The Iberian Flame

Chapter 3

The evening was accounted a success from Marceau’s arrival and extravagant admiration of the oil painting in the hallway, portraying the sublimity of Iceland by an artist unknown to him, to the exquisite manners he displayed at table when good Devon mutton made its appearance, accompanied by a sauce whose piquancy had him exclaiming.

Afterwards, when the cloth was drawn and a very acceptable La Rochefoucauld cognac was produced, the atmosphere warmed further. A dry smile followed Marceau’s complimenting Kydd’s taste in brandy, both leaving unsaid that no doubt it had been a prize of war from a British cruiser on blockade of the region’s big seaports of Rochefort and La Rochelle.

‘Do you hail from those parts, sir?’ Kydd asked, refilling his guest’s glass.

‘Ah, no. Far from the sea. In Auvergne, the Haute-Loire, which is possibly further from the sea than any other quarter of France. Far famed for its divine cheeses – the Saint-Nectaire is of a particular fragrance.’

‘Then, sir, would it be impertinent of me to enquire as to how you heard the sea a-calling?’

‘Like your nation, Sir Thomas, we French are a maritime race at heart. In my youth the sagas of the Pacific explorers stirred my soul – Surville, Jean-Francois de Galaup, whom you will more probably know as the Comte de Laperouse. These do still inspire. And yourself, pray?’

‘Oh, a small Surrey town, Guildford. And likewise, far from the sea’s siren call.’

‘And so …?’

‘Taken up as a common seaman and finding myself beguiled, sir.’

‘To reach this eminence? I confess to being lost in admiration at your achieving, sir.’

Kydd coloured. ‘A bitter thing it is that we must war against each other to find our true selves.’

‘As is my feeling too, sir,’ the Frenchman responded in a soft voice, lowering his eyes.

‘I – I do trust you are not overborne in your spirits, as we might say,’ Kydd said. ‘Your situation is not one deserving of a distinguished mariner, to pass his days on shore in idleness and despair.’

‘I bear my lot in patience, sir,’ Marceau said heavily. ‘Yet …’

‘Yes?’

‘Yet it bears upon my soul that I can do nothing for the men I had the honour to command, my ship’s company, who now lie miserably in prison for the monstrous crime of loyally following my orders.’

Kydd’s heart wrung with pity. This was an honourable captain, one who cared for his men yet could do nothing for them. He could hardly conceive of the pain it would cause him if he were in his place to know that, after a ferocious but losing battle, only a prison cell was the reward for each of Tyger’s company who had fought for him – Stirk, Doud, the cheery captain of the foretop, the sturdy afterguard, the long-service fo’c’slemen – all left to rot their lives away, like any wretched criminal.

‘If only it were in my power to reach to them, say words of solace, to manifest to them that I care of their fate, they are not forgotten by me …’

‘I understand you, M’sieur le capitaine,’ Kydd muttered. ‘If it were me …’ But there was no conceivable way that this could be made possible.

Marceau looked away suddenly, his face a mask of grief.

When he turned back his gaze was directly at Kydd. ‘Sir Thomas, you are a sea-captain like me. I have a small request that you have every right to refuse and I expect you will. Nevertheless, my humanity drives me on to ask it.’

‘Sir, do allow that we are not foes at this time. Ask it if you will.’

‘Then … can you find it in your heart to perform a small service that would nevertheless mean a great deal to me?’ He hesitated, his face rigid. ‘Sir, in your next visiting to Plymouth town it would infinitely oblige should you call upon such of my men as you can find and distribute to them a small basket of bonnes bouches with my tenderest regards for their condition. Sir Thomas, this gesture from one so lately a triumphant enemy would be deeply valued and respected by them.’

Kydd was touched. A simple thing, a commander contriving to let his company know that they were not forgotten in their endless enduring – and with Kydd to say the words there would be no rousing call to glory, no chance of inflaming passions. Why not?

‘I think it not impossible,’ Kydd said cautiously. ‘Bonnes bouches?’

‘Comestibles of the homeland not found in England – les macarons, la confiture …’

‘Where …?’

‘There is a small but close community of French officers in Tavistock. We seek amusement in our various ways, offering language classes, dancing instruction, the contriving of intricate objets de bizarrerie – your lady will recollect the lace pinafore. This is our Gaston Dominique, third of the Preussen, seeking a little recognition and grateful pelf.’ He gave an almost shy smile and finished, ‘And others do conjure culinary delights precious to the memory of la belle France. These only do I long to share with my matelots braves.’

Persephone touched his arm. ‘Darling, is it so much to ask? Those poor sailors locked up for ever, a little enough thing.’

‘Very well. I cannot promise when next I shall be in Plymouth but I will do as you ask – if permitted by the authorities, of course.’