Betrayal

Chapter 2

Kydd squinted down the deck to where the fo’c’sle party, in streaming oilskins, were preparing the bower anchor for their mooring, a wet and perilous exercise in the filthy weather from the north-west. Another ponderous roll of thunder echoed back from Table Mountain and, ahead, ships jibbed nervously under the bluster of autumn wind and grey, fretful seas.

From the fo’c’sle Curzon’s arm shot up and Kydd acknowledged. They were ready to take their place and let slip the anchor past the throng of merchant shipping among the naval squadron at the outer part of the Table Bay anchorage. And the captain of L’Aurore’s first duty was to pay his respects to Commodore Popham, the senior naval officer, Cape Colony.

Although he had lost the corvette he had returned with something much more precious. ‘You have the deck, Mr Curzon. I’m going below to shift rig before I report.’ It was a straightforward moor in the open roadstead, and Gilbey was on hand, but his second lieutenant glowed at the trust.

It was a bucketing, bruising pull to Diadem, the flagship, even in the launch that Kydd had called upon in place of his slighter-built barge. Walls of rain sluiced across, and despite boat-cloak and oilskins, he was soaked and chilled when he finally stepped into the commodore’s cabin.

Popham regarded him without enthusiasm, saying testily, ‘Kydd, do contrive to drip somewhere else, won’t you?’

‘My apologies, sir,’ he said, handing his cocked hat to a servant. ‘I do have news that I’m sanguine will interest you.’

‘Oh?’ Popham said coldly.

Kydd outlined his voyage succinctly, ending with his chase and capture of Marie Galante and her later loss by stranding.

‘Can’t be helped, I suppose,’ Popham said, with feeling. It was well known that in his career at sea he had never been lucky in prize money. ‘Butcher’s bill?’

‘We lost a master’s mate, with two wounded in the boarding, and one killed and three hurt in the boats by musketry, sir. The French suffered eight dead and eleven wounded, including their captain, who bled to death after his deed.’

‘Hmm. A small price for us, I’m bound to say. You have prisoners?’

‘I have all the officers and skilled hands in L’Aurore, and I beg you will give instructions that will see a transport call at Quelimane, where I landed the common matelots for want of accommodation.’

‘The next India-bound supply vessel will answer, I should think. Now, I don’t suppose this corvette was with Marechal at all?’ Popham asked hopefully.

Kydd savoured the moment. ‘No, sir, most definitely not.’

‘Oh? You’ve questioned the officers, of course?’

‘I did, but the intelligence I have for you came from quite another source.’

‘Yes? What is that, pray?’

There was an impatient edge to his tone so Kydd went on quickly: ‘I arranged for a Channel Islander to be in the guard over the prisoners. He overheard ’em say something that’ll surely gratify. It seemed they were bemoaning the fate that sees them in chains in Cape Town while Marechal and his squadron must be halfway home to Rochefort by now . . .’

‘Ah! So! Excellent news! This could mean-’

‘Their charts have no workings on it to suggest a fleet operation, their logs make no mention of a rendezvous and their last port o’ call was Reunion. Confronted with it, their first lieutenant admitted it was so, that they were merely out on a cruise of depredation against our commerce.’

‘Capital! Then we may take it that Marechal has abandoned his venture and is returning. The last squadron of threat to Cape Town is gone. This is splendid news, Captain, splendid.’

He seemed to brighten by the minute. ‘My dear fellow, I’m forgetting my manners. May I offer you a restorative negus perhaps?’

The prospect of a piping hot toddy was compelling and Kydd accepted gratefully. He could understand the relief Popham must be feeling. Rather than the negative news from his scouting frigates that the French were not to be found in this area or that, here was a positive indication that the menace was now safely on its way out of Cape waters.

‘I really feel this news is worthy of celebration! You’ll stay and sup with me, Kydd?’

It was an odd dinner for, with the blow from the South Atlantic kicking up respectable-sized rollers, there was no possibility of boats coming out from the shore. The company was restricted to themselves, with Diadem’s first lieutenant, Davis, and a bemused passenger, one Scholes, doctor of theology, whose store of amusing anecdotes petered out in the strongly masculine naval company.

‘Sir, do tell of your cutting out o’ this Frenchy corvette. I’ll wager it’s to be my dinner-table yarn for years t’ come,’ Davis said, his voice tinged in equal measure with admiration and envy.

While the darkness of evening fell outside and the bluster of the north-westerly rattled the old-fashioned stern-windows of the sixty-four, Kydd told of the adventure, a modest, straight account with full acknowledgement to those who had contributed.

‘A capital operation indeed,’ Popham declared, ‘in the best traditions and so forth. I for one am honoured to drink your health, sir.’

Glowing, Kydd accepted the compliment and nodded graciously when Scholes observed, ‘I, too, must add my measure of amazement at your remarkable courage. To go forward on your enterprise in the stark knowledge of Africa’s perils and hazards . . .’

Kydd flinched at the memory of the sinking island and that night in the African bush, but Popham was in no doubt. ‘Ah, yes, Doctor, but for the greater prize our good captain is never to be dismayed by the wonders of nature. Is that not so, Kydd?’

The talk fell away and the dinner ended quietly. Davis made his excuses and left, and Scholes found it necessary to retire to attend to his work, leaving them alone to do justice to the fine cognac.

‘I do believe this to be our first chance to take our ease together, Kydd,’ Popham said, after they had settled in the armchairs by the stern-lights.

‘Sir.’

‘You’ve done well for yourself since we first met, I see.’

‘Er, yes, sir.’

‘Mere commander of a brig-sloop to post-captain of a frigate – come, come, that’s no mean achievement. Could it in any wise be connected with your stout action off Ushant?’

‘Um, I think more that Lord Nelson was in sore need of frigates,’ Kydd said uncomfortably. That Nelson himself had called for him when a captured frigate had become available was something he’d clutch to his heart for ever, but now did not seem the right time to mention it.

Popham chuckled. ‘You’re too damn modest for your own good, you know that, Kydd? You’ll never get ahead without you make a commotion about it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Leaning forward to top up Kydd’s glass, Popham then sat back and looked at him quizzically. ‘Do loosen, old chap – I may be commodore for the nonce but this, of course, is but a temporary post while subduing Cape Town. I’ll be reverting back once their lordships deem our task is done and then I’ll be the same as you – post-captain, even if the senior.’

It was singular, but it was true. They were of equal substantive rank and, in terms of shore protocol at least, would then be accorded an equal deference.

‘Do you remember – not so long ago – that little affair with the American Fulton and his submersible? We worked together on it . . .’

‘And you frowned on his submarine boat,’ Kydd said.

‘I was right, was I not?’

‘It has to be said.’

‘Should you want to know what happened to the fellow?’ Popham said idly, twirling his glass.

‘His torpedoes?’

‘Yes. We made some gestures towards Boulogne but with paltry result. Boney himself had the hide to say we were breaking the windows of the good citizens of Boulogne with guineas! Then we made a heroic effort and put on a show for Pitt and the Admiralty off Deal. Tethered an innocent little brig – what was her name? Dorothea, that’s it – and sent in the torpedoes.’

He guffawed at the recollection. ‘You should have seen the looks on their faces, Kydd. Not a jot of warning and the brig’s exploded to fragments! St Vincent turned quite grey and Pitt felt ill. A terrific demonstration!’

‘So . . .’

‘So nothing! Just a fortnight later, you and Our Nel clear the seas of the French fleet, so what’s the use o’ these toys when there’s no more invasion to be feared? They paid him off and sent him packing back to the United States.’

‘Pity – a strange cove, but I liked him,’ Kydd said.

‘Well, we’ll hear no more of his plunging boats, I believe. We’ve a war to fight and only the finest seamanship and gunnery will win that . . .’

‘You were at Trafalgar, then?’ Popham asked, somewhat defensively.

‘In a small way of things, o’ course. I have to say, your telegraphic signals were well received by the fleet,’ Kydd said, and then, more strongly, ‘Especially after Nelson made use of ’em to entertain us before the engagement. “England expects that-”’

‘Quite so. I did hear of it.’ A shadow passed across his features. Kydd had been present at both the Nile and Trafalgar, the defining battles of the age, but through ill luck Popham had never seen a grand fleet action. ‘And now . . . here we are,’ he concluded softly.

‘I’m sorry, sir?’

‘I meant to say that we’re safe here in Cape Colony, are we not? But lacking the one thing that a naval officer craves above all else . . .’

‘A chance for distinction?’

‘Just so. We’re both in like state – you’ve a fine start to your career but unless something happens you’ll moulder away your best years here at the Cape. And I – well, shall we say that unless I can distinguish myself while I still have my mighty fleet then I shall join you in sliding from the consciousness of their lordships?’

‘Will we not soon be recalled?’

‘Why so? We’re doing a sterling job, holding the Cape for King George. Why disturb it? We’ll put down the occasional privateer or even a loose frigate but nothing to stand against the exploits of others who are adding to our empire by the month.’

That gave Kydd pause: it made disturbing sense – yet . . .

‘We’re at a strategic position here, sir. Who’s to say the French may wish soon to dispute these seas in force?’

‘They won’t now, m’ friend. Their squadrons are scattered, defeated and gone home. The Channel Fleet blockade will take care of their sorties in the future. No, we’re to remain at rest foreseeably, I fear.’

‘Is there nothing . . . ?’

‘I’m giving it some high thought,’ Popham replied mysteriously, ‘as may yet yield a possibility.’ He stared out into the wild darkness with a strange expression, then resumed briskly, ‘Meanwhile, do stand down your ship for a week or two. You’ve deserved it. We’ll share a dinner on another occasion.’

‘Quite set me aback, Nicholas.’ Kydd laughed, shaking out his wet clothing. ‘Here we have the commodore confiding he’s bored, to me, a junior frigate captain – a prickly gullion in the past, as I remember. You don’t suppose he’s a reason for it?’ he added awkwardly, noticing Renzi wore an odd, hunted look.

His friend brightened a little. ‘The reigning flag officer? I’d rather think he’s more pleased at your success that rids him of a pressing anxiety.’

‘Well, whatever, he’s given us leave to stand down for a brace of weeks. Do you fancy a time of it ashore?’

‘Er, not at this time, Tom.’

Kydd was not to be dissuaded. Only a short while before, his friend had been the colonial secretary of Cape Colony with hopes of tenure before being unexpectedly replaced by a civil-service appointee sent out from England. Now he was staying aboard, unable to face the imagined stares of the townsfolk. ‘I have to say it’ll be quite necessary, I’m afraid, dear chap. I’m resolved this ship is to be fumigated and sweetened while she lies idle and no man may stay on board.’

With the urgency of the situation there had been little opportunity since leaving England the previous year for attending to the needs of his ship. And she had now been through a tropic summer – and, besides, Kydd had ideas about her appearance. ‘I’ll be staying at my club for the duration, the Africa on the Heerengracht,’ he said, with relish. ‘Capital roast game, wines a supernaculum. I’d be honoured to have you as my guest, dear fellow.’

‘That’s civil in you, right enough . . . On a point of some delicacy,’ Renzi murmured, ‘would it be impertinent of me to enquire in what manner you’ll introduce me?’

Kydd snorted. ‘Why, this is a gentlemen’s club. Should I introduce you as my friend then that is all that need be said, old trout.’

‘Then perhaps I will accept your kind offer.’

The news of a fumigation was well received by L’Aurore’s company, with its prospect of enforced shore leave, and even more so when it became known that a contractor would be engaged for the unpleasant business.

Next day the bad weather seemed to have blown itself out and, almost apologetically, the sun began spreading its warmth and good feeling about the anchorage. L’Aurore went to two anchors and secured fore and aft in preparation for the fumigation. Early in the afternoon a towed lighter approached and, gleefully, the ship’s company made ready for their liberty.

‘Cap’n Kydd, sir,’ a large Dutchman said, raising his shapeless hat as he came over the bulwark. ‘Piet Geens. Are ye prepared a’tall?’

‘We are.’ Kydd was used to the routine with his long service in the Navy.

Geens walked back and shouted something down to the men in the lighter and returned. ‘Well, we’m ready to start, Kapitein.’

In high spirits the liberty-men were sent on their way, leaving L’Aurore echoing and empty, the only ones left aboard being Kydd, a small party of men on deck to assist – and keep an eye on proceedings – and Renzi.

A row-guard provided by Diadem slowly circled as the Dutchman and Kydd went below to spy out the task. ‘What’s your method, Mr Geens?’ Kydd asked.

‘Why, the only one as truly answers, Mijnheer. An’ recommended by y’r Transport Board itself for th’ use of India troopships. In short, fumes o’ vitriol. Kills rats ’n’ mice, weevil an’ cockroach. All that creeps an’ crawls ends the same.’

This was the deepest form of fumigation possible but the ship had to be sealed for greatest effect. The platform timbers above the hold had been removed and the men’s belongings taken to the upper deck; gear was becketed back out of the way, gratings covered with tarpaulins and hatchways closed with laced canvas flaps. ‘Ver’ good, Kapitein. We begin. In twenty-four hours you have y’r ship back, sweet as a nut.’

An alarming number of casks and sacks were piled on deck. Curious, Kydd went across and peered into one. It was filled with crude yellow cakes. ‘That’s y’r common flowers o’ sulphur,’ Geens said.

‘And this?’ Kydd held up a sack of dirty white crystals.

‘Is best nitre. Sulphur don’t burn s’ well, we give it nitre – one part to every eight o’ the yellow cake. Then we get plenty o’ them vitriolic acid fumes. Want t’ see?’

‘Er, no, I’ll leave it all to you, Mr Geens,’ Kydd said. ‘Carry on, please.’

Tin pans were charged with a small coil of quick-match in the coarse-ground mixture and distributed below. Men with pails of mud moved about, completing the seal and shortly afterwards the first acrid whiffs could be detected.

‘Time we weren’t here, Nicholas.’

The Africa Club welcomed Kydd warmly. Word of the little action in East Africa had got about, and in a dark-polished room ornamented with game trophies and shields with crossed assegais, those waiting for a full accounting of it had assembled.

‘Have t’ hand it to ye, Kydd, ’twas a grand stroke!’ The red-faced and moustachioed ivory trader, Ditler, chortled, beckoning him to an adjacent leather chair. ‘A peg o’ whisky for y’ tale.’

Others drew up their chairs companionably but Kydd remained standing. ‘And this is my particular friend, Nicholas Renzi,’ he said pointedly.

‘Of course he is,’ soothed the cocoa planter Richardson, ‘as will have a whisky too, eh, Renzi? Hey?’

‘Thank you, no,’ Renzi said politely. ‘Although anything out of Stellenbosch would gratify, if it does not inconvenience.’ If any knew him as other than Captain Kydd’s friend, it could not be detected in their expressions.

Kydd found himself in the seat of honour in the centre and awaited his libation.

Despite what Popham had said, a lengthy stay in Cape waters had its compensations, he had to admit. Who would have thought, in those impossibly remote days in the musty Guildford wig shop, that he would later find himself in a splendid gold-laced uniform in these exotic surroundings?

‘Thank you, Cuthbert,’ he said, accepting his whisky – a single malt, he was pleased to note. After his experience with the Highlanders at Blaauwberg nothing less would serve.

Cradling the drink he found himself further reflecting on his conversation with Popham.

‘Ahem!’

‘Ah, yes, Marie Galante.’ Kydd was not a born story-teller and in his own ears the account sounded matter-of-fact and predestined. He’d omitted his doubts and worries as they’d gone into action, the need to rise above his own fears and terror of the unknown to order men into those same hazards, yet the simple telling was received with something like reverence, and he ended the tale pink-faced.

‘Good God, man! Y’ sit there so cool an’ tell us you spent your night on the riverbank? Never heard o’ such blazin’ courage!’ Ditler’s admiration was clear.

‘Er, what-’

‘Well, the crocs f’r one!’

‘Oh?’

‘Surely y’ know they stalk abroad at night, wanting t’ devour sleeping prey. They snap their jaws shut on ye, there’s no hope for it – all over!’ He threw up his arms in an expressive gesture.

‘And y’r hippos too, Kydd,’ came the gravelly tones of the white-haired, sun-touched Baker. ‘They’s on land an’, it being their river, should y’ get a-tween them an’ it, why, at four ton coming at ye faster than y’ can run . . .’ He shook his head, speechless.

‘Not forgetting it’s lion country,’ Richardson brought in, with relish, raising his glass to Kydd. ‘Go around in hunting bands at night, they do. Take a terrible lot o’ kaffirs, poor devils.’ Kydd remembered the massive presence they’d sensed passing by in the inky darkness and shivered.

Ditler put in strongly, ‘And y’ talked on sailing a floatin’ island downriver? B’ glory, and ye’re a mile an’ a half braver than I,’ he said, in awestruck tones.

‘The water-snakes?’ Baker wondered.

‘Not merely,’ was the reply. ‘I was thinking more o’ your frightsome bull shark o’ the Zambezi, as is not content wi’ what’s in the sea but must range miles up into the river.’

‘Even into freshwater?’ Kydd swallowed.

‘Right up t’ the shallows o’ the headwaters. Nasty, vicious brutes, c’n take a man out of a canoe, even,’ he declared. ‘Not t’ be beat in the article of killing. Even the crocs do step lightly around ’em, and-’

Kydd decided to change the subject. ‘Thank you, Mr Ditler, and I’ll bear ’em in mind the next time we move on the enemy. You gentlemen have ventured up the coast? I’d welcome a steer on what’s to be found in those parts after what I saw there.’

The talk brightened into trade prospects at the fringe of the Arab world, barely touched by events outside. Then came well-polished stories of the white man in Africa, as warm and entertaining as the yarns to be heard over any wardroom dinner at sea.

Content, Kydd winked at Renzi, then settled back and let the talk wash over him.

‘It’s done, Cap’n,’ Geens said importantly, holding out the requisite papers to sign.

‘I’ll see below first, if I may,’ Kydd replied, and set off purposefully. The gun-ports and gratings had been open all morning but there was still a sour, biting odour about the ship.

They went down to the main-deck where the pungency caught him at the back of the throat, making him gag. There, a half a dozen men with sacks were scooping up a carpet of vermin, some of which still writhed and contorted: dead cockroaches, grubs and other insects, all driven by the fumes from their hiding places to expire in the open.

On the mess-deck, around the dark cavity of the hold, rat carcasses lay in horrifying abundance. While L’Aurore had seen first Trafalgar and then Blaauwberg, these were the hidden passengers who had been lurking in the nether regions, oblivious to events and with only the ship’s precious sea provisions in mind. Geens used wooden tongs to lift up a still feebly moving rat for Kydd’s inspection. ‘See? Does for ’em all in the end. Gaspin’ for air, comes out but it’s no good, he’s blind, o’ course. Vitriolic acid eats out his eyes, the plaguey villain.’ He sniffed, dropping the rat into the sack.

Kydd felt duty-bound to stay aboard as the men reluctantly made their way back to their ship, suffering with them until the vessel was habitable again. He had split the ship’s company in two to share the duties, and the first on board were set to sweeten the vessel – from stem to stern a mighty scrubbing with vinegar and lime, the deckhead beams liberally anointed with a powerful concoction of Geen’s own devising. The cable tiers were lime whitewashed, and twice, two feet of seawater was let in to flood the bilges, the reeking water then pumped over the side until it ran clear.

After their heroic efforts this party happily made its way ashore to its favoured waterfront punch-house to wash away the taste with Cape brandy while the other watch came on board for the even more taxing job of painting ship.

Boatswain Oakley, his head bandaged and in pain, took charge. Preparation was thorough: wood painstakingly scraped back before the paint was carefully mixed. The pigment, oil and litharge was poured into an old fish-kettle in proportions to his satisfaction, and on an upper-deck charcoal fire, the mixture was boiled, then strained through a bread-bag to be laid on warm.

Kydd had his firm views on appearance: it was to stay the Nelson chequer, a smart black hull with a warlike band of yellow along the line of guns, the gun-ports menacing regular squares in black. Lower masts below the tops were well varnished; above the tops, they were painted black, as were the yards, with white tips at their extremities to aid in working aloft in the dark.

Then there was the detailing: scarlet inner bulwarks before the guns, a stout mixture of varnish and tar on the binnacle and belfry and here and there a dash of white. The flutings of the headrails and cheeks saw dark blue to set off the carved scroll-work, and their old-fashioned lion and crown figurehead claimed a handsome gilding of gold-leaf. Kydd himself found the necessary wherewithal to ensure the ornamentation shone around the quarter-galleries and stern-lights.

The men set to with a will to brighten their living quarters; it was amazing how much a frigate’s below-the-waterline mess-deck could be lightened by a lime whitewash on the bulkheads and ship’s side. The petty officers prettified their own messes, each separated by canvas screens decorated lavishly with mermaids and sea battles, their crockery mess-traps stowed neatly in vertical side lockers: in a frigate there was no need to clear for action on a deck with no guns.

Kydd found time to relax in his great cabin, the floor-cloth renewed and the furniture sweet-smelling from the lavender-oil-impregnated beeswax that Tysoe, his valet, had applied to overcome the odour of fumigation. The boys had been industrious in their cleaning and priddying and, at Renzi’s suggestion, Kydd’s intricate showcase secretaire had been picked out in gilt around its French polish and green leather.

The gunroom had come together in noble style to enrich their own sea home. In place of the utilitarian service barrel slung from the forward bulkhead, from which commensal wine was drawn, there was now a beautifully polished elliptical cask made for the purpose and bearing a silver plate with ‘The gunroom, HMS L’Aurore, Cape Colony 1806’ engraved in bold flourishes.

An elegant locker had been contrived around the rudder trunking, which now served to conceal the gunroom’s stock of dog-eared newspapers and magazines. Gilbey and Curzon’s time ashore had not been wasted: a pair of remarkably animated watercolours of Table Mountain and the Cape of Good Hope now adorned their quarters.

L’Aurore came alive again. The rhythm of a comfortable harbour routine set in, of hands to turn to, part of ship in the forenoon and liberty ashore in the afternoon. Kydd saw a fierce pride in his ship. In due course there would be hard-fought regattas and other competitive outlets but for now all could revel in as trim and saucy a frigate as any that swam.

‘You’ve, um, not received anything from Cecilia, at all?’ Renzi asked offhandedly, twiddling his quill as Kydd opened a packet of ship’s mail from England.

Renzi’s plans to invite Kydd’s sister Cecilia to visit him in Cape Town and offer his hand in marriage had been dashed when his position as acting colonial secretary had not been ratified. Previously he had written her a letter pouring out his most tender admiration and love for her but delayed sending it until things were fully settled. When the blow came, he’d torn the letter up. Cecilia had known of his tendre for her for some time but the latest communication she’d had from him was a stiff letter of release he’d sent before Trafalgar, citing his lack of prospects. Who knew what her feelings towards him were now?

Kydd pushed his papers to one side. ‘No, Nicholas, and you shall be the first to know of it should I get a letter from her,’ he said impatiently. ‘This Cape enterprise being in the nature of a secret expedition, I can well see it will have any letter chasing all over the ocean till it catches up with us – which it will, in course.’

‘Yes, no doubt you are correct,’ Renzi said, with a troubled look.

Kydd sighed. ‘You know you now stand in a fair way of losing the woman?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s every prospect that, having conquered and held the place, the Admiralty will see fit to keep us here indefinitely, we doing such a sterling job.’

Renzi’s expression turned bleak. He had sworn to Kydd he would go down on his knees and seek Cecilia’s hand the same day that they reached the shores of England. That time now distant, would she still be free?

‘I’d suggest you write to her this hour, m’ friend.’

‘Believe me, I’ve tried, but-’

‘Then I’d think it wise to consider your position, old horse.’

A half-smile appeared. Kydd knew the signs and waited for his friend to speak.

‘Dear brother, in logic, as I see it, there are three alternatives. The one, that she is already taken by another, which at the moment I cannot know; the second, that she is not, but will nevertheless decline my suit; and the third that . . . that she will listen favourably to that which I shall propose.’

After a moment’s reflection he said, ‘So it seems my course is clear. No dilemma, no equivocation or foolish agonising.’

‘Oh?’

‘On the one, I am helpless to alter the dictates of Fortune, likewise the second, neither requiring either action or decision. As to the third – this must presuppose I should prepare for the day. Now, in the absence of intelligence to the contrary, each condition bears an equal probability of being the outcome, the odds of one in three. I accept those odds, but you see it makes no difference – in the event of the first two, no prior intervention will affect matters while for the third it will. Therefore, irrespective, I am obliged to assume the last . . . that I am to marry.’

‘Well done, old trout!’ Kydd applauded. ‘Therefore, for both your sakes write to her now! There’s a mail to close tomorrow on Bombay Castle.’

‘It’s impossible. I cannot trust that I could write without betraying my true feelings and I abhor pity. Therefore I ask a boon – that you write to her as a brother and enquire of her personal circumstances.’

Kydd frowned, then nodded reluctantly.

‘Meanwhile, in this far region there is one, and one only, contribution to my future with Cecilia left open to me.’

Kydd waited. It would come out logically, as it always did.

Renzi took a deep breath, looked skyward, then slammed both fists on the table and choked, ‘That novel! I’m going to write my novel – for Cecilia’s sake!’

To see Renzi so taken with emotion shook Kydd. ‘Er, why, to be sure – I know you’ll do it, Nicholas,’ he said, with concern. It was clear his friend’s so recent cruel fall from fortune and prospects for marriage had affected him more than he had revealed.

Renzi took control, then said evenly, ‘I shall dedicate my heart and soul to Portrait of an Adventurer, Tom. Never doubt it for one minute.’

‘Yes, Nicholas.’

Writing a novel had been Kydd’s idea, a suggestion to which, until now, Kydd had never given much more thought, but he knew that it was probably the only thing Renzi could do that had any promise for the future. The public seemed to crave such works, and Renzi had had a number of adventures around the world that might inspire such a book. But, most importantly, it would keep his friend occupied until they returned and he could resolve matters with Kydd’s sister.

‘Damme – whatever it takes out of me, this is the only thing I can positively do for the both of us,’ Renzi said defiantly.

‘I quite understand, m’friend.’

‘Not forgetting, mark you, what I said about Cecilia.’

Kydd smiled: a natural philosopher turned writer of novels? Of course she should never hear of it! He clapped his hand on the desk and gave a mock frown. ‘So, what do you know of novels, ever?’

‘Ah. Not much – I confess I’ve yet to read one, my father railing against them so vehemently. I’ve taken some first steps, however, which persuade me that it may not be as plain-sailing a task as first I’d conceived.’

‘You’ll do it, Nicholas, never fear.’

‘I enquired in our worthy gunroom if there was by chance a reader of novels who might lend me a volume, but it seems there was not. Yet mysteriously by evening a pair lay on my cot. Such noble fellows!’

He fumbled in his pocket and drew out two well-used pocket editions and passed them across. Curious, Kydd opened one. The Castle on the Rhine; or; The Fatal Warning was its title, and lower down it went on breathlessly to declare that it was the harrowing tale of the fate of Reginald de Vere, who dared pierce the deathly walls of a deserted castle in pursuit of a ghostly love.

‘Um, you’ve experience of ghosts at all, Nicholas?’ Kydd asked doubtfully.

‘We have an ancestral phantom but I’ve never met it,’ Renzi said apologetically, ‘and never a spirit, of the ghostly sort that is, have I seen at sea.’

Kydd turned to the second book. ‘Then this other one, “Quentin Dandy, being an account of the peregrinations of a scoundrel and his dreadful end”, in five volumes – but this is the third only, damn it.’

‘It must serve, I fear. We need all the research matter we can lay hands on.’

‘We?’

‘My dear fellow! You don’t imagine I shall exclude my most particular friend from this literary adventure, surely.’

‘But I’m a sea officer, fit only to write a log or beg favour of my admiral, Nicholas. What do I know of romance and plotting?’

‘Tom, dear fellow, you have a crucial role, one suited only to a clear and strong mind as will not be swayed by fashion and sorcery. In fine, dear friend, you shall be my audience.’

‘Oh. To make critical remarks, review your meaning and similar?’

‘Er, yes.’

‘Then shall I be telling the truth or will I be losing a friend?’ Kydd asked slyly.

‘I’ve yet to write a word,’ Renzi said stiffly. ‘There’s a mort of work before then.’

Gravely, the commodore paced slowly along the assembled divisions, asking a question here, commending an appearance there. Kydd followed: L’Aurore was at her best and he could vouch for her fighting spirit. Some senior officers insisted on a faultless appearance, others fell back on pedantry in the matter of ceremonials, but he knew Popham prized intelligence and audacity above all else – and who on this station had shown more than L’Aurore?

Concluding his tour, Popham stood genially on the quarterdeck and addressed Kydd loudly: ‘A splendid turn-out, Captain! And as fine a King’s Ship as any I’ve seen. You shall have my order that the mainbrace be spliced this afternoon.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Kydd replied courteously.

‘That is, if you’re able to satisfy me in one last particular.’

‘Sir?’

Popham wheeled about and strode purposefully to the spotless after end of the quarterdeck beyond the mizzen-mast. ‘I desire you should make to Diadem the following signal.’

Saxton, the signals master’s mate, hastily took out his notebook.

‘“Report the Christian name of the captain of your main-top.”’

That would be quite impossible to send with the current Admiralty signal book.

‘Telegraph,’ muttered Saxton, instantly, to his petty officer, who lost no time in having the telegraph code flag bent on while Saxton composed the signal. It drew an approving nod from the commodore when ‘Christian’ was not found in the book and Saxton muttered, ‘Um, that is, “fore, forward, bows” and then “name” will do’. He rapidly found the numbers.

The hoist soared up, to be answered with a spelled-out reply from all three masts of Diadem. ‘Cholmondeley,’ Saxton reported, wooden-faced.

‘Very good,’ Popham said graciously. ‘You may stand down your ship’s company, Captain.’

When this had been done, Kydd asked politely, ‘And may I offer you refreshments, sir?’

Once in Kydd’s great cabin, hats and swords were put off and Popham eased himself into one of the armchairs by the stern-lights, stretching luxuriously and loosening his neckcloth. ‘A thoroughly good-spirited ship, Kydd. Count yourself blessed you’re her commander.’

Tysoe arrived with glasses on a tray. ‘To L’Aurore,’ Popham toasted. ‘Long may you reign in her.’

He put down his glass, adding, ‘As you won’t always serve in such a thoroughbred. Enjoy her while you can, old fellow, for the time will come when you’ll know only the lumbering tedium of a ship-o’-the-line.’

‘I will, you may be sure of it,’ Kydd said, with feeling, then realised too late that this must apply to Popham himself at the moment. ‘Which is to say-’

‘Of course. And you and she will grow old together on this station.’

Kydd paused. Popham must be restless if he was bringing this up again. ‘There’s a chance we’ll be superseded and sent home, surely.’

‘I rather think not. A pair of old sixty-fours and a couple of frigates is a small enough levy on our fleet – why go to the bother and expense of exchanging ships over such a distance?’

‘Perhaps so,’ Kydd said. ‘I suppose we must rest content – it is our purpose and duty, is it not?’

Unexpectedly, Popham sighed. ‘You’re in the right of it, old fellow. We shouldn’t complain.’ He stared moodily out of the pretty windows at the vast, white-specked ocean expanse. ‘Even when I know for want of communication a priceless opportunity for strategic intervention is slipping by.’

‘Sir?’

‘Well, in this morning’s mail I received word from my friend Miranda that he is beginning an enterprise of the utmost significance.’ He saw Kydd’s mystification and explained, ‘A gentleman of mixed Spanish ancestry known to me since the year ’ninety-eight. Went to France to learn to be a revolutionary for he ardently desires to rid the Spanish colonies in the south of America of their masters. The French being lukewarm in the matter he then secretly approached the Foreign Office.’

‘And?’

‘He was disappointed in his hopes and came to see me with his intentions. As a newly elected Member of Parliament I took an interest, his proposal possessing certain compelling advantages to the Crown. His plan was to raise widespread rebellion in South America while the attention of the Spanish and French was on the invasion of Great Britain. The benefits to us I need hardly point out. An immediate cessation of the treasure fleet filling Boney’s coffers would provide an intolerable distraction to Spain, caught between two fires, as will probably see it sue for peace, and, of course, an immeasurable increase in trade opportunities once the continent is thrown open to England’s merchants.’

He had Kydd’s complete attention. Strategy and chance were coinciding for truly global stakes.

Popham continued: ‘At some length I argued Miranda’s case in a secret memorandum to Billy Pitt, who took it seriously and even told the Admiralty to work up an expedition to assist – this was about the time of Fulton’s torpedoes, so if I appeared a little distracted at the time, I do apologise.’

‘Not as ever I noticed,’ Kydd replied carefully.

‘Then Villeneuve sailed and the Trafalgar campaign began. We were stripped of ships and unable to sail, and when we did – well, it was to the more direct goal, Cape Town, and, successful, here we remain.’

‘So, no expedition.’

‘Unhappily, no. And do be discreet in what you say, old fellow. The Spanish suspect there is some villainy afoot but can’t fathom from where.’

Kydd nodded. ‘But surely, with both the Spanish and French driven from the seas and not to be counted on to interfere, now is the best time to move.’

‘Quite.’

‘So, Miranda . . .’

Popham shook his head. ‘A shameful thing, I must own. Despairing that we will ever get another expedition together, he is proceeding on his own. His letter coldly informs me that he is shortly to descend on Caracas, the chief town in the north of the continent, there to raise the flag of revolution and independence for all the peoples of South America.’

‘And we do nothing?’

‘The plan called for us to move simultaneously against the viceroyalty of the River Plate in the south, Montevideo or wherever but . . .’

‘This is hard to take,’ Kydd growled. ‘Such a blow as will ring out around the world! Does not Whitehall see this? Have you had any kind of word?’

Popham gave a tired smile. ‘Pitt was not well when we sailed on this Cape venture. Conceivably he’s distracted by the news of Austerlitz.’

‘We don’t know that.’ Kydd had only recently heard of it: a land battle in some benighted place to the east, where Bonaparte had crushed the armies of both the Austrian and Russian emperors in a titanic battle. Most opinion had it that the Third Coalition, an alliance including Austria, Prussia, England, Russia and Sweden, was as good as destroyed.

Popham downed the rest of his wine. ‘If there are any designs to move against the River Plate we should be the first to know of it – we are the closest and the forces we employed on this expedition can only be said to be in idleness.’

‘But you’ve had no word?’

Popham shook his head.

The next afternoon Kydd insisted Renzi dine at his club and they went ashore together. As they left the old jetty for the noisome waterfront, Renzi stopped. ‘Er, there’s someone I’d rather not meet,’ he muttered, and turned about.

‘Wha-?’ At the end of the lane a distinguished-looking man was directing others in some sort of inventory, then Kydd recognised him. ‘It’s only your old fiscal, Ryneveld,’ he chided, knowing, however, that while Renzi had been colonial secretary this man had been his immediate subordinate. Now he was at an impossibly lofty eminence in government.

‘You can’t avoid him for ever, Nicholas,’ he said, and hailed the man. ‘Mr Fiscal, ahoy!’

Ryneveld came hurrying over. ‘Why, the Jonkheer Renzi,’ he said, with disarming warmth. ‘Since leaving your position you’ve been so engaged in your studies you’ve been neglecting your friends, sir.’

Renzi gave a stiff bow. ‘I stand accused and can only plead guilty, Schildknaap Ryneveld.’

‘Well, that’s a matter that can easily be remedied. Let me see . . . As it happens, my wife Barbetjie – whom you know, of course – is taking the girls up to the top of Table Mountain for an artistic expedition while the weather allows. Should you feel inclined, you two gentlemen would be very welcome to partake of our little picnic and perhaps to instruct them in their daubing.’

‘That’s very kind in you,’ Kydd said quickly. ‘We’d be honoured to attend.’

‘Splendid. Er, your ethnical work is proceeding satisfactorily, Mr Renzi? I cannot conceive how you might concentrate with all the martial excitement about your ears.’

‘It, er, progresses well, sir. And . . . and the government of Cape Colony, your distinguished new secretary?’

‘Ah, me,’ Ryneveld, said with a sigh. ‘Those heroic days, when together we snatched order from the chaos that threatened – I’m afraid these are long past, Mr Renzi. Now it’s work more fitting for the administrator and accountant, with Secretary Barnard still unwell from his long voyage.’

They walked on in silence for a space. Passing a well-weathered wijnhuis, they heard a manly bass booming out a jolly ballad:

‘Aan de Kaap hoord en wilt verstaan

Daar de meisjes dagelyks verkeeren

Al in het huys De Blaauwe Haan,

Daar wyze dagelyks converzeren!’

‘Ah,’ Renzi said politely. ‘A folk song of the colony, no doubt hallowed by age. Do share with me what they are singing about, sir.’

‘You are right,’ Ryneveld said drily. ‘This is from the early days of our settlement, sung by returning sailors of the Dutch East India Company. But the words are not for ears such as yours, Jonkheer Renzi.’

Kydd hid a smile. ‘Nonetheless Mr Renzi, I’m sure, is interested in its ethnical, er, origins, Mr Ryneveld.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Why, yes,’ Renzi said.

‘Then it goes:

“At the Cape, one hears you’ll understand,

There maidens daily do play court

At the house of the Blue Cock . . .”’

The rhyme and rhythm were quite lost in translation but the sentiment was clear.

‘You wish me to continue, sir?’

‘Please.’

The unknown rich bass rolled on:

‘Een frische roemer Kaapsche wyn

Zai hem, die geld heeft, smaaklyk zijn

Zo proeft men reeds op d’eersten stond

De vruchten van de Kaapschen grond.’

‘And I’ll translate freely this last, touching as it does on our mariner’s delight in finding himself once more in Cape Town.’

‘A cool rummer of Cape wine

Is zest indeed for he with money,

To taste from that first moment

The fruits of the good Cape earth.’

‘Thank you, sir. Most informative,’ Renzi said cheerfully, now convinced there was no longer any need to hide his face when ashore.

‘And where shall we meet for your diverting expedition, pray?’ he added.

They were fortunate: the autumn weather was kind and a warm sun beamed down on the little party marvelling at the precipitous edge of Table Mountain and the spectacular panorama sprawled in meticulous miniature detail below.

They were not alone: other small groups were there, taking advantage of the benevolent conditions, and cheery greetings were exchanged by all who had made the vertiginous final ascent.

It had been carriages to the lower slopes of the giant mountain, followed by a panting scramble up past a waterfall shaded by myrtle. Then had come an arduous zigzag for some hours in the warm sunshine, until in the very shadow of the final vertical shafting of the vast monolith a cool chasm had opened. This was the Platteklip Gorge, their pass to the summit, and pausing to drink at a crystal spring, they emerged at last at the top.

There were no trees, only some wistfully beautiful tiny flowers and heath with moss and lichen, and for the rest a bare grey ruler-straight flatness stretching away for what seemed miles, one of nature’s truly impressive vistas. Exclaiming at the sight, the girls claimed their vantage-points, and the party joined in a tasty repast of cold meats and Cape wine.

After the picnic had been cleared away, Kydd found a spot and set up his easel, Renzi on his right. The breeze fluttered at the paper, which he clipped down firmly. After he had industriously sharpened his best Cumberland pencil, he set to.

Like most naval officers he had learned to take the likeness of a coastline and he had found he was in possession of an artistic talent. Looking out now at a prospect worthy of the greatest artists, he felt inspired: he was on the rim of the world and, in the blue-misty distance, could see the rumpled pair of mountains at the far end of the curve of coast that was Blaauwberg where, not so very long ago, two armies had vied for dominion of the Cape. Nearer, many ships were anchored offshore – Cape Town was clearly prospering by the opening of trade with the world. With a surge of pride he picked out L’Aurore among the bigger naval vessels in their more northerly anchorage, yards meticulously square, a perfect toy at this distance.

As he sketched in the outlines in deft strokes, he pondered over what Popham had confided. There was sense in what he had said about their situation being out of sight, out of mind: he had seen it once before – as a new officer on the quiet North America station in Halifax, Nova Scotia. There he had met men who had been in ships that had been sent out at the beginning of the war and were still there with no foreseeable prospect of either engaging in some momentous fleet action or returning home.

He had welcomed the relative tranquillity for the space it gave him to learn his profession, but it was a different matter here. Now he was a young captain at the outset of his career. If he failed to make his mark soon, others would overtake him, gaining the plum promotions, the more powerful frigates – and be the ones to go on with the great admirals to who knew what glorious actions?

And there was another element to be considered. He was now a very eligible bachelor, by most standards, and it was on the cards that he would fall in love and want to marry. While he had command of a far-ranging frigate, it was essential to make the going in amassing prize-money now for, as Popham could testify, there was little to be had in the larger ships. While he still had a respectable sum from his privateering days, it was not enough to buy and run a country estate.

Then again, Bonaparte had triumphed on land, but how long could a war be relied on to last now that the tyrant was locked up in Europe with nowhere to go? Peacetime would see an instant freezing of promotions and certainly no opportunity for fattening the purse.

If there was a time to become active, it was now.

The outline of his scene was complete. He hooked up the box of watercolours to the base of the easel and sighed. It was not in his power to summon the French to a desperate battle. With few casualties and the unfortunate loss of the corvette, the recent action on the Zambezi would hardly raise eyebrows. If only Whitehall had seen fit for a grand assault against Spanish South America. The British had proved their amphibious skills at Blaauwberg, and such a mission could well be a repeat of that.

Suddenly restless, he glanced sideways at the girls, gossiping blithely as they worked on their landscapes. Seized by an odd feeling, he dabbed in a fearsome ox-eye, the dreadful storm portent he had seen off East Africa before a particularly violent tempest. It was colourful and vivid but didn’t fit the scene. He realised he’d spoiled the painting, laid down his brush in vexation and decided to take a stroll.

Kydd had worked fast and the others in the party hadn’t yet exchanged their pencils for brushes. Over to the right he noticed a dark-haired rather shabby figure rapidly executing his landscape. Unusually for a watercolour he was using a full-sized maulstick and worked with quick, economic movements. Kydd wandered over and stood behind him. Clearly this was no amateur: his field easel was well used and he was building his scene over a luminous cerulean wash that gave a shimmering quality to the foreground elements, which gained animation as a result.

‘A lively piece,’ Kydd offered, leaning closer.

The man, a young, intense individual with sun-touched Iberian features, turned, nodded brusquely and returned to his work. Kydd looked closer at the landscape, realising he’d seen the style before. That was it: the gunroom had bought two of his paintings.

‘You paint professionally, then?’ Kydd asked.

Hooking his maulstick in a little finger, the man felt in his waistcoat, drew out a card and handed it over, then resumed his rapid brush-strokes with unsettling concentration. The card read: ‘Vicente Serrano, Painter in Oils, Watercolour and Gouache. Portraits and Landscapes to the Discerning by Arrangement. 150 Buitengracht Street.’

‘You’re Spanish, then?’ Kydd asked, puzzled.

This time he got full attention. ‘No, sir!’ Serrano spat. ‘I am not! A porteno of Buenos Aires, which is in South America.’ He glared at Kydd, then resumed his work.

‘Oh – I didn’t wish to pry, Mr Serrano. It’s just that the gunroom in my ship is an admirer of your work. There’s now two pieces hanging there to ornament their mess-place.’

There was a pause and a flashed glance back. ‘So sorry. I leave Buenos Aires because the Spanish they come for me when I speak what they don’ like. I cannot return. Now I paint the picture for my bread. Por favor, Senor . . .’ He recharged his brush and continued on the landscape.

Kydd went back to his easel and began another view. This time it was with a calm grey-blue wash, like the one he had just seen, and he wanted to make a good job of it. Perhaps he would send it home to his mother.

Stretching, he looked across at Renzi, who had gone to one of the girls and was leaning over her in conversation. He was by no means as accomplished as Kydd, proficient but with a light style that lacked individuality. Should he go over and set them both straight on the finer points?

He got up, but when he looked again he was astonished to see the girl blush deeply, glance around and then go with Renzi out of sight over the edge of the broad top of the mountain.

Renzi? Near betrothed to his sister? Scandalised, he considered whether to follow but realised that whatever he did would be misunderstood so he waited awkwardly at the girl’s easel, ignoring flashed glances from the others. After an age the two appeared again. When the girl saw Kydd, her eyes widened and her hand flew guiltily to her mouth.

‘Um, er – this is Miss Felicity,’ Renzi said awkwardly. ‘Captain Kydd of L’Aurore, my dear.’

At a loss, Kydd merely bowed and looked at Renzi.

‘Oh, er, Miss Felicity wishes my opinion of her veduta. What is your taking, at all?’

It was a fine, intricate and painstaking work. With not an ounce of life in it. However, Kydd mumbled something anodyne, then added in a significant tone, ‘And I would be obliged for your opinion on mine, Nicholas.’

At his easel Kydd turned on Renzi. ‘Sir, might I make so bold as to enquire-’

Renzi cut him off: ‘In a private way of things Miss Felicity was of some assistance to me,’ he said bitingly, ‘in the article of what a lady might see in a novel. In peril of her reputation she made free of her feelings in the matter. Shall we join the others?’

Popham laid down his pointer and looked at his captains apologetically. ‘So, that’s the situation this month, gentlemen. More of the same – the sixty-fours to remain here, the frigates to cruise occasionally. I’m sorry not to have more entertainment but, as you can see, the French have not been obliging in this.’

Byng of Belliqueux’s bass rumble came in: ‘It has to be said, though, that life on this station does have its compensations.’ He had reason to be satisfied: he had been comfortably in command of the ageing sixty-four for five years now and his wife had recently arrived to join him, as had Downman’s in Diadem. With the pretty wife of Leda’s Honyman, there was now a close social grouping of the married men with family.

‘Be that as it may, we have our duty. Which takes precedence over all else,’ Popham said coldly.

‘Well, I’m for a mort of play at the tables tonight. Frederick?’ There was an affable response to Byng’s query, and the captains made their way out, but something tugged at Kydd and he delayed.

Popham was collecting up his papers and Kydd saw the sagging shoulders, the slow movements, and felt a sudden stab of sympathy. He said impulsively, ‘Er, sir, there’s a French singer at my club, much cried up. Should you wish it, we could spend a pleasant enough evening there.’

The commodore looked up, his face lined and careworn, and broke into a soft smile. ‘Why, so thoughtful in you, Kydd. I shall take you up on the offer, I believe.’

He looked down, saying quietly, ‘And it’s “Dasher” to my friends, as I hope you’ll account me.’

The evening turned out as agreeable as promised and the two found themselves by the log fire, each with a fine brandy. Elsewhere the noisy conviviality continued but they sat in companionable silence, staring into the flames.

At last Popham spoke: ‘Pay no mind to me today, Kydd. I’m prey to the blue devils at times – I’m unhappily possessed of a mind that’s ceaselessly conjuring up quantities of stratagems and devices that have no hope ever of seeing light of day.’

‘It is a disappointment, no doubt, that Mrs Popham is not joining you,’ Kydd said gently. Presumably she would be the one to tame his restless spirit, if anyone could.

‘Elizabeth does not take kindly to foreign climes, and we have a clutch of daughters whose education would suffer if they were parted from their school.’ It was known that Popham had a wife and family, but they had never followed him and he was left, like so many other naval officers, neither bachelor nor married man. Some had taken the easy way out but he had always remained faithful.

Kydd shifted uncomfortably, aware he was talking to the one who had surveyed in the Red Sea, conceived of the Sea Fencibles, had devised the near-invisible catamaran torpedo launchers and a radical new signal system used by Nelson himself, originated the secret Miranda memorandum and was no less than a full fellow of the Royal Society. What possible diversions were to be found in Cape Colony for this fecund brain?

‘In my lower moments I feel driven to strike my flag and return to England, away from this exile.’ He took a deep pull of his brandy. ‘That would be the end of my sea service, of course, but . . .’

Aghast, Kydd tried to find something to say in brotherly sympathy but could think of nothing that did not sound weak.

‘And at other times I damn the eyes of the sluggards in London who couldn’t see a strategical opportunity if it bit them in the ankle. For two pins I’d sail against Montevideo with what I have, rather than wait for their interminable approval until it’s too late.’

Kydd caught a betraying flash of the eyes and, with a tightening of the stomach, realised what it meant. He was being sounded out: the commodore was up to something and needed to know where he stood.

A wash of apprehension was quickly replaced by a surge of understanding and loyalty. Popham was driven by his own need for action but it was in direct accord with his higher duty to his country and the more basic requirement they both shared to achieve something of distinction. Did he really mean it?

‘As well you might, Dasher,’ Kydd said warmly. ‘It would try the patience of a saint.’

He allowed some moments to pass then added casually, ‘And a move against the Dons in South America could well knock them out of the war, I’m persuaded.’

‘You are? It would discommode them to a degree, that much is certain. And the treasure there – I’d rather it were in English hands than Boney’s, don’t you think?’

The eyes were now steadily on Kydd and he returned the gaze confidently. Nothing had been said that was either the truth or what he truly felt.

‘I do. But then all this is to no purpose – there’s nothing can be done without there is approval from Whitehall.’

‘Um,’ Popham said, his gaze not wavering. ‘This must be so, but . . . purely out of curiosity, if I were to be so rash as to make a motion against South America, would you follow, old chap?’

So that was it. A strike against Montevideo!

His mind raced. The question, of course, was hypothetical: if Popham ordered it, Kydd must obey. What was really being asked was: would he join with a whole heart in the enterprise or hang back with carping objections, as some might do in the absence of formal orders from above? If Popham really contemplated the move he must tread very carefully indeed, for if it was later disallowed by the Admiralty then, from this point on, anything Kydd did that smacked of collusion was meat for a court-martial.

There was one overriding objection to any talk of a pre-emptive assault and Kydd knew it had to be brought up immediately: ‘Well, I have to say it, Dasher, it’s a bold enough stroke – but wouldn’t this leave you open to the charge of quitting your station without leave?’ It was axiomatic to faraway Admiralty planning that the strength and whereabouts of its assets around the world were reliably known in the grand chess game that was central to political strategy, and an admiral who was absent from his post was a dangerous liability.

Almost as soon as he had spoken, Kydd found an answer to his own question. ‘Then again, I’d have to confess before you that I followed Nelson when he left his Mediterranean station to chase Villeneuve across the Atlantic, and where would we all be if his courage to leave had failed him then?’

‘Just so,’ said Popham, imperceptibly relaxing. ‘Would that all my captains were of such stout heart.’

Kydd made play of fixing on the light of the fire through his brandy. ‘But then all this is idle talk. The Navy might desire it but the Army must achieve it. How would they be persuaded?’

‘This is true enough, but if you’d heard the talk after mess dinner in the castle enough times, as I have, you’d not be in doubt. They, poor wights, are in far worse case than we. At least we’ve the passing prospect of a privateer or cruiser to look forward to. They’ve nothing but idleness each and every day and pray for any kind of alarum that might test their mettle. To dangle a chance before them to share in such an adventure, why, we’d be trampled underfoot by eager military not desiring to be overlooked.’

Kydd joined in the comradely chuckle but knew the discussion was becoming pointed. ‘Um, yes. But at the same time if ever we’d think to make a descent it must take an expedition of size . . . of cost. Where would-’

‘I should think that question easily answered. If our doughty governor, himself of some record as a military strategist, should be taken by the idea, then he has the power and resources to mount such a one. As to equipment, surely that which served in an opposed landing in Blaauwberg would serve us in an identical campaign elsewhere.’

There was no question but that Popham was seriously considering a full-scale move against Spanish South America and all that that implied. The only question now was where Kydd himself stood. With him . . . or against him?