dressed in civilian clothes and unarmed, in accordance with convention when visiting a neutral country. In fact, he had been obliged to don his best rig, the dark green waistcoat and rust-coloured coat that Cecilia had taken such pains to find in Guildford. He held his light grey hat with its silver buckle safely on his knees.
As the low, wooded coast drew closer, Kydd saw the masts and yards of the French privateer beyond the point; it was clear that she was securing from sea. Further in, he made out a timber landing area, and around it a scatter of people.
The sprit-sail was brailed up and lowered, the oars shipped. 'Head f'r the jetty,' he growled.
Only one of the figures seemed to wear any semblance of a uniform but a number carried what appeared to be muskets. Kydd braced himself: he was going as a representative of his country and he would not be found wanting in the article of military bearing.
A couple of hundred yards from shore Rawson put the tiller over to make the final run in. Suddenly there was the unmistakable report of a flintlock and a gout of water kicked up sharply, dead in line with the bow.
'Wha'? God rot 'em, they're firing on a white flag!' Kydd spluttered. 'Keep y'r course, damn you!' he flung at the midshipman.
The people ashore gesticulated and shouted. One levelled his gun in Kydd's direction. 'S-sir, should we — ' hissed Rawson.
'Take charge o' y'r boat's crew,' Kydd replied savagely. Ashore the weapon still tracked Kydd and then it spoke. The bullet spouted water by the stroke oar, followed by a wooden thump as it struck the boat below where Kydd sat.
'Sir?'
'Keep on, damn y'r blood!' snapped Kydd. Even these ignorant backwoodsmen would know they'd be in deep trouble with their government if they caused loss of life by firing on a flag of truce.
More long guns came on target. There was a flurry of shouting, then the weapons were lowered slowly. Grim- faced, Kydd saw the waiting figures resolve to individuals.
'Garn back, y' English pigs!' yelled one, brandishing a rifle. Others took up the cry. Kydd told Rawson to hold steady and lay alongside. The shouting died down, but a dozen or more people crowded on to the jetty.
'Oars—toss oars,' Kydd told the midshipman.
The crowd grew more menacing, one man threatening them with a pitch-fork. The boat drifted to a stop. 'Bowman, take a turn o' the painter,' Kydd ordered. The boat nudged the timbers of the landing-stage; hostile figures shuffled to the edge.
Kydd stood up in the boat. 'I ask ye to let me land—if y' please.' Nobody moved. 'Then am I t' take it you're going to prevent by force the landing on the soil of the United States of America of a citizen of a nation, er, that you're not at war with?' It sounded legal, all but the last bit.
'We don' want yore kind here. Git back to yer ship or I'll give yez a charge o' lead up yer backside as will serve as y'r keepsake of Ameriky.'
'Get his rope, Jeb —we'll give 'em a ducking.' Hands grabbed at the painter, rocking the boat.
'Hold!' The crowd fell back to where a well-dressed man waited on horseback. He dismounted and walked to the jetty edge; malice hung about him. 'Can you not see you're unwelcome, sir?' he called evenly to Kydd.
'Am I so fearsome the whole town turns out t' oppose me?'
'You're an Englishman—that's enough for these good folk. And Navy too. There's many here who have suffered their ships taken as prize, youngsters snatched away by the press— they have reasons a-plenty, sir.' There were cries of agreement. 'Therefore I'd advise you to return whence you came.' He folded his arms.
Kydd lowered his head as though in resignation, but his eyes were busy measuring, gauging. He placed a foot on the gunwale, leaped across the gap of water, heaved himself over the edge of the jetty and ended up next to the man. 'I thank ye for your advice, sir, but as you can see, here I am, landed.' He dusted himself off. 'L'tenant Kydd, at your service, sir.'
The man's reply was cold. 'Schroeder. Christopher.' He did not hold out his hand.
Kydd bowed, and looked around at the crowd. 'I thank ye most kindly for my welcome, and hope m' stay will be as pleasant.' When it was clear there would be no interchange, he leaned over and ordered his crew to throw him up his single piece of baggage. 'Proceed in accordance with y'r previous orders, Mr Rawson,' he added, and the boat stroked away to sea.
He was now in the United States, and very much alone.
Kydd set off down the path into the village, which he knew by the chart was the tiny seaport of Exbury in the state of Connecticut. It was a pretty township, barely more than a village with square, no-nonsense wooden houses and neatly trimmed gardens—and, to Kydd's English eyes, unnaturally straight roads with their raised wooden sidewalks. It also had a distinct sea flavour: the resinous smell of a spar-maker, the muffled clang of a ship-smithy and what looked like a well-stocked chandlery further down the street.
Women carrying baskets stopped to stare at him. The men muttered together in sullen groups. 'Can you let me know where I c'n get lodgings?' he asked one, who turned his back. When he located the general store to ask, its keeper snapped, 'We'm closed!' and slammed the door.
Kydd sat down heavily on a bench beneath a maple tree. It was a near to hopeless mission, but he was not about to give up. He had no idea what had turned the town against him, but he needed lodgings.
A gang of rowdy youngsters started chanting:
Kydd missed the significance of the revolutionary song and, nettled by his politeness, the youths threw stones
