Betrayal

Chapter 3

‘He what?’ gasped Renzi, choking on his breakfast. ‘You seriously mean to tell me-’

Kydd nodded.

‘This cannot be! He’s implying that there’s going to be an assault on Spanish America with – if he strips Cape Colony of its entire sea defences – a pair of old sixty-fours, two or three frigates and a brig-sloop? Ha! Either you misheard our noble commander or I’m compelled to believe this southern moon must have powers to induce lunacy beyond the ordinary.’

Kydd paused. In the cold light of day it did seem more of a dream than a possibility, but then he returned strongly: ‘Think of it, Nicholas! Not only will it tear away their main source of income from the Spanish but we deny Bonaparte his tribute and means to wage war. And with such a market opened up to us, our factories and merchants’ll swell in riches past all counting. It’s . . . it’s a chance that, for the sake of England, can’t be missed.’

Recovering, Renzi said, with an irritating air, ‘Tom, have you any conception how vast is the continent of South America? How many leagues of mountains and deserts, hills of silver, towns and cities? I’ll grant it’s a worthy aspiration – but conquest?’ He broke off in snorts of laughter.

Nettled, Kydd waited for him to subside. ‘You don’t know the whole of it, Nicholas. He’s in confidential communication with a cove called Miranda, who’s said South America is ripe and ready for rebellion. And he does know about things – Billy Pitt himself asked him personally to write a secret memorandum on the subject.’

‘That’s as may be. It doesn’t take anything away from the utter hare-brained idiocy of it all. Even supposing he gets an expedition from England prodigious enough in size to land an army, what then? He wins a first battle – and where will he go next? When it takes a year to march to the other side, how does he prevail upon the Spanish to wait for him there?’

Kydd reddened. ‘So this is how you treat commanders of spirit and enterprise? At least Popham’s not falling asleep on a quiet station – he’s looking to find ways to annoy the enemy in the best way he can, and if he’s considering ways for an assault, I, for one, honour him for it,’ he snapped, then helped himself to the last of the precious English marmalade in silence.

‘Humph. Leave us trust he’ll come to his senses. Now, I’ve had some thoughts about Portrait. If you’d be so kind as to hear these out . . . ?’

‘Well, if you think they’re important. I’ve a busy day, Nicholas.’

Renzi pushed his plate to one side. ‘Then this. What do you think is the best measure of the scale of the task that awaits?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘The simple exercise of multiplying the words on a page, by the number of pages in a book, gives the result of no less than one hundred thousand words!’

He went on in awe, ‘Scratching away at, say, a brisk two or three words a second – why, it’ll be months continuous for me just to cast it in words.’

‘Very well. To first things first, Nicholas. What shall be the meat of your piece? That is to say, you’ve shown me two books which are novels and each is different from the other. Yours will be like . . . ?’

‘Mr John Murray, a most estimable publisher whom I consulted before, I seem to remember did mention that the female fancy is not to be neglected and that a travel work would answer. Should I combine the two it may well prove fruitful.’

‘And shall it be a biography?’

‘It will be built upon the events of my life to be sure but, good heavens, none must suspect it.’

‘Nicholas, you’re aware a novel is a work of fiction? You may write what you will, providing it satisfies.’

‘Ah – there you have it! What will please a reader? An extensive treatment of the customs and economy of the local polity, as observed on my travels? Or is it to be a detailed account of events, whether uplifting or tragic?’

Kydd sighed. ‘I’d be happy with a rousing good tale of your wenching in Venice with your poetic friend on that Grand Tour you never want to talk about.’

Renzi coloured. ‘That is never a subject worthy of literary endeavour, as well you know. Recollect, brother, this has to be fit for a gentlewoman’s eyes.’

‘Then I’d say that you’re at a stand, old chap. Until you know what your readers desire, your words are all puff and vapour.’

‘I’ll think on it,’ Renzi muttered, with a hurt expression.

An apologetic knock on the door announced the mate-of-the-watch with a note. ‘Sent from the commodore, sir. His boat’s still alongside,’ he added.

Brief and polite, the message had obviously been written in haste: ‘If you can spare the time, there’s someone I’d wish you to meet.’

Kydd folded the note and put it into his waistcoat. ‘We’ll talk novels again later, Nicholas.’

There was no indication of the rank of the person, and Kydd compromised by omitting his sword. This was not like Popham: he was generally considerate to his subordinates in the matter of timing. It must be a matter of importance.

The commodore was waiting for him at the rail of Diadem beside a chubby figure with a florid face, dressed in comfortable merchant seaman’s rig. ‘This is Captain Waine, Kydd. He’s master of the trader Elizabeth, yonder.’ Popham indicated a plain-featured brig at the edge of the anchorage.

The man touched his old-fashioned tricorne respectfully. ‘Cap’n,’ he said carefully, with a slight American accent.

‘Captain Waine has some interesting things to tell us, Kydd. Shall we go to my cabin?’

Dismissing the sentry, Popham offered wine, then turned to Kydd. ‘This gentleman has been talking to me about his recent experiences in the viceroyalty of the River Plate, which I thought you’d wish to hear.’

‘My pleasure, Admiral,’ Waine responded.

‘Among the things he’s imparted is that at the moment there are no Spanish ships of war in the whole River Plate – none. They’ve left to sail north to contest a rumoured landing at Caracas.’ He winked at Kydd, and went on smoothly, ‘And it seems the inhabitants are restless and bitter, concerning the state of trade obtaining there. The Spanish, being at war with England, have been sorely affected, their relations with their colonies all but severed by our blockade.’

‘Ain’t none been seen this two-month!’

‘And what is worse to the situation is that commerce with any other nation is forbidden under the direst penalties. It’s true there’s a species of smuggling of contraband into the main metropolitan centres, but none may legally trade without leave from the viceroy.’

‘From Viceroy Sobremonte hisself!’ Waine picked up a newspaper, which he identified as the Telegrafo Mercantil of Buenos Aires and waved it at Kydd. ‘There it’s at, less’n a couple o’ months old.’

He spread it out, a blunt forefinger running down the columns of type to find a passage. ‘There!’

In Spanish, it meant nothing to Kydd, but Waine translated. ‘A porteno, man o’ property an’ standing in the city,’ Kydd remembered this was how the painter on Table Mountain had described himself, ‘gets mad at the viceroy, sayin’ the city’s going t’ ruin over trade being cut off and demands he goes over t’ free trade.’ He jabbed at the text in several spots where the words ‘libre comercio’ were prominent. ‘Didn’t do him no good, though. He’s slammed in chokey f’r his cheek.’

‘And you say there’s unrest against Spanish rule?’ Popham asked innocently.

‘Unrest? Why, I’d say a stronger word’n that. Them as is born there, they’s called criollos and, no matter how high ’n’ mighty, they has to bow down to any as comes from Spain an’ takes all the top positions in trade an’ gover’ment, no mind how low they’s been born in the home country. No, sir, unrest is too kind a word.’

‘Can you tell us anything of the military? What forces do the Spanish have?’

Waine winked slyly, tapping his nose. ‘Why, you’re not thinkin’ to do mischief there while there’s no men-o’-war doing the guardin’, b’ any chance?’

Popham assumed an appalled look, leaving Kydd to ask awkwardly, ‘I was more concerned with how the Spanish might put down any pother at all . . .’

‘Well, reg’lars at Montevideo an’ a whole lot o’ militia in Buenos Aires. A sorry bunch an’ nothin’ to worry on.’

‘Er, I’ll not detain you further, Captain,’ Popham said, taking his empty glass. ‘I know you’ve cargo to clear. My thanks for your information and we may well talk again.’

After Waine had left, Popham sat down, his brow furrowing. ‘You heard that. From one who has nothing to gain by concealing the truth. This sharpens the urgency considerably.’

With Renzi’s words and sarcasm still ringing in his ears, Kydd asked, ‘Dasher, you can’t really be thinking to invade South America?’

Popham looked up with a lopsided smile. ‘Invade? Of course not. But here’s a thought: the Dons have left an open door to seaward while they deal with Miranda in the north, and the population is simmering with revolt. Should a British squadron appear, offering liberation from the oppressors and at the same time throwing open the entire port at last to free trade – which is precisely what we did with such success here in Cape Town – then wouldn’t you, as a South American, feel just a little bit inclined to side with us?’

‘I’d think so, but the size o’ the continent! How can we-’

‘No, no, not an invasion. We haven’t the resources and that was never in my thinking. While we can, we seize Montevideo and neutralise the Spanish military. The people rise up and we ride in triumph into the capital. By the time Spain hears of it, for them it’s too late. They’ve lost their seat of power in the south and Miranda is raising the standard of revolt in the north. A mighty empire of three centuries standing – brought down by us!’

It was nothing short of mind-shattering. To go from humble overlooked naval squadron to empire toppling? There had to be a reason why not.

‘Er, we’ll need an army of quite some size, I’d warrant,’ Kydd said, trying to keep his voice steady, ‘as can be transported in what vessels we have to command. The guns? And horses, o’ course.’ He was flailing about now, trying to find solid ground under his feet.

‘Leave that to me,’ Popham said, with a seraphic smile. ‘As soon as our Mr Waine can give me details on their barracks and forces, we’ll know how to proceed. I’m sanguine a regiment of Highlanders is worth three of the Spanish. And guns – do remember that there’s been no threat to South America since the days of Francis Drake, and never to the River Plate. Even a brace of our paltry field guns will send ’em packing the first time they smell powder.’

‘You really are going after the Spanish!’ Kydd said in awe. This was a breathtaking display of moral courage, not only in the conceiving but the firm self-reliance in initiating and planning the entire matter.

‘I am! Should I be satisfied in the odds and what we have to face them, that is.’

Kydd looked at him for a long moment. ‘Then, Dasher, you have m’ full support. Is there anything I can do?’

‘Why, thank you. I suppose there is, old fellow. This is no small matter. I’d be obliged to you if we could get our heads together in the planning. With so many strands coinciding in our favour at this time, there’s not a moment to lose. Say, at four?’

Renzi arrived late for breakfast, tousled and bleary-eyed.

‘Why, you wicked dog! You’ve been up carousing half the night!’

‘Your jest is ill-timed, brother. In truth I’ve been wrestling with chapters and endings and . . . things, and nothing will answer that would satisfy. How can a character be a feckless rake, yet take our sympathy at one and the same time? It’s just not logically possible,’ he said bitterly.

He flopped into a chair, picked up a new local newspaper, the Cape Town Gazette, and distractedly leafed through it.

‘Himself in a taking over L’Aurore? I shouldn’t have thought it,’ he murmured, when Kydd said he was going to the flagship shortly.

‘Oh, just an enquiry,’ Kydd said casually. With Renzi’s attitude to Popham, he could see no reason that his friend should know of what was afoot until it was at a more mature stage of planning.

‘Then you’ll have time for a small discussion of Portrait, brother?’ Renzi said hopefully, closing the newspaper.

‘Not now, Nicholas,’ Kydd said absently, looking for his leather dispatch case. He found it and tested its lock with his fob key. ‘I have to, er, keep Mr Popham abreast o’ things, I find.’

Renzi’s eyebrows lifted at the sight of the dispatch case, normally used for the transfer of confidential materials, but he refrained from comment.

‘Right. To the first. How do we proceed from here?’ Popham said briskly, pulling out papers and looking encouragingly at Kydd. ‘I’ve questioned our American friend at some length and have discovered that for us things are looking better and better. It seems that not only are there few and poor military but their equipment and fortifications are in dolorous order. I’m content that what we are possessed of here will be sufficient to achieve the goal.’

He passed across some lists. ‘I don’t have to remind you, I consider this discussion and materials in perfect confidence between us. Surprise is everything.’

‘Of course.’

‘No one shall know until we have our full dispositions in the matter.’

‘You have my word.’

‘Not even that secretary chap of yours – what’s his name again?’

Kydd paused. ‘It’s Renzi. You’ve never really taken to him, have you, Dasher?’

‘Well, no,’ Popham said, straightening his cuff. ‘A little too much of the dark side about him. As one might say, he’s the air of a fox, too cunning by half. I’m actually intrigued as to why you have the fellow about you all the time.’

‘We’ve known each other for years. I’d trust him with my life,’ Kydd said steadily.

‘Quite. But not with planning confidences.’

‘As you wish,’ Kydd said, ‘but if I might make just one observation, Dasher?’

‘Fire away.’

‘Shall it be you who commands the expedition? Your experience in the military line is . . .’

‘It will be in the character of a joint venture, naval and military, as was the case with Cape Town.’

‘You’re not expecting General Baird to leave his governorship here to take command of a South American army?’

‘Sir David? No, not at all. But I have a special mission for you, my friend, the honour of co-opting our future general-in-command.’

‘I – I don’t understand you.’

‘You’re in the right of it. I’m a military tyro, no acquaintance to speak of in the planning of an army action. We’ve need of a field officer to advise, to render assistance in the promoting of the operation and so forth. It would appear . . . self-aggrandising if it were I who approached the man. It were better that you broach the possibilities, don’t you think?’

‘Very well. Whom do you have in mind?’

‘There’s only one I’d feel has both reason and desire for the position.’

‘Beresford?’

‘Just so. An ambitious brigadier general, twice thwarted of glory in Cape Town – at Saldanha and with Janssens’s hasty surrender – and destined to rot unless he can find himself some other adventure.’

Tall and commanding, Beresford’s figure was always prominent in social events at the castle. He still basked in the reputation he had won in a forced march across the desert with Baird from the Red Sea to the Nile, which had resulted in the defeat of the French Army abandoned by Napoleon. And in which the unknown sloop commander, Kydd, had played his small part.

Was this sufficient grounds to strike up an acquaintance with the general, become comradely enough to impart confidences of such giddy import? He felt a jet of nervousness at the thought, for social manoeuvring did not come easily to him. ‘I’ll, um, see what I can do,’ he said cautiously.

‘No need to make an immediate approach,’ Popham said pleasantly, ‘as the initial objective has first to succeed.’

‘Being?’

‘I think it proper that my captains should be made acquainted with what we plan at the outset. We carry them with us, and our approach to Sir David will be that much the easier, particularly since by your golden words his colleague General Beresford will stand persuaded of the necessity of a descent at this time.’

Kydd was beginning to feel out of his depth, but he also knew that in a post-captain such skills were requisite if he was going to progress in his profession. ‘They’ll need some convincing,’ he said, as heartily as he could, ‘evidence of our military resources as will have them satisfied in every particular of the enterprise.’

‘Exactly. So – to work. These papers list our assets and an appreciation of what we face across the Atlantic. You shall be a captain and I shall rehearse on you what will be presented. Then I beg you will say whether or no you are decided.’

‘Well, I’m ready for you, Dasher.’

Popham leaned forward. ‘This is no triviality I’ll have you know, my dear Kydd,’ he said gravely. ‘If you are not agreeable in any wise, for any reason, I shall not proceed. That is, the whole venture to be called off – abandoned. I will not risk men’s lives unless there is good prospect of success. You understand?’

It was unfair: he was being put in a position where his word would be enough to destroy a daring and far-sighted stroke against the enemy – or to send men to their deaths. But then again, wasn’t Popham being scrupulous in his planning, getting a second opinion such that if it went against him the world would never hear of it again?

‘I do. Be certain you’ll hear from me should I feel to the contrary.’

‘Stout fellow! Then shall we begin?’

Popham had pleaded ignorance of military affairs but, if this was the case, it didn’t show to Kydd. Perhaps it was his experience of the Cape Town expedition or even the previous Red Sea joint operation but he certainly seemed perfectly at home dealing with forage for horses, biscuits and rum for the troops and second-run stores for the follow-up, as well as the joint administrative structures to be set up.

Numbers were demonstrably inferior, but Kydd had seen the Highlanders in action. And when Popham produced his trump card, he found it hard not to applaud. It was to formalise what had worked so well at Blaauwberg: that the invading ships would each contribute a proportion of their seamen and marines to form a sea battalion that would increase their effectives by a considerable margin.

‘Considering we have only to make a show against the Spanish, and the natives will flock to our banners, it should suffice,’ Popham said.

‘I hope you’ve something more interesting for us than last time, old bean,’ complained Donnelly of Narcissus. ‘I’ve an important appointment ashore, an’ she won’t wait.’

Popham ignored the gibe from the senior frigate captain and waited for the meeting to settle. At the other end of the elegant table in the flagship’s great cabin sat Kydd, studiously blank-faced, along with the men commanding the other ships of consequence, in all the totality of the rated vessels in his fleet.

‘I’ve called you here for one purpose only. That is to seek your advice.’

This brought immediate attention, for not only was Popham not given to asking what to do but in a flag-officer it was unprecedented.

‘Whatever we can do, sir,’ Downman said loyally. The others kept a wary silence.

‘Then it is in this matter.’ Glancing at each man individually, his manner confiding, persuasive and convincing, he spoke slowly: ‘I’ve recently had an extraordinary intelligence that reveals the Spanish have left their province at the River Plate completely unguarded, sailing as they have done to quell unrest in the north of the country and leaving contemptible forces only to guard Montevideo. Understanding that the French squadrons are now no longer threatening, that Trafalgar has robbed the Spanish of any means to contest us at sea and that we still retain most of the same fleet that succeeded so nobly here at Cape Town – then how absurd would it be to consider a sudden descent on the viceroyalty to achieve a famous victory, one that could well knock the Spanish out of the war?’

There was a stupefied silence, then a sudden eruption of astonished talk.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen! One at a time, please!’ Like a kindly vicar smiling benevolently on his flock, he allowed the excitement to subside, then calmly said, ‘Captain Donnelly?’

‘This is madness!’ he spluttered. ‘Are you proposing an invasion of South America? To attack-’

‘No, sir, I am not proposing anything. I’m merely asking your advice, your views, if you will. And never an invasion. If anything, conceivably the suggestion of some species of move against Montevideo, perhaps to hold it for a space until reinforcements arrive. You see, there is an opportunity – a rare conjunction of conditions – that make it feasible to consider the detaching of the Spanish colonies simply by encouraging rebellion among the indigenes. As you may apprehend, they will never hold their possessions against revolt from within while attacked from without.’

‘I see,’ Byng said, in dawning realisation. ‘This is by way of a gesture against the Spanish, giving heart to the natives to throw off the yoke and so forth. I like it. A lot gained for little risked.’

‘And what precisely will this adventure secure to the advantage of the Crown?’ Donnelly sniffed. ‘If this has any chance of being set afoot, that should be known to us in advance.’

‘Don’t be an ass, Richard,’ Byng said scornfully. ‘Think it to be a hundred – a thousand times bigger than Cape Colony! Under our enlightened rule we show free trade, encourage the market and there we go – a river of gold from selling our manufactures into the place and another from trading, er, whatever they grow to the rest of the world.’ He blinked. ‘Sure to be something or other . . .’

‘So we’re to acquire another continent for our empire? We lost the last American one by grievously underestimating the costs of such, and foisting them on the colonists, who then loudly objected and threw us out,’ Donnelly said contemptuously.

Downman came in quickly: ‘As you’ve no imagination, Richard. Aren’t you overlooking one thing? The Spanish have been shipping out millions in silver every year since they made conquest. I dare to say that in our hands it will see the administration well served in the article of costs.’

‘And, o’ course, at this moment that silver goes into Boney’s coffers to pay for his war,’ Kydd said enthusiastically. ‘We have a chance to put an end to it.’ There were slow nods around the table as the implications of both sank in.

Popham resumed: ‘Supposing us to be interested, I’ve drawn up some simple lists as will show the relative military strengths, which, I’m obliged to observe, do favour us in the details.’ He passed them around.

‘It says here but four guns! Against an army?’

‘Let me be clearer,’ Popham said patiently. ‘Any descent will obviously be in the nature of a complete surprise. Although the enemy has numbers, these are untrained native militia who’ve never seen a single day of action. Do you truly believe them capable of standing against our formidable Highland troops? No, I thought not. The guns are there merely to provide a whiff of smoke at the right time.’ He smiled grimly.

‘And, again, this is a limited objective only – the reduction of a single stronghold until reinforcements arrive. With undisputed command of the seas, do you doubt our forces can be supplied?’

He allowed an air of weariness to show, then said, ‘For a little enterprise much is to be gained – which must result, with such a bold stroke, in honour and distinction to those involved. In our quiet little station I would have thought the prospect of such would be enough to set the blood astir. Is there none of spirit here willing to take the Dons by the ears and at the same time earn notice before the world?’

‘Dammit, I’m for it,’ Byng burst out. ‘Better’n lying eternally at anchor all winter.’

‘And me,’ Kydd said forcefully. ‘I’d think it no less than our duty to annoy the enemy in any way we can contrive, and I’ve not heard a better.’

‘Hold hard, Mr Fire-eater Kydd!’ Donnelly said impatiently. ‘We’re not voting in some council-of-war, we’re giving our views, and what I need to hear is the position of their lordships in the matter, they giving the order and providing the expedition. It’s not for us to come up with some wild plan and expect them to fall in with it.’

‘Well, that’s easily answered,’ Popham said, a confident smile playing. ‘A year or two ago, after my investigation of the patriot Miranda and secret memorandum to the prime minister himself, plans were set in train to implement an assault on Montevideo, but then the Trafalgar campaign took precedence. Therefore this may be seen simply as the resumption of an existing expedition.’

‘A resumption?’ Donnelly said, exasperated. ‘Then why the devil are we confabulating about it at all? We follow orders as received.’

‘Ah, it’s not quite so simple. Our conquest of the Cape was rapid and complete, taking days only, and no doubt fresh orders for our deploying are being drafted as soon as they may. However, time and tide wait for no man and so forth, and so it is in our case. The whole River Plate is open while their forces are called away, and additionally the French squadrons have been destroyed or have retired to regroup, and at this season in the south there is little mischief to be expected locally. This is a precious opportunity that may not recur for a long time.’

‘Pardon me for being so slow in stays,’ said Donnelly, barely hiding his incredulity, ‘but isn’t this saying you’ve intentions of sailing without orders, mounting your own expedition, starting your own war? Why, it’s – it’s-’

Popham’s easy manner fell away, his eyes suddenly steely. ‘I have your views, sir. And I say we can’t wait – do you propose remaining in idleness while the opportunities pass us by until such time as orders can reach us from six thousand miles away? I do not! I’m minded to reconstitute the Cape Town expedition as the Montevideo expedition and, on sailing, to send word directly to Mr Pitt that the previous plan is now going forward. I shall request that the agreed reinforcements do meet us in the River Plate, by which time I’m utterly confident we shall have made a first foothold on the continent.’

There were surprised but approving murmurs around the table. Bold, decisive moves were wanted in this war, which was on a global scale like no other.

Honyman had not yet spoken but now pronounced, ‘And Billy Pitt will see his chance and send out an army. It’s a capital idea, Dasher.’

‘Liberators of South America! Ha! The world will hear of us then.’ Byng chuckled. ‘I’m not doubting it’ll mean parades in London, kneeling before His Nibs in the Palace, a medal or two . . .’

Suddenly the prospect became not impossible. ‘Show us those figures again,’ Honyman said, animated. ‘I’ve a notion we should do it.’

Kydd caught the sudden gleam in Popham’s eyes. The magic word ‘we’ had now been been uttered.

Discussion became general. Popham played it very carefully, allowing suggestions to take root, following objections and taking notes. The sentiment of the meeting was rapidly moving towards an urging of Popham to take action with a full-blooded acclamation of the possibilities. Within the hour he had what he wanted.

‘Very well,’ Popham declared expansively. ‘I shall take our conclusions to the governor and I’m sanguine he’ll approve an immediate call to arms. I’ll suspend this meeting in the trust that the next shall be in the nature of a full-scale planning for our Spanish Surprise.’

As they rose he called down the table, ‘Er, Mr Kydd – if you’d be so good as to remain? I’ll need some assistance in the readying of a presentation to Sir David, and as you’re junior present . . . ?’

It was neatly done. Kydd’s regular presence at the flagship would not now be remarked on.

As the last captain filed out of the cabin, Popham turned and, with an audible sigh, collapsed into his armchair by the window. ‘Such a hard beat to windward,’ he murmured, ‘you’d think it a forlorn hope I’m contemplating. Donnelly has the spirit I’d expect in a town beadle, and some of the others . . . Still, I do believe they’re with me – don’t you?’

‘They are, as so they should.’

‘If General Beresford shows willing, he’ll make sure Baird comes in. So I suppose I must possess myself in patience until you’ve made your play. Have you any idea how you’ll do it?’

‘Renzi, old fellow, are you not well?’ Kydd said in surprise, seeing him crouched by the stern-lights. There was no movement and Kydd crossed to him in concern. ‘Are you all right, Nicholas?’

There was a muffled groan. ‘I just can’t get started,’ Renzi mouthed. He heaved himself up and into a chair. ‘Tom,’ he croaked, ‘it doesn’t fadge – nothing works, it’s coming out too . . . too wooden, if you catch my meaning.’

‘You mean your novel?’

Renzi gave him a withering stare. ‘And what else, pray?’

Kydd sat down. ‘That is, your hero is not, as who should say, a satisfying enough cove.’

‘No, not just that,’ Renzi said wearily. ‘It’s that . . . Well, you’d never understand.’

‘As I’ve not the headpiece of an author?’ Kydd said tartly. ‘Look, m’ friend – you’re going to have to face it. It may be . . .’

‘May be what?’ Renzi said, with unease at Kydd’s tailing off.

‘It could be . . . that you have to be born to the craft, the same as prime seamen, brought up in it from a younker.’

‘It could be that authors have it inside them all the while, awaiting release.’

‘And you all this time at it and no headway?’ Kydd said sadly. ‘I don’t think so, Nicholas.’

Renzi said nothing, but his frustration was pitiful to see. Kydd softened. ‘Look, why don’t you think again? It’s about a well-born chap who has all these adventures. Isn’t that you? Why don’t you write about yourself directly? If you’d care to, o’ course.’

‘No, no. I can’t do it. To write is to expose yourself to the world, to let everyone see into your . . . well, all of you. I could never allow that.’

He pulled out a crumpled sheet. ‘Just listen to this, though. “I walked into the salon, the duchess looked at me and I had to think of something to say but I couldn’t!” How can you get a novel from that?’

‘Well, I’m not the one to ask it, but have you thought about Curzon? He mingles with the nobs, possibly knows an author.’

Renzi bristled. ‘No one is to find out what I’m writing!’

‘No, of course not. I’m sorry to say I’m at a loss, Nicholas. You might have to admit-’

‘Thank you, Tom, you’ve made your point.’

‘Well, I have to go. There’s divisions at eleven.’

Renzi shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Kydd’s talk of authors being born to it was a worrying bar; if anyone could be such, why wasn’t the world filled with authors? It was not a pleasant conclusion. He’d worked damned hard, and he was no further forward than he had been at the beginning. The plot was logically perfect, the hero’s name and character replete with fascinating and subtle classical nuance, the factual material impeccable. Why then did it read so heavily, so . . . so dull to the eyes?

It was lacking something. He was no stranger to words but they were simply not playing out as he so ardently wished they would. Was Kydd right in suggesting he write about himself? No! Putting aside the embarrassment of exposing his inner self before the public, this was to be a work of fiction and his own experiences had no right to appear.

Wearily he got up and went down to his cabin to put the day’s work in order. The balled-up paper, the scribbled sheets, the endless crossed-out notes – he just didn’t have the heart. He sat down and let his eyes roam over the tightly packed bookshelf above his tiny desk. They were the work of authors, of course, the blessed, the favoured, the felicitous. Would he never join their august band?

As ever, his eye softened at the row of poetry volumes. The tight crafting of precise and numinous meaning from shining words had always given him satisfaction and comfort and he reached for the first and oldest, from the time of Francis Drake, a work by Sir Philip Sidney, that turbulent and gifted Elizabethan. He opened it at random.

And the words leaped out at him:

Thus, great with childe to speak, and helplesse in my throwes,

Biting my trewand pen, beating myselfe for spite,

Fool, said my Muse to me, looke in thy heart – and write!

He blinked and held his breath. A rising feeling of giddiness overwhelmed him, for that was exactly the problem and the solution! In a heightened state of mind, he felt a supernatural thrill – that down the centuries this man was speaking to him, giving of himself to deliver a fellow scribe from the thrall of stasis.

His mind cleared. He had treated the whole thing too logically, too much in the abstract. Was it possible to look into a man’s heart from a distance? To generate sympathy at arm’s length? No. But the solution was there as well.

He must look into his own heart and write about what caused pain to him, gave joy and grief, stirred his deepest emotions, caused his darker, detestable self to reign – and he could do it, for it would be a release. He could at last speak of those years of blind, youthful extravagance and meaningless existence, which had ended with the epiphany in Venice that had sent him back to confront the moral imperative which had changed his life utterly.

Yes! He’d do it! And he could see how – both passionately and as a detached observer: simply tell the tale from the outside, knowing the inside. He snatched a sheet and his hand flew over the paper.

In his regimental dress, the pipe major looked both barbaric and splendid in the massed candlelight as he passed slowly between the tables. No allowance was made for the modest enclosed space of the Castle of Good Hope’s banqueting hall and the volume of sound was visceral. Kydd revelled in it, however, for there was nothing like this sense-numbing martial wail to be found in a man-o’-war’s wardroom.

With the utmost dignity, the piper concluded his processing at the head of the table next to the mess president, General Sir David Baird, and duty done, stared fixedly ahead.

The moment hung in a heady whisky fragrance, the gold and scarlet of regimentals in rows interspersed here and there with the rich dark blue and gold of the Navy as both services joined in the tribal ritual of the loyal toast. Baird rose solemnly; with a massed scraping of chairs every officer got to his feet likewise, his glass, charged with a golden glow, held before him.

‘Gentlemen – the King.’

‘The King,’ murmured half a hundred men, some with an added, ‘God bless him.’ It produced a powerful sense of union with the country that had given them birth, now on the other side of the world but to which each and every one was bound by this common tie of allegiance.

With a rustle and occasional clink of ceremonial accoutrements, the assembly resumed their seats and conversations continued in a lively hum.

‘Your jolly good health, sir!’ It was the adjutant of the 93rd, sitting down from Kydd and the more senior officers.

‘And to yours, sir!’ Kydd called in return, raising his glass. He enjoyed attending army mess dinners with their different ways and effortless banter, not to mention the fine victuals to be had in a garrison town and, of course, their well-found cellar.

Tonight was no exception: a regimental occasion with the 71st as hosts and the rest of the military as guests in a splendid affair – but for Kydd there was a purpose and he prepared to make his move.

Next to him was the red-faced and happy Lieutenant Colonel Geoffrey McDonald, Lord of the Isles, and further towards the head of the table the firebrand Colonel Pack held forth, but for Kydd there was only one of notice that night: the brigadier general and second-in-command of the Cape Colony military, William Carr Beresford, sat some places up.

The dinner was over, the toasts made and cloths drawn, and amiable converse became general. Now was the time.

‘A right noble dinner, General Beresford, sir,’ he called genially. ‘I’ve not had better this age, I declare.’

Beresford had a reputation for stiffness, a liking for the forms, but he turned politely to Kydd and replied, ‘The victor of the Zambezi does us honour in the attending, Captain. As it happens I’ve just sent for a bottle of Malmsey of the old sort. Would you care to join me?’

As was usual at this time, a number of officers had taken the opportunity to perform what the Navy delicately alluded to as ‘easing springs’ and by their absence the hardier remaining were able to choose a more convenient seating. Kydd left his and, after a polite bow to Sir David, took the chair opposite Beresford.

‘This is most civil in you, sir,’ he said, as his glass was filled. ‘I’ve quite forgotten the taste of such after so long on this station.’

After murmured appreciations it was established that the distinguished captain in the Royal Navy by the same name was indeed Beresford’s brother John, who had been active and enterprising in the war against the French in the Caribbean, and had, as who might say, been fortunate indeed in the matter of prizes and notice.

Kydd confided that his own family was quite undistinguished, living as they did in the country near Guildford, and changed the subject – not so much out of concern that his humble origins would be discovered but more in the knowledge that this was the eldest son of the Marquess of Waterford, but one who had not succeeded to the title for he was acknowledged illegitimate.

Beresford was surprised by and professed delight to learn of Kydd’s role in the Abercromby action in Egypt and, unbending at last, detailed his own legendary dash across the desert to take the French in the rear, illustrating the route with cruet marshes and a decanter range of mountains, not forgetting a perilous defile between two forks that left no doubt as to the hazards bravely faced.

After another mutual toast, Kydd set down his glass with a sigh. ‘I do confess it, I’m taken with the entertainments commanded by your most celebrated 71st Regiment. I do wish it were in my power to conjure a like in return, but my ship – trim and graceful as she is – cannot possibly stand with a castle in the article of convenience in entertaining.’

He allowed his head to drop. Then he looked up again brightly. ‘I have an idea! Yes – it’s possible! My duty as captain must surely be to make certain those rascals of a crew do not wither in idleness while long at anchor. I’ve a mind to put to sea and exercise ’em. Sir, how would you welcome a day’s cruise in a saucy frigate whose sailors are set to every task in sea life before you? Racing up the rigging, bringing in sail high aloft, a few rounds with the great guns, boatwork . . .

‘Sir, I can promise entertainments and edification a landlubber may never be witness to in a lifetime.’

‘Oh. Er, I would not want to put those splendid fellows to overmuch trouble, Captain.’

‘Nonsense. You shall be my guest and see how the Navy conducts its manoeuvres, and be damned to their feelings. Shall you wish to see a flogging with the cat o’ nine tails at all?’ Kydd asked innocently.

‘No, no, that will not be necessary. The spectacle of a grand ship working its sails and, er, things will be diversion enough. That’s most kind in you, sir, and I mean to take you up on the offer.’

‘Splendid!’ Kydd exclaimed. ‘And I’m sure your staff might be accommodated if they can bear to be escorted by midshipmen. Shall we say on Thursday, then? My first lieutenant will call upon you at two bells of the forenoon, as we do call nine o’ clock.’

‘All in hand, sir,’ Gilbey said, touching his hat to Kydd on the quarterdeck. ‘Stand fast that th’ officers’ cook is in a fret that he can’t find artichokes an’ he’s heard the general is partial to ’em.’

‘Never mind, I’m sure he’ll manage. Take away my barge and coxswain and be sure to warn the boat’s crew to feather and don’t wet the general.’

There was widespread anticipation at the news that there would be a high-ranking redcoat general aboard to experience for himself how the Navy did things. Even the gunroom found time to priddy their abode with the most tasteful decoration to be found, and after Kydd had indicated that the general would be visiting the mess-decks to see the sailors at home, an astonishing level of industry had produced quaint and intricately wrought ropework ornamentation to adorn the mess-trap racks and table corners.

On deck every conceivable rope’s end that could be spied from the quarterdeck had been inspected, and if not pointed, a seaman was set to the painstaking task of working it thus – fashioning a pleasing taper to the end of the rope and finishing with a lengthy whipping.

Guns were treated with a mixture of lamp black and copperas, then polished well with a linseed-oil woollen cloth, the result being favourably compared to ebony. Kydd knew, however, that this was a fighting general and personally ensured that every fire channel between pan and vent was clear and bright: there had been cases when zealous blacking had resulted in a perfect appearance but a blocked touch-hole had rendered the gun useless in action.

Decks had a snowy lustre where holystone and bear had been plied with salt water, and on all sides, if a touch of colour might bring a fitment to more pleasing prominence, paint was produced and the more artistic seamen set to wielding a brush.

The visit was a perfect excuse to break the monotony of harbour service and to build on the pristine condition of the recently cleansed ship to produce a state of perfection not normally possible. For the rest of the commission, they would have a standard by which to judge themselves.

‘Boat approaching!’ called the mate-of-the-watch, importantly.

‘Side-party!’ growled Curzon. A line of white-gloved midshipmen and lieutenants assembled at the side-steps by the hances, each with a grave expression, Kydd taking position at the inboard end.

The barge curved about and hooked on at the main-chains with a showy display of seamanship. Hidden from view, it was not possible to see what was keeping the general, and the boatswain continued to lick the mouthpiece of his call nervously. Finally, Kydd peered over the side and saw a red-faced general awkwardly trying to fasten his sword-belt and fending off Poulden’s well-meaning assistance. Ashore, army officers scorned the loose-fitting naval arrangement for a tight, soldierly fit but this was quite impossible to wear in boats as the general was now finding.

Kydd jerked back and rearranged the side-party, placing the boatswain’s mate and a brawny seaman by the ship’s side. ‘See the general doesn’t kiss our deck – compree?’ he hissed.

At last the general’s plumed hat and solemn face appeared as he mounted the side-steps. Twisting his highly polished boots awkwardly over the bulwark and catching sight of the ceremonial line, he made to raise his hat – and the inevitable happened. His sword caught behind him and he toppled forward. In a flash the two seamen had him firmly by the arms, while his cocked hat was caught by a quick-thinking midshipman who clapped it back on his head before scurrying to his place in the line.

While General Beresford recovered his composure, the boatswain’s call pealed out and he advanced down the line of blank-faced sidesmen to be greeted by L’Aurore’s captain, who of course had not seen anything of the general’s discomfiture.

‘You’re most welcome aboard, sir. Might I present my officers . . .’

In the captain’s cabin a restorative taste of naval-issue rum had Beresford in good humour and ready for his day.

‘Shall we venture on to the upper deck? There you’ll see our sturdy tars at as hard work as ever you’ll see them,’ Kydd invited.

The capstan, situated in L’Aurore between the mainmast and the wheel, was already pinned and swifted; grinning at being under such an august eye, the seamen and marines spat on their hands and clutched the bar upwards to their chests in readiness.

‘Carry on, Mr Curzon!’ Kydd ordered. A fife and drum struck up a jaunty tune and the men stretched out with a will. Beresford was shown the cable ranged along the main-deck below coming in dripping, hauled from forward by the messenger line before it fed down into the cable tiers amidships. It tautened and the pace slowed; men strained and heaved until the boatswain, with his foot on the cable coming in the hawse, roared, ‘Anchor’s aweigh!’

‘Ah. Then I have to inform you, sir, that the anchor is won clear and this ship is now legally at sea.’

‘Lay out and loose!’ The waiting topmen raced out on the yards and sail magically blossomed. Braces were manned and, with a graceful sway of acknowledgement to Neptune, the frigate took up on the larboard tack, the familiar swash and creak of a ship under way growing in volume as Beresford found his sea legs on the slightly canting deck.

Kydd was soon explaining to his intelligent and attentive guest the relative forces between the sails and their resulting course through the sea, the strains to be expected aloft and the options for trimming.

‘Course nor’-west, Mr Curzon.’

Beresford then took in the work on deck necessary to bring the canvas aloft to a proper accommodation to this new direction and the helmsman’s interplay between binnacle compass and set of the sails that ensured the course was maintained. He and Kydd paced the deck together, speaking of the functions of lines and spars, blocks and tackles, until Kydd ordered the ship close-hauled, by the wind as close as she could lie.

The different motion was immediately apparent, much as a horse changes gait when moving from a canter to a gallop, with seas taken on the bow resulting in a spirited pitching and spray carrying aft in exhilarating bursts. Kydd’s intention, though, was to show the limitation of a square-rigger, that she could come up no closer than six points to the wind’s eye.

They made fine speed, and when the land was sunk, all but the far distant blue-grey flat rectangle of Table Mountain, the frigate shortened sail and took up a more sedate pace for the next show: the great guns at drill.

To Kydd, a fine sailing ship was a thing of majesty but what decided battles were the guns, and every man aboard L’Aurore knew his views. The starboard and windward side twelve-pounder main armament was manned and cleared away, fob-watches significantly flourished, and gun-captains with dark expressions mustered their crews.

Beresford took a keen interest in the guns: while they were the lightest frigate main armament in the Navy they were twice the calibre of the largest field gun his army possessed. And quite different: a more compact carriage than horse-drawn artillery, they were on trucks, small wooden wheels, and were tethered to the ship’s side by thick breeching ropes with tackles each side to run them out.

When all gun-crews were closed up, Kydd went to a gun-captain and told him to show the general his equipment – slung powder horn and a pouch with spare flints, cartridge pricker, quill tubes and the rest. Each gun number was told to prove his gear: worm, rammer, sponge and crow, a powder monkey proudly holding out his salt-box for carrying the charge.

‘Slow time, Mr Gilbey.’

His first lieutenant clapped on his hat. ‘Fire! Gun has fired!’ he roared.

The exercise had begun. Tackle falls were eased and the guns rumbled back down the canted deck. The gun-crew got to work – sponge and rammer, invisible wad and shot, the gun-captain showily bruising his priming and slamming the gun-lock down before the gun was run out once more.

Then it was quick time: the fearful muscle-bulging round of heaving the gun in and out in a synchronised choreography, four men furiously serving their iron beast each side, nimbly sharing the limited seven feet of space between each gun with an adjacent crew. After ten minutes of frantic activity, Kydd called a halt.

‘We’ll have three rounds apiece from numbers three and five guns, Mr Gilbey, and to make it interesting we’ll stream a mark.’

The float was found, and on its mast a red flag was fixed, its nine feet square looking enormous on the frigate’s deck.

‘A trifle large, wouldn’t you think?’ Beresford murmured.

Kydd gave a tight smile but said nothing as it was heaved over the side, sliding rapidly astern. While L’Aurore went about to clear the range, the guns were loaded, grey cartridge and iron-black shot, quill tube inserted and gun-lock cocked.

At three hundred yards the jaunty bobbing of the flag was in clear view on the grey-green sea but Kydd took Beresford to the first gun. ‘Do see if you feel the gun is rightly pointed, if you will, sir.’

Gingerly, the general bent to look. ‘There’s no sights!’ he said, astonished. Only a bare barrel looked out into the broad expanse of sea. ‘How do you lay the weapon?’

Kydd pointed out the quoin under the breech for elevation and the handspike to lever the gun bodily from side to side. ‘The gun-captain must lay the gun to his own satisfaction.’ Obligingly, the man did so, with hand signals to his crew.

‘There, sir.’

Once more Beresford bent down, squinted along the barrel to the muzzle, then rose ruefully. ‘As I fail to even see your target, Captain.’

It was a common mistake for first-time gunners. The trick was to locate the target first and draw the muzzle to it, rather than the other way round. After explanations, Beresford picked up on the flag, now a tiny thing set against the sighting along the gun barrel, which unreasonably reared and fell each side randomly with the pitch and heave of the seas.

‘Do say, sir, when you, as gun-captain, will fire your piece.’

Beresford wouldn’t be drawn. ‘It’s quite impossible. The damn thing won’t stay still.’ Kydd hid a smile: unlike the rock-still conditions on land, the sea was a moving, live thing that altered everything, from the footing of the gunners to the eventual flight of the ball.

‘Stand by, gun-crews! Over here, sir, if you please.’

They stood back at a respectful distance, but before Gilbey could give the orders Beresford called out imperiously, ‘And it’s five guineas to one, Mr Kydd, that not a one shall strike within fifty yards!’ The gun-crews turned to look back incredulously.

Kydd, keeping a straight face, nodded in agreement. ‘Carry on, Mr Gilbey.’

‘Number three gun! Fire when you bear.’

The gun-captain crouched, staring along the barrel, giving large then smaller signals, the gun-lanyard in his hand until he went rigid for a few seconds. Then, in one fluid motion, he jerked on the lanyard, swivelled to one side and arched his body, as the gun, with a brutal slam of sound and momentarily hidden in smoke, hurtled back in recoil.

The smoke cleared quickly in the brisk breeze and, after a second or two, a white plume arose gracefully – not twenty yards to one side and fair for elevation.

‘If that were another frigate, he’d be looking to a hit a-twixt wind and water,’ Kydd commented smugly.

‘Number five!’

Eager to do better, the gun-captain took his time and was rewarded with a strike in line but beyond. Beresford had the grace to look rueful. ‘Your guinea is safe, sir. These gunners are in the character of magicians, I believe.’

Kydd relented and explained how it was done. A field gun in the Army was fired with port-fire and linstock, bringing a glowing match to the touch-hole, a practice that was long gone in the Navy. Aboard ship, a gun was fired with a gun-lock, a larger version of that to be found on a musket, and the lag between yanking the lanyard and the gun going off was a manageable small fraction of a second.

And Kydd, like others who were gunnery-wise, made a practice of rating only top seamen gun-captain, those who had long experience on the helm, who could ‘read’ a sea, anticipate their ship’s behaviour in any conditions. This made all the difference when it came to judging the exact moment to fire during the roll of the ship when the muzzle of the gun swept down over the target.

He would leave it to another time to make the point that most gunnery was conducted at the range of a cricket pitch when, in the blood and chaos, only the fastest and steadiest gun-crews would be left standing.

‘Good practice indeed,’ Beresford acknowledged, when the three rounds had been expended. While they had not blown the target out of the water, all that was wanted had been achieved: that in the invisible profile of an enemy ship around the float, every shot would have told.

‘Sir, stand down the people for dinner?’ Gilbey asked respectfully.

Kydd nodded.

Gear was secured and the welcome blast of ‘Up spirits’ was piped by the boatswain’s mate. A happy line of mess-men was soon lining up by the tub in the waist where the grog was mixed in the open air, under the strict supervision of the master-at-arms and the mate-of-the-watch.

The general wanted to visit the mess-decks during their noon meal. Kydd knew it would be an eye-opening experience for him. Army other-ranks were in truth the lowest forms of humanity, from ignorant farmhands and factory workers down to thieves and murderers, their training little more than musket drill and marching. Aboard ship there was no room for these untrained masses: the skills and teamwork in bringing in madly flogging sails on the yardarm or serving the great guns in a no-quarter fighting match were vital and essential.

As well, daily life at sea within the confines of a man-o’-war had its own demands. The committing to test courage on a daily basis put side by side with the human need to relate to one’s shipmates brought out character and strength in the relationships that shaped them. These men were individuals, formed in a crucible of ordeals, ranging from personal combat to the howling menace of a gale, and over time they drew together in a mutual interdependence and regard that was at the very core of what it was to be a member of the company of a fine ship.

The general, with his hat under his arm and therefore deemed invisible, passed between the tables, hearing yarns and ditties, laughter and concerns, feeling the temper of a prime frigate at her best. Afterwards he visited the galley, with its large, purpose-built Brodie stove. The cook in his kingdom ruled his mates and skinkers with an iron fist, lordly checking the metal tallies on the nets of fresh meat doled out from the huge copper vats to the mess-cooks and quick to see that the slush rising on the seething surface was diligently skimmed for his later profitable disposal.

Of course, changes would come after only days into a sea voyage, away from a friendly harbour source of fresh victuals. No more fresh meat but salt beef and pork from the cask, bread replaced by the hard tack that the Navy insisted go under the same name, and in place of greens, preserved stuff such as sauerkraut and trundlers, dried peas.

In the afternoon, those off-watch went to their accustomed leisure on the fo’c’sle while the watch-on-deck took grave glee in exercising their sea skills – stropping a block, invisibly joining two ropes with a long-splice, or rattling down the shrouds on the leeward side. Intricate knots were worked, thick canvas was sewn with palm and needle, and impossibly complex tackles and purchases were devised to move an inoffensive mess-tub. The general took in that these were but a small part of what an able seaman was expected to do for his ship.

‘Four bells, sir,’ Gilbey reported.

‘Very well. Make it so.’

This was a signal for the last act. ‘Hands t’ take stations f’r lowering.’

The launch at sea was stowed on the upper-deck waist, the pinnace nested inside. To ensure its ton weight safely afloat was no trivial feat, demanding the rigging of heavy tackles from the fore-yard and main-yard, connected together with stay tackles and masthead top-burtons to ease the weight. The entire operation, from rest on the chocks to a lively boat in the sea alongside, was conducted in silence, the only sound the harsh piercing of the boatswain’s call.

It was a telling illustration of the skills and training necessary for even the most straightforward of tasks at sea. By contrast, the gig on davits over L’Aurore’s quarter descended to the water in a squeal of sheaves, the boat’s crew making light of scrambling along the driver boom to the jacob’s ladder at its end to tumble handily into it.

Beresford’s attention was drawn back to the launch, which was stroking away to the frigate’s beam, and he was startled at the light-hearted cry from the main-top lookout. ‘Deck ahooooy! I spy pirates! Pirates on the st’b’d beam!’

The launch had rounded to and boated oars but up the stumpy mast rose the dread banner of the skull and crossbones. From their hidden positions in the bottom of the boat a dozen pirates appeared. Fearsome in red bandannas and eye patches, they screeched curses and brandished cutlasses. Then the launch was joined by the gig, and the two, manning their oars, swept round and headed straight for L’Aurore.

‘Repel boarders, Mr Gilbey,’ Kydd ordered crisply.

The first lieutenant wore a sour expression at the sight of the men disporting themselves, but he had his orders. ‘Stand t’ your fore!’ he snarled.

The pirates came on in fine style, swarming up the sides and spilling on to the deck in a tidal wave of action. The brave defenders did what they could but were hard pressed and fell back, hewing and slashing, pistols banging. Casualties mounted on all sides until, with a dreadful roar that startled even Kydd, the awe-inspiring figure of Stirk appeared at the main hatchway, bringing a wave of reinforcements for an attack from behind.

It was quickly over, the last pirates alive preferring a watery grave overside to the wrath of the King’s men.

‘Well done, well done!’ Beresford laughed. ‘His Majesty’s jolly tars triumph again!’

But Kydd had not finished. As the panting men stood down, he called over a pikeman.

‘On guard!’ he ordered. Obediently the man stood firmly, legs astride, the butt of the long pike wedged on deck in the ball of his foot, its forged iron tip questing outward at eye level for the first over the bulwark. ‘Sir, you see here a formidable weapon awaiting a boarder. But it has a fatal flaw.’

He took a cutlass from another and made to strike at the pikeman, who instantly responded, the deadly point turning unwavering on Kydd’s eyes. In a flash Kydd had dropped to one knee in the classic fencing pose for a lunge, but with his cutlass diagonally above his head. Then his blade swung up with a clash on the pike, preventing it lowering, and at the same time he rose, forcing the blade along the pike in a lethal slither – inside the man’s defences.

‘This man is now at my mercy, which does not exist in a boarding.’

Beresford acknowledged with a slow nod. ‘Pistols?’

‘One shot only,’ Kydd replied shortly, ‘into the face, then it’s aught but a club.’

‘Knives?’

‘Worse than useless.’

‘Tomahawks?’ He remembered some boarders had carried these.

‘Never carried by defenders as not for fighting – their use is to cut away defensive ropery when rigged.’

‘Then-’

‘Far better to stop ’em boarding in the first place – canister or grape from carronades, the marines and such with muskets seen to be waiting, and swivels on the breast-rail or in the tops. In harbour there’s boarding nettings spread from below the gun-ports, which can stop even the most vicious assault. We’ve naught to fear except in close battle with a larger.’

‘Oh. So your little show is nothing but a confection.’

‘No, sir. It has a purpose.’ Kydd waited until he had full attention, then went on quietly, ‘In all my professional life at sea, I’ve only been boarded by the enemy once, yet I’ve taken my men to the enemy three, four, five times. This is the reality: that the Royal Navy is more active, enterprising and resolute than the enemy.

‘I ask you, General, now to reverse the situation here and consider that each time you read of a valiant boarding or cutting-out we are the attackers who must overcome any or all of these defences which the enemy can be relied on to throw out.’ He had the attention he wanted.

‘Therefore, sir, think on the quality of the men that I have the honour to command, that I lead in perfect confidence that none will shrink, that all will follow me whatever the day brings.’

Beresford stood for a moment, pursing his lips and watching L’Aurore’s men cheerfully disperse. ‘Captain Kydd. I’ve never before given you an order, but I’m minded to, should it be in my power to issue it. Sir – and forgive if the form is wanting – do you splice the mainbrace!’

The gunroom dinner went off to the greatest satisfaction. Kydd yielded his customary position at the head of the table, when guest of the wardroom, to Beresford, who was unanimously voted Mr Vice by an awed mess. L’Aurore, under easy sail, daintily dipped and heaved, the gimballed lights setting uniforms a-glitter and casting constantly moving shadows, the feeling so beguilingly that of a living being that, for the thousandth time, Kydd wondered at how shore folk could be content with the inert deadness of the land.

After the cloth was drawn, Mr Vice was prompted for the loyal toast, restrained from rising in the Army way, and, suffused with good humour, did the honours most graciously.

Talk then became general, with anecdotes of service in all the seas of the world coming out.

Renzi, gently teased for his performance the previous year as a Russian to seize enemy documents, set the gunroom in a roar with his tale of a Lieutenant Kydd furiously signalling to an invading fleet in Minorca with a pair of red undergarments. Lieutenant Bowden added to the glee by detailing the forlorn state of Kydd’s first command in Malta when they had nevertheless formally commissioned HM brig-sloop Teazer with only themselves as both crew and witness.

Beresford responded with reminiscences of his adventures as a young captain at the fraught siege of Toulon in the first year of the war, when the royalist insurgency had been destroyed single-handed by the actions of an equally young French captain of artillery, one Napoleon Bonaparte.

A most agreeable evening concluded with the appearance of a midshipman to report the lights of Cape Town in sight.

‘A cognac in my cabin, General, while these gentlemen go about their duties?’ Kydd suggested.

This was what the entire day had been leading up to, uninterrupted access to the one who was seen as most likely to take the bait as military commander of the expedition – and he was the chief conspirator.

Tysoe served their drinks and silently withdrew. Kydd summoned his wits: this sly politicking was foreign to his nature but he knew it would not be the last occasion he would need to deploy it.

Beresford raised his glass. ‘I don’t mind telling you, Kydd, I’m impressed. In my twenty years in the Army I’ve learned to be a judge of men, and you have the best. I honour and envy you for it.’

‘Thank you, General,’ Kydd said, flattered, then, seeing his chance, added, ‘As they’ll no doubt be needed only too soon.’

‘Oh?’ said Beresford, with a puzzled frown.

‘The expedition, sir?’ Kydd glanced up with a guarded expression.

‘What expedition?’

Kydd looked hastily over his shoulder at the door, then leaned forward. ‘Sir, the one that has us all a-buzz. You know, to the River Plate.’

‘River Plate? I know nothing of this.’

Allowing a touch of anxiety to show, Kydd said, ‘I’d be grieved to hear it’s not been taken up, sir.’

‘An expedition to the Spanish Americas? I’ve never heard of it!’ There was, however, a telling gleam of interest in Beresford’s eyes.

‘Oh? I do apologise. I’d thought it dependable you would have heard it from Sir David or the commodore, it being a matter at the highest level.’

‘No, sir, I have not. Pray tell, who did you get this from?’

Kydd replied, in some embarrassment, ‘Well, it’s in the nature of a common rumour among the naval commanders, Commodore Popham letting slip once that he was privy to Mr Pitt’s designs on Montevideo and as how it was such a pity to let the opportunity go now that conditions are favourable.’

He briefly outlined the audacious plan with its breathtaking consequences, ending, ‘And it would seem only reasonable that the governor, having higher duties, must require one other to lead the Army ashore. If it seems that another has been chosen then I do apologise again for making mention of the subject . . .’

The fuse had been lit.

‘Time’s not on our side, Kydd,’ Popham said, with a sigh, when Kydd reported. ‘Every hour we delay a move, the more likely it is the Spanish will return to their station. Recollect, friend Waine has been some weeks on the voyage here and Miranda will be deeply engaged in his invading, but not for ever. I’d have thought you better advised to speak directly instead of spending days on your little circus.’

Kydd flushed. ‘Beresford is now trusting in the Navy and he has much to think on. I’d feel it the surer course, Dasher.’

‘We’ll see. If there’s no movement on this in the next three days I’m going to-’

A flustered officer-of-the-day appeared at the door. ‘From the castle, sir,’ he said, proffering a slip of paper. ‘And needing immediate reply.’

Popham read, and a broad grin appeared. ‘Why, by this it seems you’ve done splendidly, old chap.’ He handed it to Kydd.

It was a personal note scrawled by Baird himself. ‘. . . and the fellow’s raving something about a descent on the Spanish Americas! He says you know all about it and so I’d be most obliged if you’d tell me, Dasher!’

‘No reply,’ Popham told the waiting officer. ‘Captain Kydd and I will attend on the governor this hour.’

Baird was waiting with ill-concealed impatience. ‘Well, Dasher? Why am I always the last to hear of high things in my own kingdom? A conspiracy, what?’

‘As it’s in the nature of wry talk, is all, David.’

Baird looked suspiciously at Kydd. ‘Am I to be told why he’s here?’

‘Of his own concern only, sir. He wishes to hear from you directly why the River Plate enterprise is quite impossible at this time, and won’t be denied.’

‘Damn it, Dasher!’ Baird exploded. ‘All this tomfoolery talk about the Americas! Won’t someone tell me what it’s all about?’

‘I am probably in fault for the whole thing, but it’s nothing to speak of, David. Simply said, Mr Pitt commissioned a scheme by me for laying the Spanish by the tail in their own colonies, which was interrupted by Trafalgar. Now, as it happens, it seems conditions are unusually opportune to resume the enterprise, and officers of spirit in my command are clamouring to be let loose on it.’

Popham outlined his dealings with Miranda, the development of plans to provoke an uprising against the Spanish, with its consequences for the wider war and, quite incidentally, the probable fame of any who would be concerned in the shattering of centuries of empire.

‘And now this fellow Waine sails in direct from Buenos Aires with the news that the viceroyalty is clear – quite clear – of any defending warships, leaving it wide open to any descent of ours. Captain Kydd here is of the opinion that, with the retirement of all the French marauding squadrons, there is a shining opportunity to execute the plan – if only we move instantly.’

Baird looked at Kydd keenly. ‘And where do you hope an army of invasion might be found at this instant, young feller?’

Popham came in smoothly, ‘It needs but a comparable force to that which we employed to reduce Cape Town, David, for its purpose is only to hold a strong point, such as Montevideo, until reinforcements and garrison troops arrive.’

‘Then if that’s so why isn’t this plan being put in train?’ demanded Baird, loudly. ‘Be damned, when the stakes are so high, why not, man?’

Popham shook his head ruefully. ‘It not being the province of a sailorman, I’m reluctant to judge, but the situation as I see it is that without orders we are at a loss. London has hardly had time to receive the glad news of Blaauwberg, let alone conjure plans for wider gains. And they’re hardly in a position to know the strategics of what is happening on the other side of the world, so they’ll not be in haste to complete our orders.’

Baird threw him a piercing glance, then began pacing about the room. ‘What you’re telling me is that, if you received orders to do so, you’d sail against the Spanish.’

‘With pleasure.’

‘To resume what was planned and prepared by Whitehall before?’

‘Just so.’

Baird’s pace accelerated and furrows of concentration deepened on his brow. Suddenly he stopped, wheeled around and confronted Popham. ‘I’m governor and ruling panjandrum in these parts. If I get together a picked army, a few guns and a supply train, would you then sail?’

‘I could be held culpable of quitting my station,’ Popham replied carefully, ‘as not having Admiralty orders.’

‘This is something you’ll have to square with them later,’ Baird retorted. ‘I’ve no authority in that line, as well you know. And I’ve my own worries. Detaching forces when so pinched, and justifying all the expenditures, well . . .’

‘I’d do my part, David.’

‘Yes, of course you will. Dasher, we’d be in this together, dear fellow, but think what a noise about the world we’d make! I’m sanguine their lordships will overlook the details when this great stroke be known. After all, we’re but anticipating orders, is all.’

‘So you think-’

‘Give me your plans. We’ll work something out together and be damned to the rules!’

‘Seize the hour!’ Popham murmured.

‘Time and tide!’