Betrayal

favor, Senor . . .’ He recharged his brush and continued on the landscape.

Kydd went back to his easel and began another view. This time it was with a calm grey-blue wash, like the one he had just seen, and he wanted to make a good job of it. Perhaps he would send it home to his mother.

Stretching, he looked across at Renzi, who had gone to one of the girls and was leaning over her in conversation. He was by no means as accomplished as Kydd, proficient but with a light style that lacked individuality. Should he go over and set them both straight on the finer points?

He got up, but when he looked again he was astonished to see the girl blush deeply, glance around and then go with Renzi out of sight over the edge of the broad top of the mountain.

Renzi? Near betrothed to his sister? Scandalised, he considered whether to follow but realised that whatever he did would be misunderstood so he waited awkwardly at the girl’s easel, ignoring flashed glances from the others. After an age the two appeared again. When the girl saw Kydd, her eyes widened and her hand flew guiltily to her mouth.

‘Um, er – this is Miss Felicity,’ Renzi said awkwardly. ‘Captain Kydd of L’Aurore, my dear.’

At a loss, Kydd merely bowed and looked at Renzi.

‘Oh, er, Miss Felicity wishes my opinion of her veduta. What is your taking, at all?’

It was a fine, intricate and painstaking work. With not an ounce of life in it. However, Kydd mumbled something anodyne, then added in a significant tone, ‘And I would be obliged for your opinion on mine, Nicholas.’

At his easel Kydd turned on Renzi. ‘Sir, might I make so bold as to enquire-’

Renzi cut him off: ‘In a private way of things Miss Felicity was of some assistance to me,’ he said bitingly, ‘in the article of what a lady might see in a novel. In peril of her reputation she made free of her feelings in the matter. Shall we join the others?’

Popham laid down his pointer and looked at his captains apologetically. ‘So, that’s the situation this month, gentlemen. More of the same – the sixty-fours to remain here, the frigates to cruise occasionally. I’m sorry not to have more entertainment but, as you can see, the French have not been obliging in this.’

Byng of Belliqueux’s bass rumble came in: ‘It has to be said, though, that life on this station does have its compensations.’ He had reason to be satisfied: he had been comfortably in command of the ageing sixty-four for five years now and his wife had recently arrived to join him, as had Downman’s in Diadem. With the pretty wife of Leda’s Honyman, there was now a close social grouping of the married men with family.

‘Be that as it may, we have our duty. Which takes precedence over all else,’ Popham said coldly.

‘Well, I’m for a mort of play at the tables tonight. Frederick?’ There was an affable response to Byng’s query, and the captains made their way out, but something tugged at Kydd and he delayed.

Popham was collecting up his papers and Kydd saw the sagging shoulders, the slow movements, and felt a sudden stab of sympathy. He said impulsively, ‘Er, sir, there’s a French singer at my club, much cried up. Should you wish it, we could spend a pleasant enough evening there.’

The commodore looked up, his face lined and careworn, and broke into a soft smile. ‘Why, so thoughtful in you, Kydd. I shall take you up on the offer, I believe.’

He looked down, saying quietly, ‘And it’s “Dasher” to my friends, as I hope you’ll account me.’

The evening turned out as agreeable as promised and the two found themselves by the log fire, each with a fine brandy. Elsewhere the noisy conviviality continued but they sat in companionable silence, staring into the flames.

At last Popham spoke: ‘Pay no mind to me today, Kydd. I’m prey to the blue devils at times – I’m unhappily possessed of a mind that’s ceaselessly conjuring up quantities of stratagems and devices that have no hope ever of seeing light of day.’

‘It is a disappointment, no doubt, that Mrs Popham is not joining you,’ Kydd said gently. Presumably she would be the one to tame his restless spirit, if anyone could.

‘Elizabeth does not take kindly to foreign climes, and we have a clutch of daughters whose education would suffer if they were parted from their school.’ It was known that Popham had a wife and family, but they had never followed him and he was left, like so many other naval officers, neither bachelor nor married man. Some had taken the easy way out but he had always remained faithful.

Kydd shifted uncomfortably, aware he was talking to the one who had surveyed in the Red Sea, conceived of the Sea Fencibles, had devised the near-invisible catamaran torpedo launchers and a radical new signal system used by Nelson himself, originated the secret Miranda memorandum and was no less than a full fellow of the Royal Society. What possible diversions were to be found in Cape Colony for this fecund brain?

‘In my lower moments I feel driven to strike my flag and return to England, away from this exile.’ He took a deep pull of his brandy. ‘That would be the end of my sea service, of course, but . . .’

Aghast, Kydd tried to find something to say in brotherly sympathy but could think of nothing that did not sound weak.

‘And at other times I damn the eyes of the sluggards in London who couldn’t see a strategical opportunity if it bit them in the ankle. For two pins I’d sail against Montevideo with what I have, rather than wait for their interminable approval until it’s too late.’

Kydd caught a betraying flash of the eyes and, with a tightening of the stomach, realised what it meant. He was being sounded out: the commodore was up to something and needed to know where he stood.

A wash of apprehension was quickly replaced by a surge of understanding and loyalty. Popham was driven by his own need for action but it was in direct accord with his higher duty to his country and the more basic requirement they both shared to achieve something of distinction. Did he really mean it?

‘As well you might, Dasher,’ Kydd said warmly. ‘It would try the patience of a saint.’

He allowed some moments to pass then added casually, ‘And a move against the Dons in South America could well knock them out of the war, I’m persuaded.’

‘You are? It would discommode them to a degree, that much is certain. And the treasure there – I’d rather it were in English hands than Boney’s, don’t you think?’

The eyes were now steadily on Kydd and he returned the gaze confidently. Nothing had been said that was either the truth or what he truly felt.

‘I do. But then all this is to no purpose – there’s nothing can be done without there is approval from Whitehall.’

‘Um,’ Popham said, his gaze not wavering. ‘This must be so, but . . . purely out of curiosity, if I were to be so rash as to make a motion against South America, would you follow, old chap?’

So that was it. A strike against Montevideo!

His mind raced. The question, of course, was hypothetical: if Popham ordered it, Kydd must obey. What was really being asked was: would he join with a whole heart in the enterprise or hang back with carping objections, as some might do in the absence of formal orders from above? If Popham really contemplated the move he must tread very carefully indeed, for if it was later disallowed by the Admiralty then, from this point on, anything Kydd did that smacked of collusion was meat for a court-martial.

There was one overriding objection to any talk of a pre-emptive assault and Kydd knew it had to be brought up immediately: ‘Well, I have to say it, Dasher, it’s a bold enough stroke – but wouldn’t this leave you open to the charge of quitting your station without leave?’ It was axiomatic to faraway Admiralty planning that the strength and whereabouts of its assets around the world were reliably known in the grand chess game that was central to political strategy, and an admiral who was absent from his post was a dangerous liability.

Almost as soon as he had spoken, Kydd found an answer to his own question. ‘Then again, I’d have to confess before you that I followed Nelson when he left his Mediterranean station to chase Villeneuve across the Atlantic, and where would we all be if his courage to leave had failed him then?’

‘Just so,’ said Popham, imperceptibly relaxing. ‘Would that all my captains were of such stout heart.’

Kydd made play of fixing on the light of the fire through his brandy. ‘But then all this is idle talk. The Navy might desire it but the Army must achieve it. How would they be persuaded?’

‘This is true enough, but if you’d heard the talk after mess dinner in the castle enough times, as I have, you’d not be in doubt. They, poor wights, are in far worse case than we. At least we’ve the passing prospect of a privateer or cruiser to look forward to. They’ve nothing but idleness each and every day and pray for any kind of