Betrayal

oilskins, he was soaked and chilled when he finally stepped into the commodore’s cabin.

Popham regarded him without enthusiasm, saying testily, ‘Kydd, do contrive to drip somewhere else, won’t you?’

‘My apologies, sir,’ he said, handing his cocked hat to a servant. ‘I do have news that I’m sanguine will interest you.’

‘Oh?’ Popham said coldly.

Kydd outlined his voyage succinctly, ending with his chase and capture of Marie Galante and her later loss by stranding.

‘Can’t be helped, I suppose,’ Popham said, with feeling. It was well known that in his career at sea he had never been lucky in prize money. ‘Butcher’s bill?’

‘We lost a master’s mate, with two wounded in the boarding, and one killed and three hurt in the boats by musketry, sir. The French suffered eight dead and eleven wounded, including their captain, who bled to death after his deed.’

‘Hmm. A small price for us, I’m bound to say. You have prisoners?’

‘I have all the officers and skilled hands in L’Aurore, and I beg you will give instructions that will see a transport call at Quelimane, where I landed the common matelots for want of accommodation.’

‘The next India-bound supply vessel will answer, I should think. Now, I don’t suppose this corvette was with Marechal at all?’ Popham asked hopefully.

Kydd savoured the moment. ‘No, sir, most definitely not.’

‘Oh? You’ve questioned the officers, of course?’

‘I did, but the intelligence I have for you came from quite another source.’

‘Yes? What is that, pray?’

There was an impatient edge to his tone so Kydd went on quickly: ‘I arranged for a Channel Islander to be in the guard over the prisoners. He overheard ’em say something that’ll surely gratify. It seemed they were bemoaning the fate that sees them in chains in Cape Town while Marechal and his squadron must be halfway home to Rochefort by now . . .’

‘Ah! So! Excellent news! This could mean-’

‘Their charts have no workings on it to suggest a fleet operation, their logs make no mention of a rendezvous and their last port o’ call was Reunion. Confronted with it, their first lieutenant admitted it was so, that they were merely out on a cruise of depredation against our commerce.’

‘Capital! Then we may take it that Marechal has abandoned his venture and is returning. The last squadron of threat to Cape Town is gone. This is splendid news, Captain, splendid.’

He seemed to brighten by the minute. ‘My dear fellow, I’m forgetting my manners. May I offer you a restorative negus perhaps?’

The prospect of a piping hot toddy was compelling and Kydd accepted gratefully. He could understand the relief Popham must be feeling. Rather than the negative news from his scouting frigates that the French were not to be found in this area or that, here was a positive indication that the menace was now safely on its way out of Cape waters.

‘I really feel this news is worthy of celebration! You’ll stay and sup with me, Kydd?’

It was an odd dinner for, with the blow from the South Atlantic kicking up respectable-sized rollers, there was no possibility of boats coming out from the shore. The company was restricted to themselves, with Diadem’s first lieutenant, Davis, and a bemused passenger, one Scholes, doctor of theology, whose store of amusing anecdotes petered out in the strongly masculine naval company.

‘Sir, do tell of your cutting out o’ this Frenchy corvette. I’ll wager it’s to be my dinner-table yarn for years t’ come,’ Davis said, his voice tinged in equal measure with admiration and envy.

While the darkness of evening fell outside and the bluster of the north-westerly rattled the old-fashioned stern-windows of the sixty-four, Kydd told of the adventure, a modest, straight account with full acknowledgement to those who had contributed.

‘A capital operation indeed,’ Popham declared, ‘in the best traditions and so forth. I for one am honoured to drink your health, sir.’

Glowing, Kydd accepted the compliment and nodded graciously when Scholes observed, ‘I, too, must add my measure of amazement at your remarkable courage. To go forward on your enterprise in the stark knowledge of Africa’s perils and hazards . . .’

Kydd flinched at the memory of the sinking island and that night in the African bush, but Popham was in no doubt. ‘Ah, yes, Doctor, but for the greater prize our good captain is never to be dismayed by the wonders of nature. Is that not so, Kydd?’

The talk fell away and the dinner ended quietly. Davis made his excuses and left, and Scholes found it necessary to retire to attend to his work, leaving them alone to do justice to the fine cognac.

‘I do believe this to be our first chance to take our ease together, Kydd,’ Popham said, after they had settled in the armchairs by the stern-lights.

‘Sir.’

‘You’ve done well for yourself since we first met, I see.’

‘Er, yes, sir.’

‘Mere commander of a brig-sloop to post-captain of a frigate – come, come, that’s no mean achievement. Could it in any wise be connected with your stout action off Ushant?’

‘Um, I think more that Lord Nelson was in sore need of frigates,’ Kydd said uncomfortably. That Nelson himself had called for him when a captured frigate had become available was something he’d clutch to his heart for ever, but now did not seem the right time to mention it.

Popham chuckled. ‘You’re too damn modest for your own good, you know that, Kydd? You’ll never get ahead without you make a commotion about it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Leaning forward to top up Kydd’s glass, Popham then sat back and looked at him quizzically. ‘Do loosen, old chap – I may be commodore for the nonce but this, of course, is but a temporary post while subduing Cape Town. I’ll be reverting back once their lordships deem our task is done and then I’ll be the same as you – post-captain, even if the senior.’

It was singular, but it was true. They were of equal substantive rank and, in terms of shore protocol at least, would then be accorded an equal deference.

‘Do you remember – not so long ago – that little affair with the American Fulton and his submersible? We worked together on it . . .’

‘And you frowned on his submarine boat,’ Kydd said.

‘I was right, was I not?’

‘It has to be said.’

‘Should you want to know what happened to the fellow?’ Popham said idly, twirling his glass.

‘His torpedoes?’

‘Yes. We made some gestures towards Boulogne but with paltry result. Boney himself had the hide to say we were breaking the windows of the good citizens of Boulogne with guineas! Then we made a heroic effort and put on a show for Pitt and the Admiralty off Deal. Tethered an innocent little brig – what was her name? Dorothea, that’s it – and sent in the torpedoes.’

He guffawed at the recollection. ‘You should have seen the looks on their faces, Kydd. Not a jot of warning and the brig’s exploded to fragments! St Vincent turned quite grey and Pitt felt ill. A terrific demonstration!’

‘So . . .’

‘So nothing! Just a fortnight later, you and Our Nel clear the seas of the French fleet, so what’s the use o’ these toys when there’s no more invasion to be feared? They paid him off and sent him packing back to the United States.’

‘Pity – a strange cove, but I liked him,’ Kydd said.

‘Well, we’ll hear no more of his plunging boats, I believe. We’ve a war to fight and only the finest seamanship and gunnery will win that . . .’

‘You were at Trafalgar, then?’ Popham asked, somewhat defensively.