Julian Stockwin - The Iberian Flame - Thomas Kydd 20

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.

Chapter 5

The London Inn at Ivybridge was more than a common posting house. As a horse-changing stage on the highway to London, it was a centre for rumours and gossip, a place for the sighting of important people on the way to and from the capital. It was also where the mail coach made its call.

Kydd had got into the habit of taking a ride there with Persephone, a very pleasant forty minutes, in time to see the London stage jingle and crash into the cobbled courtyard with the day’s newspapers aboard. While she visited the shops, he could take in the stories of the hour in the taphouse over a fine west-country ale, considerately leaving his paper for others to read in the gleaming brass and sawdust warmth.

On this day he saw that, with the Baltic now a highway for British trade, Boney in Europe was the subject of speculation again. At one end of the continent he would have little opportunity to press on to new lands as his conquests lapped up against his ally Russia. At the other end, as he was now occupying Portugal, he’d reached the far extent of the land world. The Times leader asked what the ruthless Emperor would do next, disbelieving that he’d be satisfied with what he had.

Kydd wondered too. Tyger ’s addition to Collingwood’s fleet had to be a measure of the anxiety this was causing.

Further into the paper there was the court circular, then a tedious dissection of what had passed in the House during the week and, at the back, columns of commercial intelligence.

He sighed and turned to hear the local moorland news. As lord of the manor, if only as a figurehead, he was expected to keep up with the concerns and vexations of his tenantry but, in truth, he didn’t know if congratulation or consolation was due to the farmer whose ewe had brought forth a lamb with two heads.

‘Good morning t’ ye, Cap’n,’ a breezy voice broke in. It was the corn factor, whose quaint Elizabethan mill downstream still creaked on in the middle of the village.

‘Good day to you, Mr Glanville,’ Kydd replied genially.

‘Exeter stage be in.’

Kydd nodded. He’d heard it arrive.

‘Wi’ strangers,’ Glanville added, with relish.

‘Oh?’

‘Good ’uns an’ all,’ he went on, in his soft Devon burr. ‘One on ’em says they’s all from Sweden, b’ glory!’

Kydd emptied his glass, his interest aroused. He had a certain regard for these Scandinavians after coming to know Jens Strömsson, the Swedish captain who’d escaped from Sveaborg with him. What they were doing in this part of the world was baffling when their country was in such agitation, but he felt they’d be appreciative to hear a few words from someone who’d been so recently in that far place and he’d picked up a little Swedish.

He strode out to the courtyard. It was easy to find them: four individuals, in outlandish dress in a tight group away from the others, stretching their legs and talking in low mumbles.

Going up to them, he smiled and hailed, ‘ Hej, hur mår du ?’

They stiffened.

‘I not understand your words,’ one replied, in a strangely stilted French, edging slightly in front of the others.

Kydd bowed. ‘I’m sorry if my Swedish is so execrable.’

Persephone appeared at his side, elegant and commanding in smart riding attire. ‘Darling, who are these people?’

‘Oh, they’re Swedish gentlemen,’ he replied to her, in French for the sake of the group, ‘from the Exeter stage, whose acquaintance I’m desirous of making to let them know something of their motherland as I’m so recently returned.’

There was a tension about the group, all unspeaking, watchful and still.

In English she murmured, ‘They don’t look much like Swedes.’

Kydd remembered she’d made a visit there on a painting expedition the previous year. It was true: the restrained cut of the Nordic dress was not much in evidence – if anything, these men gave the impression of wearing a more modish attire held in check. It was odd.

‘ All aboooard ! Exeter stage, all aboard !’ The driver, with his many-layered topcoat, puffed his way up into his seat and importantly accepted the whip passed to him, while ostlers held the horses and impatient passengers clambered in.

The four strangers quickly followed but, damn it, there was something that …

He had it! Kydd snapped to attention and roared, ‘ Vive l’empereur !’

Inside, faces turned his way and a muffled shout responded instinctively.

‘They’re French officers on the run!’ Kydd blurted, to a startled Persephone, and rushed forward. ‘Stop the coach! In the name of the King, stop, I say!’

But the big four-wheeler was on its way with a sudden grinding and jingling, swaying out of the yard and up the road in a dusty cloud, a vigorous cracking of the whip a caution that the driver would not delay the Exeter stage simply for one forgetful passenger.

In dismay Kydd saw it disappear around the corner, then realised there was still a chance.

‘I’m going after them,’ he said. Even his workaday hired sorrel would be more than equal to the trotting stage-coach.

‘Thomas – there’s four of them,’ Persephone said urgently. ‘What do you do after you stop the coach?’

He grimaced. Four desperate, possibly armed men against just himself … but there was another way.

‘My horse! Saddle up this instant, d’ you hear?’ Kydd barked. He told Persephone, ‘I’m to ride to Buckfastleigh – there’s a militia barracks near there. I’ll go up on the moors, more direct, get there first and turn out the redcoats.’

‘Yes, dear,’ she said, adding, ‘and I’m coming with you.’

It was pointless to argue and in minutes they had taken the winding road up to the Western Beacons, high above Ivybridge, where the windswept moor lay before them, bare and mysterious.

‘Go!’ cried Kydd, exultantly, and spurred his mount forward. It thrust out, the endless landscape of tussocks and folds under a vast open sky seeming to galvanise the beast into a willing gallop, thundering over the featureless heath.

He snatched a glance at Persephone to his left. She was low over Bo’sun’s mane, perfectly attuned to his fluid motion, her eyes shining, her chestnut hair free. Catching his mood, she laughed in delight as they spurred on together in a synchrony of purpose.

It quickly became evident that Kydd was out-classed. Bo’sun was a thoroughbred and Persephone was natural-born to the saddle. She gave her horse his head, and despite Kydd’s best efforts, she quickly pulled ahead. He yelled at her to wait for him but all he got was a delighted cry and a wave as she sped out in the lead and was soon lost to sight.

As Kydd clattered down the stony path into the barracks he took in the sight of the South Hams Volunteers in martial array, with fixed bayonets penning the four Frenchmen. Persephone stood nearby, an impish smile on her face. She whispered, ‘I told the officer on parade that if he didn’t get his men to stop the coach Sir Thomas would have him keel-hauled!’