Caribbee

Chapter 11

‘You’re sure there’s nothing?’ Renzi asked, with a sinking heart. If the secret base was not here then it must be in Martinique, a much larger island, and there he would be without the advantage of a pair of eyes on the inside.

‘Guadeloupe is not such a big place. Any strange thing would be much talked about.’

‘Yes, that must be so,’ Renzi said, with a dogged expression. ‘We must get back to the ship for the rendezvous soon.’

‘Then we leave without your questions answered, I fear.’

Renzi nodded: the sooner they left before her presence was compromised, the better. ‘But I do thank you for your bravery, which I will never forget.’

Louise bit her lip. ‘There is one little mystery, but it does not concern Guadeloupe.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, my epicier – my grocer, I think he has a tendre for me – he let slip he’s been doing very well lately. I ask him why his profits are so good. He says to me that if I promise not to tell anyone, he will let me know. I agree so he confides. It’s only that the Villa Tartu on Marie-Galante has been re-established by the old general and they’re asking him to supply so many foodstuffs he stands amazed.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps now he regrets talking to me. He may become suspicious and go to the authorities.’

Renzi snapped alert. ‘The island opposite?’

‘Yes, you can see it from here, but it’s only small,’ she said doubtfully.

Renzi’s mind raced. Such would be ideal for quarantining the existence of an operational base. But how was he to check it out? There was one thing that would impel it to a first-rank priority in his investigation – if he saw any of those who’d so comprehensively fooled him in Curacao heading out to Marie-Galante.

‘Er, where do you catch a boat to the island at all?’

The morning sun woke him. Out of sight, high in the crook of branches in a tree overlooking the Porte de la Marina, he nearly tumbled out. He pulled himself back gingerly and took stock. In the night he had chosen well: the tall tree was quite close to the jetty and well within range of Louise’s opera glasses, safely folded in his waistcoat pocket.

He would have to remain in his hideaway until dark but L’Aurore would not be returning from her circumnavigation for some days yet. He had time.

At nine the first boat left, with the grocer’s produce heaped in the bottom. There were five passengers and Renzi could see them clearly as they waited by the jetty and boarded – but he recognised none.

The next boat did not depart until a little before noon, and again there were none boarding he knew. This was not good: it implied that there would be only one or two more crossings that day.

Dusk was drawing in when the last boat came into view. None of the three waiting was of interest, and Renzi looked about in vain for a figure hurrying up at the last minute. Then he saw that the approaching boat had passengers in it – obviously it was coming back from the island.

And there in the bow was Duperre.

He was unmistakable, with his dark features and heavy build, and behind him were two more he recognised. Renzi watched them step on to the jetty and stride away in the direction of Pointe-a-Pitre.

Impatience surged. But if he were seen by any of them or others somewhere in the town there could be only one fate for him.

He waited for dark before noiselessly dropping to the ground and making his way to the Vernous’. Louise was waiting with a candle in nightcap and gown, her eyes wide. ‘Well?’

‘It is here. On Marie-Galante.’

She hugged him impulsively. ‘I knew you’d find it! So, now you can go back and-’

‘No.’

Uncertain, she waited for him to finish.

‘I know it’s here but no one will believe me unless I find proof – something they can hold in their hands, trust in.’

After Curacao it could be nothing less … and that meant only one thing.

‘You will have to go to Marie-Galante?’ she whispered in awe.

Renzi gave a wry nod, the evidence, whatever that could possibly be, was there. All up to this point was wasted unless he could lay hands on something that in itself would convince. If he left now he had nothing. There was no other course left to him. He had to go.

‘Um, yes,’ he agreed heavily. ‘But how?’

There was only one available method to get there: the passenger boat. And what were his chances of slipping through in daylight?

But could he ask Louise to go? She would, he knew, but he had already put her in much danger …

‘It is impossible, it would seem,’ he said, ‘with no-’

She stopped him with a hand on his arm. ‘There may be a way,’ she said shyly, ‘if it be we two together.’

‘We two?’

Lightly withdrawing the hand, she explained, ‘The grocer provides them with their daily victuals. I will supply them with the gourmandises every Frenchman desires. You will be my porter.’

It might work. Certainly it was in keeping with a widow trying to supplement her means with a little business, and even if turned back, they had a way to get to the island.

‘Well done! We shall do it. Er, how?’

‘Don’t stand there, mon brave – we’ve much to accomplish before morning.’

It was the early boat. Louise stood primly in her best rig, her porter in ragged work clothes and a broad, drooping straw hat squatting behind her, zealously guarding four trays of sweetmeats draped with muslin and a bag for returning empty dishes. Renzi kept his eyes cast down, his skin uncomfortably prickling where it had been rubbed and stained to a convincing dark hue.

‘Quickly, Madame,’ the boatman urged, and was awarded an icy glare as Louise stepped delicately aboard. Renzi scuttled on behind her, clearly overawed by the well-dressed passengers.

‘Larguer!’ The bowman poled off and the landlubber porter was fetched a smack on the head from the swinging boom, which brought a laugh and sent him into a defensive crouch in the bottom boards.

The boat caught the wind expertly and hissed through the blue sea, in any other circumstance a sensual pleasure with the breeze caressing the cheeks under the enveloping warmth of the morning sun. The islands were at their best, the green of their vegetation the deepest Renzi could remember and the fringing white beaches a languid temptation.

Grand-Bourg was the capital of Marie-Galante. It was a modest town with a single pier and scattered buildings nearly hidden by lush vegetation. On a slight rise there was the dull red stone of the top of a fort, its embrasures set to command the small harbour, but what Renzi noticed most was a reef nearly a mile long offshore that the boat had to manoeuvre around – the fort and this barrier would make any direct British assault on Grand-Bourg a costly affair.

Bumping up to the low landing stage, the boat emptied while Renzi bent to fiddle with the trays.

‘Come along, Toto!’ Louise ordered imperiously, nodding to a passer-by, who had removed his hat in respect.

It was not far: the Villa Tartu was pointed out a little way inland, at the end of a neat avenue of palm trees.

They walked on without speaking, Renzi taking an obsequious position close behind as they approached the old general’s grand residence. As they got nearer his pulse quickened. Not only was there a pair of sentries at the doorway and a tricolour on a mast but definite activity inside.

He was beginning to have second thoughts about involving Louise but forced himself to focus. Evidence: he had to get unassailable proof. But this was a reconnaissance only, a spying out for what must come later. An observation – then a burglary?

‘Halt!’ The sentries moved forward suspiciously. ‘Who are you, Madame, that you come here?’

‘Madame Vernou, imbecile!’ Louise snapped. ‘Weren’t you told to expect me?’

‘We’ve no word of a Vernou. Have you papers?’

‘Papers? You fool! I’ve been asked by your commandant, M’sieur.’

‘To what purpose, Madame?’

‘He requests me to come with some of my legendary Vernou sucreries for your officers with a view to regular supply,’ she replied scornfully.

‘Ah. Are those …?’

‘These are my rosewater jellies and those are my bonbons.’ A hand went out, which Louise slapped firmly. ‘They are not for your sort. Where is your officer?’

‘Well, I can’t really-’

‘Mon Dieu!’ Louise blazed. ‘I came because I was told there were Frenchmen here who’d relish a delicacy or two to relieve their exile! Do you think I enjoyed several hours in the hot sun in a boat to be turned away when I get here?’

‘Pardon, Madame. Er, if you’ll follow me.’

He led her towards the house but not before she said impatiently, ‘Come, Toto, hurry with those sweetmeats.’

They were ushered into a room and a frowning officer soon arrived.

‘Ah, M’sieur! At last! Your nice commandant suggested I bring you some of my famous delicacies to try. If you like them, I will see if I can arrange a special delivery each week.’

Deftly she flicked the muslin from the top tray. ‘Do taste a jelly, M’sieur, and tell me what you think.’

The officer reached out and helped himself to one. ‘Grace de Dieu, but these are very fine, Madame!’ he said, in open admiration. ‘And those are …?’

‘Coconut and pistachio, M’sieur. You have good taste. The other gentlemen of your establishment, do they enjoy fine food also?’ she asked suggestively.

‘We shall find out, Madame. Do come this way.’

Dutifully Renzi scuttled behind, bobbing his head low as they came into a drawing room where a number of other officers were relaxing with brandy.

‘Tout le monde – attention, if you please! Do try these friandises of Madame Vernou’s. They are splendid indeed, and if we approve of them, she will arrange a regular supply.’

‘For a trifle only,’ Louise added firmly, ‘and paid in advance. Put the trays down, Toto. No, not there, you simpleton. On the big table.’

Her porter hastened to obey, overwhelmed by the presence of so many fine gentlemen. ‘Now go to the kitchen and wait for me. This is no place for such as you,’ she said, in haughty tones. ‘And don’t leave that old bag here either.’

He hurried out and found the kitchen. He looked around furtively, nodding to a little scullerymaid, who introduced herself shyly, then darted away.

Nearly opposite there was a room, its door open. He saw tables with untidy piles of papers and journals, walls lined with file-shelves and maps: it could have only one purpose.

In an agony of frustration Renzi knew that all he wanted was just a few paces from him.

But there were three men in there still at work. What he would not give for one minute – no, twenty seconds – alone in that room!

Instead he had to stay where he was, waiting in a stew of frustration.

A burst of good-natured laughter broke out from the drawing room, with exclamations of surprise and gratification.

‘Merde!’ one of the men in the operations room swore. ‘What’s going on in there?’

Renzi suspected that another tray of sweetmeats had been revealed for there were sudden gasps of wonderment and delight.

‘Well, damn it, I’m finding out!’ the man said, and left.

‘And I’m not leaving it for those greedy bastards,’ retorted another, and stormed out, closely followed by the last.

Renzi teetered with indecision. He had been granted exactly what he wanted – if he took his life in his hands and stepped inside.

In a haze of unreality he found himself standing in the centre of the operations room.

Scrawled times and places on a blackboard, maps with red and blue crosses, documents with an official cast – it was all here. And he had seconds to decide what to do.

Copy them? No time, and that was not evidence. Discover some fact to prove he had been witness to the operation? Again, no time …

A burst of voices set his heart thumping but he couldn’t leave. The journals – without thinking he picked up the thickest. Times, dates, places, ships – and deployments! Steal it! The bag – where the hell was it? He snatched at it and the journal thumped to the bottom. He added another for good measure.

‘Toto! Toto! Come here, you lazy villain, and collect up these dishes!’

He bolted from the room and stood panting with reaction, willing his heart to slow and his body to droop. The three men pushed past him back to the operations room, brushing crumbs from their lips. How long before they discovered what was missing?

‘Quickly, now!’ Louise scolded, catching something of his tension.

He worked hurriedly, putting the empty dishes and trays into the bag, and flashed a look of urgency at her.

‘That’s very fine, good sirs! More of the candied papaya and honey-cakes, too. A bientot, Messieurs!’

Trying not to let their haste show, they headed for the landing stage. Louise had paid a boatman well to be there for them so they could leave quickly. While they pressed on, Renzi told her what he had done and of the incalculable prize under the dishes in his bag.

‘No sacrifice is too great to get these into English hands,’ he said, trying not to sound theatrical, even if it was the truth.

When they arrived at the waterfront there was no boat. Stunned, Renzi tried to think. A quick survey of the small harbour showed no vessel waiting off, or another on its way.

‘There’s only one thing we can do,’ he muttered: they had to lie low until they could find a way off the island. He saw a road that led to an orchard up the slope, ironically not far from the fort. Trying not to look conspicuous they moved away quickly. At the end of the fruit trees a meandering path led further. They passed a returning field worker, who gaped, then shouted after them.

Without looking back they hurried on, finding that the track led to a makeshift pig-pen. Then the thud of a gun sounded from the fort, and a flag of some kind was hoisted rapidly.

There was no alternative but to go on. Renzi led the way past the startled animals and they came to a wall of thick tropical undergrowth. Louise froze, holding back. Renzi urged her to continue. ‘I – I c-cannot!’ she blurted, her face a mask of fear. ‘La Scolopendra!’

Renzi knew the gun at the fort was probably a summons to the soldiery and then the hunt would be on in earnest – they had to make the interior by dark, where they could hide.

Louise burst into tears. ‘I’m h-holding you up, M’sieur Renzi. Go on, I beg!’ With a sob it came out: a species of giant millipede a foot or more long with savage venom infested these forests, and a childhood terror had developed into a phobia.

‘Louise, you must come with me! Be brave!’ He held her hand and tried to pull her on but she resisted.

He took the bag, threw out the dishes, fashioned the drawstring into a bowline, and slipped it over his shoulder.

‘Forgive me, Madame,’ he said, lifted her up and plunged into the wilderness of deep green whipping fronds and soaring palms. She cried out in terror, then shut her eyes and gripped tightly as Renzi pushed on.

After they had reached deep into the tropical forest she tapped his shoulder gently. Renzi stopped and let her slide to the ground.

‘Mon cher, I am better now,’ she said, and tried to smile.

Renzi could see she was not, but accepted it for the act of courage it was. She seemed to sense his feeling and impulsively kissed him. ‘Shall we go on?’

When they’d first arrived, he’d taken a mental bearing of the centre of the small, round island and tried to stay with it as they pushed through. If this was the same kind of dense lowland rainforest as he had seen in other parts of the Caribbean the going would become difficult, but fortunately here the ground cover was more open, less intertwined, and they made progress.

An hour passed and the growth thinned. A bare upland area showed ahead. Cautiously Renzi ventured there and looked back where they’d come. Spread across his vision, and no more than a mile off, he saw a line of soldiers beating as they advanced.

‘We have to get away,’ he said urgently. ‘Where should we go? What’s to the north?’

‘Well, only another three miles. It’s where the old fort used to be,’ she panted. Her dress was soiled and she tried to smooth her dishevelled hair, somehow finding pins to put it up again.

‘Then this is where we go,’ Renzi said, and they started off once more. Gullies and outcrops slowed them but this had deterred cultivation and settlement. Their passage remained unseen.

Renzi did not mention it to Louise but he knew that their trail through the vegetation was almost certainly being picked up – and if the French were smart they would land another line of soldiers on the coast ahead, and then they would be trapped between the two. Keeping his fears to himself, he forced a gruelling pace.

The forest ended and neat rows of sugar-cane reared up. Renzi and Louise hurried down between them; at least they were making good speed. Renzi could see they were crossing to where the field ended in a cliff of sorts, the sparkling blue sea stretching placidly in every direction.

The cliff turned out to be located where a substantial ridge crossed the island. ‘This is La Grande Barre,’ Louise told him. Looking down from the vantage point, Renzi could see the flat northern end seemed to be all marshes and mangroves.

He glanced at the sun. Still too long until darkness. In the open, among the reeds and flat marshland, they would be rapidly spotted. It had to be accepted that the end was not far off.

Then, in the distance, drawn up on the grass away from the water’s edge, Renzi spotted a fisherman’s boat. ‘This way!’ he urged, and found a track down the ridge to the swampland below.

He splashed in, holding the precious bag aloft, scattering marsh birds, which cawed raucously. Heedless of the sucking mud he headed in the direction of the boat.

Louise followed gamely, her dress now in tatters.

Muscles burning, they carried on doggedly until they reached firm ground – and the boat.

Renzi’s heart sank. The craft was old; there was rainwater in the bilge and it had lain there for some time. No oars, no sail. It was of the native type, which meant that at least it was light and simple, with a single outrigger and a small mast.

‘Look!’ Louise’s sudden cry made him jerk around. ‘There!’

Along the ridge soldiers were beginning to appear. A musket popped – they had been seen.

‘Help me get this in the water!’ Renzi gasped, trying to swing the boat around.

She took one end and heaved with all her might. It hardly moved. Voices carried faintly from the ridge – they were looking for a way down.

It galvanised them and, with a superhuman effort, they had it off the grass and on the sand. ‘Hurry, two branches!’ Renzi gasped, gesturing at the palms.

He shoved the boat out into the waves where it bobbed gloriously.

‘Get in!’

Clutching the wide-leaved branches, Louise sat demurely while Renzi flung in the bag and launched the craft seawards. The branches were woefully poor oars but at least they made way against the waves.

Startled by a sudden slap and gout of water, Renzi knew they were under fire but refused to look back. They laboured on desperately – and then what Renzi had forlornly hoped for came true. The simple shape of the island meant that when the current offshore met the rounded coastline it diverged to clear the northern end. The boat was now being carried gently seawards on its way around the last point.

The shoreline retreated, the land became an island – and they were free.

Exhausted, Renzi slumped back. They had got away – but did this mean they were safe? No doubt the soldiers would find a boat and come after them.

But the elements were kind. The current increased, whirling them ever away from the island – and a soft sunset promised concealing dark before long.

Reaction left Renzi weak and he lowered himself down into the narrow bottom of the boat, staring at the night sky. Louise lay down next to him, the constricted space pressing them into one another. It felt natural to remain together as they gazed up at the stars.

‘How lovely they are!’ she murmured. ‘I’ve never really stopped to admire them.’

Her hand crept trustfully into his and together they drifted into an exhausted sleep.

‘Easy now!’ Kydd called to the seamen at the hoist. He looked down in great concern as first Louise and then Renzi were brought aboard. They were in a frightful state – muddy, clothing torn, almost incoherent.

Louise disappeared quickly to make herself presentable but Renzi could not be parted from a filthy bag he kept clutched to his chest, insisting they talk that very instant.

In Kydd’s great cabin he emptied its contents onto the table.

‘There!’ he cried hoarsely. ‘It wasn’t on Guadeloupe, but it was on Marie-Galante.’

‘Nicholas, old fellow, you’re not making sense,’ Kydd said gently. ‘And if we hadn’t been on our way back, the pair of you would b’ now be heading out well into the Atlantic – I’d have given you three days at the most before-’

‘Look at these,’ Renzi gasped, with feeling. ‘Tell me what you think!’

Kydd picked up the soiled journals and his eyes opened wide. ‘Good God! This is a dispatch book, lists down orders to intercept, times, places – and this other- Why, damn it, you were right! This is an orderly book for a fleet – I have to eat my words, m’ friend. You were right!’

‘So?’

‘These go to the admiral as fast as L’Aurore can fly. I’ll hear the story later.’

Hannibal’s bower anchor plunged into the green translucency of St John’s Road in Antigua. Tension aboard had grown unbearable for there wasn’t a man who didn’t feel the ship teetering on the edge. In the next days there would be a climax – the only question being in what form.

Tyrell, clearly oblivious to all this, called away his gig and was off ashore at the earliest opportunity.

The time had come.

‘Gentlemen, I’ll remind you of your pledge,’ Griffith said heavily. ‘I’m away now to Admiral Cochrane to lay out our position. You’ll not let me down now, will you?’

Bowden knew what he was saying. Without their support he was a first lieutenant going behind the back of his captain to foment his own cause, and his heart went out to the man doing what he felt was right and at such risk.

‘We’re with you, sir,’ he said stoutly.

They left the ship in the charge of Mason who, pale-faced, stood lonely on the quarterdeck, watching as the boat took Hannibal’s officers away.

‘Lieutenant Griffith,’ the flag-lieutenant announced, ushering him into the admiral’s office.

‘Well? What’s so urgent, pray, that it cannot wait?’ Cochrane said irritably, looking up from his work.

Griffith took a deep breath. ‘Sir. I have a document with me. It lays out in detail certain … deviations from character in our captain that in our opinion-’

‘You’re not making yourself plain,’ barked the admiral. ‘For if you’re delating upon your superior, you, sir, stand in contempt for it.’

‘Sir, it bears upon the fitness of Hannibal to lie in the line-of-battle,’ the lieutenant said doggedly. ‘The readiness of the men to follow and-’

‘You’re bringing an action against your captain? Have a care, sir, have a care!’ Cochrane interrupted, a dangerous edge to his voice.

Griffith blanched, but went on, ‘This document, sir, is signed by every officer in Hannibal without exception. It details-’

‘Every officer?’ The admiral went rigid. ‘Then this is another matter entirely! Tell me why I should not take it that you have provoked them into a mutinous conspiracy against their lawful captain and commander?’

‘S-sir. These same officers are present and wait without. They beg to be heard on the matter.’

Cochrane slowly rose from his desk, his face tight. ‘This stinks of contumacy and I won’t have it! You have overstepped yourself, sir, and you shall hear of it from higher powers than myself.’

‘May they come in, sir?’

‘You try my patience too far, Mr Griffith,’ he rapped.

The lieutenant remained standing, stiff-faced, but made no attempt to take back his words.

‘Very well,’ the admiral said at length. ‘Tell ’em to enter.’ He stood in a grim quarterdeck brace, waiting.

The officers of Hannibal filed in, taking position in a line before the admiral.

‘Now, sir, you will tell me what this is about,’ Cochrane snapped, jabbing a finger at Bowden.

‘Sir,’ Bowden began, his throat tight, ‘Lieutenant Griffith is of a mind with us all that Captain Tyrell is, er, has a condition of humours that we believe does tend to, um, have its effect on his judgement to the detriment of his authority.’

‘You’re trying to tell me he’s mad, is that it?’ The pugnacious tone intimidated.

‘Not for me to say, sir.’

The admiral wheeled on Griffith. ‘Then what does your surgeon think? Hey?’

‘He claims as how he’s not qualified in this matter, sir.’

‘Then you’re wanting me to send for a head-doctor from Bermuda? This is as good as condemning the man, and I won’t do it, do you hear?’

‘Sir, if-’

‘Be silent, Lieutenant!’

Cochrane was clearly in a quandary. If he took measures against Tyrell it would bring down a storm of opposition from other captains, some senior and influential. If, on the other hand, he ignored the warnings and a cataclysm took place, it could easily rebound on his own head.

Bowden watched tensely while Cochrane paced up and down. It had gone too far: whatever was ultimately decided, it was inevitable that his career would be irretrievably affected.

‘You’re all guilty of contumacious association, you know that, don’t you? I can put you under open arrest this instant – but I’ll not. For the sake of appearances and the good of the Service, I’ll allow you to retract this nonsense and return aboard to your duties, no stain to attach to your characters, and we’ll hear no more of it.’

Griffith did not look at the others but replied calmly, ‘Sir, for the sake of our conscience we cannot do this.’

‘Then you leave me no other alternative …’

Bowden waited for the blow to fall – but there were voices, a disturbance outside.

Cochrane looked up in irritation. There was a hurried knock and his flag-lieutenant appeared. ‘Sorry to disturb, sir, but there’s news. Captain Kydd, L’Aurore frigate, begs for an immediate meeting.’

Kydd did not return until well into the afternoon and immediately announced that the ship was under sailing orders. ‘You’ve started a pretty moil, Nicholas.’ He chuckled. ‘Our admiral is mounting an immediate assault on Marie-Galante.’

‘Ah. Delay would have been fatal, of course,’ Renzi said with relief. ‘When?’

‘We sail tomorrow, land at first light the day after, and if this is to be anything like Curacao, the island will be ours by midday.’

‘With what forces?’

‘That we have at hand. Frigates in the main, being for the same reason that they can close with the shore. One ship-of-the-line to lie off.’

‘And who will be leading this armament, pray?’ Renzi asked delicately.

‘Well, er, the senior captain of our little band claims the honour and will not be denied. The captain of the battleship, that is.’

‘It’s not …’

‘Captain Tyrell will lead the expedition, yes.’

‘There’s talk of unrest in Hannibal.’

‘At the first whiff o’ powder-smoke they’ll be away like good ’uns, you mark my words,’ Kydd said positively. ‘We’ve other things to think on. The plantocracy hereabouts have word of something in the wind concerning a stroke against the French and want to honour us with a gathering tonight afore we go.’

‘Dear fellow, would you be offended overmuch if I declined? My greatest ambition in life at this time is to sleep for a week, and this hour does seem the perfect time to begin.’

‘It would do your soul good, old trout,’ Kydd teased, but Renzi would not be diverted.

The warm tropical dusk promised much. St John’s society had gleefully turned out at very short notice to honour the sons of Neptune with the flimsy excuse that it was in fact in remembrance of the nearby battle of the Saintes in 1782, even if the anniversary was some months ahead.

Kydd had indulged Tysoe’s fuss and worry: full-dress uniform was not to be hurried and he wanted to cut a figure before the daughter of the chairman of the Association of Planters. For one of Captain Kydd’s eminence, a carriage was made available and he sat in solitary splendour as it moved off in a jingle of leather and expensive harness. At the door of the Great House, under the torch-flames, those come to welcome the heroes of the hour had assembled, among them Chairman Wrexham and his daughter.

Kydd allowed himself to be handed down from the carriage and returned Wrexham’s courtly bow with an elegant leg, conscious of Amelia’s barely concealed delight.

Pleasantries were exchanged, then the chairman murmured politely, ‘Sir, my daughter being in want of a gentleman escort, it would oblige me if you …’

They entered the brightly lit reception room together, Kydd aware of the light pressure of her gloved hand on his arm. Shyly she introduced the notables of Antigua, this planter, that commissioner, and unaccountably her aunt Jane, a knowing woman, who sized him up rapidly.

He caught the envy in a group of naval officers nearby and swelled with pride.

‘You’re finding your way in our little society then, Mr Kydd,’ Wrexham said, with a smile.

Kydd responded with a wordless bow while Amelia bobbed, her grip on his arm tightening.

The dinner was a splendid affair. The chairman, his wife, Kydd and Amelia sat at one end while at the other the commander-in-chief held court with the senior captains. Even the presence of a stiff-faced Tyrell several places down could not dampen Kydd’s happiness.

The wine was French and of high quality. The chairman eased into a smile at Kydd’s knowledgeable appreciation, a result of Renzi’s patient tutelage. He felt a twinge of guilt. How Renzi would have enjoyed this evening – perhaps he should have pressed him further.

He was about to suggest a toast to absent friends when he happened to notice a flicked glance and slight frown on Wrexham’s face. He looked down the table and saw Tyrell’s glass empty yet again, and he was glaring about for a servant to refill it.

‘Oh, Captain Tyrell. He’s a Tartar right enough, but just the man to set before the Frenchies I’m persuaded,’ Kydd said firmly.

‘I’m sure of it,’ Wrexham responded drily.

The evening proceeded in a delightful haze, thoughts of the morrow set aside in the warmth of the occasion.

‘A capital night, sir!’ Kydd beamed at a hard-faced planter a place or two down, lifting his glass in salute.

The man started, then came back warmly, ‘As it is our duty in these times to honour the warriors that defend us!’

He raised his glass and-

There was a sudden crash down the table.

Heads turned in alarm. It was Tyrell, who had slammed his glass down so hard it had shattered.

‘I’ve got it! Be damned, I have it!’ he bellowed into the silence.

All the guests gazed at him in astonishment. He continued, in fuddled triumph, ‘I never forget a face, an’ there’s many a rogue swung at the yardarm t’ prove it!’ His words were thick with drink but there was no denying their hypnotic power.

He turned slowly and pointed directly at Kydd, his red-rimmed stare ferocious and exulting. ‘You, sir! I know where I saw you before, damme!’

Kydd went cold.

‘Hah! It was the old Duke William around the year ’ninety-four – or was it -three? No matter! How do I know? Because as a pawky Jack Tar I had you stripped and flogged! Twelve lashes – contempt and mutinous behaviour, it was.’

He sat back in satisfaction. ‘Told you I’d get it, hey!’ He chortled, seeming not to notice the shock and consternation about him.

A wash of outrage flooded Kydd. He saw Amelia’s face pale as she clutched at her father, while further down a naval wife turned to stare at him, twitching at her husband’s sleeve and whispering. Other captains swivelled to look at him in horrified fascination, their wives agog with the knowledge that they had been present at a scene they would talk about for a long time to come. Cochrane looked down the table at him, with an appalled expression, and from outside the room he heard the excited titter of servants.

Humiliation tore at Kydd. He shot to his feet and faced Tyrell, fists clenched, his chair crashing down behind him as he fought to keep control.

‘Well? It’s true, ain’t it?’ Tyrell grunted.

Kydd’s mind scrabbled to hold on to reason. The captain of the ship had ordered the lashes, Tyrell only the first lieutenant, but in its essence it was quite correct. He had been found out – he had been a former common sailor and, not only that, evidently a bad one who had been convicted of criminal conduct and punished.

He tried to speak but it came out only as a hoarse croak. He knew if he stayed he was perilously near an act that would damn him for ever – he blindly swung about and stalked from the room, desperate for the clean night air.

Outside he stood unseeing, chest heaving with emotion.

He felt a hand on his arm. ‘Steady, old chap, it’s not the end of the world.’ Lydiard had followed him out. ‘Shall we go somewhere?’

He felt himself urged away from the gaping onlookers and around the side of the house into the garden.

‘Pay no mind to Tyrell. He’s a disappointed man. Everyone knows it.’ He hesitated, then said, with deliberate concern, ‘Now, m’ friend, you’ll not be thinking of anything rash as you’ll regret later, are you?’

The words penetrated: Lydiard was referring to a challenge to a duel.

Kydd’s mind seized on the chance of a focus for his rage and wounded feelings. He would have choice of weapons, and it would be man-hacking cutlasses and-

An inner voice intervened. And it told him that in polite society under no circumstances could a gentleman ask for satisfaction if in fact the offending statement was true.

His shoulders slumped. ‘No,’ he said dully. ‘I can’t.’

‘This is to mean, er, what was said was substantially, um, correct?’ Lydiard said carefully.

‘Yes,’ Kydd spat wretchedly. ‘An’ may his soul roast in Hell!’

Lydiard looked around, then said softly, ‘They’ll understand if you leave now. Might I offer you the hospitality of my cabin in Anson? I’m thinking a restorative brandy might answer, dear fellow.’

‘No! That is, I thank you kindly but I’ll find my boat and get back aboard.’

There was one he desperately needed to talk to now, and he was in L’Aurore.

Renzi quietly told Tysoe to leave them and listened with the gravest attention to Kydd’s account of the evening.

‘May I know who was in attendance?’

‘All the world!’ Kydd hissed. ‘And Miss Amelia, God rot his bones!’ He took a savage pull at his drink. ‘I’ll – I’ll slit his gizzard, the whoreson shicer!’

‘That is not to be considered,’ Renzi said quickly. ‘More to the hour is what is to be concluded from the whole.’ He stood up and began pacing about the cabin. ‘We are obliged to say that your precipitate withdrawal was unfortunate. It tells the gathering that not only is the substance of what was said not to be denied, but that apparently you left before further damaging disclosures could be made.’

‘No! No! Be buggered to it, I’ll not-’

‘Dear fellow, do allow that it happened. The question now is rather what should be done about it.’

‘If that stinking scut crosses my hawse again-’

‘Tom, do forgive if I lay it before you as no doubt it appears to those present.’

‘If you must.’

‘Er, by its nature the gentility is limited in size, not to say modest in numbers. It is not uncommon for them to observe persons with pretensions beyond their standing who do attempt to inveigle-’

‘Good God!’ exploded Kydd. ‘If you’re-’

‘-their way into company to which their quality does not entitle them. Their ready response is to close ranks against the interloper.’

At Kydd’s dangerous look, Renzi hurried on: ‘You see, they are not accustomed to the Navy’s worthy practice of advancing in society such officers as do merit it, and cannot be blamed for confusion and dismay in your case.’

‘I’ll not-’

‘Therefore I can counsel only one course of action.’ He resumed his chair and waited.

‘So – what am I to do?’

‘You ride out the storm, as it were. This is a matter for them to resolve. You can do nothing.’

Kydd balled his fists.

‘Dear Tom,’ Renzi continued softly, ‘you do have my utmost sensibility of your position, but I have to point out that it is past and to repine is futile. You will take a round turn and face the day with fortitude and composure, as is your calling as a gentleman.’

It hit home. Kydd breathed deeply. ‘As always you have the right of it, Nicholas,’ he said raggedly. ‘I’m to go forward and damn any who point the finger.’

A mirthless grin spread. ‘After all, am I not a post-captain? They can’t take that away.’

‘Stout fellow!’ Renzi said, ‘It’ll pass, you’ll see.’

‘Nicholas.’

‘Yes, brother?’

‘You’re forgetting one thing.’

‘Oh? What’s that?’

‘Tomorrow I will see the bastard – and must take his orders. How is that to be borne, my friend?’