A soft tap at the door broke through his bleak thoughts. Mowlett entered carrying a large phial. "As doctor, Mr Kydd, I prescribe a medicinal draught, to be taken at once," he said firmly.

The sharp tang of neat whisky enveloped Kydd. He took a stiff pull and felt its fire—it steadied him and he looked sharply at Mowlett. "Thank 'ee, Doctor."

"Would you object if I speak my mind?" Mowlett said quietly.

"If ye must," Kydd said, bristling. "But I'll have y' know I won't have any seaman aboard the Castle makin' play f'r a female convict."

"Please understand, I know your position and honour you for it." Mowlett had dropped all trace of banter and spoke with sincerity. "However, for all our sakes a small piece of advice I would offer.

"These 'Bay ships have been plying the route now for above a dozen years and I dare to say are proficient in the art. They have necessarily developed practices to deal with conditions that many might find . . . remarkable. For instance, in the matter of females mixing promiscuous with the crew." He held up an admonishing finger. "No doubt you have not given it overmuch thought, dismissing it as a moral scandal, but there are elements of practicality that you should perhaps consider."

Kydd glowered but allowed Mowlett to continue. "Putting aside the obvious fact that, it being the custom in the past, you will be setting the entire crew to defiance should you stand in their way, you will not be amazed to learn that most of your felonious ladies are no strangers to the arts of Venus and will in fact warm to the opportunities on offer to take up with a protector."

At Kydd's expression Mowlett hastened to add, "Yes, a protector. Has it crossed your mind how much common theft, sneaking, bullying, lonely hardship must be suffered out of your sight below? In any case, Mr Captain, whether you like it or not the consorting will happen."

Kydd could think of no immediate response and he fell back on the larger issue: "Y'r transportation is a vile thing, Doctor. The suffering, the misery!"

"Perhaps, but reflect—they have now a chance. If you ask it of them they must inevitably reply that what you provide is infinitely better than the hangman would serve.

"But to return to your women. I would venture to say that, whatever you are able to do, the consorting will take place privily. Animal spirits will ensure this—is it not better to regulate than condemn?"

Kydd stared down moodily.

"Those more uncharitable than I would perhaps be tempted to point out a certain degree of what might be considered hypocrisy in you, Mr Kydd," he added meaningfully.

"Hypocrisy?"

"Why, of course! Or has the Navy changed its spots so completely that the sight of women flocking aboard a wooden wall of old England coming into port is no longer to be seen? Or that these same have put out for some harmless recreation with the honest tars?"

"They have a choice!" Kydd snapped.

"Quite so—therefore do you allow your ladies their choice, should they desire, Mr Kydd."

"I shall think on it." Kydd fidgeted with his sleeve. "No one t' take up with any without they agree," he said finally, "and they shall tell me so 'emselves in private."

"An eminently practical solution."

"An' we'll get windsails rigged, a bit o' fresh air in that stink-pit. Yes, an' have 'em up in the sun—without irons, except they deserve it. At least we can do something f'r the poor brutes."

He looked Mowlett directly in the eyes. "You mentioned th' Navy. We might take some lesson from there. Let's see. We'll have two watches of convicts to take the deck b' turns, an' each morning we'll have a fine scrub-down.

"Each mess o' six will have a senior hand who'll take charge an' see all's squared away. An' a petty officer o' the deck who'll take charge o' them. We'll give 'em something useful t' do in the day—men to seaming canvas with the sailmaker, females to . . . Well, a parcel o' women can always find things t' do."

CHAPTER 12

RENZI STOOD BY the weather main shrouds, now so worn with use, and gazed forward to where the cry of the lookout indicated land would soon be in sight. New South Wales. The other side of the globe, as far as it was possible to be from England—any further and they would be on their way back again. Four and a half months of wearisome sailing—it seemed like a lifetime. The banality of the other settler family, the ever-present sight of the shuffling condemned, the absence of anyone with any pretence at education . . . Without the solace of his books he would not have survived this far.

"I see it!" squealed the settlers' vapid daughter, rushing to the barrier. Convicts soon crowded forward anxious to catch their first glimpse of an unguessable fate, but Renzi stood back, a half-smile marking his detachment from the excitement of landfall as he contemplated the events that had led to this moment.

The fever that had carried him ashore to the Lazaretto had nearly killed him: he had little recollection of the twilight of existence there, only the later swirling chaos and screeching nightmares as he had struggled to lay hold on life.

Then Cecilia.

It had been she who had watched over him as his consciousness emerged from its horrors, had been there when every token of life itself was so precious, her voice of compelling tranquillity, soft, comforting, his assurance of life.

He had begun to mend: still Cecilia sat by him, reading softly, responding to his feverish babbling, her dear image now coming into focus with a smile so indescribably sweet—and for him alone. For her sake he had concentrated on getting better—until the melancholia had come.

Black and dour, the spreading hopelessness bore down on him, at times with such weight that he had found it necessary to turn to the wall so she would not see the tears coursing. Long days of trying to draw on his pitiful resources of strength, scrabbling for the will to live, to go on.

And after the endless hours of depression came realism, his past life stripped of its vanities and dalliances, foolish notions, pretences; he could see himself as he had never done before and despised the revelation—one born with the immense advantages of privilege, including an education of the first order and opportunities of travel, and what had he done with it?

His sea experience on the lower deck had been a self-imposed exile for the expiation of what he considered a family sin.

As a result of his father's enforcement of enclosure of common lands, a young tenant farmer had committed suicide in despair. Renzi should not have gone on to the quarterdeck—that had been an indulgence. Could he return to his ancestral home to resume as eldest son? He had dealt with that question at the walls of Acre when he decided to disavow his father. There was nothing more to be said. And what of his King's commission? This was avoiding the issue. He had none of the fire and ambition of sea officers like Kydd; for Renzi the sea was an agreeable diversion—and therefore a waste.

What was left? There was nothing he could point to as his own achievement. For the world, it was as if he had never been.

It had been a cruel insight to be thrust on him at his lowest ebb but if he was to live with himself it had to be faced. Most importantly, he recognised that his feelings for Cecilia had deepened and flowered and there was now little doubt that he would never love another as he did her. But his detachment, logic, which before had served so well to control and divert the power of his emotions, now turned on him and exacted a price. If he cared for Cecilia to such a degree, was it honourable to expect her to join herself to one with neither achievements to his name nor any prospects?

It was not. Obedience to logic was the only course for a rational man and therefore he would act upon it. He would remove himself from Cecilia's life for her sake. But logic also said that, should he, in the fullness of time, find himself able to point to a notable achievement wrought by himself alone, then he might approach her—if she was still in a position to hear him.

In the long hours that he had lain awake he had made his plans. As soon as his strength allowed he would silently withdraw from her kindnesses and make his own way as a settler in the raw new world of Terra Australis. By his own wits and hard labours he would carve out a farming estate from the untouched wilderness, create an Arcadia where none had been before, truly an achievement to be proud of. And then . . . Cecilia.

The colonial government was generous to the free settler. It seemed that not only would the land be provided for nothing but that convict labour would be assigned to him, indeed tools, grain and other necessaries to any who was sincere in their wish to settle on the land. Admittedly he knew little of tillage but had seen much of the way the tenant farmers of Eskdale Hall had gone about their seasonal round. As a precaution, however, he had invested heavily in books on the art of farming, including the latest from Coke of Holkham whose methods were fast becoming legendary. Even the passage out was provided for; and thus he had carefully severed all connections with his old life and committed wholeheartedly to the new, boarding Totnes Castle in Deptford—to be confronted by, of all those from his past, Thomas Kydd.

He had resolved to cut all ties to his previous existence until he was in a position to return with his noble mission accomplished: Kydd was of that past and both logically and practically he should withdraw from his company as part of his resolve.

It had been hard, especially when he had seen what the voyage was costing his friend, but then he had witnessed Kydd lever himself above the sordid details and, by force of will, impose his own order on the situation. Now they must go their separate ways, find their own destinies at the opposite ends of the earth.

The coast firmed out of blue-grey anonymity: dark woods, stern headlands—not a single sign that man was present on the unknown continent. Conversations stilled as they neared; the land dipped lower until it revealed a widening inlet.

"Botany Bay, lads," one of the seamen called. It was a name to conjure with, but no ship had called there with prisoners since the early days. Their final destination was a dozen miles north. Totnes Castle lay to the south-easterly and within hours had made landfall at the majestic entrance to a harbour, Port Jackson.

A tiny piece of colour fluttered from the southern headland; as they watched, it dipped and rose again. They shortened sail, then hove to safely offshore. The pilot was not long in slashing out to sea in his cutter.

Renzi watched as he climbed aboard; thin and rangy and with a well-worn coat, he looked around with interest as he talked with Kydd, and soon Totnes Castle was under way again for the last miles of her immense voyage.

They passed between the spectacular headlands into a huge expanse of water stretching away miles into the distance. The first captain to see it had sworn that it could take a thousand ships-of-the-line with ease.

Helm over, they continued to pass bays and promontories, beaches and rearing bluffs. Densely forested, there was no indication of civilisation—this was a raw, new land indeed and Renzi watched their progress sombrely.

Quite suddenly there were signs: an island with plots of greenery, a clearing ashore, smoke spiralling up beyond a point—and scattered houses, a road, and then, where the sound narrowed, a township. Substantial buildings, one or two small vessels at anchor, a bridge across a small muddy river and evidence of shipbuilding. And, after long months at sea, the reek of land. Powerful, distinctive and utterly alien, there were scents of livestock and turned earth overlain by a bitter, resinous fragrance carried on the smoke of innumerable fires.

After a journey of fourteen thousand miles, the torrid heat of the doldrums and the heaving cold wastes of the Southern Ocean, across three oceans and far into the other half of the world, Totnes Castle's anchors plunged down and at last she came to her rest.

"Please y'self then—an' remember we don't change after, like."

"No, no—I understand," Renzi replied. The boorish Land Registry clerk sat back and waited.

It was unfair. Renzi was being asked to make a decision on the spot affecting the rest of his life: which of the government blocks of land on offer would he accept as his grant? But then he realised that more time to choose would probably not help, because many of the names were meaningless. Illawarra? Prospect Hill? Toongabbie? He had turned down land along the Hawkesbury river in Broken Bay—it was apparently isolated and miles away up the coast—but he had read that expansion was taking place into the interior beyond the Parramatta River.

"Where might I select that takes me beyond the headwaters of the Parramatta?" he asked.

The clerk sighed. "There's a hunnered-acre block goin' past Marayong," he said, pushing a surveyor's plan across.

It was a cadastral outline of ownership without any clue as to the nature of the terrain but, then, what judgement could he bring to bear in any event? The land was adopted on either side so it could be assumed that it was of farming quality. "That seems adequate," Renzi said smoothly. "I'll take it up, I believe."

Within the hour, and for the sum of two shillings and sixpence stamp duty, Renzi found himself owner and settler of one hundred acres of land in His Majesty's Colony of New South Wales, and thereby entitled to support from the government stores for one year and the exclusive services of two convicts to be assigned to him. The great enterprise was beginning . . .

Naturally it was prudent to view his holdings at the outset, and as soon as he was able he boarded Mr Kable's coach for the trip to Parramatta. This was his country now and he absorbed every sight with considerable interest.

Sydney Town was growing fast: from the water frontage of Sydney Cove continuous building extended for nearly a mile inland. And not only rickety wooden structures, but substantial stone public buildings. Neat white dwellings with paling fences, gardens and outhouses clustered about and several windmills were prominent on the skyline.

The coach lurched and jolted over the unmade roads, but Renzi had eyes only for the country and the curious sights it was reputed to offer. He heard the harsh cawing of some antipodean magpie and the musical, bell-like fluting of invisible birds in the eucalypts. He was disappointed not to catch sight of at least one of Mr Banks's kangaroos—perhaps they only came out at certain times of the day.

Parramatta was drab and utilitarian. His books had informed him that this was the second oldest town in the colony, but with his land awaiting ahead he could not give it his full attention and hurriedly descended from the coach to look for a horse to hire.

Avoiding curious questions he swung up into the saddle of a sulky Arab cross and, after one more peep at his map, thudded off to the west. The houses dwindled in number as did cultivated fields and then the road became a track, straight as a die into the bush.

Gently undulating cleared land gave way to sporadic paddocks that seemed vast to Renzi's English eye. Then the pathway petered out into an ill-kept cart-track through untouched wilderness. He knew what he was looking for and after another hour in the same direction he found it, a small board nailed to a tree, its lettering now indecipherable.

He took out his pocket compass, his heart beating fast. This was the finality and consummation of his plans and desires over the thousands of miles: this spot was the south-east corner of his property—his very own land into which he would pour his capital and labour until at last it became the grand Renzi estate.

He beat down the ground foliage, then found a surveyor's peg and, on a line of bearing nearly a half-mile away through light woods, another. One hundred acres! In a haze of feeling he tramped about; in one place he found a bare stretch on which, to his great joy, a family of big grey kangaroos grazed. They looked up in astonishment at him, then turned and hopped effortlessly away.

Bending down he picked curiously about the ground litter. Coke had stressed the importance of tilth; this earth appeared coarse and hard-packed under the peculiar scatter of the pungent leaves of eucalypts. Renzi was not sure what this meant but the first ploughing would give an idea of which crop would be best suited. He wandered about happily.

As the sun began to set he had the essence of his holding. There was no water, but the lie of the land told him there must be some not far to the north. For the rest it was light woods of the ubiquitous piebald eucalypt trees and a pretty patch of open grassland, if such was the right description for the harsh bluish-green clumps. With a lifting of his spirits he decided the Renzi residence would be on the slight rise to the south.

Back in Sydney, he tendered his indent at the government stores: tools, grain, tents, provisions, even rough clothing. The obliging storeman seemed to know well the usual supplies asked for and the stack of goods grew. Fortunately he was able to secure the immediate services of a drover with a small team of oxen—for a ruinous price—and set them on their creaking way amid the sound of the ferocious cracking of bull-hide whips and sulphurous curses, his year's supplies piled high in the lurching wagon.

Finally he attended at the office of the principal superintendent of convicts. There was no difficulty with his labour quota: he had but to apply to the convict barracks at Baulkham Hills with his paper.

In a fever of anticipation Renzi arrived at Parramatta with all his worldly possessions, rounded up a cart and horse, and very soon found himself with two blank-faced convicts standing ready; one Patrick Flannery, obtaining goods by deception to the value of seven shillings, respited at the gallows and now two years into his seven-year exile, and Neb Tranter, aggravated common assault and well into his fourteen-year term.

"My name is Renzi, and I am to be your master." There was little reaction and he was uncomfortably aware that they were staring glassily over his shoulder with heavy patience. "Should you perform your tasks to satisfaction there is nothing to fear from me."

Flannery swivelled his gaze to him and raised his eyebrows. "An' nothin' to fear from us, sorr!" he said slowly, in an Irish brogue.

"Very well. We shall be started. This very day we shall be on our way to break the earth near Marayong for a new farming estate."

"This is t' be yourn, sorr?" Flannery asked innocently.

He nodded proudly.

"Ah, well, then, Mr Rancid, we'll break our backs f'r ye, so we will."

With his convicts aboard in the back of the cart, Renzi whipped the horse into motion and swung it in the direction of his land. Neither the sniggering of bystanders nor the childish waving of his convicts at them was going to affect his enjoyment of the moment.

As the miles passed and they neared their destination Renzi allowed his thoughts to wander agreeably. Perhaps it was time now to bestow a name on the estate: in this new land so completely free of historical encumbrances he was able to choose anything he liked—Arcadia intra Australis suggested itself, or possibly something with a more subtle classical ring that would impress by its depths and cunning allusion to a hero in an Elysium of his own creation.

Surprised, he saw they had arrived at the board on the tree. "Er, here is, er, my land," he said.

The two convicts dropped to the ground. "Thank 'ee kindly, sorr," Flannery said, with an exaggerated tug on his forelock and a sly smile at Tranter.

"Do we unload, Mr Rancy?" Tranter asked, his eye roving disapprovingly over the virgin bush. He was older, his large frame now largely desiccated but for a respectable grog belly.

"Of course we—" snapped Renzi, then stopped. At the very least the undergrowth had to be cleared first. The tools were all in the ox-wagon, which had set out well before them but they had not passed it on the way. "No—not yet," he muttered, and tried to think.

The two grunted and stood back, arms folded, eyes to a glassy stare again.

"We wait for the wagon—it should be here soon," he said, with as much conviction as he could muster.

A flurry of subdued pattering on leaves began, then dripped and took strength from the cold southerly that now blustered about, soaking the ground and their clothes.

"What now?" said Flannery, in a surly tone.

Renzi could think of no easy answer. In the ox-wagon there were tents and tarpaulins; here there were books by the caseload and attire suitable for a gentleman of the land. How long would that pox-ridden wagon take to heave itself into sight?

"I know whut I'm a-goin' to do," said Flannery. "Hafter you, Mr Tranter."

"No, Mr Flannery, 'pon m' honour! After y'self." Then the two dived as one to the only dry spot for miles—underneath the cart, which was still yoked to its patient, dripping horse.

Obstinately Renzi held out for as long as he could, until the heavy wet cold reached his skin. Then he crawled under with the two convicts, avoiding their eyes.

"Mr Flannery?" grunted Tranter. "Yez knows what Marayong is famous fer?"

"What's that, then, Mr Tranter?"

"Why, snakes, o' course! This weather they firkles about, lookin' for the heat o' bodies t' ease the cold. Shouldn't wonder if'n there's some roun' here," he said, looking about doubtfully.

"Have a care, then, Mr Tranter—they's deathly in New South Wales, one nip an' it's all over wi' ye!"

Renzi ground his teeth—nothing could be done until the ox-wagon came up and the delay would cost him another day's extortionate hire of the cart and horse. At least, he thought wryly, he had the last word: if he was to lay a complaint of conduct against the convicts they would be incarcerated in cells instead of having the relative freedom of the outside world.

Later the next morning, with the wagon arrived and the tents finally pitched, tarpaulins over his stores, Renzi felt better. In fact, much better: he had Flannery and Tranter down range hacking trees to form an initial clearing with instructions to preserve the boles for use in constructing living-huts. It was time to step out his floor plan. It was to be a modest three rooms, with perhaps out-houses later—the details could wait.

With a light heart he went to see how the two labourers were progressing. "What are you fellows up to?" he demanded, seeing one lying at his ease on his back chewing a twig and the other picking morosely at the ground. "You can see how much work we have to do."

"Aye, don't we have a lot o' work indeed?" Flannery said. "An' all with this'n." He held out his mattock. The flat part was a curl of bright steel where it had bent hopelessly.

Renzi took it: cheap, gimcrack metal. Either the government stores had been cheated or he had. He rounded on the other. "On your feet, sir! If your duties are not to your liking you may certainly take it up with Superintendent Beasley."

Tranter did not stir. "I'm wore out," he said sullenly, flicking away his twig.

Renzi held his temper. "Get a fire going, then, if you please. You shall be mess skinker for tonight, and we both desire you will have something hot for us at sundown." Irritably, he brushed away the flies that followed him without rest.