hammering of early winter, it needed all the seamanship the Royal Navy had at its command to stay on station off the Texel.
Kydd hardened, as much as by conflicts within as by the ceaseless work of keeping the seas. The mutiny of two months ago was now receding into the past, but he had still not put it truly behind him.
He accepted the precious gift of reprieve, however achieved: life itself. But so many had paid the price: the gentle Coxall, the fiery Hulme, the fine seaman Davis, Joe Fearon, Charles McCarthy, Famall, others. The Inflexibles, led by Blake, had stolen a fishing-smack and gone to an unknown fate in France.
It could have been worse: vengeance had been tempered, and of the ten thousand men involved, only four hundred had faced a court, and less than thirty had met their end at a yardarm.
To say farewell to Kitty had brought pain and loneliness, and with Renzi about to return to his previous life, there was now not a soul he could say was truly his friend, someone who would know him, forgive his oddities as he would theirs in the human transactions that were friendship.
His reticence about speaking of recent events had stifled social conversation, and a burning need to be hard on himself had extended to others, further isolating him. He withdrew into himself, his spirit shrivelling.
Days, weeks, months, the same ships that had been in open mutiny were now at sea so continuously that the first symptoms of scurvy appeared. Sails frayed, ropes stranded, timbers failed, and still they remained on station. By October signals from the flagship showed that even the doughty Duncan was prepared to return to Yarmouth to revictual and repair.
The storm-battered fleet anchored, but there would be no rest. Duncan had said, 'I shall not set foot out of my ship . .-.'It would be a foolhardy captain indeed who found he had business ashore. Storing ship, caulking gaping seams, bending on winter canvas — there was no rest for any.
Then, early one morning in the teeth of a northwesterly blow, the Black Joke, an armed lugger, appeared from out of the sea fret to seaward of Yarmouth sands. Signal flags whipped furiously to leeward; a small gun cracked out to give emphasis to them, the smoke snatched away in the stiff wind. 'Glory be!' said Triumph's officer-of-the-watch peering through his telescope. 'An' I do believe the Dutch are out!'
By noon the North Sea squadron had secured for sea, and without a minute lost, Duncan's fleet put out into the white-streaked waters under a dark, brooding sky with every piece of canvas that could draw set on straining spars.
The wind, however, was astern; the fleet streamed towards Holland in an exhilarating and terrifying charge. The next day they raised land, the Texel, the ancient home of the Dutch fleet, low, sprawling and foreboding under grey skies.
The Dutch were not there, but Duncan's scouts were. Their dogged tracking of the enemy fleet enabled them to inform Duncan that indeed the Dutch were at sea -and heading southwards. The British fleet wheeled to follow, keeping the shore in sight under their lee all the time. Now at last there was a chance that the enemy could be brought to bay.
If they caught up, then without doubt there would be a major battle, a formal clash of fleets that would enter history. The stakes could hardly be higher: if they lost the day then the way would be clear for enemy troops to make a landing on the shores of England.
It would be Kydd's first major fleet action. He almost looked forward to the fight: a purging by combat of all the devils that haunted his soul.
But would ex-mutineers fight? Under Lieutenant Monckton, Kydd was in charge of the centre main-deck twenty-four-pounders, and to his certain knowledge there were five in the gun-crews he had seen parading under the red flag, including both quarter-gunners.
At nightfall hopes faded. They had not overhauled the enemy — they could be anywhere, or have changed course to the north and open sea. The fleet shortened sail for the night, standing off the coast.
Dawn came with driving rain, clearing to blustery squalls that sent men aloft to take in sail. While they were fisting the wet canvas Circe frigate hove in sight, a signal hoist and a gun to leeward bringing every man on deck.
Kydd hastened to the quarterdeck to hear developments. The signal lieutenant had his glass up, his midshipman beside him with the signal book. 'Enemy in sight, sir!' he said, following the frigate. 'Three leagues to the sou'-east'
The news spread, and
