Tenacious

CHAPTER 8

"MINORCA! OF COURSE ..."

"It has t' be," agreed Kydd, offering the remaining whitebait to Renzi. It did not take much deliberation to understand why an invasion of the easternmost of the three main islands of the Balearics was thought so necessary. Britain had re-entered the Mediterranean, but her victorious fleet was alone in a hostile sea; it was urgent that a forward base be established to maintain it. In Port Mahon there was a compendious harbour and a fine dockyard—and Minorca was an island, therefore defensible once taken. And, unlike Gibraltar, with reliable winds.

Kydd glanced up the table. It was odd to see Bampton at the head, president of the mess. He looked to the other end where their new junior mess member sat quietly. "Mr Dugdale, did y' ever visit Minorca at all?"

"Why, yes, Mr Kydd," the man said warily, reluctant to imperil his position with any ill-considered move. He was older than almost all of the other officers, far from the green newly promoted midshipman they had expected. He had found a place as a midshipman in the last war, then been left without a ship at its end, and had eked out a penurious existence ashore until the outbreak of the present war. Only now had he the good fortune to secure an acting lieutenancy.

"Well, spit it out, man!" Kydd said, helping himself to the last of the haunch of rabbit.

"It was only a brief visit, sir. As you'll know, it had been British for twenty years before. The people were used to our ways and, dare I say it, contented with their lot, for the Spanish rule was not always welcome to your average Minorcan. There are two main towns—Ciudadela to the west and Port Mahon to the east. The Spanish kept mainly behind the city walls of Ciudadela while we were happy with Mahon. A first-class harbour, it is, splendid careening and repair, fine quarters ashore in English style and guarded by great forts. Should this be our base in the future, why, I cannot think of a finer."

Bampton stirred. "If it becomes so. You're rather forgetting that it's been in the hands of the Spanish these sixteen years and they're not about to present their fortresses to us upon our request. We shall have to fight for them—and this means nothing less than an assault, an amphibious landing. Has anyone here had the joy of going into battle with the army? No?"

Kydd kept quiet, the ill-fated descent on Guadeloupe in the Caribbean he had experienced as a young petty officer would probably not count.

"Then consider yourselves fortunate. An opinionated and ignorant tribe, I fancy we'll need every mort of patience we can muster on the day."

"How's th' island defended?" Kydd asked Dugdale.

His brow wrinkled. "There are big forts on each side of the entrance to Mahon. The biggest as I remember is Fort St Philip, which would stand next to any in Europe, and many minor forts and batteries around and about."

Bampton gave a thin smile. "It's as well, then, that I can tell you this is not our task. We shall not be going ashore," he announced flatly.

"Thank God for that," murmured Adams. "But how do you know this?"

"The captain has seen fit to entrust me with certain confidences," Bampton said smoothly, "and I'm able to tell you that the main task of our squadron under Commodore Duckworth is to defend the landing against any ships of force that the enemy sees fit to send to oppose the assault. We shall see out the operation at sea."

Dugdale opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing.

"What is it, Mr Dugdale?" Bampton said caustically.

"Er, after the late complete destruction of the French at the Nile, surely they have nothing left to throw at us?"

"You are forgetting Cartagena," Bampton said heavily, "the Spanish battle fleet."

"And Mallorca," added Renzi. "It would be strange if the Spanish do not maintain a standing force there for mutual pro-tection—and less than eight leagues to the west from Minorca, half a day's sail. This could do us a real mischief at the time of our landing even if we have the advantage of surprise. Cartagena is ten times the distance and the issue could be decided before they receive any intelligence and are able to respond."

"We cannot discount that our intentions against Minorca are known. The Spanish may well be at sea and lying in ambuscade for us," Bampton said irritably. "In any case, Captain Faulkner has set me a task."

Renzi raised an eyebrow. "Presumably involving us."

"As a matter of fact it does. I'm to put before you all that one liaison officer from each ship has been requested by the commodore to attend his councils with the army command." He paused. "Any officer interested is asked to put himself forward. Should there be none, the commodore will be under the necessity of detailing one himself. As too vital in the management of the ship I am to be excluded, as is Mr Dugdale on account of his junior status. Therefore I am open to suggestions from the remainder."

Adams glowered. "It'll be jawing all day, notes and reports all night. Not if I ever have the choice."

Renzi stared into space.

"Then I'll do it," Kydd said. "At th' least I'll get t' know what's afoot." But foremost in his mind was the possibility of notice and the first chance of seizing any prospect of active service that came his way. Yes—this was a positive, Nelson-style move.

The secret rendezvous was the line of 40° 25' north latitude, where it seemed at first glance a mighty fleet was gathered. But closer observation revealed that there were only two ships-of-the-line other than Tenacious, and half a dozen assorted light frigates and cutters; the rest were transports and supply craft. With fifteen enemy ships-of-the-line in Cartagena, or possibly at sea close by, Kydd wondered whether this was showing great confidence—or disastrous folly.

In the great cabin of the 74, HMS Leviathan, Commodore Duckworth, a large, well-built man with an open, seamanlike face, started proceedings. "I have the honour to welcome aboard Lieutenant General Sir Charles Stuart, field officer commanding the expedition."

By contrast, Stuart was an aristocratic, sharp-featured officer with an impenetrable air of authority. "The reduction of Minorca will not be an easy task," he said briskly, "but the commodore has assured me of the steadfast support of the navy, and I'm satisfied that the operation may proceed without delay."

"You'll understand—" began Duckworth, getting to his feet, but was interrupted by Stuart's continuing.

"This officer is my second in command," he said, nodding at a short, fierce officer who half rose, revealing the tartans and kilt of a Highland regiment. "Colonel the Lord Lynedoch, laird of Balgowan, known in the regiment as Colonel Graham."

Duckworth sat heavily. The navy were not to be the leading players on this stage.

"I shall begin with an overview of the enemy force awaiting us. Our information derives from a hodge-podge of sources and is therefore not necessarily reliable, but opposing us are about five thousand troops, some, it seems, heavy dragoons, others garrisoned in the major fortresses guarding Port Mahon, our prime objective.

"There are as well a considerable number of small forts and gun-towers on the coastline, which we would do well to avoid. My intentions in summary are these. Draw near, if you please," Stuart said sharply, tapping an opened map with a slender polished stick.

"Although Port Mahon is our objective, the landing will be here in the central north, at the Bay of Fornells—there is a good harbour, quite sufficient to bear our transports and larger ships. Having established ourselves ashore, we drive south to the centre of the island and to the town of Mercadal, here. At this point I will split my forces. One division will press west to invest the administrative capital of Ciudadela on the west coast. This is merely to occupy the Spanish while the more important division strikes east to take Port Mahon from landward. Is this clear?"

"Aye, sir, but I foresee that—"

"We shall have opportunity to discuss your objections later, Colonel. Now to the order of battle. The navy: its primary task is to prevent the Spanish fleet interfering with the landing. But equally vital is the need to keep the expeditionary force well supplied and in a timely manner. Finally, I look to the navy to deny the enemy resupply. Therefore as I have mentioned in another place previously, there will be no role for the navy ashore. The twenty-eighth Regiment of Highlanders, Colonel Paget, will be the main field force and will be accompanied ..."

The flow of military verbiage washed over Kydd as he pondered Stuart's strategy. It sounded straightforward enough, but even with his limited experience he could think of many reasons why it could all go wrong.

"Now, Colonel Graham, you have objections, sir?"

"I do, sir. In any venture to put troops ashore we are critically reliant on our understanding of the enemy's positions, that they are not in sufficient numbers to prevent our disembarkation by any means. What intelligence do you have, sir, that encourages you to believe Fornells is open to us?"

Stuart paused. "I do not have direct information, true. There is a species of revolutionary Minorcan zealot opposed to Spanish rule assisting us but their intelligence leaves much to be desired." His lips thinned. "It were better we rely on our own estimates, Colonel. If it transpires that the enemy presses us too hard in Fornells we must abandon the attempt—and strike elsewhere. Addaya to the east has been mentioned."

"With respect, sir."

"Colonel?"

"Just three miles inland there is a road marked, here, passing between the two. If the enemy uses this to transfer forces rapidly between, we will not see them—we will have no warning until they fall upon our exposed landing."

"Colonel Graham! In war, risks must be taken. The landing must take place somewhere—have you any other suggestion? No? Then, sir, we land as planned in Fornells, accepting casualties if need be. Now, on to the details. In the matter of—"

"Sir!" Kydd felt the same exhilaration, the same unstoppable conviction that had carried him on to make the fateful decision to hand over his signal codes to the American navy. Now he was stepping forward in a council-of-war to propose a seaman's solution to an army difficulty.

Stuart stopped, raising his eyes questioningly.

"Sir, L'tenant Kydd o' Tenacious—we can't see th' soldiers from where we are, coming in fr'm the sea as we will."

Stuart continued to look at him stonily, the rest of the cabin turning curiously to look at the usurper. "Yes?"

"Sir, Minorca is a low island, not many hills as you'd say, but in th' sea service when we navigate past we always take a sight of Monte Toro, a single mount y' can see leagues out to sea without ever ye sees the island.

"Should anyone climb t' the top with a spyglass, then nothing can be hid from him—all th' motions of the soldiers will be made clear, it bein' less'n four miles distant, and by this you shall know for a surety in which place to throw in your own forces."

Graham thumped the table. "Preposterous! How is your spyglass man then going to advise General Stuart? Run helter-skelter back down the mountain?" There were sniggers from the other army officers. "Even with a fast horse—"

"Colonel Graham, I am—er, was, signal l'tenant in HMS Tenacious. Gen'ral Stuart, I'm sure, will be very satisfied should he take intelligence on th' quarterdeck of Leviathan that informs him hour b' hour of where the Spanish are. We have a fine enough set o' signals in the navy we can use for th' purpose."

The murmuring died away as Stuart contemplated Kydd. "Possibly. For this it will mean crossing unknown territory occupied by the enemy ..."

"Aye, sir, but did I not hear about y'r Minorcan patriots? They c'n see us through t' the mountain right enough."

"Commodore?"

"Er, I can see nothing wrong in principle at this stage, sir, but—"

"Mr Kydd, you are prepared that you may be taken up as a spy, as most assuredly you are?"

"Sir."

"One moment, if you please, sir." A young army subaltern stood up and banged his head on a deck-beam, which made him sit again abruptly. "This is an army operation, sir, and on land. I cannot see how the navy can be expected to recognise military movements. Therefore I do volunteer for the task."

Kydd bristled. He swung on the young officer. "I think I c'n be trusted to recognise a parcel o' Spanish redcoats. But can you, sir, tell if the wind is foul f'r a landing if we have to shift from Fornells? I have m' doubts of it ..."

"Quite so," said Stuart. "But do I understand you to mean that you can undertake to observe the enemy from their rear, signal over their heads to my headquarters at sea to advise on just where their forces are massing to oppose us?"

"Yes, sir—and give ye warning should reinforcements be afoot."

"Hmmm. Reliably?"

"Sir, a line o' frigates ahead of a fleet c'n watch sixty miles o' sea—an' there's three hundred signals in the book they can use t' advise the admiral." Kydd did not mention there was no signal hoist in the book he could remember for "Fornells" or "marching towards" or any other military terms for that matter.

"Very well, we will take this forward, Mr Kydd. Be so kind as to consult with the adjutant on how best to proceed." Stuart hesitated then declared to the meeting, "For the purposes of this operation we press on as before. If—if this signalling fails in its intention we have lost nothing and will resume the assault without the information. However, if your scheme succeeds we will be greatly in your debt, Mr Kydd."

Kydd bowed politely, but inwardly he was exulting. He had seized the moment. This was what it was to be a Nelson! He resumed his place, but before he had settled, Duckworth leaned across and said testily, "A word with you afterwards at your convenience, Mr Kydd."

"Say y'r piece, Nicholas, but please t' make it speedy. The landing is set f'r only two days hence." Kydd rummaged in his chest, looking for anything that he could put over his uniform. He had a dim recollection from somewhere that he could not be shot as a spy if he was in uniform.

"Tom, my friend ..."

"Do ye lend me y'r watch, I'd be grateful."

Renzi untagged the expensive hunter from his waistcoat. "It's not too early to reconsider the plan," he said softly. "You see, it is not the fear of failure that troubles me, it is your unthinking trust that so many things will go right for you."

Kydd stopped and looked directly at Renzi. "If Nelson let fear o' what can go wrong come t' the front, why, he'd never have sailed against the enemy at the Nile. Nothing was ever won b' holding back, Nicholas."

Renzi bit his lip. "Then how will you set up for signals without you provide a mast and halliards?"

"I'll find a way. Pass the lashing, if y' please."

Renzi tried another tack. "If you are taken, you can expect no mercy. There are tales told of the Spanish treatment of prisoners that make ugly—"

"Enough! I have t' be ready by six bells. If you can't help, be s' kind as to stand clear." Kydd tested the lashing round a small seaman's chest. Inside was a full set of naval signal flags and tack lines that would allow the sending of any message in the book. And all the while Tenacious cruised ever closer to Minorca's east coast for a secret night rendezvous with the revolutionary group.

"What is your plan, brother?"

"Not so rarefied, m' friend. After we get ashore it's just four an' a bit miles to Monte Toro through scrub 'n' a few farms. We've got good charts o' the island from when we were here in 'eighty-two. I've copied a track from them. There's a path up to th' top where the ladies used to go for the view an' up there is just a nunnery. I'll not disturb 'em if I set up on their roof, I believe."

"And you can see the Spanish from there?"

"A prime position! Fornells t' the north, five miles, turn about to the nor'east to Addaya, four miles. An' with a height of eye up there close t' a thousand feet there's nothing that moves I can't see."

Renzi murmured words of general unease as he helped bring the chest on deck.

"Sir, ready in all respects," Kydd said to Faulkner.

"Very well. You have no qualms at this stage, Mr Kydd? It is not too late ..."

"Ready, sir," Kydd said stoutly.

"Then we will proceed. Lookouts to your stations! Mr Pearce?"

"Aye aye, sir," said the boatswain, and the darkness was suddenly split by the ghostly blue of the light of a flare reflected on sails. It sputtered and fizzed, sending dark shadows dancing about the deck, illuminating the faces of the men. In a few minutes the flare died to red sparks and blackness clamped in once more.

"Absolute silence!" Long minutes passed. Nothing could be heard but the easy creak of the ship in the placid seas and the distant cry of a seabird. Kydd clutched a rope tightly. Tenacious was his true home, where he had been formed as a king's officer, faced death and destruction, crossed whole oceans: now he was leaving her warm security for the unknown perils that lay out in the darkness.

A faint cry came out of the night and was immediately followed by a hail from the foretop. "Deck hooooo, an' it's three points t' larb'd."

"Mr Pearce!"

"Sir." He took his speaking trumpet and roared into the night, "God save King George!"

An answering cry came and minutes later a small fishing-boat appeared. The boatswain gave a signal for it to come alongside and Kydd prepared to board. Bowden was standing close. "Bear a hand with m' chest, Mr Bowden," he asked, trying to keep the tension from his voice.

Upturned faces in the boat watched as Bowden passed a hitch round it and went down the side to the boat to receive it from the seamen lowering away.

Kydd turned for a farewell sight of his ship and a handshake from the captain. Renzi waited until last—his grip was tight. No words were spoken.

"Good luck t' ye, sir," came a low cry from the anonymous darkness forward, and a lump formed in Kydd's throat. He lifted an arm in response and went into the boat.

A jabber of nervous Spanish greeted him and a woman's voice cautioned, "Pons he say as 'ow we must not waste th' time."

Taken aback, Kydd muttered something and took the chest from Bowden. "Away y' go, m'lad," he said, "an' thank ye."

"Can't do that, sir," Bowden said quietly. "I'd be disobeying captain's orders!"

"Wha—"

"He asked me to accompany you, sir." Kydd realised that this was probably not the way it had happened, but already the anonymous figure in the bows had poled off and the comforting bulk of Tenacious was receding into the blackness.

"Y'r a rascal, Bowden, but I thank ye all the same."

"Pons ask you, do not spik—he listen for danger!" In the sternsheets the woman was close enough for him to be aware of her female scent.

A darker mass loomed and the boat stopped in the water. The fitful half-moon laid a fragile luminosity over the water, revealing a third figure, whom Kydd presumed to be Pons. He was listening with rigid concentration. At length he signalled to the rower, who skimmed the boat about and glided in to the shore.

There was just enough light to make out a rickety landingstage. The boat bumped against it and the rower went forward to secure the painter. Pons stood and made his way clumsily up behind him while Kydd prepared to land on enemy soil.

There was a flurry of movement in the dimness forward—and in a sudden chill of horror Kydd saw the flash of moonlight on an arc of bright steel and heard a gurgling cry, then a dull splash echoing in the tiny bay.

"Wh-why did—"

"Is th' only safe way," the girl said flatly. "Even if he want, he can tell no tale now."

Shaken, Kydd motioned to Bowden to help sway up the chest.

They took a barely visible path over the low scrub-covered hillock and Kydd could smell the scent of wild thyme and myrtle on the air. It led down to a wider bay with a small village of fishermen's dwellings by a beach.

Pons held up his hand for them to stop. There was no sound on the cool breeze beyond the distant bray of a donkey and laughter from one of the white stone houses. The walk resumed. A hundred yards short of the village Pons growled something to the woman.

"We wait," she said. "Here!" she added urgently, moving into the scrub. They crouched down, Kydd's senses at full alert. Pons entered a brightly lit dwelling, and emerged a few minutes later with an imperious wave. The woman rose warily and gestured towards the village. "Es Grau."

A smoke-blackened interior revealed it to be some form of taphouse, but the conversations ceased as they entered. Kydd followed Pons to a small room at the back, which reminded him of the snug in an English hostelry. "Sit."

Kydd slipped into a chair next to Bowden.

"Are we safe?" Kydd whispered to the woman. "Those people know we're here."

"Here you will not find th' Spanish."

"They are Minorcan?"

"Minorquin!" the girl said impatiently. She wore a distinctive red cowl, which she let down to reveal black hair swept back severely into a queue, not dissimilar to the familiar tarry pigtail of the seaman. "The Minorquin do not love those 'oo seek to master them." Then a brief, wistful look stole over her as she introduced herself. "Isabella Orfila Cintes—when I a little girl, you English sailor call me Bella."

"L'tenant Kydd, an' Midshipman Bowden." Kydd was reluctant to release his boat-cloak to display his uniform coat beneath, but he was stifling in the heat of the room.

"That is Pons—Don Pons y Preto Carreras." She threw the words at the sullen man opposite. "Our leader," she added.

Pons snapped something at her.

"He ask, what do y' want of him, that the gran' navy of Englan' send you to Minorca?"

Kydd felt disquiet. Why had they not been told details by Stuart's staff? Were they trustworthy? And were they in possession of the secret of the invasion—its time, its place?

"I volunteered t' come," he mumbled. Without their help his entire mission was impossible. Surely he would not have been put in contact with the Minorquins unless he was expected to make use of them. It was being left up to him to decide how much to reveal. "Do ye know what is being planned for Minorca?"

"Planned?" Isabella looked puzzled.

Kydd saw Bowden's anxiety and knew he was thinking the same thing, but there was no help for it. "We mean t' take this island from the Spanish," he said quietly, "an' very soon."

"You—you will come wi' soldiers an' ships ..."

"Aye. An' we need your help."

She stared at him then leaped up, knocking the table askew. "God be praise!"

"¿Que? ¿Que?" Pons seized her arm to force her round. She replied in low, urgent tones, then Pons stood to proclaim dramatically what sounded like patriotic slogans.

Kydd gestured frantically for him to sit. "There's much t' do before they come. We are here t' signal to our general where the Spanish are an' where they march to."

Isabella's expression sobered. "That is ver' dangerous," she said darkly. "What is your plan?"

"There is a big hill, a mountain called Monte Toro." Isabella said nothing, her concentration growing intense. "We mean t' climb up and see ..."—something stopped him going further— "... all of Minorca, and there we'll set up a little mast an' signal to th' ships at sea." She made no comment, so he tried to explain further. "Y' can see these flags fr'm a long distance an' send any message y' like." He pulled the chest over and threw back the lid, then held up some of the flags. "You see?"

"That is your plan?" she said icily. Pons affected disinterest at the sight of the bunting.

"It is."

"You are all fools! Do you know what is up there on Monte Toro?"

"I've heard there's a nunnery, a convent," Kydd said warily.

"It is. An' you know else? The army agree wi' you—a fine place for flags an' signals. They have their own post for flags. Guarded by th' heavy dragoons. So where is your plan now?"

Kydd tried to keep dismay from his face. "We will find a place out of sight, o' course. Somewhere up there, on a roof—"

"Where is your money? In th' box?"

"Money?"

She took a deep breath. "How you going to pay th' soldier to look away while you wave y'r flags?" Kydd kept an obstinate silence, his face burning. "You must! If your ship can see th' flags so can the Spanish Army." Her shoulders drooped. "How ..."

Kydd had no answer. Then she looked up into his eyes. "Ver' well, I will help you. But first—"

She went to the door and opened it. "Juan!" she called loudly. There was movement inside and a nervous pot-boy arrived, carrying a jug and mugs on a tray.

"When you English here before, you teach us abou' gin. We learn well an' make our own. To hell wi' all the Spanish!"

The gin owed more perhaps to myrtle than juniper but it had its own attractive character. "Damn right!" Kydd responded.

The darkness outside seemed all the more intense as they stumbled along a beachside track and crossed a small stream. The chest was an irritating encumbrance and Kydd felt the effects of the gin fall away. He took off his boat-cloak and uniform coat and tied them to the chest, going in shirt and breeches alone.

What had become of his plan? If he could not signal the invasion would certainly still go ahead—and men's lives would pay for his failure.

It was only a little more than four miles to Monte Toro but no map could take into account the endless dry-stone walls of small plots of land, the deep ravines in the limestone bedrock, the sudden thick woods.

At one point Pons stopped with a hiss of caution: ahead was a moonlit clearing and beyond a dark tower. "We go one b' one," Isabella whispered. Pons crouched low and scurried to the other side to disappear into the shadows. He reappeared further towards the looming tower and beckoned. Hearts thumping at the unknown danger Kydd and Bowden complied, Kydd awkwardly humping the chest. Then Isabella flitted across swiftly and they resumed the march.

They reached a road. "How far, Bella?" Kydd gasped. The chest was taking its toll of his strength.

"Don't stop here! Anyone is moving at night, he must be bandido." She went to help him with the chest, but he brushed her away and crabbed across the road to the anonymous shadows of the other side.

"It is not s' far now, Mr Keed," she said. "We get to Sa Roca before the daybreak. There we fin' a new plan." Pons stalked on ahead at a merciless pace, the terrain growing ever steeper and rockier, the track leading through fragrant pine woods that pulled and snagged constantly.

It was more than an hour before they arrived, the immense dark bulk of Monte Toro dominating ahead—a lone, rounded peak that he had last seen from the deck of Tenacious but whose brooding presence made Kydd's heart quail. "Sir, quite the ticket for signalling," Bowden said brightly. Kydd did not reply.

Their hiding-place was well chosen: a small shadow in the side of a craggy hill turned out to be a dank but secure limestone cave. From the smell of its contents, it was probably used for farm storage. Kydd let the chest drop thankfully as Isabella found a small lantern. "We will return in th' morning. On your life, do not show ou'side!"

Sleep was a long time coming. Kydd had not counted on the presence of an army post on the summit. Rigging a makeshift signal mast was going to be impossible under their eyes and he despaired. Perhaps daylight would suggest a way.

The grey of dawn stole into the cave turning sinister dark shapes to ordinary dusty kegs and sacks. It also brought Isabella and a wrinkled old man, with their breakfast of bread and onion soup. "This Señor Motta, an' this his finca, his farm. He want t' help."

His beady black eyes watched them steadily as they ate, while Isabella waited impatiently and Pons stared out moodily.

"Now! What our plan?" she said, as the last of the meal went down. It was time to confront their situation—and, above all, the vital question of whether he could trust her with the secret of the landing-place. She was practical and intelligent, and if anything was to be rescued of the mission it would have to be through her.

Before he could speak she answered his unspoken question: "On Monte Toro is my brother José. He cook for the dragoons." It was what Kydd needed; she would not have trusted him with that knowledge unless she believed in him and, therefore, in turn, he could trust her.

"There is a way you can visit him," she added cagily, "but not wi' your big box."

"What's it like up there?" Kydd countered. "That's t' say, how many soldiers? Where do they—"

"There are twenty-two soldier, an' five sailor t' work the flags," she said crisply. "They are in a fort an' barracks, not so big. The monasterio gate are closed, th' nuns not interested in them. "

Now he just needed a reason to be up there and a hiding-place. He was on his way back with a chance. But without signalling flags? On the quarterdeck of Leviathan they would be expecting standard naval signals—without flags and a mast to hoist them, what use was it to get up there?

"How do ye pass the soldiers?"

"Is easy—I wash th' clothes for the soldier and 'is family," she said. "I must take them up—what soldier want to stop his washing?"

"Then can ye tell me how we will get past 'em?" Kydd asked.

"Easy as well. You are cousin of José, you deliver onion an' garlic to him on a donkey. This young man not go."

"But—"

"You cannot spik Spanish 'cos you are idiot of the village. Can you be idiot? Señor Motta will 'ave clothes for you."

"Mr Kydd, sir," Bowden said, in a low voice, "our flags an' ropes?"

"They look inside th' box an' we are betrayed." She folded her arms. "No."

Kydd knew there was everything to win—if only his wits could come up with a solution. But without flags to signal ... At the back of his mind something stirred. Flags—and something she had said. The idea struggled for form and consciousness. Fornells, Addaya—and the waiting fleet. Then it leaped into focus.

"Bowden!" he snapped. "I have an idea. I'd be obliged should you help me t' reason it through."

"Aye aye, sir," said Bowden, mystified. They moved deeper into the cave for more privacy.

"Do ye agree that ..." The idea took shape: a plan was possible. He explored further, testing each part against Bowden's loyal opposition.

He returned to Isabella. "We have an idea. Here's what we're going t' do—"

"I won't hear you!"

"You—"

"If I don't know your plan, how can I tell th' Spanish if they catch me?" There was nothing Kydd could say to that.

She looked at him squarely. "Jus' tell me—when you wan' to be on Monte Toro ? "

"Before ten, tomorrow."

"We will be there."

There was one last matter. "My midshipman needs t' return to the gen'ral. Can—"

"Pons will take 'im tonight."

In the cool of the morning Kydd and Isabella set out over the steep tracks towards the rearing bulk of Monte Toro. Dressed in the homespun of Minorca, a waistband of faded red with abarca sandals and a low-crowned dull brown hat, Kydd led a donkey laden with onions in panniers, strings of garlic bulbs round its neck and two laundry baskets.

They did not speak as they reached the base of the massive mount and began to trudge up the steep spiral road. A thousand feet to go—the surrounding country began to spread out as they rose and the glimmer of sea appeared on the horizon. Further still and the limits of the horizon extended until even without a telescope the unmistakable winding shape of the Bay of Fornells became apparent. The panorama of low, rolling country out into the far distance was spectacular.

The gritty noise of a cart sounded behind. Kydd snatched a look and saw it was an army conveyance. He let Isabella chat on incomprehensibly. She stopped to give a cheery wave to the soldiers, who responded with catcalls.

They wound round the last few yards of the road, and suddenly were on the airy summit, a flat area with a squat, square reddish fort and a line of barracks one side, a white stone building the other, well shuttered. A hut and signal mast was atop the fort.

Playing his part to the full, Kydd stood and gaped vacantly until Isabella tugged angrily at him to move forward.

Two sentries ambled across. "Oye! Isabella, para! Tenemos que registrarte a ti y la colada!"

As Isabella told her story Kydd shrank fearfully from the men, scrabbling to hide behind the donkey as the men fumbled among the onions in a perfunctory search, laughing at his clumsy consternation. "El Coronel dice que los ingleses están cerca y no quiere jugarsela."

They turned to the washing baskets; Kydd started to whimper in distress at their behaviour. "Dejadlo en paz, cabrones!" Isabella shouted, pulling them away. They complied meekly while she comforted Kydd with soothing words and firmly led him on.

At the sound of raised voices several people came into the courtyard. The cook, fat, jovial and impatient to see what they had brought, emerged from the barracks. He fingered the onions doubtfully and inspected the strings of garlic. They were apparently judged satisfactory; the donkey was unloaded and led away, and the cook promised to find a little something for the visitors after the long haul up.

Inside the cook's quarters there was nervous chatter, but Kydd's first concern was the room. To his vast relief there was a large jalousie window facing north. He looked out cautiously. It was one of many in the outer wall, whose face fell vertically from a dizzying height to the rocky flank of the mount. In the next room there was a smaller window. It would do.

He raised his eyes to the distance. Fornells was in plain sight, and shifting to the right he saw the complex of islands and bays that was Addaya. Perfect! He would not be seen while he did the observations and the signalling—it was all very possible.

Isabella brought the cook forward. "Mr Keed, this José." He shook hands, aware of a shrewd look.

"What do we do now, Mr Keed?" The door was thick and had bolts but if they were discovered in their nefarious activity there could be no exit through the window—they would be trapped.

"My spyglass." It was covered in sacking at the bottom of a washing basket. He went to the window and settled down with a chair. To seaward there was a bright haze; this would conceal the approach of the fleet until it was about five miles offshore. He hauled out Renzi's watch: in only an hour or so there would be sudden alarm and dismay as the rumours of an English fleet took on an awful reality.

He must work fast. Methodically he quartered the country along each side of the narrow Bay of Fornells. On one side of the entrance there was a medium-sized fort and on the other a town. An army encampment was easy to see, the regularity of the tents, the glitter of equipment and even a caterpillar of men drilling. He located and traced the road away from the base: this would be the avenue for reinforcement or retreat.

Then he switched his glass to Addaya where he saw little military activity; there seemed to be nothing but small fortifications and only one concentration of soldiery. He searched for and found the connecting road. Finally, he carefully scanned the countryside round and about for any evidence of defences in depth. As far as a sharp seaman's eye could tell there was none of significance.

As he had feared, most troops appeared to be at Fornells, and would cause grievous damage to the landing. There were some at Addaya but not enough to indicate that they considered a landing there to be in prospect. Tensely, he settled down to wait.

Less than half an hour later a trumpet sounded urgently outside. José started and hissed at Isabella. "They call th' soldier to arms," she told Kydd.

Kydd lifted his glass seaward, but the bright haze lay uninterrupted in all directions. He searched in other directions, then realised it was probably Fornells signalling the approach of a hostile fleet, which he could not yet see in the haze.

Kydd waited, his glass trained out to sea, until his heart skipped a beat as the gossamer shapes of first one then several ships appeared close-hauled and standing steadily towards Fornells. The two 74s led the fleet; further out he saw the frigates and in the far distance the transports. There would be English soldiers aboard who, before the day was out, might owe their lives to Kydd's actions in the next few minutes.

"Isabella, bring y'r washing." He had just rigged an endless loop of washing-line passing out of one window and in the next.

"I'll have th' red shirt, y'r lady's shawl an' the pantaloons, if y' please." A deft twist to form two bights, and a clove hitch secured the shirt first by one corner and then spaced to the other. The shawl and pantaloons followed, then Kydd hauled on his "halliard." The washing disappeared out of the window to hang innocently suspended along the wall outside.

He grabbed his glass and stared at Leviathan's mizzen peak until his eyes watered. Had Bowden reached the flagship in time? Did they believe his improbable story? Minutes dragged.

There it was! The answering pennant hoisted close up. Feverishly, Kydd hauled once more on his horizontal halliard to rotate the clothing inside, around and out again, the "signal" repeated. The answering pennant whipped down—he had been seen. Near delirious with excitement he focused on what was next: "troops are concentrated at Fornells." "M' dear, I'll trouble you for th' black bodice an' that fetching yellow skirt."

The flagship's quarterdeck was tense and silent. Ahead was the enemy coast, the narrow entrance of Fornells Bay dominated by a fortress with a huge Spanish flag flying defiantly. A single massive peak was visible inland, with a monastery or some such squarely on the summit.

Duckworth stood with General Stuart, their expressions grim. A gun from the fortress thudded defiance, the sound and gun-smoke telling of a great thirty-six-pounder or more.

The signal lieutenant of Leviathan clattered down from the poop and saluted. "Sir! We have signals established from shore."

"Thank God," said Stuart. "What do they say? Quickly, man!"

"Er, at the moment, only that they have correctly authenticated."

"Then tell me when you receive anything useful."

The lieutenant returned to his post but was back just as quickly. "Sir, signal received: 'enemy troops concentrated at Fornells.'"

"Can we trust this?" demanded Stuart. "It would mean postponing the assault, and that I'm not prepared to do—"

"Another signal, sir: 'negative,' and 'troops concentrated at Addaya.'"

"No formations at Addaya? That will do. How far to Addaya from here, Commodore?"

"But four miles. Say, an hour's sail."

"We land at Addaya as provided for."

It was hard for Kydd, watching a battle unfold yet having such a restricted role of activity.

"They take no notice!" wailed Isabella. It was true: far from moving away from Fornells the two bigger ships moved closer, followed by others.

Kydd's heart sank. Then, in the flat image of his telescope, he saw activity at the rear of the fleet. Ships were hauling their wind to the other tack, moving back out to sea.

Inland he saw a line of dust arising. He focused on it: it was a column of soldiers marching fast on the road to Fornells. "Bella, quick—th' apron and that small curtain!" It would read, "reinforcements marching on Fornells."

He took up his glass—and his heart leaped: they had not misread his signals. The ships at the rear were the transports, the soldiers, and they were heading to Addaya while the warships in the van made a feint against Fornells to draw forces there.

It was all unfolding to those who had eyes to see it: some ships advanced on the fortress, others disappeared into the haze to reappear suddenly off the rock-strewn entrance to Addaya. Boats hit the water and through his glass Kydd saw them pass between two low islands and head for the shore. One or two scattered guns opened fire but two frigates were in position and, over the heads of the boats, thundered in their broadsides. There was no further firing.

Kydd pounded his fist with glee and swung his telescope back to Fornells. There was chaos in the town—no doubt news had reached them of the landings in Addaya. It gave him a piquant thrill to think that while the signal station above them was frantically passing the dread news, his own signals beneath were having their contrary effect.

What was more significant were the soldiers now pouring out of the fort and flooding down the road. Where were they going? Were they reinforcements for Addaya? Whatever, this called for a "negative" and "heading for Fornells" and Kydd briskly plied his red shirt, the bodice again and a woman's shift.

When this had been completed he turned his attention back to Addaya. The experienced Highlanders had stormed ashore and he could catch the glint of their bayonets as they spread out in the brush. They were not meeting much resistance and Kydd saw why: the rough road away was streaming with soldiers in disor-der—they were falling back, not prepared to be cut off in a heroic last stand. That would be a definite "negative," "troops at Addaya," then.

Now the road from Fornells was streaming with men moving away—no question that these were reinforcements for Addaya: this was a "negative," then "troops at Fornells," and suddenly Kydd realised his job was done.

"Sir—they're abandoning Fornells."

"Or reinforcing Addaya." Stuart was not to be stampeded. The landings at Addaya appeared to be well in hand—Duckworth had a repeating frigate relaying news from there—but there was every reason to expect the Spanish to throw everything into a savage counter-attack.

The signal lieutenant reported once more: "Sir, they're on the retreat from Addaya." Stuart harrumphed and stalked up and down, but there was no mistaking his look of triumph.

Commodore Duckworth, however, was not so easily satisfied. He left the general, moved to the lee side of the quarterdeck and called the signal lieutenant to him. "This is damned irregular, sir! I have not seen you refer once to your signal book and all the time you're advisin' the general of the conduct of the war. Where is this shore station you say is passin' the signals?"

"Er, I think Mr Midshipman Bowden can answer to your satisfaction, sir."

Bowden touched his hat respectfully and explained: "Mr Kydd found it impractical to rig a mast and halliards ashore, sir, but conceived of a private code. If you'd take the telescope and spy out the top of Mount Toro—yes, sir, more to the top of the outside wall at the end—there you'll see his last hoist."

"I see a Spanish signal mast, none else."

"If you'd look a little lower, you'll find hanging out the three-flag hoist, 'negative,' 'at Addaya.'"

"I see nothing of the sort! Only ..."

"Yes, sir. A red Minorquin shawl, a black bodice and a blue pair of men's pantaloons."

"Explain, damn you, sir!"

"Mr Kydd reasoned that everything the general had to know could be sent by two significations, the first, location, being one of Fornells, Addaya or Mercadal, the other to be the military event, being one of marching towards, or massing at, the location. It requires then only a 'negative' prefix to reverse the meaning and the code is complete."

"And the flags?"

"We could not use our flags. It would have alerted the Spanish. And, as you can see, sir, the distance is too great to make out detail. Therefore he used colours: in this way he could make use of anything, as long as the colour could be distinguished. Red for 'negative,' white for 'marching towards,' blue for 'Addaya.'"

"Yes, yes, I see. Most ingenious. Hmm—I look forward to making further acquaintance of Lieutenant Kydd."

From his eyrie Kydd watched marines make their way ashore in Fornells; they would take possession of the forts and the English would be established irrevocably ashore. It was certain to be victory—and he had played a central part in it. With a welling of contentment he raised the spyglass again to watch the consolidation at Addaya.

"We must go," Isabella said, distracted.

Kydd could not tear himself from his grand view, and the thought of another night in a dank cave was not appealing. He remembered that the next planned move was a march on Mercadal close by. If the English forces had reached so far already then it was more than probable they would reach the town and Monte Toro the next day.

He would sit it out where he was. "Isabella—if y' understands—I'd like t' see how it ends. Can y' ask José if I could stay here tonight?"

She left in tears of emotion and Kydd resumed his vigil at his spyglass. More men landed at Fornells; with a tug of pride, Kydd saw seamen rig lines ashore to land artillery pieces. Once there, they passed drag-lines and began man-hauling the guns along the roads inland. The end could not possibly be in doubt.

"Brindemos por la victoria!" José's affable toast came as he handed Kydd a glass of Xoriguer.

"Thank ye—whatever y' said! Must say, sir, this is a rare drop. Y' good self, Mr José!"

"Who the devil—?" stuttered Colonel Paget, in command of the approaching troops. Kydd was wearing his begrimed uniform recovered from the cave, without cocked hat and sword.

"L'tenant Kydd, HMS Tenacious, y'r duty, sir. I make apology f'r my appearance."

"As you should, sir," the colonel replied, eyeing Kydd askance. "And may I know why you are not on your ship?"

"Sir?"

"The Spanish fleet at sea and not you? Hey? Hey?"

"Sir, I've spent several days behind th' Spanish lines an' have not had news. I'd be obliged if you'd confide th' progress of the landing."

"I see. Well, sir, be assured we're rolling up their rearguard in fine style and have this hour taken Mercadal. The Spanish are retiring on Ciudadela—General Stuart is in pursuit but has required me to take a fast column to lay against Port Mahon. I am at this moment at the business of forming it up."

"The Spanish fleet, sir?"

"Yes, yes," Paget said testily. "It seems they were sighted falling on us from the west and the commodore took all his ships to sea to meet 'em. There's none still here, Mr Kydd."

Kydd ground his teeth and cursed his luck. That morning while he had been cautiously making contact with the advancing soldiers Tenacious was now possibly in a climactic battle that would decide the fate of Minorca. If this was the Cartagena fleet they were in serious trouble.

"Sir, what ships were sighted?" Kydd asked urgently.

"Dammit—five, six big ones, I don't remember," the colonel said, clearly tiring of the exchange.

For Kydd it was mortifying news—and left him stranded with no way to rejoin his ship. But he could not stand idly by while others went on to face the enemy. "Sir, I do offer m' services to ye. Mahon has a dockyard an' big harbour and it would be very strange if there weren't any ships there. I could help ye secure 'em as prizes."

Paget raised his eyebrows. "And, no doubt, put yourself in the way of some prize-money." Kydd bristled but Paget went on genially, "But you're in the right of it, sir—I'll need someone who knows the ropes to make sure the dons don't set the dockyard afire or any other foolishness. Right, sir. Your offer is handsomely accepted. Do ask the quartermaster for something a little more fitting for an officer, if you catch my meaning. We move off at dawn."

In a startling mix of buff army breeches, a navy lieutenant's coat and an infantry cocked hat, Kydd went out to meet the seamen just arriving after man-hauling the guns overland. The pieces would soon be finding employment in laying siege to the walled town of Ciudadela.

"Good Lord above! Of what species of warrior are you, sir?" said the young naval lieutenant in charge of them.

"Why, in th' uniform t' be expected of the officer-in-charge o' the naval detachment in the assault on Port Mahon," Kydd said loftily.

"Naval detachment?" the man said, puzzled.

"Yes. I mean t' press half a hundred of y'r men, if y' please." A quick glance told him that at fifty men each on the dozen or so guns there were more than five hundred in all, probably contributed evenly by each ship in the squadron including his own: they could spare a tenth of their number.

"Press my men!" the lieutenant stared in amazement and began to laugh. At Kydd's glare his mirth tailed away.

"We must secure th' dockyard, board all ships in harbour and attend t' any prisoners," Kydd said, in a hard voice. "I don't think fifty men overmuch f'r the task, d' you?"

He looked past the officer at the weary men coiling down the drag-lines, pulling off encamping kit and flexing tired muscles. He strode over to them, leaving the lieutenant to hurry along behind. "I say, this is out of order, sir! You may not—"

"If I have t' ask th' colonel he'll make it a hundred," Kydd snapped, without looking back. He had spotted Dobbie from Tenacious.

The stocky seaman's face creased with pleasure as Kydd went up to him. "Sir! Never thought ter see yez again, goin' ashore with them dagoes."

"Dobbie—I want fifty good men f'r particular service in Mahon. Seamen I must have, knows the difference between a buntline and a bobstay an' can be relied on in a fight."

"Aye aye, sir."

"Have 'em mustered here for me in an hour."

There was one further matter he had to attend to. There was every prospect of his meeting the enemy on the morrow and the quartermaster had offered him the loan of a heavy sabre or a token small-sword, but neither appealed. He went to an arms chest on the limber of one gun and helped himself to a cutlass; this would be of use only in close quarters fighting, but a defensive action was all that he expected for the seamen. It was not the fine sword he had now grown used to, but the heft and balance of the plain black weapon was familiar and pleasing, and he slipped the scabbard into its frog, settling it comfortably on his belt.

Later that night, after he had seen to his men, Kydd dined with the officers in their mess-tent. It was both strange and comforting. The singular appearance of the red check tartan of a regiment of Highlanders, with their arcane mess rituals and free-flowing whisky, was another world to the ordered uniformity of a naval wardroom. But the loyal toast was sturdily proposed and the same warmth of brotherhood reached out to Kydd. "Give ye joy of y'r victory, sir," Kydd acknowledged to the army captain sitting to his side.

The officer raised an eyebrow. "You think so?"

"Why, yes! I know nothing of y'r military affairs but t' land and take a town seems t' me to be a fine thing for such numbers."

The captain examined his whisky, holding it to the light so the glass twinkled prettily. "It was fine done the landing, I'll grant— but the general must have had inside intelligence to change the place of landing at such notice. Quite took the dons on the hop."

Kydd glowed, but now was not the time to claim recognition.

"But then I don't envy Quesada—an impossible task, I'd say."

"Quesada?"

"Their commander. One can feel pity for the man. His soldiery has rotted from too much garrison duty and they're near useless. And reinforcements? All he got before you fellows cleared the seas of 'em was a couple of battalions of Swiss."

"The Swiss?" Kydd was hazily aware of the tangled complexity of allegiances in Europe but had not heard they were at war with Switzerland.

"Yes, German-Swiss mercenaries. Austrians took 'em prisoner, then sold them to the Spanish for two thaler a head. Not my idea of a bargain. When we landed at Addaya they were opposing us. Then your frigate let fly a broadside or two and in twenty minutes they broke and ran."

"Still runnin'?" Kydd chuckled.

"In fact, no. We took a hundred deserters and told 'em that if they could bring in their friends we'd see them right in the matter of employment. Gen'l Stuart is thinking of forming up a foreign corps of some sort, and now we have the lot—a thousand and more."

Kydd agreed. With rabble like that Quesada could do nothing to stop the English. Then he remembered, with sudden apprehension: "Did ye see the Spanish fleet at all? If we're beat at sea ..."

"The fleet? I'm not sure about that. I did catch a sight of the Spanish, but they weren't your big fellows, only one line of guns." Frigates, realised Kydd, with jubilation.

"And last I saw of 'em was the gallant commodore haring off over the horizon, tally-ho, after them with all flags flying."

Kydd grinned. "So we c'n sleep tight tonight but y'r Gen'ral Quesada has a mort t' reflect on."

"He has. Without command of the sea of any kind he can't get supplies or reinforcements, nothing. And he'll never get the Minorcans to fight for him."

"So ye'd say we've won?" Kydd said cautiously.

"By no means. Quesada is off with the bulk of his troops to Ciudadela—their major town with city walls and fortifications. A siege will be a tedious thing with no certainty at the end of it. And tomorrow we march on Mahon, which is even more heavily fortified. While we hold the country, Quesada will hold the towns—and we can't wait for ever."

It was another kind of war but in the warmth of the evening's cordiality it seemed far removed. Yet here he was, enjoying the regiment's hospitality not only in the middle of enemy country but presumably on a battlefield with enemy soldiers perhaps creeping through the night.

"What's out there? I mean, what's to stop th' Spanish coming suddenly while we're enjoyin' our supper?" Kydd did not mean it to come out so nervously but he preferred the direct ship-to-ship fighting at sea where the foe was visible rather than the uncertainties of land.

"Well, armies don't fight at night as a rule," the officer said, with only the glimmer of a smile. "But if the Spanish see fit to counter-attack in the dark—presuming they have precise knowledge of our position—then first they must find a way to get past our vedettes and outer pickets before our sentinels can take alarm, but even then you may sleep soundly, I believe."

The brass baying of trumpets woke Kydd. Before he had struggled into his clothes the stillness was rent by hoarse cries of sergeants and shouts of command from impatient officers as the camp came to life. First light appeared as the soldiers bolted down their breakfast and prepared for the march, buckling on equipment and loosening limbs.

The damp smoke of breakfast fires still hung about in the grey-ness of the pre-dawn as Kydd drew up his men to address them. "I'm L'tenant Kydd, and this is th' Port Mahon naval detachment. You're not going t' pull the guns any more—but you are going t' march. This is what th' lobsterbacks call a 'flying column,' which is to say we're going to move fast. We're heading f'r Port Mahon, an' there we'll find a harbour and dockyard fit f'r the whole o' Nelson's fleet. But only if we take it from them—there could be quite a deal o' fighting before we're done, but I've got no doubts about that with English hearts of oak by m' side."

His hand dropped unconsciously to his cutlass hilt as he continued, "We're not here t' do the assault. That'll be the lobster-backs' job, an' they're good at it. What we'll be doing is t' wait until they've got a breach and marched into the town. Then we'll follow and go to the harbour an' set about any shipping we find—not forgettin' the dockyard, that the Spanish don't start fire-raisin' there."

He regarded the men dispassionately. Lithe, intelligent, these were the skilled seamen who were achieving more at sea than any before them and he felt a deep pride. "So we'll be on our way— this is Kane's highway to Mahon an' it was laid by us eighty years ago. Now let's use it!"

But they had to stand aside as the professionals formed up. Scouts clattered off ahead into the early morning and others fanned out to each side of the line-of-march. Yet more galloped urgently backwards and forwards for some arcane military reason. Finally, officers on splendid horses took their place at the head of their men and with a squeal and drone of bagpipes skirling and the rattle and thump of drums the column set off.

Kydd had refused a horse, feeling unable to ride while his men marched, but after the first hour he regretted the decision. It was good to swing along to the stirring music, seeing the soldiers moving ahead economically and fast but he was unused to the discipline of the march and felt increasingly sore.

After five miles they reached the small market town of Alayor. The inhabitants watched them pass, some with grave expressions, others fearful. On the far side they stopped for fifteen minutes' rest. The soldiers joked and relaxed, some not even bothering to sit, but the sailors squatted or sat in the dust.

A cheerful sun was abroad when they got under way once more; there were no disturbances or threats of attack and after another five miles in a countryside of sinister quiet they were pressing close to Port Mahon. A halt was called while the town was still hidden in the low hills ahead, orange orchards and neat garden plots betraying its proximity.

But there was no sign of the enemy. Could it be that they were lying concealed, waiting for the whole column to enter before springing their ambush? The soldiers did not appear unduly concerned, and Kydd reasoned that as the detachment was only about three hundred strong, it was more a reconnaissance in force than an assault and could withdraw at any time. His worries subsided.

Then his mind supplied a new concern: was the main body for the real assault approaching from another direction? The anxieties returned—not that he had any doubts about his courage, but as an officer of rank what would be expected of him should the army "beat to quarters"? He forced his eyes closed.

"Sir."

Kydd opened his eyes and saw a youthful subaltern saluting him in the odd army fashion with the palm outwards.

"Colonel Paget desires you should wait on him."

At the head of the column Paget was at the centre of an animated group of officers, each apparently with a personal view on recent events. Kydd took off his hat and waited for attention.

"Ah, Mr Kydd. Developments." He looked distracted and barely glanced at Kydd. "Scouts have returned, they report that the Spanish in Mahon want to parley."

"Sir?" It could mean anything from abject surrender to an ultimatum—or a Spanish trick, Kydd told himself, to control his sudden rush of excitement.

"I'm inclined to take it at face value. I shall go forward under flag o' truce and see what they want. I should be obliged if you would accompany me in case they try any knavish tricks concerning sea matters." He glanced at Kydd. "Kindly remain silent during the proceedings unless you perceive anything untoward at which you will inform me, never addressing the enemy. Do you understand?"

"Aye aye, sir."

Paget heaved himself up on his horse, which was patiently held by a soldier. "And get this man a horse, for God's sake," he threw at an officer, as he looked down on Kydd's rumpled, dusty appearance.

The little group of officers walked their horses down the road, preceded by a mounted trooper holding a pennon with a vast white flag attached. Ahead, in the distance, a blob of white appeared, resolving by degrees into a group, which to Kydd looked distinctly non-military.

"Halt!" A trumpeter dismounted and marched smartly to the exact point of equidistance and sounded off an elaborate call. There was movement among the figures opposite but no inclination to treat that Kydd could discern.

They waited in the sun: Kydd could hear Paget swearing under his breath, his horse impatiently picking at the ground with his hoof. At length there was a general advance of the whole mass towards them.

"What the devil!" Paget exploded. "Stand your ground!" he roared back over his shoulder to his officers.

It was apparent that any military component of the Spanish group was conspicuous only by its absence. The florid garments and general demeanour of the leading members seemed more municipal than statesmanlike as they nervously approached. "Tell 'em that's far enough," Paget told an aide.

"Ni un paso más!" The group stopped, but a man stepped forward uneasily with an old-fashioned frilly tricorne in his hands. Words were spoken and the man regarded Paget with a look that was half truculent, half pleading.

"Sir, this is Antonio Andreu, alcalde of the councillors of Mahon. He wishes you a good day."

"Dammit! Tell him who I am, and say I'm expecting three more battalions to arrive by the other road presently."

"He desires to know if there is produce of the land that perhaps he can offer, that you have come such a long way—red wine, olives, some oranges."

"Also tell him that our siege train arrives by sea tonight, and before dawn Mahon will be held within a ring of iron standing ready to pound his town to dust and rubble."

"Mr Andreu mentions that Minorca is famed for its shoes and leather harnesses, which we English will have remembered from the past—I believe he is talking about our last occupation, sir."

"What does the man want, for God's sake? Ask him!"

"Sir," said the lieutenant, very carefully, "on behalf of the citizens of Port Mahon he wishes to surrender."

"He what?" Paget choked.

Andreu's face was pale. He spoke briefly, then handed up a polished box. "He offers up the keys to Mahon, sir, but deeply regrets that he is not certain of the ceremonial form of a capitulation and apologises profoundly for any unintended slight."

Taking a deep breath, Paget turned to his adjutant. "I can't take a surrender from a parcel o' tradesmen."

"Sir, it might be considered churlish to refuse."

"They haven't even got a flag we can haul down. There are forms an' conventions, dammit."

"An expression of submission on their part, sir? Purely for form's sake ..."

"Tell 'em—tell 'em this minute they're to give three hearty hurrahs for King George."

"They say, sir—er, they say ..."

"And what do they say, sir?"

"And then may they go home?"

At the head of his seamen Kydd moved through the town. They padded down to the waterfront, past gaping women leaning from windows and curious knots of townsfolk at street corners. Most were silent but some dared cheers at the sight of the English sailors.

The dockyard was deserted: there was a brig under construction but little other shipping. That left only the boom, set across the harbour further along. Helpful townsfolk pointed it out, then found them the capstans to operate it.

There was little else that Kydd could think to do. It was a magnificent harbour with its unusual deep cleft of water between the heights where the main town appeared to be. It was long and spacious, its entrance flanked by forts. Out to sea were the men-o'-war of the Royal Navy.

Once more the two frigates put about and beat upwind outside the harbour. The Spanish flag flew high over the forts that made the harbour impregnable to external threat. The army was going to have a hard time when it came to the siege.

"Boat putting off—flag o' truce, sir."

The captain of HMS Aurora held up his hand to acknowledge. It was a rare sight, as the blockade around Minorca was as tight as could possibly be. Still, the diversion from duty would be welcome. "Heave to, if you please."

Under sail out in the open sea the boat made heavy weather of it but came on stubbornly in sheets of spray. As it neared he could see only a few figures in it. It was one of the straight-stemmed Minorcan llauds that he had seen fishing here. The boat rounded to, the soaring lateen sail brailed up expertly as it came lightly to leeward.

"Aurora, ahoy! Permission t' come aboard!" hailed the deep-tanned figure at the tiller in a quarterdeck bellow, to the great surprise of the frigate's company agreeably passing time in watching the exchange.

"One to come aboard, Bosun."

The boat nuzzled gently against the ship's side and the figure sprang neatly for the side-ropes and pulled himself aboard, correctly doffing his hat first to the quarterdeck and then to the captain.

He was a striking character. Strong in the frame and attractively open in the face, he was nevertheless in a wildly inappropriate mix of English army and navy uniform—a Spanish ruse? "L'tenant Kydd, sir. Late o' the Port Mahon naval detachment t' Colonel Paget." His English was faultless if individual.

"What may we do for you, Lieutenant?" the captain of Aurora said carefully.

"Sir, Colonel Paget desires y' should not fire on th' Spaniards on any account, but that ye proceed into harbour without delay."

"I see. I should sail my frigate under the guns of the fortress yonder, and forget the presence of the boom across to the Lazareto?"

"Oh, pay no mind t' the boom, sir. We've just triced it in this hour."

"Are you not forgetting something, Lieutenant?"

"Sir?"

"That fortress flies the Spanish flag, which I have observed unchanged these three days."

"Ah—I should explain. Colonel Paget came upon the town, which surrendered a little precipitate before they could fin' a military man. Y'r flag flies above Fort San Felipe where the only soldiers are t' be found. The fort is in ruins, havin' been demolished by the Spaniards t' discommode us but the soldiers say they won't surrender until they've found the king's lieutenant and get a proper ceremony.

"Meanwhile, sir, we have the possession and occupation o' the whole port. If ye'd kindly sail upon Mahon directly the colonel will be obliged—he is anxious to make inventory of the ships and stores that have fallen into our hands."

CHAPTER 9

THE ORDERED CALM AND ROUTINE aboard HMS Tenacious was a welcome reassurance of normality and Kydd paced the decks with satisfaction. His ship was now moored inside the deep emerald harbour of Port Mahon with the rest of the fleet; watering parties were ashore in Cala Figuera.

Kydd contemplated the prospect of an agreeable summons from the commodore in the near future. It had been an extraordinary achievement—the entire island was now in English hands, from the time of landing to capitulation no more than a week, on their side without any loss. And he had played what must surely be seen as a central part in the success.

"Sir, if y' please ..." One of the smaller midshipmen tugged at his sleeve.

He turned, frowning at the impropriety, then softening at the boy's anxiety to please. "Aye?"

"Mate o' the watch sends his duty an' the commodore would be obliged should you spare him an hour."

"Thank ye," said Kydd, a little surprised at the informality. He had been expecting something of a rather more public character, but supposed that this was preparatory only. After all, while this was a commodore he did not have the standing and powers of a full admiral. Any form of honours would have to come from the commander-in-chief, Admiral Nelson, still in Naples. His heart beat faster.

After reporting to Captain Faulkner in full dress uniform, as befitting a visit to the flag-officer, he was stroked across to Leviathan in the gig, thinking warmly that life could not be bettered at that moment. The day before, he had come back aboard and spent an uproarious evening in the wardroom telling of his adventure, being heartily toasted in the warmth of deep camaraderie. Now, dare he think it, he had been noticed and therefore was on the golden ladder of preferment and success. His instinct had been right—Nelson was showing the way. Seize the moment when it came!

He was politely received by a flag-lieutenant and conducted to the commodore in his great cabin. "Ah, Kydd. Sit ye down, I won't be long," Duckworth said, waving Kydd to a chair. The commodore was writing, a frown on his open face as he concentrated on the task. He finished with a scrawl and put his pen down with a sigh. "L'tenant Kydd," he said heavily, "I do believe that you should bear much of the credit for the success of this expedition. From what I hear, your initiative and courage did much to secure the safety of the force. Do tell me now what happened."

Kydd began, careful to be exact in his recollections for this would be a matter of record for all time. But as he proceeded he became uneasily aware that he did not have the commodore's full attention. He fiddled with his pen, squared his papers, inspected the back of his hand. Somewhat put out, Kydd completed with a wry account of his boarding of the frigate and told him of the conclusion of hostilities, but the commodore failed to smile.

Duckworth stood. "May I take the hand of a brave man and a fine officer?" he said directly, fixing Kydd in the eye. "I see a bright future for you, sir." Kydd glowed. "Good day to you, Mr Kydd," the commodore said, and took up his papers once more.

Kydd hovered uncertainly. "What is it, Mr Kydd?" the commodore said testily.

"Sir, dare I say it, but should I be mentioned in y'r dispatches, I'd be infinitely obliged if you'd spell m' name with a y—Kydd, sir, not like the pirate Kidd." There had been instances of promotion awarded for valour to the wrong officer entirely, which regrettably it was impossible to undo at the Admiralty.

Duckworth leaned back, eyeing Kydd stonily. "The dispatches for this engagement will be written by another. I haul down my flag tomorrow, Mr Kydd."

At a loss, Kydd excused himself and withdrew.

"I would have thought somethin' a bit more rousin'," Kydd said morosely, not sure at all of what had been transacted in the great cabin.

Adams was sympathetic, and put down his book on the wardroom table. They were alone and Kydd had returned disconsolate from what should have been a memorable interview.

"Luck o' the draw, old trout. You'll understand that Duckworth is out of sorts. His mission complete, he has to strike his flag and revert back to plain old captain now."

"But his dispatches—"

"Dispatches? He's not the expedition commander, Tom, Stuart is. And I've strong reason to know from a friend at Headquarters that he's a man to seize all the credit that can be scraped together. His dispatches will say nothing of the navy—all we did was sally out to meet half a dozen Spanish frigates, which instantly put about and had the legs of us. No creditable battle, no mention for anyone."

"I should've smoked it," Kydd said. Stuart was certainly the kind of man to dim another's candle in order that his become the brighter. "So the general won't want th' world to know that he'd got special intelligence as would give him th' confidence to stretch out an' take Minorca?"

"I fear that must be the case," Adams murmured.

"I was present at th' takin' of Port Mahon!" Kydd continued stubbornly.

"Dear chap, any battle won swiftly, efficiently and with the minimum of bloodshed must be a bad battle by any definition. For your triumph and glory you need a good butcher's bill, one that has you blood-soaked but standing defiant at the end, tho' many at your side do fall. And we had the bad luck to lose not a single man ..."

"You're bein' cynical, I believe."

Adams shrugged.

"Besides, m' name must be mentioned once in high places in the navy, must it not?"

Adams gave a small smile. "I should think not. The successful practice of creeping abroad at night is not an accomplishment that necessarily marks out a future admiral."

As he strolled along in the sun with Renzi on the road to Mahon, Kydd brooded; no doubt there would be other opportunities for dash and initiative but unless a similar conspiracy of circumstances came up how was he to be noticed? Duty was not enough: he must show himself of different timbre from the others.

They had landed below George Town, Es Castell as it was now known. From there it had been a precipitous pathway to the top—the harbour of Port Mahon was a great ravine in a high plateau, opening to a capacious sea cove three miles long. The town of Mahon was perched along the top, the skyline an exotic mix of medieval casements, churches, windmills and several inclined roadways to the water's edge.

A pleasant two miles of open country lay ahead. Wearing plain clothes in deference to the sensibilities of the inhabitants, they passed through Es Castell, a relic of past English occupation, still with its parade-ground four-square in the centre, and found the road west to Mahon.

"So grateful to the spirit," Renzi mused. At sea there was a constant busyness; even in the most placid of days the flurry of waves, the imperceptible susurrus of breeze around the edge of the sails and the many random sounds of a live ship were a constant backdrop to life aboard. It was only on land, where a different quietude reigned, that its absence was noticed.

Kydd's naturally happy temperament bubbled to the surface. "S' many windmills—you'd think it Norfolk or Kent."

"Yet the soil is poor and difficult of cultivation, I think," said Renzi, as they passed tiny garden-like plots and endless dry-stone walls. A little further on the wafting scent of orange groves filled the air. "But there could be compensations ..."

In front of each white stone farm there was a distinctive gate of charming proportions, an inverted V, probably made from the ubiquitous wild olive wood. The road wound round the end of a deep cleft in the cliffs, a sea cove a quarter of a mile deep with buildings on the flat ground at its head. Kydd recognised it as the chief watering-place, Cala Figuera—English Cove. The English ships, Tenacious among them, were clustered there.

Mahon could be seen ahead, past a racket court in use by two rowdy midshipmen, the houses by degrees turning urban and sophisticated. The two nodded pleasantly to local people in their pretty gardens; Kydd wondered how he would feel if conquering officers passed his front door. Nevertheless there was more than one friendly wave.

Several paths and avenues led from the one they were on and it became clear that they needed directions. "Knock on th' door?" Kydd suggested.

After some minutes they heard, "¿Que quiere?" A short man wearing round spectacles emerged suspiciously.

"Ah, we are English officers, er, inglese," Kydd tried.

Renzi smiled. "Your Italian does you credit, my friend, but what is more needed now—"

"Goodness gracious me!" Both turned in astonishment at the perfect English. "So soon! But—dare I be as bold—your honourable presence is made more welcome by your absence, these sixteen year."

Kydd blinked. "Er, may we ask if this is th' right road f'r Mahon?"

"Ah! So many years have I not heard this word! Only the English call it Marn—the Spanish is Ma-hon, but we Minorquin call it Ma-o, you see."

"Then—"

"You are certainly on the highway to ciudad Mao—forgive me, it has been many years ... Sadly, though, you will now find Mao in the comfortable state we call siesta."

He drew himself up. "But, gentlemen, it would be my particular honour to offer you the refreshments of the road."

"You are too kind, sir," Renzi said elegantly, with a bow.

They were soon seated in an enchanting arbour in a small garden at the front of a Mediterranean white house, all set about with myrtle, jasmine and vines and with a splendid view down into the harbour. The man withdrew and they heard shrill female protests overborne with stern male tones before he reappeared.

"My apologies. I am Don Carlos Pina, a merchant of oil of olive."

The officers bowed and introduced themselves. A lady wreathed in smiles appeared with a tray, murmuring a politeness in what Kydd assumed was Mahon-ese. On the tray he recognised Xoriguer and there were sweetmeats that had him reaching out.

"Ah! Those are the amargos. If they are too bitter, please to try the coquinyales here." Pina spoke to the woman, who coloured with pleasure. "My wife remember what you English like."

The crunchy anisette indeed complemented the gin and lemon cordial but Kydd had to say what was on his mind: "D' ye please tell me, sir, why you are not offended at our bein' here?"

Pina smiled broadly. "Our prosperity is tied to the English— when you left in 'eighty-two our trade suffer so cruel where before we trade with the whole world. Now by chance it will return."

"I'm sure it will," Renzi contributed.

Pina flourished the Xoriguer. "I toast His Majesty King George—King George th' Three! I hope he enjoy good health?" he added anxiously.

"He is still our gracious sovereign," Renzi replied.

"Please! Gentlemen, you may toast to the return of Lady Fortune to Minorca!"

Renzi asked earnestly, "Sir, this is such an ancient island. The Moors, Romans, Phoenicians—surely they have left their mark on the land, perhaps curious structures, singular artefacts?"

"There is no end of them," Pina said brightly, "but there are also the navete of the Talaiot—before even the Roman, they build boats of stone! No man know what they are. We never go near." He crossed himself fervently, bobbing his head.

"Excellent!" said Renzi.

"And if you are interested in Minorca, good sir, I recommend to your attention the town of Migjorn Gran, in which you will find many learned in the ancient ways of our island."

Kydd put down his glass. "And Mao is not far ahead?"

"I'm delaying you!" Pina said, in consternation. "Before you leave, the abrazo!" To Kydd's embarrassment he was seized in an embrace. "So! Now you are for us the hermanito, our ver' good friend!"

Mahon bustled with excitement. It seemed a declaration of open trade was to be gazetted immediately by the English, and merchants scurried to prepare for prosperous times. The dignified but sleepy town was waking up and the purposeful hurry of the population was in marked contrast to Kydd and Renzi's leisured pace.

Noble churches stood among a maze of busy streets; an ancient archway glowered at the top of one, and there were shops of every sort between lofty residence with balconies. Kydd was charmed by the little town, which had in parts an almost English reserve. On impulse, he stopped as they were passing a handicrafts shop. "Nicholas, I'd like t' take something o' Minorca back to m' mother as a remembrance. A piece o' lace?"

They entered the quiet interior of the shop. It took a few seconds for Kydd's eyes to adjust to the gloom after the glare of the sun but then he saw the girl behind the counter. "Er, can I see y' lace—for m' mother ..." He tailed off, seeing her grave attention.

But she gave a delighted squeal. "You are Engliss? Que suerte haberte conocido! I always want to meet an Engliss gentleman, my mother she say—"

"If we are to make the cloisters by angelus we must step out," said Renzi, sharply.

"Cloisters?" said Kydd, distracted.

"We have much yet to admire, brother."

Tenacious was first to be warped across the harbour to the dockyard for survey: she had suffered at the Nile with her lighter framing, and a worrying increase in bilge pumping was possibly the result of a shot taken between wind and water.

It did not take long to find the cause: two balls landing not far apart below the waterline had damaged a run of several strakes.

They would have to be replaced. With the ship canted to one side by capstans to expose her lower hull she was barely inhabitable and, with the prospect of possibly months at the dockyard, her officers quickly realised that lodgings ashore would be much more agreeable. The best location was evident: Carrer San Roc in the centre of Mahon, where fine town-houses in the English style were to be readily engaged.

A small but comfortable establishment with quaint furniture from the reign of one of the previous Georges met the bill, and Kydd and Renzi moved in without delay. It was a capital headquarters for further exploration of the island.

Renzi laid down his Reflections on the Culture and Antiquity of Iberia. "It is said that the western Ciudadela is of quite another character," he mused, nursing his brandy. "Suffered cruelly from the Turks but still retains splendid edifices—but the people are of the Castilian Spanish and have no love for an Englishman."

Kydd picked up a dog-eared newspaper and settled into his high-backed chair. "An' I heard fr'm one o' the midshipmen that t' take away a boat and sail around the island would be prime— there's snug coves an' beaches all up the coast."

"Where, then, is your warlike ardour, your lofty aspirations to laurels?"

"With our ship in dock? Little chance t' find such ... but there are compensations," Kydd said, with a private smile and raised his paper again.

"Oh?" Renzi said.

"Nicholas, I saw Love's Labour's Lost is t' be staged tonight. Do ye fancy t' attend at all?"

"Well, if we—"

"Unfortunately the captain wants t' sight m' journals, I must complete 'em. But do go y'self, I beg!"

"Actually, this volume is an engrossing account of your Hispanic in all his glory. I rather fancy I shall spend a quiet evening here."

"Nicholas, m' friend, you will do y'r eyes a grievous injury with all this readin'. In th' big church they're presentin' a concert o' music especially t' welcome the English. Why not go an' enjoy this? There's all y'r favourite composers, er, Pergylasy and—"

"I see I must," Renzi said flatly, and Kydd coloured. Later, leaving for the concert, he nearly collided with someone walking in haste. He had last seen her at the lace counter.

Kydd had to admit the forced idleness was not altogether an imposition. He was seated at a table in a small taberna with Renzi, enjoying a good bottle of red wine and the fine view from their position at the top of the cliff-like edge of the town into the glittering emerald length of the harbour. "Y'r good health, Nicholas," he said complacently, raising his glass.

"A most underrated and priceless gift," Renzi murmured, lifting his glass and staring into it.

"Er, wha—?"

"Robust health, in course, brother. Worth more than diamonds and rubies, this can never be bought with coin—it is always a gift from nature to man, which never asks aught in return."

"Just so, Nicholas. But do you mark that barque comin' around th' point? She's English." This was a welcome sight in the Mediterranean that, before Nelson's victory, had been cleared of English flagged vessels. "A merchantman," Kydd said lazily, and pulled out his little spyglass. "Cautious master, fat 'n' comfortable—wonder what she's carryin'."

The vessel went into the wind, brailing up and coming to a standstill. Lines were carried ashore by boat and in one movement the ship was rotated seaward again and brought alongside the landing-place near the customs house, just below where they sat.

Curious, Kydd focused on a colourful group on her after deck. From attentions given they must be passengers, and important ones at that: the brow was quickly in place for their disembarkation before the sailors had even begun snugging down to a good harbour furl.

Something about one of them, however, caught his attention: unconscious cues in the way she walked, the movement of her hands, which he knew so well ...

"Nicholas—I'd swear ... It must be!" He jumped to his feet. "I'm goin' down. It's Cecilia!"

A narrow inclined pathway zigzagged to the water and Kydd hurtled down it, then finally emerged on to the busy wharf.

"Cecilia, ahoy!" he shouted, waving furiously, but an open-topped carriage drove away just as he came close.

He stared after it foolishly but a woman's voice behind him squealed, "Thomas! Is that you?" He turned to see his sister flying towards him. "My darling brother!" she said happily, embracing him. When she released him, her eyes were glistening.

"Cec—what are y' doing here?"

"We're to establish in Minorca, Thomas. Lord Stanhope is to treat with the Austrians to—But why are you here?"

Kydd pointed across the harbour to where the ugly bulk of Tenacious's hull lay on its side. "This is now th' home of the Royal Navy in the Mediterranean, Cec, and Tenacious is bein' repaired."

A disgruntled wharfinger touched his hat with one finger. "Where'm they ter take yer baggage, then, miss?"

"Thomas—I have to go. Where can I see you again?"

"An' it's a shillun an hour ter wait for yez." The arms were folded truculently.

"Here, sis." Kydd pulled out one of his new-printed calling cards. "Tonight it's t' be a rout f'r all hands—an' you're invited."

The evening promised to be a roaring success—other than Renzi, no officer had met Kydd's sister and all were bowled over. He had to admit it, Cecilia was flowering into a real beauty, her strong character now veiled beneath a sophistication learned from attending many social events in her position as companion to Lady Stanhope. But what really got the occasion off to a splendid start was the discovery that Cecilia had been in London when the news of the great battle of the Nile had broken. "Oh, you cannot possibly conceive the noise, the joy! All of London in the streets, dancing, shouting, fireworks—you couldn't think with all the din!

"There were rumours for weeks before, it's true, but you must know we were all in a horrid funk about the French! All we heard was that Admiral Nelson had missed the French fleet and it was taking that dreadful General Buonaparte to land an army on us somewhere—you cannot imagine what a panic!

"Then Captain Capel arrived at the Admiralty with dispatches and the town went mad. Every house in masses of illuminations, bells ringing, cannon going off, Lady Spencer capering in Admiralty House, the volunteers drilling in Horseguards firing off their muskets—I can't tell you how exciting it was."

Under the soft touch of the candlelight her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes hushed the room and had many an officer looking thoughtful.

"Lord Stanhope would not be denied and we left England immediately for Gibraltar, for he had instructions to establish in the Mediterranean as soon as it was practical. It wasn't long before we heard that Minorca was taken—and so here we are!"

"And right welcome y' are, Cec—ain't that so, Nicholas?"

His friend sat back, but his eyes were fixed on Cecilia's as he murmured an elegant politeness. She smiled sweetly and continued gaily, "Thomas, really, it was quite incredible—in every village we passed they had an ox roast and such quantities of people supping ale and dancing on the green. In the towns they had special illuminations like a big 'HN' or an anchor in lights and several times we were stopped until we'd sung 'Rule Britannia' twice!"

It was strangely moving to hear of the effect of their victory in his far-distant home country. "So, Jack Tar is well esteemed now, sis," Kydd said lightly.

Cecilia looked at him proudly. "You're our heroes now," she said. "Our heroes of the Nile! You're famous—all of you! They're rising and singing in your honour in all the theatres. There's poetry, ballads, broadsheets, prints—there's talk that Admiral Nelson will be made a duke and that every man will get a medal. There's been nothing like it this age, I swear."

Kydd hurried into their drawing room. "Nicholas! We've been noticed, m' friend. This card is fr'm the Lord Stanhope, expressin' his earnest desire t' hear of the famous victory at th' first hand—that's us, I believe—at afternoon tea at the Residency on Friday."

"So, if this is a species of invitation, dear chap, then it follows that it should contain details of our expected attire, the—"

"An' here's a note from Cecilia. She says Lady Stanhope will be much gratified should we attend in full dress uniform ..."

It was odd, on the appointed day, to leave their front door and simply by crossing the road and walking to the end of the street to be able to present themselves at the door of Lord Stanhope's discreet mansion, such was the consequence of the English propensity to stay together.

"Lieutenants Kydd and Renzi," Kydd told the footman. It seemed that the noble lord could afford English domestic staff— but then he remembered that Stanhope was in the diplomatic line and probably needed to ensure discretion in his affairs.

They entered a wide hallway where another servant took their cocked hats. Kydd was awed by the gold filigree on the furniture, the huge vases, the rich hangings—all spoke of an ease with wealth that seemed so natural to the high-born. He glanced at Renzi, who came of these orders, but saw that his friend had a withdrawn, preoccupied look.

They moved on down the passage. "My dear sea-heroes both!" Cecilia was in an ivory dress, in the new high-waisted fashion—which gave startling prominence to her bosom, Kydd saw with alarm.

They entered a drawing room and Kydd met, for the first time since very different circumstances in the Caribbean, the Lord Stanhope and his wife. He made a leg as elegantly as he could, aware of Renzi beside him.

"Dear Mr Kydd, how enchanting to meet you again." The last time Lady Stanhope had seen him was in the Caribbean—as a young seaman in charge of a ship's boat in a desperate bid to get vital intelligence to the British government. Seaflower cutter, in which the Stanhopes had been travelling, was beached ashore after a storm. Lord Stanhope, although injured, could not wait for rescue and Kydd had volunteered to take to sea in the tiny vessel.

"Your servant," Kydd said, with growing confidence, matching his bow to the occasion.

"And Mr Renzi. Pray do take some tea. Cecilia?"

The formalities complete, they sat down. Kydd manoeuvred his delicate porcelain cup manfully, privately reflecting on the tyranny of politeness that was obliging him to drink from a receptacle of such ridiculous size.

"Now, you must know we are beside ourselves with anticipation to hear of Nelson and his glorious triumph. Do please tell us—did you meet Sir Horatio himself?"

Suddenly shy, Kydd looked to Renzi, but his friend gave no sign of wishing to lead the conversation. He remained reserved and watchful.

"Aye, I did—twice! He spoke t' us of our duty and ..." It was easy to go from there to the storm, the long-drawn-out chase, the final sighting and the great battle itself. At that point he saw Cecilia's intense interest and felt awkward, but again Renzi seemed oddly introspective and offered no help. He therefore sketched the main events of the contest and concluded his account with the awesome sight that had met their eyes on the dawn, and their rapturous welcome at Naples.

"Well, I do declare! This will all be talked about for ages to come, there can be no doubt about it. Pray, where is Sir Horatio at the moment? Is he not with the fleet here?"

"No, y'r ladyship. He's still in Naples—y' understand, the King o' Naples has been uncommon kind t' us in the matter of fettlin' the ships an' entertaining us after our battle, and ..." he tailed off as he noticed Stanhope's eyes narrowing suspiciously "... he'll probably be with us directly."

He sipped his tea although it was now tepid. His admiral's disposition was no business of his and he could not understand Stanhope's disquiet. Now would be a good time for Renzi to contribute a sage comment on the strategic implications of their victory but, annoyingly, he sat still as a statue, staring into space with unfocused eyes.

"Er, I think it has somethin' to do with the admiral wanting t' rouse 'em up to face the French. An' with the Austrians our, er, friends t' help—not forgettin' that the Queen o' Naples is sister t' the emperor," he added weakly.

"The late emperor," Stanhope corrected automatically, but his frown had deepened and Kydd felt out of his depth.

"Sir, if ye'd be s' kind, can we know how th' news has been received aroun' the world?"

"Certainly." Stanhope's face cleared. "Yet, first, I could not forgive myself were I not at this point to express my deepest satisfaction in your change of fortune. Your conduct in the Caribbean will never be forgotten by me and it must be to the country's great benefit that your resolution and professional skill has been so justly recognised."

Cecilia clasped her hands in smothered glee and Kydd flushed.

"I do also remember your particular friend." He directed a meaningful look at Renzi, whose attention seemed to snap back to the present.

"Indeed, sir." Renzi's distracted look was replaced by urbanity. "I have the liveliest remembrance myself of past days, not all of which have been tranquil." Relieved, Kydd let Renzi continue. "It would seem, however, that we have been attended by a very welcome measure of success that should be a caution to all."

Stanhope smiled grimly. "There are nations who have sought to find common cause with the French. Now they are obliged to gaze upon their great Buonaparte stranded helpless."

"A prime spectacle!" chuckled Kydd. "Do ye think he'll last long?"

"He may flounder about, win a battle or two against the indolent Turks who inhabit that part of the world, but the great sand deserts that ring him about will end his ambitions before long, you can be sure."

Kydd turned to Renzi but his look of distraction had returned. It was not in character and Kydd felt unease, which deepened when Renzi did not appear to have noticed that the talking had stopped.

Cecilia leaned across. "Nicholas, is anything wrong? You're as quiet as a mouse."

Renzi looked at her unhappily. "Er, today I received a letter." He swallowed. "From my mother ..."

CHAPTER 10

RENZI STARED INTO THE FIRE as it crackled and spat, sending sparks spiralling up the inn's chimney. Winter in England was a sad trial after the Mediterranean; he snuggled deeper into his coat and sipped his toddy. His mother's letter, pleading that for her sake he return, had come as a shock. His father was in such a towering rage at his continued absence that he was now making her life unbearable.

In Halifax Renzi had received a letter from his brother Richard, advising him that his brother Henry was trying to have Renzi declared dead so that he could assume the place of eldest son. This had been easily dealt with: Renzi had immediately sent a letter to his father calmly setting out the reasons why he had chosen his term of exile and informing him of his elevation to the quarterdeck as a king's officer.

His father's contemptuous reply had dismissed any justification of conduct based on moral grounds and had demanded he return instantly to answer for his absence. Renzi had decided to face him when Tenacious returned to England but his mother's letter had forced the issue.

With the Mediterranean quiet and his ship in the dockyard for some time, there had been no difficulty in securing leave and he had taken passage in a dispatch cutter to Falmouth, then a coach to Exeter and the bleak overland trip to Wiltshire. He was staying overnight in the local inn and had sent ahead for a carriage, knowing that this would serve as warning of his arrival. Tomorrow he would return to Eskdale Hall, the seat of the Laughton family and the Earl of Farndon since King Henry's day.

It had been nearly seven years, and Renzi had changed. Gone was the careless, unthinking man who had dissipated so much of his youth and means on his Grand Tour. And he was no longer the naive young fellow who had been so shocked by what he had encountered on his return that he had taken the moral course of self-exile for a term of five years. His time on the lower deck of a man-o'-war had shaped him, hardened him. Now he looked at life with a detached, far-seeing regard. There would have to be a reckoning, however, for as eldest son his situation was circumscribed by custom and law. He felt the chill of foreboding.

The long night ended with a cold dawn, and after a frugal breakfast Renzi waited on the benches outside, trying to let the sights and smells of the country enter his soul once more, but the bleakness and mud were depressing.

Eventually the carriage came into view, its gleaming black sides spattered with winter grime. The coachman and footman wore careful, blank faces but the noble family crest on the door seemed accusing. Renzi settled into the cushions—despite everything he could feel himself assuming only too easily the mantle of the high-born, with its habits of hauteur and expectations of deference.

They reached the local village of Noakes Poyle where many of the estate labourers lived. As they clattered through the cramped high street, he caught sight of old shops, the busy market; besmocked agricultural workers respectfully touched their forelocks. All conspired to peel away the years and thrust him back to what he had been.

Out into the country again they turned into a road with an elegant gold-filigreed iron gate. Old Lawrie emerged from the gatehouse, grinning like a boy. "Oi see thee well, Master Nicholas, sir?" he asked. It was the first cheeriness Renzi had experienced since he arrived.

The carriage pulled grittily up the drive, which, flanked by trees, led to the splendour of Eskdale Hall. He could see figures assembling on the front lawn: the servants turning out to mark his homecoming. He forced a composure.

The carriage began its final wide curve towards the house and Renzi found himself searching for familiar faces, friendly looks, then saw his parents standing together at the top of the steps. The carriage swept past the servants and came to a halt. The footman got down and swung out the step. Renzi descended. Amid a deathly hush he went up to greet his mother and father.

His mother was set and pale, her hands clasped in front of her; the ninth Earl of Farndon's granite expression showed no emotion.

"Father," Renzi said formally, extending his hand. It was coldly ignored. Renzi felt the old anger and frustration build but clamped a fierce hold on himself. He bowed politely, then turned to his mother, who stood rigid, staring at him as if he were a ghost. Then he noticed the glitter of tears and went to her, holding her, feeling her fierce embrace, and hearing just one tearing sob before she pulled away and resumed her position next to his father.

For a long moment there was silence, then his father turned on his heel and went inside. His mother reached out and took his hands. "Go to him, Nicholas," she said, her face a mask.

Renzi followed his father into the dark wood-panelled main study. "Close the door, boy," the earl snapped, and took his seat behind the desk more usually employed for dealing with tenants behind in their rent. Renzi was very aware of how little provocation might set tempers ablaze.

His father barked, "An explanation, if you please, sir." Renzi took a deep breath. "I find I have nothing to add that I have not set out in my letter, Father."

"Don't feed me that flim-flam about moral duty again," his father roared, his face red, eyes glinting dangerously. "I want to hear why you've seen fit to disappear for years, absenting yourself from your rightful place of duty to—" "Sir, I've as lively a sense of duty as any—" "Sir, you're a damned poltroon if you think there's an answer in running away—"

Renzi felt his self-control slip. He had taken to logic and rationality as a means of establishing ascendancy over his own passions and it had served him well—but now he could feel building within him the selfsame passionate anger at his father's obstinacy that had prompted him to leave. "Father, I made my decision by my own lights. Whether right or wrong it was done and cannot now be undone." He forced himself to appear calm. "It were in both our interests to recognise this and address the future instead."

They locked eyes. Then, unexpectedly, his father grunted and said, "Very well. We'll talk more on your future here later."

Renzi got to his feet, but the earl did not. "Go and make your peace with your mother, Nicholas," he said bleakly.

She was waiting in the Blue Room. "Shall we meet the rest of the family, Nicholas?" she said brightly. "They are so looking forward to seeing you." They were assembled in the drawing room, and Renzi was gratified to see Richard, whom he had last seen in very different circumstances in Jamaica where Richard owned a sugar plantation—they exchanged a brotherly grin. Fourteen-year-old Edward had no doubt about a welcome and little Beatrice shyly dropped him a curtsy. A warning glance from his mother prepared him for his next younger brother. "Henry, are you keeping well?"

"Tolerably, tolerably," was all the answer Renzi knew he was going to get from that sullen young man, and he turned back to the others.

"Nicholas, old fellow, we've missed you," Richard said breezily. "Why don't we take a turn round the estate before we dine and see what's changed? You don't mind, Mama?"

As soon as they were out of earshot Richard dropped the jolliness and looked at Renzi keenly. "I hope you don't believe I broke confidences when I told Mother you were safe and well, and had taken to seafaring? She did so grieve after you, Nicholas."

"No, Richard, it was kind in you. I should have considered her more."

"Father was in such a fury when you left—he swore he would whip the hide from you when you returned. Then when you did not, he went into himself, if you understand me. Mama dared not tell him of—of where you were. The shame would have been too much."

Renzi said nothing: his time before the mast had been hard and the experience was burned in his memory, but it was also the first time he had felt truly a man. He had won his place in this world by his own courage, skill and fortitude—and the depth of friendships forged in the teeth of gales and at the cannon's mouth. It was wildly at odds with life ashore and he had lived life to the full. He would never forget it.

As they talked they passed so many things of his childhood remembrance: the high-walled garden, the winding path to the woodland park, the pond where once he had ducked Henry for impudence. So much of his life was rooted here.

Renzi supposed that he would dress for dinner: his luggage did not cover more than travel clothing. To his wry amusement the odd things he had left here did not fit his now strong, spare figure—his father would have to take him as he was.

The meal began stiffly: no one could ignore the glowering presence of his father at the head of the table, Renzi once more at his right hand. Fortunately, Richard sat opposite and took a wicked delight in teasing out amiable platitudes to the point of absurdity, much to their mother's bafflement and their father's fury, but it eased Renzi's feelings.

Henry sat further down, pale features set, eyes fixed balefully on his elder brother. "So, you conceived it a duty to go on a boat as a common sailor? Then praise be that you have regained your senses and are restored to us."

Renzi half smiled. "It's said that sea air is a sovereign remedy— is this why the King takes the waters at Weymouth? I have found it the most salubrious of all in the world."

Henry smiled thinly. "No doubt of it. Nicholas, do tip us some sea cant—I find excessively droll Jack Tar's way with words. So plain-speaking, as we might say."

"Boys!" Their mother reproved them in much the old way. "Remember where you are. I will not have bickering at the table."

Uncharacteristically, his father had made no contribution, although Renzi had felt his eyes on him. When the cloth was drawn and the brandy made its appearance, he spoke. "You others, get out! I want to speak to Nicholas." Meekly, they followed their mother from the room, leaving the earl and Renzi alone in the candlelight.

Renzi's father drew a candle to him and lit a cigar, puffing until it drew to his satisfaction. Renzi watched, not moving. His brandy remained untouched. "Help yourself, my son," his father rumbled, and pushed the humidor across the table.

"Thank you, sir, but I've lost the habit of late," Renzi said carefully. A cigar-smoking able seaman was such a bizarre concept that, despite the circumstances, he felt a smile tug at his lips.

"Suit yourself, then." He inspected the end of the cigar closely, then opened with the first salvo. "I mean to hear your intentions, sir. You've come to your senses at last and have returned— but I've heard no talk that you plan to take up your place here. You're the eldest and one day Eskdale Hall goes to you—but you've shown no interest in the estate management, tenant rolls, income. How do you expect to run the damned place without you know how?"

The blue cigar smoke spiralled up into the blackness while his father fixed him with a glare of unsettling intensity. "Sir, as a sea officer," Renzi began, "it is not acceptable that I leave the ship without so much as a by-your-leave. There are forms, customs of—"

"Humbug! You're no jack-me-hearty sailor—you're heir to an earldom of England, which you seem to have forgotten. I want you here—now! When is it to be?"

"I—I need time," Renzi said defensively, "to settle my affairs ..."

"You'll give me a date when you'll present yourself now, sir, not when you see fit."

"Father, I said I needed time. Impatience will add nothing to—"

"Then, dammit, get on with it!"

Their talk did not stop until past midnight.

Renzi knew that he was only delaying the inevitable. Of course he had been aware from childhood that, in the fullness of time, under the rules of primogeniture, he was destined to be an earl and the master of Eskdale Hall. It was natural, it was expected, and he had never devoted much thought to it.

His father had accepted his Grand Tour without a word— the sowing of wild oats was almost expected of him. Then, the swaying body in the barn and the burning shame of witnessing his father's summary dismissal of the broken family's claims had changed him.

His high-minded exile at sea, however, had had unforeseen results. Apart from the insights into human nature that the fo'c'sle of a man-o'-war had provided, he had found that much of his book-learning had come to life: it had so much more meaning in the context of the sea and exotic shores. How easily could he turn his back on it?

On the staircase, candle in hand, he knew there had to be a resolution. He blew out the candle, turned and tiptoed down again until he came to a small window. The catch was still the same, the window stiffly protesting, but then his childhood escape route was open to him. It was the work of moments to swing out into the night and down the matted ivy to the flower-bed.

A cold winter's moon rode high and serene, bathing the slumbering countryside in brightness. He strode forward, following the near invisible but well-remembered little path to the woodland, letting the air clear his head. He entered the woods; a curious owl gave a low hoot and he heard scurrying in the bracken, nocturnal animals surprised at finding him suddenly among them.

There was no avoiding the fact that his father wanted him installed at Eskdale Hall with no further waste of time—probably because he wished to devolve management of the estate on Renzi so that he could spend more of the Season in London, where he kept up the pretence of attendance at the House of Lords.

Nevertheless, whatever the reason, he must consider his retirement from the sea. But his heart rebelled: he had found himself on the ocean, much as his friend Kydd had done, albeit in a different way. He relished the paradoxical freedoms it gave: there could be no care for the morrow when his actions were preordained—he could not alter the course of the ship or wish it elsewhere, so his horizon must shrink to the compass of that snug little world. All else was in vain. Relieved of worldly fretting, his mind could expand and soar in a way that was impossible with the distractions of land. And now, with the intelligent and worldly company of a whole wardroom of officers, he could find an agreeable conversation at any time of the day or night.

And there was Thomas Kydd, a friend like no other, who had seen him through grave and wild situations in a voyage round the world. Now they must part. Kydd was growing confident and ambitious in his profession, and would no doubt go on to achieve wondrous things, while he ... His father was in robust good health and might haunt him for many more years to come. Renzi would be confined to the endless social round of the country where a major excitement was the arraigning of a horse-thief.

It was galling—but there was no middle way. And it was becoming more than plain that perhaps his father was right: Renzi had used exile as a means to escape his situation. The realisation stopped him cold. Was he indeed running away? Did he not know his own mind?

Suddenly a shadow loomed dark against the moonlight and a blow thumped off his ribs as a heavy man brought him to the ground. Renzi twisted away and pulled himself upright. Seeing the silhouette of a raised cudgel, he drove inside it, cannoning into the man's stomach. The man staggered back, but when Renzi stepped into a patch of moonlight he stopped. "Is ut you, sir? Master Nicholas?"

Renzi took a breath to steady himself. "It is, Mr Varney. This will teach me not to creep about at night like a poacher. You did right, and I apologise if you were winded."

He came down early for breakfast; the years of watch-keeping at sea had made late rising distasteful to him, and he was surprised to see his father.

"Sleep well?"

Renzi thought he detected a sly undertone and answered neutrally, "As may be expected, Father."

"Attending the assizes today. Do you want to come? What's-his-name—jumped-up magistrate—won't do as he's told, need to learn him some manners. Do you good to take in a piece of the real world."

Renzi could not trust himself to say anything civil and remained silent.

"Come to any conclusions yet? I want to be able to say something in the House about the Rents Bill at the February sessions, if you take my meaning."

"Sir. I've been plain with you—this is not something I can arrange immediately. It takes—"

"And I've been plain with you, sir! My patience is wearing thin. Your boat will float without you on it, damn it all. All it takes is a date I can work to, for God's sake."

Renzi stood up, boiling. "I find I must take some exercise," he said thickly, then left the room, trembling. He stalked over the straw and mud of the stables forecourt, shouting for the groom.

Prince, the fine black gelding, was still in his stall and, miraculously, remembered him. The horse nuzzled his hand with a now grey-fringed muzzle. Renzi's eyes smarted as he swung into the saddle, clopped noisily out of the yard, then broke into a gallop on the long stretch of grass to the front gate. He pulled up, panting, and wheeled about to take the long way round the boundary of the estate.

A coppice worker going to the woods looked up in astonishment. Mrs Rattray, fat and buxom, stood at her cottage door and waved shyly. Further along chickens scattered with loud squawks ahead of him; nearby lived the simple woodcutter Jarge who had been told time and again to keep them cooped ... Renzi felt a lump forming in his throat. His canter dropped to a walk and his eyes took in the land—his land, his tenants, his people, if he wanted them.

Powerfully, startling him with its intensity, came the sudden knowledge that at that moment he did not: he was not yet ready to leave the sea life in all its terror and beauty for this, however comfortable and secure. He could not!

He whipped Prince to a gallop and screamed defiance into the wind. Then he became aware of the thud of hoofs out of rhythm behind him. He snatched a backward glance and saw his father low on his horse's neck, striping his mount mercilessly. Renzi swerved aside and headed for a gnarled oak tree standing stark and alone in the middle of the field.

They dismounted without a word, the earl tight-lipped and dangerous. "Boy, I will not tolerate your peevish ways. You'll put your sailor days behind you and take hold of your responsibilities now, damn you, or I'll know the reason why."

Renzi took a deep, shuddering breath. He felt a light-headed exhilaration, a species of liberation. No longer was he going to be in thrall to the red-faced tyrant before him. He was different from the man he had once been and had seen far more of life than most. "Sir, you must allow that—"

"Be damned to your arrogant posturing!"

Renzi was pale and determined. He said nothing. This seemed to goad his father, who roared, "Unless you see fit to return and find it in yourself to act as my son and heir, I know someone who will!"

So it had come to that. Renzi was tempted to dare him to do his worst, but knew that, once said, his father would never take back his words. "I have told you that I cannot abandon my post—"

"Damn your blood, sir! I will not take this—" but Renzi had turned on his heel and led his horse away.

"Where are you going to? Come back this instant, or I—I'll—" His words were lost in a splutter as Renzi walked away. "I'll disinherit! Never fear, sir, I'll do it!" The choking rage was fearsome but it settled the matter as far as Renzi was concerned. Now the only way back was to grovel and beg, and that he would never do. He walked on.

The voice bellowed after him: "Three months! Three months— and if you're not returned I will go to law and have the title reverted. I can do it, do ye hear? And I will do it, God rot your bones!"