Caribbee

Chapter 13

Dodd entered the room diffidently. ‘Can I show you something, sir?’ he asked, hovering.

‘Oh, er, I think we’ve concluded our little talk,’ Renzi said. ‘Thank you, Mr Miller, for a very enlightening conversation.’

He rose and left with the sergeant. There were more than enough men to safeguard their capture and the prisoners could await developments.

Dodd led him out of the front of the house. ‘There, sir,’ he said, pointing at the fort where a ridiculously large Union Flag flew proudly aloft.

Renzi beamed. They had done it! Now to savour the sweets of victory.

He handed over to Curzon and stepped out for the fort. He would hear details of the action first, then join Kydd in L’Aurore for a suitably rousing celebration.

At the gate two Royal Marine sentries from the ship recognised him and, with huge grins, elaborately presented arms. He doffed his hat to them and went inside.

It was a bedlam of noisy activity and Renzi quickly picked up that this had been selected as the provisional seat of government of the new military ruler of Marie-Galante.

‘Er, where’s the, er, governor?’ he asked a distracted officer.

‘Oh – in the end office,’ he said, and bustled off.

Renzi had a duty before anything else to report that the prime objective of the assault had been secured, so he went down the corridor to the large office at the end. He knocked at the open door.

At the commandant’s desk sat Kydd, looking worried, an army adjutant politely waiting while he read a document.

‘Ahoy there!’ Renzi said lightly.

‘Oh? Ah – it’s you, Nicholas.’ He turned to the army officer. ‘Do spare me ten minutes, if you will.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ the man said, and left quietly.

Kydd, deep lines of tension in his face, motioned Renzi to a seat. ‘Did you find your base?’

‘Indeed. All’s under hatches, including His Knobbs. It’s the end for them.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ Kydd said, but his tone betrayed deep distraction.

‘You’re governor, then?’

‘I’m senior naval officer in charge, if that’s what you mean. I keep post until relieved by a civil appointee.’

‘Not Tyrell?’

‘Captain Tyrell fell in the action.’

‘I should say I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘And I hope even sorrier to hear that I’ll probably swing for it,’ Kydd said bitterly.

Renzi couldn’t believe his ears. ‘I thought you said-’

‘He was shot from behind. Captain Hinckley saw me standing over the body with a smoking gun.’

‘You – you didn’t-’

‘No,’ Kydd said coldly. ‘I did not. But I’m being blamed for it.’

‘How can this be so?’

Kydd explained the simple circumstances behind the situation, then went on sourly, ‘As there’s none higher than me to have me arrested, I’m free as one of your summer clouds. I can do what I like – which is anything, as here everyone is under martial law and I’m the last authority.’

It was bizarre – and deadly serious.

‘So what will happen?’

‘I can’t blame Hinckley. He saw what he saw and has a duty to lay the information at the proper level – after we return.’ His face went bleak. ‘Until then I must do my duty.’

‘You’ll see it through, brother, never fear.’

‘With every wardroom and mess-deck in the squadron alive with the gossip that I’ve taken my revenge? A hard thing to get by, Nicholas.’

Renzi could think of nothing to say that was not feeble in the face of what Kydd had to endure now. At a stroke his elation had evaporated and he was left with a lowering sense of inevitability.

‘Thus, old friend, you see I have to get on. I’ll join you in L’Aurore when I can.’

So close to Antigua, the news brought an instant response from St John’s. An interim administrator was appointed and sent in the same vessel that brought Kydd’s recall. He would go in L’Aurore as, in the sight of all, he remained her lawful captain.

When she picked up her moorings in St John’s Road, Kydd’s pennant still flew defiantly; it would take nothing less than a court-martial to decree its hauling down. Aware that every eye in the fleet was now on him, he boarded his barge in immaculate full-dress uniform with all the dignity he could muster.

It was more than two miles, past every ship of the Leeward Islands Squadron, before he was able to arrive at the stone jetty. He could feel dozens of telescopes, hundreds of eyes, all feasting on the spectacle of the hour. He sat alone, looking neither left nor right, Poulden giving his orders in a subdued manner, the men avoiding his eye as they pulled their oars.

And there was not a thing he could do – neither shout his innocence to the skies nor blaze his contempt on all who could believe him capable of the act of murder.

Instead he ignored the gaping onlookers and boarded his carriage with his head held high to be whisked away to the admiral’s residence.

Half expecting the guard turned out and a provost with an arrest warrant waiting, he was relieved to be shown immediately into Cochrane’s office.

‘Get out, Flags,’ the admiral told his aide and waited impatiently until they were alone.

‘Sit down,’ he told Kydd testily. ‘We all know what this is about.’

He fixed his eyes in a piercing gaze on him. ‘Did you do it?’

Kydd gulped, as he held back the torrent of feeling that threatened to unman him. ‘No, sir.’

‘Hinckley saw only you, standing with a gun just fired over the body, no one else in sight. What do you say to that?’

‘I – I can’t account for it, sir. I saw Captain Tyrell, started up towards him and tripped. The gun went off. When I reached him I found he was already dead.’

‘Damn it all,’ blazed Cochrane, slamming his hand on the desk and rising in frustration. ‘You – the captain of a prime frigate – and you’re saying you fell over! Tripped! For God’s sake, give me something I can use to stop this going to trial.’ He began pacing the room, his expression grim. ‘You know you’ve robbed me of my victory,’ he said, with a twisted smile. ‘There’s going to be nothing but this affair spoken of in London these six months.’

Something of the sense of what he’d said penetrated and he tried to make amends. He sat in a chair opposite. ‘I’ll grant he was a tyrant, a miserable dog who deserved his fate – but, Hell’s bells, the world won’t see it that way.’

Kydd replied in a low voice, ‘One of my previous officers serving in Hannibal told me in confidence he thought the man was mad – he could be right.’

‘That’s as may be. But the whole thing’s monstrous! It has to stop – the first post-captain this age to be tried for his life! Boney will make much of this and the Tory press will never let it drop.’

He got up again and resumed pacing. ‘You know I’m unable to do anything for you, Kydd. I can’t prevent this going forward, for then we’d all be in a pretty pickle.’

Finally he stopped, went to his desk and regarded Kydd sorrowfully. ‘I now have to act, I’m sorry. Send for some lawyer coves as will put things all shipshape before the, um, trial begins.’

Kydd’s face was stony. There was nothing to say: his future was now irrevocably cast into a single track with only one ending.

Cochrane brightened. ‘I can do something, damn it! No open arrest for our victor of Marie-Galante. For you I offer the hospitality of the flag-officer’s residence, quarters fit for a hero.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Kydd said, almost in a whisper. That would be a mercy at least – a prison cell of luxury.

‘Providing, um, that you give me your word of honour and so forth …’

It had happened too quickly. Within the space of hours only, Renzi had lost his closest friend to a bolt from the blue that had neatly snared him in as tight a grip as it was possible to get. And for all his learning and logic, he had found that he was totally helpless in the face of it.

He knew the ways of the Navy: unlike shoreside law there would be swift justice, a need to get a distasteful business out of the way as soon as possible and the ships back on station. In the Mediterranean he recalled the commander-in-chief convicting on the Saturday with executions on the Sunday – would this be Cochrane’s way?

Renzi had had to try something. His forlorn hope had been to rifle through any legal work he could lay hands on for some stray loophole, but in the thickets of legalese he was getting nowhere.

Hearing the boatswain’s mate piping aboard an officer he looked up from his reading. Strange, he’d heard that all L’Aurore’s officers who could had resolved to stay ashore in sympathy and support of their captain.

Shortly there was a knock at the door of the great cabin.

‘Why, Mr Bowden,’ he said, sincerely pleased to see the young man. ‘How kind in you to visit.’

‘I’d rather it were in different circumstances, Mr Renzi, I really do,’ he said, looking around wistfully, before awkwardly taking Kydd’s armchair.

‘You’ve come to see what’s to do, old fellow.’

‘In a word – yes.’

Renzi sighed. ‘One thing we can be sure of …’

‘… that he did not kill Captain Tyrell.’

‘Just so.’

‘And another: that unless the real murderer is caught there’s every prospect that … it will end badly.’

Bowden bit his lip. ‘That is so true, Mr Renzi. And what gives me the most pain is that there’s not a shadow of a doubt in my mind that the Hannibals did this thing. However, they gave their sworn and solemn testimony that it was none of them.’

‘So the world will say Captain Kydd it must be. With motive and good opportunity, together with the evidence of a just-fired musket, I think we must take it there’s little chance he’ll escape.’

‘It … it would appear that is so,’ Bowden said quietly, his face tight. ‘Am I right – that is to say, is it realistic to trust that the captain will be afforded a firing party rather than the noose?’

‘Let’s not think on these things, my friend,’ Renzi said, his head in his hands. ‘It may not come to pass.’

‘There must be something we can do!’ burst out Bowden, ‘We can’t just sit and wait for things to happen.’

Renzi looked up wearily. ‘I’m no lawyer but in this little reading I’ve managed there’s not the slightest hope. Whether the jury is of naval captains or men from the street, with the facts they have, they’ll be obliged to convict.’

‘Then …’

‘Then we cannot prevent events taking their dolorous course.’

On the way back to Hannibal Bowden felt anger rising. That a man he admired above all others was to be brought down through none of his doing – there had to be a way out!

The irony of it was, of course, that Kydd was being unjustly condemned by the very men he had arisen from, those he understood so well, the kind with whom he had once been shipmates.

There were legends that, as a young officer, Kydd had set aside his uniform to take on at their level a common seaman in a bare-knuckle duel, and other tales of him directly appealing to his men, who had not let him down.

So Bowden would do the same. Follow Kydd’s example and appeal to the Hannibals directly. It was the only course left open, the last remaining chance, and, by God, he would take it.

There was one terrible risk, however: in going to the men he was laying himself and Kydd open to the charge of interfering with witnesses, which would have the inevitable consequence of sealing his fate beyond retrieving.

It stopped him cold.

What would Kydd himself do? There could be no doubt: he would go ahead in faith.

Hannibal was in a very different state. The dread presence in the after cabins was no longer there – it was as if a hellish portent always present had passed on. Men spoke in subdued tones, only half believing what had happened. The officers had gone ashore to be away from the sense of death and menace and Bowden had the wardroom to himself.

In a rising fever of resolution he considered his move.

How would Kydd go about this? The last thing he’d do was muster them by division. Instead he would doff his uniform. He would go down on the mess-deck to pass among them, feel their temper, show that he knew them and cared about them.

Bowden stood up, then self-consciously took off his coat and tucked his cocked hat under his arm as he had seen Kydd do when on informal visits to a forward part of the ship.

Then, quite deliberately, he left the cabin spaces and went to the after hatchway, hearing the accustomed noise and rough jollity of the men at their supper and grog. At the top of the ladder he teetered at the thought of what he was about to do – then descended.

The long-hallowed custom was that the men were left to themselves for their meal and grog, to talk freely and get off their chest any rankling matter without fear of being overheard by an officer. He had now broken that code.

Heads turned in astonishment at his appearance; as he walked slowly between the tables conversations stopped. Like a widening ripple, the sudden quiet spread out until the whole mess-deck was craning round to see what was happening.

Bowden reached the gratings over the main hatchway and stopped. The atmosphere was close. It stank of bodies and the smoke of the rush dips that lit each table in flickering gold, and which touched, too, the massive black iron of the guns between in a martial gleam.

He looked forward, then aft, until he was sure of their attention.

Then he spoke. ‘Hannibals. Shipmates. I think you know why I’m here.’

There was a ripple of murmurs that quickly died away.

‘In fact I’m sure you do. That’s why I’ll be brief. I do apologise for my intrusion into your time, which I would never contemplate in any other circumstances.’

He saw interest turn to guarded resentment and realised, in a pang of despair, that while he could follow Kydd’s lead in going among them he could never talk to them in their own cant, the sea-talk common to all seamen that revealed beyond doubt that the speaker was one of them.

‘It’s a plea. For common humanity to as noble an officer as it’s been my honour to serve with.’

There was a stillness that was absolute. ‘And for justice. Is it right that a man should be punished for the sins of another?’

Now the sea of faces showed nothing but a stolid blankness. He knew the signs: they were closing ranks to an officer.

‘I appeal to you! On your manhood, do not let this thing happen!’ The surge of passion caught him by surprise but he didn’t care. This was Kydd’s last chance.

‘Let the truth come out – I beg of you …’

There was no whisper, no movement. Simply a glassy stare.

‘I – I’m going now to the foredeck. There I’ll be waiting – for any who cherishes justice and truth, who will save a great man for his country. And for the sake of his own conscience before God.’

He could do no more.

Slowly he walked forward, past the mess-tables, the young seamen, old shellbacks. Ignorant waisters, long-service petty officers and the countless honest Jack Tars who were the core of any ship’s company.

Up the ladderway, slowly, dignified, and past the ship’s bell to the furthest deck forward. He went to the centre, sat cross-legged, motionless, and waited.

Time passed. He had chosen this place deliberately. It was before-the-mast territory, a seaman’s recreation space and sacred to the purpose, which any officer would not dream of trespassing upon in times of relaxation, as now.

This way they could approach him without fear, on their own ground. There might be before long a shamefaced confession, the men in a body coming forward with the truth.

He waited longer.

There was the sound of footsteps. A single person – who would it be that was-

But it was merely the watch-on-deck, a seaman sent to trim the riding light in the bows. He passed by with his lanthorn, his set face studiously ignoring Bowden. He performed his task, returning without a single glance at the extraordinary sight of an officer sitting on the foredeck, where by now there should have been companionable knots of sailors with clay pipes and leather pots of grog talking easily about their day, perhaps some with a violin or a tuneful voice.

Bowden realised he had to face up to the bitter fact: he had failed completely. None had come up to the foredeck. In a way it was not surprising: if some were inclined to break ranks and approach him they would be seen and marked down as informers. But he had been hoping for a collective resolve. And it had not happened.

‘You realise you were taking a terrible risk, old chap.’

‘Interfering with witnesses, I know. But, by God, I had to try – and I truly believe they would not have informed upon me to the authorities.’

Renzi felt for Bowden, his helplessness in the face of a pitiless Fate, but he carried its weight on his shoulders, too. He had come up with two schemes for rescuing Kydd by stealth but both foundered on the knowledge that he would certainly refuse, sturdily trusting in decency and common law.

He was hollow-eyed with worry, and Bowden looked much the same. They had run out of ideas and, with that, any options for the future.

Bowden wrung his hands over his failure with the Hannibals. ‘As I talked, I could see I’d lost them. There was no common ground, no way to communicate, speak their language …’

‘Stop!’ Renzi cried, as a flash of desperate inspiration came. ‘We’ve one last throw of the die. What if …’

The boat put off once more for Hannibal. It held only one passenger and hooked on at the fore-chains where no visiting boat would ever deign to go. Hannibal’s mate-of-the-watch sent the quartermaster hurrying forwards to intercept the stranger, but by the time he reached the fore-mast a figure had swung over the bulwarks and was inboard.

‘Hey, you – what d’ye think-’

‘Out o’ my way, cully! I got business wi’ the Hannibals,’ the thick-set man growled, knocking him aside.

He slid down the fore-ladder, crossed purposefully to the hatchway and clattered down to the main-deck.

In an age-old routine men were clearing the tables to raise them up against the side of the ship; in the dog-watches the space had changed first from a gun-deck to a mess-deck, and now was transforming again into the open space where at the pipe ‘Down hammocks!’ it would be their communal bedroom.

‘Who are you, then?’ the stranger was asked in astonishment.

Men crowded around to see what apparition out of the night had suddenly appeared in their midst.

The man said nothing, folding his arms and staring about him. More came up, and when the hubbub had died, he spoke.

‘I’m Toby Stirk, gunner’s mate o’ Billy Roarer,’ he grated.

Puzzled looks passed between the men; the quartermaster hovered uncertainly.

He spoke louder. ‘An’ I’m come aboard Hannibal to tip me daddle to the gullion what did for Cap’n Tyrell.’

‘Aye, well …’

‘See, we goes back a long spell. I was gun captain in th’ old Duke William in the last war, when Mantrap was first lootenant o’ the barky.’

Glances of fellow feeling and a dawning respect began to appear.

‘A right bastard then as well, I’d reckon,’ one said.

‘Worse’n that,’ Stirk spat, his eyes glowing.

There were growls of sympathy and a stir in his audience. ‘Come on, Jeb – show yerself!’

A tall, serious-looking seaman came reluctantly forward.

‘Jeremiah Haywood.’

‘You did ’im?’ Stirk said quietly.

‘Aye, I did – but I’m not proud of it, I’ll have thee know,’ the man said, in a troubled voice. ‘Shootin’ in the back ain’t right for any man.’

There were encouraging shouts, and he went on, ‘Gives me two dozen f’r bein’ slow in stays, an’ another dozen afore the first was healed. When I saw him in front o’ m’ musket I just lost m’ rag an’ let fly, is all.’

‘Right. Well, let me go on an’ finish m’ yarn about Duke William. Could be interestin’ to some.’

He paused, letting all eyes find his. ‘See, I’m rememberin’ a young able seaman, runs afoul o’ the bugger. No fault o’ his, and a prime sailorman as ever there was, but he’s triced up and gets the lash as nearly sees ’im fish-meat. Didn’t I tell you his name? Why, it was young Tom Kydd as was.’

Realisation came slowly, but when it did there were sharp intakes of breath and uneasy looks.

‘Yes, mates. One of us. Come aft the hard way, now he always takes care o’ them as fights the ship for him. I’ve known him off ’n’ on for years since, and never ’ave I seen ’im let down ’is shipmates. Never.’

Haywood turned pale.

‘Now he’s in a right stew, no one t’ look out for ’im, no bugger to speak up for ’im. An’ all because us jolly tars won’t see ’im right in the article of owning t’ the crime.’

He turned and faced Haywood, looking at him steadily. ‘I’m not the one t’ peach on another, but if Tom Kydd gets his’n, on account another won’t step forward, I’d let every ship, watch, every mess-deck an’ every shellback in the whole o’ King George’s Navy know the name o’ the one who let him suffer. This I swear!’

In the shocked silence not a soul moved.

Then Haywood threw back his shoulders as though getting rid of a load. ‘No need for threats, mate. M’ mind was made up beforetimes. I’ll go. He’ll not swing.’

Stirk nodded slowly. ‘Cuffin. I’m still goin’ to tell it like it is – that as brave a cove as I know did the right thing when he could’ve walked away from it all.’ He held out his hand. ‘I want to shake yer hand, Mr Haywood.’

He did so, slowly and solemnly.

Turning quickly, Haywood pushed through the crowd, heading aft. ‘Where yer goin’, Jeb?’ someone called.

‘I said I’d do it, an’ I am – an’ that’s right now.’

The others hurried after him, but he strode on.

Stirk forced his way through and grabbed him by the arm. ‘Jeb, mate. Let’s see it’s done right by you. Not a lot o’ sense to give yourself over without you has someone t’ speak for ye. Don’t yez have L’tenant Bowden servin’ in this hooker still?’

‘Aye. An’ he’s aboard, in his cabin this hour.’

‘So let’s see him.’

The crowd had now swollen to more than a hundred and others swarmed up from the identical lower deck to join the throng. The young master’s mate tried to stop them, but Stirk was having none of it. ‘Ask L’tenant Bowden if he’s at liberty t’ come an’ talk.’

Bowden appeared out of the cabin spaces, looking tired and bewildered. ‘Mr Stirk, what are you … What do all these men want?’

‘Theys askin’ f’r a steer, like,’ he said to the young lieutenant, realising it must look like rank mutiny.

‘Er, what do you mean?’

It was the work of brief minutes to explain.

Bowden looked incredulous for a moment, then found his tongue. ‘You did right, you men. And I’m to do my part.’

To the master’s mate, he snapped an order: ‘Away all boats!’

‘B-but, sir, I can’t-’

‘Damn your eyes! I’m off to see the admiral. Do you question my order, sir?’ As senior officer on board HMS Hannibal he had every right, of course.

Hundreds of sailors swarmed down the side and tumbled into the boats, shipping oars and setting out for the shore. They passed ship after ship of the squadron, dark and lifeless as they settled down for the night, then too late coming to their senses as the boats pulled by, fully loaded with excited men.

At the stone steps the seamen disembarked and immediately hoisted Haywood on to their shoulders, setting off with Bowden proud and determined at their head through a late-night St John’s rudely awakened by the excitement.

It was exhilarating and fearful, shocking and exotic to be caught up in events that had changed things so fast and so completely. As they turned into the avenue leading to the admiral’s residence, the enormity of what they were about to do must have penetrated, for the excited shouts died away until there was now nothing but a silent body of hundreds of men tramping up to the torch-lit entrance of the Admiral’s Pen.

From the lights within, Bowden guessed that a card party was in progress – Cochrane was known to be partial to his bridge. Bowden held up his hand, and when the men had shuffled to a stop, he went up to the door and knocked.

A footman answered and was shocked by what he saw out in the darkness silently waiting. ‘S-sir?’

‘Admiral Cochrane. On a matter of extreme urgency,’ Bowden demanded.

‘Er, yes, sir. Immediately, sir!’

There was a slight delay before an irritated Cochrane appeared.

‘What the devil?’ he spluttered, seeing the hundreds of men quietly before him.

‘Sir,’ Bowden said quickly, ‘these men have come in support of their shipmate, who begs he might be allowed to admit to the death of Captain Tyrell.’

‘Am I hearing you right, Mr Bowden? He knows what he’s about in so doing, I trust.’

‘He does, sir. And he’s firm in his mind that it’s the right thing to do in the circumstances.’

Cochrane hesitated only for a moment, then threw to the footman inside, ‘Blue drawing room!

‘Well, Mr Bowden, do come in, and your men too.’

The room was soon crowded beyond belief. The admiral stood before them, bemused but in firm charge.

‘Now what’s this about, Lieutenant?’

Bowden brought Haywood to the front and said, ‘This is the man, sir – Jeremiah Haywood, main topman.’

The admiral brought his fierce gaze on to Haywood. ‘So you wish to admit to slaying Captain Tyrell.’

‘Yes, sir. It weren’t Mr Kydd, no, sir.’ His voice quavered but he returned the gaze steadily.

‘Then you’d better tell me about it – and be aware, it may well be put up as evidence later.’

‘Aye, sir. Well, it were like this. We was advancing up t’ this ridge, like, an’ because the Frogs was firin’ at us we took cover under all this green stuff. I looks up an’ sees Cap’n Tyrell flop down under the ridge, right ahead o’ me. And, well, ’cos I’d taken two dozen in two days from him just afore, I saw red an’ fired at him when-’

Quick as a flash, Cochrane intervened: ‘Ah, now I see what happened. Very clear, now I know.’

He looked benignly at the topman. ‘It was very courageous of you, Haywood, to bring this to my attention and you have my heartiest approbation of your act.’

He turned to Bowden. ‘Well, that clears that up. For the sake of Mr Kydd, just as well.’

‘Sir?’ the lieutenant said uncertainly.

‘Can’t you see it, man? It was an accident, is all! Any fool can see that. Your man taking hasty cover in all those sticks and leaves, accidents with a loaded musket will happen, a twig caught in the trigger, that kind of thing …’

‘No, sir, I did it, an’ I own to it.’

‘Nonsense! You had an accident and didn’t want to admit to it to your officer until you saw Captain Kydd unjustly accused. Quite understandable.’

‘Wha’? No, sir, I really-’

‘Let’s leave it at that, shall we? You men will want to get back to your ship before you’re, er, missed.’

Bowden, his mind in a flood of relief, could only stammer, ‘Th-thank you, sir. And on behalf of-’

But Cochrane had already returned to his guests. He smiled at his wife. ‘Ah, yes. I’d almost forgotten. My dear, do see if Captain Kydd is free to join us.’

Kydd stood on his quarterdeck once more, pink with pleasure at the honour the wardroom had done him in laying on this reception and dinner in L’Aurore.

‘Welcome aboard, madam,’ he said, to yet another lady of station, delighted to be personally greeted by the captain. As his unjust detention had been quickly dismissed at the highest level, it would never do for it to be noticed by lesser mortals.

The deck was quickly filling with notables and friends but this was the reception – only special guests would move on to the dinner afterwards. One in particular, Louise Vernou, was received with the utmost warmth by L’Aurore’s captain as she approached on Renzi’s arm.

Yet in the midst of all his happiness Kydd had to accept that the fortunate turn of events had not extended to remedy one recent adversity. He could not get out of his mind the shock – the horror – on the faces of the dinner guests when Tyrell had done his worst and he had been revealed as a base-born common sailor.

His happiness faded when he realised that while his naval colleagues’ sentiments were genuine and deeply felt, those of society were not. They were here for one reason and one only – to be seen with the victor of Marie-Galante. After this occasion, when the memory dimmed, he could not expect to be welcomed at events where the high-born disported.

‘Why, Captain, you’re thinking on other things?’

Kydd turned in surprise. It was Wrexham – and next to him Miss Amelia.

‘Oh, er, just checking the lay of the downhaul,’ he managed.

‘After such a stroke, you should be proud of yourself, sir!’ the planter said warmly. ‘I’ve above a dozen ships that can now sail without fear, my credit restored and, dare I say it, my competition removed. The whole of the Leeward Islands owes you much, sir, now the vermin are put down and trade is resumed.’

‘I thank you for your kind words, sir, but do make notice that I’m one only of many who achieved this victory.’

‘None the less, I’d be honoured to shake your hand, sir.’

Shyly coming forwards, Amelia dropped him a curtsy and confided, ‘And I should offer you my sincerest congratulations on your recent conquest, sir.’

‘Accepted with pleasure,’ Kydd said, his spirits returning. ‘Shall I be seeing you below at dinner?’

A fife and fiddle started by the main-mast and people began to drift across to witness the singular display of a barefoot sailor executing a hornpipe.

One more boat was on its way – and it had the duty mate-of-the-watch hurrying to Kydd in consternation. ‘Sir! Admiral Cochrane to board!’

The side-party was hastily mustered and Cochrane mounted the side with all due gravity.

But as the ceremonials concluded the admiral took Kydd aside. ‘I’m sorry to take this occasion to break it to you, Mr Kydd, but I have grave news.’

He looked around, then continued sadly, ‘There are duties of an admiral that may never be termed pleasant, and this is one of them.’

Tensing, Kydd waited.

‘Captain, I have to tell you that my request to the Admiralty to take you into my command has been denied. You are to quit my station and return to England forthwith.’

Stunned, Kydd mumbled something, at the same time realising that Cochrane had had no need to inform him in this way: he had done so in order that the evening might now be seen as the ship’s last event in the Caribbean.

‘I’ll not tarry. You’ll have many you’ll want to see this night.’

He saw Cochrane over the side, his thoughts in a whirl. To leave the warmth and beauty of the Caribbean was a wrench but he suspected it had something to do with the forthcoming court-martial of Popham, the leader of the doomed Buenos Aires expedition. But, on the other hand, it meant they were going home.

He hugged the news to himself when they went below for dinner, graciously accepting the chair of honour at the head of the table.

Amelia and her father, of course, were not two places down. ‘So happy you were able to come,’ he said politely to Wrexham.

‘Why should we not?’ the man replied, with surprise.

‘Oh, er …’

Kydd recoiled once more at the vision of the shocking scene the last time they had dined together, and emboldened by L’Aurore’s splendid Caribbean punch he admitted as much. ‘I feared you would not wish to be seen with a … a common fore-mast hand.’

Wrexham gave a start. ‘Sir! I do believe you have misconstrued the entire affair! We were shocked, it is true, even appalled, and that is no exaggeration. But this, sir, was not at any aspersions on yourself, rather at the behaviour of one claiming the character of gentleman. I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but Captain Tyrell’s want of conduct in the open discussion of your past is beyond belief.’

‘So, you’re saying …’

‘Your antecedents are of no account to us. There are many, if not the majority, of society in these islands with humble beginnings, and if we were to exclude such from our fellowship then it would make for a strange situation indeed.’

Kydd was infused with a rising lightness and a flood of release.

‘Then I pray you will find it in you to attend at our society gatherings in the future with every sense of our respect and admiration, Captain.’

‘I thank you, sir,’ Kydd replied, trying not to look at Amelia.

But it couldn’t be put off for much longer.

He found a spoon and, looking down the table, tapped it sharply against a glass. The gathering fell quiet.

‘Fellow officers, new friends and old, I have to tell you that Admiral Cochrane came aboard to give me news. And it is this: in a very short while L’Aurore will put to sea. She will sail – for England.’

There were gasps of surprise.

‘Our secondment to the Leeward Islands Squadron has been revoked by the Admiralty and we must return forthwith.’

‘Mes chers amis – je suis desole. I will miss you all so dreadfully!’ Louise drew out a handkerchief and Renzi reached to console her.

‘Damn it! We’ll catch the season if we’re quick!’ Curzon chortled, his face brightening.

‘To England?’ Buckle was anything but ecstatic, his face lengthening in what appeared to be dejection at the thought.

‘Cheer up, Mr Buckle. England’s not so bad you must despair of it!’ his captain offered.

‘Sir!’

The word was spoken so fiercely, so intensely, that it caught Kydd by surprise. ‘Yes, Mr Bowden?’

‘Is it possible – that is to say, should the parties be willing, um …’

‘You’re hard to catch, young fellow.’

‘I’m understanding what he’s saying, sir,’ Buckle said, with an equal passion. ‘And this party is willing indeed!’

‘Wha’?’

‘Sir, I formally request an exchange with Lieutenant Buckle into this ship, he to stay in the Caribbean.’

‘And ain’t that the truth?’ Buckle blurted.

What could he say? To have Bowden back in L’Aurore’s ship’s company in whatever adventures lay ahead …

With a broad grin Kydd snatched up his glass and, in a ringing voice, proclaimed, ‘We’re to be quit o’ the fair Caribbee, but God rest ye, merry gentlemen, we’ll be home for Christmas!’