Quarterdeck

CHAPTER 9

"MR PRESIDENT, THE MINISTER PLENIPOTENTIARY of Great Britain. Sir, the President of the United States." The aide ushered Liston into the broad room, then departed.

"Robert, so kind in you," said John Adams. He was standing by the tall marble mantelpiece and advanced with outstretched hand. "Sit down, man."

"Thank you, Mr President." Liston took an armchair before the fire with a gracious inclination of his head. "May I know if Abigail is happy in Trenton? It's a wise precaution to depart Philadelphia before the sick season."

"She is indeed, God bless her," said Adams. In the absence of any others at this meeting, he poured the sherry himself. "Your health, Robert."

Liston waited, watching the President over the rim of his glass. Adams, a short, chubby man who looked like a country squire, was not to be underestimated. The two of them had seen much together of this new country's spirited political struggles and personally he wished it well, but this was not a social call. He had come in response to a diplomatic summons.

Adams set down his glass and steepled his fingers. "This cannot be allowed to continue, this stopping and searching on the high seas. Congress and the people will not tolerate it. Your Navy provokes by its high-handed actions, whatever its rights in the matter. Impressing men from the very decks of United States merchant vessels—it's insufferable, you must understand, and now the British courts in the Caribbean are condemning United States merchant ships seized by the Royal Navy as prizes."

Liston murmured an acknowledgement. It was an old problem, and there were well-rehearsed rejoinders, but he chose another tack. "Mr President, this, I can appreciate, is your immediate concern—but you will understand that here we have a clash of belief and therefore law. You will have your country's position set in law—but we, sir, have had ours since the 1756 Rule of War and it is accepted by the world. Why then should we change it so?"

Adams picked up his glass and smiled. "That is well known, Robert, because it favours the Crown so disproportionate."

"And the French," continued Liston evenly, "with their demands of equipage and new decrees—"

"We will firmly abide by our treaty obligations of 1778."

"Sir, the point I wish to make is that unless these three systems of law are brought to an expression of harmony, your country's trade is in continued jeopardy. It would seem therefore but natural that, if only to restore a balance in world affairs, a measure of amity be enacted between our two nations prohibiting these excesses—here I do not exclude the possibility of an alliance."

"Against France? I think not. The country would never countenance it."

"Sir, consider, the French have been all but swept from the seas. What more practical way to safeguard your ships than have them watched over by the most powerful nation at sea, under flags in amity?"

"Minister, we shall look after our own. We have no need of a foreign power's intervention."

"Without a navy?" said Liston gently.

"Sir, this discussion is concluded." The President stood up. "Have you any other matter you wish to lay before me?"

"Thank you, Mr President. While we are in an understanding, may I be so bold as to refer you to the intolerable actions of French agents in arming bands of Indians on the Canadian border?"

That night the minister made his excuses to his wife and retired to the little room where he was accustomed to gathering his thoughts and rendering them lucidly for his master. Another hand would cipher the despatches.

He tested the nib of his quill, his mind ordering events into neat aggregations, then analysis to their natural heads. It was the least that was expected by Lord Grenville, King George's noble and demanding minister for foreign affairs.

Liston considered carefully: he had been ambassador to the United States for Britain in all but name during many of those turbulent years following the revolution and had acquired a respect for the colonials that bordered on liking. They had followed up their revolution with a constructive, well-considered constitution, which had humanity at its core; the French, even with the American example, had resorted to blood and chaos in an age-old lust for world domination.

There would be no elaborate salutations: Lord Grenville wanted meat in his despatches, personal observations and opinions unfettered by the delicacies of diplomatic language.

The first subject? The likelihood of intervention by America in the titanic world struggle that was reaching its peak. In Europe there was not a single nation of significance, save England, that still stood against France. America remained outside the fight, and as a neutral she could afford to; she was profiting immensely by trading across the interests of the belligerents—there would be little to gain in taking sides.

Yet the French were growing confident, arrogant even, in their dealings. New decrees had been issued by a victorious Directory in Paris that required all merchant ships to carry papers covering their cargo signed by a French consul if they were to escape being taken as a prize of war. There was even talk of an out-of-hand condemnation if British goods of any kind were found aboard.

If the French had the means to enforce this at sea it would have a devastating impact on the Americans. Without a navy, they would have no choice but to bow to French demands. In the end, though, Paris would find it never paid to bully the United States.

But would the Americans see this as cause for war? Some were still sentimentally attached to the British, and others saw French power as a threat that needed balancing. But there were those who remembered France as an ally closely involved in the birth of their nation and would never sanction an aggressive act against her.

Liston sighed. In the end, as always, it came back to politics and personalities in this most democratic of nations. He respected the bluff President, standing four-square for his country, plain-spoken and direct, even with his resolute opposition to British influences, but making no secret of his loathing of the French regime.

But he was increasingly isolated: his party, the Federalists, were the patricians, old landowners staunchly in favour of central government—and generally took the British view. His opponents were the Republicans under Thomas Jefferson, who had no love for England and were mainly new money, naturalised immigrants and strongly pro-French.

The two parties were locked in bitter political strife, which Liston could perceive Adams was badly placed to handle. In this odd system his own Vice President, Jefferson, was leader of the opposing party and privy to who knew what murky political secrets. And he was gravely handicapped by the extremist Hamilton at his elbow, splitting his party and draining confidence from his administration.

It was a fevered time: mobs were marching at night, shattering windows; newspapers were full of wild rumour and acid attack. He wondered briefly what Adams would say if he told him that such was his concern, the great George Washington himself was in secret communication with London. From Pennsylvania a deputation had even demanded clarity on the matter of Mr Adams, son of the President, who was said to be betrothed to a daughter of the King of Great Britain and thereby for the same General Washington to hold the United States in trust for the King.

There was an even chance of an alliance—but as the French depredations increased so must the Americans' grudging tolerance of British measures at sea. If the Royal Navy could be induced to grasp the delicacy of their position, there was a chance . . .

With a large white flag streaming from a halliard, Tenacious's pinnace sailed towards the shore, Lieutenant Kydd in the stern-sheets, Midshipman Rawson at the tiller.

It was unfair: Kydd knew next to nothing about the United States and even less about the international law with which he had been told to threaten the local authorities if they did not drive the French back to sea. He was dressed in civilian clothes and unarmed, in accordance with convention when visiting a neutral country. In fact, he had been obliged to don his best rig, the dark green waistcoat and rust-coloured coat that Cecilia had taken such pains to find in Guildford. He held his light grey hat with its silver buckle safely on his knees.

As the low, wooded coast drew closer, Kydd saw the masts and yards of the French privateer beyond the point; it was clear that she was securing from sea. Further in, he made out a timber landing area, and around it a scatter of people.

The sprit-sail was brailed up and lowered, the oars shipped. "Head f'r the jetty," he growled.

Only one of the figures seemed to wear any semblance of a uniform but a number carried what appeared to be muskets. Kydd braced himself: he was going as a representative of his country and he would not be found wanting in the article of military bearing.

A couple of hundred yards from shore Rawson put the tiller over to make the final run in. Suddenly there was the unmistakable report of a flintlock and a gout of water kicked up sharply, dead in line with the bow.

"Wha'? God rot 'em, they're firing on a white flag!" Kydd spluttered. "Keep y'r course, damn you!" he flung at the midshipman.

The people ashore gesticulated and shouted. One levelled his gun in Kydd's direction. "S-sir, should we — " hissed Rawson.

"Take charge o' y'r boat's crew," Kydd replied savagely. Ashore the weapon still tracked Kydd and then it spoke. The bullet spouted water by the stroke oar, followed by a wooden thump as it struck the boat below where Kydd sat.

"Sir?"

"Keep on, damn y'r blood!" snapped Kydd. Even these ignorant backwoodsmen would know they'd be in deep trouble with their government if they caused loss of life by firing on a flag of truce.

More long guns came on target. There was a flurry of shouting, then the weapons were lowered slowly. Grim-faced, Kydd saw the waiting figures resolve to individuals.

"Garn back, y' English pigs!" yelled one, brandishing a rifle. Others took up the cry. Kydd told Rawson to hold steady and lay alongside. The shouting died down, but a dozen or more people crowded on to the jetty.

"Oars—toss oars," Kydd told the midshipman.

The crowd grew more menacing, one man threatening them with a pitch-fork. The boat drifted to a stop. "Bowman, take a turn o' the painter," Kydd ordered. The boat nudged the timbers of the landing-stage; hostile figures shuffled to the edge.

Kydd stood up in the boat. "I ask ye to let me land—if y' please." Nobody moved. "Then am I t' take it you're going to prevent by force the landing on the soil of the United States of America of a citizen of a nation, er, that you're not at war with?" It sounded legal, all but the last bit.

"We don' want yore kind here. Git back to yer ship or I'll give yez a charge o' lead up yer backside as will serve as y'r keepsake of Ameriky."

"Get his rope, Jeb —we'll give 'em a ducking." Hands grabbed at the painter, rocking the boat.

"Hold!" The crowd fell back to where a well-dressed man waited on horseback. He dismounted and walked to the jetty edge; malice hung about him. "Can you not see you're unwelcome, sir?" he called evenly to Kydd.

"Am I so fearsome the whole town turns out t' oppose me?"

"You're an Englishman—that's enough for these good folk. And Navy too. There's many here who have suffered their ships taken as prize, youngsters snatched away by the press— they have reasons a-plenty, sir." There were cries of agreement. "Therefore I'd advise you to return whence you came." He folded his arms.

Kydd lowered his head as though in resignation, but his eyes were busy measuring, gauging. He placed a foot on the gunwale, leaped across the gap of water, heaved himself over the edge of the jetty and ended up next to the man. "I thank ye for your advice, sir, but as you can see, here I am, landed." He dusted himself off. "L'tenant Kydd, at your service, sir."

The man's reply was cold. "Schroeder. Christopher." He did not hold out his hand.

Kydd bowed, and looked around at the crowd. "I thank ye most kindly for my welcome, and hope m' stay will be as pleasant." When it was clear there would be no interchange, he leaned over and ordered his crew to throw him up his single piece of baggage. "Proceed in accordance with y'r previous orders, Mr Rawson," he added, and the boat stroked away to sea.

He was now in the United States, and very much alone.

Kydd set off down the path into the village, which he knew by the chart was the tiny seaport of Exbury in the state of Connecticut. It was a pretty township, barely more than a village with square, no-nonsense wooden houses and neatly trimmed gardens—and, to Kydd's English eyes, unnaturally straight roads with their raised wooden sidewalks. It also had a distinct sea flavour: the resinous smell of a spar-maker, the muffled clang of a ship-smithy and what looked like a well-stocked chandlery further down the street.

Women carrying baskets stopped to stare at him. The men muttered together in sullen groups. "Can you let me know where I c'n get lodgings?" he asked one, who turned his back. When he located the general store to ask, its keeper snapped, "We'm closed!" and slammed the door.

Kydd sat down heavily on a bench beneath a maple tree. It was a near to hopeless mission, but he was not about to give up. He had no idea what had turned the town against him, but he needed lodgings.

A gang of rowdy youngsters started chanting:

. . . And there they'd fife away like fun

And play on cornstalk fiddles

And some had ribbons red as blood

All bound around their middles!

Oh—Yankee doodle, keep it up

Yankee doodle dandy . . .

Kydd missed the significance of the revolutionary song and, nettled by his politeness, the youths threw stones at him. Kydd shied one back, which brought out a woman in pinafore and bonnet. She glared at him, but shooed away the urchins.

He picked up his bag and set off towards the other end of town. As he passed the houses, each with their doors and windows all closed, a man stepped out on to his porch. "Stranger!" he called sternly.

Kydd stopped. "Aye?"

"You're the Englishman."

"I am, sir—Lieutenant Thomas Kydd of His Majesty's Ship Tenacious."

The man was thin and rangy, in working clothes, but had dignity in his bearing. "Jacob Hay, sir." Kydd shook his hand. It was work-hardened and calloused. "Your presence here ain't welcome, Lootenant, but I will not see a stranger used so. If it's quarters ye're after, I'm offerin'."

"Why, thank you, Mr Hay," said Kydd, aware of several people muttering behind him. Hay glanced at them, then led the way into his house.

"Set there, Mr Kydd, while we makes up a room for ye." Kydd lowered himself into a rocking-chair by the fire. "Judith, find something for Mr Kydd," he called, through the doorway. A young woman entered with a jug and a china pot. She did not lift her eyes and left quickly.

To Kydd, Hay said, "There's no strong drink enters this house, but you'll find th' local cider acceptable."

Kydd expressed his appreciation and, proffering some coins, added apologetically, "I have t' tell you now, sir, I don't have any American money for my room."

"Put it away, sir. That won't be necessary." Hay pursed his lips and said, "I don't mean t' be nosy, but can I ask what business is it y' have in Exbury? Somethin' to do with the Frenchy, I guess."

"I—have to, er, enquire of the authorities what they mean t' do in the matter," Kydd said cautiously.

"To do? Nothin' I guess. Frenchy is here t' fit a noo mizzen and be on her way, and that's all—we let him be."

"It's the law, Mr Hay."

"Law? No law says we has to send him out fer you to take in that two-decker o' yourn," he said coldly.

"I have t' hear the authorities first, y' understands," Kydd said. "Who would that be, do ye think?"

Hay's coolness remained. At length, he said, "That'll be Mr Dwight or Mr Chadwick. Selectmen fer Exbury." Seeing the blank look on Kydd's face, he added, "Magistrates, like. Call th' meetings, run th' constables."

"I'd like to call on 'em, if y' please," Kydd said politely.

"Time fer that after supper." The aroma of fresh-baked bread filled the air. Hay sniffed appreciatively. "An' if I'm not wrong we're havin' steamed clams."

". . . and may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen."

While Mrs Hay set about the dishes, Kydd tried to make conversation. "M' first time in the United States. I have t' say, it's a good-lookin' country." Hay regarded him without comment.

Kydd smiled across at Judith, who hastily dropped her eyes. He turned once more to Hay. "I'd be obliged if ye could find your way clear t' tellin' me why I'm not welcome, Mr Hay."

Hay's face hardened. "That's easy enough. We live fr'm the sea by fishing 'n' trade. We're a small town, as ye can see, and when a ship is built an' vittled for tradin' there's a piece of everyone in her when she puts t' sea. Life ain't easy, an' when a family puts in their savin's it's cruel hard t' see that ship taken f'r prize by a King's ship an' carried into a Canadian port t' be condemned."

"But this is because you've been caught trading with the French—the enemy."

"Whose enemy?" Hay snorted. "None of our business, this war."

"And if the French beat us, then you don't think they're going to come and claim back their American empire? They have most o' the rest of the world."

Hay grunted. "Eat y'r clams, Mr Kydd."

The atmosphere thawed as the meal progressed. Eventually, after apple pie and Cheddar, Hay sat back. "If you're goin' t' see a magistrate, make it Dwight." He wouldn't be drawn any further and Kydd set off alone. At the substantial gambrel-roofed house, which Hay had previously pointed out, he was greeted by a short, tubby man wearing a napkin tucked round his neck.

"Er, I need t' see Mr Dwight."

"Himself," the man said, in a peculiar, rapid delivery. "I guess you're the English officer. Am I right?"

"Aye, Lieutenant Kydd. Sir, pardon me if I seem unfamiliar with y'r ways, but I need t' find the authority here in Exbury— the public leader, as it were, in your town."

Dwight raised his eyebrows, but motioned Kydd inside and closed the door. "I'll shake hands with you in private, if you don't mind, L'tenant. Now sit ye down, and here's a little rye whiskey for your chilblains."

Kydd accepted it.

"Sir, if you're lookin' for our leader, I guess I'm your man.

Selectman o' Exbury. It's about as high as it goes, short o' the governor in Hartford. Now, how can I help you?"

"Sir, I come on a mission o' some delicacy. No doubt you're aware that a French privateer lies in your port—"

"I am."

"—which we surprised in the fog in th' process of takin' a merchant ship of the United States goin' about its lawful business."

"Don't surprise me to hear it, sir."

"Oh?" said Kydd, prepared only for disbelief and scorn.

"Sir. Let me make my position clear. I'm known as a plain-speakin' man and I'll tell it straight.

"I'm a Federalist, same as the President, same as General Washington himself. I won't try your patience in explaining our politics. Just be assured we stand for the old ways and decent conduct, and we don't hold with this damn French arrogance and ambition. We're opposed by a bunch o' rascals who think t' sympathise with them on account of their help in the late war—saving y'r presence, sir."

Kydd began to speak, but was interrupted. "I said I'll speak plain, and I will. We've been taking insults to our flag and loss to our trade, and we'll not have it. There's going t' be an accounting, and that soon.

"But, sir, I'll have you understand, because we take the same view, this does not mean we're friends."

Kydd gathered his thoughts and began again: "What we seek, sir, is an indication how you mean to act." As smoothly as he could, he continued, "You have here a belligerent vessel seeking a neutral haven f'r repairs. According to international law, he must sail within two days. Do ye mean to enforce the law?"

Dwight sighed. "Philadelphia is a long ways off—the law is as may be. Here, it's what the citizens say that counts."

"Does this mean—"

"If I tried t' arrest the Frenchman with my two constables, I'd start a riot—and be thrown out of office. This town has just lost a ship t' the British and two lads to your press-gang. And I'd run smack dab against Kit Schroeder."

"I believe I've met the gentleman," Kydd murmured.

"Owns three ships and the store, knows how t' lift a cargo with all the right papers to see it past the British an' then on to a French port. There's most folks here do business with him and don't want to see him interfered with, y' see."

"So you're saying that there's nothing you c'n do? You mean th' Frenchy to lie alongside as long as he wants?" For the sake of local politics the privateer was to be left untouched; Tenacious would be forced to sail in a few days, releasing the vessel to continue her career of destruction. Resentment boiled up in Kydd.

Dwight held up a pacifying hand. "Now, I didn't say there was nothing I could do. I'm a selectman an' you have come to me with a case. I'll be letting the governor in Hartford know—but that'll take some time with the roads as they is. However, I'm empowered to, and I will, issue a warrant for a town meeting to consider, um, whether the committee of public safety should take action to prevent there being a hostile action on our soil. Requiring the Frenchman t' take himself elsewhere, say. No promises, Mr Kydd, but you'll get to say your piece and—"

He broke off and cocked his head. Indistinct shouts sounded in the night, rhythmic thuds like a drum. Dwight crossed to the window and pulled the shutter ajar. "Trouble," he said, in a low voice. "Republicans. Don't like you being here, I guess."

Kydd peered out. Flickering torches were being borne along towards them, and in their light he saw marching figures, gesticulating, shouting.

"Had 'em here before, the wicked dogs. Here, lend me a hand, sir." They moved over to each window and secured the folding shutters, the smell of guttering candles in the gloom of the closed room now oppressive.

A maid came from the rear, hands to her mouth. "We'll be quite safe, Mary," Dwight said, and pulled open a drawer. Kydd caught the glint of a pistol. "They're only here 'cos they've had a skinful of Schroeder's liquor—they'll be away after they've had their fun."

He eased open the shutter a crack. "See that? They're wearing a tricolour cockade in their hats! Republicans do that so there's no mistake who it is they support."

The noise grew close. A drum thudded in an uneven rhythm, while harsh shouts and laughter came clearly through the closed shutters. Suddenly there was a sharp thud and tinkling glass, then another. Dwight stiffened and swore. "Breaking windows. I'll have Schroeder's hide—no need f'r this."

But, as he had prophesied, the influence of drink faded and the small crowd dispersed. "I'm truly sorry you've been inconvenienced, Mr Kydd," Dwight said, with dignity, "but in my country we value free speech above all things. Good night to ye."

Kydd did not sleep well and was up at cockcrow, pacing along the single cross-street to get the stiffness from his limbs.

It did not take long for the gang of youngsters to find him and begin chanting again, but Kydd grinned broadly and gave them a cheery wave. They soon tired of the sport and darted away. After a few minutes one returned and took station next to him. Kydd guessed he was about ten.

"Are you English?" the boy blurted out.

"Aye. I come fr'm Guildford, which is in Surrey," Kydd said.

"What's your ship's name?"

"Oh, she's His Britannic Majesty's sixty-four-gun ship Tenacious, an' I'm her fifth l'tenant, Kydd, so you have t' call me 'sir'!"

"Yes, sir," the boy said smartly. "I'm Peter Miller." They walked on together. "How do ye keelhaul a man, sir?"

"What? No, lad, we don't keelhaul sailors. We flog 'em, never keelhaul." Kydd chuckled.

"Have you ever bin flogged, sir?" Peter asked, wide-eyed.

Kydd hesitated. It was not an admission he would make in polite company. "Yes, a long time ago, before I was an officer."

Peter nodded seriously. "I want t' join the Navy like you, but my pap says we ain't got a navy," he added defensively.

"We have Americans in the Royal Navy, lad. Ye could—"

"No, sir!" Peter said with spirit. "I'll not serve King George. Er, that's any king a'tall, not just your king, sir."

Kydd laughed, and the boy scampered off.

He reached the end of the street, turned the corner and found himself heading towards the French privateer alongside the commercial wharf. At the thought of seeing the ship at such close quarters he quickened his pace. There were idle onlookers standing about on the quay taking their fill of the novel sight; Kydd could see no reason why he should not be one of them.

A shout came from behind him. "There he is—the English bastard! Come t' spy on our friends." He recognised the voice of a hothead who had been at the boat. Several men hurried towards him, one hefting a length of paling wood; an authoritative-looking figure watched from the foredeck of the privateer. Kydd stiffened. There would be no help from the spectators by the vessel: they were too busy gawping and the few looking in his direction seemed disinclined to intervene.

Kydd stood his ground with folded arms. He knew he could probably make a good account of himself, but he would not be the first to make a move.

"Spyin' dog! Y' knows what happens t' spies?"

"Are ye as chuckle-headed as y' look? I'm no spy, skulkin' around. I've got just as much right t' take the air here as—as y'r Frenchy there."

One of the bystanders came up. "He's right, y' knows. Both furriners, stands t' reason y' can't pick one over the other."

"Hold y'r noise, Darby." Schroeder strode across. "You, sir!" he called at Kydd, standing aggressively between him and the ship. "Will you account for your presence as an officer of a belligerent power at the lawful mooring-place of a ship of the opposing nation? Or shall it be spying?"

Kydd held his temper. "No."

Schroeder started. "You're saying—"

"I said, 'No,' which is to say I do not have t' account to you or any man for what I'm about on m' lawful business on a public highway."

Schroeder's jaw hardened, but Kydd looked past him to the privateer. Scores of men were pouring on to the wharf, scattering the onlookers.

Kydd waited. Surely they would not dare anything in broad daylight, before witnesses. But then they spread out in a line and moved towards him. Kydd tensed, the features of individual seamen resolving, alien chatter quietening to a purposeful advance.

Kydd stood firm. They came closer and stopped in front of him, undeniably seafarers, but with their sashes, floppy liberty caps and Mediterranean swarthiness, there was something distorted and menacing about them. They shuffled together to form a barrier, and when Kydd moved to go round it, they blocked his way again. Kydd spotted the figure on the foredeck and bellowed, "Let me pass, y' villains!" The officer shrugged and called out an unintelligible stream of French. It was stalemate: there was nothing for it but as dignified a retreat as possible.

Kydd stalked off, seething at being outwitted by the French. At the very least he had hoped to report back on the ship, her state for sea, guns, anything he could see. Now he would have to admit he hadn't been able to get close.

He forced his mind to focus on the situation and by the time he'd reached the cross-street he had a plan: he would see the other side instead. That implied a boat; the tide was on the make, which would allow him to drift past and take his fill of the scene.

Kydd found the young lads playing in the same place and he called across to Peter, "A silver sixpence wi' King George's head on it should you tell me where I c'n hire a fishin'-boat."

The dory was double-ended and handy. In borrowed oilskins, Kydd set the little boat drifting along, an unbaited line over the side.

The privateer, the Minotaure de Morlaix, was big. Work was going ahead on the mizzen, a new spar chocked up ready on the wharf, but there appeared to be no hurry. Kydd scanned the vessel: her clean lines meant speed but also implied limited sea-endurance, given the large crew.

His attention was caught by a peculiar break in the line of bulwarks with their small gunports. A whole section amidships had been lowered on hinges—inside Kydd glimpsed the astonishing sight of the black bulk of a long gun, mounted on some sort of pivot, another barely visible trained to the other side of the ship. But this was no ordinary gun: it was a twenty-four-pounder at least. The armament of a ship-of-the-line on a near frigate-sized vessel.

This must have been the origin of the sound of heavy guns that had mystified Tenacious at sea earlier, and although there appeared to be only one on each side, it would be enough to terrorise any victim and certainly give pause to a similar sized man-o'-war; a grave threat let loose on the trade routes of the continent. It was sheer chance that had placed the only other ship-of-the-line in North America across the Frenchman's path.

After returning the boat and gear he walked back along the tree-lined road, deep in thought, but the only conclusion he could come to was the impossibility of his situation.

A man in an old-fashioned black tricorne hat stopped him. "Are you Lootenant Kydd?"

"I am."

"I'm a constable o' Exbury township," he said importantly, "an' I'm instructed by the selectmen to advise ye that a warrant fer a town meetin' has been issued concernin' you."

"Ah—does that mean they wish me t' attend?"

The constable looked aghast. "No, sir! Only citizens o' this town c'n attend a town meeting. Mr Dwight jus' wants ye to know that y'r matter is being looked into, is all."

Kydd turned to go, but the constable pulled at his sleeve. "Yon Frenchy is goin'—make sure an' be there as well, L'tenant. Th' meeting house is round the corner."

People from all parts of the town were making their way to a small building whose lines reminded Kydd of the Methodist chapels of his youth. Several greeted him openly; others glared. Schroeder arrived in a carriage and was handed down by a black man. He ignored Kydd and waited; a little later a French officer arrived and the two fell into discussion.

Kydd found his eyes straying to the tall, elegant figure he recognised from the morning's events. By the inscrutable logic of war, he was being granted sight of the man who, as his king's enemy, was his duty to kill.

The discussion stopped. The two turned in his direction and Kydd felt the intensity of the Frenchman's glare across the distance; he hesitated, then withdrew his gaze. When he dared another look, they were walking away.

"All attendin' please enter!" bawled the constable. The latecomers and Schroeder entered, leaving Kydd and the Frenchman alone.

Should he follow the dictates of politeness that required he notice the man and introduce himself, or was there some form of defiance required that he had not the breeding to recognise? The Frenchman was tall, mature and had a languid elegance in his mannerisms that made Kydd aware of his own origins. His feelings of inadequacy returned and he stared back at the man with dislike.

There were bad-tempered shouts from inside, then a head-to-head crescendo. The Frenchman looked across at Kydd and raised his eyebrows in a gesture of refined amusement, but Kydd was unsure of himself, wanting no part in any kind of engagement, and turned sharply away.

Unexpectedly the door to the meeting house opened and Dwight appeared. "Gentlemen," he called, looking carefully between them, "the meeting recognises that this is an, er, irregular situation, and wishes you each t' state your case now."

There was a hush in the audience, and heads turned as Kydd followed the Frenchman up the aisle. At the simple table at the front there was no provision for extra persons. "We have t' ask ye to stand, if y' will," Dwight said apologetically.

The rows of faces that looked back at Kydd seemed either impassive or hostile, and anxiety rose in him at the thought of a public humiliation from the worldly Frenchman.

"Citizens o' Exbury, it's my duty to present— Capitaine Hercule Junon of the French ship Minotaure." The French officer inclined his head graciously. "An' this is L'tenant Kydd, of the English ship Tenacious." Kydd inclined his head also, but feared the gesture had turned out as a nod.

"In view of Captain Junon bein' French as he is, and just to be fair, is there any man present can translate for him?"

Schroeder immediately stepped forward. "I can."

"Then let's begin. We have here a request from our English guest that it might be better to hear fr'm him direct. L'tenant?"

Kydd's palms moistened. He took a deep breath and turned to address the meeting. "You have a French privateer alongside, here in Exbury. He has every right t' be here, to repair an' refit as he needs. But the law says he must leave in forty-eight hours. I request that th' United States do then enforce the law an' make sure he does. Er, that's all."

There was a disturbance at the back of the hall and a distant voice shouted, "Y' mean, send 'em out to just where y'r waiting for 'em?"

Another voice cut in, yelling at the first, and Dwight rapped sharply with his gavel. "I'll have order in the meeting. Now, Captain Junon?"

There was an exchange in low voices, then Schroeder faced Kydd. "Captain Junon understands L'tenant Kydd's duty in this matter and approves his spirit, but begs to be informed, what is this law of which he speaks? He has no knowledge of such a one."

Kydd tried to remember Houghton's hurried words before he left. "Ah, Captain Junon needs remindin' of the Rule of War of 1756. This specifies clearly—"

There was an urgent mutter from Junon, and Schroeder nodded impatiently. "The Rule of War of 1756 is, of course, an English law and has had no jurisdiction in the United States after 1776—and, since the lieutenant apparently requires educating, deals with the opening of trade to neutrals and really has no bearing whatsoever on this affair."

Scattered titters came from the audience. Kydd stared back stubbornly, but could think of no rejoinder.

"And while we are discussing rules, by what laws do the British press men out of American vessels and take their ships prize on the high seas?" Junon allowed an expression of injured pride to appear while Schroeder pressed home his words. "Are the British so careless of the sanctity of a nation's flag that they dare attempt to demand from the citizens of a neutral country—"

Kydd glared at Junon. "I saw y'r ship firing on an American flag vessel not two days ago."

A rustle of interest was interspersed with occasional shouts. Junon allowed it to die away before he made his reply to Schroeder. "Regrettably there are occasions when Captain Junon's government requires him to confirm that a vessel is not conveying contraband—there are some whose conscience is not clear in this regard and attempt to flee. It is sometimes a necessity to deter."

"And is this the action of a friend to America, I ask the captain?" Kydd said hotly, incensed at Junon's facile delivery.

A burst of clapping provoked angry shouts from another quarter and Dwight called for order again.

Kydd's face burned. "We also have our treaty!" he lashed out. "And in it—"

"Sir!" Schroeder called, in mock outrage. "You must recall that yours was not a treaty of friendship—not at all. This was, dare I say it, the vanquished accepting terms from the victor!"

A storm of mixed protest and cheers broke out, obliging the constable to intervene. Dwight stood and waited for the uproar to diminish, then spoke firmly: "Will the strangers now withdraw?"

Outside, Kydd paced rigidly, avoiding Junon's amused glances, as they waited for the meeting to come to a decision. It was not long before the hoots and shouts died away. After an interval the constable summoned them back.

"L'tenant, we have voted on the matter of your request," Dwight said importantly. "The township of Exbury has considered it, and as selectman I have to tell you your request is denied."

Kydd's expression tightened, but he tried to put the best face on it, remembering to turn and bow to the people of the town.

"The business of this meeting is now concluded."

The gathering broke up noisily and people streamed to the door. Dwight fiddled with his papers and, in a low voice, said to Kydd, "I'm sendin' a rider to Hartford. This should be gov'ment business."

Jacob Hay came forward with his hat in his hands. "Jus' like t' say sorry it came out agin you, Mr Kydd, but as ye can see, the people spoke." He put out his hand and Kydd could see that it was genuinely meant.

Outside, people were still in groups, some in animated discussion. Kydd could not remember when he had felt so isolated. A roar of laughter drew his attention: it was Darby, one of the hotheads of the morning's events at the French ship.

Kydd's blood rose as the man approached him. "Y' lost yer vote, then," he said loudly. Kydd could not trust himself to reply, but then Darby clapped him on the shoulder and said, "No hard feelin's? I'd take it kindly if you'd sink a muzzler with us, friend."

Kydd could not think what to say, but a surging need for the release of a drink and the rough companionship of a tavern overcame his wonder at American generosity of spirit. "Aye, I would," he said, and allowed himself to be taken to the Blue Anchor. The weatherboard tavern was already alive with humanity, and Kydd began to feel better. There were odd glances at his clothing, but Darby loudly announced his presence. "What'll ye have?" he asked genially.

"Er, a beer?"

"Beer? That's spruce, birch, sassafras?"

A nearby toper closed his eyes and chanted, " ' Oh, we can make liquor t' sweeten our lips —of pumpkins, o' parsnips or walnut-tree chips. ' "

"Aye, well, it's the sassafras, then."

It was the strangest-tasting brew. "Er, what do ye mix with this'n?" Kydd inquired carefully.

"We don't mix anythin', Mr Englishman. That's straight beer, it is, bit o' y'r beet tops, apple skin, roots all boiled in, gives it taste, o' course."

Kydd downed it manfully, then called for something different. Darby slipped a china mug across to him. "Flip—now there's a drink f'r a man." Kydd lifted the creaming brew doubtfully and was not disappointed at the strength of the rum that lay within.

"To th' American flag!" Kydd called.

There was a surprised roar and Kydd found faces turning his way. The reddest called across to him, "Well, I can't drink t' your king, friend, but I can t' your good health."

The drink was doing its work and Kydd beamed at his new friends. In the corner a pitch-pipe was brought out and after a few tentative whistles two young men launched into song.

Come, join hand in hand, brave Americans all,

And rouse your bold hearts at fair Liberty's call;

No tyrannous acts shall suppress your just claim

Or stain with dishonour America's name!

"Let's hear an English song, then!" Darby demanded, grinning at Kydd and shoving another flip across.

"I'm no sort o' hand at singin'," protested Kydd, but was overborne. He thought for a moment, recalling what had most stirred him in times past. "Well, this is a sea song, shipmates, an' we sing it around the forebitts forrard—an' I warn ye again, I'm no singer."

Come, all ye jolly sailors bold,

Whose hearts are cast in honour's mould;

While English glory I unfold

On board o' the Arethusa!

He found his voice and rolled out the fine old words heartily.

And as he sang his mind roamed over the times and places where he had enjoyed the company of true deep-sea mariners in this way, beside him his shipmates through the gale's blast and the cannon's roar, and in all the seas over the globe. As he never would experience again.

Tears pricked and his voice grew hoarse, but in defiance he roared out the final stanza:

And now we've driven the foe ashore,

Never to fight with Britons more,

Let each fill a glass To his favourite lass;

A health to the captain and officers true

And all that belongs to the jovial crew

On board o' the Arethusa.

Something of his feeling communicated itself to the tavern: not a soul moved and when he finished there was a storm of acclamation. Even the pot-boy stood entranced and the tapster abandoned his post to stand agog.

"Ah, Mr Kydd—he'll have a whiskey o' your best sort, Ned," one man said, and when Kydd had taken it, he raised his own glass and called, "T' Mr Kydd an' his Royal Navy!"

The morning was a trial. With a throbbing head, he had to endure an icy, disapproving silence at breakfast. "Guess you'll be on y'r way now," Hay said meaningfully.

He left after breakfast for a walk in the cool morning to consider his situation. It was obvious that he must admit defeat. He would display the noon signal that would have the boat return to take him off.

At the end of the cross-street he went to turn down the road but, catching sight of the French privateer, he decided to go the other way. As he did so he caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure slipping out of sight. He frowned and continued, but stopped sharply and turned, to see the figure behind duck away again.

This might be a French agent on his trail or a crazed citizen seeking revenge on an Englishman—and Kydd was unarmed. He remembered the trees where he had met Peter. He walked on rapidly and, at the end of the road, turned the corner, then sprinted towards them. He heaved himself up among the leaves and on to a branch overlooking the path by the road.

His shadower swung round the corner and stopped, looking baffled. He moved forward cautiously but did not appear armed. Kydd waited. The man increased his pace and came nearer, treading carefully. Kydd tensed and, when the man passed beneath, dropped on his shoulders. The two fell in a heap, but Kydd was faster and wrenched the man over, gripping his throat one-handed in restraint.

The man ceased struggling and stared up at Kydd, who slowly released his hold. "Er, if you'd kindly let me up, I'll try to explain." The voice was American, polite and apologetic.

"Do, if y' please." Kydd had never heard a footpad so well-spoken, but did not drop his guard.

The man dusted himself off and smiled ruefully. "My name's Edward Gindler—Lootenant Gindler—and this kind of work is not t' my liking, I'll have you know."

"Lieutenant—Army?"

"Navy."

"Don't try t' gull me—the United States doesn't have a navy."

The visitors had left. Liston climbed the stairs painfully to his private room, ruing the onset of age with its aches and pains, but he knew his duty.

He sat down and reached for paper, then selected a pen abstractedly. A woman's hand placed a glass of brandy by him, and her lips softly touched his hair. He twisted round, reached for her hand and kissed it tenderly. "My dear," he said softly.

His wife said nothing, just looked down at him for a long moment. Then she left, closing the door behind her.

Liston sighed and collected his thoughts.

In respect of the biggest question of the moment—would the United States enter the war against France—there was no answer . . . yet. Liston smiled grimly as he penned his appreciation of the difficulties faced by the beleaguered President.

Following the commercial success of the contentious Jay treaty of two years before, the French had retaliated by insisting on the letter of the law in their own treaty, which granted free passage to any vessel carrying a French role de l'equipage. Now a vessel without it would be subject to seizure.

The consequences to the expanding trade of the young country had been nothing short of catastrophic. Liston picked up Pinckney's Congressional Report on European Spoliation of American Trade to refresh his mind on the figures.

It was staggering—worse even than the dire predictions of the fire-breathing Hamilton. In the Caribbean, worst hit, no less than three hundred ships had been taken and, counting the dangerous waters on the approaches to war-ravaged Europe since the Jay treaty, nearly a thousand American flag vessels had hauled down their colours and been carried into French ports; ship, cargo and crew.

Liston could barely credit that the proud Americans would submit to such intolerable and cynical actions by a so-called ally—but they had. President Adams had stoutly resisted all attempts by Liston and even his own party to be embroiled in a European war, whatever the provocation, but there had to be limits.

Even so, Liston could see his difficulty. The opposition Republicans were led by the astute and learned Jefferson, talked about as the next president, who would never allow him to declare war on an ally. In any case he did not have the means: he had only a few frigates that had been left part built after a brief alarm over Algerine pirates nearly half a dozen years ago.

Yet something had to give. In the last few months, insurance rates in the Caribbean had soared to an impossible 25 per cent of ship and cargo value.

The French were defeating whole nations; coalitions against them had crumbled and they were clearly about to break out of Europe to the wider world. It had made them arrogant and confident, but Liston felt that the latest act was beyond sufferance: envoys of the United States in Paris, attempting to negotiate an amelioration of French attitudes, had been met with a demand for two hundred thousand dollars as a pre-condition for any kind of talks.

This incitement to naked bribery had appalled the Americans, and when it had leaked out there had been outrage. For the first time it appeared President Adams would have to move—to declare war? And with what?

Liston dipped his pen and began to write.

Chapter 10

"MAY I CORRECT YOU, SIR? We do have a navy," Gindler said, with an ironic smile, "As of a week ago. Might I explain?"

It seemed that there had been congressional authorisation for a "naval armament" since the Algerines trouble, but this had been a War Department matter of the time. Now Congress wanted the reality, and had therefore recently established a Department of the Navy to act like the British Admiralty and was to appoint a full secretary of the Navy.

"So, our navy is born." Gindler had an engaging smile, but Kydd detected a harder layer beneath his cheery manner.

Kydd's head was still muzzy after his visit to the Blue Anchor, and he tried to concentrate. "Y' don't just say you'll have a navy— you now have t' find ships, officers. How are y' going t' do that? And dockyards, victualling, slops . . ."

He looked at Gindler—and felt that this vigorous new country might just find some way. "Wish ye well of it, Mr Gindler," he said sincerely. Then he added, "But I'd be obliged now, sir, if you'd explain what you were doing."

"Certainly. I was spying on you, Mr Kydd."

"Wha'?"

"We need to know what a British officer is doing on our soil, you'll agree?"

"Then why th' skulking about? It's no secret why I'm here."

"Ah. This is not to do with your own good self, I do assure you. It has rather more to do with our democratic way, Mr Kydd. If the citizens of this town, living as they do in Connecticut, find out that I, as an agent of the federal government, am poking around in a matter they conclude is theirs, then I'll soon need a fast horse out of Exbury."

"Oh? Have you got what you came for, then?" Kydd thought the whole thing sounded more than a little far-fetched.

"Shall we say, sir, that I'd rather like to be shaking hands with an English officer as he steps into his boat to return to his ship?"

"Aye. Well, thanks t' your citizens, the Frenchman lies here untouched an' my ship must sail away. Have no fear, you'll have y'r wish, Mr Gindler. At noon I throw out my signal and the boat will come to take me and my English carcass off." He smiled wryly, then added, "But do walk with me until then, an' tell me more of y'r plans for a navy."

Kydd retrieved his baggage from Jacob Hay and stood with Gindler on the small jetty. Tenacious was approaching and would heave to on the three-mile line for a space while telescopes spied the shore for Kydd's signal. If there was none, she would fill, stand out to sea and return on the following day.

"If it's any consolation, my friend, it grieves me as much as it does you," Gindler said, in a voice low enough not to be overheard by the ragged crowd that had come to see the defeated Englishman leave.

"Oh?" said Kydd bitterly. He was in no mood to be consoled.

Gindler was spared having to answer by the thud of hoofs. The constable hove into view and pulled up his horse. "Mr Dwight sends 'is compliments an' hopes you can pay him a call before y' leaves."

Kydd bit his lip. It was within half an hour of midday, and if he missed the time to display his signal flag, Tenacious would stand offshore for another day.

The constable leaned down. "Noos!" he said hoarsely, and winked broadly.

Dwight was businesslike. "It's none of your business, o' course, Mr Kydd, but you'll find out anyway—I've had word from the governor in Hartford, an' he takes his advice from Philadelphia. Seems they've had enough o' the Frenchies and I'm to serve an order on their captain that they've just twenty-four hours to quit United States territory." He stuffed papers into a desk. "I guess this means you'll be about y'r business then, Mr Kydd," he added, holding the door open.

Kydd had minutes—if he could make his signal . . .

A wily captain like Junon could play it well; he would use all his twenty-four hours to fettle his ship for any circumstance. Then, no doubt, he would sail slowly and directly to the edge of territorial waters, luring Tenacious towards him. When the English ship was committed to his approach he would throw over his helm to one side or the other and, hoisting every possible sail, break out with his superior speed into the open sea.

Gindler was waiting curiously at the jetty. "Minotaure—she's t' sail within twenty-four hours," Kydd said quietly, catching his breath, watching the main topsail of Tenacious brace sturdily around as she made to heave to.

"Well, now, you leave like a hero."

"Perhaps not—I have t' think," Kydd said, distracted. True, the Minotaure was forced to sea, but what was the use of this if the privateer could slip away past her pursuer? It was damned bad luck that their sloop, Lynx, would not yet have returned from alerting the admiral of Tenacious's dispositions, for the two together had a chance of hounding Minotaure to her doom. Could anything be done?

Desperate times meant desperate measures: Kydd had heard of a drag-sail being used to reduce speed; a disguised ship would pretend dull sailing to lure a prey. Perhaps he could stay ashore and tie a sail secretly to Minotaure, slow her enough to catch. He soon realised that before the privateer had gone any distance her captain would want to know why she was slowing and discover the trick.

"Mr Kydd!" Gindler pointed out to sea where Tenacious was bringing round her main topsail yard.

Kydd pulled the red number-one flag from his pocket and hurried to the front of the gaggle of spectators, spread it wide and let it hang. His news would surely set the ship abuzz.

There appeared to be little activity on her quarterdeck: the daily run inshore had lost its novelty, no doubt. Then topmen began mounting the shrouds and in a smart display the main topsail came around and filling, at the same time as the main course was loosed—and Tenacious gracefully got under way for the open sea.

Kydd held the signal high in the forlorn hope that someone was looking back on the little township but, her sails sheeted home, Tenacious made off to the horizon amid the sniggering and laughter of the onlookers.

Kydd stood mortified. Not only was he left stranded but he had failed to pass on his vital news. Even if he could find a boat quickly no small craft could catch a big square-rigger in full sail. The only certainty was that Tenacious would return the next day.

And where could he lay his head that night? He knew he could not go back to Hay. "Er, Mr Gindler, if y're familiar with this town, do you know of any lodgin' house?"

"No, sir, I do not. That is, I don't know of one fit for a gentleman." He smiled. "Come now, I can't have an English guest take back a poor notion of my country. You shall stay with me, Mr Kydd."

"Why, Mr Gindler, that's very kind in you."

Gindler patted him on the shoulder. "And it keeps you safely under my eye . . ."

"I always try to make New England for the summer, a prime place to rest the spirit—and it is here that I stay." It was a retired fisherman's cottage by the edge of the water, complete with its own boathouse.

"Do you fish, Mr Kydd? The halibut and cod here, fresh caught, will by any estimate grace the highest table in the land. We shall try some tonight."

Kydd tried to take an interest, but his mind was full of the consequences of his inattention at the jetty. The only glimmer of hope was that if Minotaure made use of her full twenty-four hours, Tenacious would have returned in time to try to catch her prey.

"We shall have to make shift for ourselves, sir," Gindler said apologetically. "The hire of this cottage does not include servants."

"Oh? Er, yes, of course, Mr Gindler."

"This is American territory, Mr Kydd. Be so kind as to address me by my first name, Edward—that is, Ned."

"Thank you, sir—I mean, Ned, and pray call me Tom."

Kydd went out on to the little porch and stared out to sea. Gindler joined him with pewter tankards of cider and they sat in cane chairs.

"If you can believe it, you have my earnest sympathy, Tom," he said. "Damnation to the French!" he added.

"But aren't they y'r friends?" said Kydd, startled out of his dejection.

"They've caused us more grief and loss than ever you English did, curse 'em, and I have that from Secretary of State Timothy Pickering himself."

Kydd's spirits returned. "So it wouldn't cause you heartbreak to see this corsair destroyed."

"No, sir. It would give me the greatest satisfaction."

Kydd grinned savagely. "Then let's get our heads together an' work out some way we c'n bring about that very thing."

Gindler shook his head. "We? Recollect, Tom, that this is the territory of the United States. Should I act against a ship of a neutral flag while she's lying in our waters I'd be hoist by both sides."

"So I'm on my own again."

"And I'm duty-bound to oppose any action against a neutral—especially in one of our ports, you'll understand."

Kydd slumped in his chair.

"Tell me, Tom, are we friends?" Gindler asked.

Surprised, Kydd agreed.

"Then my scruples tells me it is no crime to help a friend. What do you think?"

An immediate council of war concentrated on one overriding thing: unless Minotaure could be slowed there was little chance that Tenacious could catch her.

"Then we're th' only possible chance," Kydd said morosely.

"It seems that way. How about a drag-sail?"

"It would easily be discovered, soon as they put t' sea and felt its effect. Perhaps I could cut half through a brace or some-thin' that will carry away at the right time," Kydd said, more in despair than hope.

"With the barky alert and swarming with men? I don't think so."

It seemed ludicrous to contemplate two men against a frigate-sized ship, but Kydd persevered. "There is another way . . ." he pondered. "To slow the Frenchy's one thing t' bring him to us, but there's his steering as well."

"Steering? Helm and tiller ropes?"

"His rudder."

"You do anything with that and he's sure to know just as quick."

"Not so, if m' idea is sound." It was years ago, but the image was as clear as yesterday. An English frigate careening at a remote island in the south Pacific Ocean—and, in the balmy oceanic winds, the crew scraping and cleaning the vast rearing bulk of the hull. He had been at work around the stern, overawed by the hulking presence of the thirty-foot-high rudder at close quarters, and had gone to inspect its working.

"Ned," Kydd said cautiously, "may I quiz you on y'r understanding of how rudders are hung?"

"By all means."

"A pin—the pintle on the rudder, going through the eye of a gudgeon on the hull. Now I ask ye to agree this. At the last extremity o' the hull is the sternpost."

"Yes, this must be so. The underwater run of the hull coming together in a fine upright sternpost."

"And the rudder fits to th' sternpost with your gudgeons and pintles. Now I particularly desire ye to remark the gap between the forward edge of the rudder and the after edge o' the stern-post. The thickness of the rudder in a frigate would amaze you— it's every bit of a foot or more, as must be th' sternpost, and I mean t' thrust a wedge between them."

"A magnificent scheme, but pray how will you apply this wedge?"

"Er, we'll discuss that part later. F'r now, we have to settle some details. First, th' gap is only an inch or two wide. No wedge this thick c'n stand the sea forces of a rudder. But—and this needs y'r verifying—there is a very suitable place. At th' point where the pintle meets the gudgeon the shipwrights cut out a space in th' rudder below it, or else we cannot unship the rudder. This they call th' score."

"And how big is your gap there?"

"Above six inches—so now we have two flat surfaces a foot long an' six inches apart. A wedge that size has a chance." Kydd grinned boyishly. "Just think, Ned, the Frenchy goes t' sea, sees Tenacious coming for him an' throws over his helm t' slip by one side, but his helm is jammed. Before he has time t' work out the trouble he's kind enough to deliver himself straight to us."

"Congratulations—but of course—"

"Well, yes, there is th' question of how t' get the wedge in there, I'll grant ye."

"And what sort of ship goes to sea with jammed steering?"

"Ah, I've thought of that."

"I'm gratified to hear it."

Kydd gave a dry smile. "This is callin' for something special, and here it is. We screw an eye into one end of th' wedge and secure a line to it, which is passed through our gap. If you tug on the line it brings the wedge whistling up an' smack into the gap. But it won't be us that's tugging . . ."

"I stand amazed. Who will?"

"Ah! Your old friend a drag-sail. It's only a small piece o' canvas rolled up and secured to the opposite end of the line, and when it opens it does the tugging."

"How?"

"Well, we need the helm t' jam only at the right moment—so we must find a trigger to stream our drag-sail just at that time. And here it is—we bundle the canvas up with twine and when we want it to open an' start pulling the wedge we break the twine."

"Which is . . ."

"Yes, well, this is a long piece of twine, and if you look f'r a discreet little pick-up buoy astern o' the Frenchy, then that's the end o' the twine."

Gindler didn't say anything.

"Well?" asked Kydd anxiously.

"I can only . . . I have two objections." "Oh?"

"Who is going to affix the device? And who is going to find our wee buoy—maybe under gunfire?"

"I'll do both," said Kydd solemnly, but he had no idea how.

The boathouse provided all they needed. A woodworking bench, try-plane, saws—it would be a straightforward enough task. Kydd blessed the time he had spent in a Caribbean dockyard working for a master shipwright.

"Ned, I want some good wood for m' wedge."

Gindler fossicked about and, from a dark corner, dragged out what looked like a small salvaged ship frame, dark with age. "This should suit. It's live oak, and very hard. Capital for hacking out a wedge."

"Aye, well . . ."

"And it damn near doesn't float."

"Done!"

The try-plane hissed as Kydd applied himself to the work, watched by an admiring Gindler. Indeed, the wood was extremely dense, and Kydd sweated at the task. Gindler had already found the twine and was snipping round a piece of dirty canvas; then he rummaged for a screw eye.

Kydd realised he needed to see the French ship again in the light. The big privateer still lay alongside the commercial wharf but with a renewed, purposeful air, loading sea stores and working at her rigging. As he looked across the little bay at her, it became clear that there was no easy way to get close: there were sentries on deck and quay, and the ship was alert.

Kydd scanned the shoreline: the wharf was set on timber pilings. If he could get among them . . . and there, at the end, he saw a spur of light grey rocks extending into the sea.

Back in the boathouse a lanthorn glowed. "I believe I have a chance," Kydd told Gindler.

"Yes, Tom. When will you go?" Gindler was indistinct in the evening shadows but his voice had an edge to it.

"It has t' be before midnight. The tide is on the ebb and her gunports'll fall below the level of th' wharf before then." He picked up the neat piece of canvas Gindler had prepared. It was rolled tightly together with sailmaker's twine, to which a stronger line was securely fixed.

"How long will you have this?" The coil of light line seemed a lot but was probably only fifty feet or so.

"I think all o' that," Kydd said. The longer it was, the safer the task of picking up the buoy and yanking the line. "And th' last thing—our buoy." He cast about for an object that would serve and found some duck decoys: one of the ducklings would suit admirably. He secured it to the light line—and all was complete.

In the blackness of night they stood at the edge of the woods where they were closest to the privateer and had a front-row view of the ship. Lanthorns in her rigging cast bright pools of light on to the wharf; figures paced slowly along the dockside. Work had ceased. This would not be the case if an early-dawn departure was planned.

"Well, here we are," Gindler whispered, "and it's here that we part, my friend. I cannot in all conscience go further, but I'd like to shake the hand of a brave man."

"Let's be started," Kydd muttered. He tucked the precious bundle of canvas and rope tightly under his arm and slipped down to the water's edge, careful to stay in the shadows of the spur of rock.

There he paused, safe for the moment, and listened to the quiet chuckle and ripple of the calm evening sea. The ship was over a hundred yards away—and when he stepped round the spur there was a dozen yards of open beach before the shelter of the wharf piling. For that distance he would be in plain view of the ship.

The single thing in his favour was surprise. They might expect a rush by an armed party, but never by a lone, unarmed man. It was small comfort, but it also seemed the height of absurdity to be going into battle against a heavily gunned privateer armed only with a lump of wood and a piece of dirty canvas.

In the shadow of the rocks he stripped down to his long underwear and stockings, awkward and vulnerable. He laid down his clothes carefully and stumbled over to the inky black sea. He could not risk the forty feet of open beach; the only alternative was to wade off into the outer blackness.

The water was fearfully cold and his heart nearly failed him. He forced himself to continue, his feet feeling the sharp stones and shells on the rocky bottom. Deeper he went—the cold biting into his legs then his waist, leaving him gasping for breath. Out past the end of the spur, the ship was now in plain view and as he turned to round the end he lowered himself into the numbing water to his neck. Past the rock, the bottom turned mercifully to the softness of mud and he leaned forward, shuddering with cold, pushing on parallel to the beach and praying he could not be seen.

Minotaure was bows to sea, her carved stern towards him. There was a light in the captain's cabin, a dim gold point through the mullioned windows. A couple of figures stood together on her after deck and Kydd could see the occasional red of a drawn pipe, but the rest was in shadow.

There was the odd scurry of unknown sea creatures at his feet, the stubbing of a toe against an invisible barnacled rock— and what seemed an eternity of knifing cold. At last he saw the edge of the wharf piling resolve out of the darkness.

Gratefully he entered the safety of the overhang with its concentrated sea odours and stood upright. A mistake. The tiny evening breeze was now a searching icy blast that stopped his breath. He lowered himself back into the water, which was almost warm by contrast.

Stumbling along in the darkness he passed between the heavily barnacled and slimy piles, clutching his bundle until he came abreast of the looming black vastness of the privateer. Turning towards it he moved forward and felt the slope of the sea-bed suddenly drop away. He pulled back in alarm. He was an awkward swimmer and, encumbered with his device, he could not possibly do other than move upright.

With a sinking heart he realised it was logical to build the wharf for larger ships where the water was deep enough for them to come close in—Minotaure would draw fifteen or twenty feet. Far out of his depth. His frozen mind struggled and he looked around wildly. Past the stern of the ship, tucked in just under the wharf edge he saw a low, elongated shape, a ship's side punt used by sailors to stand in as they worked their way down the hull caulking and painting.

He pulled the little raft towards him, hoisted his bundle in, and hanging off one end, he thrust out. The punt glided towards the black bulk of the ship's hull and finally bumped woodenly against it. Kydd's feet dangled in the freezing depths.

A mix of terror and elation washed over him at the physical touch of the enemy; he worked his way along the hull, sensing noise and movement within until he reached the curved overhang of the stern. Here he would be out of sight from above while he set his trap, but any boat coming down the other side of the hull would burst into view just feet from him without warning.

He took the bundle, his hands shaking as he prepared it. The motionless rudder was lost in the shadows but Kydd could hang on to the rudder chains and be guided down to it. He would have to work by feel. Near the waterline would be the lower hance, a projecting piece at the trailing edge of the rudder; with its hoisting ring plate he could not fail to find it. He felt the barnacle-studded fitting and pulled himself to it. The final act: to thread the line through the score, the inner gap.

He let his hands slide inwards. The pintle strap led to the pintle itself going through the gudgeon eye—and there was the score. A gap just below the waterline and big enough to put his whole fist through. Excitement surged through him. All he had to do now was put the line through with the wedge one side and the rest the other.

He pushed the line through easily enough, then had to bend it on the wedge. His hands were numb but he fumbled it through the screw eye. But when he tried to tie a simple one-handed bowline his stiff fingers could not obey. He scrabbled at the line helplessly, aware that if he lost his hold on the wedge it would sink down for ever into the black depths. He couldn't feel anything! Nearly weeping with frustration he tried again and failed. Then, with one last effort, he rested his elbows on the edge of the punt, leaving both hands free. Clumsily he managed to manipulate the sodden line.

Letting the wedge hang free by its line he tested it, then let it sink slowly toward the sea-bed. Moving to the other side of the rudder he freed the bundle of canvas and let the pick-up buoy float away. The little bundle, weighted with a fishing lead, sank also, and all that was left of his night's work was a shabby little duckling floating nearby.

Gindler was waiting behind the rocky spur and when Kydd staggered up from the dark waters he threw a blanket round his frozen body and rubbed furiously. "Mr Kydd, you're the maddest son-of-a-gun I've ever heard of!" he whispered. "Now let's get something hot into you."

It was King's calibogus, spruce beer stiffened with New England rum, a drink to which Greaves had introduced him; taken hot in front of the log fire, it was medicine indeed. While Kydd recounted his tale, Gindler threw clams and chunks of cod into a pot, with onion and bacon, and crushed biscuit for thickening, then let the mixture simmer and fill the snug cottage with an irresistible aroma.

"Er, do pardon me the liberty," said Gindler, after the chowder pot had been satisfyingly scraped empty, "I can't help but observe that your character is so — different from your usual King's officer, Tom. You never hang back when there's a need to soil the hands, to bear a fist directly—and you speak plainer, if you understand me."

"Aye, well, that could be because I come fr'm a different land. I came aft through th' hawse, as we say. But now I'm a gentleman," he added doubtfully.

"You are indeed," Gindler said sincerely.

"How about your folk, Ned?" Kydd asked, cradling another calibogus.

"My mother's family came over with the Mayflower," Gindler said proudly. "Settled in the north, near Boston. Pa runs a business . . ."

A grey day broke, and Kydd's sleepless night was over at last. Today would end in a flurry of gunfire and a captured privateer— or failure. Any one of those barbarous small rocks that had left his feet so sore could snag the line and part it, and they would be left with a useless end. So much could go wrong: even as they breakfasted, a crew member might look over the side of Minotaure and raise the alarm, and then it would be over before it started, or the ship might sail at dawn when Tenacious was not in the offing.

Kydd sat on the porch, brooding. "What do ye say we take a walk through th' town? Perhaps we — "

"You must stay here, my friend. Your presence near the vessel at this time could be . . . unfortunate." Gindler got to his feet. "I will undertake a reconnaissance."

He returned quickly. "They're ready for sea near enough, but there's a little duck taken up residence under her stern."

The morning dragged by; Kydd tried to learn a card game but it quickly palled. In the end they sat on the porch and talked, eyes straying out to sea.

"I believe we must take position now," Gindler said lightly. "We have our smack ready at hand."

The craft was not big but had a single mast stepped to a forward thwart, and with a light spritsail took the morning breeze with a will. In nondescript fishermen's gear Kydd and Gindler saw they were one of a handful of boats chancing the day for sea-bass.

The entrance to the inner sound was no more than a couple of miles across and the one league boundary a half-mile beyond. Gindler eased sheets and steered for the northern point.

"There she is!" cried Kydd exultantly. HMS Tenacious under topsails was calmly approaching from the north. All the players were now converging and it was only a matter of time before the final act.

Minotaure had to sail by noon; her captain was waiting for the last possible moment and, as a consequence, would have to face Tenacious. But he would have been told about the midday signal arrangement—why did he wait and risk the confrontation?

Then it dawned on Kydd. Junon was both confident and cool. He wanted the English ship to present herself: he knew he could out-manoeuvre the big ship and in this way could establish where she was and therefore be free of the threat of an unpleasant surprise later.

The privateer's fore topsail rose: she was about to proceed. Kydd's heart beat faster. Her headsails fluttered into life and, as he watched, her bow detached from the wharf. The French tricolour was lowered from her ensign staff but reappeared at her mizzen peak. Other canvas made its appearance and Minotaure stood out into the sound.

Her actions were not lost on Tenacious whose battle-ensign soared up to the mainmasthead in answer. Kydd pictured the frenzied rush to quarters and was torn between the desire to be back aboard his ship in action and the knowledge of what he had to do.

Tenacious stood squarely across the entrance at the edge of the boundary, heaving to in the slight winds, while the privateer advanced cautiously towards her under just topsails, not giving the slightest indication of which side she was going to pass.

Kydd's admiration for the coolness of the French captain increased as he noticed that the wind's direction had Tenacious hove to with broadside towards, normally a battle-winning raking position, but the bigger ship could not in any circumstances open fire into United States waters and certainly not risk shot ricocheting into the town. Therefore Minotaure could move forward in perfect safety.

"We need t' get under her stern," Kydd growled. Gindler sheered the boat round and edged more into the sound, keeping safely to one side. The privateer drew nearer and Kydd visualised the wedge and the little bundle bumping over the mud of the seabed, hopefully then to stream out behind — or they might already have been torn off.

Kydd spoke, more to himself than to Gindler: "When she makes her move, she'll loose sail t' crack on speed and only then choose her side an' put over her helm sharp. Therefore our signal will be when she looses more sail." Tenacious would have little chance of reacting in time, being stationary in the water with only the chance of a fleeting shot as the faster vessel surged past.

The privateer came on, seeming immense from the little smack. Her upper decks appeared full of men and her gun-ports were open. Gindler eased away the sail and let the big ship come down on them, jockeying to be as near as possible.

"Wave at 'em!" Kydd said urgently. Answering waves appeared up at the deckline. They were very close now, every raw detail of her timbers and gun muzzles plain. Gindler put over his tiller and the boat spun about to face the same direction, jibbing and rolling in the side wake of the privateer. Tenacious was precisely dead ahead—still no indication. Kydd waved again, anxiety flooding him at the thought of what hung on the next few minutes.

Gindler jockeyed the boat about, slipping back until the stern windows of the ship came into view then sidling up behind. "The duckling, find th' duck!" Kydd gasped. They searched frantically astern of the ship—but there was no sign of a buoy.

"No!" Kydd cried harshly.

Gindler kept on behind the rearing stern then pointed. "Th-there!" he whooped. Kydd leaned over and saw, in the roiling, bubbling wake, a jaunty duckling bobbing vigorously, much closer to the stern than he had planned.

"Get us in there, f'r God's sake!" he yelled hoarsely, careless of anything but the final task.

Hardening in the sheets Gindler brought the smack closer but startled faces appeared over the stern high above. "Snag the bastard, quick!" he hissed. The boat was bouncing around in the uneven wake and the wind around the looming stern was fitful and chancy.

Clear and positive over the noise of the tumbling water came the sound of a boatswain's calls—to man yards and set sail. Kydd leaned far over the bow, reaching, scrabbling for the duckling. There would be no second chance now, and shouts were coming from above.

He touched the painted wood but it bounced out of reach then skittered back. He grabbed at it with the furthest extremity of his reach—he had it, pulled, but it jerked from his grasp. Kydd cried out in frustration.

The shouts above turned angry, demanding, dangerous. In despair he glanced back at Gindler, whose pale, set face took on a look of determination. He yanked on the sheets and the little boat responded, going right under the stern of the big ship. Kydd fell over the thwarts trying to keep with the buoy but at last he seized it in both hands.

Gindler instantly let out sheets and the smack fell back. Kydd was ready for it and crushed the little duck to him as the soaked line tautened unbearably—then fell slack. It was over.

Near sobbing with relief, Kydd fell back into the boat, still with the duckling clasped to his chest. He looked up— Minotaure was receding from them and, indeed, was loosing sail from every bare yard. She was still heading for Tenacious and waiting until the sails drew, gathering speed for the vital turn.

Kydd held his breath until it hurt—there was no sign, no hint that he had achieved anything: Minotaure was poised for her turn, all ready . . . and still no turn—

He had done it! Incredibly, unbelievably, it had worked! The privateer's steering had locked, to the bewilderment of her crew and now, as he watched, confusion and chaos overtook as orders for setting sail were reversed, panic and fear flooding in as the ship delivered herself into the arms of a ship-of-the-line.

It was over in moments. A disbelieving Tenacious had seen Minotaure come straight at her and sent a challenging ball under her bow. There was nothing any sane captain could do when brought to, helpless under the threat of the broadside of a two-decker—her colours came down slowly and HMS Tenacious took possession of her prize.

Chapter 11

THE PRESIDENT LIFTED ANOTHER ROSE in his cupped hands and sniffed it. "Perfect!" He sighed, raising his eyes to meet those of his new secretary of the Navy, Benjamin Stoddert. Then he straightened and said softly, "I'm right glad you accepted, Ben."

There was a moment of shared feeling. This was not the red-blooded hewing of a vision from the chaos of the revolution twenty years before: it was a time for hard-headed recognition of power and reality in a world at war.

"I fear we may be too late," Stoddert said. "It came all of a moil so quick, John."

The lines in Adams's face deepened. "I don't want war with the French—understand that of all things! I loathe their system and their arrogance, but I'll be doing anything I can think of to prevent an alignment of the United States with one party or the other."

Stoddert followed Adams to the next rose-bush. "Agreed— but we must stand up for ourselves. No one in this world will stand up for us."

Adams straightened. "Ben, I've abrogated the treaty we've had since 1778 with the French. I've swallowed insults from Jefferson about my reasons and finally pulled Congress into line. You have your navy. Leave it to me to take care of the rest of the world."

"Yes, sir." Stoddert saw no reason to dilute a response to French actions, but knew better than to debate Adams's moderate tactics. Besides which, Adams had a personal interest in the formation of this new navy: he had been the one to create the Continental Navy, the motley fleet of the revolution that had taken on the Royal Navy at sea. It had then been disbanded. This Federal Navy was going to be different, professional, and Stoddert had the honour of leading it into existence.

"You have your captains now." It had been a fraught business, the few experienced men available vying for positions of seniority and honour.

"I have. Truxtun, Nicholson, Barry, of course, and the lieutenants." It had taken the personal intervention of the ageing George Washington to settle the question of seniority.

"And the ships." Converted merchantmen to begin with, six frigate-class vessels racing to completion: Constitution, Constellation and others.

"And your budget," Adams said finally. Congress had voted it through, complaining bitterly at the cost of the new vessels, and the Republicans had fought against it as irrelevant to a continental power with no enemies, but now it was going to happen.

"Ben, be careful, my friend," Adams said quietly. Both understood the political risks that were being taken. "Well, I won't keep you." He plucked his rose with a sigh, then turned back to Stoddert. "One thing interests me. How will you forge a—a way of doing things, a spirit of the sea, if you will?"

Stoddert pondered. "It seems to me we acquire it in the same way as we have our common law. We take what we want from the English and cast away the rest." He pursed his lips. "After all, it's the Royal Navy, the first navy of the age."

The main sticking point was Gindler. He had begged Kydd not to mention his part, arguing that for him to have taken an active part in operations against a neutral might cause an international incident. But without Gindler's corroboration his account would not be believed—especially the latter stages, which would have been impossible without an accomplice. He could imagine the polite contempt with which his claim would be met at the wardroom table, seen as a shabby attempt to embellish his experiences. No—he could not risk that.

There was nothing for it but a bald statement of his treatment ashore, his urging of a town meeting and the final instructions from Hartford. He had reported as much verbally to the captain, who had generally approved his conduct, understanding his encounter with the odd notions of democracy obtaining ashore. It would take a lot to put the captain out of humour with such a prize meekly astern, and no doubt this report would be passed on to the admiral with suitably warm words.

Kydd was proud of what he had done and chagrined at having to keep it quiet—Renzi had agreed to go over the report for him before he handed it in, but afterwards Kydd had promised him such a tale as would keep him tolerably entertained.

Halifax had seen ships come and go in wartime, and this occasion was not noticeably different. Tenacious anchored in the bosom of the fleet, salutes were exchanged and Captain Houghton, in sword and decorations, went aboard the flagship to make explanation of his prize—and the consequent accession to the admiral's own purse.

By return new fleet instructions were sent to her signal lieutenant, the effective date three days hence.

Kydd groaned with vexation. Signals and their meanings were a prerogative of the admiral commanding the station and were buried in the Fighting Instructions, detailed prescripts from the admiral for the precise manner in which he wished his ships to engage the enemy. Admiral "Black" Dick Howe, who had brought the fleet mutiny at Spithead to an end the previous year, had done much to standardise operation of flag signals and Kydd saw that these from Admiral Vandeput were similar.

There were ten signal flags, then the preparative, and the substitute—pennants and wefts, differences of meaning depending on where hoisted, night signals, recognition procedures, signals for individual ships, divisions, fleets. This was the system that had resulted from so much practice over years of sea warfare. It had gone into battle with Howe on the Glorious First of June; only the previous year Jervis had signalled Nelson at St Vincent, and Duncan had used it with such effect at Camperdown.

Now Lieutenant Kydd had inherited this accrued wisdom and must prove himself worthy of it. He took the signal pocket book, which had been owned by his dead predecessor, as a model and with scissors and patience set about constructing the vade mecum that would stay with him while he was a signal lieutenant.

The flag-lieutenant himself brought the summons: Lieutenant Kydd to wait on the admiral immediately. Kydd flinched when he recalled his previous summoning. What could be the reason now? It was astonishing. He was a mere lieutenant—and so many commanders would slay to be noticed by a commander-in-chief—and there was no apparent reason for it.

Kydd bawled at Tysoe in a fever of anxiety: only new stockings and faultless linen would answer. Decorations? He had none. Sword? The plain hanger he had bought in Halifax would have to do. He pulled on his breeches, watched by half the wardroom.

A gig was brought alongside and Kydd descended the ship's side and sat bolt upright in the sternsheets. The bowman cast off with an excess of flourishes and the midshipman in charge set the men to pulling smartly.

The flag-lieutenant led the way wordlessly to the great cabin. "Lieutenant Kydd, sir."

"Enter!"

Admiral Vandeput advanced to meet him. "Well, now, is this the officer the fuss is all about?" He regarded Kydd keenly.

"Sir?"

The white-haired admiral spoke in an easy manner; this could not be a carpeting.

"Please sit, Mr Kydd." He went round his desk and found a paper, while Kydd perched on the edge of an elegant Windsor chair. "This is a most particular request, not to say direction, and it comes from Mr Liston. Our minister to the United States, that is—what you might call an ambassador." He laid the paper on the table and Kydd glimpsed the cipher of the Court of St James at the top.

"In it he desires me to release an officer for a particular service to a foreign power—as you probably know, we have had officers seconded to the Swedish Crown, St Petersburg, other countries. This is not unusual. It is a little odd, though, that you have been named, and that you are so damn junior." His quiet chuckle took the sting from his words. "It seems the United States is conjuring up their own navy and they have asked Mr Liston for an observer from the Royal Navy, if possible a Lieutenant Kydd. He feels that it would be right at this time to be seen co-operating with a neutral nation.

"There! What do you think of that, Mr Kydd? You're noticed diplomatically." His genial smile grew wider and he stabbed a finger at Kydd in emphasis. "And I'd wager more went on ashore in that backwoods village than ever found its way into your report, hey-hey?"

"Er, sir, I—"

"Never mind. Whatever it was, you did right. Now, let's talk about what you'll be doing. They've got together two or three frigates—built 'em themselves, damn it—and I've seen the gunboats their Revenue runs. Calls 'em their 'treasury navy.' Now, you'll probably be shipping in one of their frigates—they're fitting out now. Your status will be supernumerary for the voyage—a passenger, any Christian would call it—and you won't be called upon to serve a gun if it comes to fighting."

"Er, who will be their enemy, sir?"

"Well, that's a little difficult to say, but . . ." he tapped his nose ". . . I've been hearing that the French have overstepped their position, making hay with American trade, and they don't like it. In any event, they'll probably tell you about it themselves.

"Now, I know you'll comport yourself as a gentleman should, marks o' respect to all the proper persons, flags and so on. But I think what they're probably after is a correct steer on how things are done in our service. I don't see any reason why you can't tell 'em anything reasonable they want to know. Must be hard to start from nothing," he reflected sombrely. "You go in plain clothes, will be victualled by the, er, United States Navy, and I don't suppose you'll be away from us for long. There's a brig leaving for Philadelphia shortly—it's their capital, where our Mr Liston is expecting you. Good fortune, Lieutenant!"

Kydd took in the sights as the brig rounded Cape May for the long trip up the broad Delaware. This was quite a different land from rugged grey rock-bound Nova Scotia or even pretty, forested Connecticut. Here there was well-settled land on either bank, farming and orchards, settlements and roads. The sails of coastal shipping thronged the river as it narrowed towards the capital. Kydd was impressed. No mean colonial sprawl, Philadelphia was a fine city that stretched for miles along the river, as busy as any he had seen in England.

Kydd followed his baggage ashore and looked to see if someone was there to meet him. A ferry loaded noisily and a market stretched away into the distance, improbably occupying the middle of a wide road.

"Mr Kydd?"

He wheeled round. "Aye?" he said cautiously.

A well-dressed young man inclined his head. "Thornton, secretary of Legation."

"How-"

"Please believe, it's not so hard a task to spy out a sailor, Mr Kydd." He raised a beckoning finger and a coachman came for Kydd's baggage. "So good in you to leave your wooden world at such short notice. His Excellency is returning from Mount Vernon and hopes to make your acquaintance tomorrow. I trust you'll find our accommodation congenial."

With a growing sense of unreality Kydd boarded a high-wheeled carriage and the debonair Thornton pointed out the sights as they made Walnut Street at a fast clip. "Minister Liston keeps unfashionable hours, I fear. Can you find it in you, dear fellow, to appear at nine tomorrow morning? It seems he's anxious to see you."

"Of course."

"Should you like theatre, I have tickets for this evening."

"Thank you," Kydd murmured, his head spinning with the pace of events.

"Mr Liston," Thornton said softly, ushering Kydd into a small drawing room and closing the door noiselessly as he left.

"Ah, Mr Kydd," said Liston, finishing a letter. "Pray be seated, I won't be long."

While Liston sanded and sealed the missive, Kydd had the feeling that he was under discreet observation.

"Very well. To business. You will be aware by now that this country has seen fit to begin the creation of a navy, arising from the grievous nature of the depredations of the French on their trade. For details of that you will no doubt have your professional sources." He paused significantly. "There are many elements of delicacy in this situation, and in a way I would wish that you were of a more elevated, senior character, but in this I am constrained by their very firm petition for your own good self to undertake this service. Therefore I will be plain. The United States has done us the signal honour of embarking on a characterisation of their navy that is in the greatest measure our own. This is gratifying to us, of course, as it presupposes an alignment of purpose consequent upon a convergence of practices. This, naturally, has put the French out of countenance, for the Americans have turned their back on their traditional ally in this."

Liston paused, considering Kydd. "And in this, as in all things, you will consult your honour as to how on foreign soil you will best conduct yourself in furtherance of your country's interests."

Something in the smooth flow of words alerted Kydd and he listened warily. "I will, sir, be assured."

"Then if this is your prime motivation I can rely on your loyalty to the Crown?"

"Sir."

"Then let me lay out the issues before you. You are in a unique position to allay the fears of your government on certain matters concerning the effectiveness of this armament . . ."

"Sir!" Kydd said tightly. "You're askin' me to spy on th' Americans?" The warmth of a flush spread, but he did not care. Spies and betrayal, this was not how he saw his duty.

Liston's face tightened. "Have a care, Lieutenant! Recollect you hold the commission of King George. And in it you have sworn certain loyalties that cannot so easily be cast aside. What I am asking is no more than any officer of honour is bound to do when on foreign territory, whether on parole or any other basis— simply to keep his eyes open." The crack of aristocratic authority in his voice remained as he went on, "And if I might remark it, you appear surprisingly deficient thereby in your understanding of the bounds of gentlemanly conduct."

Kydd stiffened, then dropped his eyes.

Liston's tone softened: "We're not asking you to report back on the number of ships and guns and so forth, if that is your scruple. It is something of far more significance. I desire that you will return to me with an opinion as to whether you believe the United States is determined in this matter, has resolved to establish an armed force of credibility, or is merely embarked on a ploy to deter the French." He fixed his gaze on Kydd. "And if you conceive that they are in earnest, your professional opinion as to their effectiveness at sea. In short, whether they can fight— should the world take notice."

Kydd returned the gaze steadily. "I will do that, sir." It was not an act of spying: it was an opinion.

Liston relaxed a little. "Then as we seem to have come to an understanding, would you care to join me for coffee? The American bean is generally accounted superior, and we have the remainder of this hour before your hosts make their appearance."

Twenty minutes later there was a firm knock on the door. Thornton appeared, with an indistinct figure behind him. "Sir, a gentleman for Mr Kydd." It was Gindler.

Outside they shook hands gleefully. "Well, this must be the strangest coincidence of the age," laughed Gindler, but his knowing look gave the game away.

"So, what has the American Navy in store for poor Lieutenant Kydd?"

"Ah, the United States Navy is what we call it—you English will have reason to remember the Continental Navy of the revolution; this is now the Federal Navy but some take exception to the term."

"Noted."

"And you are now talking to L'tenant Gindler, third of the United States Frigate Constellation, Captain Truxtun, now fitting out in Baltimore." He smiled wickedly. "And I am talking to the mysterious supernumerary on our first voyage . . ."

Kydd laughed but his interest swelled fast. This was not to be a pettifogging political appointment but a real seagoing situation. "When-"

"Not so fast, good sir. I'm instructed that our new secretary of the Navy wishes to make your acquaintance before we hazard the briny deep."

"Do excuse this mare's nest of a room—my wife has not yet arrived in Philadelphia to take charge of my household." Stoddert made ineffectual attempts to clear a space at one end of a plain table where a stout chair stood. His manner was distracted but his gaze direct as he greeted Kydd.

"Secretary Stoddert has only recently arrived in the capital," Gindler murmured, standing clear of the welter of papers and furniture.

"Thank you, Lieutenant. Pray call on me before you leave Philadelphia. I may have something for Captain Truxtun." Gindler bowed and left.

"Now, you are Lieutenant Kydd of the Royal Navy."

"Sir."

"And you must be wondering why you are here, not to say concerned."

"Aye, sir," Kydd said, uneasy at yet more attention from on high. Stoddert lowered himself into his chair. "Then, first, the wider issue. We are in the process of creating our own navy. We have chosen to follow the example and traditions of the Royal Navy as a starting point for our own. It would be of the utmost value to us were an officer of that illustrious service to signify to us our success in this endeavour. As to why your own good self, Mr Gindler was good enough to render me a full and satisfying account of what transpired in Exbury—in confidence, of course. There can be no question that the United States is implicated in any way."

"I understand, sir."

"But more to our liking are Mr Gindler's remarks upon your character. Let me be candid, sir. The Royal Navy is a proud and ancient service, but there are many of its officers whose superior attitude is both lamentable and abhorrent to us as a nation. It is a trait that regrettably seems to appear more prominent with seniority, and this is why we have chosen to request a less senior officer.

"Mr Gindler tells us that your conduct ashore was circumspect and respectful to the feelings of the people even to the point of joining the merriment in a tavern—in short, sir, you have the common touch, which we as a people do prize so much." Stoddert rose, gripping the edge of the table and wincing as he did so. At Kydd's concern he gave a low chuckle. "Ah, this. A souvenir given me by the English at Brandywine Creek."

He drew the chair to a more confiding proximity. "Let me be frank, Mr Kydd. Your position as a King's officer in a warship of the United States Navy is anomalous, not to say irregular, and there are those who would put the worst construction on your presence. Therefore you are entered as a supernumerary on board, specifically a friend of the captain. You haven't yet the pleasure of an introduction to Captain Truxtun, but he will be advised of you, and will be encouraged to take full advantage of your knowledge and experience of the Royal Navy. I'm sure he will appreciate your assistance." He leaned forward further.

"Before you go, I should like to make it very plain that on your return I would deeply appreciate your sincere appraisal of our efforts. Do you think this will be possible?"

"Sir." Kydd felt resentment building at the way so many seemed to be treating him like a pawn in a higher game.

"Then, sir, it only remains for me to wish you God speed on your voyage. You will find Lieutenant Gindler waiting in the drawing room below."

"Was all that necessary?" A figure moved out from behind a covered escritoire.

Stoddert closed the door. "I think so. The military of any race should not be overburdened with considerations of politics." At times Murray, his political agent, could be insensitive to the perceptions of others.

"Be that as it may, Mr Stoddert, you didn't warn him of the Republicans—he should have been told."

"That we have an opposition in Congress so lost to honour they would stop at nothing to ruin our navy for crass political gain? Jefferson has done his worst to try to prevent America reaching for a sure shield against the world—how can I explain that to a man whose country continues to exist only because of her own power at sea? I cannot. In any case, this talk of subverting crews and so on is probably from unreliable sources and should be discounted. What most concerns me are my captains. A prickly, difficult bunch, Murray. Especially Truxtun."

"A fighting captain," Murray interposed strongly.

"Oh, indeed. But as a privateer. And pray bring to mind the fluttering in Congress there was during the English war, on hearing how he set John Paul Jones himself to defiance over some notion of which ship was to fly some pennant. Not one to be led easily—and too damn clever by half. Did you know he was once pressed by the Royal Navy?"

"Indeed?"

"But that's by the by. Here is my main hope for L'tenant Kydd. He has no interest in politics. He's a tarpaulin mariner and cares only for his ropes and sails. He must be intelligent, he wouldn't hold a commission else, so he'll be able to tell me exactly what I want to know . . ."

Nothing could convey better to Kydd the continental vastness of the country than the overland coach journey with Gindler to Baltimore. From as fine a four-horse conveyance as any in England, they admired the spring-touched verdancy of the deciduous woodland that had replaced the northern conifers, the glittering lakes, rivers and blue-washed mountains far into the interior.

At stops to change horses, Gindler added to Kydd's impressions: he pointed out that beyond the mountains to the west the land was wild, stretching for more than sixty degrees of longitude; an unimaginable distance, more than the Atlantic was wide, and no one knew what was within it. Unsettled by the effect of this enormity Kydd was glad when they met the cobblestones of Baltimore.

"She'll be lying in the Patuxent river," Gindler said. "We're nearly ready for sea." There was no delaying: a fast packet on its way down the Chesapeake to Norfolk had promised to call at Patuxent and their ship.

The sight of naked masts and yards towering above the low, bushy point made Kydd's pulse quicken. The packet rounded the point into the broad opening of a river and there at anchor was the biggest frigate he had ever seen.

"A thing of beauty," breathed Gindler. "Don't you agree?"

Kydd concentrated as they neared the vessel. She was distinctive and individual; her lines and finish owed nothing to the conservative traditions of old-world shipwrights, and there was an alert purposefulness about her. There was much in her that a sailor could love. Nearly half as big again as the lovely Artemis, she seemed well armed. "Twenty-fours?" he asked.

"Indeed! I'd like to see any frigate that swims try to come up against the old Connie," Gindler said proudly.

"Old?" Kydd said wryly, observing seamen applying a tar mixture to the last remaining raw timber of the bulwarks.

"Well, I grant you she's newborn, but I have the feeling you'll be hearing from us in the future, my friend." His glance flicked up to the flag with its stars and stripes and he added softly, "I promise you that."

Kydd had seen far too many ships fitting for sea to be concerned at the turmoil on deck. He followed Gindler aft to the captain's cabin. Gindler knocked and an irritable bellow bade them enter.

"Mr Kydd, sir," said Gindler, and when the captain looked up in incomprehension he added, "Our supernumerary."

The captain's gaze swivelled to Kydd. Intelligent but hard eyes met his. Then the man grunted, "Mr Kydd, y'r service," and turned back to his papers. "Berth him in the fourth lootenant's cabin. He won't be sailing," he ordered, without looking up.

"Aye, sir," said Gindler, and withdrew with Kydd.

Picking their way through men at blocks and ropework— some seaming canvas, others scaling shot—they headed for the after hatchway. "I fear I must desert you now, Tom, duty calls. I'll take you to the wardroom, and I'm sure Captain Truxtun will want to see you when less pressed."

"Welcome back, Lootenant!" a fresh-faced seaman called, with a grin, to Gindler and waved a serving mallet.

"Thanks, Doyle," Gindler threw back. At Kydd's raised eyebrows he added, "A mort of difference from a King's ship, I think. Remember, aboard here every man jack is a volunteer on wages and, as Americans, they're not accustomed to bending the knee."

Kydd did not rise to the bait and privately wondered at their reliability in action when instant obedience was vital.

The wardroom was almost deserted. A black messman glanced at him curiously and left. Kydd looked about him. The raw newness had not yet been overcome to bring individuality. At the same time there was an alien air. The unfamiliar wood graining, the slant of the munnions — even the smell: striking timber odours, the usual comfortable galley smells subtly different, no waft of bilge.

He crossed to the transom seat. Reassuringly, it was still the repository of the ephemera of wardroom life and he picked up a Philadelphia newspaper, the Mercantile Advertiser. While he awaited Truxtun's summons he settled by the midships lanthorn and opened it. There was no ochre tax stamp and the paper was of good quality. He scanned the front page, which was given over to a verbatim setting out of a newly enacted statute. The next page, however, was vigorous and to the point: a growing feeling against the French gave colour to the local news and trade intelligence. Further inside there were advertisements and notices.

"Mr Kydd? Cap'n wants ye." He folded the paper, tugged his waistcoat into position and followed the messenger, apprehensive at meeting those hard eyes again.

Truxtun was standing, his back to Kydd, staring broodily out of the windows of his cabin. He turned and gestured to a chair. "Sit y'self down, Mr Kydd." He himself remained standing.

"I'll be plain with you, sir. Mr Secretary Stoddert thinks to provide me with an aide who'll tell me how they do it in King George's Navy. I can tell you frankly I don't give a solitary hoot how you do things—this is the United States Navy and I'm captain o' the Constellation, and I'll do things the way I want." His face had the implacability of a slab of oak. "Therefore your presence aboard is a waste. For Ben Stoddert's sake, I'll carry you these few days, but I'll have you know, sir, that I'll be giving orders that no United States officer or crewman shall hold converse with you—I don't want 'em getting strange ideas agin mine about how a ship o' war should be run. I'd be obliged if you'd keep your views to yourself.

"In return, you're welcome to sit at vittles in the wardroom and the fourth's stateroom is yours. You'll know to keep out from under while the ship's being worked, and should we meet an enemy you'll stay below. Have I made myself clear, sir?"

It was going to be a hard time for Kydd. He was not introduced when the wardroom sat for dinner. He was passed the condiments when he asked, but none caught his eye. Desultory talk went on about progress in the final run-up to sea trials in the morning, a few lame attempts at humour—this was a wardroom that had not been long together but would coalesce around individuals as the commission went on.

In the morning he caught Gindler, now a taut-rigged lieutenant, about to go on deck. "I'm sorry it has to be this way, Tom," he said softly. He touched his hat and left for the nervous bustle above.

Kydd hesitated: he could see down the length of the deck to the cable party readying the messenger; the tierers were moving down the hatchway for their thankless task at bringing in the cable.

He decided against making an appearance and returned to the wardroom. Although it was galling to be left in ignorance below decks, this was a first voyage with a new ship and a new company and he felt it was not altogether fair to witness the inevitable mistakes and dramas. He found a dog-eared copy of the North American Review and tried to concentrate, but the long tiller up against the deckhead began to creak and move as the man at the wheel exercised the helm. Then piercing calls from the boatswain and his mates told of the hoisting of boats, all suffused with the age-old excitement of the outward bound.

Rhythmic singing came from the men forward, and he felt a continual low shuddering in the deck that was, without doubt, the capstan at work. A sudden clatter and flurry of shouting would be a fall running away with the men while heavy thumps against the ship's side were the boats being brought in and stowed. The noises lessened until there was silence. They were ready to proceed.

Constellation's deck lifted and moved. In a deliberate sway it inclined to starboard, a heel that paused then returned and steadied to a definite angle, which had only one meaning: they were under sail and moving through the water.

Kydd threw down the newspapers—it was too much. He had to catch a glimpse of the sea. There were no stern windows in the wardroom, so the nearest place to see the ship's position was from the captain's cabin above.

He hurried up the companion and through the lobby. To the sentry loosely at attention outside the great cabin, he muttered, "Have t' see out." If he craned his neck, he could just glimpse the coastline of the Patuxent slowly rotating; a discernible wake was disturbing the water astern and the frenzied squeal of blocks could be heard even below decks.

He nodded to the marine and returned to the wardroom.

He knew vaguely that they should shape course south down Chesapeake Bay to the sea, but without sight of a chart he was in the dark. The angle of the deck lessened, then he heard another volley of faintly heard shouts, and there was a brief hesitation— they must be staying about.

At the right moment the tiller groaned with effort as the wheel went over but after some minutes there was no corresponding sway over to larboard. They had missed stays. Kydd cringed for the officer-of-the-deck as the unmistakable bull roar of Truxtun erupted; he was grateful to be out of sight. He picked up the Review again and flicked the pages.

After an hour or so the motions were repeated but this time in a smooth sequence, the frigate taking up on the opposite tack. Again the manoeuvre and again an easy transition. Dare he emerge on deck? He waited for a space; the angle of heel increased gradually and he guessed that more sail was being loosed. Kydd could stand it no longer. He made his way to the aft companion and mounted the steps to the quarterdeck. In the tense scene, not a soul looked his way. Groups of men were at the bitts, the base of the masts, the forecastle, all looking aft to where Truxtun stood with folded arms, staring up at taut canvas.

"Stream!" he snapped, to the men at the taffrail. One held the reel of the log high while the log-ship, a triangular drag piece, was cast into the sea astern to uncoil the line from the drum. It hurtled out at speed and when the sand-glass had run its course a lanky midshipman called, "Nip," and then, "Eleven knots an' a hair over."

Truxtun's expression did not change. "Not good enough. I'll have the lee stuns'ls abroad immediately."

The spring breeze whipped the tops from the waves as Kydd edged his way behind Truxtun towards the wheel and binnacle. Under the unblinking eye of the quartermaster he got what he wanted—a sight of the compass. South-south-east, wind from the west with a touch of north in it. Ideal blue-water sailing for a frigate: no wonder Truxtun was letting her have her head.

They were passing a broad river mouth to starboard with small vessels of all kinds converging at the confluence. "Potomac," hissed the midshipman behind him.

"I beg y'r pardon?" Kydd said, taken off-balance.

"The river—Potomac." He busied himself preparing the log for another cast.

"Thank ye," Kydd said quietly.

With stuns'ls drawing and royals atop each mast, Constellation foamed ahead. It was remarkable for a new vessel to have achieved such speed so soon. The log went out and the excited midshipman yelled, "A whisker less fourteen!" It was nothing short of extraordinary—and exhilarating. If Kydd was not to be an active participant at least he could enjoy the sensation.

Truxtun's eyes darting aloft, then aft, caught Kydd's eye. Kydd smiled broadly in open admiration. "She goes like a racehorse!"

"Aye—like a Yankee racehorse!" But there was no rancour in his voice and his grim expression had eased. It would be a gratifying thing, thought Kydd, to be in command of a frigate that, with her twenty-four pounders, could outfight any other and, at the same time, run or chase as she chose.

In the darkness of late evening they came to single anchor in the shelter of Hampton Roads, within sight of the broad Atlantic. The wardroom was abuzz at the splendid showing of their ship and it seemed only right to invite their captain to a hearty dinner.

Kydd sat at the furthest remove from Truxtun's place of honour at the head, but he was grateful to be present, hearing the happy talk about him, seeing friendships being forged and strengthened that would stand by them all in the ocean voyages ahead.

The talk roamed over the chance of war with France, seeing The Glory of Columbia at the Chestnut Street theatre, the right way to treat a halibut—it was just the same as his own wardroom . . . but different.

The dishes came and went, and the cloth was drawn. Blue smoke spiralled to the deckhead, glasses were raised and confidences exchanged. The chatter rose and fell. Into a chance silence Gindler's voice was raised: "Ah, Mr Kydd, you must have seen some sea service in your time. Pray tell us of it."

Glances were shot at Truxtun but he gave no sign that he objected.

"Aye, well, I had th' good fortune to take a cruise around th' world," Kydd said, thinking quickly. "A frigate, nearly as fine as this." He saw this was received well. "Setting a parcel o' philosophers on a rock, an' keeping the cannibals in their canoes at bay . . ." He told them of the adventure, and when he concluded with the sad wreck of Artemis on the Azores, there was a general stirring of sympathy.

Midshipman Porter leaned forward and exclaimed, "Have you b' chance seen action?"

"A little—Camperdown, which was where I got m' step."

Kydd wouldn't be drawn on the experience and tried to move on to Venice, but Truxtun himself interrupted: "Your fleet were in bloody mutiny before then." A ripple of muttering showed that the dreadful events had been shocking news here as well. "How did that affect you?"

The warmth of the evening fell away as he forced his mind to deal with the sudden release of memories. "It—my ship mutinied, but I was not hurt."

"Would you say the sailors had just cause?"

"At Spithead they had their reasons, and the Admiralty granted most and gave a pardon. But at the Nore . . ." He felt his face redden.

"Yes?"

"At the Nore, where I was, their cause was understandable but they went about it the wrong way."

Truxtun growled, "There's no treating with mutineers, ever."

The next day a small convoy had yet to assemble, so the dark-featured First Lieutenant Rodgers was sent ashore to the settlement of Norfolk to open a recruiting rendezvous to bring in more volunteers. Kydd saw Truxtun hand him silver at the gangway, saying, "Get some music going and grog for all hands—indulge their humour in a farewell frolic." Rodgers grinned and went over the side.

From forward came the dull blang of scaling charges as they cleared the cannon of rust and debris. Men squatted on the fore-deck as they made up paper cartridges for the small arms, while others had the hatches off for the last of the sea stores still coming aboard.

By the early afternoon activity had died away. But Truxtun was not satisfied. He beat to quarters, and for two hours had the great guns exercised. Big twenty-four-pounders given resplendent names by their gun crews, Thunderer, Volcano, Murderer, and all plied with ferocity and resolution.

That night Kydd did not sit down with the wardroom. Captain Truxtun had requested the pleasure of his company and he entered the great cabin with some apprehension, for they were alone. Through the stern windows Kydd could see dim specks of light on shore; a tawny gold issued from the windows of a vessel anchored nearby, prettily dappling the water.

They passed pleasantries while they took a simple meal, and the steward swiftly removed the dishes. Kydd's wariness grew with Truxtun's politeness. "Do take a chair," Truxtun said, gesturing to a comfortable one near the stern windows. He found a cedar box in his writing desk and drew out a cigar. "Do you indulge, Mr Kydd?" At Kydd's declining he put it away again.

"You'll pardon me, Mr Kydd, but you're the darnedest Royal Navy officer I ever clapped eyes on." His frank gaze was unsettling. "I can tell a smart man when I see one. Don't have the airs of a King's man but I'll guess that's because you come from the people." He pondered for a moment. "So, do you hold it right to press men from under their own flag?"

"Sir, if these men are British they have a duty to—"

"They are American, sir."

"They say they are."

"They hold protections to prove it—and these are spat on by English officers."

"Yes! Th' rate for an American protection by your consul in Liverpool is one guinea and no questions asked."

Truxtun smiled. "We each have our views." The smile disappeared. "It's insulting to our flag for our merchant ships to be stopped and submit to search on the high seas. What do ye think of that?"

"Sir, Britain is a small island," he said carefully. "Trade is all we have. To survive we have to protect it, and—"

"You're right—and damn wrong. Do you know that most of the trade out of Nova Scotia is your cargo in our bottoms, on its way to ports of the world only a neutral can reach? You stop an American and you sink your own trade."

Kydd flushed. "You asked for views—I don't know y'r details but this I do know: if you're doin' the same for the French you're makin' a hill o' money out of it."

Truxtun's expression hardened, then a glimmer of a smile showed. "Well, as to that . . ."

It was the first that Kydd had heard of the true extent of the French attacks on American shipping and Truxtun's tone left no doubt of his feelings. "If we don't stand on our hind legs and fight 'em we deserve to be beat."

He looked directly at Kydd. "You're wondering why we don't declare war. So am I!" He glowered. Suddenly he got to his feet, crossed to his desk and abstracted a folded paper. "I'll show you this," he said, in an odd voice. "It came in today."

It was a single page, and bore the seal of the President of the United States. Kydd looked up in surprise. "Don't worry, the whole world's going to know about this tomorrow," Truxtun said heavily.

It began, "Instructions to Commanders of Armed Vessels, belonging to the United States, given at Philadelphia in the twenty-second Year of the Independence of the said States . . ." Truxtun leaned over and stabbed a finger at the second paragraph. "There!" "WHEREAS, it is declared by an Act of Congress . . . that armed Vessels, sailing under authority or Pretence of Authority from the French Republic, have committed Depredations on the Commerce of the United States . . . in violation of the Law of Nations, and Treaties between the United States and the French Nation . . ." Truxtun snorted. "And what must we do?" He tapped the last paragraph: "THEREFORE, and in pursuance of the said Act, you are instructed and directed, to seize, take and bring into any Port of the United States . . ."

"You see? It's on. A shootin' war against the French."

Kydd stared in astonishment—everything had changed. "But—"

Truxtun interrupted him: "But it's not. We haven't declared war, the French haven't. What kind of peace is it that requires me to fire into a Frenchman on sight? Some sort of—of quasi-war?"

Kydd was in no doubt. "Any kind o' war is fine. This is thumpin' good news—and c'n I say, sir, if we both have the same enemy then we must be friends."

"No! No—I didn't say that. I didn't say that at all. We just has the same enemy, is the truth of it. I'll be doing my duty at sea and you'll be doing yours as you see it." He took back the paper. "If it's any clearer," he said gruffly, "I mean to say I hope we meet at sea one day—as equals, Mr Kydd."

The convoy was finally ready to sail. Showers blustered in from the north in curtains of white, vivid against the sullen grey of the sky, and lines of foam-crested waves advanced seaward.

A sullen thump came from forward—the signal gun for departure; two cutters moved about the dozen merchantmen cajoling, threatening, shepherding. It was so similar to Kydd's sailing from Falmouth, yet there was a difference: the lift of a head, the ringing shouts of the petty officers, the brazen size of the flag at the mizzen peak, the length of the pennant at the mainmasthead. This was a unique experience: to be aboard the first frigate commissioned in the United States Navy, and the first to put to sea on a war cruise.

Kydd stood out of the way, to the side, buffeted by the wind and with rain dripping from his hat brim. He was in no mood to go below. Although he was a spectator, he knew that no one would forget the day: a navy brought in just months from nothing to one that could execute the will of the nation. From helpless acquiescence to a sea force that would now go against the country's enemy—and conceivably within hours.

He looked forward. Gindler strode ahead proudly, disdaining oilskins over his lieutenant's uniform. To starboard the square, lofty lighthouse of Cape Henry lay abeam. With Constellation in the lead, the convoy left the haven of Chesapeake Bay and sailed for the open ocean to the east and all that lay beyond.

Standing out to sea the frigate lifted to the swell, new men staggered to the businesslike roll, while others sniffed the wind as if eager to be out to sea—or was it in anticipation of bloody action? The merchant ships bunched together close to the American frigate: there had been talk ashore of a pair of big privateers lying in wait and self-preservation was a strong motive for keeping station.

The weather moderated as they made their offing, although Constellation needed only double-reefed topsails to stay with her labouring convoy. Kydd walked forward, keenly appreciative of the motion of a frigate once more and interested indeed in the weatherliness of the American.

After the sociability of the dinner he was now greeted with cautious nods and the occasional smile—even the intense Lieutenant Rodgers touched his hat to him at one point.

When the land had been sunk and a tossing wilderness of empty ocean had been reached, the convoy dispersed, some to the Barbadoes, others to Dublin and London, thousands of miles of hard sailing with small crews, with the constant fear of sighting the sails of a predator. But Constellation was free now to soar.

"Mr Kydd." Truxtun snapped, as though struck by a sudden thought. "We shall be cruising south tomorrow." The rest of the quarterdeck was listening intently. "Therefore I believe it would be most expedient for you then to take your leave from this vessel. I shall stop a Philadelphia packet for your convenience, sir."

Kydd had taken to standing beside the lee helmsman, willing the ship on, feeling her motion through the water, and turned in surprise. "Er—why, of course, Captain." It was a disappointment not to see the frigate at her best, and despite the circumstances of his passage, there was something about this ship and her crew . . .

In the dog-watches, as the ship shortened sail for the night, Kydd lingered on deck, then went below for his last dinner aboard the Constellation. He went to his accustomed place at the end of the table, but found a black steward there. "If y' please, sah," he said, and pointed to the head of the table, where all the American officers stood with glasses, grinning at him.

"Come 'n' set, Tom," one called. Kydd did as he was asked, and took the chair normally occupied by the first lieutenant, bemused.

"Just wanted t' wish you God speed, Mr Kydd," Rodgers said, proffering a glass.

Kydd took it and lifted it to them. "Your very good health, gentlemen," he called, touched beyond measure.

The group broke into warm conversation, and as dinner was brought he found himself talking as amiably as any. More wine, more dishes: Kydd felt a rush of feeling that came out as hot words of admiration for their fine ship, their spirit, their future.

He sat with flushed face and beamed at them all. No cool talk of the London Season, not a word about fox-hunting or estates in the country, this was good sturdy conversation about horses, prospects of prize money, scandalous theatre gossip—here he could safely say his piece without fear of being thought a boor.

"Fr'm Kentucky, friend, you'll hanker after this . . ." Bourbon whiskey was added to the list of Kydd's American experiences.

"Did I ever tell ye of Gibraltar? Now there's a rare place, one thunderin' great rock . . ."

Happy and muzzy, he did not notice that Truxtun was in the wardroom until he suddenly saw him sitting at the other end of the table. He froze—but Truxtun raised his glass. "Ye share the same forename as me, Tom, and I'd like to say that, should you find it in your heart to become an American, there could be a berth aboard Constellation if you choose."

Kydd turned in to his tiny cot, unable to control his whirling thoughts. An American? Thomas Paine Kydd, citizen of the United States, gentleman of the land and lieutenant of the United States Navy? It was not impossible—he had no ties, no wife and family back in England.

Excitement seized him and his eyes opened wide in the darkness. Why not start a new life in a country where there did not seem to be any difference between gentleman and commoner, a nation that seemed to have so much land and so few people— opportunity unlimited?

But he held the King's commission. Would he be betraying his country in her time of need? What about other officers in foreign navies? Well, they had been allowed to resign their commissions to take service, and was there not one in the Russian Navy who was now a grand duke? And, above all, if he were in the American Navy he would be fighting the King's enemies even if it was under another flag.

And there were so many English seamen already serving-he had heard aboard Constellation the accents of Devon, the North, London. He could always be among his countrymen if he felt lonely. They had made the choice, even if many had chosen desertion. Could he?

He tossed and turned until finally sleep came mercifully to claim him.

It seemed only minutes later when he jerked awake. He knew that he had heard a cannon shot and sat up. Almost immediately the urgent rattle of a drum beating to quarters set his heart hammering.

Kydd dropped clumsily out of his cot and reached for his clothing. Nearby, thumping feet sounded urgently. He struggled into breeches and shirt, flung on his coat and raced barefoot up the companion to the upper deck.

In the cold of daybreak, out of the thin drifting rain ahead, the dark shape of a ship lay across their path. Constellation's helm was put up to bear away. Even in the bleak grey half-light it was plain that they had come upon a man-o'-war, a frigate, who had instantly challenged them.

"Get out of it, damn you!" Truxtun bawled, catching sight of Kydd. "Get below!"

There was something about this enemy frigate—Kydd knew he had seen her before.

"Now, sir!" Truxtun bellowed.

It was the characteristic odd-coloured staysail, the abrupt curve of her beakhead. But where? Her colours flew directly away and were impossible to make out; the two signal flags of her challenge flickered briefly into life as they were jerked down and, her challenge unanswered, her broadside thundered out.

In the seconds that the balls took to reach them Kydd remembered, but before he could speak, Truxtun roared, "Get that English bastard below, this instant!"

Shot slammed past hideously, gouting the sea and sending solid masses of water aboard. One slapped through a sail. Kydd urged Truxtun, "Sir, hold y'r fire, for God's sake—she's a British ship!"

Incredulous, Truxtun stared at him. "She fired on the American flag! She's got to be a Frenchman, damn you!"

"That's Ceres thirty-two, I'd stake m' life on it!" But how fast would Ceres take to reload and send another, better-aimed, broadside?

"An English ship!" Truxtun's roar carried down the deck and pale faces turned, then darkened in anger, menacing growls rising to shouts. "I'll make 'em regret this! Mr Rodgers—"

"Do ye want war with England as well?" Kydd shouted. Livid, Truxtun hesitated.

"Hoist y'r white flag!"

"Surrender? Are you insane?"

"No—flag o' parley." All it needed was for one over-hasty gunner on either side and the day would end in bloody ruin.

For a frozen moment everything hung. Then Truxtun acted: "White flag to the main, Mr Rodgers," he growled.

"He'd better be coming with an explanation!" Truxtun snapped to Kydd, as a boat under a white flag advanced, a lieutenant clearly visible in the sternsheets.

"Sir, be s' good as to see it from his point o' view. His private signals have not been answered and as far as he knows there is no United States Navy with a ship o' this force. You have t' be a Frenchy tryin' a deception."

Truxtun gave an ill-natured grunt and waited for the boat. When it drew near Kydd saw the lieutenant stand and look keenly about him as the bowman hooked on. As he mounted the side angry shouts were hurled at him by seamen, which Truxtun made no attempt to stop.

"Now, before I blow you out of the water, explain why you fired into me, sir," Truxtun said hotly, as the lieutenant climbed over the bulwark.

He had intelligent eyes and answered warily, "Sir, the reason is apparent. You did not answer my ship's legitimate challenge and, er, we have no information about an American frigate at sea. Our conclusion must be obvious." Before Truxtun could answer, he added, "And remembering we are under a flag of truce, sir, I believe I might respectfully demand that you offer me some form of proof of your national status—if you please."

"Be damned to your arrogance, sir!" Truxtun punched a fist towards the huge American flag above them. "There is all the proof anyone needs!" Shouts of agreement rang out and seamen advanced on the quarterdeck. The lieutenant held his ground but his hand fell to his sword.

Kydd held up a hand and stepped forward. "L'tenant, a word, if y' please."

The lieutenant looked in astonishment at Kydd's bare legs, his civilian coat and breeches, soaked and clinging to him. "Er, yes?"

Drawing him aside, Kydd spoke urgently. "I'm L'tenant Kydd of HMS Tenacious, supernumerary aboard. I have t' tell ye now, this is a United States frigate true enough, and no damn Frenchy."

The lieutenant's disdain turned to cold suspicion. "You'll pardon my reservations, sir," he said, giving a short bow, "but can you offer me any confirmation of your identity?"

Kydd pulled his wet coat about him: a great deal hung on his next words. "Very well, I can do that," he said softly. "Off Devil's Island not a month ago, Ceres was there when Resolution hangs out a signal to tack—in succession. Tenacious makes a fool of herself. I was that signal lieutenant."

The lieutenant stared, then smiled. "I really believe you must be."

He turned to Truxtun and removed his hat. "Sir, you have my condolences that this unhappy incident took place, but cannot concede any responsibility. This will be a matter for our governments to resolve. Good day, sir."

The furious Truxtun did not reply, glowering at the man as he solemnly replaced his hat and went down the side to his boat, followed by yells of defiance.

What if it had been Tenacious instead? Kydd's thoughts raced—a ship-of-the-line thundering out her broadside? How could two proud navies cruise the seas without it happening again? They were at war with the same enemy—that was the main point. All else was pride.

"Sir." Truxtun drew a deep breath and Kydd went on quickly, "Be so kind as t' honour me with a minute of y'r time—in private."

Truxtun turned to Rodgers. "Stand down the men." He stalked over to Kydd and stared at him. "Very well—and then, for your own safety, sir, I'm confining you to your cabin until you're off this ship."

"Thank you, sir." Kydd felt he was being carried forward in a rush of destiny that could not be stopped, yet his mind was protecting him from the enormity of what he was contemplating by an odd detachment from reality.

"If I might go t' my cabin for a moment." He was back quickly and went with Truxtun into his great cabin, closing the door behind him.

"One minute."

"Sir. Captain—this is a madness. We must fight t'gether, not each other. So I'm now going t' trust you with my honour, an' I know it's not going t' be misplaced." He could read nothing in Truxtun's stony face.

"Sir." He gulped as he felt in his coat and withdrew a small pocket book. "Sir, this is a copy of our secret signals. If you are challenged by a British ship you may safely reply with the correct private signal of the day, here, and at night challenge and response, here.

"Take it, sir, an' I know you'll protect its confidentiality with your own honour." If the enemy ever got hold of its secrets, the ships of the Royal Navy would be at their mercy.

Truxtun stared at the book and then at Kydd. "God rot me, but you're a brave man, Mr Kydd," he said softly. He took the book and slipped it into his own coat. "It'll be safe with me." He held out his hand. "I hope you do not suffer for this, but what you've done . . ." He clapped his hand on Kydd's shoulder. "An honour to know you, sir."

Chapter 12

KYDD HAD BEEN ABLE TO REASSURE STODDERT with what he had seen, and Liston had listened to his account of a new player on the world maritime stage with grave attention, accepting his considered opinion of the new navy as an effective force. But now Kydd must face his day of reckoning and his return to Halifax was charged with dread at how he would be received. He knew why he had acted as he did, but the Admiralty might regard it as no less than treason.

Leaving the deadly Sambro Ledges well to leeward, the packet he'd caught back finally rounded the grey rocks of Chebucto Head for the run in to Halifax harbour. He had been away only days but it seemed like months.

Soon Kydd was standing on Water Street pier. He knew exactly what he had to do. He left his baggage at the shipping office and hurried down to the watermen's steps to hire a wherry to take him to the flagship at anchor.

The officer-of-the-day quickly got rid of Kydd to the flag-lieutenant.

"I have to wait upon the admiral immediately," Kydd said tightly.

"You have an appointment, of course."

"I'm just this hour returned from th' United States."

The officer snorted in contempt. "Good God, Mr Kydd, you know better than to come aboard hoping the admiral is at leisure to see you. Leave your reasons with me and—"

"L'tenant, unless you take me t' Admiral Vandeput this instant, you'll rue it, an' that is my solemn promise."

"Very well. Be it on your own head. What ship, you say?"

The officer knocked softly on the door to the admiral's day cabin. "Lieutenant Kydd, sir, HMS Tenacious. No appointment, but he seems monstrous anxious to see you."

Kydd entered.

The admiral was at his desk frowning, his secretary standing nearby with papers. "Yes?"

"Sir, I have a matter of th' greatest importance." Kydd's voice came out thickly.

Vandeput looked at him steadily, then glanced at his secretary. "Go," he snapped, then turned back to Kydd. "You're back from America. What is it?"

It took but small minutes to convey the gist of his experiences, ending with the final, shocking clash. "Therefore, sir, I saw that if it happens again there's chance f'r a mortal fight or . . ."

Vandeput's expression hardened. "And then?"

Kydd took hold of all his courage. "I gave Captain Truxtun m' own signal book, which has all th' private signals for your fleet."

There was an appalled silence, then the admiral said softly, "You're saying this American captain now has possession of all our secret signals?"

"Aye, sir," said Kydd, trying to keep the tremor from his voice.

"Well done."

"S-sir?"

"A good, officer-like solution, L'tenant. Always worried me,

Americans at sea in a ship o' force sharing the same ocean without we have a form o' co-operation. The politicos won't go at it out o' pride, but now we've forced their hands. I can see how this can go further, Mr Kydd. As I say, well done, sir."

Weak with reaction, Kydd swayed. "Oh, I see it's been a fatiguing journey for ye, Mr Kydd," the admiral said solicitously. "Do sit, and I'll ring for a brandy."

Kydd stared moodily at the town from the decks of Tenacious. He had been welcomed back by a newly respectful wardroom, but after a while conversations turned once again to the social scene. The whole town was mesmerised by the impending visit of the Duke of Schweigerei, elder son of the Archduke of Austria, which would climax in a grand reception and banquet given by His Royal Highness Prince Edward in the Duke's honour. In view of the importance attached to the country for its role in Pitt's coalitions, every officer would be expected to attend the glittering occasion.

Renzi had tried to be interested in Kydd's adventure, but he was clearly preoccupied with some personal matter, and Kydd found himself once more at a loose end. The seductive thought on his mind was of what might be — service in the new navy of a vigorous young land. No more would he hear of lords and estates, fox-hunting and the Season.

Kydd stirred uncomfortably and noticed the master, with a large notebook and folded chart, checking something over the side. "Nothing amiss, Mr Hambly?" It was unusual to see the master at work on deck in harbour.

"Nay, sir, nothing t' worry you on," he said. Then, seeing Kydd's interest, he explained further. It seemed that the new Admiralty hydrographic department had issued instructions to all sailing masters that anchorages they might from time to time visit should be surveyed by hand lead-line from a ship's boat with a view to verifying the accuracy of charts now in the course of preparation in England.

"A fine and proper thing," said Kydd. Every mariner was at the mercy of his charts, whether dependable or false, and any endeavour that could lessen the fearful risks of navigation was a service to mankind. "Where are you going t' start?"

"Why, Mr Kydd, it's kind in ye to enquire. I thought t' try the Bedford Basin—there, through the narrows, an' you'll find a fine body o' water twice the size of Halifax harbour there."

A nearly perfect land-locked haven: a fleet could safely ride out a storm there. This was really worthwhile—an exercise of professional sea skills with a purpose. Kydd brightened. "Mr Hambly, I'd like t' do some of this work m'self. Would you be s' kind as to show me on the chart?"

Kydd had chosen to begin his first line of soundings across the widest point of the basin to establish some sort of bottom profile. It was satisfying work, and congenial to the spirit. Real skill was needed to hold the octant laterally to establish the bearings ashore and provide the exact position of the pinnace. Poulden, in the bows, would send the hand-lead plummeting down, singing out in cadence the exact depth of water told by the marks. Kydd noted the time carefully; later, there would be work with tide tables to establish the true depth, corrected for the state of tide, then referenced to the chart datum.

Kydd was so engrossed in the work that, for a space, he had forgotten his concern about the banquet. It had been heavily hinted at by Captain Houghton that every officer would not only attend but with a suitable lady. To those who had attained a degree of intimacy with the gentle reaches of Haligonian society it would be a matter of choice. For Kydd, who had not only been away but felt awkward and ill-at-ease in well-born company, it was a trial. He realised he would probably end up with the insipid daughter of the vicar, with whom he was on nodding terms, to the amusement of the more senior in the wardroom.

He forced his mind back to the task at hand. Surprisingly, their first traverse reached the twenty-fathom limit of a hand-lead less than a third the way across. Such deep water? Perhaps he should stay with the shoreline and first establish a forty-foot line of depth along it, this being of most interest to a big-ship navigator. It was not difficult to pick up the mark again, and astute reading of the characteristics at the edge of the shoreline soon had a useful number of forty-foot soundings carefully pencilled in. But for the unfortunate narrows at the entrance, restricting access to square-rigged vessels whenever the winds were in the north, it was spacious and deep enough to take the entire Channel Fleet at single anchor, an impressive body of water.

Something ashore caught Kydd's eye: a figure in white, standing, watching. He ignored it and continued with his work. They drew abreast; the figure was still there. As he watched he realised it was a woman, waving a handkerchief.

She waved again, an exaggerated movement. "Someone wants t' speak, sir," Poulden volunteered.

"Aye. Well, perhaps we should see what she wants. Oars, give way together."

The boat headed inshore. The wooded slopes leading down to the water looked immaculately cared for, and they saw the edge of a building peeping out from blossom-laden trees. Closer in, Kydd noticed a discreet landing-stage and headed for it. The woman made no move to descend to it, still standing and watching from her vantage-point.

Cursing under his breath, Kydd threw a rope ashore and pulled himself up to the little jetty. He was hardly dressed for meeting ladies in his worn sea uniform but he clambered up to where she was waiting.

"Yes, madam?"

"Oh. I was watching you, you see," she said, her voice soft and prettily accented with French.

Kydd remembered himself and snatched off his hat. Dressed for the garden, she was in a white gown and beribboned straw hat. She was also strikingly beautiful, her large dark eyes adding an appealing wistfulness.

"And I thought 'ave you lost something—you look for it so long." She seemed a touch older than him and had a disconcertingly worldly-wise air.

"Not at all, madam. We conduct a hydrographical survey o' the coastline." She was probably one of the sad band of royalist refugees who had settled in Nova Scotia, he conjectured, although apparently from a wealthy family. "Oh, er, might I present m'self? L'tenant Kydd, Royal Navy."

"Enchantee, Lieutenant." Her bob coincided with Kydd's sturdy bow. "Then you do not know me?"

"No, madam, er, you have th' advantage of me."

She contemplated him, then said, "I am Therese Bernardine-Mongenet and zis is where I live." She gestured gracefully up the slopes.

At a loss, Kydd bowed again.

"I was taking refreshment in ze garden. Perhaps you would care to take some lemonade wiz me, and tell me about your hydrog-cally, Lieutenant?"

Kydd accepted graciously: the boat's crew would be reliable with Poulden and would not object to an hour's leisure. They walked together up a winding path, past little summerhouses with gilded latticework and bells tinkling on their pagoda-like roofs. It was the most enchanting and sumptuous garden Kydd had ever seen. Atop a bluff overlooking the water, cunningly nestled among trees, there was a two-storey wooden mansion, vaguely Italian in style, and on the grass lawn below a cloth-covered table with jug and glass.

"A moment." She summoned a maid and spoke rapidly in French to her, then turned back to Kydd. "So, tell me what is it you are doing."

Kydd was uncomfortable in his old uniform but he thawed at her warmth, and by the time the maid returned with another glass and a cake stand he was chuckling at her misapprehensions of the sea service. "Rousin' good cakes," he said, having sampled one of the tiny, lemon-flavoured shells.

"Ah, ze madeleines," she said sadly. "The old King Louis, 'is favourite."

It did not seem right to dwell on past griefs, so Kydd said brightly, "Have you heard? The Duke o' Shwygery is t' be honoured with a banquet, an' we're all invited to attend. Your husband will have an invitation, o' course?"

"I am not married," she said quietly.

"Oh, I'm sorry, madam," he said. "Ah—that's not t' mean I'm sorry you're not married at all. I — er, please forgive . . ."

"Forgiven, M'sieur," she said gently.

"Will I see you there?" he asked hopefully.

She looked at him steadily. "I have not been invited."

Kydd's heart went out to her, so elegant, beautiful and serene. No man had begged her hand for the occasion, unwilling to risk the mortification of being declined—indeed, in the normal way he would never be noticed by a lady of such quality. It was so close to the event it was more than probable there would be no more offers forthcoming and she would be obliged to stay at home. Any gentleman . . . "Madam, I am not engaged for the occasion. It would be my particular honour t' escort you, should ye be inclined."

There was a fraction of hesitation, then she smiled. "I would be delighted to accept, Lieutenant," she murmured, and the smile moved to her eyes.

"What do ye think, Nicholas.?" said Kydd, rotating in his new full-dress uniform coat. The white facings with gold buttons against the deep blue were truly magnificent and he looked forward to making his appearance in it.

"Dare I enquire, dear fellow, if you have a lady of suitable distinction marked out for the occasion?" Renzi asked doubtfully.

"I have." Kydd was going to give nothing away before the night; all he had to do was take a ship's boat to the landing-stage, then make his way to the house. Therese had said she would find a carriage.

"It is at Government House," Renzi stressed, "and although we shall not be prominently seated you do understand we will be under eye, possibly of the Prince himself."

"Thank you, Nicholas. I will try not to disappoint. And y'rself?"

"I have my hopes, dear fellow."

The day of the banquet arrived. Captain Houghton addressed his officers in the wardroom as to the seriousness of the occasion, the honour of the ship, the correct forms of address to the Prince and to an Austrian duke and duchess and the probable fate of any officer who brought shame to his ship.

Later in the day Tysoe jostled with others to begin the long process of bringing his officer to a state of splendour: a stiff white shirt topped with a black stock at the neck under the high stand-up collar of the coat, gleaming buckled shoes over white stockings, and immaculate tight white breeches. It had been shockingly expensive and Kydd had borrowed heavily against his future prize money from Minotaure, but he was determined to make a showing.

One by one the other officers departed, some to share carriages, others to walk up the hill. Renzi left, with a troubled glance at his friend.

Kydd trod the same path as before, the early-summer evening tinting the garden with a delicious enchantment. A footman waited and escorted Kydd to an open carriage. "Madame will attend you presently," he intoned.

Therese emerged and Kydd was left struggling for words: there must be few in Halifax who could possibly reach her heights of fashionable elegance. He took refuge in a deep bow as she came towards him in a full-length, high-waisted ivory gown, perilously low-cut and trimmed fetchingly in blue, her elaborate coiffure woven with pearls and a single ostrich feather sweeping up imperiously.

"Bonsoir, mon lieutenant. An' such a clement evening, n'est-ce pas? "

With the footman holding open the door of the carriage, Kydd helped her up, her long gloved hand in his. It seemed so unreal, and all he could think of was that he must not let down Cecilia after all her patient tutoring on gentility.

The chaise lurched into motion, keeping to a sedate pace. Kydd sat bolt upright next to his lady. Thankfully, the grinding of the wheels made conversation an effort, and he concentrated on the journey, imagining the effect on his shipmates when he and his lady were announced.

As they approached the town he was given a measure of what to expect by the reaction of passers-by. Some gaped, others pointed. Kydd swelled with pride—they must make a striking couple indeed. The carriage clattered along the streets and headed for a large building between two churches, illuminated in every window, and with the sound of fine music coming from within.

They drew up outside among the crowd of sightseers and Kydd was gratified once again by the impression he and his lady made. He bowed graciously this way and that, then hastened to assist Therese down. He offered his arm, and they swept into Government House through a lane of gaping onlookers. His confidence soared.

Inside he glimpsed the levee room, packed with glittering personages in animated talk, jewellery sparkling in candlelight, and a military concert band in full flow in the corner. A bewigged major-domo at the door hesitated. "Er, Madame Therese Bernardine-Mongenet," Kydd said importantly—it had taken hours to learn, "And L'tenant Thomas Kydd."

The man looked petrified; possibly this was his first important occasion, Kydd thought. Nevertheless, he coughed and bawled resolutely, "Lieutenant Thomas Kydd and—and Madame Therese Bernardine-Mongenet." With her hand on his arm, Kydd stepped into the room. If only Cecilia could see him now!

Every face in the room turned towards them: conversations died, the band's efforts faded uncertainly. Kydd's head was spinning. This was what it was to be in high society! "You will introduce me?" Therese whispered.

Overflowing with happiness and with the broadest smile, Kydd turned to his left and approached the nearest group, who started with apprehension. He bowed deeply to the elderly gentleman and made a grand introduction. The man's wife curtsied, staring wide-eyed at Therese. Kydd moved on graciously, trying to think of suitable small-talk.

He knew he would never forget the night—or the effect of a truly beautiful woman on society. Around them conversations stopped, then picked up again as they progressed down the room.

To the side, he saw Houghton staring at them as if at a ghost. Next to him stood Bampton, clearly in shock. "My captain," Kydd said happily to Therese, as they approached. Houghton seemed overcome at the introduction, gobbling something indistinct, but Therese, clearly delighted, bestowed on him special attention and offered her hand to be kissed. As he watched his captain grovel before a grand lady, Kydd believed the evening could promise nothing more satisfying.

Prince Edward stood in the centre of the room surrounded by aides-de-camp, courtiers and military men in gleaming regimentals. Kydd summoned every ounce of courage and led Therese over to him. "Y'r Royal Highness, may I be allowed t' introduce Madame Therese Bernardine-Mongenet?" Therese's graceful curtsy was long held. "An' myself, L'tenant Thomas Kydd, o' HMS Tenacious." He bowed as low as he could.

"Lieutenant, tell me true, have you been in Halifax long?" The Prince had an aristocratically hard face; Kydd had heard stories of his unbending attitude to military discipline, his early-morning parades and merciless justice.

"Not long, Y'r Royal Highness, an' much o' that in the United States."

"Oh. I see. Well, I wish you a pleasant evening, Mr Kydd."

"Thank you, sir," Kydd mumbled, remembering to back away. He had survived, and he turned to grin at Therese.

A fanfare of trumpets sounded from the other room, announcing the banquet. An immediate move was made towards the connecting door, but Kydd remembered to keep clear: as a junior officer he would certainly be bringing up the rear. He stayed to one side, nodding pleasantly to those whose eyes strayed towards him and Therese until eventually he judged it time to enter.

The room was huge. In the distance a long table was raised on a dais, the centre occupied by the Prince and honoured guests. Behind them two servants gently fanned the principal guests with enormous ostrich feathers, tastefully coloured in red, white and blue.

Lesser mortals occupied the long tables in rows from the front and, as he had suspected, he was shown to one near the rear. To his delight he saw Renzi seated there. Next to him was a voluble woman with pasty skin and a profusion of cheap jewellery who tugged incessantly at his sleeve. Renzi looked up at Kydd, and stared, stricken, at him as if the world had been turned upside-down.

Gleefully Kydd made his introduction, indicating to Therese that this was his particular friend, but when he made to seat his lady, he was interrupted by a courtier. "Sir, His Royal Highness commands you and Madame to join him," he murmured, discreetly indicating the Prince, who was beckoning.

Heart thudding, Kydd turned to Renzi and muttered his excuses. He wended his way with Therese through the tightly packed tables, feeling all eyes upon him, hearing animated murmuring following in their wake.

They mounted the dais and approached Prince Edward, who leaned back to speak. "Ah, so kind of you to join us." His eyes did not move from Therese as he continued, "I don't think you've met Hoheit Herzog Schweigerei, his wife the Herzogin Adelheid. Sir, Lieutenant Kydd and Madame Therese Bernardine-Mongenet."

The evening proceeded. Over the wild duck Kydd found himself explaining sea service to the Prince; the saddle of mutton saw him recounting his American sojourn to the sharp-featured Duke. While he was helping Therese to another pompadour cream he looked out over the massed tables below them. Somewhere in the hazy distance Renzi, Captain Houghton and the rest were looking enviously to the dais at Prince Edward, Therese Bernardine-Mongenet—and Thomas Kydd.

At last the banquet drew to a close. The Prince rose, conversation stilled, and there was a sudden scraping of chairs as everyone stood up. One by one the members of the high table descended, following the Prince as he processed out affably, nodding to the bobs and curtsies as he passed. Looks of admiration and envy shot at Kydd, who smiled back lazily.

In the foyer the Prince turned to Kydd. "Lieutenant, you will no doubt be returning to your ship. Pray do not stand on ceremony for Madame—I will personally see she returns home safely." With a wry smile, Kydd bowed. "And, Lieutenant, I will not forget your service to me this night!"

Therese looked at Kydd. She crossed to him and kissed him firmly on both cheeks. "I will not forget this evening. Bonne chance, mon ami."

They left. Kydd watched the Prince's carriage depart, Therese's last glance back and fond wave. The rest of the guests issued out noisily, and it seemed the whole of Halifax wanted to meet him, make his acquaintance, be seen with him. Captain Houghton appeared, staring wordlessly at Kydd and shaking his head slowly before he moved on; Adams came up and insisted on taking his hand. "Damme if that wasn't the finest stroke of the age!" he said sincerely.

Finally Renzi emerged. Full of the deepest delight Kydd said casually, "Then was she not a suitable lady?"

"Brother, we must walk for a spell." Renzi did not bother to introduce the lady with him, who pouted at the slight. "Into your coach, m'dear," he said firmly. "I shall follow." When they were alone on the street Renzi turned to him. "My dear fellow," he began, then stopped. "My dear chap. Where can I begin? " He paced about in frustration, ignoring the admiring glances passers-by were throwing at Kydd. "In polite society—in the highest society—damn it all, what you did was either inspired deviltry or the purest ignorance! And all Halifax believes it the first."

"Nicholas, you talk in riddles. If you're just envious — "

"Tom—if you must know, this is what you did. You invited the Prince's mistress to a banquet hosted by the Prince himself."

"Therese—Julie?" Kydd fell back in dismay. The flush drained from his face. At the very least it was the ruin of his career, a spectacular end to his promising beginnings. After the exaltation of earlier it was agonising.

"Not at all." Renzi struggled for the words. "The world believes you knew that Julie appears at lesser occasions, the Prince having a particular taking for her, but at affairs of state—foreign potentates—she must not be seen. To the Prince's great pleasure you produced her for him at this occasion under the unimpeachable courtly pretence of not knowing her situation."

He gave a low laugh. "There must be many haughty matrons of Halifax who have been put sadly out of countenance tonight—but many more gentlemen whose admiration for you is unbounded. Just consider—you now have the ear and attention of a prince of the Blood Royal. You are made in society, you— you have but to claim the fruits of your cunning."

"Where's Renzi?" It was late morning in the wardroom and he had still not appeared. Kydd had put it down to over-indulgence, but his friend's cabin was empty.

"Renzi? I do believe he must still be at Manning's tavern—he was well away when I saw him," Pringle drawled.

A tavern? Kydd threw on his coat and clapped on his hat. In all the time he had known Renzi he had never once seen him in liquor. Surely he was not a spurned lover. The woman whom he had seen at the banquet? Impossible!

Manning's was often frequented by officers but Kydd could not find Renzi in the high-backed chairs of the taphouse or in any of the more secluded public rooms. Discreet enquiry yielded that he was still in his room and furthermore had sent for two bottles since midnight, and was unaccountably alone.

Disturbed, Kydd went up the stairs. Knocking at the door several times did not produce a result. "Nicholas!" he called softly. "I know you're there. Let me in, brother."

About to knock again he heard Renzi's muffled voice, "Thank you for your visit, but I'm indisposed. I shall return aboard— later."

"If bein' tosticated is what ails ye, then it's a poor shab as won't see his friend."

There was a silence, then a rattling, and the door opened. Kydd nearly laughed at the frowsy bleariness of his friend but kept a grave expression and entered. He sat in a chair next to the bed. "Can I be of service to ye?" he asked neutrally.

Renzi glared balefully at him. Then he groaned and lolled back in the other chair. "I'm all undone, I see. You shall have the truth of it—but first a drink."

Kydd sat up, alarmed, but Renzi reached for the water pitcher on the dresser and up-ended it, gulping the water noisily. He wiped his mouth and tried to grin. "Ah, let us say I have been the unwitting sport of Venus, the plaything of Cupid. In fine, I have to admit to being gulled in full measure."

"Aye?" said Kydd, trying not to show his considerable interest.

"A charming nymph, a young sprig of society, whose name will be known in the highest reaches of Haligonian gentility, she it was who—who has refused me."

"That—that woman at the banquet?" Kydd said, appalled.

"Not her," said Renzi testily. "A mere quicumque vult, a Cyprian taken up for the occasion. No—I speak of a young woman of grace and talents, a perfect specimen of spirited maidenhood. I met her at the admiral's rout and since then have been seen in her company at many a polite occasion, a sparkling companion. Then, the sap unwonted rising high, I pressed my attentions on her, would not be denied . . ." He trailed off, staring disconsolately at the wall.

"And then?"

"It grieves me to say it, but she—she . . ."

"Yes?"

"It seems that the young lady is—how shall we phrase it? Of the Sapphic persuasion." At Kydd's blank look he added wearily, "This is to mean that she prefers the company of women to that of men, in all its forms."

"Then-"

"Quite so. For her I have been but a toy, a necessary social ornament. It has been a—salutary experience."

"Nicholas, I—"

"And is now most firmly a thing of the past," Renzi concluded bleakly.

Kydd subsided. It explained Renzi's distraction, his absences. And it was certain he would appreciate neither sympathy nor pity.

Renzi drew a deep breath and leaning forward said, "Therefore we shall speak of your transmogrification."

"My . . . ?" said Kydd carefully.

"You're clearly not fully aware of what has happened, and by that I do not mean simply your appearance with Madame Therese." He held his head and closed his eyes for a space. "Consider this: your action in bringing Julie to the banquet is seen as a very clever piece of theatre to bring yourself to the attention not only of society but of Prince Edward himself, a coup that has all Halifax abuzz.

"Now what that is telling the world is that you must be accounted a superior player in the arts of society, and it would go well with any who can boast your acquaintance. This is my wager with you—you'll have more invitations in the next week than you can possibly accept in a year."

"But I don't—"

"Let me continue. This is a triviality, a vaporous nonsense compared to its true significance." He took another pull at the water pitcher and, looking directly at Kydd, continued, "Tom, dear chap, what is signified is that the forms of politeness, so well expressed by John Locke, however requisite in the salons and courts, must always yield to that of true character in polite company.

"In vino veritas, then. I was wrong. I freely admit it. You are your own man now, with a character and reputation that will only grow. You don't need airs and my clever words—and neither do you need to bandy empty talk about fox-hunting or the Season, for you've established a manly character of your own, which, dare I say it, is above such nonsense.

"My dear fellow—go forth and conquer. Know that you can match any gentleman for wit and reputation and at last take your place in society."

Renzi closed his eyes. "And leave me to die in peace."

Kydd rose noiselessly and tiptoed away.

Renzi was right. Invitations arrived by the dozen for Lieutenant Kydd in the days that followed. At one point Captain Houghton came to him personally with a mumbled request that he grace an evening with him at the attorney general Uniacke's, known like Cunard for his four daughters, and a power in the land. Fortunately Kydd found his diary free for that night.

And Renzi was right about the other thing: the wardroom continued to talk country estates and Vauxhall Gardens, but when Kydd came in with an appreciation of the new United States Navy or a light observation on signals he was listened to respectfully, getting laughs in all the right places.

It was a heady discovery that he was free at last. Free of the demons of inferiority, the fear of being seen as socially gauche, the oaken-headed tarpaulin, an embarrassment. Now he could hold his own in any society.

"Nicholas, are you at liberty tonight? It would give me th' greatest pleasure to sup with you—at Pontac's at seven?"

Kydd was determined to do his friend proud. "Do have more o' the roast lark, they're so particular in the cooking here," he said. "And I hope the Lafite is up to your expectations," he added anxiously. He piled Renzi's plate high and insisted on pouring the wine.

Renzi was unusually silent, which Kydd put down to his recent experience. It needed all of an hour before he finally spoke his mind. "There is an observation I feel obliged to make, Thomas, bearing as it does on our long friendship." He weighed his words carefully. "An unkind observer might remark that in our lower-deck existence we had a peculiar need, one for the other. I—that in my term of exile there was one of intelligence, uncommon good sense and enquiring nature to lighten my durance. You—my trifles of philosophy and intellectual penetrations could enable you to rise above the limitations of your surroundings. That same observer could then say, in perfect truth, that those needs are now concluded. You have succeeded in all the accomplishments of gentility and the sea profession, so I am no longer needed."

Kydd slammed down his glass. "Stuff 'n' nonsense, Nicholas!" He saw Renzi's eyes glitter—it seemed it was costing him much to speak as he had.

"And I," Renzi continued, with some difficulty, "I have had my choice of wranglers in reason, the company of my peers in breeding, the sweets of society, but in cleaving to these it grieves me to recall how I have so shamelessly neglected our friendship—all for the sake of the evanescent. Is this then an end to our association? Logic is a stern mistress and pronounces that, with the extinction of need, we must necessarily part, go our own ways—"

"A pox on y'r damned logic!" Kydd said angrily. "As a philosopher you're nothin' but a double-barrelled, copper-bottomed fool! Do ye think I don't still want you as a friend, share the laughs 'n' pains o' life, enjoy while we can? Raise up y'r glass, Nicholas, an' let's drink to friendship."

Renzi lifted his head. A reluctant half-smile spread and he replied, "I will—but this time it's a friendship of equals."

Glasses clinked. When they had regained composure Kydd fumbled in his coat. "Er, Nicholas, I'd value y'r opinion. Which o' these invitations do ye think we should accept?"

AUTHOR'S NOTE

A question I am often asked is how long does the research for each book take? That is a difficult thing to quantify because in some ways I suppose I have been unconsciously doing it all my life —during my time at sea absorbing the universals all mariners hold dear, and ingesting material from countless maritime books, both fiction and non-fiction, that I've been drawn to since a very early age.

The proportion of my time now devoted to research must come close to fifty per cent. But I have to say, it's an aspect of being a writer that I particularly enjoy.

Research for the Kydd series has provided an opportunity to go down many fascinating paths in search of some arcane fact or other—and this book has proved no exception. I found myself corresponding with Dr David Green at the USDA Forest Service about the specific gravity of swamp oaks; this enabled me to send Kydd on his night-time sabotage mission against the French frigate. A chance discovery of an old pilot book of Kydd's time in a Falmouth museum had me enquiring of the august Royal Institute of Navigation. One of their members, Dr Mark Breach, confirmed the antique rule-of-thumb about the moon's meridian that saved Kydd and his boat crew in the fog.

And while on the subject of chance, what were the odds of my coming across a signal book actually belonging to a lieutenant on the North American station at exactly the time when Kydd learns his craft as a signal lieutenant? Retired Paymaster Commander William Evershed generously extended a loan of the precious family relic for me to study.

Research has enriched my life in another way, too. It has made me many new friends who also are irresistibly drawn to the sea. Two, in particular, have a special connection with Quarterdeck. I first met ship modeller Robert Squarebriggs when I visited Canada's Maritime Provinces in 2002. He shared his love of the boreal wilderness, and I hope in this book that I have done justice to his infectious enthusiasm for his native land. Tyrone Martin is an erudite scholar of the dawn of US Navy history, and a former captain of Old Ironsides. His many insights into this fascinating period will again be invaluable when Kydd returns to North America, which he assuredly will.

I feel some degree of guilt in not being able to acknowledge everyone I consulted in the process of writing this book, but they all have my deep thanks. However I could not omit mentioning the three wonderfully professional women in my life—my wife (and creative partner) Kathy, my literary agent Carole Blake, and my editor Jackie Swift. Between them, they contrive to keep the hassles of the modern world at bay, allowing me to give full rein to my creative juices, ready for the next adventure . . .

Julian Stockwin was sent at the age of fourteen to TS Indefatigable, a tough sea-training school. He joined the British Navy at fifteen, transferred to the Australian Navy when his family emigrated there, and saw active service in Vietnam. He became a teacher and an educational psychologist. Later he was commissioned into the Royal Naval Reserve and was awarded the MBE. Retired from the RNR with the rank of Lieutenant Commander, he now lives in Devon, England. Visit him on the web at www.julianstockwin.com.

McBooks Press, Inc. Ithaca, New York

www.mcbooks.com

PRAISE FOR JULIAN STOCKWIN'S KYDD SERIES

"Stockwin's richly detailed . . . portrait of life on ship and shore in Britain's oceanic empire is engrossing. He writes evocatively of shipboard routine, the panic and confusion of combat, and the terrifying approach of a storm at sea, and he knows how to stage enthralling action."

—Publishers Weekly

"Likable Tom and his shipmates make a snug fit in that page-turning Forester and O'Brian tradition—thanks to retired Royal Navy author Stockwin."

—Kirkus Reviews

"The vantage point of the common sailor gives the nautical novel a fresh twist. In Stockwin's hands . . . the sea story will continue to entrance readers across the world."

—The Guardian

"I was soon turning over the pages almost indecently fast . . . Roll on, the promised adventures of Kydd and Renzi."

—Independent

"The appeal of the story is in the telling, which is atmospheric, authentic and disclosed from the unusual perspective of the ordinary sailor working his way up the ranks . . . the author — had a long career in the Royal Navy, which adds to his prose that extra dash of salty realism."

—Publishing News