Invasion

'Haaaands, t' the braces!' Constrained by sandbanks close to larboard and the Nab still to round before clear water, there was little room for manoeuvre.

'He's there, sir!' screamed a youngster, wildly pointing shore-wards. A sharp-lined wherry was putting off hastily from the Sally Port on a course to intercept.

'It's Mr. Renzi, right enough,' confirmed Purchet, after snatching at the telescope.

Without hesitating, Kydd rapped, 'Heave to, Mr. Dowse!' It was madness in the fast current and sandbanks past the entrance to be not under way . . . and close astern a heavy frigate was coming down on them at speed. With the wind large there was no other way than to wheel about awkwardly and place the fore aback, but Kydd was not going to lose Renzi.

The frigate plunged past with an energetic volley of abuse from her quarterdeck. The wherry stroked out manfully and at last hooked on at the main-chains. While Teazer paid off before the wind, willing hands hauled Renzi in, his bundles of books needing more robust hoisting.

'I do apologise, sir,' Renzi said formally.

Kydd, still in his quarterdeck brace, frowned but said nothing.

'We lost a wheel before Petersfield and—'

'Mr. Renzi! I rather feel that in this instance you might have been topping it overmuch the cunctator, as it were.'

Renzi was transfixed with astonishment at his friend's cultivated words. The Latin cunctator—delayer—was indeed appropriate, an allusion to the tactic used by the Roman commander in the war with Hannibal, an attempt to deny the enemy a battle. 'Why, thank you, sir!' He wasn't about to let Kydd get away with this one, whatever the reason for its mysterious appearance.

'Thank you?' Kydd said, crestfallen.

'For the compliment, of course, dear fellow. It was by this very tactic that Quintus Fabius Maximus may have shamed the Roman Army but it undoubtedly won him the war and his nickname.'

The open Channel won and a fine westerly in their sails, by evening there was chance to sup together.

Renzi opened politely. 'Er, at the risk of impertinence I cannot help but remark the elegance of your speech, its genteel delivery, the—'

'Quite simple, Renzi, old chap. I've given it a deal of thought. And it seems to me, the only way to move forward in this world is not to kick against the pricks . . .' a flash of smugness was quickly smothered '. . . but be agreeable to the customary forms of civility and breeding when in genteel company. In fine, if I'm to enter in on society, then I'm to be like them. And you have m' word on it, enter in I will!' 'Then you have my most earnest admiration, Tom—er, Kydd, old trout. So recently shunned by society and cast into the very depths, yet you hold no grudge, no antipathy towards those who—'

'It's past. I have a bright future now and I'm going to take it with both hands and do what I have to.'

'Are you certain that—'

'M' dear friend. Since coming into my fortune, I stand amazed at the boldness and presumption as can be found from having a pot o' gold at your back! I cannot fear the rich-dressed when I'm rigged the same, or stand mumchance while they talk wry, when I can, just as well.'

'There are other—'

'You must believe I've not trifled away my time, m' dear Renzi. There's quantities of professional gentlemen in Portsmouth who do rue our sailing, and I have a stand o' books in my cabin as will keep me amused for voyages to come.'

'I honour you for it,' Renzi said.

'You'll oblige me by maintaining a quality o' discourse while about my person.'

'I shall endeavour to do so,' came the sincere response.

'Then m' course is set. Tysoe, do attend to Mr. Renzi's glass, if you please.'

The Downs! A fulcrum for the torrent of shipping that came and went around the corner of the North Foreland into the Thames and the mighty maw of London, where hundreds of ships of all flags might be lying anchored, waiting for a favourable wind to take them outward bound down-Channel, or inbound to the north, or across to the Baltic. The ten-mile stretch of the Downs was bordered five miles offshore by the notorious Goodwin Sands, since medieval times a fearful hazard, but this acted both as a shelter and a barrier. It was the point at which the Channel was at its narrowest, a bare eighteen miles from Dover to the French encampments at Cap Gris Nez. The last Kydd had seen of it had been as the master of a convict ship bound for New South Wales. After the desolate shingle spit of Dungeness, it was the wide sweep of bay that was the foreshore of the smugglers' haunt of Romney Marsh, then the rising crags of Folkestone turning into the soaring white splendour of Shakespeare's cliff, Dover, and on to the rounding of South Foreland.

In the bright early-morning light the massive chalk ramparts seemed to Kydd to stand four-square and proudly defiant against England's foes, marching away north in impregnable array. Teazer closed within half a mile of them to round the foreland and make the southern reaches of the Downs. The vista of countless ships at anchor was opening up before them now: coasters, East Indiamen, colonial traders from far distant parts of the globe, an impressive multitude stretching for ten miles of open water. But Kydd had eyes only for the naval anchorage, that of the legendary Downs Squadron standing so valiantly at the forefront of England's defence.

There. Across the anchorage. He would never forget her, ever: the seventy-four riding to two anchors, her lines old-fashioned but graceful. It was Monarch, the flagship. After the bloody battle of Camperdown not so many years before, Kydd had, in her, become one of the very few who had taken the incredible journey from before the mast as a common seaman to the quarterdeck as a king's officer.

He let Hallum take Teazer inshore to moor while he took his fill of the sight. It seemed odd but only Monarch and two other minor ships-of-the-line were present, three frigates further distant and a number of sloops. Where was the battle squadron, if not with their commander-in- chief?

They would know soon enough. Tysoe had out his dress uniform and, buckling on his handsome sword, Kydd