result, with such a bold stroke, in honour and distinction to those involved. In our quiet little station I would have thought the prospect of such would be enough to set the blood astir. Is there none of spirit here willing to take the Dons by the ears and at the same time earn notice before the world?’
‘Dammit, I’m for it,’ Byng burst out. ‘Better’n lying eternally at anchor all winter.’
‘And me,’ Kydd said forcefully. ‘I’d think it no less than our duty to annoy the enemy in any way we can contrive, and I’ve not heard a better.’
‘Hold hard, Mr Fire-eater Kydd!’ Donnelly said impatiently. ‘We’re not voting in some council-of-war, we’re giving our views, and what I need to hear is the position of their lordships in the matter, they giving the order and providing the expedition. It’s not for us to come up with some wild plan and expect them to fall in with it.’
‘Well, that’s easily answered,’ Popham said, a confident smile playing. ‘A year or two ago, after my investigation of the patriot Miranda and secret memorandum to the prime minister himself, plans were set in train to implement an assault on Montevideo, but then the Trafalgar campaign took precedence. Therefore this may be seen simply as the resumption of an existing expedition.’
‘A resumption?’ Donnelly said, exasperated. ‘Then why the devil are we confabulating about it at all? We follow orders as received.’
‘Ah, it’s not quite so simple. Our conquest of the Cape was rapid and complete, taking days only, and no doubt fresh orders for our deploying are being drafted as soon as they may. However, time and tide wait for no man and so forth, and so it is in our case. The whole River Plate is open while their forces are called away, and additionally the French squadrons have been destroyed or have retired to regroup, and at this season in the south there is little mischief to be expected locally. This is a precious opportunity that may not recur for a long time.’
‘Pardon me for being so slow in stays,’ said Donnelly, barely hiding his incredulity, ‘but isn’t this saying you’ve intentions of sailing
Popham’s easy manner fell away, his eyes suddenly steely. ‘I have your views, sir. And I say we can’t wait – do you propose remaining in idleness while the opportunities pass us by until such time as orders can reach us from six thousand miles away? I do not! I’m minded to reconstitute the Cape Town expedition as the Montevideo expedition and, on sailing, to send word directly to Mr Pitt that the previous plan is now going forward. I shall request that the agreed reinforcements do meet us in the River Plate, by which time I’m utterly confident we shall have made a first foothold on the continent.’
There were surprised but approving murmurs around the table. Bold, decisive moves were wanted in this war, which was on a global scale like no other.
Honyman had not yet spoken but now pronounced, ‘And Billy Pitt will see his chance and send out an army. It’s a capital idea, Dasher.’
‘Liberators of South America! Ha! The world will hear of us then.’ Byng chuckled. ‘I’m not doubting it’ll mean parades in London, kneeling before His Nibs in the Palace, a medal or two . . .’
Suddenly the prospect became not impossible. ‘Show us those figures again,’ Honyman said, animated. ‘I’ve a notion we should do it.’
Kydd caught the sudden gleam in Popham’s eyes. The magic word ‘we’ had now been been uttered.
Discussion became general. Popham played it very carefully, allowing suggestions to take root, following objections and taking notes. The sentiment of the meeting was rapidly moving towards an urging of Popham to take action with a full-blooded acclamation of the possibilities. Within the hour he had what he wanted.
‘Very well,’ Popham declared expansively. ‘I shall take our conclusions to the governor and I’m sanguine he’ll approve an immediate call to arms. I’ll suspend this meeting in the trust that the next shall be in the nature of a full-scale planning for our Spanish Surprise.’
As they rose he called down the table, ‘Er, Mr Kydd – if you’d be so good as to remain? I’ll need some assistance in the readying of a presentation to Sir David, and as you’re junior present . . . ?’
It was neatly done. Kydd’s regular presence at the flagship would not now be remarked on.
As the last captain filed out of the cabin, Popham turned and, with an audible sigh, collapsed into his armchair by the window. ‘Such a hard beat to windward,’ he murmured, ‘you’d think it a forlorn hope I’m contemplating. Donnelly has the spirit I’d expect in a town beadle, and some of the others . . . Still, I do believe they’re with me – don’t you?’
‘They are, as so they should.’
‘If General Beresford shows willing, he’ll make sure Baird comes in. So I suppose I must possess myself in patience until you’ve made your play. Have you any idea how you’ll do it?’
‘Renzi, old fellow, are you not well?’ Kydd said in surprise, seeing him crouched by the stern-lights. There was no movement and Kydd crossed to him in concern. ‘Are you all right, Nicholas?’
There was a muffled groan. ‘I just can’t get started,’ Renzi mouthed. He heaved himself up and into a chair. ‘Tom,’ he croaked, ‘it doesn’t fadge – nothing works, it’s coming out too . . . too wooden, if you catch my meaning.’
‘You mean your novel?’
Renzi gave him a withering stare. ‘And what else, pray?’
Kydd sat down. ‘That is, your hero is not, as who should say, a satisfying enough cove.’
‘No, not just that,’ Renzi said wearily. ‘It’s that . . . Well, you’d never understand.’
‘As I’ve not the headpiece of an author?’ Kydd said tartly. ‘Look, m’ friend – you’re going to have to face it. It may be . . .’
‘May be what?’ Renzi said, with unease at Kydd’s tailing off.
‘It could be . . . that you have to be born to the craft, the same as prime seamen, brought up in it from a younker.’
‘It could be that authors have it inside them all the while, awaiting release.’
‘And you all this time at it and no headway?’ Kydd said sadly. ‘I don’t think so, Nicholas.’
Renzi said nothing, but his frustration was pitiful to see. Kydd softened. ‘Look, why don’t you think again? It’s about a well-born chap who has all these adventures. Isn’t that you? Why don’t you write about yourself directly? If you’d care to, o’ course.’
‘No, no. I can’t do it. To write is to expose yourself to the world, to let everyone see into your . . . well, all of you. I could never allow that.’
He pulled out a crumpled sheet. ‘Just listen to this, though. “I walked into the salon, the duchess looked at me and I had to think of something to say but I couldn’t!” How can you get a novel from that?’
‘Well, I’m not the one to ask it, but have you thought about Curzon? He mingles with the nobs, possibly knows an author.’
Renzi bristled. ‘No one is to find out what I’m writing!’
‘No, of course not. I’m sorry to say I’m at a loss, Nicholas. You might have to admit-’
‘Thank you, Tom, you’ve made your point.’
‘Well, I have to go. There’s divisions at eleven.’
Renzi shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Kydd’s talk of authors being born to it was a worrying bar; if anyone could be such, why wasn’t the world filled with authors? It was not a pleasant conclusion. He’d worked damned hard, and he was no further forward than he had been at the beginning. The plot was logically perfect, the hero’s name and character replete with fascinating and subtle classical nuance, the factual material impeccable. Why then did it read so heavily, so . . . so dull to the eyes?
It was lacking something. He was no stranger to words but they were simply not playing out as he so ardently wished they would. Was Kydd right in suggesting he write about himself? No! Putting aside the embarrassment of exposing his inner self before the public, this was to be a work of fiction and his own experiences had no right to appear.
Wearily he got up and went down to his cabin to put the day’s work in order. The balled-up paper, the scribbled sheets, the endless crossed-out notes – he just didn’t have the heart. He sat down and let his eyes roam over the tightly packed bookshelf above his tiny desk. They were the work of authors, of course, the blessed, the favoured, the felicitous. Would he
As ever, his eye softened at the row of poetry volumes. The tight crafting of precise and numinous meaning from shining words had always given him satisfaction and comfort and he reached for the first and oldest, from the time of Francis Drake, a work by Sir Philip Sidney, that turbulent and gifted Elizabethan. He opened it at
