'The town major.'
A shadow passed over Kydd's face. 'Acting town major only,' he replied stubbornly. Cockburn kept his silence, but the pressure of his disapproval was tangible. 'An' I regret I cannot be aboard t'night. The bishop is receivin' an' I'm invited,' Kydd added.
The news of the climactic battle of Cape St Vincent broke like a tidal wave on Gibraltar. The anxieties of the past months, the hanging sword of an invasion and devastation, the flaunting of enemy naval power just a few miles away, as they passed in and out of the Mediterranean — their sea now — needed a discharge of emotions.
Over the horizon, on St Valentine's Day, two great fleets had clashed: fifteen British ships-of-the-line and a handful of frigates met the enemy's twenty-seven of-the-line and a dozen frigates, and had prevailed.
Admiral Jervis had been reported as saying, 'A victory is very essential to England at this moment,' and had gone on to achieve just that. Details of the battle were sketchy, but wild rumours made the rounds of the daring Commodore Nelson disobeying orders and breaking the line to fall on the enemy from the rear. Apparently he had then personally led a boarding party to the deck of one enemy battleship and from there to yet another in a feat of arms that must rank alone in its bravery.
Gibraltar went berserk with joy - bells, guns, excited crowds flooding into the street and, finally, an official feu de joie ordered by the governor. Six regiments stood motionless on the Alameda parade-ground in tight-packed rows, small field pieces at each corner. At twelve precisely, artillery thudded solemnly, then by command the redcoats presented their muskets — and a deafening running fire played up and down the ranks, beating upon the senses until rolling gunsmoke hid the soldiers. The noise stopped, the smoke cleared, and the spectacle was repeated twice more.
On the water, every ship replied with thunderous broadsides; even the smallest found guns to mount and fire. The sailors dressed their ships in flags and there were wild scenes that night in the grog-shops.
Kydd responded warmly, but this was tempered by the realisation that he had missed what must have been the defining battle of the age. With a stab of dread he realised that Renzi might have been struck down, mortally wounded, thrown overboard in the heat of battle. He fought down the thought, then turned his mind to other things. Emily.
At their last meeting, she had shyly offered a little package, neatly finished with a bow. It was a pair of gloves - kidskin, probably Moorish, but of obvious quality. There was no conceivable need in his station for gloves, but Kydd's imagination grew fevered with conjecture. A gift from her to him: what did it mean?
He found Cockburn with a slim book. 'Tarn, I'd be obliged f'r the lend of a clean waistcoat, if ye please. That scurvy gunroom servant's in bilboes after a spree ashore.' Cockburn looked up, but said nothing. 'I have t'go somewhere tomorrow,' explained Kydd.
Cockburn laid down his book. 'Tomorrow, it seems, I shall need my waistcoat,' he said, his face hard.
This was nonsense: without means, he was spending all his time on board. 'Then y'r other one — I know you have 'un.'
'Strangely, it appears that I shall need that also,' Cockburn said evenly.
Kydd breathed hard. 'An' what kind o' friend is it that—'
'A friend who sees you standing into perilous waters, who fears to see you play the cuckold without—'
'She cares f'r me, I'll have ye know.'
'Oh? She has told you? Pledged undying love when not free to do so?'
Kydd clamped his jaw shut.
'I thought so. You are naught but a fool,' Cockburn said, in measured tones, 'treading a path where so many poor loobies have gone before.' He sighed and returned to his reading. 'I can only grieve for your future.'
'Be damned t' you 'n' y'r prating,' Kydd snarled, and stormed off petulantly.
* * *
