Invasion

INVASION

A KYDD SEA ADVENTURE

Also by Julian Stockwin

Kydd

Artemis

Seaflower

Mutiny

Quarterdeck

Tenacious

Command

the Admiral's Daughter

the Privateer's Revenge *

* Published in the U.K. as TREACHERY

JULIAN STOCKWIN

INVASION

A KYDD SEA ADVENTURE

McBooks Press, Inc.

www.mcbookspress.com ITHACA, NEW YORK

Published by McBooks Press 2009

Published simultaneously in Great Britain by Hodder & Stoughton,

a Hachette UK company

Copyright © 2009 by Julian Stockwin

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher. Requests for such permissions should be addressed to McBooks Press, Inc., ID Booth Building, 520 North Meadow St., Ithaca, NY 14850.

Cover illustration by Larry Rostant, www.rostant.com. Dust jacket and interior design by Panda Musgrove.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Stockwin, Julian. Invasion : a Kydd Sea adventure / by Julian Stockwin. p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-59013-237-1

1. Kydd, Thomas (Fictitious character)--Fiction. 2. Great Britain--History, Naval--18th century--Fiction. I. Title. PR6119.T66I58 2009 823'.92--dc22

2009026361

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Printed in the United States of America 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Let us be masters of la Manche for just six hours— and England will have ceased to exist!

—Napoleon Bonaparte, Paris 1804

CHAPTER 1

MR. KYDD, HOW DARE YOU, SIR? To think to approach me in my own headquarters, demanding a hearing in such an impetuous manner." Admiral Sir James Saumarez stood upright at his desk, clearly outraged. "I'll remind you, sir, that you narrowly escaped court-martial by your contemptible actions and must be satisfied with a dismissal."

Commander Kydd held his impatience in check: at long last he had the evidence to prove false the accusation that had led to him being removed from command of his beloved Teazer and his first lieutenant, Christopher Standish, given the ship. "Sir, I beg leave to place before ye—this." He handed over a small, folded piece of paper.

Saumarez inspected it, then flung it down with contempt. "Mr. Kydd! If this is a brazen attempt to implicate me—"

"No, sir, it is not. Those are the secret orders I found within your reg'lar instructions as made me act as I did, an' which—"

"It's nothing but a crude forgery! And not in the proper form as you must well allow."

"Sir, I acted in good faith as I've never seen secret orders afore. I couldn't produce it for ye in your investigation as it was stolen from me, but now I can! If you'd be so good as to hear me out . . ." Saumarez's expression remained stony but he sat reluctantly, and as Kydd told his story, the admiral's anger was replaced first by bewilderment, then dismay.

It was a sorry tale: driven by envy and resentment at Kydd's successes, a more senior captain had arranged for false secret orders to be inserted into Kydd's main instructions that had him clandestinely retrieving a chest ashore. After a tip-off by an anonymous informer, a formal search was made of HMS Teazer on her return and the chest was found to contain smuggled goods. The upright and honourable Admiral Saumarez had seen no option other than to remove Kydd, the ship's captain, from his command.

Still standing, Kydd produced a second sheet of paper. "And this is Lieutenant Prosser's confession, sir. He agrees to testify against Commander Carthew as principal in the matter."

"Thank you, Mr. Kydd," Saumarez said heavily. "If this is true, it is a particularly sad circumstance, imputing as it does an appalling transgression against common morality on the part of an officer of my command. It were best I should bring this matter to a head without a moment's delay."

The admiral rang a bell and ordered his flag-lieutenant, "Commander Carthew, Scorpion, and Lieutenant Prosser, Teazer, to attend me here within the hour." Then he turned back to Kydd. "You'll oblige me by remaining, sir, while I establish if there is a case to answer."

Carthew entered the room, his dress uniform immaculate. When he caught sight of Kydd he recoiled.

"Sit, if you please, Mr. Carthew—there," Saumarez said, indicating the place opposite Kydd.

"Mr. Prosser, sir." The flag-lieutenant ushered in a haggard-looking officer who stared doggedly downwards. Carthew was clearly disconcerted to see him.

"Now, this should not take long, gentlemen," Saumarez began.

"Mr. Kydd has laid before me evidence of a conspiracy that resulted in the loss of his ship and his good name. We are here to—"

"Sir!" Carthew flung a murderous glance at Kydd. "Surely you're not to be swayed by anything this proven blackguard has said! He's—"

"Mr. Prosser," Saumarez said flatly, ignoring Carthew, "do you recognise this?" He handed across a paper.

"I do, sir," the man said miserably, in barely a whisper.

"Did you or did you not give Mr. Kydd to understand that it was part of his orders from this office?"

"I did."

Carthew turned pale.

"Under whose instructions?" Saumarez continued.

"Mr. Carthew's, sir," Prosser muttered.

"This you will swear in court?"

After a tense silence he replied, "I—I will."

Saumarez took a sharp breath. "You shall have your chance to rebut in due course, Mr. Carthew. I find that this matter shall go forward in law.

"You, Mr. Prosser, may consider yourself under open arrest. Mr. Carthew, your case is more serious and I can see no alternative but—"

Carthew's chair crashed to the ground as he leaped up, chest heaving, crazed eyes fixed on Kydd. "You—I'll see you in hell—" With a panicked glance at Saumarez, he pushed wildly away.

"Commander! Return at once, sir!"

At the door Carthew knocked aside the flag-lieutenant and ran down the stairs.

"Stop that officer!" Saumarez roared.

Kydd leaped to his feet and followed. Shocked faces peered out of offices at the commotion. The sound of footsteps stopped, and when Kydd reached the main entrance Carthew was nowhere in sight.

"Where did the officer go?" he demanded, of a bewildered sentry.

"Well, an' I was salutin', like," the man said. Even a hurrying officer still required the stamp and flourish of a musket salute, with eyes held rigid to the front in respect.

Two marines with ported muskets appeared. "Too late. He's gone," Kydd snapped, and returned to Saumarez. "Nowhere to be found, sir."

"Then I take it he's absconded. Flags, do alert the provost. He's to be returned here without delay." He turned to Prosser. "You, sir, will hold yourself in readiness to make deposition concerning this lamentable business. Now leave us.

"Mr. Kydd," Saumarez began gravely, "I'm faced with a dilemma. By his actions Commander Carthew stands condemned, and will answer for it at his court-martial, as will Lieutenant Prosser. I am concerned that you, Mr. Kydd, do see justice. In fine, a public disgrace—losing your ship—should at the least deserve a public restoring. Yes, that must be the right and proper thing to do."

Kydd's pulse beat faster. Could it be? Was he to step aboard Teazer as her captain once again? He tried to appear calm.

"Yet at the same time there is something of a moral difficulty."

Kydd's heart felt about to burst.

"I believe you will have already considered the grave consequences of your assuming command of Teazer at this time, and it does you the utmost credit, sir," Saumarez went on.

Fearful of betraying his feelings Kydd dropped his eyes.

"Therefore I shall relieve you of any responsibility. In my opinion the claims of natural justice outweigh those of position and advancement."

Kydd was struggling to make sense of what was being said.

Saumarez pondered then continued, "Conceivably the circumstances should properly be construed as the unfortunate relinquishing of command, which, in the nature of the sea service, must from time to time occur."

So he was not going to be allowed to take back Teazer!

Saumarez saw Kydd's stricken face and hastened to console him. "Pray do not allow your natural human feeling for a brother officer to affect you so, sir. Consider, in leaving command Mr. Standish must in any event revert to lieutenant. He is an acting commander only and therefore the mercy is that, by this happenstance, he is spared being sent ashore as unemployed."

Kydd's mind whirled. He certainly did not want the arrogant prig back as his lieutenant after the contempt he had shown for him when he had become a privateer captain. "I—I do see that, sir," he managed, "but I have concern that the hands might not show proper respect, he being reduced back to lieutenant an' all."

Saumarez reflected for a moment. "Oh, quite. Then you shall have a new lieutenant. I see no reason to delay matters. The sooner this sorry affair is concluded the better for all. I shall draw up your letter of appointment immediately, Mr. Kydd."

Having allowed Standish a couple of days to set his affairs in order and send his gear ashore, Kydd now stood proudly on North Pier watching Teazer's gig stroking towards him from where she lay at anchor in the Great Road of St. Peter Port. Hallum, his new lieutenant, waited behind him.

The boat approached and at the tiller Midshipman Calloway fought hard to keep a solemn face. "Oars!" he snapped. Obediently they stilled as the gig swung towards the pier.

"Toss oars!" As one, each man smacked the loom across his knee and brought it up vertically. The gig glided into the quay; the bowman leaped nimbly ashore and secured the painter. Calloway snatched off his hat with a huge smile.

Kydd looked down into the boat: Stirk at stroke, Poulden next to him, others, all beaming.

As was the custom, Hallum descended first. "Bear off!" Calloway ordered. "Give way t'gether!"

It had happened. At last Kydd was on his way to reclaim his rightful place. Beside him, Hallum nodded agreeably and both took in the lovely ship until the gig was brought smartly around to the side steps to hook on. Conscious of the men lined up on deck, waiting, Kydd straightened his gold-laced cocked hat a second time, then clambered aboard.

There before him was the ship's company of HMS Teazer. With Hallum standing respectfully behind him he drew out his commission and read himself in as captain. Instantly, his commissioning pennant broke out proudly on the mainmast truck.

"Mr. Purchet." He acknowledged the boatswain, whose smile split his face from ear to ear. Kydd went on to greet individually those he had come to know and respect in times past. "Mr. Clegg. An' how's our little Sprits'l, can I ask?"

The sailmaker grinned and whispered shyly, "Why, he's a berth in m' cabin, Mr. Kydd, an' nary a rat shall ye find in th' barky."

"Mr. Duckitt."

The gunner removed his hat and shuffled his feet in pleased embarrassment. "Our metal's as good as ever it was, sir," he muttered.

Kydd's eyes found others and the memories returned.

The rest of the Teazers were assembled forward, their faces leaving no doubt about their feelings that their old captain had been restored. Kydd had Teazer back and the future was up to him. He turned to address the men. Legs abrace, he took off his hat and opened his mouth, but a lump in his throat stopped the words. He drew out his handkerchief and spluttered into it until he had regained his composure. Then he began, "Teazers. It's—it's with . . ." It was no good. He wheeled on the boatswain. "Mr. Purchet, this afternoon a make 'n' mend for all hands!" In the storm of cheering that resulted he took refuge in his cabin.

It was bare and unkempt, with an alien smell. Standish had cleared it completely and, without furnishings, it looked immense. Kydd gave a bleak grin. After his dismissal from his ship he'd been reduced to the life of a wandering vagrant, sleeping in a sail-loft until he had achieved handsome riches through privateering. Standish's petty act was meaningless—with his new-found fortune he could easily purchase replacements.

There was a well-remembered knock on the door. "Come, Tysoe!" he called happily, and stood to greet his old servant.

The man entered discreetly, his nose wrinkling in disdain at the sight of the forlorn cabin.

"Aye! Well, we've a mort of work to do in seeing this'n all shipshape— but there's none better, I dare t' say, as I trust to take it in hand." In the absence of his sister Cecilia's womanly touch, he could safely leave it to Tysoe to go ashore and make the necessary purchases.

A murmuring outside resolved in to the anxious features of Ellicott, the purser. "We should set th' books straight now, sir," he said, holding a pack of well-thumbed papers.

"We will," Kydd promised. He knew the reason for the haste: Standish had no doubt fudged the signing-off on some accounts. Ellicott feared that until Kydd signed them into his charge he, as purser, would be held responsible for any deficiencies in the boatswain's store, gunner's allowance and so forth.

Before Kydd started on the paperwork, though, there were a few things he must attend to first. "Is the ship's clerk in attendance?" he asked carefully. It was a delicate matter: his friend Renzi had been acting in that role while Kydd was captain but had given up the post and gone ashore with Kydd when he had been dismissed from his ship. But if the new one was . . .

"Larkin, sir," Ellicott said apologetically, ushering an elderly seaman inside.

"You!" Kydd said in surprise.

"Aye, sir," Larkin mumbled. Kydd was taken aback: he knew him to be a fo'c'sleman with an unusual attachment to poetry. In the dogwatches it was his practice to copy out verse from books in large, beautifully formed copperplate. Clearly he had been "volunteered" for the task by the previous captain.

"This is no task for a prime sailorman, Larkin," Kydd said briskly. "I'll see if Mr. Renzi is at leisure to relieve ye, an' then your part o' ship shall be fo'c'sleman again."

The man beamed.

"So, Mr. Ellicott, I'm your man in one hour." He turned to Tysoe. "Now then, I'd like t' hear as how you think we should best fit out the cabin. Then ye're to step off an' secure it all. Oh, an' at six bells ye'll find Mr. Renzi on North Pier with his books. He'll want hands to bear a fist in swaying 'em aboard."

In the afternoon the men settled to their make-and-mend, a time set aside for leisure and attention to sea-worn clothing or the crafting of a smart step-ashore rig. It was also a fine opportunity not only to make discreet survey of how his ship had fared out of his hands but as well to bring Hallum to a closer appreciation of Teazer's character. It would be a welcome respite, too, from the welter of paperwork that Ellicott seemed intent on drowning him in.

Hats firmly under arms, the two officers strolled along the deck forward. In favoured positions on the gratings, against the sunnier bulwark or simply sprawled out on the planking, men got on with the serious business of gossip and yarn-spinning while they skilfully stitched away. They fell silent as Kydd approached but, in the custom of the sea, off-watch this was their territory, and once the two had passed they resumed chatting.

The Teazers seemed in good heart; Kydd knew the telltale signs of disaffection and saw none. He had a suspicion, however, that much of their contentment stemmed from the prospects of a proven prize-taker being in command—but who knew what lay ahead?

Kydd went to a carronade and lifted the lead apron protecting the gunlock bed. The weapon gleamed with attention from lampblack and linseed oil, but when he peered more closely he saw that the fire-channel between vent and pan shone with equal lustre. The gun had probably not been fired since his own time.

Further forward there were other giveaway signs of a ship that had been prepared more for a flag-officer's inspection than war, but with growing satisfaction he noted there was nothing wrong with Teazer that a good first lieutenant could not bring to order in quick time.

As dusk fell Renzi came aboard, Kydd's closest friend and one to whom he owed his present felicity. It had been Renzi who had uncovered the truth behind the conspiracy to ruin him, but he had not wanted to go into details. From long experience Kydd knew not to press his friend until he was ready to talk.

"M' very dear Nicholas! Let's strike your dunnage down and my apologies to ye, the ship being all ahoo like this. We'll sup together tonight."

It was a brave showing. The great cabin had a dining table in the form of a grating on mess tubs, tastefully concealed beneath borrowed wardroom linen and quite passable in the golden candlelight.

"I fear it could be short canny t'night," Kydd said, as they entered. "Tysoe has been ashore an' not had time for my cabin stores." It was a small price to pay for his return to his ship.

"Shall you . . . ?" Renzi hesitated before the carpenter's canvas easy-chair—or was it to be the boatswain's stout high-back, which was said to be proof even against the frenzied movement of a fresh gale?

Kydd settled into the boatswain's chair and nodded to the awed purser's steward, tasked with the honours of the evening in Tysoe's absence. A light claret was forthcoming, glasses charged, and the two friends toasted their new situation with feeling.

"Nicholas, you must have something in your philosophies as should prepare a man for fortune's sport," Kydd remarked.

Renzi shook his head with a smile. "As to that, dear fellow, who can say? Let us seize the hour and reck not the reasons. The workings of Fate are not to be comprehended by mortals, I'm persuaded."

Renzi looked gaunt, his eyes deep-set and lines in his face adding years to his age. Kydd regarded him with concern. At their lowest ebb, Renzi had travelled to Jersey and found menial employment with a titled foreign émigré. "You've suffered, m' friend. That rogue y' prince has worked ye near to death! I've a mind to say—"

"Let it rest, brother," Renzi said firmly. "I've a notion that the certainties of the daily round in dear old Teazer will set me up in prime kelter before long. What piques my curiosity at this time is whether my good friend Tom Kydd will be changed at all by wealth."

Kydd laughed. "Aye, it's a grand thing not to worry at laying out for a new coat, or an evening with the ladies. But you should know as while I have m' prospects, that scrovy prize-agent has his fee an' then there's y'r pettifoggers who feel free to take their fill o' guineas afore ever I see 'em. I'm t' settle a fair sum on my parents, I've decided, but the rest I'm putting away. Not in a bank as might fail, but the Funds. Consols at three per cent."

"You'll want to prettify Teazer handsomely, I believe," Renzi murmured.

"The ship'll have her gingerbread, it's true, and m' quarters are to be congenial. Topping it the swell at sea is t' no account, though—'twould soon turn me soft as a milkmaid. No, Nicholas, your friend'll not be changed by his circumstances."

"I'm gratified to hear it, brother."

Kydd grew thoughtful. "There is a one more matter—one o' delicacy."

"Oh?"

"I'd surely want to see my dear friend right in th' article o' pewter as—"

"Thank you, but my needs are few and my modest income sufficient unto the day," Renzi said, with finality. "Your riches were honestly gained and by your own hand. Do rejoice in them. If—if I should come by some misfortune, you can be assured that I shall indeed remember you."

A cautious knock sounded on the door. "Come!" Kydd called.

It was Hallum with some papers. He took in of their dinner setting and made to leave, but Kydd motioned for him to join them at the "table." "Pray don't stand on ceremony, Mr. Hallum. Here, where is y'r glass, sir? Oh—I'm forgetting my manners. This is Mr. Renzi, a philosophical gentleman takin' passage with us, for the sake of his studies. He's obliging enough to act as our ship's clerk while aboard."

Hallum was mature with a hint of grey about him and an air of deliberation. "From Diomede, I believe?" Kydd prodded. It would have been something of a shock for him to be told with just hours' notice to move from the tranquil backwater of the old flagship to a prime fighting vessel like Teazer.

"I am, sir. I'll have my baggage aboard tomorrow and then be ready for duty."

"Have ye had experience in a sloop?"

"As a midshipman before the war, yes, sir."

"An' where was that?"

"In Leith," he said uncomfortably. "Scotland."

"Any interesting service?" Kydd asked encouragingly.

The man appeared to be considering what to say. "A frigate, Pegasus, for two years in the North Sea in 'ninety-eight." He looked at Kydd as though seeking approval for his disclosure.

"North Sea Squadron?"

"Er, no, sir. Timber convoys from the Baltic, mostly."

Kydd nodded pleasantly, privately reflecting that if this was the extent of his "interesting service" then his time in Teazer was no doubt set to prove an eye-opening experience.

Several steaming dishes arrived. "Do tell, Mr. Hallum—from what part of the kingdom do you hail?" Renzi asked politely.

By the first remove it was discovered that Hallum's family was noted in Suffolk for its sea connections and that he himself had made several trading voyages to Norway as a youngster. Over the port Kydd had a measure of his lieutenant: solidly reliable but with little ambition and less imagination. "Then let's raise a glass to Teazer an' her company," he said warmly. "I've a fancy we're in for exciting times. The admiral says as how he wants to put us to the test right quickly."

CHAPTER 2

KYDD SIGHED DEEPLY as he took in the understated splendour of his great cabin—its dark polished bulkhead across at the forward end and the brightness of whitened sides and deck-head, which seemed to increase the apparent area to a gratifying size. With a black-and-white chequered floor covering and a deeply polished table in the centre, it was almost intimidating, and Tysoe moved about with a lordly air in his silent ministrations.

On deck the whole sweep of the interior of the bulwarks was now a rousing scarlet with black and gold finishings about the scrollwork. The yards were a deep black against the varnished masts and Kydd had willingly parted with the necessary funds to ensure that the band of yellow between the gunports was shown at its best by a liberal mixing of white pigment in the paint. The carronade tompions had been picked out in crimson and green, and from the sweet intricacies of the miniature stern gallery aft to the dainty white figurehead forward, with flecks of blue and gold, Teazer had never looked so bewitching.

Kydd was keen to see his ship, now in all respects ready for action, back where she belonged—at sea. In the weeks since he had been restored to his post Carthew had not reappeared and therefore preparations for a court-martial could not begin. Prosser had been allowed to resign his commission and leave, in return for making full deposition of his evidence.

It was, however, not in the interests of the service to keep a fine ship at idleness and Teazer's orders duly came. They were short and to the point: a cruise eastwards from Alderney along the north coast of the Contentin peninsula, past the port of Cherbourg and as far as its natural conclusion at Pointe de Barfleur.

All the east-west coastal traffic from northern France must proceed that way and a Royal Navy presence athwart its passage would effectively bring it to a halt. Kydd would be sharing the task with lesser fry—a gun-brig and a cutter.

It was gratifying to have the master, Dowse, and their local pilot, Queripel, back in earnest conclave as they deliberated over their mission. Saumarez insisted that all non-native naval vessels in his command carry a permanent local pilot, as well as the usual ship's master. Given the treacherous nature of the waters of the area, Kydd had quickly seen the wisdom in this requirement.

"Mr. Queripel," he said, "y'r opinion of this coast, sir."

"Not easy, sir, not a-tall," the man replied carefully. "Th' charts, they doesn't tell the half of it."

"How so?"

"All along this seaboard," he said, indicating the whole north-facing coast, "steep-to an' bold mostly, but deceitful, sir, very deceitful. See here, Cap Lévi. Coast trends away t' the nor'-east an' you'd think to weather the cape a cable or two clear, but that would be to y'r error, sir. Straight to th' north, a good two mile out—a wicked long rocky shoal below the waves a-waiting for ye."

Queripel continued, "An' that's not all. Should the tidal stream meet wi' a contrary wind, why, then ye gets the Raz du Cap Lévi, a dangerous race as can set any good ship t' hazard."

"Aye, y' tides," Kydd murmured.

"Tides? Why, y' same Cap Lévi at spring tides sees a east-going stream o' eight hours but a west-going f'r four hours only at a fierce rate o' knots. An' with y' Saint-Pierre shell bank roilin' an' shiftin' down where no man's eye c'n see, an' your Basse de Happetout, why it'll—"

"Thank 'ee, Mr. Queripel," Kydd said. "It's my intention to stay as close with the land as will make it a sore puzzle f'r the Frenchies to think to pass us by," he added firmly. The whole coastline, though, seemed to be wilfully arranged as a snare and trap for English sailors. "Your best charts, Mr. Dowse—an' don't spare the expense in their getting." The illicit French productions to which he was referring could be purchased ashore—at a price.

The next morning when Teazer weighed for the north an air of expectancy was abroad. It was a hard life in a small ship on such a coast but there would be much satisfaction in action against the enemy—and the chance of prizes.

Laying Guernsey abeam, Teazer shaped course to clear the Casquets to starboard where the helm went over and they eased to the south-westerly for the long coastwise patrol to the east. The forbidding rocks, with their characteristic three-part lighthouse, were left astern, and the bare green of Alderney, the most northerly of the Channel Islands, came into view.

With a fair wind on her quarter Teazer showed her breeding. One of the myriad uninhabited islands was coming up, distinctive with its generous frosting of bird droppings. Kydd drew out his watch and calculated their progress. A cast of the log confirmed it—eleven knots and a half.

Past Alderney there was clear water for the eight miles to the north-west tip of France but almost immediately Kydd felt Teazer dip and sway as the notorious Alderney Race surging from the south took her full on the beam, the waves tumbling on themselves in their hurry to emerge into the Channel proper.

The dark mass of land ahead was France. Kydd's duty was clear: to take, burn, sink or destroy by any means the forces that so threatened England; no consideration of prizes or personal ambition must stand in the way. "Keep your eyes open, there!" he roared up at the foretop lookout. Cap de la Hague was approaching fast in the fair wind but once round the larger mass of the peninsula, the wind under the land would drop and the ship would take longer to respond to anything they came up with.

"Th' Grunes, sir," Queripel warned, as they neared the rocky outliers.

"To clear 'em?" Kydd grunted. It would not do to stay safely distant out to sea while the French crept along furtively close inshore.

"I'd not be happy under a mile, Mr. Kydd," Queripel answered.

With an offshore wind and a favourable tide they could take risks. "Let's have it eight cables," Kydd said. The French chart had La Petite and La Grande Grunes at no more than seven. Queripel said nothing.

They approached the bleak shore, and as they eased to sail along it the lookout hailed to point out something in the sea.

It was a wide and lazy surface eddy over some sinister submarine hazard that they wouldn't have noticed had the water not been so calm.

An accusing glance from Queripel told Kydd that these were the Grunes and he turned to the first lieutenant. "Mr. Hallum, we're going coastal now. The people to their stations, if y' please."

With the boats in their davits free of their gripes and ready for lowering, a hand on the fo'c'sle with lead-line ready coiled, the watch-of-the-hands alert and in no doubt about their duties for emergency manoeuvres, there was little more they could do to alleviate the deadly danger they were in by sailing so close.

Two or three miles ahead the first anchorage of note was marked. Queripel mumbled that it was a contemptible place with a sizeable rock awash the very entrance, but Kydd would not leave anything to chance.

The south-westerly that had been so briskly bearing them from Alderney had now died to a gentle breeze in the lee of the cliffs and Teazer moved along at little more than walking pace. All depended on what they saw when they passed the headland. In the small bay anything might be at anchor, prey or predator, but they could not meet every hidden inlet closed up at battle quarters: they must trust to quick reactions and correct judgements.

The bay was innocent of any vessel, merely a sweep of sandy beach between two nondescript headlands set amid an appalling sprawl of rocks scarring the sea out to a dismaying distance. The visibility was good and the winds safely offshore—but what would it be to cruise here in adverse weather, Kydd wondered. Around the far headland the coast fell back; it would stay trending away to the east-south-east until the port of Cherbourg, ten miles further on and mercifully less set about with reefs and hazards. They remained under easy sail—there was no point in haste: the patrol was for a period of days on station and then they would return.

Teazer settled to routine, the age-old and comfortable rhythms of the sea that the Royal Navy had evolved to a fine art. "Hands to supper" was piped, as eight bells signalled the start of the first dogwatch. In noisy conviviality the grog tub was brought up and the spirit mixed for issue to all messes before their evening meal.

Kydd kept the deck out of sheer contentment. Cherbourg came into view; over there, one of Napoleon's arsenals was dedicated to the crushing of England and yet, he reflected, Teazer was sailing by unchallenged with a merry crew enjoying their evening.

The port was well defended by fortifications, which Kydd had no intention of provoking. He knew that small English cutters of shallow draught were lying off the harbour and that their sole purpose was to keep watch on significant movements there. If necessary they could alert Saumarez's heavy frigates within half a day.

Kydd kept well away and, towards dusk, had made the far side of the port. Earlier he had noted a cryptic marking on the French chart that had piqued his interest: Pointe du Brick and within, a tiny bay, Anse du Brick. "Brick" was French for "brig" and—who knew?—it might have a more subtle meaning. He intended to anchor for the night close in, under full view of the enemy shore, thereby retaining his clamping hold on the coast.

"Is this wise, sir?" Hallum murmured. "At our moorings we'll be at the mercy of any of superior force."

"Aye, this must be so," said Kydd, "but ye'll observe that nothing can get by without we know it." No vessel of size would risk a close-in passage at night and by dawn they would be well on their way.

In the fading light they found their place, little more than a deeply wooded cleft in impassable terrain with a neat beach at its foot. The hand-lead told of rapidly shoaling water so Teazer went to two anchors with a precautionary kedge to seaward. It left them in an admirable position to pounce on any vessel trusting to the cover of darkness to slip by into Cherbourg.

The quiet of the night enfolded them; the delicate scent of woodland was borne out on a gentle breeze and the faint maaaaa of a goat sounded to one side. Only the soft slap and gurgle of the current along Teazer's sides intruded and about the deck men spoke in low voices in respect to the stillness.

It was a bold, even impudent move—but it had a weakness that might prove fatal. If the wind shifted foul in the night they might find themselves trapped against the shore, unable to claw off, helpless against the gunboats that would be quickly called from Cherbourg once their plight was discovered.

The night was quiet and the wind had held, if anything backing more southerly. At dawn Teazer weighed and stood out for the north but almost immediately there was a heavy thud and smoke from a fort on a small promontory.

"Surprisin' t' see 'em awake," growled the boatswain, shielding his eyes from the first rays of the day as he tried to make it out.

"Fort Lévi," Queripel said.

"An' they should've held their fire until we were under their guns," Kydd said contemptuously. "Bear away, if ye please." They skirted around the impotent fort while he considered the next hazard. "We'll keep inside the Septentrionale," he told Dowse, leaving Queripel to mutter on his own. It was hard on the man but this was the only way they would be in any real position should enemy craft chance by.

Once Cap Lévi was rounded and they resumed eastward, Queripel came up to Kydd and offered, "If ye'd keep east b' south five mile, there's an inside passage only th' fisher-folk takes as will see us through t' Barfleur."

After they had angled across near to the low, marshy coastline Teazer found herself easing between the land and a near-submerged cluster of dark, granite rocks, the highest with a strange-looking twist of iron atop it. "Th' Chenal Hédouin the Frenchies call it," Queripel said, "on account of—"

"Aye, well, do keep a weather eye on y'r channel, then, Mr. Queripel. I don't want to leave Teazer's bones here," Kydd said tightly. He suspected that only a small number of the countless crags under the surface were showing trace of their existence.

Now within less than half a mile of an endless dun-coloured beach the country's remote nature was plain: low, marshy, a reedy lake. They were far from the civilised world. Eyeing a projecting knot of rock on shore, Queripel said, "Now east b' north, sir."

Teazer altered more to the northward until she was just abreast a large lake, at which point the helm went over again and they found themselves heading between a sullen clutch of offshore rocks and a flat headland sprawling out to sea with a lighthouse that was a good seventy feet high.

"Pointe de Barfleur?" Kydd asked doubtfully. Surely they had not reached the end of their patrol area so quickly.

"Aye, sir," Queripel said, with satisfaction. They emerged suddenly into the open sea. It was masterly piloting, Kydd conceded, grateful for the Channel Islander's years of merchant-service experience on this coast in the peace.

He took in the calm glitter of an unbroken horizon. This was now the Baie de Seine, and at its opposite shore was Le Havre and with it the Seine River down from Paris. It was an utterly different land, and the start of the line of ports stretching away that Bonaparte was using to assemble his invasion fleets. Those would be the desperate business of the legendary Downs squadron under Admiral Keith, daily hand-to-hand struggles as small ships like Teazer were thrown at the enemy flotillas in epic engagements before Napoleon's very eyes.

They themselves had seen nothing—one or two fishing luggers, lobstermen and tiny craft; no sign of the armada that was threatening England. But they had reached the limit of their cruise: it was time to return.

Renzi came on deck, blinking in the sunlight. He glanced in puzzlement at the open sea with the coast at their backs, then at the sun. "Either the land has shifted in its axis or the celestial orb has taken leave of its senses," he mused.

"Neither." Kydd chuckled. "This is the termination of our patrol line. Y' see the Baie de Seine ahead but, when wind an' tide permit, we wear about and return."

Renzi gazed intently at the French coast.

Concerned that his friend was still fatigued from his labours in Jersey, Kydd said softly, "Not as if you're to miss a fine sight, Nicholas. The coast here is dull enough country, you'll believe."

Renzi turned to face him. "Ah. Then this is . . . ?" "Pointe de Barfleur."

"Barfleur?"

"The town is a league down the coast."

"Quite." Renzi brightened. "Then . . . would it be at all convenient should we sight the same?"

Kydd responded to the sudden animation in his tone. "Why, yes, m' friend. The breeze backing more southerly by the hour, a little diversion will find us with a fair wind for our return. An' t' tell it true, I'd be happier then with th' tide on the make."

Hauling their wind, Teazer made sail southwards and Barfleur was sighted, a small but prosperous-looking village with a squat church in a tight little harbour, but otherwise undistinguished. The quarterdeck officers were respectfully standing to leeward, allowing the friends their privacy.

"The Edward III of Capell's Shakespeare mentions this place warmly, I believe." Renzi looked about. "Then there must be under our keel at this very moment the last sad relics of the Blanche Nef."

"Erm, which is?"

"I will tell you, dear fellow. On a dark night in the year 1120, the White Ship sailed from Barfleur for England, with the only son of the most puissant Henry the first aboard. The mariners, in a merry state, neglected to consult the state of the tide, with the dolorous consequence that the ship ran fast upon a rock and was lost. Only one was saved—and that was not the King's son."

"A cruel tragedy."

"It was—but worse for England. At Henry's soon passing in grief, his daughter Matilda's crowning as Queen of England was disputed by his nephew, Stephen. The realm was plunged into years of an anarchy that only a medieval world can produce."

Kydd nodded. "Aye, but this is y'r centuries past. We're now to consider the invading of England herself, no less!"

"Then what more apposite place than this little town I cannot conceive of, brother," Renzi said drily. "It was from Barfleur, of course, that in 1066 William the Conqueror did sail to seize England, the last successful invasion of our islands, I believe."

Further historical musings were cut short, for Kydd had found it necessary to give the orders that saw Teazer go to exercise of her foretopmen while they stretched further down the coast. As anticipated, the wind's backing produced a useful southerly, and by the time the ship reached Pointe de Barfleur again it was fair for the return, a near perfectly executed cruise, were it not for the complete lack of action.

They rounded the point and took up by the wind on the larboard tack for the inshore passage, handing in the sheets in a smart and seamanlike manner that brought a grunt of satisfaction from Teazer 's commander as he considered whether to anchor in the lee of Cap Lévi for the night—

A disbelieving cry of "Saaail!" came from the maintop lookout. "Two points on the bow, a—a brig wi' some . . ." He tailed off in perplexity but threw out an arm to starboard.

Kydd leaped for the main-shrouds and shaded his eyes as he peered out at a confusing scene—numbers of vessels of different sizes crowding together, about four or five miles off. The largest was a brig-o'-war with distinctive red ochre sails and quite as large as Teazer. It was being circled by a smaller vessel, a topsail cutter, and had three open craft of puzzling form close astern. Kydd fumbled for his pocket telescope. It soon became clear that they had come upon a drama which could have only one meaning. "Colours, Mr. Hallum!" he roared.

Their white ensign flew aloft as he jumped to the deck to meet the expectant faces of the quarterdeck. "Frenchy invasion barges! Three of 'em being towed by a brig-o'-war as is fighting off a cutter!"

After a short delay the cutter responded with the correct private signal to Teazer's challenge. She would be one of a number of game little ships that were making life uncomfortable for the gathering invasion fleet and had come upon these three barges probably being towed to the next port. No doubt they had been new-built at Barfleur and, thinking that Teazer was continuing south, had been gulled into taking the chance of slipping out.

The cutter had found she had not been able to take on the bigger ship but had been snapping at its heels. Now the tables were well and truly turned. Against two determined men-o'-war the brig stood little chance—and fleeing into the land was no longer an option, for Teazer, in her inshore passage, was waiting.

Caught under two fires the brig did its best. The barges' tow lines were thrown off and, ignoring the cutter, the brig circled round to confront Teazer's onrush, but as its crew hauled on the braces it slewed suddenly and stopped. Then the fore-topmast tumbled.

"He's taken a rock!" Hallum crowed, watching the confusion on the hapless vessel's deck.

"Boarders, if you please," Kydd said sourly, as their prize slowly settled. On the opposite side he could see that the cutter was hove to and already had a boat in the water. "I'll take 'em m'self," he muttered and, with a token force of men, set out for the brig.

The vessel had driven up a ledge of rock and was fast aground, but the slight swell was lifting the after part, then dropping its dead weight again and again in a cacophony of cracking timbers. Closer to, Kydd could see that this was a merchant brig converted to appear fierce and protective: the guns were "quakers"—false wooden cannon at the gunports meant to intimidate. The crew were crowded together on the highest part and appeared to await their fate with resignation.

Kydd had the boat brought alongside to the main-chains and swung himself lithely on deck. At the same time a lieutenant from the cutter boarded from the opposite side. "My bird, I think!" the officer said, with a dazzling grin. He was absurdly young, and it was difficult to take offence. Kydd smothered a cynical smile. Any naval ship in sight at the time of a capture could demand a share of any prize-money.

"Kydd, Commander, Teazer brig-sloop."

"Oh, sir—Clive Leveson-Wardle, Lieutenant-in-command, Linnet cutter."

"Well, now, Mr., er—L'tenant, do ye take possession o' this vessel, sir, as you've half a right t' do so? An' I'd not linger, sir. I fancy she's not long for this world," Kydd said, knowing that any talk of prizes was now merely academic.

By this time the brig lay ominously still and unresisting to the waves, hard upon the rocky ledge just visible below in the murky depths.

Kydd crossed to the little forward companionway access to the hold and opened the door. There was an unmistakable dark glitter and the hollow swash of water below. The ship's bottom was breached and it had flooded, then settled on the ledge, which it would never leave.

"Th' barges, sir?" The boatswain, his cutlass still drawn, nodded to where they were being secured by the cutter.

"Ye're right, Mr. Purchet," Kydd said, with a quick grin. "They'll serve." He returned to the young lieutenant. "Sir, I'm taking ye under my command," he said. "Your orders are to send a party o' men to recover as much o' what she carries as ye can an' stow it in the barges." It would go some way to making up for the loss of the brig.

"I understand, sir."

"An' then to take 'em under tow until ye make your offing and shape course for Guernsey. I'll send help when I can."

"Er, it's that I see soldiers in them there barges, sir," the boatswain said uncomfortably.

"All th' better," Kydd said briskly. "No doubt they'll kindly bear a hand in return for they're saved from the briny deep."

Kydd surveyed the activity with satisfaction. The cutter's master's mate had had the sense to disarm the soldiers before boarding each barge and, with marines borrowed from Teazer to act as guards, they were brought alongside one by one for transshipment to Linnet.

He looked down curiously at one of the strange craft. It was the first he had seen at close quarters of the thousands he had heard were being built and assembling in the invasion ports.

This must be a péniche, designed for landing the maximum number of soldiers in the minimum time. Over three score feet long and twelve feet in the beam, the open boat could probably cram aboard sixty or seventy troops and all their equipment. It had provision for stepping three masts, a simple lug rig. No doubt a howitzer or mortar could be mounted forward.

And this was the smallest of the flotilla: there were others much larger that could take horses and field guns, still more that were big enough to warrant the same three-masted square rig as a frigate and with guns more than a match for Teazer.

"Sir? I heard 'em say among 'emselves like, they'm new-made in Barfleur an' hoping t' take 'em to Cherbourg." It was one of Teazer's Guernseymen, with the Breton tongue.

It was a chilling sight, so close to the reality of Napoleon's menace. Notwithstanding Kydd's seaman's instinct, which was telling him that, fully loaded, they would be pigs to sail, the thought of them in uncountable numbers crowding across the Channel to invade England was a fearsome prospect.

There was little more he could do. He called the lieutenant over. "I'm continuing m' cruise to the west. I'll leave the marines for the prisoners and expect ye to haul off before dark. Good voyage to ye, sir."

In the late afternoon they had reached the western end of the inshore channel without further incident and Kydd was looking forward to supper with Renzi, who had been locked away for hours in his tiny cabin restoring acquaintance with his philosophical studies after his labours in Jersey.

He turned to go below, then stiffened: a distant sound, like the mutter of thunder. Guns!

He strained to hear, but there was no more. He might have imagined it—but one or two about the deck had paused, like him.

"Mr. Calloway!" he called. A younger man's ears would be sharper. "Did ye hear guns?"

"Aye, sir, I did."

"I thought six-, nine-pounders?"

"Could be twelves, Mr. Kydd."

Some frigates mounted twelve-pounders as main armament, and if he went to see what it was about, Kydd knew he might find himself turned upon by one of unanswerable force. His duty was plain, however. "Clap on more sail, Mr. Dowse."

As near as he could tell it had been somewhere in the open sea beyond where Cap Lévi marked the abrupt turn south into the bay of Cherbourg, so he decided to press on directly after reaching the cape.

They passed the sprawling point and met deep water once more. Stretching out for the west, Teazer lengthened her stride in relief that the treacherous shoals were left behind, and in half an hour's fast sailing she had made her sighting: right in the eye of the sunset, and as close to the veering southerly breeze as practicable, it was a substantial vessel. If it saw them it gave no sign, crossing their bows steadily on the starboard tack some three miles or so distant, making directly for Cherbourg.

With the light fading, it was difficult to discern details until two things made all plain. The first was that the ship was barque-rigged, so it was not a man-o'-war. And the second was the two flags that fluttered at her mizzen—the French national flag triumphantly over the English ensign. She was, therefore, a British merchant ship taken recently by the enemy vessel whose guns they had heard. The French, with the safety of the port so close, were flaunting their prize.

It was galling—in front of their eyes a valuable British ship being borne off to France. Kydd felt for the luckless crew, now prisoners destined to rot in one of Bonaparte's prison-fortresses. "Be damned to it! I'll not see 'em in chokey!" he burst out, but he was not clear how this could be prevented. Teazer was still on the same larboard tack, leaning into it on a course parallel with the distant depths of the bay, while the barque was already on the opposite tack and set fair to make Cherbourg in one reach.

Firing on the vessel was out of the question and the time needed to tack about in chase would probably hand the Frenchman an unbeatable lead. They could hope for a wind-change in the fluky conditions nearer the coast, but the breeze was holding strength, now veering slowly to the south-west.

Kydd saw the plain stern-quarters of the barque pulling steadily away and gritted his teeth. Either way they stood to lose the chase— unless . . .

It was without question that he had the finer ship. But how much better? "Mr. Purchet, bowlines to th' bridle, an' sheet in on all courses until ye hears 'em sing." He was going to make a race of it; a long board deep into the bay, a flying stay about to the other tack and direct chase in the hope that he could head the other ship before it made port.

Word got about quickly. Soon the decks were crowded with tars, each with his own opinion of how to get the best from their fair barque, some all for an immediate tack and lunge, others urging extremes of sail spread.

The boatswain was cautious. "Sir, ye'll want a slip-rope an' toggle on the bowlines, I'm thinking." Their purpose was to tauten the leading edge of the major sails to allow the helmsman to ease in right up to the wind. Purchet was suggesting a way to cast them off rapidly and take up on the other side when they tacked about.

"Aye, make it so," Kydd agreed, as he considered the next move. Teazer 's trim was fine. He made a point of checking whenever possible for it had a surprising effect on performance: if the ship had a tendency to come up to the wind—if she was ardent—this had to be counteracted by the opposite rudder, which necessarily caused a degree of turbulence and drag to the detriment of speed.

He crossed to the helmsman, Poulden, probably the best timoneer aboard. "Does she gripe?" he demanded. He had not sensed any giveaway lurch to windward when the bows rose.

"Not as who should say, sir," the man said stolidly.

They were making excellent speed. The seas were fine on the bow, and without the need to punch through them, there would be no slowing to their progress. However, the barque was well past and into the bay, making a fine show of it with royals now spread.

It was time for vigorous measures. Teazer did not carry fancy sail—he could set the fore-topmast stuns'l in these conditions, but bonnets and drabblers would impede rather than assist. No, this race would be won if he tuned his ship like a violin.

"I'll have ye swift in the cat-harpings," he told the boatswain. He considered for a moment, then turned to the master. "Take the lar-bowlines an' see to the bracing, Mr. Dowse. Each yard to be braced in half a point more'n the one below it." The resulting slight spiral would take into account the stronger winds to be found aloft.

"Aye aye, sir."

"An' set hands to th' lifts, the yards to be agreeable as ye can to the horizon." At their lively degree of heel so close-hauled, this would restore the sails' natural aspect rather than bag the wind to the lee side.

"Sir."

There was more to think about: too great a press of sail might bury her forefoot or thrust her to leeward. Paradoxically it was often better to reduce sail to increase speed—that foretop-gallant, for instance? He gave the order to Dowse to make it so.

It was exhilarating sailing. Never had Teazer been urged like this, the sea hissing and seething past, all sail drawing to perfection in the spanking breeze and glorious sunset.

Kydd stood by the wheel, every nerve at full stretch, sensing the exact angle of the wind on his cheeks, listening intently to its thrum on taut rigging and the creaking, high-pitched then low, from deep within the ship as the waves passed under her keel. Any of this might change and be the first warning of sudden calamity in the straining spars and rigging.

"Mr. Hallum? Stations f'r staying." This was the trickiest part: putting about to the other tack. If they fumbled it, all would be over. And they needed more than a workmanlike manoeuvre. They had to make it a lightning move that had them over on their new tack and sails fully drawing with not a second's delay.

Kydd snatched a glance at the barque, now significantly closer to Cherbourg and safety. He was going to play it out to the last card. "I have the ship, Mr. Dowse," he said formally, to the sailing master.

"Aye, sir." There was no resentment in his tone: he understood that it was for his own protection—any failure in timing or execution could not now be blamed on him.

"Stay by me, if y' please," Kydd added quietly.

Hallum approached to report that stations for staying ship were now complete: lines thrown off from the belaying pins and faked along for running, every part-of-ship readied and tense—waisters, fo'c'slemen, topmen, each a part of the whole. Just one falsestep could bring them all down.

"Ready about!" Kydd roared, and looked over the side.

They were slashing along as fast as he had ever seen her stretch before.

"Ready . . . ready . . . Ease down the helm!" Carefully, spoke by spoke, Poulden began the fateful turn. This was not the time for a sudden showy spinning of the wheel and abrupt angling of the rudder over, which would result in spectacular white foaming and a sudden slowing in impetus as the drag came on. Instead Teazer kept her speed on, allowing time for the jib sheets to be eased and, behind Kydd, the mainsail boom hauled amidships to keep the sail full until the last moment.

"Helm's a-lee!" Forward there was instant movement as the fore-sheet was let go, together with the sheets to the head-sails, and Teazer's bow began to swing into the wind, the sails slatting busily. Checking away the top bowline and lee fore-brace they heaved around. Kydd saw the motion and bawled, "Rise tacks an' sheets!"

The mainsails had lost their taut straining and their lines were manhandled to clear the nettings and other gear as Teazer nosed into the wind. "Haul in! Mainsail haul!" Kydd bellowed.

Hand over hand the mainyard was braced around at a furious pace, the fore remaining on the old tack. As Teazer rotated through the wind's eye this levered round the after part of the ship. The fore as well took the wind aback but on the opposite tack, pushing the bows away on to the new course.

Everyone knew the stakes. It was the synchrony of movements that held the key, and Teazer responded nobly. "Haul of all!" Kydd ordered exultantly—the main would fill and draw just as fast as the new weather tack and lee-sheets could be brought in. The fore was braced around smartly and, with a brisk banging and flapping, the sails caught. Teazer leaned to her new course, the men frantically at work to get in every foot of their hauling.

It was done—and beautifully. Kydd grunted, satisfied. His ship was as capable as she was pretty.

As they settled to their rushing passage he looked across at the barque. It was now on the same board and, although it was ahead by a considerable margin, the game was far from over. Their prey was clawing as close to the wind as it could, while Teazer, thanks to Kydd's patient and careful estimates, lay to the wind with every sail drawing optimally.

"We're fore-reaching," the master admitted, eyeing the other vessel. Their tracks were converging and Teazer was coming up on the barque with every minute. Kydd found himself clenching his fists, frustrated that there now seemed little more that could be done.

The boatswain cleared his throat awkwardly. "Er, sir, when I was a younker I seen a trick once."

"Oh?"

"Th' lower yards, sir. T' increase th' traverse."

A square-rigged ship could lie only about six points to the wind, for the big spars swinging across the ship would come up against the mast stay and shrouds, a natural limit. Kydd glanced at the big mainyard above them, immovably up against the mainstay at the extremity of its traverse. "I'd like to know how, Mr. Purchet."

"Why, sir, we slacks off th' truss-tackle as gives us play, an' then cants down th' weather yard-arm while we swigs off on th' cat-harpings all we can." This would allow the yard to slide up and into where the shrouds were at their narrowest—at the cost of the set of the sail.

From his memory of studying for his lieutenant's examination Kydd recalled the double tangent rule: the tangent of the angle of the wind to the yard should be twice that between yard and keel. This ensured that even a little achieved would see the effect multiplied. "We do it, Mr. Purchet," he said. It would be tricky work: with sails drawing hard, the truss-ropes held the big spar against the mast. To slacken them deliberately . . .

With both main- and fore-course cocked up at an angle they sheeted in once more.

"Half a point, I'd say," the master said, clearly impressed.

While this was not dramatic, it would amount over the miles to several ship's lengths further to weather. Could it make the difference? Kydd eyed the distances. The object was to point higher into the wind yet retain a faster speed, culminating in an overlap at any distance to windward with the chase at his mercy under his lee. Should they end even yards to leeward it was certain to get away.

Dowse assumed position next to Poulden and monitored closely the flutter at the edge of the main. It could so easily change to the sail taken violently aback. "Be ye yare at th' helm, son," he said quietly, aware of the tender situation. "I'll bear watch." Together they worked to bring the racing sloop to within a knife's edge of the wind.

"Luff 'n' lie," Dowse murmured, and Poulden inched over the wheel. "Dyce!" he ordered. "An' nothing t' leeward."

Teazer flew. In the gathering dusk she seemed to reach out after the fleeing barque, every man aboard watching forward and feeling for the gallant ship now doing her utmost for them. If the chase ended triumphantly, the epic pursuit would be talked about for years to come.

In the further distance the sullen dark mass of northern France lay across their path, with the lights of Cherbourg dead ahead and their prey now visibly nearer, as though it were being hauled closer on a rope. It was evident that before long a convergence would take place.

In the last of the sunset they were finally within cannon shot of the vessel to windward. Kydd spared a fleeting sympathy for the unknown captain, who must now be seeing the stone quays of the entrance to the harbour, but then he thought of the prisoners soon to taste freedom. "Place us within hailing distance, Mr. Dowse," Kydd said—but suddenly the situation changed utterly.

The barque fell away to leeward in a tight turn, wearing about to place itself directly before the wind—away from the safety of Cherbourg and back towards where they had come from. It caught Kydd completely off guard and it was some time before they could throw off the gear they had rigged for the chase against the wind.

It was a meaningless move: there was no friendly port to the north or anything except the endless desolation of rocks and reefs before Barfleur and there was now no question but that Teazer was the swifter. The barque had made good distance by the sudden wearing but Teazer was closing rapidly, the wind astern allowing any course she chose. When the other ship veered towards the shore Teazer did likewise. At this rate it would be over before they made Cap Lévi even though the Frenchman had put up a fine show.

Then, half a mile short of the cape and with Teazer only a few hundred yards astern, the vessel sheered towards the land and, in the gathering darkness, rounded to and calmly let go her anchor. Incredulous, Kydd was about to give the orders for a final reckoning when the mystery resolved. In a flurry of gunfire, bright flashes stabbed from the squat fort on the promontory above. In the gloom he had overlooked Fort Lévi. The guns were of respectable calibre and quite capable of smashing Teazer to a ruin well before he and his crew could secure their prize. It was all over.

Circling out of range, Kydd knew he should give best to the Frenchman now sheltering under the guns of the fort and move on. But his blood was up and he would not give in. Boats after dark—a cutting-out expedition! The French would imagine that he would give up and sail away during the night and therefore would wait patiently for morning before making for Cherbourg—but they would be in for an unwelcome surprise.

The night was moonless, impenetrably black and relatively calm; perfect conditions. The fort obliged by carelessly showing lights that were ideal navigation markers and Kydd set to with the planning.

He reviewed his forces: the barque would be manned by a prize-crew only and should not present a serious difficulty for a prime man-o'-war's boarding party. The main object was to crowd seamen aboard in sufficient quantity that sail could be loosed and set before the fort could react. Too few, and with three masts to man, there would be a fatal delay. So it must be every boat and all the hands that could be spared.

There would be two main divisions: the armed boarders as first wave over the larboard bulwarks and the seamen to work the ship over the starboard. It was essential to have the best men in the lead, those who would not flinch at mounting the rigging in the dark and with the initiative and sea skills to know what needed doing without being told.

"Mr. Hallum, are ye familiar with the barque rig?"

"Er, no, sir."

"Then I'll take command in the boats." There were no barque-rigged vessels in the Royal Navy and although the major difference was only in the fore-and-aft-rigged mizzen Kydd felt it was probably asking too much of this staid officer. And, of course, he himself had made a voyage to Botany Bay as the reluctant master of a convict-ship barque in the days of the last peace.

There was no point in delay. Divisions for boarding were quickly apportioned and equipment made ready—cutlasses, boarding pistols, along with a fresh-sharpened tomahawk for every fourth man to use in slashing through boarding nettings and the like.

Faces darkened by galley soot, the Teazers awaited Kydd's order. He peered into the blackness once more: nothing to see, no sound. They could wait for the last moment before moonrise just before midnight, but little would be gained by sitting about.

"Get aboard!" he whispered. Men tumbled into the boats silently, nesting their weapons along the centre-line and taking up their oars.

The pinnace left the comfort of the ship's side, lay off in the inky blackness and waited for the barge and cutter to take position. "On me," Kydd called, in a low voice and the small flotilla set off for a point somewhere to the south of the twinkling lights of the fort where the barque must lie.

They pulled in silence, rags in the thole pins to muffle the clunk of oars and nothing but the swash of their passage to disturb the night. He'd spell the men before they—

Away to the right but frighteningly close, a scream in French—a boat out rowing guard! A musket banged into the night and another. Then a deeper-voiced command had the French boat's crew pulling for their lives—directly away.

Keyed up for a desperate clash at arms, Kydd couldn't understand why they were running. Then he saw. Starting as a wisp of flame, which mounted quickly then cascaded down in a flaming mass, bundles of straw had been lit and thrown over the walls of the fort. More fell and their flaring leaped up until the dark sea was illuminated by a pitiless red glare with themselves utterly revealed at its centre.

"Turn about!" Kydd bellowed, to the boats behind him. "Go back!"

Disbelieving, they hesitated. Then the guns of the fort opened up and the reason for the guard-boat's departure was apparent; it had hastily cleared the field of fire for the artillery and now the cannon thundered vengefully into the night at Teazer's fleeing boats.

Kydd flopped wearily into his cabin chair, his face still smeared with soot. "Be damned t' it!" he muttered. "To be beaten after such a handsome chase. At the least we got away with our skins."

Renzi was in the other chair, looking grave. "It seems the Revolutionary Army does not know much about night firing over sea, Tom. You were fortunate."

"Aye—but the Frenchy captain was a canny one. No codshead he—I should have smoked it. " He frowned, and added sorrowfully, "I should so have liked to set the English crew free, Nicholas. It's a hard enough life they face now."

Renzi nodded, staring down. Then he lifted his gaze to Kydd. "There's conceivably still a prospect of a successful outcome, should we be so bold."

"A direct assault on 'em by daylight? I think not. If I'm seen to hazard men's lives on a merchantman it's to be understood as I'm prize-takin' to the neglect of my orders."

"Quite. But I'm not referring to courage before cannon and blade, rather the devious application of cunning and deceit to attain the same object." At Kydd's puzzled look, he continued, "A stratagem as may secure your ship without need for overweening force, that asks the enemy to allay his fears and put down his arms . . ."

"Nicholas, ye're being hard to fathom. Are you saying we should creep up as they're not looking, then—"

"Not at all. Heaven forbid we should think to skulk about like your common spy," Renzi said, with a shudder. "What crosses my mind is that we could perhaps turn our recent experience to account and . . ."

As dawn's early light stole over the little bay Teazer crept around Cap Lévi once more, her crew quietly at quarters and Kydd on her quarterdeck, tense and edgy. If Renzi's stratagem failed they would be sailing to disaster and it could only be his responsibility.

The bay opened up and the barque was still there. Now at two anchors it was heaved around ready for a rapid departure—and then Teazer had come on the scene. For now she lay watchful but at any moment . . .

All depended on the effectiveness of the ruse. Teazer eased slowly into full view; a trumpet call sounded distantly from Fort Lévi but there was no hint of alarm.

Boldly, Teazer continued on course, set to so on her way southward past the barque, yet still there was no clamour of the call to arms—could that be because she was being lured onwards? They rounded the last of the point, which now took them within range of the fort's cannon. And nothing.

Where was the cutter? It should be . . . but then, coming up fast, Linnet rounded the cape and, sighting Teazer, opened fire on her with six-pounders. Teazer answered shot for shot in desperation— encumbered with three invasion craft towing astern, she was in no position for rapid defensive manoeuvres.

Was it working? No point in wondering now. They were committed. On Kydd's order a string of random flags jerked uncertainly up Teazer 's signal halliards but the wind was blowing them unreadably away from the French.

It was time. "Y' know what to do, Poulden," he told the helmsman. The wheel went over—and Teazer headed directly for Fort Lévi.

The response was immediate. A gun cracked out from the highest turret but it was only to draw attention to the welcoming three-flag hoist. "By heaven, an' we've carried it off," Kydd breathed, and glanced up at the ruddy ochre sails that had done their work so well.

Kydd had counted on the French having word passed of a brig with red sails due from Barfleur towing valuable invasion craft and, obligingly, had provided one. That it was being harried by the Royal Navy was only to be expected, of course, and that it was seeking protection beneath the guns of the fort was equally understandable.

Confident that no French soldier could be expected to know the difference between two similar-sized brig-rigged ships, Kydd took Teazer in, gliding along the foreshore before the fortifications until, at precisely the right position, they hove to, preparing to anchor. Under threat of the shore guns the cutter abandoned its attack and hauled off—then seemed to have second thoughts and, curving round once more, placed herself in a daring show of bravado squarely alongside the barque that had been captured earlier by the French.

Kydd played out the agreed scenario: the position this foolish brig captain had chosen to heave to in just happened to mask the fort's field of fire. Horrified by the cutter's audacious attack, he failed to notice the frantic signals from the fort and sent his men tumbling wildly into the boats and crossing to the barque's rescue. Meanwhile the cutter's men swarmed aboard in attack from the seaward side.

The brig's men scrambled over the other bulwarks and soon were fighting for their lives with the cutter's fierce crew—but any cool observer might have been puzzled at the surprising increase in the number of men racing up from below . . .

To all ashore it must quickly have become clear that the brig's gallant rescue attempt had been in vain; by some means sail was got on the barque and, cables slipped, it headed for the open sea.

But the brave souls in the brig were not going to let it get away— the invasion barges were hacked free and the ship turned seaward to chase after them. Under full sail the ships raced away until at last they had disappeared over the horizon.

"Well, upon my soul, sir!" Admiral Saumarez sat back in amazement. "It does you the utmost credit. When balked of your capture you turned to guile and artifice to accomplish what main force could not. To be quite frank I'd not have thought it, er, in your nature, Mr. Kydd."

Fighting down the urge to give Renzi his due—he had been insistent that his role was not to be mentioned—Kydd responded, "'Twas easily enough done, sir. The moon rose just after midnight, an' by it we sighted the wreck an' stripped it of fore- 'n' main-topsails. The cut o' the canvas wasn't pretty but it sufficed an' Linnet we found floggin' gamely along. She seemed eager enough for the adventure. The rest, well . . ."

"You're too reticent, sir. Did you have a stiff opposition on boarding the Frenchy?"

"That's the pity of it, sir. They yielded t' Linnet as we came over th' bulwarks, so we needs must fight among ourselves." He chuckled as he recalled goading the Linnets to have at the Teazers in order to keep up the pretence, and the bewilderment this had caused among the French.

"When we released the crew of the merchant ship from below they loosed and set sail tolerably quick."

"No one can doubt that at this moment they are drinking your health in a bumper, Mr. Kydd," Saumarez said drily. "A pity the French got back their invasion craft, I suppose."

"For that, sir, ye can rest easy. The men took along the bungs for keepsakes, leaving 'em t' sink."

This left Saumarez speechless. Then he laughed and clapped Kydd on the shoulder. "You've had a grand cruise, that's not to be denied."

"Thank 'ee, sir."

The admiral's expression turned thoughtful. "And it leaves me in something of a dilemma."

"Sir?"

Saumarez crossed to the window and gazed down on the harbour scene. "This is a quiet station, as you know. Due mainly to the enterprise of officers of initiative such as yourself the enemy are kept cowering in their harbours and I should be grateful that one of your quality is under my command." He turned back and regarded Kydd gravely. "Yet I cannot help but reflect that two elements converge that are in themselves unanswerable. The first, that the kingdom lies under a menace unparalleled in its history and in stern need of its most able warriors. The second, that your continued presence here will render it near impossible to achieve a distinguished action and hence preferment. In all conscience, I believe that your recent ill-usage deserves better.

"Mr. Kydd, with great reluctance I'm going to have you and your ship released to the very forefront of the struggle. The Downs Squadron."

CHAPTER 3

HOLDING BACK HIS EXCITEMENT, Kydd peered from the window of the coach as it crossed the bridge and ground up High Street past well-remembered sights from his youth. Renzi had been anxious to visit London so this time Kydd had journeyed to Guildford on his own.

They approached the Angel posting house, the coachman cracking his whip to clear a path for the Portsmouth Flyer as it wheeled round and clattered into the courtyard. The snorts of the horses echoed in the confined space and their pungent aroma lay on the air as Kydd descended and went inside. He had taken rooms at the Angel as he didn't want to burden his mother.

There was a wondering unreality about it all: while Teazer was undergoing refit in Portsmouth before joining the Downs Squadron, he had snatched a week to go home for the first time since the beginning of this war of Napoleon. Now he was back in the place where he was born and had grown up. Soon he would be greeting his parents—and with such a tale to tell . . .

With a deep breath he stepped out into High Street. The noise and smell instantly transported him back to the days of his youth and his eyes sought out the sights: the big hanging clock on the hall opposite the Tunsgate market, the Elizabethan alms-house—and before it the little wig-shop where he had once worked. It was now a print-seller, the shop front filled with luridly coloured patriotic sheets.

That a war was on did not seem apparent. The business of the town was cheerily going forward with hardly a reminder of the titanic struggle gathering strength out at sea.

Things were the same—but different.

As Kydd strode up the street not a soul noticed him but he had now been away for some time. Towards the top he took the little path past the sombre Holy Trinity churchyard to School Lane.

Several years ago, with his father's eyesight failing and the wig trade in decline, Kydd's family had summoned him home in despair. He and Renzi had restored the family fortunes by establishing a small school run along naval lines. The enterprise had thrived, with Jabez Perrot its fierce and strict boatswain keeping order and Mr. Partington its keen young headmaster.

Kydd wondered if his sister Cecilia would be at home. Since securing a position as a companion to Lady Stanhope she had travelled the world. Kydd knew Cecilia would love to hear his tales as a rakish corsair, even if the reality was a little different. His voyages as a privateer captain had been successful, though, and he hugged to himself the anticipation of revealing his surprise to the family.

The trim school-house came into view; above it a blue ensign floating—Kydd smiled at the thought of the boatswain's face when he told him those were the colours he would fly in Admiral Keith's Downs Squadron. The school was neat and clean, and sounds of dutiful chanting issued from the classroom with the aroma of chalk dust and ink. Kydd crossed the little quadrangle to the residence.

"Thomas! It's you!" his mother squealed in delight at the door. "Do come in, son. Ye'll catch a death if y' just stands there!"

"Who is it, Fanny?" The querulous enquiry had come from his father, frail with years and now completely blind.

"It's Thomas. An' how fine he looks in his new cream pantaloons an' brown leather boots."

"Is Cec here?" Kydd asked.

"No, dear. She's in America somewheres wi' th' marquess an' lady," Mrs. Kydd said proudly. "Have ye brought that nice Mr. Renzi wi' ye?"

Letting the warmth of the homecoming wash about him, Kydd settled in the best armchair next to the fire while the wide-eyed maid proffered a hot caudle against the cold and chairs were brought up for everyone to hear his tale.

"So ye was a privateer, son. That's nice. Was it scareful a-tall, you wi' all those pirates about on th' boat?"

He was sparing in his account of battles and omitted any reference to the tragic loss of his fiancée, Rosalynd, but he made much of the thrill of the chase and exciting tempests until he saw that the old couple were visibly tiring. "How is the school, Ma?" he asked politely.

Jabez Perrott, the one-legged sailor who had been working in a Guildford bookshop until offered the position of school disciplinarian, was summoned to report, which he did most willingly and with the utmost dignity. He was a grave, upright figure who had taken to wife a respectable widow and become a man of repute at chapel.

Dinner was announced: Kydd took the place of honour at the other end of the table from his father and nodded to Mr. Partington, who respectfully asked about his sea career. He was lodging at the house but it seemed he had an understanding with a certain young lady and his hopes for connubial bliss were well advanced.

The unreality crept back. Each had found their place in life and, in a quiet way, had prospered. He, on the other hand, had experienced so much that to tell of it could only invite incomprehension of a world they could not be expected to understand. He was possessed of means beyond any of their imaginings and of memories that could never really be shared; there was now an unbridgeable distance between himself and his folk.

It wasn't meant to be like this, his homecoming. He glanced about the room, saw the darted admiring glances, heard the shy chatter, the awkwardly addressed conversation. Perhaps it was because he had been away for so long that they were unsure of him—but in his heart he knew this was not so.

After the cloth was drawn and he was left with his parents he would bring out his surprise. With rising elation he waited until he had their full attention. "Ma, Pa, I've somethin' to tell ye!"

"Aye, son?" his mother said quickly, clasping her hands over her knees in excitement. "Is she pretty a-tall?"

A shadow passed over his face. "No, Ma, it's not that. It's—it's that I've done main well in the article o' prize-takin' and it's to tell y' both I'm now going to see ye into a grand mansion—a prodigious-sized one as ye both deserve."

Mrs. Kydd looked at him with some perplexity. "Thomas, dear, we're comfortable here, y' knows."

Kydd looked at her fondly. "Aye, that's as may be, but here's the chance to live like the quality in a great house wi' rooms an' grounds an' things . . ."

"A big house'd be a worry, dear."

"No, Ma! There's servants as'll take charge of it for ye. An' then, o' course—"

"Not now, Thomas, love."

"Ma! Tomorrow I can talk to the—"

"Listen, dear. We're happy here. It's all we need an' don't f' get, y'r father's eyes might ha' failed him but he knows his way about here. A great big place, why, we'd all get lost. Not only that, but what would I put in all them rooms?"

Taken aback, Kydd could only say, "Ye'll soon be used to it, Ma. Then ye'll—"

"No, son," his father said firmly. "Pay heed t' what your mother just said. We stays."

"Yes, Pa."

"But thank 'ee most kindly for thinkin' of us in that way, son."

"Yes, Pa."

His mother brightly changed the subject. "I've jus' remembered. Mrs. Bawkins always has us t' tea on Thursdays. Would ye like t' come an' say hello?"

It was the best room in the Angel but Kydd did not sleep well. He took his breakfast early and, as he watched High Street come alive through the quaint windows of the dining room, tried to shake off a lowering dissatisfaction.

He started to walk to his parents' home, then realised it would be too early for them and turned back down the hill. The previous evening had not been what he had looked forward to and his parents' refusal of his offer had given him pause to think.

Guildford was just the same—or was it? The tradesmen were out in the old ways, their cries echoing in the streets as shops were opened and the town woke to another day. But it seemed subtly different.

He reached the bottom of the street and the bridge over the river Wey where the road led to the south and Portsmouth. He wanted time to reflect so he wandered down to the towpath, its curving placidity stretching away under the willow trees.

He had just turned thirty. Was it now time to take stock of his life? By any measure he was a success. He had left Guildford a perruquier and returned a well-to-do sea captain, with experiences of the wider world that any man would . . . But he had returned to Guildford expecting it to be as it always had been . . . He now saw that it had not changed, he had. Those very experiences had given him perspectives on the world that were very different. They had not only broadened his horizons but made it impossible to go back.

He stopped still. Guildford was of the past, not the future. It was no longer his home . . . but what, then, did he call home? Many men and most women of his age had settled in their ways and begun to raise a family. Was it now time for him to cease adventuring and put down roots somewhere? Guildford? The country? He had a not inconsiderable fortune and must be a most eligible bachelor. A stab of pain came at the thought of the death of his fiancée Rosalynd—but he had a duty now to his future.

The thoughts flowed on. Put down roots? Where? And as what? A gentleman of leisure whose glory days were past? No! Quite apart from the peril under which his country lay at the hands of the French, he knew that he was a man of the sea and belonged there. So was that what he must call home? He would not be at sea for ever and it was the expected and natural thing for any officer to acquire a property for the time when he swallowed the anchor and returned to the bosom of his family.

Since he had left Guildford, sea adventures had followed each other in exciting succession and his attention had been largely on the present. Perhaps now was the right time to consider where he was going with his life—and who he was.

There was no point in denying that he was a natural-born sailor who had the gift of sea-sense and tactics, and from long ago he had not been troubled by fear in battle: his end was just as near by land as sea, and duty was a clear path in war. No, there was no doubt that the probability was, given a reasonable run of luck, that he was destined for yet greater honours. Even to the dignity of post-captain? It was not impossible now, for with Napoleon Bonaparte declaring himself Emperor of the French there was no prospect in the near future of peace and unemployment.

His heart beat faster. To be made post—the captain of a frigate and later even ship-of-the-line, and firmly set on the path that led to . . . admiral!

It was not impossible, but there were many commanders and few post-captains. It would take much luck and, of course, interest at the highest level, which he did not have: he did not mix in the right circles. He must re-enter the society he had turned his back on when he had chosen Rosalynd, a country lass, over an admiral's daughter. That much was clear. A chill of apprehension stole over him at the thought of facing patrician gazes again, the practised swift appraisal and rapid dismissal.

But it had to be acknowledged that he was now a man of substance. He had no need to be intimidated by those grander than he. His situation was quite as fortunate as theirs, probably more so than that of some, and he could validly expect to step forward and claim his place among them.

The thought swelled. He could afford the trappings, need not fear lacking the resources to keep up with them in whatever pursuit the occasion demanded. He would be treated with politeness and deference, would be allowed and accepted into their company. He would make friends. He would be noticed.

It was a heady vision but to become a figure in society it was not enough to dress modishly. To be accepted he must comport himself as they did, assume the graces and accomplishments of gentility that Renzi had been so at pains to instil in him when he had first become an officer. He had no desire to be thought quaint, which meant he should quickly acquire the requisite elements of polish such as an acquaintance with the classics, musical accomplishments and, remembering Cecilia's exasperated comments, gentlemanly speech.

Was that so hard? If he was to achieve a credible finish then, with his other advantages, he could pass for one of them. Of course, there was the difficulty of his origins, his family, but was this not the way the great families of the day must have started? Northern iron-masters, Liverpool shipping lords, rising merchants of the City of London were all now laying down estates and being honoured in a modern world that was making way for men who were reaching the heights by their own efforts.

Damn it! He would be one of them and take his place among them by right. And if it took the hoisting in of a few ancient tomes and working on his conversation, so be it. He would meet his future squarely and seize any opportunity with both hands.

Suddenly impatient, he began to walk back quickly, letting his thoughts race. Above all, he had the means to see it through: if he was right about his prospects, then the sooner he was equipping himself for his destiny the better. It was going to happen. There would be a new Thomas Kydd.

Feeling surged. But did that mean he was turning his back on Guildford, the place of his birth, that until now he had called home? No. He would put this world gently but firmly to one side. It was just that it was no longer the centre of his universe.

He hurried along the last few yards to the school-house gate, lightness of spirit urging him onward. "Good mornin', Ma," he said happily. "Y' say Mrs. Bawkins is entertainin' this afternoon?"

Teazer was delayed in her refit. A humble brig-sloop had no claim to priority in a dockyard that was at full stretch keeping the vital blockading ships-of-the-line at sea and she was left for long periods in forlorn disarray, her crew in receiving hulks and her officers bored.

Kydd lost no time in taking rooms ashore. Not for him the noisy intimacy of the Blue Posts at Portsmouth Point, he could now afford to stay where officers of rank were to be found, at the George in Penny Street. And there he began the process of refinement.

It was vexing that Renzi was in London, out of reach for advice, but on the other hand this was Kydd's own initiative and he would see it through. He went first to the largest bookshop; the assistant had been studiously blank-faced as he asked for suggestions as to what primers gentlemen found most answered in a classical education.

He left with a clutch of books and hurried back. The Greek grammar was hopelessly obtuse and required him to learn by rote the squiggly characters of the alphabet before ever he could start. It could wait for later. The other looked more promising; an interlinear copy of Caesar's commentaries on the campaign in Gaul, the Latin on one line, English on another. At least it was about the manly pursuit of war, not the fantastical monsters and gods of antique Greece.

"Omnia Gallia in tres partes divisa est. . ." Did he really have to get his head round all this? Or could he learn some of the more pithy sayings and casually drop them into the dinner-table conversation to the pleased surprise of all? That sounded much the better idea.

In the matter of polite discourse there could be no hesitation. He would be damned as of the lower orders by his own words just as soon as he opened his mouth in company. Since the days of Cecilia's patient efforts on his speech, he had slipped back into his comfortable old ways.

No, this required an all-out effort—and he must apply himself to it this time. Resolved, he gave it careful thought. This was not to be learned casually with others or from books, he needed professional assistance. In the Portsmouth Commercial Directory he found what he was looking for.

"Mr. Augustus DeLisle?" he asked politely, at the door of a smart Portsea terrace house.

"It is, sir, at your service," the rather austere gentleman answered with a slight bow, appraising Kydd's appearance, then bestowing on him a professional smile.

"Th' language coach as can be engaged t' fit a gentleman for converse even at the Court o' St. James?" Kydd persisted.

"The same," the man said with a sniff. "You should know that I count most of the noble houses of Hampshire among my satisfied clients and—" "Are ye available for immediate engagement, sir?" Kydd asked abruptly.

"Why, at such notice—"

"I've ten guineas to lay in y'r hand as says it'll fadge."

"Er, very well—but be aware, sir, I cannot abide the fugitive aspirate, still less the cruelly truncated participle! You shall bring along your child and he will—"

"Not a younker, sir, it's t' be me."

"I—I don't quite understand you, sir," the man said uncertainly.

"M' name's Kydd, and I want t' speak wi' the best of 'em. Ye've got me half a day, every day until I can stand up an' be taken for a lord."

"Every day?" he spluttered. "My young masters usually attend but twice a week and—"

"M' time is limited, sir," Kydd said impatiently. "I'd be thinkin' ye a rare 'un if I sees ye refuse half a year's fee for a few weeks' work."

The refit ground forward in the dockyard but the day came not so many weeks later when Teazer was released and became inhabited once more by her rightful denizens. She stored, watered and took in an overseas allowance of powder and shot, the Downs Squadron being considered so active a station as to warrant a maximum loading.

There was no time to be lost: Admiral Keith needed every vessel that swam in his crucial command, and Kydd was determined for Teazer to play her part.

"Er, I have to report, ship ready for sea, sir," Hallum said awkwardly.

Kydd grunted. It was now common knowledge about the ship that their clerk was still at large, adrift from leave. A letter of recall had been sent to him, which had been acknowledged, but he had not appeared and it now seemed that the ship would sail without him.

It was no use. They could not delay. Kydd sighed heavily and went on deck, searching vainly for a hurrying figure on the dockside. "Single up!" he ordered. All lines that tethered them alongside were let go save two. Away from the wharf, dockyard work-boats attended for the sloop to warp out, and in Teazer there was the age-old thrill of the outward bound.

Sail bent on, men expectantly at their posts, Kydd reluctantly gave the command. "Take us out, Mr. Dowse."

Ropes splashed into the murky water and Teazer was ready to spread her wings. Colour appeared at the signal tower. "Our pennant, 'proceed,' sir," squeaked their brand new midshipman, Tawse, wielding the big telescope importantly.

"Acknowledge," Kydd said heavily. With the ebb tide Teazer loosed sail and left to meet her destiny.

The narrow entrance was difficult and needed concentration. They passed the rickety jollity of Portsmouth Point close abeam, then King Henry's tower on one side with Haslar and Fort Blockhouse only a couple of hundred yards to the other, and they were through.

"Haaaands, t' the braces!" Constrained by sandbanks close to larboard and the Nab still to round before clear water, there was little room for manoeuvre.

"He's there, sir!" screamed a youngster, wildly pointing shore-wards. A sharp-lined wherry was putting off hastily from the Sally Port on a course to intercept.

"It's Mr. Renzi, right enough," confirmed Purchet, after snatching at the telescope.

Without hesitating, Kydd rapped, "Heave to, Mr. Dowse!" It was madness in the fast current and sandbanks past the entrance to be not under way . . . and close astern a heavy frigate was coming down on them at speed. With the wind large there was no other way than to wheel about awkwardly and place the fore aback, but Kydd was not going to lose Renzi.

The frigate plunged past with an energetic volley of abuse from her quarterdeck. The wherry stroked out manfully and at last hooked on at the main-chains. While Teazer paid off before the wind, willing hands hauled Renzi in, his bundles of books needing more robust hoisting.

"I do apologise, sir," Renzi said formally.

Kydd, still in his quarterdeck brace, frowned but said nothing.

"We lost a wheel before Petersfield and—"

"Mr. Renzi! I rather feel that in this instance you might have been topping it overmuch the cunctator, as it were."

Renzi was transfixed with astonishment at his friend's cultivated words. The Latin cunctator—delayer—was indeed appropriate, an allusion to the tactic used by the Roman commander in the war with Hannibal, an attempt to deny the enemy a battle. "Why, thank you, sir!" He wasn't about to let Kydd get away with this one, whatever the reason for its mysterious appearance.

"Thank you?" Kydd said, crestfallen.

"For the compliment, of course, dear fellow. It was by this very tactic that Quintus Fabius Maximus may have shamed the Roman Army but it undoubtedly won him the war and his nickname."

The open Channel won and a fine westerly in their sails, by evening there was chance to sup together.

Renzi opened politely. "Er, at the risk of impertinence I cannot help but remark the elegance of your speech, its genteel delivery, the—"

"Quite simple, Renzi, old chap. I've given it a deal of thought. And it seems to me, the only way to move forward in this world is not to kick against the pricks . . ." a flash of smugness was quickly smothered ". . . but be agreeable to the customary forms of civility and breeding when in genteel company. In fine, if I'm to enter in on society, then I'm to be like them. And you have m' word on it, enter in I will!" "Then you have my most earnest admiration, Tom—er, Kydd, old trout. So recently shunned by society and cast into the very depths, yet you hold no grudge, no antipathy towards those who—"

"It's past. I have a bright future now and I'm going to take it with both hands and do what I have to."

"Are you certain that—"

"M' dear friend. Since coming into my fortune, I stand amazed at the boldness and presumption as can be found from having a pot o' gold at your back! I cannot fear the rich-dressed when I'm rigged the same, or stand mumchance while they talk wry, when I can, just as well."

"There are other—"

"You must believe I've not trifled away my time, m' dear Renzi. There's quantities of professional gentlemen in Portsmouth who do rue our sailing, and I have a stand o' books in my cabin as will keep me amused for voyages to come."

"I honour you for it," Renzi said.

"You'll oblige me by maintaining a quality o' discourse while about my person."

"I shall endeavour to do so," came the sincere response.

"Then m' course is set. Tysoe, do attend to Mr. Renzi's glass, if you please."

The Downs! A fulcrum for the torrent of shipping that came and went around the corner of the North Foreland into the Thames and the mighty maw of London, where hundreds of ships of all flags might be lying anchored, waiting for a favourable wind to take them outward bound down-Channel, or inbound to the north, or across to the Baltic. The ten-mile stretch of the Downs was bordered five miles offshore by the notorious Goodwin Sands, since medieval times a fearful hazard, but this acted both as a shelter and a barrier. It was the point at which the Channel was at its narrowest, a bare eighteen miles from Dover to the French encampments at Cap Gris Nez. The last Kydd had seen of it had been as the master of a convict ship bound for New South Wales. After the desolate shingle spit of Dungeness, it was the wide sweep of bay that was the foreshore of the smugglers' haunt of Romney Marsh, then the rising crags of Folkestone turning into the soaring white splendour of Shakespeare's cliff, Dover, and on to the rounding of South Foreland.

In the bright early-morning light the massive chalk ramparts seemed to Kydd to stand four-square and proudly defiant against England's foes, marching away north in impregnable array. Teazer closed within half a mile of them to round the foreland and make the southern reaches of the Downs. The vista of countless ships at anchor was opening up before them now: coasters, East Indiamen, colonial traders from far distant parts of the globe, an impressive multitude stretching for ten miles of open water. But Kydd had eyes only for the naval anchorage, that of the legendary Downs Squadron standing so valiantly at the forefront of England's defence.

There. Across the anchorage. He would never forget her, ever: the seventy-four riding to two anchors, her lines old-fashioned but graceful. It was Monarch, the flagship. After the bloody battle of Camperdown not so many years before, Kydd had, in her, become one of the very few who had taken the incredible journey from before the mast as a common seaman to the quarterdeck as a king's officer.

He let Hallum take Teazer inshore to moor while he took his fill of the sight. It seemed odd but only Monarch and two other minor ships-of-the-line were present, three frigates further distant and a number of sloops. Where was the battle squadron, if not with their commander-in-chief?

They would know soon enough. Tysoe had out his dress uniform and, buckling on his handsome sword, Kydd returned on deck to board his gig. Poulden, his coxswain, and the entire boat's crew were smartly turned out in matching blue jackets—he was determined to be noticed in the new command.

"Teazer!" blared Poulden, importantly, in answer to the hail as they drew near to the flagship. A side-party could be seen assembling and Kydd's heart swelled. He mounted the side of the old ship slowly, letting the moment touch his soul.

It was the great cabin he remembered; but Admiral Lord Keith, his commander-in-chief, was before him and this was no time for lingering sentiment.

"Do sit down, Mr. Kydd," the august being said absently, taking papers from his flag-lieutenant and flicking his eyes down them. The lieutenant collected others, and, with a glance at Kydd, left the cabin.

"I do bid ye welcome to my command, sir." The Scots brogue seemed to be one with his austere presence.

"Thank you, sir."

He held up one particular paper and intoned mildly, "You've had some adventuring since last we met." His cold eyes rose to meet Kydd's.

"I've—that is to say, it's been interesting enough for me, sir." The last time they had met was in the previous war when Keith had been forced to give Kydd orders to lay up Teazer and resign his command in the retrenchment following the announcement of peace—but he had also bestowed that precious captaincy in the first place.

"I'll have ye know, sir, that the Downs is a far different duty from what ye're used to." He paused significantly. "No more than six leagues distant, Napoleon Bonaparte and his hordes lie in an encampment ready to lunge at us across the water. Our duty is plain, sir."

"It must be!" Kydd responded strongly.

"Is it?" Keith said pugnaciously, leaning forward. "I will say this to you, Mr. Kydd. If any captain returns from sea with a prize at his tail without he has an explanation, I promise I will break him."

"Sir."

"In these perilous times the first duty of a sea officer is the ruin and destruction of the enemy forces, not the pursuit of private gain." Keith leaned back slowly. "That said, there's everything in your record to encourage me to believe your service here will be a credit to the Royal Navy. When you return you may depend on an active employment."

"When I return?"

"This is the most complex and fast-moving station in the realm. I will not have my commanders in any doubt about the strategics and dispositions of the situation in which they sail. You will this day take coach for London—the Admiralty—and within the span of a week acquaint yourself most thoroughly with the details of what faces us. Is this clear?"

"Er, yes, sir. My ship?"

"Your ship will relieve another here pro tem. Are ye in doubt of your premier, sir?"

"Mr. Hallum? No, sir," Kydd said hastily. "A most reliable officer. "

"Your orders will be ready for your return. Good day to ye, Mr. Kydd."

The capital was crowded, noisy and smelled as pungently of sea-coal smoke and local stenches as it always did, but Kydd was not of a mind to care. The hackney carriage creaked and swayed as it bore him towards the Admiralty Office in Whitehall, the jarvey swearing sulphurously at any who dared cross him while Kydd gazed from the grimy window.

He had left Renzi with Tysoe at the inn: he smiled to himself at the pathetic excuses Renzi had contrived at short notice to accompany him but was secretly pleased. It would not be all a duty visit and he had never before been with his friend in London.

They lurched from Cockspur Street into the broad reaches of Whitehall and came to a stop by the colonnaded screen of the Admiralty. Kydd paid off the jarvey and hastily pushed through the admiring throng outside and into the courtyard. He raised an arm in acknowledgement of the patriotic cries that rang out at the sight of his uniform and hurried inside.

Through the high portico the doorman showed him to the captains' room—but this time it was not as a penniless commander begging for a ship in the days of the last peace but as the captain of a front-line man-o'-war about to be informed of the grave strategic questions that faced his country. There were other commanders in the room; they looked at him enviously as the first lord's second secretary came down to spirit him away.

Earl St. Vincent was in the Board Room, seated at the long table beneath the legendary wind-gauge. A vast mass of papers was spread forth and he was flanked by several dour-looking men not in uniform. They did not rise or attempt to leave.

The first lord, however, got to his feet and returned Kydd's civil bow. "So your flag-officer wants ye to hoist aboard an understanding of our situation," he said bleakly.

"Aye—er, yes, sir."

"Right and proper, too," St. Vincent growled, sitting again heavily. He had aged since Kydd had seen him before, his thick-set figure bowed and stiff. This was the man who had taken it upon himself to root out the gross inefficiency and corruption of the royal dockyards, standing alone against the powerful timber cartels. In a bluff and uncompromising sea-dog fashion he had faced down the political storm that resulted. "The Downs command—you'll be seeing as much action as ye'd wish, sir," he said with a wintry smile. "As it's rightly said, 'The frontier of Britain is the coastline of the enemy' Do your duty, sir, and England need have no concern for its fate."

An elegantly dressed post-captain appeared at the other door and waited diffidently.

"I've no time to attend to ye myself," St. Vincent said, with an ironical glance at the seated figures. "Captain Boyd will see to the matter. Good fortune be with ye, Mr. Kydd."

"Thank you, sir." But the old earl had turned back to the grey men and he was dismissed.

"Boyd, late of Bellona. And . . . ?" He was a post-captain of one of Cornwallis's major ships-of-the-line and had probably been moved closer to the centre of power to acquire the necessary experience before elevation to flag rank.

"Kydd, brig-sloop Teazer," Kydd said defensively at Boyd's languid and polished manner.

"Joining the Downs from where, Mr. Kydd?" the officer said distantly, as they walked together.

"The Channel Islands, for m' sins," Kydd said, as lightly as he could.

Boyd raised one eyebrow. "A sea change of note," he said drily. "You've seen active service, no doubt."

"The Nile—and Acre following," Kydd said, with a touch of defiance.

Boyd stopped. "Did you really, by God?" he said, suddenly respectful. The droll affectation fell away as he resumed walking. "Then you'll relish the Downs—no end to the sport to be had there."

They entered a small office and a worried-looking lieutenant glanced up from his desk. "Do carry on, Dukes," Boyd told him testily, then asked Kydd, "You have somewhere to stay?"

"The White Hart in Charles Street."

Boyd nodded, then crossed to gaze out of the window. His office overlooked the vast parade-ground behind Horse Guards, the army headquarters further along. Distant screams of sergeants and the regular tramp of soldiers in formation drifted up in the warm sunshine. He turned back to Kydd. "The volunteers. Always at their marching up and down, I see. Now, Mr. Kydd, I rather think you'll need me to provide something a trifle more useful than I can at short notice. Shall we say tomorrow at ten?"

"At ten would be most civil in you, sir."

"Oh, and it might be politic to present yourself at the Admiralty reception tonight," Boyd added. "A Russian who thinks to mount some expedition that has our interest. Carriages at six—swords and decorations, I'm afraid."

"No, sir. Mr. Renzi has not yet returned," Tysoe informed him.

Kydd sighed and took an armchair. His friend could be anywhere in the vast, seething city, after some musty book or arranging to meet a savant—just when he needed reassurance before an important social occasion, both formal and diplomatic. Idly, he picked up the morning newspaper. A theatre scandal occupied all of three columns and trading figures for the stock exchange were neatly summarised on the right, but by far the majority of articles were in some way connected to the war.

One piece dealt at tedious length with a review by the Duke of York of the Medway militia battalions. A breathless editorial alerted the faithful readers to the dangers of a Baltic embargo on ship timber. Another item reported that the conveyance of a trade minister of Spain, said to be very soon an enemy state, had been set upon by a mob and lucky to escape with his life. The pretext had been a punitive increase on duty for imported Spanish wines. Hardly his fault, Kydd thought wryly.

He turned to the next page and stared in surprise at a detailed picture of a vast platform of heroic dimensions, fit to carry a regiment of men and horses and held aloft by a dozen fire balloons of the kind that the Montgolfier brothers had demonstrated before the French Revolution. In earnest words, the newspaper reiterated its promise to keep its readers informed of the plans of Napoleon Bonaparte to deploy such craft in great numbers for the invasion of Britain—ten thousand men and guns to cross the water as fast as a galloping horse, then descend from the skies in irresistible numbers, visiting upon Britain what the continent had already suffered.

It was pointed out gravely that if any would doubt it they had only to recall the historic first flight across the Channel by Jeffries and Blanchard, which had occurred all of twenty years before.

Kydd paused. He had no idea of the practicality of the scheme but if it were true then the Navy would be helpless to defend the shores as the giant platforms sailed across overhead to invade. It was a menace as unanswerable as that which he had heard from a garrulous army officer in the coach, that Bonaparte was employing his idle army in Boulogne to dig a tunnel under the Channel.

Kydd tried to dismiss a mental picture of battalions of crack grenadiers suddenly pouring out of the earth in the pretty countryside of Kent to overwhelm the local volunteers. Yet who could say it was impossible? At one wheelbarrow of earth from each man every twenty minutes, with a quarter of a million men, it would not take so very long to tunnel the eighteen miles. Bonaparte had been preparing his invasion now for more than a year; the tunnel might be nearing completion at that very moment.

"How's this, sir? As some might say, a brown study?" Renzi had returned unnoticed and came to sit in the other chair. "Here, old fellow, I have something for your diversion." He slapped down a few garishly coloured prints.

Kydd picked up the top one, entitled, "A Correct View of the French Machine Intended to Convey Their Soldiers for the Invasion of England." It was a gigantic raft and had what appeared to be windmills spaced along its sides. To give point to its size, troops of horses were galloping about its decks.

"Most ingenious," Renzi murmured. "The mills may be turned into whatever direction the wind deigns to blow, and being in train each to a paddle-wheel, we have a means of locomotion for a vessel to enable it to proceed on any course it wishes. One may assume even directly into the wind's eye," he added thoughtfully.

Kydd perused the next, a French print of a vessel, La Terreur d'Albion, of extraordinary length and with an obligatory Liberty cap in bloody red atop an enormous forward turret, and what seemed to be an iron skeleton flourishing the grim reaper's scythe on the after one. In gleeful detail a legend explained that the turrets were machinery towers, and inside a series of paddle-wheels would be powered by a great number of horses, whose combined strength would urge the craft to speeds unmatched by the noblest of English frigates.

Kydd's eyes met Renzi's in sombre reflection before he picked up the next. This was of a flat, lozenge-shaped raft fully seven hundred feet across with a central citadel and powered by a giant lateen sail on a swivel, itself five hundred feet long. It was soberly estimated to be capable of transporting thirty thousand troops. Other prints depicted man-carrying kites, unsinkable hide-covered cork boats and other bizarre contrivances.

"And today I heard of a weapon of terror that would chill the blood of any man," Renzi said. "It is a species of clockwork balloon."

"A what?"

"An automaton aloft," Renzi said. "Set forth, it requires no man aboard to control it. A deadly craft of the skies which, when commanded by its mechanism, soullessly rains down fiery destruction on the cowering wretches beneath."

"It . . . Surely they'd never . . ."

"I'm desolated to say that it appears to be true, my friend. At the Royal Society's rooms I was privileged to view an experimental French balloon captured only this last month. It is raised aloft not by the fire of Montgolfier but a cold miasma of Lavoisier's 'hydrogen,' which, of course, will never need tending by man in order to retain its lifting powers."

"Then . . ."

"Yes, dear fellow," Renzi said quietly. "It would seem that very soon war will be visited on every creature promiscuously. Skill at arms will be of no account in this new—"

"It'll never happen," Kydd retorted. "Can't you see? England would never stoop s' low as to use such, and for the French, why, they'd hold back for fear we'd pay 'em back in their own coin. No, they'd not dare."

"Bonaparte is soon to be crowned the Emperor Napoleon but, mark me, he won't rest until he's master of the entire world."

At Kydd's look of disbelief, Renzi continued darkly, "You don't understand the man. He holds his country in a vile subjection while he destroys and plunders, but the world sees only his glory. The France of Versailles and the Encyclopedists no longer exists, for inside the country . . ." He trailed off.

Kydd felt unsettled. "Strong words from a man o' letters, I'm persuaded," he said, then added, "Where did you hear all this?"

Renzi gave a twisted smile before he spoke. "Dear fellow, I do believe I must trust you. May I have your word that nothing of what I'm about to tell you will go any further?"

"Why, er, yes, o' course, Nicholas."

"Very well. Your understanding of my occupation in Jersey is that I was a species of secretary to an exiled royalist prince. This is, in fact, true, inasmuch that Commodore d'Auvergne is indeed the Prince of Bouillon and awaits a restoration of his fortunes. However, the greater part of my duties was to support and assist in his real vocation—an unremitting clandestine war against the tyrant conducted through a network of brave souls opposed to his rule.

"In that cause, I had occasion to treat with spies and agents as they came and went in France as, indeed, once I was obliged to do myself. You must believe me when I say that this has given me insights of a personal nature into the character of Bonaparte's imperium that trouble me greatly.

"You will be startled to learn that secret police are being deployed by him for . . ." Renzi went on to recount what he had learned of the true state of the tyranny that he had played his part in trying to overthrow, the paradoxes that lay at the heart of the most rational nation in civilisation, which had been torn apart by a bloody revolution and was now being forged together again at the will of one man for one purpose: his own personal vainglory.

Kydd felt growing disquiet; he had never seen Renzi so intense on a subject.

"So you were a—a spy then, Nicholas," Kydd said uncomfortably, shocked to discover that while he had been roaming the seas as a successful privateer his friend had been hazarding his life for higher principles.

"A spy, yes, but in a particular service—the desperate plot to kidnap Bonaparte that came close to ending this war but unhappily terminated in the most hideous consequences to those involved. You should know I find the practice of spying odious and utterly incompatible with the condition of gentleman, and I pray most earnestly that I shall never again be so employed."

Kydd slumped in his chair. If Renzi thought that this was much more than simply the latest war with the French, there was every reason to take fear that some of the rumours and agitations at large were true, and the peril to England that much more serious than he had thought. Later, no doubt, when he was ready, Renzi would divulge more about his time in Jersey. He had come back shattered and must have endured much.

It was a glittering affair and, with a mixture of exhilaration and trepidation, Kydd entered the grand room with Boyd. The hundred or so guests were in every mode of fashion and elegance, their stars and ribbons in a breathtaking show of splendour under the chandeliers.

"It would oblige me, sir, should you point out the Russians to me," Kydd murmured in his best speech, bowing civilly to a passing couple.

"I'll do better than that, Kydd. Come—meet Rezanov. He's to be their new ambassador to Japan," Boyd replied suavely, ushering him across the room. "Ah! Sir, may I present Commander Kydd, a distinguished officer in His Majesty's Navy? He did confide to me that it would gratify him immensely to make the acquaintance of one so soon to make such an historic circumnavigation. Mr. Kydd, the Kammerherr Rezanov." A compact but striking man with a neat black beard regarded him dispassionately as Boyd excused himself and left.

"Your servant, sir," Kydd said, bowing low.

"A sea officer of note, I believe," Rezanov said mildly, in barely accented English.

"Why, er . . ."

"Mr. Kydd, you bear the Nile medal and I have no doubt that your presence at this gathering is not altogether fortuitous."

"Sir, modesty forbids me a reply," Kydd said smoothly, inwardly exulting at the successful deployment of his newfound urbanity. "But I do confess, I'm curious to know the objectives of your expedition."

Rezanov's eyebrows shot up in astonishment, then he eased into a smile. "Very well, sir. You speak directly—and I will tell you. By direction of His Imperial Majesty the Tsar, our prime concern is to discover new routes that will enable us to supply our colonies in Russian America."

Russian America? Kydd supposed he must be speaking of the frozen reaches of the American continent to the north-west.

"You will have no conception of the difficulty we face at the moment—it would astonish you to learn that we expend the lives of four thousand horses a year in the traverse of Siberia with supplies, and alternate means would be very welcome as our interests extend southward."

Kydd was out of his depth: if the Russians were entering from the north and, the Spanish were to the south, where did this leave the United States and Canada? He reached for more familiar ground. "A voyage of that length, sir, is a great thing. Your ships are well found, at all?"

"From Kronstadt to Sitka Island? It certainly is an enterprise to remark, but as to our vessels, you may rest easy—both the Nadezhda and the Neva are recently purchased from the Royal Navy, Mr. Kydd. For your further questions, I believe you shall speak now with the commander of the expedition."

Kydd bowed in acceptance and was taken to a knot of officers in haughty discussion. "Kapitán, this is Commander Kydd," Rezanov snapped at a young but intense-featured officer in the centre. "Mr. Kydd, Kapitán-pérvogo Ivan Krusenstern." He bowed smartly, with a crisp click of the heels, and was gone.

"My best wishes for your success, sir," Kydd said to the officer, as graciously as he could. "Mr. Kru—er, I understand you're sailing in one of our ships," he said slowly, hoping the man had sufficient English for polite converse.

"O' course, Commander. Ye'll recall Leander o' the Nile as was?" It was passing strange to hear the robust idiom of an English fo'c'sle coming from an exotically dressed Russian. "She's now th' good ship Nadezhda an' I'm t' see her where y'r Captain Vancouver once led." He saw Kydd's surprise and added dismissively, "Oh, I've done a mort o' service wi' the King's Navy afore now."

"Why, er, to be sure," Kydd said, taken aback. "I do recall Leander, Mr. Krusenstern, as I was at the Nile myself. A fine ship and gallant!"

Krusenstern beamed as his eyes flicked to Kydd's medals. He leaned across to shake Kydd's hand. "So ye were, b'God! An' 'twas a thumpin' fine mauling ye gave 'em that night, cully!"

The circle of officers about them fell back at the sudden comradely friendliness and Kydd grinned. "A thunderin' hard enough mill f'r all hands, as I c'n tell ye! An' for y'self, a world cruise, why, ye'll have yarns enough t' tell at every dogwatch f'r years t' come."

"Aye, well, it's aught but a tradin' matter," Krusenstern said guardedly, taking Kydd aside. "An' th' mutinous dogs o' Tlingit tribesmen on Kodiak needin' our attention."

They started walking alone together. "But belay th' tough yarns, we've a tight barky or two, and our pel-compass an' y'r Taunton's artificial magnet as'll see us through all a-taunto. A right rousin' voyage it'll be . . ."

The two seamen disappeared happily into the throng.

In the morning it seemed that Boyd had got together his appraisal of the situation, but before they began he told Kydd that it was noted he had conducted himself in a most satisfactory manner. "To cut out Krusenstern from under the eyes of the ambassador by talking sea-cant was a most ingenious stratagem. You should look to more of the same in the future, I dare to say."

"Er, the Kapitán Krusenstern, he claims service in the Royal Navy?" Kydd asked.

"He has, and others too. Since Tsarina Catherine's day they've had many of their best men serve with us for a spell. First-class training, they believe."

"Any . . . active service?"

"If by that you mean a whiff of powder-smoke, then most definitely. Odd thing, though, this Ivan seems to prefer the company of the foremast hands to the officers when ashore. A hard-drinking cove, you see, your Russian."

As they mounted the stairs to the upper floor of the Admiralty Office Kydd tried to reconcile his excitement at the pomp and glitter of a diplomatic occasion with the nervous, febrile atmosphere of a London trying to make light of the dreadful threat of imminent invasion. The frightful images of the prints, and Renzi's revelations, had stayed with him. "Should we take fear o' those fantastical invasion machines, do you think?" he asked hesitantly.

At first Boyd did not reply. Then he said thoughtfully, "It's as well never to underestimate the Corsican, Kydd. He knows how to sow fear and panic by lie and invention. To believe every word of the Moniteur would be to credit the tyrant with ten times more victories than he has, but we must accept that there are those to which we are compelled to accede."

They reached a discreet door and Boyd found his keys. As he selected the right one he added soberly, "I suppose it is possible that many of these horrors are rumour and deceit, but the French are a logical and inventive people and there may well be substance in them. I really can't say."

The key rattled and the door opened on a darkened room. Boyd crossed to a single shuttered window and threw it open. Daylight through the bars revealed a single bare table and chairs. What resembled a ship's chart locker, with its array of flat drawers, stood along one wall.

Kydd was motioned to the table while Boyd closed and locked the door, then sat opposite. "Mr. Kydd," he said, with chilling gravity, "what I have to tell you this morning is privy information whose disclosure would cause panic and riot if known by the general public, yet it is necessary for you to learn of it should the worst happen. Do you understand?"

"I do, sir."

"Very well. Let me begin by admitting to you that never in the history of this realm has England lain under greater menace of invasion and consequent extinction as a nation. Our country cherishes the liberty of individuals and as such we're ill-placed to maintain great armies. Most of our land continues its daily round much as its forefathers did, with little to tell that a war rages on the continent.

"King and Parliament are amicable but the people will not stand for oppression. On the contrary side, France now is subject to the resolve of one man who is able to focus the entire resources of his nation to one end. An invasion. And he is so pledged to invade this country I do not well see how he can avoid it. Therefore we must stretch every sinew in our defence. There are volunteers, the militia and our army, all of which combined are greatly outnumbered by Napoleon's battle-seasoned legions." Kydd stirred restlessly. "Sir! You discount the Navy as our—" "If," said Boyd, heavily, "by any means, the French get ashore there are plans." He opened a drawer, extracted a large map and spread it out. "Our best intelligence now is that Bonaparte intends to descend on the closest part of England to the coast of France." His finger stabbed down at the shoreline of the Downs. "In fact, just to the south. Dover Castle is an ancient but still formidable fortification, which must be subdued, but see here . . ." Kydd recognised the flat and barely inhabited Romney Marsh a few miles on to the south. "It's wide open to a massed assault on a broad front and I fear it will prove a forlorn hope to expect our militia and volunteers to move up quickly enough to meet a sudden descent."

Kydd frowned. What possible chance did those inexperienced amateurs have against the hardened troops that had stormed over Europe to victory after victory?

Boyd continued remorselessly. "Thus it would seem not impossible to conceive that a landing would be met with a rapid success . . ." Kydd went cold. "Did the—will the King—" "His Majesty is under no doubt of his duty. Glenbervie, of the Household, tells me he sleeps every night with his camp equipage and accoutrements to hand, to the evident anguish of the Queen. In course he will not be suffered to take the field. In the strictest confidence I have to tell you that the Bishop of Gloucester has prepared his palace for the evacuation of the King and the Royal Family across the Severn at Worcester.

"In addition, Sir Brook Watson, the commissary general, has instructions in the event of the imminent loss of the capital to make ready thirty ox-wagons for the transport of the nation's entire gold reserves to be deposited with the King at Worcester under the same guard. "

To speak of such things! To hear and consider the destruction and conquering of his country of birth. It was a thing of horror for Kydd.

Boyd continued, "At Woolwich the arsenal and artillery stores will be taken, as will the Purfleet Ordnance Board powder magazines, to Weedon in Northamptonshire. There is in construction there a vast military complex which will act also as a seat of government in the event of—" "This is hard to bear, sir!" Kydd blurted. "Surely—" "—the fall of the capital. It is by way of being astride the Grand Union canal and well placed for the conduct of a protracted campaign."

Kydd tried to gather his wits. "The—the common people, sir. How will they, er, what might be done to . . . ?"

"They have not been overlooked. Plans have been drawn up for their preservation. Here. These instructions have been lately sent to every town and village in the south." He extracted a leaf and passed it over.

Kydd read. "The Deputy Lieutenants and Justices . . . the following directions . . . in case of an Alarm of the Landing by the Enemy . . . for the removal of women and children, aged and infirm to a place of general Military Rendezvous . . ." It went on to direct how a village was to be sectioned by responsibility, how carts were to be numbered, marked and covered such that those with a ticket of the right form might be conveyed away with provisions following. Males of the village over the age of twelve had duties of driving livestock or firing deadstock, nothing of value to be left for the foraging army.

Clergy and other worthies would act as shepherds and superintendents, and it was trusted that on the receipt of an alarm, regularity, sobriety and seemliness would characterise the comportment of the villagers. More followed in the same vein, calm, ordered and clear, but underlying all was awful reality: that the defences of England had failed and a hostile army was at last to take vengeance for centuries of humiliation.

"Sir. The Navy is ready. We've fleets o' the finest battleships as are poised to fall on the invading—"

"Just so, Mr. Kydd." Boyd sighed, and sat down wearily. "As you shall see later, our squadrons are outnumbered by a margin and are wide scattered. While we have the greatest confidence in them, and recognising Bonaparte faces formidable difficulties, I'm supposing they are overborne and the enemy is able to reach our coasts. In that melancholy eventuality the last service the Navy can do its country is for the small ships to throw themselves before the armada in sacrifice in the hope that the time so dearly bought might—"

He was interrupted by a timid knock at the door. "Sir, the volunteers?" his lieutenant asked.

"Ah, yes. We'll be down presently." He rose briskly, then scrupulously barred and shuttered the room.

"Volunteers?" asked Kydd, as they clattered down the stairs.

"Do you have any objection?" Boyd said cuttingly. "The Loyal London Volunteers. These men may well be hazarding their lives in the very near future. To attend a parade seems little enough in return."

"A parade? In that case, sir, o' course I'll be present," Kydd hastened to say.

Mollified, Boyd went on, "It's a duty to be performed by those in the Admiralty who can from time to time be spared, as you must count yourself."

They left the rear of the Admiralty and emerged onto the great expanse of the parade-ground. Opposite, two long lines of redcoats stood motionless. Kydd's mind, though, was on what had been passed on in the office. Of rumours he had had his fill, but he had been shaken to hear the final dissolution of his country discussed in such clinical terms.

A stand was erected on one side, flags of all kinds proudly aloft and flanked by a guard in different regalia. "Be so good as to make a countenance, sir," Boyd hissed icily. "There are those who look to us for assurance in these times." His own demeanour was pleasant and confident and he stepped out forcefully, Kydd quickly falling in beside him assuming a like pose. They mounted the stage, nodding to the other officers in uniforms of every possible description, and sat nonchalantly. A corpulent and red-faced general puffed on to the central dais, and to the left, with a spirited whirl of drumsticks and crash of cymbals, a band stepped out.

Kydd was in no mood to enjoy the spectacle. As each rigid line passed he mechanically rose and removed his cocked hat with the rest but his mind was elsewhere: to seas far over the horizon where, without a shadow of doubt, the destiny of England was to be decided—not here with these well-meaning amateur soldiers.

At last it was over and they could return. Inside their little room again, Boyd's expression tightened as he pulled out a long map covered with ciphers in red and tiny scrawled notes. He studied it for a moment. "This is our situation as of this morning. The disposition of our major fleets need not concern you—the Brest blockade with Cornwallis is holding, Nelson is in the Mediterranean and the North Sea Fleet is watching over the Dutch.

"What is of more intimate concern is the disposition of Bonaparte's forces." He glanced at Kydd, as if weighing what he should say. "I will not hide it from you, since it is you who must oppose them. The number of line-of-battle ships he has to command is many and will be still greater if Spain moves against us, as it must surely do, but these are matters of high strategy and change from day to day. You will want to know more of what faces your own part of the field.

In fine, it is the forefront of the battle. The invasion Grande Armée is massing with three corps—Marshals Davout, Soult and Ney, if you're interested—with more than a hundred thousand picked troops ready to embark for the first assault, the Emperor Bonaparte himself to take command. For this, as you will know, he has been fast assembling the largest invasion flotilla in history with specialist craft only some of which we have knowledge of."

Kydd stared at the map. The dense-packed notations on the French side seemed endless, stretching away down the coastline. Across the Channel—so very close—a single line of dots and squares was brought right up against the line of the sea.

"You will be informed about the details of these vessels later. Take it from me that they are in their thousands and under the direct command of Admiral Bruix, a most experienced and canny officer. They have been in the building at every boatyard and river port on the coast and are being assembled at the main ports. To the north of Cap Gris Nez we have Calais, Dunkirk, Gravelines and so on to Ostend and Flushing, to the south Wimereux, Ambleteuse, Boulogne and étaples, of which Boulogne has by far the largest concentration.

"Now, Bonaparte is no sailor. He believes the Channel is a ditch to be crossed as in any other military operation, but he will find it very different. However, he is the devil incarnate in the arts of war and is vigorously pursuing great works to assist his cause. For instance, at Boulogne he is creating an embarkation quay a mile long and an artificial basin capable of floating a hundred vessels. He is not to be underestimated—some say he is mad, but it were folly to take him so. With his immense resources, and a surprise by your infernal devices or a feint at Ireland, he could be across in the space of a tide or two only. No, sir, make no error, we're under the greatest peril that ever was . . ."

"Then what is our force, sir?" Kydd said evenly.

"Stand fast the main battle fleets, we have three lines of defence against the immediate prospect of invasion," Boyd replied. "The first is of sloops and gun-vessels, and it is the inshore squadron of Admiral Keith's Downs command against the French coast," he added drily. When Kydd held silent he continued, "The second is of heavier metal and consists of frigates and older sail-of-the-line and it is in with the English coast to contest any landing in the southeast, as well within the Downs command. The third may be found in every creek and estuary from Hartland Point in north Cornwall to Great Yarmouth on our east coast. By this I am referring to the Sea Fencibles, who at this moment are some twenty-five thousand strong and manning some eight hundred vessels of, er, all kinds."

"Then . . ."

"Quite. The first line of defence must be our strongest. There is no doubt but that you must brace yourself for the hardest-fought struggle this age. I do wish you well in this, Commander."

"Sir."

"We'll go on to the details now. Signals, chart emendations, the invasion craft and their characteristics as known, rendezvous positions—there's much to take in. First we shall look into the new signal book . . ."

Kydd was troubled and apprehensive. The mass of operational particulars had done nothing to lessen the effect of Boyd's first words, that this was a situation of such dire consequence as had never been faced by his country before. Now, knowing the details, he was only too aware of the knife edge of chance factors that could determine the future of the world. As head of the entire military strength of the kingdom, the Duke of York had nevertheless solemnly pronounced that, "The fate of the nation is in the hands of the Navy." And he must be right: the war was as much the Royal Navy's to lose as Napoleon's to win. A faint-hearted admiral, a deceitful piece of intelligence to send a fleet in the wrong direction, any or all could ensure Bonaparte got the unfettered hours he needed.

Returning to the White Hart, Kydd found his chair and sat quietly, eyes closed, letting the tensions drain. In two days he would return to the Downs and take Teazer to war. Would she come through? Would he? The only thing that was certain was that the immediate future would test both himself and his ship to the limit. Half a million Frenchmen under arms opposed by just a few thousand storm-tossed seamen in worn ships . . .

"Do I intrude, brother?" Renzi's gentle voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Oh, er, not so much, m' friend," Kydd said, opening his eyes. "Renzi, there's a matter I need to talk to you about, if y' will." It was coming out too stiffly but he had to say it. "That is, it touches on the future, you see."

"Why, certainly," Renzi said, sitting.

"I've—it's been an . . . interesting week. And now I'm much clearer what is to be facing us."

"And what is that, pray?"

"If Bonaparte crosses, it's nothing less'n a fight to the finish—the last extremity, if you catch m' meaning."

"If he crosses."

"The invasion fleet is ready—near a hundred thousand men in the first assault. Only the Navy to keep 'em off. The first line o' defence is ourselves, m' friend, up against the French coast. If they break through us and launch their monstrous flotilla there's precious little to give 'em pause before they're flooding ashore."

"If I may be so bold, dear fellow, might I observe that this agitation of spirit is quite unlike the Tom Kydd of yore?" Renzi said lightly, but his eyes were sombre.

"You've not heard what I have," Kydd retorted grimly then caught himself. "No, m' point is this, that shortly Teazer is sailing into, um, uncertain times. It's possible we'll need to stand against Bonaparte's whole armada—and, m' dear friend, I'd rather I had no distractions, if you understand," he said firmly.

"Am I to apprehend . . . ?"

"Nicholas. It's a hard enough thing that I must place Teazer athwart their bows. It's hard, but it's necessary. What is not so is that I put the life of a learned scholar to hazard."

"Are you—"

"Hear me, if you will. You must agree there's clerks a-plenty to be had, but not such a one who's as well a philosophical gentleman, one whose work mankind will soon surely set a value to." Kydd faced Renzi squarely. "Nicholas, I'm asking that you take y' books and remain ashore until this business is concluded."

"That will not be possible," Renzi said immediately.

"Pray why not?"

"Grant me that my sense of duty is as . . . consequential as your own. And for all that there is little enough I can do for my country in its extremity. All I ask is that I be allowed to continue in my post of duty to the satisfaction of my conscience."

"It—a time might come that—"

"As we agreed in the beginning, if the ship is in imminent danger of boarding or some such, you may rest assured I will take up arms to defend it. As to the value of my carcass to posterity, you will allow me to be the judge of that."

"Nicholas, this is not—"

"Dear chap, there is nothing further to discuss. Rather, your attention should be better reserved for the item addressed to you, so recently brought by messenger." He found a slim packet and handed it over.

It was a substantial sized invitation of stiff pasteboard and edged with gold. A ducal crest was prominent. With it was a hastily scrawled note from Boyd, indicating that he had been able to contrive an invitation for Kydd before he left to an evening of entertainment and fireworks at the estate of the Duke of Stanwick further up the Thames in the country.

A duke! This was far beyond anything Kydd had experienced before and despite his anxieties he felt a quickening of excitement. It was generous of Boyd to think of him. At this level there would be the wealthy and famous, statesmen and nobility, and before going to war, he would at least taste the heady delights of the highest society. "Nicholas, you must come o' course," Kydd said impulsively, giving him the card.

Renzi studied it carefully. "The Duke of Stanwick. At such an eminence you will not lack for fine victuals or the company of ladies of quality, I believe. An evening assembly—it will be by the river in as elegant a landscaping as Mr. Repton has ever achieved."

"Then I'll send to Captain Boyd to say—"

"I thank you, no."

Kydd drew in his breath sharply. "At times I find you a mort hard t' fathom, my friend. Here I am asking you to enter in on society again—"

"Again?"

Kydd hesitated only a moment. "Nicholas, we've been particular friends for a long time. And, please believe me, I've tried to understand, but why it is you've never talked about your family, always kept mumchance concerning your real past, no letters from home, no visits. You're a gentleman o' the first rank, that's plain to any simkin. And on Jamaica I met your brother as is the same. His name is Laughton, so this is yours as well. I know something of the moral feelings that made you turn your back on 'em and go to sea as a foremast jack—but you became a king's officer and can be proud of it, return to your family with honour. Why do you not?"

Renzi sat as still as a statue and did not speak.

"Your family is wealthy, you told me so yourself. So why, then, do you top it the poor scholar? Why do—"

"It is a matter for myself alone, how I conduct my own affairs," Renzi snapped. "This is not a subject I wish to pursue."

Kydd lifted his head and said softly, "But I rather think we must, sir."

"Wha—? Your presumption on our friendship is astonishing!"

"Nicholas, if you are to marry my sister one day I'm bound t' satisfy myself on the particulars. No, wait, let me finish. There are those who'd say that any in your circumstance must surely have offended the family honour in a grievous way, and been cast out to fend how they may. I'm not in their number, but I'm most . . . curious as to why your family has so deserted you and why you're so . . . shy of showing your face in society."

Renzi looked away, then returned Kydd's gaze steadily. "I can see how it must appear. There is good and proper reason for this, I can sincerely assure you."

Kydd said nothing.

"Very well." Renzi sighed. "If you must. It's easy enough said. I'm the eldest, the heir presumptive. After a disagreeable contretemps with my father concerning my unwillingness to give up the sea, he has seen fit to disown me so the estate passes to another. Thus I'm to find my own way in the world, you see."

"And o' course this is why you cannot—"

"Not at all. My father's character is not unknown to society and no doubt there is ready sympathy to be discovered, but the chief reason for the discretion you have observed is my profound disinclination to come upon my father in a social situation. He is often to be found in London for the season—but I seem to feel secure within the purlieu of the Royal Society." He smiled thinly.

"Er, it seems hard t' say, but might I ask," Kydd said awkwardly, "if you are—if it can be said you're of noble birth?"

"Certainly. My father is the fifth Earl Farndon, of Eskdale Hall in Wiltshire. It cannot escape you that had matters passed in another vein then in the usual course of events, at my succeeding to the title Cecilia might rightly look to the style of the Countess of Farndon, wife of the sixth Earl, and mistress of Eskdale Hall."

Struck dumb with the revelation Kydd could only wait for Renzi to resume.

"As it is, I shall endeavour to earn her respect and attention with my philosophies, which I am sanguine will bear fruit within a con-scionable time. I, er, feel it, um, inappropriate to apprise her of what can never be and most fervently trust and hope she will be satisfied to be—Mrs. Renzi."

For the first time Kydd had full measure of the truth of his friend's moral compass, the deep well of conviction from which he found the strength and courage to see through his logical decisions to their conclusion, and he was humbled.

"Nicholas," he said, in a low voice, "as t' that, I c'n tell ye—er, you—for a certainty she will be satisfied, m' very dear friend."

In the early-summer evening the mist-hung Thames was enchanting, the darkening waters a-glitter with the red of the flaming torches set at the edge of the grassy slopes before the stately hall.

"Your Grace, Commander Kydd of the Royal Navy, shortly to take ship for the French coast."

Amiable words from the elderly duke, gracious attentions from the duchess, a sweeping curtsy and thoughtful gaze from the eldest daughter, then into the throng, bowing to right and left, making agreeable conversation in the excitement of the warm evening.

Kydd worked his way to the long table of refreshments. A full orchestra arrayed just beyond struck up with a grandiose "Rule, Britannia!" at which he found himself immediately occupied in acknowledging the civil bows in his direction.

Boyd passed, in conversation with an imposing lady whose pearls alone would have been sufficient to buy Teazer complete with her crew. She glanced across to Kydd and drew herself up. "Boyd, is this one of your young men?" she asked imperiously.

"Indeed it is not, milady. This is Commander Kydd of Teazer, sloop-of-war."

"Do you introduce me then, sir," she commanded.

"Mr. Kydd, please meet Lady Musgrave, Dowager Marchioness of Winchcombe."

"Enchanted, m' lady," Kydd said with a well-practised leg. "A fine evening." He rose to meet a quizzical look.

"A handsome blade indeed. And I vow quite wasted, floating about on all that sea. Tell me, Mr. Kydd, are you in London for the season or . . . ?"

"I'm desolated to say, ma'am, but Mr. Bonaparte has quite spoiled my plans. I'll be back aboard to sail very soon."

"A tiresome and disagreeable fellow, your Bonaparte. I say, Canning," she called to a distinguished gentleman nearby, "what are we to do with this Napoleon Bonaparte? He's quite ruined Mr. Kydd's season."

"Why, Lady Musgrave, surely the young gentleman is best placed of us all to chastise the fellow." The man gave an exquisite bow and returned to his conversation.

"Ah—quite. A political can always be relied upon to conjure some words to sport with." She held up her lorgnette. "Now, Boyd, I've decided Mr. Kydd will escort me tonight. Be off with you!" She took Kydd's arm and they moved away together.

The orchestra was playing a spirited "Britons Strike Home," and followed with some delicate Purcell. Kydd was swept up in the charged atmosphere, part excitement and part defiance at the fearful danger they were all facing.

Dusk fell, more lights were brought and the hubbub increased. Kydd met statesmen and nobility, ladies of quality and young bucks of the fancy in a dizzying whirl. And with more champagne it was becoming difficult to tell which was the greater reality—this fantastic gathering of jewelled splendour under the torchlight or the private knowledge that he was a sea captain about to go forth to defend his country.

At one point, nibbling at a sweetmeat and listening to a somewhat racy account of a country weekend, he happened to look at the black river sliding silently past and over to the opposite bank. As his vision adapted to the darkness, he saw that hundreds of people were silently standing there, watching. It was unnerving. Were these the common folk come to see the quality on show in their finery? Was he really one of them? With a guilty surge he realised that tonight he must be numbered among the well-born. Indisputably he had now won a place at the highest levels.

He gulped at the heady realisation, but before he could dwell on it there was a tap of the lorgnette on his arm. "You're not paying me attention, Mr. Kydd." But the frown turned to a smile and she confided, "A charming picture, is it not? I do so adore these outside entertainments."

Kydd bowed. "It is an evening I will not soon forget, m' lady," he said, with perfect sincerity.

"The best is yet to come—and I do believe that now is the time."

Mystified, Kydd tried to look knowing but she laughed. "Mr. Handel's music for the Royal Fireworks, silly!" The orchestra began the noble, dignified piece, and Kydd felt peculiarly elevated.

There was general movement to the water's edge. At the bend of the river he saw a procession of boats coming, some with lights strung around the canopy, each with oarsmen in striking uniform keeping perfect stroke. These men need have no fear of the pressgang for they were in the livery of the Worshipful Company of Watermen.

A sudden whoosh startled everyone as a rocket soared up from a nearby raft concealed in the blackness of the river. It was the signal for others and, as the music swelled, the sky was lit with vibrant detonations while the reek of powder-smoke drifted down in the still night air.

Caught up with the spectacle Kydd's attention was skywards—but a muttered warning from the marchioness brought his eyes down. To his astonishment all conversation suddenly ceased. From his left the lords and ladies faced the river and were taken one by one in deep obeisance, held motionless.

"The King, you fool!" his companion hissed from the depths of her curtsy. Kydd dropped hastily to one knee, too flustered to recall the details of the elaborate court bow. Head still bowed, he tried to glimpse the royal barge in progress. It approached slowly and majestically, and then, by the sharp flash of firework clusters, Kydd caught sight of the person of his sovereign and liege lord, His Britannic Majesty, King George III of Great Britain and Ireland.

CHAPTER 4

". . . AND TWO IN IRONS on account of disagreements with the soldiery ashore." The first lieutenant finished his report, visibly relieved that Kydd had returned. The crew had been restless, keyed up to play a leading part in a desperate resistance to Napoleon's legions. Instead, they had been idle in Teazer, anchored all week in the Downs.

"Very well, Mr. Hallum."

"Er, and we're to hang out a signal immediately you're back on board."

"Make it so, if y' please."

Kydd lost no time in going below to get out of his dusty travelling clothes and into his comfortable sea rig. Monarch did not bear her commander-in-chief's flag indicating Keith was aboard his flagship so he had no need to report. It would give him time to—

"Mr. Hallum's compliments, sir, an' boat putting off from Actaeon," an eager midshipman blurted at the door.

Kydd knew he would not have been disturbed unless the boat was heading for Teazer and bore someone of significance.

He lost no time in appearing on deck and watched while the gig threaded expertly towards them through the anchored vessels, her ensign at the transom indicating a king's officer aboard.

"Boat ahoy!" Poulden's challenge was answered immediately from the gig. "Actaeon!"

"Mr. Purchet!" roared Kydd, for this meant it was the captain of the thirty-eight-gun frigate and, as such, he must be piped aboard by the boatswain.

"Charles Savery, sir," the man introduced himself, after punctiliously saluting Teazer's quarterdeck. "If we could repair to your cabin . . . ?"

There, he looked about appreciatively at the quality of the appointments. "Then you've done well in the article of prize-money?" he said equably.

"I've been fortunate enough, sir," Kydd replied cautiously, aware that his appearance was not best suited to greeting a senior post-captain.

Savery gave a dry smile. "I'm here on behalf of Admiral Keith to enquire your readiness, he being detained on another matter." The man was large in Teazer's neat little cabin but his round, jovial features were reassuring.

"Sir."

"He particularly wishes to assure himself that you are in no doubt concerning the operational details of the Downs command. I take it that you have been well informed at the Admiralty of the strategical objectives?"

"I have, sir—and I will confess, t' me it's been a caution to learn what it is that faces us."

"Yes, as it would to most, I'd agree. However, to details. You know the strength of Admiral Keith's command?"

"Sir. It was told to me as six o'-the-line, thirty-two frigates and some hundred or more sloops."

"Quite so. You should understand that the sail-of-the-line are old and unseaworthy, each moored permanently to defend estuaries and therefore unavailable to us. The frigates and sloops you will find anywhere from Selsey in the Channel all the way up the east coast to Scotland, and of those to stand directly against Bonaparte's invasion we are disposed in two divisions.

"One, to defend the Channel coast of England, the other before the French coast. Of the latter we are again of two forces: the first, those sloops and cutters in constant warfare against the enemy flotillas, the other in the form of two more powerful flying squadrons based here at a moment's notice to sail. Your orders, which I have, attach you to the one commanded by myself.

"Both squadrons have the same vital imperative: to harass the invasion craft by any means, clamping a hold on the harbours up and down the enemy coast to prevent their leaving and concentrating in overwhelming numbers at the main invasion ports. I have to remind you that there is a deeper duty, Mr. Kydd, which is to immediately apprise the commander-in-chief of any intelligence that bears on the deployment and motions of the invasion fleets."

"Aye aye, sir."

"And especially should they sail on their enterprise. Neither ship nor man should be spared in the need to raise the alarm."

"May I know, sir, what's t' be our action here consequent on receiving this?"

"The first intelligence of an invasion fleet at sea is to be conveyed to Deal. There, the shutter telegraph will have the news to the Admiralty in ten minutes. At the same time we have General Craig's flags. These are a chain of posts on church steeples and similar that constantly fly a white flag. Receiving word of an invasion, they will be replaced by a red, which will be the signal to loose the messengers, picked men whose duty it is to set forth on horseback, fly inland and raise the alarm. At night we shall have beacons of furze faggots on hilltops as will instantly call the volunteers to arms and set in motion the evacuation plans—but the details of that we can leave to the military."

"Sir."

"To return to our own operations. You're to maintain at all times sea and ordnance stores conformable to a two-hour notice to sail, and when at alert, a watch of the hands closed up at stations for unmooring, yourself and principal officers on board."

"At alert, sir?"

"Wind and tide favourable for a sortie, an intelligence that Bonaparte is contemplating a descent. The signal tower hangs out a red warning pennant with a gun—you'll see all this in the orders."

"I understand, sir."

"To the squadron instructions. You'll observe that there's little enough on manoeuvres and signals. This is because when we shall be called upon for service it will of a surety be a pell-mell action as will not be of a character to allow the forming of line and so forth."

Savery spoke calmly, but there was no mistaking the icy determination. "As well, of course, we are all of different sailing qualities and in this I will be clear. At an alarm, the duty of every captain is to crowd on sail as best he might to close with the enemy, not an instant's delay. How this is achieved is of secondary consideration."

"Sir."

"We are all of one band and must rely on each other—in this you will see each must trust the other in the prime cause. No signals, no permissions, no hesitation. Lay yourself alongside an enemy and you will have fulfilled your duty, sir."

It was a level of trust in a commander that Kydd had never encountered before: to rely implicitly on a subordinate's tactical judgement, seamanship and brute courage without issuing a direct order, this was what it was to be a sea officer of such a supremely professional navy. "Aye aye, sir," Kydd responded. "You may rely on Teazer and her company."

"Very well. Do complete your stores and, as of noon tomorrow, consider yourself under orders. Er, and it would be my pleasure to see you at our little gathering in the Three Kings at seven tonight. You'll find some of the other captains of the flying squadron there and they'll be pleased to meet you."

In the early afternoon Kydd went ashore with the purser and Renzi. He wanted to inspect the capability of the King's Naval Yard in Deal and also to see something of the town.

He had read the orders. Keith's were straightforward and to the point, with no duty explicit other than the defence of the realm in so far as it meant harrying the enemy by every means possible. The usual commander-in-chief's Fighting Instructions were almost nonexistent, confirming Savery's earlier comments that a grand fleet action was not likely—for the moment.

Savery's orders, too, were sparse, emphasising individual initiative and deprecating caution but with the proviso that the preservation of his ship was a central concern for every captain. Throw himself at the enemy or hold back: it would be Kydd's decision. Kydd realised that Keith's constant fear would be that his forces would be so whittled down by taking the war to the enemy shore that at a sudden invasion breakout they would prove of insufficient numbers.

It was a warm, sunny afternoon and, with the breezy northwesterly a foul wind on the French coast, there was little likelihood of an alert. Kydd walked quietly with the other two to the King's Naval Yard, letting the character of the place seep in.

Deal was a curious place, a town at a seemingly random position along a lengthy stretch of flat shoreline, nestled right up to a shingle beach. It was said to be one of the biggest ports in England—yet it had no harbour.

But there were reasons for its existence there: the lethal Goodwin Sands offshore were also a barrier to Channel storms and the ships that gathered in its embrace, waiting for a fair wind, needed provisions, stores and chandlery. Passengers favoured boarding their ships at Deal, thereby avoiding the tedious river trip to London. With naval forces to support in addition, the town was lively and prosperous.

The King's Naval Yard at one end of the waterfront was impressive, with sawpits, smith's shops, sail lofts and the like. A ship could be victualled for an entire ocean voyage from the brewhouses, compendious storehouses and the bakery producing vast quantities of ship's biscuits. Yet without a harbour—no quays, jetties or wharfs—tons of stores, masts and yards, weighty lengths of new-spun cordage, all had to be taken out to the ships in boats.

This meant that the heavy craft must be manhandled down to the water over the steep shingle, loaded and, after delivery, heaved back up again. At the yard there were eight slipways, oaken balks settled well in with a massive capstan at the top of each. Kydd watched as a three-ton frigate launch was hauled up for repair. Even with thirty men at the capstan and others steadying the boat it was a hard grind.

Their business concluded, the Teazers returned to their ship. Kydd knew he had paperwork to deal with but felt restless. He went to the shrouds and gazed out across the sparkling sea to the hard, clean line of the horizon where the distant sombre headlands of France were stark and clear.

There was now no doubt: the gathering storm that was about to break on England could be stopped by only one agency, the Royal Navy. Teazer was at the cutting edge, the furthest forward she could be on the field of battle. And Kydd was her captain.

"Ah, Mr. Kydd, come meet this merry band of mariners!" Savery said heartily, stepping back from the fireplace. A half-dozen officers looked at him inquisitively. "Commander Kydd is new-joined in Teazer, brig-sloop, from the Channel Islands," he boomed. "Claims he wanted a more interesting station."

There were murmurs of welcome and a shuffling to allow him a sight of the fire.

"This is Commander Dyer, of Falcon, ship-sloop."

A cautious-looking older officer nodded.

"And L'tenant Keane, Locust, gun-brig . . ."

The cheerful, red-faced young man winked at him playfully.

"L'tenant Mills out of Bruiser, gun-brig."

The big man grunted defensively. "Service?"

"Oh, North American station t' begin with," Kydd said amiably. There would apparently be no standing on ceremony in this company. "The Med," he added. "And the Nile," he finished lightly.

There was a general stir. "Doubt we can find anything to top that, Mr. Kydd," said Keane, respectfully.

"I'm not so sure," Mills said forcefully. "Boney's down on 'em hard if they don't put on a brave show defendin' afore their own soldiers on the shore. Why, in that mill we has last month off Calais . . ." The talk ebbed and flowed.

The Three Kings, like so much of Deal, was on the edge of the waterfront, its entrance set at right angles for shelter. The naval officers favoured rooms to seaward that looked out over the Downs and, in the strengthening north-westerly, the windows shook and rattled.

Savery glanced out to sea at the miles of bobbing ships and white caps, then suggested, "Cards, gentlemen? No alarums to be expected in this blow." There was a general move to the table. "I do hope the claret is agreeable to your taste, Mr. Kydd," he said, as the cards were cut. "For our Friday gathering we make it a point that the enemy provides for our wine. Out of a prize, of course."

Kydd did not shine at cards; his heart was not in it. His memory refused to take note of which had been successively dealt and he was regularly trumped. In this company, however, it was no chore, and gave him an insight into the personalities of those with whom he would go to war.

Savery was cool, precise and deadly, clearly enjoying the exercise. Keane was impulsive but ingenious, while Mills was stolid but infinitely patient, marshalling his assets until he could bang down his winning hand with a colourful oath.

It was an experience more pleasurable than he had expected: there was relief to be had from sharing anxieties and fears with those who were in the same position as him, and took strength from the sense of brotherliness in adversity, of fellow warriors awaiting the dawn.

The following morning the wind still held to a north-westerly but had moderated somewhat. There was no alert at the semaphore tower and Kydd held court with Hallum and Purchet over how best to bring the ship to a knife edge of readiness.

It was the age-old problem in war; men raised to a nervous pitch of skill and expectations, then forced to idleness while waiting for the enemy's next move. Traditional make-work employment in harbour centred around cleaning and bright-work, but nothing could be more calculated to dull the spirit; more warlike tasks, such as attending to the gunner's store had long since been completed to perfection. With a fine edge on every cutlass, pistols and muskets flinted and tested, shot brought to an impressive roundness by careful chipping with a rust-hammer, there was little more that Kydd could think of to do.

Poulden knocked tentatively at the door. "Not sure as what t' do with this'n," he said, holding out a paper. "Mr. Calloway says ye'd be interested."

Kydd read it and chuckled. "Why, this is just the medicine for the harbour mullygrubs! Gentlemen, your attention, please . . ." Lieutenant Keane and HM gun-brig Locust were issuing a challenge-at-arms to HMS Teazer for the honour of hoisting a "Cock of the Downs" for the better ship.

Locust lay a quarter of a mile to the eastward, moored, like Teazer, head to wind. Keane was proposing a contest of boarding—the very proficiency that would be so needed in the near future. Kydd read aloud the challenge: it was to be undertaken from an eight-oared pinnace, the only boat held in common by both sides, the object being to haul down the other's colours in the face of various unspecified discouragements, then return.

There were some interesting provisos. Boarders were to be fully "armed" and might not enter at any point between the quarterdeck and fo'c'sle. The winners would be the first to return to their own ship and triumphantly re-hoist their own colours to the masthead. And, to prevent later recrimination, the respective captains would lead the boarders.

"An impudence!" spluttered Hallum. "They can't just—"

But Kydd had made up his mind and turned to Poulden. "Mr. Calloway is t' hoist Locust's pennant over the 'affirmative,' if y' please," he said firmly.

It was well conceived. Distance to cover under oars was equal, as were the number of men carried in the boats. Bearing arms and coming aboard only over the bow or stern meant a boarding under realistic conditions and discouragements would add the necessary incentive to haste.

Recalling Keane's confidence, Kydd grinned. He would be leading the Teazers and it was fairly certain that the young officer had not heard of his own years as a young and agile seaman . . .

With boats in the water in deference to Locust's lack of the newfangled davits, it needed only the signal to start. Actaeon's gig arrived and Savery, suitably grave as befitted an official umpire, proceeded to an inspection of Teazer's boarders.

"A fine body of men, Captain!" he pronounced. They were not the words Kydd would have used of his crew of desperadoes in every kind of piratical rig clutching their wooden "cutlasses" and grinning at each other in anticipation.

"Into your boats!"

Kydd settled at the tiller and tried not to beam back at Stirk, gunner's mate, and a seaman who went back to his earliest time at sea. Ready with his grapnel in the bows he snapped. "Toss oars!" In obedience to the "rules" oars were thumped down and held vertically as a sign that the boarders were standing by. Savery sighted over at Locust: their boat was in similar readiness.

"Fire!" A swivel gun manned up in the maintop cracked out but the sound was almost drowned in the storm of cheering from the spectators. Kydd's urgent roar sent oars thudding down between the thole pins and the boat slewing round to leap ahead, straight as an arrow, for the trim gun-brig.

The Locusts were in view almost at once, her captain crouched, urging on his crew like a lunatic and coming on at a dismaying rate. It was not Kydd's way to shout at men doing their best but he quickly found himself leaning forward and berating them as lub-bardly old women and a hopeless parcel of gib-faced mumpers. The resulting expressions of delight seemed to indicate it might have been expected.

As the pinnaces passed each other halfway, yells of derision were hurled across. Keane stood precariously and bowed solemnly to Kydd, who couldn't think what to do other than doff his hat in reply. Then it was the final stretch, the seamen panting and gasping with the brutal effort.

Defenders were spaced evenly along the decks of Locust and doing suspicious things with sacks. Like Teazer, the gun-brig was flush-decked with a continuous deck-line. Her fo'c'sle was rounded and therefore without the usual beakhead with its useful climbing-aboard points. It had been agreed that boarding nettings would not be deployed as inviting damage to His Majesty's sea stores, so it was a choice between bluff bow or sturdy transom.

Kydd made up his mind and went for the stern. Instantly there was a frantic rush along the decks of the brig to take up position to repel boarders. He snatched a glance behind: the Locusts were heading at breakneck speed directly for Teazer's bows and there was the same mad scramble forward to meet the boarding. He smiled wickedly—it would be a valiant crew who made it to that hostile deck.

Just a few hundred yards away from their goal he weighed up the angles and distances. With Locust's protruding rudder stock, a side-to approach allowing simultaneous exit from the boat would not be possible. Better a head-on one, with Stirk leading the charge up and over that plain sternwork.

They neared, and he spotted defenders hunkered behind the low bulwark. Just before they made ready Kydd twisted to look behind. At the last minute Keane had put over the tiller, shooting under the bowsprit and at full tilt sped down the length of the ship to end up under Teazer's more ornate stern. Grapnels flew up in a perfectly timed—

"Sir! " Poulden's anxious cry brought him back—Locust's humble stern with its two small windows, was looming above them but before he could act the boat drove head on into her timbers with a rending thump, sending the oarsmen down in a tangle of legs and bodies.

"Go!" Kydd cried hoarsely, from the bottom-boards but Stirk had already hurled his grapnel and swarmed up the line with a roar. He took the contents of a pail of galley slops full in the face, then bilge-water, flour, slush and the like rained down. Stirk let out a howl, but quickly recovered and fought his way slowly up through the deluge. The Teazers were now spurred on with the prospect of revenge, and as Stirk disappeared over the bulwarks he was followed by the rest, with Kydd fighting through the vile onslaught to join him.

On the neat little after deck the Locusts were waiting with their wooden cutlasses at point, except one sailor who was taken helpless with laughter at the sight of the enemy. It was too much for Stirk who threw himself at the man and, with a show of strength, wrestled him to the side and up-ended him bodily into the sea.

The decks resounded to fierce snarls and the sharp clik-clok of wooden combat, but the Teazers' blood was up and it didn't take long to fight through to the mainmast halliards. Guarded by a ring of vengeful seamen, Kydd rapidly hauled down their colours.

Returning to the boat, some jumped headlong into the early summer sea to rid themselves of their ordure, then hauled themselves dripping over the gunwale. "Move y'selves," Kydd urged, taking the tiller again.

They stretched out manfully. The contest would not be over until their own colours had been restored. The Locusts, however, were already two-thirds back, well on their way to victory.

When the Locusts drew abreast Kydd's boat to pass, more taunts were thrown. Keane stood up in the boat and bowed low. It was galling to be treated this way again—Kydd spotted a Locust flour-bomb among the mess in the bilge, and as Keane straightened his posture, he received it full on the chest.

It burst with a satisfying white explosion and the young man teetered and fell, bringing down his stroke oar and causing the next man to catch a crab, then lose his oar. The boat came to a stop in hopeless confusion while the Teazers savagely saw their chance and threw themselves at their oars.

It was sweet victory! Captain Savery shook his head at the sight of the seamen who heaved themselves aboard but allowed the Teazers triumphantly to haul their colours aloft once more. A crestfallen Keane was summoned back to witness the award to the victor.

"Sir—sir, I . . ."

"Yes, Mr. Keane?"

"It wasn't fair!"

Kydd couldn't help it. "Fortunes of war, old trout!" he rumbled smugly.

Savery held up the trophy, a handsome red-painted mast vane in the shape of a cockerel. "Cock o' the Downs. And this I award to the rightful winner with the strict injunction: in hoc signis vincit!"

"Under this sign go ye forth and conquer!" murmured Renzi, next to Kydd.

With a satisfied smile Kydd stepped forward to accept the prize.

"Not you, sir!" Savery said, in mock horror, snatching away the vane. "The Locusts are declared victors this day. Come forward and be honoured, Mr. Keane."

"The Locusts sir?" Kydd spluttered. "I don't understand—we were—"

"Mr. Kydd! I have above a hundred witnesses who will swear they saw you resume hostilities on your opponent even while your colours were struck. This is not to be borne, sir. Yet I dare to say you will be seeking a rencontre at another date . . ."

The north-westerly eased and veered overnight leaving a fine summer morning to spread its beneficence abroad. But at eleven, as the wind passed into its easterly quadrant, there was the thump of a gun and the red flag of the alert was hoisted. The wind was favourable for the French.

A hurried muster revealed the absence of the gunner and his mate at the King's Naval Yard and a victualling party at the storehouse. Both midshipmen were dispatched with trusties to find them posthaste and Teazer moved to sea watches.

Before noon her complement was entire and the ship ready for sea; lying to a ready-buoyed single anchor, sails bent on to yards, her broadsides primed and waiting. Kydd's eyes turned to Actaeon. The first sign of an alarm might be the sudden blossoming of a signal at the halliards and a warning gun. Then the flying squadron would be streaming instantly to sea.

But the day wore on. Was this to be their entire existence, to lie waiting at a split yarn? It could be days, weeks, before the French made their move to sea.

At sunset the men were piped to supper; at least, here they would eat well, fresh greens and regular meat from the garden county of Kent. And Renzi was clearly content with his lot: little ship's business to do and a stand of books to devour that would not disgrace a bookseller.

Kydd vowed to find fresh ways to keep the men occupied and in fighting trim, but for now he turned in early and drifted into sleep.

"Sir! Mr. Kydd, sir!" called an anxious Moyes. As mate-of-the-watch he was confronted with the old naval dilemma. He had been sent to wake an officer, but if he shook him this might in theory be construed as laying hands on a superior, with all the dire penalties that the act entailed.

Kydd propped himself up in his cot and rubbed his eyes. Moyes was streaming water from his oilskins; it must be dirty weather topside, although the ship's gentle motion did not indicate a blow. "What o'clock is it?"

"Middle watch, sir, an' Actaeon is hanging out three lights with a gun."

All captains!

"I'll be up directly. Rouse up a boat's crew and have the gig in the water immediately."

"Aye aye, sir."

Moyes disappeared, considerately leaving his lanthorn, and Kydd thudded to the deck, shaking his head to clear it of sleep.

"Cast off!" he growled, after they had entered the boat. He had only a sea-coat over his nightdress and maddeningly the light rain trickling off his hat found several ways to penetrate to his sleep-warm body. But he knew there could only be one reason for the urgent summons.

The boat hooked on and he heaved himself up the rain-slick side of the frigate, noting bustle through the open gunports. The ship was fully awake.

Savery lost no time. When all were assembled he snapped, "An alarm, gentlemen. Sir Sidney Smith has sent urgent word of an invasion flotilla slipping out from Ostend, taking advantage of this nor'-easterly and thinking to join with others in Calais and Boulogne. It must be stopped."

There were grave expressions on the faces of those who stood about, wet and drooping and in all manner of strange night attire.

"This is no small force. It numbers over sixty craft and, being a joint Dutch force, is defended by the Jonkheer ver Blaeu, who, I might remind you, learned his trade under de Winter at Camperdown."

Kydd would never forget the ferocious scenes of combat that day—the British had been victorious, but the Dutch had fought like demons showing the old spirit that had seen them lay waste in the Medway the century before.

"They are even now at sea, proceeding down the coast towards Dunkirk, Ambleteuse—who knows? It seems to be an attempt to overwhelm us with numbers and I expect a stiff fight. There will be no help from Sir Sidney as he is heavily engaged, but he offers to break off and come to our aid if requested." His demeanour gave little doubt as to the likelihood of this.

"Have we reports of the type of vessel we're likely to find, sir?" said Keane brightly.

"At least thirty, forty gun-vessels—anything from your chaloupe canonnière to a full-rigged prame to be expected, I believe. Your duty is the same in any case. Now, to business. The squadron will sail without delay with the goal of an intercept off the French coast at dawn—"

"We sail in darkness?" Dyer said, in a tone of disbelief. "The Goodwins are—"

"In these winds we cannot sail north or hazard the Gull passage, therefore we shall go south-about to make our offing. I would have thought it reasonable to stand in that direction for the lights of St. Margaret's Bay and thence haul your wind for France?" Savery said irritably.

Kydd's mind raced. If there were clear night waters rather than some eighty or so ships at anchor through which they must pass . . . If the few lights of Deal showing at three in the morning were as well loyally shining at the small hamlet in the great cliffs . . .

"I shall expect the squadron to make rendezvous to the nor'-east of Dunkirk in the morning," Savery continued. "Come, come, gentlemen, there's not a moment to lose." The other business was dispatched rapidly and Kydd returned to find his ship in a scurry of activity.

Teazer slipped her anchor within the hour, the night breeze taking her at some speed through a world of dimly bobbing lights in the pitch darkness with the occasional bulking mass looming of an unlighted vessel.

It was vital not to put the helm over for the reach to seaward too early, for this would bring them to an unpleasant acquaintance with the deadly sands. If left too long, though, it would take more time to beat back up the French coast. And every seaman knew that the slower and more cautious the progress, the more sluggish would be the response at the helm.

Less than an hour passed but it seemed like a lifetime before Kydd felt able to make the move. Teazer heeled as she took the wind abeam and struck out into the Channel darkness. It would be entirely by dead-reckoning: a larboard tack for long enough to get them past mid-Channel then a stay about to starboard to put them to weather of the rendezvous when dawn broke.

Log-line, careful sail trim and much discussion of current sets and leeway at different points of sailing: seamanship of the first order was demanded. They were comfortably to seaward of Dunkirk when the first tentative shafts of light from the east promised a fine day to come.

One by one sail was sighted and by full day the squadron was in position: Actaeon with the sloops Teazer, Bruiser, Falcon and Gallant, with the gun-brigs Locust, Starling, Plumper and others. It seemed a pitiful number to throw before such odds.

They stayed in deep water with the frigate. Then a cutter came racing downwind with "enemy in sight" fluttering urgently from her halliards in the morning breeze. From directly in the wind's eye a handful of low sails appeared out of the haze. More and more came into sight, then still more, until it seemed impossible there was room for others.

Kydd was conscious of what the chart had shown about the coast—endless hard sandbanks strung out to parallel the shore as if to ward off marauders, a fearsome threat to any trespasser. There was no point in beating towards. It would be better to let them come, then fall on them somewhere off Dunkirk. He raised his telescope and scanned the oncoming armada. Every kind of rig was there, luggers of all descriptions, brigs, even fully ship-rigged vessels, advancing inexorably in a vast swarm of sail.

Then he saw the invasion craft he had been told about: the long and low péniche under a single lugsail, the Swedish designed shallow-draught crache feu type that carried frigate-sized twenty-four-pounders on slides and the various chaloupes canonnières, which, while smaller than Teazer, were armed with guns of much larger calibre.

The transports were gathered in the centre, seemingly anything that swam, including many of the Dutch schuyts used in the rivers and shallows of the Netherlands and ideal for close inshore work.

He wondered what the soldiers packing their decks would think of the ships lying in wait for them. They would know them to be the same ships that had cleared the seas of every French battle-fleet sent against them, that had destroyed and captured their ships as they watched impotently from the beach. But now, seeing the crowds of French and Dutch vessels around them and so few English ones ahead, there could only be one answer: contempt, and the conviction that in the face of such numbers the English ships would just step aside.

There was no indication of faltering among the leaders of the armada. As Teazer neared, the throng seemed to take on an order of its own, the larger ships assuming seaward positions to shepherd along the lesser, which were sailing as close to the shore as they could.

Kydd swallowed. Now was the time to manoeuvre round and select where he would direct his charge into the enemy. At this angle of the wind it would have to be somewhere off Dunkirk—but would they simply slip away into the port and wait it out?

The first of the vessels was approaching the port entrance: if he did not make his lunge now it might be too late. Along the decks, long closed up for action, his ship's company looked gravely at him.

"Mr. Kydd, sir?" Dowse said quietly, interrupting his thoughts.

"Um—yes?"

"Sir, it's my opinion th' tide's not going t' allow us in, without we know th' ground better."

"The Frenchy thinks it safe enough."

"Aye, sir," the master said patiently. "He's in a mort deeper water—the Passe de l'Est as goes past th' entrance. A'tween us an' them will be y'r Banc du Snouw, Binnen Ratel, all shiftin' hardpack sand as at this tide-state is shoaling fast."

Was this why the others in the squadron were still hove to, waiting?

The first enemy vessels reached the harbour's cramped entrance— and passed it. The wily Dutchman in command had known of the inshore passage and taken full advantage of the wind's direction being the same as the ebbing tide; in the protection of the offshore sandbanks he was making fast sailing towards his ultimate destination: Calais and Boulogne.

Now there was a chance: once past, they had to leave the protection of the sandbanks, which did not extend any further. And the little haven of Gravelines on the way was near useless on an ebbing tide, so somewhere off the low, endless sand dunes between Dunkirk and Calais, action must be joined.

The sun was high and warm to the skin when the time came. Careful bearings of the tall, four-square tower in the centre of the town told Kydd and the other members of the squadron when the armada was finally clear of the protecting shoals. First away was Locust, her red cockerel brazenly at the mainmast head, with Bruiser and Falcon close behind then Teazer joining the rush in an exhilarating charge straight into the heart of the enemy.

Kydd willed his mind to icy coolness.

The swarm resolved to individuals: the schuyts or the prame? The first guns opened up but Teazer would hold her fire to make every shot count. The enemy sloops came round to meet them but, surprisingly, showed no inclination to close. Kydd looked back: Actaeon was astern—the biggest threat, she must be their target. He grinned savagely: All the better to allow Teazer to get among the flotilla.

Locust disappeared in a haze of gunsmoke into the very centre and Kydd made up his mind. "We take the schuyts and draw the big 'uns towards us. Lets the cutters and gun-brigs have a chance."

Teazer made for a gaggle of four ahead. White splashes kicked up around her. It was small-calibre: the bigger guns they carried must be on crude slides and could not bear on them. Then a vicious whip of bullets all around him showed that they were making up for it with musketry.

Kydd tested the wind once more—fair and brisk on the larboard beam. "Bring us astern o' the last," he ordered calmly. The schuyts maintained course, unsure of his intentions, and he was quickly able to reach his position. Swinging round before the wind he tucked in astern of the last, then surged forward to overtake the craft on its shoreward side.

"Fire!" he barked. The forward half of the starboard guns smashed into it. Screams and hoarse shouts came from beyond the choking mass of powder-smoke and then they were up with the second, and the after half of the guns opened up.

The next in line jibbed in fear at what was bearing down on it. Teazer 's helm went over and she plunged between the opening gap to the seaward side and, with a furious spin of the wheel, straightened and passed the next schuyt. The same trick again—but this time it was the unused guns of the larboard side that did the execution, taking the next with the forward guns and the last of the four with the rest.

Beside Kydd, Purchet pounded his fist into his palm. Then, in the hellish noise, Hallum snatched at Kydd's sleeve and pointed. Looming out of the roiling smoke and appallingly close, a powerful prame as big as a frigate was lunging towards them.

As Teazer passed beyond the schuyts, the prame slewed about parallel to bring its full broadside of twenty-four-pounders to bear—at near point-blank range it would be slaughter, and with Teazer's guns not yet reloaded they could not fire back.

Kydd agonised as he waited for the eruption—his skin crawled as the moment hung—then suddenly he swung round to look in the other direction. As he suspected, a lumbering transport was to leeward; the prame dared not open up on Teazer while it was in the line of fire.

Light-headed with relief, Kydd tried to think of a way out. They couldn't stay with the transport for ever. It was hard to concentrate as a chaotic swirl of noise and smoke battered in on his senses but the matter was shortly taken out of his hands. With an avalanche of muffled thuds and a sudden rearing of gunsmoke on the other side of the prame, the ship-sloop Falcon had taken her chance to attack while its attention was on Teazer.

The prame wheeled about on its tormentor and Teazer pulled into the clouds of powder-smoke rolling downwind from the two. Suddenly, with a hideous splintering crash, they were careering along the side of a ship—timbers smashing to wreckage, sails snatched and torn away, ropes parting with a vicious twang in a long agony of collision.

They stopped, two ships locked together in a hideous tangle and, for a moment, a shocked quiet descended. "It's a Frenchy!" someone screamed, and broke the spell. Kydd fought to keep cool: this was an enemy and it was bigger than Teazer. "Teazers t' board!" he yelled. "T' me, the boarders!" He whipped out his precious fighting sword and leaped on to the enemy deck where Teazer's bulwarks had been beaten flat.

The French gun crews gaped at him, caught off-balance and dazed by the sudden turn of events. The first to recover was a dark-featured officer with a red sash who snarled in anger and rushed at him, swinging a massive sword. Kydd dropped to one knee with his own blade above his head. The weapons met in a clash, the shock numbing his arm, but his fine Toledo steel held and deflected the blow to one side.

He let the stroke spend itself and, with a dextrous twist, got inside it and thrust out savagely, taking the man in the lower body. With a howl of anguish he dropped his sword and clutched at the skewering blade, then crumpled, knocking Kydd sprawling and tearing it from his grasp.

The Teazer gun crews had snatched up rammers, tomahawks, anything to hand and were racing toward the unarmed Kydd. With an urgent thump on the deck, Renzi arrived first, taking position over Kydd with a boarding pike out-thrust, its lethal point questing for the first to dare an assault.

The Teazers soon had their bridgehead; the disorganised gun crews saw no chance against fully equipped boarders and skidded to a stop. The rush turned to a rout.

More Teazers arrived and the ship was theirs. Trembling with reaction to the near-disaster, Kydd sent parties to secure the vessel and looked about the battlefield. The action had moved away from them: the flotilla was doggedly pressing on towards Calais, and the English, firing wildly, were staying with them.

He looked across at Teazer. The wreckage seemed confined to the bulwarks and fore-shroud channels but there was a trail of dismounted guns and, at more than one spot, the dark staining of blood on the decking.

Purchet loped up and reported, "Spars still sound, sir, but th' standin' rigging t' larb'd is in a sad moil."

"Get us free, quick as y' like, Mr. Purchet. Stoppers and doubling— anything as'll see us under canvas again."

He looked out at the broader battle scene. Actaeon was beset by four large sloops and nearly hidden by towering clouds of powder-smoke but gun-flashes regularly stabbed through from her and, as Kydd watched, a mast on one of the sloops descended and the damaged vessel fell away.

The enemy did not seem inclined to pay attention to the two vessels locked together so they had a chance. The Royal Marines took charge of prisoners while the entire seaman complement of Teazer swarmed over the rigging aloft, passing stoppers that joined the severed ends of ropes and adding relieving tackles to weakened sections.

When it was complete Kydd sent Hallum to limp back in the prize while he considered the state of Teazer. At a pinch they could keep to the wind, particularly running large as the flotilla was doing, but effectively they had lost all except one of the larboard guns and were open to the weather and small-arms fire along that side. And they had numbers away as prize-crew.

Kydd watched the receding battle. He had been shaken by the savagery of the fighting, the desperate flinging of their force into the midst of the armada. And the French were far from running: they were staying together to brute it through and add this huge number of invasion craft to their concentrations.

There was no alternative but to do his duty. With Kydd warily keeping an eye on the makeshift repairs aloft, Teazer set out after them but well before they were able to overhaul the rear the enemy entered Calais roads and the unassailable shelter of the fortress batteries.

Regrouping beyond the treacherous offshore ground of the Ridens de la Rade the flying squadron hove to; it seemed that the Franco-Batavian flotilla had indeed won precious miles from Dunkirk towards their eventual destination, Boulogne, and all the squadron could now do was to leave a pair of watching cutters and return to the Downs.

Yet within the hour there was movement: incredibly the flotilla was putting out once more. It was no feint: the canny Dutch commander had merely added to their number by drawing in those who had sheltered in the port earlier. Now nearly a hundred sail were issuing out, steadily heading south-west.

It was an audacious and cynical move: they had no doubt reasoned that while the English were occupied in their butchery of the unfortunates, there would be left many more to plough on regardless and make their destination. The simple outworking of time and numbers would ensure that by far the majority survived.

It was still before noon when heavy guns thundered out from the great citadel and no less than five forts. Falling back but warily pacing with them out to seaward, the squadron waited until the strung-out flotilla was clear of the port and its defences, then one by one selected a victim and once more sailed in to close with the enemy.

Teazer was no longer in the best shape for another deadly action but the stakes were extreme. Therefore, with torn sails and trailing ropes, she set her bowsprit resolutely at the foe—three of the flat-bottomed bateaux canonnières, equipped with a stern ramp to take on even field guns and horses. These were therefore of prime value to Bonaparte and worth any sacrifice.

At this point, with fewer sandbanks, the immense sea cavalcade huddled close inshore. It seemed incongruous to join battle before the mussel beds and lowly dunes, and with no larboard guns Teazer must work some miracle to come inside them to fight.

But as she made her approach guns opened up—guns that had no right to be there. Shot tore up the sea all around and two heavy thumps told of hits—but from where?

Through his telescope Kydd saw troops of horse artillery cantering up, unlimbering their field guns on the crest of the dunes and blazing away. It was an intelligent use of the immense military machine being assembled but it would only serve while they were close in with the land. Beyond the range of the fortress on the heights of Cap Blanc Nez there were devilish offshore hazards, which the French called "The Barrier," that would force the armada miles out to sea.

The guns ashore fell silent as the range widened and the predators closed in. It was close, vicious and bloody work—the invasion flotilla must be stopped and nothing would be spared. The first bateau dug in its steering oar and slewed around at Teazer—a field artillery piece was tied down with ropes on its clumsy foredeck but when it fired, the ball reduced Teazer's quarterdeck rail to flying splinters, and ended the life of the lively and willing Philipon, an able seaman who had been with them since the Channel Islands.

It was an heroic act by the Frenchman for they could not reload the piece: they must wait while Teazer stood off and destroyed them—except that her own guns on that side were useless. The two vessels faced each other defiantly but impotently until Kydd took his ship under the stern of the other and crushed the little craft with a single broadside.

The next bateau sheered away cravenly inshore, taking the ground a full mile out in a shuddering stop, the shock canting the long vessel's bow skyward. Tumbling over the side in a panic-stricken flight the crew stumbled away.

A chaloupe appeared from the smoke, her eighteen-pounders opening on Teazer as soon as she appeared. The shots went wild and it disappeared as quickly as did the bateau they had been ready to engage.

The din and acrid reek of powder-smoke drove in on Kydd— where was the next target? For a short time he could see Locust hammering away frantically at two chaloupes assaulting her but there was nothing Kydd could do for them and smoke drifted across to hide the scene.

An unknown vessel lay stopped ahead, only a single mast left standing. Men swarmed over the wreckage like ants—was it Bruiser? They had to take their chances for Kydd's duty was to engage the flotilla and there inshore was another bateau canonnière—but beyond lay the dour heights of Cap Gris Nez.