Pasha

CHAPTER 3

PORTSMOUTH WAS THE SAME: somewhat grubby and showing not a little wartime drab-but there was magic, too, and as he peered from the window of the stagecoach Kydd could just make out the distant sight of slender masts and yards soaring above the mean roofs. Among them would be L’Aurore, his command and his love-his true home.

The orders that had come so soon after the wedding had been blunt about the need for dispatch. Kydd wasted no time in calling upon the port admiral and received his pack for the coming voyage, as well as yet more letters and messages imploring a place on his quarterdeck as midshipman for a son, a nephew, others-all begging for a chance to ship with the now famous frigate captain.

It wasn’t so very long ago, in dear old Teazer, that he’d been snubbed by those who believed a captain who’d come aft the hard way not really the thing but now, it seemed, it was quite another situation.

Kydd had his views about a lean and hungry frigate being overrun with youngsters, and although he could ship up to six midshipmen, he’d settled for just another two.

One was William Clinch. Kydd had received a dignified letter from a Mr Jarman, sailing master of Ramillies 74 of the North Sea Squadron. Even before he had begun to read he remembered the lowly merchant-service sailing master of Seaflower cutter who had taken Able Seaman Tom Kydd and taught him his figuring, as well as how to use a sextant and work up a position. It had been his first step to the glory of the quarterdeck and he still had the man’s worn octant, presented to him in admiration after a difficult open-boat voyage.

Jarman had written on behalf of the only son of his sister, who desperately wanted to go to sea, like his uncle, but unless interest could be found he would necessarily have to ship before the mast. In painfully crafted phrases it was implied that Kydd’s sound grounding in seamanship that he’d learned in Seaflower would ensure his nephew received a prime nautical education.

The wording of the other request that he’d acceded to could not have been more different. It had come from Boyd, the urbane and patrician flag-captain, now a retired admiral, who had taken Kydd, the raw sloop captain, aside in the fearful days of Bonaparte’s plans for invasion before Trafalgar, to give him his first lessons in strategics for a naval officer. In mellifluous prose, Boyd warmly complimented Kydd on his honours and begged he might oblige him extremely by taking up his godson, Josiah Willock, his own circumstances being a family of daughters only.

L’Aurore had completed her refit, not a lengthy one as it was still less than two years since she had left dock in this very place just before Trafalgar. She now lay at anchor in Spithead and Kydd begged a dockyard launch to go out to her.

As always, it was a deep satisfaction to approach her from seaward and admire her elegant lines.

The boatman’s hail back was practised and sure. It sparked instant activity on deck and Kydd feigned not to notice as a full side-party was assembled and the boatswain summoned from below, the officer-of-the-watch with his telescope watching anxiously.

The launch curved round, oars tossed smartly, and the bowman hooked on at the main-chains.

L’Aurore’s captain had arrived to resume his command.

After the peal of the boatswain’s call had died away, Curzon stepped forward and removed his hat. “Sir Thomas-and I know I speak for the entire ship’s company of L’Aurore-welcome back aboard!”

Kydd had taken in the trim appearance of his vessel, the spotless decks with not a line from aloft out of place. Considering that he was not yet expected, this spoke volumes for the care she had been given.

“The first lieutenant?” he prompted.

“Not aboard, sir,” Curzon said, adding respectfully, “Do we have orders for sea, Sir Thomas?”

“As shall be made known to you all, just as soon as my dunnage is struck aboard.”

The sound of the call had brought others on deck. Bowden came up and gave a bow of respect. “My deepest sensibility of your elevation, Sir Thomas,” he said warmly. “And I-”

He was interrupted by a sudden noise from forward. The fo’c’slemen, stealthily lined up on the foredeck with their caps in their hands, broke into a masculine roar with “See the Conquering Hero Comes!”

From these old sailors it was a deeply affecting honour and Kydd removed his hat and waited while they finished.

Going below, the peace and orderliness of his quarters reached out to him. Tysoe, his valet, came up to remove his boat-cloak and accoutrements.

“A right handsome job you’ve done here, Tysoe.”

“Thank you, Sir Thomas. I’m happy to be of service to you.”

There was a faint fragrance of lavender and beeswax and the cabin spaces were spotless.

Kydd suppressed a sigh. In their relatively short commission he had been fortunate in his ship’s company. Originally pressed from an inward-bound frigate just arrived back in England, they had overcome their sullen resistance in the fires of Trafalgar and the two supporting actions following, and now were a tried and true weapon forged from the very best.

“Pass the word. Officers and warrant officers in my cabin in one bell.”

They arrived with suspicious promptness.

“Before I begin, I’ll have your reports. Mr Curzon, if you please?”

It was all very satisfactory: the ship had left dock six days ago and had readied for sea. Not under sailing orders, she was under watch for liberty, and omitting stragglers-those locally adrift from leave less than three days-there had been only two desertions. Storing and victualling must await orders before a line of expenditure could be opened, but in all other respects L’Aurore was trim and taut in her particulars.

“Thank you, Mr Curzon. The first lieutenant still not aboard?”

“Ah.” Curzon smothered a grin as he glanced at the others. “Soon after you left for London he received news he was promoted commander into Fly, sloop o’ war. He begged to be remembered to you but thought it proper to take up his command directly.”

There were knowing looks about the table.

Kydd guessed what had happened. “So it was a right gleesome frolic he had that night?”

“As required the watch to be turned out to carry him ashore, Sir Thomas.”

Kydd chuckled. His tarpaulin first lieutenant had at last achieved his greatest wish-command. It was, of course, a gesture to Kydd, promotion out of the ship of his first lieutenant, but Gilbey wouldn’t care about why: he could now eventually retire from the service a sea captain, not a lowly lieutenant, and with all the honour and veneration that that description commanded ashore.

“So we’re short a first lieutenant.”

There was an instant quiet: what followed could be either the introduction of a tyrannous new first lieutenant imposed from the outside or the wholesale promotion of the existing officer complement-or anything in between.

“Before we go on, I’d like to make something clear. I thank you all for your warm wishes on my … good fortune. Yet I’m an old-fashioned sort and I’d rather you keep the ‘Sir Thomas’ for shore-side. Aboard L’Aurore I’d be satisfied with being addressed in the usual sea-kindly fashion.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Then we’ll proceed. Without we have a first, we cannot put to sea, and in course I’ve petitioned the Admiralty to provide one. And they have.”

He watched their faces. He’d only known their lordships’ pleasure in the orders he’d picked up from the flag-lieutenant earlier that morning.

“You should know that our new premier will be taking up his duties this very day, I’m told.”

There were significant glances about the table.

“What’s his name, sir?” asked Curzon, carefully. Hard characters were legendary and life could suddenly turn very difficult.

“His name? Why, Curzon is his name.”

“You mean … ?”

“I do, sir. You are now the first of L’Aurore.”

Curzon’s widening smile told it all. If the frigate was fortunate in action, and L’Aurore invariably was, he, too, could look to a promotion out of her-at the least to a substantial sloop command or possibly to a flagship directly under the eye of a commander-in-chief.

“Then …” the third lieutenant dared.

“Yes, Mr Bowden. You are now second lieutenant.”

There was relief, satisfaction and exulting all round.

“And for our new third, it will be a Mr Brice, whom I’d like you to welcome in the usual way.”

“Have you word of our deploying, sir?”

Kydd hesitated. They would know soon enough and there was no easy way to break it to them. The far-ranging frigate of Cape Town and Caribbean fame was headed to a much different place.

He’d treasured the oblique offer from the first lord to remove from L’Aurore into another, larger, command but had felt reluctant to leave his pretty little frigate. He had to concede, however, that she was looking increasingly old-fashioned, and her slight twelve-pounder main armament was the lightest in the establishment.

But she was L’Aurore-his first ship as a post-captain, a frigate command, whose dainty and sometimes whimsical ways he had come to know and respect.

“We’re to join Admiral Collingwood in the blockade of Cadiz.”

“Blockade?” Curzon’s groan was echoed around the table.

“Yes! And an honour for all that,” Kydd said sharply. “The Mediterranean squadron, Nelson’s own command. And we, a light frigate, can count on action a-plenty, I’d wager. The closest inshore reconnaissance, and as the fastest ship, we’ll not lack for interesting voyages with the most important dispatches, I’ll remind you.”

“So … not much chance of-”

“And if you think yourselves hard done by, then as you bask in our southern sunshine, Mr Curzon, do take thought for our brothers keeping the seas off Brest in damnably ugly winter Atlantic blows.”

There could be no answer to that.

“Very well. We’ve orders to put to sea without delay. Mr Curzon will ready his watch and station bill and we’ll begin storing against these orders in the forenoon tomorrow.

“Yes, Mr Kendall?”

The sailing master rubbed his chin. “Charts f’r where, sir?”

“Iberian coast, Gib, western Med-I don’t fancy we’ll be elsewhere in a hurry.”

The meeting broke up in a buzz of expectation. Resting peacefully at anchor off the fleshpots of Portsmouth was all very well, but there was a war to win and distinction to be gained out where L’Aurore belonged-at sea.

“Do sit down, Mr Brice,” Kydd said mildly, regarding his new third lieutenant.

He was young but of a very different stamp from Bowden.

There was no trace of the social refinements, the confident ease of the well-born. Not with those hard lines about his mouth, the controlled tension. The look he returned was guarded but direct.

“What then was your last ship?”

“Raven, brig-sloop. Sir.” He had a northern burr, and there was no relaxing of the watchful gaze.

“Oh?”

“Leith, east-coast patrols, some Baltic convoys.” Kydd nodded: a small ship perpetually at sea in the often ferocious conditions of the North Sea, a thankless and dangerous existence but a priceless schooling in seamanship. That the man had not tried to make something of it to his new captain was curious, though.

Was this the taciturn attitude to be seen in some tarpaulin officers, those whose origins were from before the mast, like Gilbey, who felt the need to assert a salty distinction to set them apart from the usual well-born officer class?

“Do you have experience as a common seaman at all?” Kydd enquired carefully.

“I beg pardon, sir?”

“That is to say, did you come aft through the hawse, so to speak?”

“I did not.” The reply was instant and defensive.

“As I did myself,” Kydd added casually, before asking, “Your service previous to that?”

“Midshipman, Triumph, North American station. Master’s mate and lieutenant in Boadicea, the same, sir.”

“So this is your first frigate.”

“Sir.”

There was something unsettling about his manner, which raised a niggling question. Just how had one from such an undistinguished background landed one of what must be the most sought-after lieutenancies in the service? He had seen no major battles, had served no top-flight admirals. It must therefore have been the workings of “interest,” the favour of a higher power who had exercised preferment on his behalf.

“You’ve done well, if I might remark it, Mr Brice. Tell me, is there any who do take a special concern in your career? Who-”

“Would you wish to see my commission, Sir Thomas?” Brice said tightly.

“No, no. I merely wished to get some idea of your background. Time presses-I believe for now I will second you to Mr Bowden until we are more sure of you.”

Kydd leaned back, considering. Why was his new third lieutenant not more anxious to please? This was a plum appointment: why was he not more … joyful?

“Will that be all, sir?” The tone was even and polite, but it was unsmiling, tense.

“Mr Brice. This is a happy ship and we’ve had adventures aboard together that must satisfy any. If you desire it, your place in our band will be professionally rewarding and personally gratifying-if you make it so by a whole-hearted commitment to L’Aurore, your ship and her company.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I do welcome you aboard, Mr Brice.”

There were two others joining L’Aurore. He was very busy but the least he could do was cast an eye over them.

“Pass the word for Midshipmen Clinch and Willock.”

It was some time before they appeared, breathless and wide-eyed.

“So. My two young gentlemen. Which one is Clinch?”

They were both so young-mere children in fancy-dress.

“S-sir.” The boy clutched his absurdly large cocked hat under his arm and stood awkwardly in his brand-new uniform. His eyes were a startling blue and seemed so innocent.

“Welcome aboard, Mr Clinch. Your sea service, sir.”

There was hasty fumbling inside his waistcoat and a paper was produced. It was a certificate of service for two years as a first-class volunteer in an Irish Sea dispatch cutter.

“Well, unusual sea-time but acceptable for all that. What were your ports-of-call generally?”

The boy stood in mute horror until it dawned on Kydd. “Ah, this is book-time, not sea-time, I gather.”

The lad nodded miserably, unable to speak, for at that moment his sea career could well be brought to an end. Regulations were that none could be rated midshipman without two years prior sea service. It was commonly flouted by the device of having the child’s name entered on a ship’s book while still at school, a course so widespread that Nelson himself had thought nothing of practising it. The crime was not so much in the false muster of the books, but in the venality of drawing pay for a fictitious boy.

“So you’ll need to try double-tides to earn your place on my quarterdeck,” Kydd said gruffly.

“Sir,” he whispered. Touchingly, the child’s relief had nearly brought him to tears.

Kydd turned to the other. “Right. Well, you must be Willock.”

“I am, Sir Thomas.” The cultured accent would endear him to Curzon but would be a sad liability to him in the gun-room.

“And your sea service?”

The boy blushed. “Um, none that would stand with a frigate.”

“Well, what ship, then?”

“Squirrel, sir.”

“I can’t say I can bring her to mind. What rate is she?”

The boy hesitated, then blurted, red-faced, “Tender to Royal William, s-sir.”

“Tender to a guardship?” Kydd said, aghast. It would be unlikely that the little craft would even have left Portsmouth harbour, tied to such a virtual hulk. He then realised that this was his admiral godfather, doing just the same thing as Jarman.

“Then no sea-time for you either, younker?”

The boy hung his head.

“Clinch-how old are you? Say up, and no stretchers!”

“Oh, fourteen, sir.”

With that childish voice?

Kydd snapped back, “What year were you born in, pray?”

“Th-that would be seventeen and ninety-three,” he stammered, after a pause.

“The year they did for King Louis?”

“Oh, did they?”

They were caught out and he found himself facing a child of eleven and another of twelve.

He had to make up his mind: a midshipman was rated as a petty officer and had a place on both the watch bill and at quarters and was expected to pull his weight with the men. These were under-age for a midshipman, even if it was only by a year or two, but that counted when in a position of authority, taking charge of a crew of hardened man-of-war’s men.

But then he recalled the slow-talking but meticulous Jarman patiently explaining the requisite tables to the eager young seaman he had once been. Without doubt he and his sister were anxiously waiting for word-and he hadn’t the heart to send the boy back. Besides, he had the look of a sailor and-who knew?-he might do well in a happy ship like L’Aurore.

And if he accepted one and turned away the other …

“I’m not pleased you’ve flammed me this way,” he harrumphed. “We’re a crack frigate, not a nursery. I should turn you both down, send you back to your mothers, do you hear?”

They stood rigid, their childish faces pale.

He let it sink in, then said sternly, “But I’m minded to give you a chance. Should you faithfully promise to me that you’ll bend your best efforts, night and day, to hoist inboard the elements of your profession in double-quick time, then there’s a berth as midshipman for each of you in L’Aurore.”

“We promise, sir!” they chorused ecstatically.

“So get your dunnage below, then report to master’s mate Calloway. Smartly now!”

They scurried away.

A wartime frigate on active service could see them without any warning in fearfully dangerous waters or under savage fire from the enemy. Was it fair to thrust a child into such peril when their school-friends were still at their books and games?

It was the way of the Navy. There were ship’s boys aboard L’Aurore who were still younger, one nine years old, who had been a whole voyage in her. They had found, among other things, that there was nowhere to hide in a ship-of-war but they had taken to the life-these lads, no doubt, would too.

He turned back to his work.

The next morning, amid all the bustle of storing ship, it was time to take stock. He was more than satisfied with the way L’Aurore was readying herself for sea. At this rate he could look to a departure the day after next, presuming the powder barges were alongside at the time promised.

“How’s the watch and station bill proceeding, Mr Curzon?” he asked the distracted first lieutenant.

The evolution of turning to the entire ship’s company for the task of victualling would be taxing enough for any brand new first lieutenant, without the added burden of the careful assignment of stations to every man. Each must know what was required of him, not only at quarters in battle but in all-hands exercises like coming to anchor-as well as his routine part-of-ship and station for watch-keeping.

It needed fine judgement to ensure there was an equal balance of skill in both watches but Curzon was starting with a crew he knew intimately and a ship that was already in commission, and if it cost him midnight oil, well, that had ever been the lot of a first lieutenant.

Later in the morning L’Aurore was visited by a respectful young officer. He was piped aboard by Boatswain Oakley, for he was the captain of his own ship.

“Lawson, Sir Thomas. Lieutenant-in-command Weazel, brig-o’-war.”

In the privacy of his cabin Kydd found out the reason for his coming. “We’ve a Mediterranean convoy scheduled to sail, sir. I’m senior officer escorts, and I’ve just been advised by the admiral that you’ll be accompanying us to Gibraltar.”

“Oh? I’ve yet to decide our sailing date, let alone our dispositions for the voyage.”

“The admiral assures us that should we await your pleasure, our escort will be greatly increased by your presence.”

“When did he tell you this?”

The young man had the grace to blush. “Perhaps an hour ago, sir.”

He had obviously found out L’Aurore’s deploying and had had the initiative to go to the admiral with a request. Just as he would have done, Kydd had to admit.

“What’s your number?”

“Ourselves, two cutters and a schooner. In the convoy, thirty-eight merchantmen.”

No wonder the lad had jumped at the chance: this was what it was to have prevailed at Trafalgar. Convoys worth millions were now being sent into the open ocean with the flimsiest protection, for had not the French been driven from the seas? It was a dangerous presumption and might one day cost the Treasury far more than any additional escorts.

“Very well. We’ll sail together.”

Kydd knew what was coming next, and waited for it.

“You being much the senior, Sir Thomas, you will, of course, have the honour of commanding the convoy.”

“Not at all,” Kydd came back. “The honour remains with Weazel and your own good self.” There was no way he would take on the onerous task of maintaining the convoy paperwork-signals, identification vanes, sailing diagrams and the like-the inevitable consequence of having issued his own orders.

“Thank you, sir.”

“At sea I shall be under your orders, Mr Lawson, and if we fall in with an enemy you will dispose of this frigate as you see fit.”

“Why, sir, if-”

“The convoy is your responsibility. And responsibility without command is an impossibility, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll be employing the Channel Squadron’s signal book?”

“Sir.”

“Then we’re in agreement. Kindly send across a copy of your convoy sailing-order folder, if you please, and I’ll undertake to give you twelve hours’ notice of our readiness to proceed.”

“That would be appreciated, Sir Thomas.”

It would be even more so by the merchant captains whose ships would be consuming stores while they idled at anchor.

“I’ve a notion we’ll be at sea the day after tomorrow. Good day to you, Mr Lawson.”

Storing complete, the powder barges were summoned and, with very great care, the copper-banded barrels were swayed aboard and stowed snugly in the magazines in the bowels of the ship.

That evening Kydd saw fit to declare himself at twelve hours’ notice to sail.

The last hours of a ship in her home port were always bittersweet. In the excitement of the outward bound every man in her also realised that, once anchor was weighed and sail set abroad, there was no longer any chance to provide for himself for the months-or years-to come within the wooden bounds of his sea world.

Small comforts in the misery of stormy night watches made all the difference: seal-fur warmers to slip under tarpaulin jackets, patent nostrums for chilblains, neat little sewing kits, an illegal Crown and Anchor throwing mat and dice, and other distractions, all eased a hard sea life.

Officers needed to ensure they were well stocked in reading matter, spare dress uniform accoutrements, perhaps a pistol, a pack of cards, a pocket spyglass, sketching gear or a private journal.

For Kydd it was also the laying in of cabin stores, having on hand pickled or canned delicacies and tracklements for entertaining important visitors aboard. A married officer would come well provided with touches a woman’s practical sense could produce: a lovingly embroidered cot quilt, an extra-long muffler, a dozen hand-stitched shirts. Fortunately Kydd’s valet, Tysoe, had spent most of his adult life at sea and could be relied upon in the article of personal comforts.

Their last night was an active time for those who could get ashore, but by nine the following morning the last boat was returning with newspapers, a small sack of mail-and a new addition to the frigate’s company.

Dillon pulled his cloak more tightly around him-it was so unexpectedly raw and blustery out here on the open water, away from the shelter of hedgerows and buildings. Here the wind ran wild and unconstrained, a metaphor perhaps for the freedom of the high seas.

It was really only a short pull from the Sally Port to the anchored frigate L’Aurore across the legendary stretch of water called Spithead, but he was already shivering; whether from the excitement that gripped him or the keen cold, he couldn’t say.

It really was exhilarating: here he was, in a ship’s longboat, hard-faced seamen at the oars glancing at him curiously, the young officer at the tiller barking orders, like a captain. And they were on their way to go aboard the crack frigate that had been so recently in the newspapers, with its famous captain, Sir Thomas Kydd.

He couldn’t take his eyes off the trim ship, sitting low in the water but with a pent-up grace that told of speed and aggression, much like a panther. The lofty rigging and spars were of an impossible complexity but for some reason added a sense of mission, of purpose, and the blue, white and gold of the figurehead under the bow gave a pleasing touch of humanity. And at the end of the ship a large flag, the ensign of Great Britain’s Royal Navy.

They drew nearer; there were figures on deck moving, the glitter of gold lace on one, and suddenly they were alongside the black, varnished ship’s side. Orders rapped out and they hooked on next to a set of steps and he was helped up to land staggering on the open deck.

Men were hurrying everywhere but here and there groups were conversing and watching others. He spotted gold stripes and an important cocked hat on one and went over.

“Captain Sir Thomas Kydd? May I introduce myself-”

“Who’s this idiot?” spluttered the harassed first lieutenant. “We’re putting to sea! Get him off my deck until we’ve time to deal with him.”

The mate-of-the-watch hurried over. “You there! What’s your business, then?”

“Oh, well, I’m expected. The captain,” he answered, leaping out of the way of a line of seamen clapping on to a rope in a hearty pull.

“What do you mean, fellow? You’re volunteering for this ship?”

“Why, yes. You didn’t really think that in my place I’m taken by the press-gang against my will?” He felt pleased that he seemed to be holding his own among these old shellbacks.

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?

“Simmonds!” he called over to one of the seamen. “Take him below to your mess and sit him down. He’s not to move until we’re at sea and stood down from stations. We’ll see if anyone’s got time for him then.”

“And my baggage, if you please.”

“Baggage?” said the mate-of-the-watch in amazement.

“Aye, sir. Still in the boat,” the coxswain intervened, with a twisted smile. Few volunteers had anything beyond a small bundle.

“Very well, get it in,” Bowden said impatiently. “We’ll sort it all out later.”

Dillon was hurried below, sat at a mess-table and told firmly to stay there.

In the gloom, hearing the anonymous thuds, rumbles and squeaks as the ship prepared to meet the sea once again, for the first time he felt doubt. Had he done the right thing to exchange the security and comfort of his position at Eskdale Hall for this?

L’Aurore’s pulse quickened. Boats were stowed on their skids, lines laid for running, and the age-old mingled exhilaration and apprehension of the outward bound mounted.

Signal flags rose and snapped in the stiff breeze and stations for unmooring were piped.

Captain Kydd came on deck and sniffed the wind appreciatively. “Nor’easterly, Mr Kendall. Fair for the Channel for once.”

“It is, Sir Thomas,” said the sailing master. “Yet I have it in my bones it could freshen a mite.”

“How’s the convoy?” he demanded of Bowden.

“Fair, sir. Still sorting themselves by the look of it.” Off Shag Rock there was a cloud of sail, as usual in a hopeless tangle. Once in the open sea, the chaos would diminish as it always did.

“Then I believe we’ll not delay further. Carry on, Mr Curzon-take her out.”

The new first lieutenant licked his lips nervously. “Aye aye, sir,” he managed.

There was the anchor to be won, sail to be spread at just the proper moment-and the correct quartermaster at the wheel, top-men in place, fo’c’sle party under the right petty officers to cat and fish the anchor in time, all the outworking of his painful hours at the watch and station bill, which would now be tested to the full.

At the side of the quarterdeck stood the two new midshipmen trying to look important but clearly nervous and excited. Kydd hardened his heart-they’d better not let him down.

Under eye from his captain, the sailing master and a prudent boatswain, Curzon’s manoeuvre was successfully completed and the frigate stood away. She passed the milling sail and, in a fine show, leaned to the wind for the open sea where, as agreed, she would deter by her presence any lurking predators watching for a chance.

The wind was keen and fair and Kydd saw no reason why they shouldn’t make good time in the voyage south. He glanced up at the expanse of curving sail, his pennant streaming away to leeward, and felt a lifting of the heart-he was back where he belonged.

Eight bells sounded forward: the forenoon watch closed up and the morning watch went to breakfast. Sea routine had begun.

Reluctantly he quit the deck and went below for his own meal. As he ate alone he was suddenly touched by melancholy. Before, Renzi and he had started their day together with intelligent conversation between equals, friends. Now he was as most other captains were, solitary grandee at the pinnacle of the hierarchy where, by definition, he had no equal to unburden himself to or seek opinion from on a course of action.

He had long since not needed Renzi’s guidance and advice in the social graces. While his friend’s erudite observations on the world’s condition had always been appreciated, he had now to make his own discovery of how higher matters were concluded, take his decisions unaided.

But, more than anything, he was putting to sea without his dear friend and he felt a poignant twist.

Life had to go on, but he gave a small smile at the thought that at this very moment Renzi-the Earl of Farndon-would be sitting down to a lordly breakfast with Cecilia. An even bigger life-change for him, no doubt.

He finished his coffee and resumed the deck. The convoy had nearly completed forming up, four columns with nine merchantmen in each, backing and filling while the last found their place, shepherded by the distraught antics of the escort.

At last the head marker ships let fly their pennants and the convoy got under way-down Channel.

“Station astern of the convoy, Mr Bowden. Eyes on Weazel, any trouble let me know instantly.”

“Station astern, Weazel senior, aye aye, sir.”

He turned to go but was stopped by Curzon. “Sir Thomas, I-”

“Belay that, if you please.”

“Sir? Oh, yes. Well, sir, there’s one of the volunteers insisting he’s to see you. I do apologise, but he was most insistent. Unusual sort of chap.”

“Very well. In my cabin in ten minutes.”

Dillon was shown in briskly. In trepidation he looked about him. It was a spacious but neat cabin, stretching right across the deck, with a fine set of ornamental windows at the end. A handsome escritoire stood up against the opposite end, and the domestic touches were masculine and spare.

“Leave him with you, sir?”

“Yes, carry on.

“You’re a volunteer. What is your objection to service in this vessel?” Kydd snapped.

Dillon straightened. “You are the captain, sir?” The officer had a taut, unforgiving air, with more gold lace than the others, albeit somewhat sea-tarnished, and dark, strong looks. He had to be the famous and recently elevated hero of Curacao-and Dillon was daring to put himself forward as his personal secretary?

“I am.”

“Sir Thomas Kydd?”

“Yes.”

“Then I beg to introduce myself. Edward Dillon, lately in the employ of the Earl of Farndon.”

He essayed a bow-but this was no drawing-room introduction; the hard lines in the captain’s features indicated he was not one to waste time on vanities.

“Sir, I have a letter from the earl.”

Dillon handed it across. There was no change in the flinty expression as it was read. He knew what was in it: with pronouncements of complete trust, there was a mild suggestion that in his character were the attributes to be expected of a confidential secretary sufficient to render him a suitable candidate for the post.

He found it hard to take his eyes from the man who had been knighted not for courtly toadying but for a battle won with blood and courage. This was a man of a kind he had never in his life met before and it was intimidating.

Kydd put the letter down and looked at him. “You know his lordship was the previous occupant of this post?”

“He did tell me something of it, yes, sir.”

“What makes you think that you can fill his shoes, hey?”

“Sir, only the undoubted fact that he himself did so put me forward for the position.”

Kydd’s expression eased fractionally at the reply.

“You were confidential secretary at Eskdale, then?”

“Under-secretary, Sir Thomas.”

“Did Renzi … that is, did Lord Farndon inform you that service at sea is quite another thing? No soft shore-side ways, damned uncomfortable at times and always a job of work to do to annoy the enemy. No passengers in a king’s ship, Mr Dillon.”

“His lordship was also at pains to point out to me that the deck of a man-o’-war is a sovereign perspective from which to learn of the world, Sir Thomas.”

“That’s as may be,” Kydd snapped. “Now, a confidential secretary to the captain of a warship has to learn many novel things-it takes time. What assurance do I have that you’ll stay the course?”

Dillon paused. “May I then tell you something of myself?”

“Go on, but make it brief.”

“My father is a lawyer of some eminence in the Inns of Court and desired me to go up to Oxford to pursue law, which was not altogether in my reckoning. After my bachelor degree we agreed that I needed time to consider the matter while experiencing something of the world. My post at Eskdale seemed to answer, touching as it does on matters both confidential and complex in law, satisfying my father and at the same time allowing me to pursue my first interest, which is modern languages.”

“I cannot see how-”

“Sir, bear with me. For its convenience to myself I agreed to serve for a period of some years, which the present Lord Farndon was kind enough to remit, providing my service and loyalty remained with his old ship. Sir, if you’ll take me, I will stay.”

“Hmm. So you have a good round hand at the pen, can hoist in the meaning of a paragraph of legal cant, express yourself clearly?”

The glare was unsettling but Dillon came back strongly. “That you may rely upon, Sir Thomas.”

Kydd hesitated, then leaned back, regarding him for a space. “This is a hard thing for me, Dillon. The post of confidential secretary to the commander of a man-o’-war, especially one of the significance of L’Aurore, is considerable. It’s to be made privy to confidences affecting the lives of those aboard my vessel and possibly those of national importance. I must be sure you’re the man for it.”

Dillon waited politely as Kydd considered.

“Very well. I’ve a mind to take you on. Temporary acting rate as it were, subject to stout performance at the pen and so forth.”

“Thank you, Sir Thomas. I’ll endeavour to give full satisfaction.”

“Good.” He suddenly gave a quizzical smile. “And I’ve another duty as will see you well occupied while you shape up in your role.

“As you’re acting secretary only, as it were, there’s a post aboard you’re eminently suited to fill. That of schoolmaster to the young gentlemen. They’ll muster daily to receive your lessons in figuring, history and French, that sort of thing. I’ll not have ’em leading a heathen existence while there’s a learned cove aboard to teach ’em otherwise.”

“Very well, Sir Thomas.”

“So-you’re on my staff as of this moment, subject to review. You’re on the ship’s muster roll as schoolmaster and you’ll mess in the gun-room with the officers. Your duties will be explained to you later.”

The hard expression returned. “Mr Dillon, you’ve a lot to take in, and a short time to do it. Settle into your cabin now. Tomorrow morning Mr Calloway will stand by as you learn your larboard from your starboard. In the afternoon we’ll have the ship’s clerk, Mr Goffin, explain how we conduct our affairs.”

Almost absent-mindedly, he added, “And on the first night at sea we generally have dinner together, a get-to-know-you sort of thing.”

Then he looked up grimly. “You’ll stand with the warrant officers, share a servant with the purser. Should you fail to satisfy you’ll be landed at Gibraltar for shipping back. Clear?”

Dillon swallowed nervously. There were those at Eskdale who would take great satisfaction in an inglorious return.

“Yes, Sir Thomas.”

He summoned Tysoe. “Kindly conduct this gentleman below and inform Mr Curzon that I’m now possessed of a new confidential secretary and the ship has a schoolmaster.”

At his curt dismissal Dillon left awkwardly, following the valet down a hatchway to a bewildering world of polished doors and a long table; this was apparently the gun-room where he would sleep and mess. His luggage was piled outside his cabin, which was impossibly small.

The convoy sailed on uneventfully westward, and as the last dog-watch mustered and darkness fell, canvas was shortened to topsails, and leading lights began twinkling in every ship’s rigging. Weazel surged alongside to hail a goodnight.

Kydd entered his great cabin when all had assembled at the table. His officers scrambled to their feet.

“It’s right good to see you, Sir Thomas!” Bowden said, with unaffected pleasure. “On this our first night of the commission.”

“Hear him,” others echoed.

Kydd took his place at the head, looking down with unfeigned pleasure at the familiar faces-and those of Brice to his left, and at the junior end, Dillon, sitting apprehensively with the boatswain and gunner.

“Mr Curzon is not … ?”

“He wishes to express his disappointment at not being able to attend but feels it his duty to remain on deck at this time.”

It left Bowden and Brice free to take pleasure in their evening.

Tysoe moved forward unobtrusively to fill Kydd’s wine glass, the servants behind each chair taking their cue.

“Then let us rejoice in our good fortune,” Kydd said loudly. “A well-found ship, good company and the Dons to provide for our entertainment later!”

Glasses were raised amid happy shouts of approval.

“And here’s to our new shipmates,” he added. “Mr Brice! To your good health and fortune in L’Aurore!”

The man’s tense expression barely eased as he raised his own glass in answer and sipped sparingly, his eyes watchful.

“Do relate something of your sea service,” Kydd prompted. This was a chance to unbend, to regale his new messmates with well-polished yarns and emerge as an individual.

“As I told you, sir. Out of Leith in Raven, brig-sloop. North Sea, the Baltic.”

“Come, come, sir. You’re much too modest. We here know a trifle of what it is to be in the North Sea in dirty weather. And your Baltic convoy-I’ve heard numbers of above two hundred mentioned. How is this possible with so few escorts?”

“You may believe we did our duty, sir.”

“You’ve smelt powder on occasion, surely.”

“Some action, sir, yes.” He took another sip of his wine.

“Good God! You’re with friends now, Mr Brice. Can you not speak of your service to us?”

“Three French corvettes on Dogger Bank and we with a forty-sail convoy. We saw them off over three days.”

The man’s wariness was unsettling.

“’Pon my soul, but you’re a tight fellow with your words,” Kydd said, in mock exasperation. “Yet we’ll have it out of you before long.”

He looked directly down the table. “And here we have Mr Edward Dillon, my pro tem confidential secretary following the elevation of Mr Renzi and about to take up his duties. Here’s to you, sir, and may your time in L’Aurore be a happy one!”

“Th-thank you, Sir Thomas. I’ll strive to win your approval.”

“And that’ll be a hard beat t’ windward, I’m thinking,” the sailing master, Kendall, muttered, addressing his glass.

“How so?” Clinton, the Royal Marine lieutenant, asked mildly.

“In course he’s a-following in Mr Renzi’s footsteps.”

“Ah. That I can see,” he answered, nodding wisely.

“Aye, and a rare hand, him, wi’ his learning an’ such.”

“Not forgetting his undoubted talents in the article of intelligence ashore,” Bowden added respectfully.

“Always to be relied on t’ tip us the griff on any foreign moil.”

“And a taut hand wi’ a blade an’ all.”

“Remember ’im in Corfu? Coming it the Russky, then gets the Frogs to hand over their papers?” Oakley chortled. “Heard they’s all a-tremble as he tells ’em to!”

“And there was Curacao,” Bowden said, in admiration. “And Marie-Galante. I don’t rightly know what he was about, but the admiral seemed mightily pleased at the end of it all.”

Dillon blinked nervously. “I-I really can’t say that-”

“Pay no mind to them, Mr Dillon,” Kydd said kindly. “Your duties will not include adventures such as Mr Renzi had, have no fear about that.”

The morning dawned cold and damp but the dark shapes of the convoy columns continued to lumber on ahead, a quick reckoning telling that none had strayed during the night. Familiar routine had the watch-on-deck about their duties and looking forward to their burgoo.

“Mr Calloway?”

“Sir?”

“You aren’t planning on making Mr Dillon’s day more confusing than it already is for him, are you?”

“What, me, sir?” the crestfallen young man answered.

“Yes, you, sir. I’ve a need for that gentleman’s services in the shortest possible time and it’s your job to see he takes inboard his nauticals at the gallop. None o’ your tricks with finding the key to the starboard watch or how to swing a sky hook, you rascal. Just show him the ship’s main particulars and have him speaking some sea lingo that makes sense. Compree?”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“And our newest reefers?”

“A useless pair, sir, but they’ll shape up, or I’ll know the reason why.” Calloway had himself started sea life as a runaway waif and clearly had his views about mollycoddled young gentlemen.

“Piping the eye, homesick both. They’re together in Mr Bowden’s watch. I dare say he knows how to teach ’em their duty,” Calloway added.

Dillon arrived, clutching a large notebook and pencil, and wearing a suitably studious expression.

“This is master’s mate Calloway, Mr Dillon. He’s to teach you the essentials, which I trust you’ll absorb in quick time.”

“You’ll not find me wanting in application, Sir Thomas. Mr Calloway?”

Kydd found quickly that he did indeed have a call for a secretary-in fact, a sore need.

Barely into their voyage there were so many papers at his desk clamouring for his attention. In the course of things, Renzi would discreetly have sorted them for priority and importance before ever he saw them, flagging those needing thought and deliberation as opposed to the “requiring signature” rained on him by an officious ship’s clerk.

It was too much to expect of his new man at this stage, and as well there were confidential matters that he’d have to handle himself until there was sufficient trust. He was becoming acutely aware that the task, with its complexity and delicacy, was not one for a temporary jobbing secretary. He needed one who would grow into the job and see it as a long-term prospect.

Was Dillon the man to take it on? His talk of seeing the world might be satisfied in full by the time they reached Gibraltar and Kydd would have to look for another. With Dillon’s romantic notions it was not an impossible prospect.

Moodily, he gazed down the deck forward where the watch was bending on a fore-topgallant. A routine procedure, furling and sending down the old sail for repair first, it still required skill and timing. It was Brice in charge at the foot of the mast and Kydd stopped to watch.

The boatswain had immediate control of the men on the yard and Brice was standing impassive, letting Oakley and the topmen get on with it. This was a good sign, demonstrating his understanding of the intermeshing authority of petty officers and men, whose trusting interdependence could so easily be perturbed by interference from the outside.

Once, he had spotted a fouled clew-line block out of sight of the boatswain; with crisp, efficient orders he had dealt with it and returned authority to the boatswain immediately. The officer’s seamanship was faultless, no doubt the result of the close-quarter responsibilities he’d have encountered in his small brig in stormy waters. Given a good report from Bowden, he’d have him take full officer-of-the-watch duties earlier rather than later.

A hail from the masthead told of landfall.

Ushant. The strategic hinge point of France where ships for the Mediterranean and further south turned sharply left; those to the New World set out on the long beat into the broad Atlantic.

It was a point of convergence for ships of every nation leaving Europe or inward-bound from overseas to the great ports of the north-and therefore a prime target for privateers of all flags.

In a well-escorted convoy, they had little to fear from those vermin but such a concentration of wealth was a tempting prize. Any stragglers would be set upon without mercy and, as if knowing this, the convoy seemed to huddle even closer.

“Yes, Mr Dillon, that’s France, and on that little grey island are some of Napoleon’s finest, with cannon and muskets enough to fire into us and do us harm.”

The young man had come up and was staring across the sea with an intense fascination at the first foreign shore he had seen, and that of the enemy to boot.

The wind still in the north, it couldn’t have been fairer for the long stretch across the Bay of Biscay to Spain and around to Gibraltar.

The far-off grey island was momentarily hidden by the white of a line-squall of rain, and when it reappeared it was appreciably further along as they passed it.

Since those days long past when, in Teazer, these were home waters, Kydd had always felt unease at passing through this foremost hunting ground for sea predators anywhere in the world. The sooner they made the open sea of the deeply indented Bay of Biscay the better he’d like it.

It was not to be.

With the craggy island abeam, a trap was sprung. From the sheltered lobster-claw-shaped inlet of Lampaul Bay sail was sighted emerging-and more, still more-on a direct course to intercept.

Kydd snatched Curzon’s telescope and steadied on the sight. Still some five miles away but in a perfect situation were at least two corvettes and a cloud of lesser craft, possibly privateers, and any number of the inshore vessels the French were employing in ever-increasing numbers to take the war to the British.

It was well conceived: the same northeasterly that was bearing the convoy southward was being used against it, for as it passed the island the crowding hunters would fall in astern of it-to windward, where they could harry the slower merchantmen at will.

And two corvettes: these were ship-rigged, like a frigate, and although smaller, a pair together could take on one, certainly of lighter register like L’Aurore. And while the smashing match was going on, the pack of smaller craft would overwhelm the few escorts and it would be a massacre.

“To quarters, Mr Curzon.”

It was plain what had happened: while the convoy was assembling in Portsmouth someone had carelessly mentioned its destination in a waterfront tavern and French agents had picked up on it, giving them plenty of time to mount their ambush.

Dillon’s face was flushed with excitement. “They’re not our boats, then, Sir Thomas?”

“No, sir, they’re not.”

“Then-”

Calloway interrupted. “From Weazel-‘Assume the weather station.’”

“Acknowledge.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

It was what he would have done, put the biggest ship between the enemy and the convoy. Lawson was thinking coolly. He, the two cutters and the schooner would stay with the merchantmen and rely on the frigate to deter.

Clinch and Willock came on deck in still-new cocked hats, each self-consciously fingering a dirk and watching Kydd gravely.

The winds were brisk and steady, the seas slight. There would be no escape in a weather change.

He took another sight: the two corvettes were standing on with all plain sail, and the faster of the lesser vessels were passing them, eager to be in the best position to take their pick of victims while the corvettes were engaged with L’Aurore.

“Sir, what will we do?” Dillon asked, in thrall.

“Do?” Kydd said sharply. “We fight! The convoy is much more important than we, sir.”

He checked himself. “This is a serious situation, Mr Dillon. You have a battle station and that is next to me. You’ll take notes of everything of importance as will assist later in writing my dispatch after any action with the enemy.”

“Yes, Sir Thomas.” The intensity of his concentration was touching.

“There’s no need to fret so. You’re not expected to bear arms or face the enemy directly, or even to give any orders. Just be sure to keep a clear head and be accurate in your observations. Nothing else, you see.”

To add point to his words he raised the glass again and calmly dictated the strength of the enemy. Dillon wrote furiously and wisely refrained from asking for explanations.

As if for the comfort of his presence, the two young midshipmen sidled up to their captain.

“Where’s your station at quarters?” he snapped.

“Well, we don’t really-”

“Go to the gunner in the forward magazine and tell him I’ve sent you.” The last thing he wanted now was a distraction.

Kydd had noticed that the corvettes were separating, revealing that they intended to take L’Aurore under fire from two sides. It was likely that, while they’d received word of the convoy and its slight escort, they had not been prepared for an accompanying frigate and were now on the defensive.

An idea was forming. “Mr Curzon-do attend on me for a moment.”

The officer approached and took off his hat.

“We’ve a good advantage, I’m persuaded.”

“Sir?”

“A fresh-fettled ship and a fine crew. I intend to make best use of this. I desire you to make known to the gun crews that what I have in mind requires they leave their guns for sail-handling and back to their guns several times. They’re to obey orders at the rush, even in peril of their lives, Mr Curzon. All depends on speed and instant execution of the manoeuvre. Is that clear?”

“Understood, sir.”

The enemy was coming on at speed. There were several substantial vessels ahead of the corvettes-two with the characteristic three lug-sails of a Brittany privateer and three brig-rigged, foaming out under a taut press of sail.

Now was the time to move.

“Haul to the wind, Mr Kendall. Hard as she can lie.”

L’Aurore curved about and laid her bowsprit precisely in the centre of the two corvettes now a quarter-mile apart, racing ahead as only a thoroughbred frigate could do.

The effect was instant. The corvettes luffed up into the wind, warily closing together then staying in position and waiting for the onrushing frigate to join battle.

Which was not what Kydd did. Instead he threw up the helm and bore down on the astonished privateer passing to starboard. Too late, its captain saw what had happened and tried to slew around but all this did was to slow the vessel and present an unmissable target.

In a pitiless broadside L’Aurore blasted the craft into splintered fragments that, after the smoke had cleared, simply littered the sea.

At the instant the guns had fired Kydd began tacking the frigate about and took up on a course at right angles to the enemy. The leading brig was smashed to flinders by the guns on the opposite broadside, to become more floating wreckage.

The corvettes came to their senses and hardened in for a thrust together at L’Aurore but Kydd had anticipated this and wore around. A luckless privateer lugger took the frigate’s carronades at close range and was out of the fight-and still with not a shot in anger against them.

Dillon, white-faced with shock at the blast of the guns and mad frenzy of seamen racing from tacks and braces to guns and back again, did his best to keep up. Kydd calmly interpreted the action for his noting down.

All the small craft had scrambled to escape the mayhem, putting back for the protection of the corvettes. The convoy had gained a respite; there would be no wholesale falling upon the helpless merchantmen until L’Aurore had been dealt with.

With Weazel shepherding them on, the convoy forged south, but now the enemy’s force was entirely to windward and behind them and, once regrouped, could run them down as it chose.

Once past L’Aurore.

Their force was barely diminished: what Kydd had achieved was a moral victory of sorts but it would not last. The enemy was now under no illusions and would plot his moves carefully and with malice.

His frigate was considerably outnumbered and, in a fair fight against these, could not be expected to survive-but, damn it, this was not going to be fair.

He had one priceless advantage: this was the combat of a crack frigate of the Royal Navy ranged against a ragtag swarm of privateers, not a disciplined fleet.

This translated to many things: gunnery, sail-handling and, above all, command. The senior corvette captain had no means to communicate with his “squadron” for they were not trained up to signal work, and Kydd’s direct assault on the smaller craft had left them in retreat. There would be no co-ordinated simultaneous onslaught, which would certainly have finished L’Aurore.

Now it was the two corvettes. How could he take them on together?

As he pondered, he caught a glimpse of Brice at the forward guns, standing with his feet on a carronade slide, his arms folded: the picture of calm and fearlessness. The man might be odd in his particulars but with his seamanship and coolness in action he could look to a welcome place in L’Aurore.

Kydd deliberated on the alternatives. He believed his frigate to be not only handier but faster so he could turn the tables if he was careful. The main thing was to avoid being trapped between the two.

He glanced back at the convoy. To his surprise it was shaping course inshore to France, not out into the anonymous expanse of ocean. Then he grinned in sudden understanding. A smart move by Lawson.

He knew what to do now.

“Put us about again.”

L’Aurore went around with a will and took up in a broad diagonal pass across the path of the oncoming corvettes.

The implication was stark: either they manoeuvred to avoid a raking broadside into their unresisting bows or they stood on into L’Aurore’s fury of shot.

They broke and fell back, firing as they did so.

It was long range and most of the balls fell short and skipped. Several punched holes in the frigate’s sails but Kydd had achieved what he needed to-delay to allow the convoy to escape.

He turned. “Why, are you hit, Mr Dillon?” he asked in concern. The man was on all fours.

“Sir-one came near me, is all,” he stuttered, and picked up his fallen notebook. His hand trembled as he noted the time of the enemy’s first salvo.

“Pay no mind to the fuss and noise. You’ve a job to do and it’s an important one.”

Dillon nodded grimly.

“Ready about!” Kydd ordered. They would retain their position criss-crossing for as long as it took to allow the convoy to get away. It was working-out of respect for the frigate the lesser breed were staying behind the corvettes and the ships were safe, even now well on their way to safety over the horizon.

But for how long? Kydd knew there was one course he would take in their position that would in a stroke checkmate his strategy. He could only hope that it would be later rather than earlier that they tumbled to it.

And he knew they had when, after an hour of exchange of fire, the gap between the two corvettes began widening.

Still to windward and bows on to L’Aurore they diverged steadily until they were more than a mile apart.

“Doesn’t look so good, sir,” Bowden said, watching them.

Kydd said nothing, hoping they would not take it further-but they did.

Sacrificing their superiority as a pair, they were now so widely apart that they presented Kydd with an insoluble conundrum: they were ready to make a strike-but separately. He could go after one but meanwhile the other would get past and lead the pack to fall on the convoy.

It was no use expecting to batter one into submission then return for the other-any captain worth his salt would bear away, leading him off on a chase while the carnage was being completed by the first.

So it was payback time; the last act.

The hero of Curacao would be pointed out in the streets as the one who, in command of a famous frigate, had allowed inferior French warships to prevail over him and decimate a convoy under his protection. An outraged public would show no mercy.

There was little he could do now, but he would play it to the end.

Putting about once more, he was not committing to one or the other, but as they came up to pass him on either side he must choose and then it would be all but over.

They came on, under full sail and determined.

It was time.

“The starb’d one on this board, I think,” he said heavily.

But then salvation came. Lawson’s inspired tactic had paid off.

In a glorious vision that brought wild cheers of relief from the gun crews, first one, then another massive shape firmed out of the grey winter haze. In stately line ahead, the battleships of Cornwallis’s Brest blockade were proceeding on their occasions, not to be troubled by the convoy’s insignificance, and only the weather escorting frigates were detached to investigate.

It was all over: the French had turned tail and were fleeing for their lives.

L’Aurore crept northward over a calm, glittering sea, a long swell from the west languidly rolling in as it had not a year and a half ago when these waters had echoed and resounded with the madness and ferocity of the greatest sea battle of all time. The desolate sand-spit, with, further inland, a line of cliffs and a modest tower, was gravely pointed out to gaping new hands as the very Cape Trafalgar that had given it the name.

And not much more than twenty miles further on was the great Spanish port of Cadiz-and Collingwood’s fleet, which had a stranglehold on it.

They had left the convoy at Gibraltar, watered and stored, then turned north to join the blockade and were now raising the fleet, which lay arrogantly at anchor across the port entrance.

“Flag, sir. Ocean, ninety-eight, Vice Admiral the Right Honourable the Lord Collingwood, commander-in-chief Mediterranean fleet,” Curzon intoned formally, reading from the Pennant Book.

“Thank you. My barge, if you please.”

He would pay a call and receive the standing orders that would mark the solemn accession of L’Aurore to the Mediterranean fleet. He would as well make his first acquaintance with the friend of Nelson’s who had led the lee column into the enemy line as Kydd had watched from the deck of this very ship.

In full dress uniform, shyly conscious of the broad scarlet sash and glittering star of his knighthood, he mounted the side and came aboard through the carved and gilded entry-port.

The piping died away and there, past the side-party, was the admiral.

Kydd took off his cocked hat and bowed, careful to note the height of the deckhead as he straightened.

“Captain Thomas Kydd, L’Aurore frigate, my lord.”

“Do I not spy that it were rather ‘Sir Thomas’?” Collingwood said, with a twinkle, and held out his hand. “My, but you’ve no idea how good it is to see a new face! Come below for a restorative and tell me all about it.”

As they went into the day cabin, a dog ran up to him, leaping and snuffling joyfully. “Down, Bounce,” Collingwood said, in mock severity. “Where are your manners, sir?”

The cabin was the homeliest Kydd had ever seen in a man-of-war. Miniature portraits, knick-knacks and ornaments that could only have come from a woman’s hand-it was touching in a great admiral.

“Now, sir. You’ve come to join our little band?”

“As L’Aurore and I were here in October of the year five,” Kydd said quietly.

“Yes. Well, I’m still here, you see.”

It was difficult to credit but Collingwood had stayed faithfully at this post after the great victory of Trafalgar, doing his duty by the nation, and had not once set foot on land, while others had returned to bathe in the delirium of public adulation that had followed their release from the mortal fear of invasion.

His genial face was careworn and old. It was said that while he yearned for peace and retirement the government had been too fearful to let him go for want of any with his formidable skills as a diplomat and strategist.

“Flags will give you your fill of orders, signals and so forth, so let me tell you something of how the larger situation has changed our position here.”

The dog curled up under his chair while he gathered his thoughts.

“The main purpose of the Mediterranean fleet remains the same. To deny the French the Mediterranean. To that end we’ve a close blockade of Toulon and the same at Cartagena. But there’s complications as you’d expect of Boney.

“We’ve lost Naples but we must perforce keep Sicily or the eastern Med is denied us.

“In the west we have the Barbary Deys in Morocco and similar to be polite to, else we lose our beef and water, but further east it’s much more troublesome. The Russians have ambitions to be a player upon the world stage and have thereby sadly affronted the Turks, who consider themselves to be the reigning power in the east. As they are our allies both, it makes for tiresome dealings.”

“My lord, what of Bonaparte’s decree? What is its effect in these waters? And you are speaking to one only recently returned from the Caribbean.”

“His grand Continental System? Then it has to be said that it’s a sore trial to our manufactories and traders in their northern markets but in these parts, while we suffer his ships to moulder in port, he cannot enforce it.”

He sighed and gave a sad smile. “Here we sit, Kydd, in the full knowledge that it is in our power to lose the war for England in a single day. Yet in this peril we are given less force by far than a year ago. And all the time we are commanded at a distance by a landlubber first lord and a parcel of ninnies in government who have no conception of sea power and expect me to act upon their vapourings of the moment.”

Kydd murmured something but Collingwood hadn’t finished. “At times I wake up from a dream where I’m a circus whip, who prowls up and down to keep the wild beasts at bay, armed with nothing but a goad and a fierce look. All it needs …”

He stopped, then brightened. “But let not my maunderings spoil the hour. You’ll stay to dinner? And you shall send for your officers. Are there any performers at all? We have a very passable theatre troupe of amateurs, who display their talents upon the slightest provocation …”