The Iberian Flame

Chapter 4

It was even worse than Kydd had been prepared for. The high, blank walls and grim barrack blocks enclosed a vast dusty exercise ground where ragged prisoners ambled dully, endlessly, equally indifferent to the sky above and the dead earth beneath. Bored and blank-faced guards in tawdry red uniforms moved slowly among them, muskets shouldered. And lying over everything, the sickening reek of confinement.

At the gatehouse Kydd’s reasons had been met with raised eyebrows but brought no objection, his hamper of sweetmeats searched and allowed. It was not uncommon for do-gooders and others to come to gawp at the spectacle and some even to bring gifts.

He learned that the guards were functionaries of the Commissioners for Conducting His Majesty’s Transport Service and for the Care and Custody of Prisoners of War. They took no orders from the navy or other military, and Kydd guessed that any ‘pickings’ from sharp practice would be jealously defended.

They did, however, obligingly turn out the mess-hall so Kydd could address the French prisoners in question and he took position at the front of the fifty or so Preussens. A proud ship’s company they were no longer. Many of the men who faced him had a hangdog listlessness, others a snarling aggression, with clothing that ranged from a thin but cared-for remnant of uniform to the shabby dreariness of issued prison garb to tattered rags. But he’d heard that in defiance of the Revolution they still called their navy ‘La Royale’.

They gazed up at him with varying expressions: curiosity, hostility, emptiness. Some threw looks of undisguised contempt but, in the main, they seemed prepared to accept this interruption to their interminable day. Kydd thought he could pick out the ship’s characters – the hard-faced boatswain’s mate, the sagging whipcord muscles of a topman, the broad chest of a gunner, the far gaze of the deep-water seaman, now condemned to the sight of nothing but four grimed walls.

‘My name is Kydd,’ he began simply, his French not equal to the rich slang of their lower deck, as venerable as his own. ‘I’m a captain in His Majesty’s Navy.’ It brought puzzled looks, wariness.

‘And I’m here to bring greetings and notice from my friend.’ He had their reluctant attention now and went on quietly, ‘Yes, my friend, who is Capitaine de vaisseau Marceau.’

As it sank in, there were disbelieving gasps and a snort of derision from a heavily built individual to the left. ‘Ha! What merde do you cast at us, mon putain de capitaine anglais?’

Kydd winced but replied, ‘If he were not my friend, I should not be here. Your captain desires only to be remembered to you, to let you know that he cherishes your loyalty in times past and hopes that it will go some way to sustain you in these hard days.’

He let it hang then added, ‘And, as a captain myself, this is what I would feel for my own company. He’s a prisoner, too, so he’s unable to stand before you but in token of his regard he sends a gift, a basket of bonnes bouches in memory of France, to share between you all.’

The wary looks had now changed to stares of disbelief but the big man spat stubbornly. ‘How’s le patron going to get the stuff from Brittany at all?’

Kydd was being tested. ‘Capitaine Marceau comes from Auvergne, the Haute-Loire, as well you know. And he’s caused them to be made by those in captivity with him who do pine after the friandises of the homeland.’

He brought forward the hamper. ‘Who’s in charge?’

Eyes turned to the big man who, with an acknowledging grunt, stepped up, his large hands unconsciously curled into the characteristic ‘rope-hooky’ of a deep-sea sailor.

‘I give you this from your captain. It’s a small enough thing but comes with his sincere regard.’

In the astonished silence Kydd turned and left.

At the gatehouse the sergeant was cynical. ‘A fine thing ye does, Captain, but I’d not let ye think ye’ve changed anythin’ for ’em. Ye must know for gamblin’ they can’t be beat. Wagers off their clothes, t’baccy, even their next day’s rations. Them things won’t be ate, they’ll be stakes in somethin’ until they falls to bits. Nothing else for ’em to do, see.’

Kydd ignored his contemptuous smirk. He’d done for Marceau what he’d seen as right and honourable.

‘Oi, Sarge!’ A guard bustled in. ‘There’s a Frog outside wi’ something, as wants t’ see the captain.’

It was the big French prisoner, carrying a substantial object covered with a cloth. When Kydd emerged, his stony features softened and he carefully drew back the cloth to reveal a ship model, beautifully worked, rigged and fashioned in the tell-tale ivory of carefully-put-by beef bones. An exquisite production that must have taken untold hours to bring to perfection, it bore the pennant of La Royale pugnaciously to the fore.

‘Cap’n. I’d be much obliged should you present this’n to the capitaine with our humble duty and respects, as he did remember us.’

The man’s eyes pleaded and Kydd melted. ‘O’ course I shall, mon brave. From you – the very next time I see him.’

He threw a look at the sergeant as he left, but the man was staring glassily past his shoulder, refusing to take notice.

Kydd had seen it through. And with the Preussens together in Millbay there was thankfully no need to make visit out to the prison hulks and their burden of misery.

They were moored in a line well up the Hamoaze away from any settlement, kept to the centre of the river, leaving on either side a quarter-mile of swampy shore to trap even the most determined fugitive. Mostly captured French ships no longer fit for the open sea and reduced to bare lower masts, they were a bleak and heart-rending sight.

Shaking off his creeping depression Kydd returned to the land of the free, duty done.