The Privateer's Revenge

At any moment lines of soldiers might appear along the edge of the cliff—and it would be all over very quickly. Panting with effort, Kydd yanked on bushes to heave himself up the craggy heights, muscles burning and his world contracting to the untidy slither of dust and rubble that was their path.

Out of sight above them the marines must have reached the top—would they be met with naked bayonets or . . . ? But there had been no sudden shouts so they were still in with a chance.

When he drew near to the top Ambrose scrambled over to him. Breathless, Kydd heard that the perimeter was secure with outlying sentries concealed and the defenders not yet in sight. Keeping his head down, the marine pointed out the salient features: a far-distant cluster of buildings, probably a farm, and farther still the tip of a steeple. For the rest it was open fields and curious cows in a gently rolling rural tranquillity.

'We post th' guns here—an' over there,' Kydd gasped.

'Sah.' Ambrose pointed suddenly. Following the outstretched arm Kydd saw mass movement at the edge of a small wood a mile or so away. Without a telescope he could only squint. Then, as the activity extended to each side, there could be no mistake. Troops were deploying.

'Get those guns up here at th' rush!' he bawled, and heaved on a line himself. The swivels with their clumsy frame mountings were manhandled up and hurried into position. Men fanned out to either side. It was sobering how few two hundred looked when occupying a battlefield.

But they were in time. Dusty and weary, chests heaving with exertion, they stood ready.

Trumpets could be heard faintly as the soldiers opposite formed a line and, to the thin rattle of drums, advanced on them. 'Give 'em a swivel,' Kydd ordered. They were not within range but it would show them what they'd be up against.

At the spiteful crack there was wavering in the ranks, and screamed orders carried across to them. The lines came to stop and a white flag rose. It was brought forward by an officer. Kydd grinned savagely: the day was theirs—and so easily.

The man trudged over, red and angry. 'Damn it, sir, no one told us o' artillery in the field. Rather unsportin', I would have thought. Where the devil did they come from?'

'Show him, Sergeant,' Kydd grunted, and watched while the officer was escorted to the cliff-edge and peered down.

When he returned he mopped his forehead. 'Well, sir, an' I declare m'self well and truly at a stand.' It had been a hard march for the soldiers from the redoubts to the west but they had been too late.

'I give ye victory, sir,' the officer said in admiration. 'Those ship guns were a master-stroke.' He advanced to shake Kydd's hand. 'Major Jevons, o' the Guernsey Militia. Might I hope t' see you at Fort George one day, sir?'

It had started as a difference of opinion between Lieutenant Governor, General Sir John Doyle, and Rear Admiral Saumarez as to the adequacy of the military defences in the south of the island. Kydd had taken up Saumarez's conjecture that they were not impregnable and now there was proof positive for all to see.

HMS Teazer had closed with the land the better to view proceedings and had the singular distinction of flying the colours of Rear Admiral Saumarez with the standard of the Lieutenant Governor.

In a little over an hour Kydd was back aboard. 'Well done, sir!' Saumarez said genially, when introductions had been made on the quarterdeck to Doyle. 'Showed 'em what the Navy can do, by Jove.' He looked benignly upon Kydd. 'And what an active and enterprising officer might be trusted to achieve.'

CHAPTER 4

THE CHAMBER OF THE HOUSE OF LORDS was in an uproar. Baron Grenville, a former foreign secretary, was on his feet and in full cry: 'In fact I'm led to believe that this government has no idea— no idea—of the dire threat the kingdom now faces! Allow me, my noble lords, to attempt to arouse some measure of urgency in this supine Tory ministry.'

Seated on the Woolsack before the empty throne, the lord chancellor frowned but made no move to intervene.

Grenville waited for the noise to lessen then pronounced, 'I can now say for a certainty that Bonaparte no longer menaces Great Britain with invasion.' Having the august chamber's full attention, he went on, 'This is just so: the threats have now been withdrawn!' There was puzzled murmuring. Then he continued, with quiet venom, 'My noble lords, the empty threats have gone, and in their place is the awful reality. From Dunkirk in the east to Granville in the west, in every French harbour and port opposite us, there are now being built hundreds—nay, thousands—of invasion craft whose only purpose is to throw one hundred and fifty thousand men on the English shore.'

Lord Hobart fidgeted in his seat. As secretary of state for war in a beleaguered administration, his would be the task of replying to the unanswerable.

'This realm, at great cost to its treasure, has created and maintains a navy whose chief purpose is the safeguarding of our islands. We have a right to see it arrayed in all its might along our coasts, resolutely facing the enemy, as it has done so gloriously from long before.' Grenville gestured at the wall panels, each of which depicted a scene of some heroic sea battle from England's long past.

He paused, then asked, 'But where is it now? Apart from Lord Keith in the Downs it always seems to be away on some distant errand—dissipating its strength on some foreign adventure. It should be here, standing four-square before Bonaparte's hordes.'

Turning sharply, he looked straight at Hobart. 'I beg this House do remain attentive while the noble lord does enlighten us as to why we should not be terrified at this moment!'

Rising slowly, Hobart tried to marshal his thoughts. 'My lords, er, there is—'

There was a stir at the door and the lord chancellor got to his feet. 'The Earl St Vincent,' he intoned.

A buzz of interest broke out. The bluff man in the splendid robes of a peer of the realm was Jervis. Honoured by his sovereign, he was a sea hero whose service dated back to before Nelson was born. It had been he who, in the year of the Great Mutiny, had led the fleet against the combined might of the French and Spanish to spectacular success. He now stood at the pinnacle of his sea profession as First Lord of the Admiralty and strategic head of the Navy, feared and respected.

His wintry eyes took in the excited peers as he paced slowly to the centre of the chamber. 'My noble lords!' he said, in a voice that had in past days carried through winter gales. 'I do not deny that we are faced with a determined and dangerous foe who is undoubtedly resolved on the conquest of Great Britain. You are right to be