'We have the navy,' Addington said stoutly.
'Er, yes. The navy were in bloody mutiny less'n a year ago and are now scattered all over the world. Necessary, of course.' He brooded over his glass. 'Grenville heard that the French will turn on Hanover and that His Majesty will oblige us to defend his ancestral home, dragging us into a land war.'
'Ridiculous.'
'Of course.'
Addington cradled his brandy and waited.
Pitt sighed. 'The worst of it all is not being possessed of decent intelligence. Having to make decisions in a fog of half-truths and guesses is a sure way to blunder into mistakes that history will judge without mercy. Take this, Henry. Spencer has confirmed that our grand General Buonaparte has left off inspecting his soldiers standing ready for the invasion and has been seen in Toulon. What's he doing in the Mediterranean that he abandons his post? No one knows, but we have enough word that there's an armament assembling there. Not a simple fleet, you understand, but transports, store-ships, a battle fleet. Are we therefore to accept that the moment we have dreaded most—when the French revolution bursts forth on the rest of the world—is now at hand? And if it is, why from Toulon?'
He paused. There was the slightest tremor in the hand that held the glass. 'If there's to be a sally, where? Dundas speaks of Constantinople, the Sublime Porte. Others argue for a rapid descent on Cairo, defeating the Mamelukes and opening a highway to the Red Sea and thence our vital routes to India. And some point to a landing in the Levant, then a strike across Arabia and Persia to the very gates of India.'
'And you?'
At first, Pitt did not speak, then he said quietly, 'It is all nonsense, romantic nonsense, this talk of an adventure in the land of Sinbad. It's all desert, impassable to a modern army. It's a stratagem to deflect our attention from the real object.'
'Which is?'
'After leaving Toulon, Buonaparte does not sail east. Instead he sails west. He pauses off Cartagena to collect Spanish battleships, then passes Gibraltar and heads north. With the fleet in Cadiz joining him as he passes, he brushes us aside and reaches the Channel. There, the Brest fleet emerges to join him, thirty of them! With a combined fleet of more'n fifty of-the-line around him he will get his few hours to cross, and then it will be all over for us, I fear.'
Addington chose his words carefully: 'But would it not be prudent to send ships into the Mediterranean to stop him at the outset?'
'And leave England's defence the poorer?' He pondered for a space and continued, in an odd tone, 'But, then, the decision is taken out of my hands. What I think is of no account. The Austrians are adamant that as a condition to an alliance we must provide a naval presence to protect Naples—you will recollect that the Queen of Naples is Austrian born. And as the Austrians are the only friends we have—
'Genoa?'
'Yes. Something that changes the stakes utterly.'
'How so?'
'We have a reliable agent in Genoa. He's reporting that the French have been active, buying barrels—four thousand of the very biggest, with ten iron hoops
Addington was mystified.
For the first time, Pitt smiled. 'Henry, old fellow, you'll never be mistaken for a character of the seafaring species. Such barrels are tied to ships' sides to assist them in floating over shallow waters. And that is proof positive that Dundas is right. The French armament is to force the Dardanelles by this means and take Constantinople. Sultan Selim III is friendly to us and we cannot allow this to happen. I shall therefore direct that St Vincent off Cadiz forthwith undertakes a reconnaissance in force. We will return to the Mediterranean!'
CHAPTER 1
LIEUTENANT THOMAS KYDD TURNED in his chair to Tysoe, his servant. 'An' I'll have another soup, if y' please.' He smiled at his friend Renzi, and loosened his stock in the warmth of the crowded wardroom of HMS
'Moose muffle,' Pringle, captain of marines, called over the hubbub. He inspected the piece of meat he had speared. 'Spring moose is better in June, you'll find, once the beast has a mort of fat on him.'
The wardroom echoed to gusts of laughter in response to a sally by Captain Houghton at the head of the table—his officers had invited him to dine with them this night. The older of the seamen servants glanced at each other meaningfully. The ship had pulled together in fine style: with officers in harmony so much less was the likelihood of interference in their own community.
Kydd's soup plate was removed. 'Ah, I think the baked shad,' he said, and turned to Pybus, the surgeon. 'Not as I mean t' say I'm wearying of cod, you know.'
'That, in Nova Scotia, is a felony, Mr Kydd,' Pybus said drily, reaching for the chicken. As usual, he was wearing an old green waistcoat.
Kydd nodded at the servant, and his glass was neatly refilled. He let his eyes wander beyond the colour and chatter of the occasion through the graceful sweep of the stern windows to Halifax harbour, the darkness relieved by scattered golden pinpricks of light from other ships at anchor. Just a year ago he had been under discipline before the mast, accused of treason after the Nore mutiny. He had joined the insurrection in good faith, then been carried along by events that had overwhelmed them all. But for mysterious appeals at the highest level, he should have shared his comrades' fate and been hanged with them; he had never dreamed of elevation to the sanctity of the quarterdeck. Now he had won another great prize: acceptance by the other officers as an equal. Where might it all lead?
'Pray assist me with this Rheingau, Tom,' Renzi said, reaching across with a white wine. There was a contentment in him too, Kydd observed. His friend, who had come with him from the lower deck, was now settled at this much more agreeable station, which befitted his high-born background.
'Mr Kydd—your health, sir!' The captain's voice carried down the table.
