Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Schroeder immediately stepped forward. "I can."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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