Джулиан Стоквин - Persephone

An uneasy calm lay upon the world while Napoleon Bonaparte contemplated his next move.

‘I’m sanguine His Lordship will be grateful to lay his head down in peace at his estate,’ Dillon offered.

‘Still more his countess,’ Kydd added.

Lord Farndon, Kydd’s closest friend, and his wife, who also happened to be Kydd’s sister – had been rescued from the inferno of Copenhagen and carried to England in Tyger but he’d seen them leave with a pang of envy. There was no question in his mind that he, commander of the tautest frigate in His Majesty’s Navy, was blessed, but the intimacy of their happiness had stirred something in him that left him restless.

It was ludicrous, of course, for as one of the golden frigate captains of the age he had but to step ashore and graciously accept the adulation, lauded as a god of the sea. Yet …

A breathless midshipman appeared at the door, whipping off his round hat. ‘Sir, respects from Mr Maynard an’ the flagship’s mail boat is approaching.’

‘Thank you,’ Kydd acknowledged. ‘Carry on, please,’ he added, as the lad stood irresolute. The youngster blinked, then scurried off.

There had been no need to inform the captain but Kydd knew the reason for it. Any one of the twice-daily deliveries of mail distributed by the fleet post office could bear their orders from the Board of Admiralty, and every man aboard had an interest in what they contained – it could see them halfway across the globe, to the frigid monotony of the Nova Scotia station, the deadly paradise of the Caribbean or cruising athwart lucrative trade routes.

Kydd heard the muffled cry of the hail to the boat, then sensed the bumping of the vessel alongside.

The officer-of-the-watch himself brought down the much-awaited communication.

As soon as he took it Kydd knew by its thin, single-folded appearance, with no enclosures, that this was no stirring call to a far station. Although signed for, they were not sealed secret orders and almost certainly implied a workaday and unexciting assignment.

‘Shall I?’ Dillon rose to afford Kydd privacy. Maynard remained wordlessly at the door, waiting.

‘No, I shall attend to this later. We’ll finish the game.’

At their crestfallen looks Kydd relented and, with a grin, slit the letter open and read quickly. ‘Ah.’

‘Sir?’ The two voices spoke in unison.

‘Portsmouth for orders.’

It was odd that there was no mention of a flag – the Downs Squadron, Channel Fleet or other. It smacked of a temporary shift of some sort.

‘We’re under sailing orders. I’ll have the Blue Peter aloft if you please, Mr Maynard.’

Chapter 2

It was a hard beat into the teeth of an early winter westerly. They raised St Helens on a grey morning and, taking his pick of the empty Spithead anchorage, Kydd had his barge quickly in the water manned by a boat’s crew in yellow and black striped jerseys, Tyger ’s colours.

Vice-admiral Montagu had served as far back as the American war, and as an admiral under Howe in the early days of the French wars when Kydd had been a common seaman. He rose to greet Kydd in old-fashioned dress coat and silver stick. ‘So Boney’s in confusion after Copenhagen,’ he remarked amiably.

‘At cruel cost to the Danes,’ Kydd replied.

‘Yes, well, that’s all over. You’re under my command now. Refreshment?’

This was unusual, not to say puzzling. Rather than an interim holding, it appeared to be a formal placement under this admiral’s flag. A port admiral had few men-o’-war of his own and they only for immediate defence of the port, and while these included a pair of frigates, why the famed Tyger ?

‘Thank you, sir. Er, in the article of activity against the enemy, what might we expect here as it were?’

‘Sir Thomas, your zeal is a caution to us all. I see that you’ve not yet smoked why you’re here.’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then let me be open with you. Unless the Downs Squadron finds itself in a moil there are no actions anticipated in these waters.’

‘But—’

‘Your appointing is at the gracious behest of their lordships to afford you and your stout ship some belated respite from the rigours of your recent hard-fought encounters. I do advise that you take satisfaction and joy from this notice of their approbation, old chap. Oh, and you have my leave to sleep out of your ship, of course.’

Kydd saw through it. The Tory government was no doubt under pressure following the contentious Copenhagen expedition and found it convenient to flourish a public hero. It would blow over in time and then he’d be back at sea where he belonged. ‘I’m flattered at such attentions, sir. Perhaps I shall go up to London for a mending of the spirit.’ The sooner he did his duty in the way they wanted, the sooner he’d be back aboard.

‘Do so, old fellow, with my blessing. Oh – your ship is stored and watered still?’

‘Sir.’

‘Good. For there’s a little matter that needs attending to before you go to your rest. Bonaparte is much discomfited by our actions in Denmark and is now rattling his sabre, threatening he’ll march on Portugal. We’ve sent a squadron of some force to lie off Lisbon to show everyone which way the wind blows – it’s doubtful this will take more than a week or two and then you’ll be back. My contribution to the cause, as it were.’

This implied a special squadron, one created for a particular service and under direct Admiralty control rather than a station detachment and therefore, its object completed, his early return was assured.

‘Sail at once, sir?’

‘If you would. Just to put in an appearance, is all.’

Chapter 3

The five-hundred-foot heights of the Cabo da Roca firmed out of the morning mist: the extreme westernmost point of the continent and an unmissable sea-mark of centuries past for the port of Lisbon some few miles further on. And beyond – a British squadron of nine sail-of-the-line under easy canvas squarely across the mouth of the Tagus. The 120-gun Hibernia was an unmistakable bulk in the centre and she flew her colours at the mizzen top-gallant masthead signifying a rear-admiral. After acknowledging Tyger ’s salute the flagship hung out the squadron signal to heave to.

Kydd stepped aboard through Hibernia ’s ornamented side port. A slightly built, sensitive-featured and fastidiously dressed admiral waited to greet him.

Kydd recognised the gifted and bafflingly contrary Sir Sidney Smith immediately. He’d first encountered him commanding at the epic struggle at Acre, which had seen Smith pitted face to face against Napoleon Bonaparte himself in a land battle, the first and last English commander to do so. He had prevailed and Bonaparte, abandoning his army, had fled to France.

They’d met again at the inglorious action a year ago before Constantinople when his genius for irritating his superiors had nearly cost him his flag.

‘A warm action in the Baltic I’ve heard,’ he said distantly, offering his hand with practised hauteur. Kydd was aware that his own knighthood was impeccably English while Smith had not yet been so honoured, instead affecting an earlier Swedish award.

‘As would keep you tolerably entertained in my place, sir,’ Kydd replied evenly.

‘Yes. Well, I won’t pretend that your presence is anything but gratifying but there’s much you need to know before I can let you loose. Come – we haven’t much time.’

The admiral’s quarters were palatial and characteristically in Oriental style with hangings, framed sayings in Arab script and a rich carpet in place of the stern chequerboard deck and polished mahogany of the usual flag-officer cabin.