At noon Kydd was relieved by Cockburn. The bungling political solution to the manning problem was lowering on the spirit. And Gibraltar was apparendy just a garrison town, one big fortified rock and that was all. England was in great peril, and he was doing little more than keeping house in an old, well-worn ship at her long-term moorings.
Kydd didn't feel like going ashore in this mood, but to stay on board was not an attractive proposition, given the discontents simmering below. Perhaps he would take another walk round town: it was an interesting enough place, all things considered.
Satisfied with his appearance, the blue coat of a master's mate with its big buttons, white breeches and waistcoat with cockaded plain black hat, he joined the group at the gangway waiting for their boat ashore. The first lieutenant came up the main-hatch ladder, but he held his hat at his side, the sign that he was off-duty.
'Are you passing through the town?' he asked Kydd pleasantly.
Kydd touched his hat politely. 'Aye, sir.'
'Then I'd be much obliged if you could leave these two books at the garrison library,' he said, and handed over a small parcel.
Kydd established that the library was situated in Main Street, apparently opposite a convent. It didn't take long to find — Main Street was the central way through the town, and the convent was pointed out to him half-way along its length. To his surprise, it apparently rated a full complement of sentries in ceremonials. There was a giant Union Flag floating haughtily above the building and a sergeant glared at him from the portico. Across the road, as directed, was the garrison library, an unpretentious single building.
It was a quiet morning, and Emily looked around for things to do. On her mind was her planned social event, as always a problem with a never-changing pool of guests. Her brow furrowed at the question of what she would wear. Despite the tropical climate of Gibraltar, she had retained her soft, milky complexion, and at thirty-two, Emily was in the prime of her beauty.
There was a diffident tap on the door. She crossed to her desk to take position and signalled to the diminutive Maltese helper.
It was a navy man; an officer of some kind with an engagingly shy manner that in no way detracted from his good looks. He carried a small parcel.
'Er, can ye tell me, is this th' garrison library, miss?' She didn't recognise him: he must be from the remaining big ship.
'It is,' she said primly. A librarian, however amateur, had standards to uphold.
His hat was neatly under his arm, and he proffered the parcel as though it was precious. 'The first l'tenant of Achilles asked me t' return these books,' he said, with a curious mix of sturdy simplicity and a certain nobility of purpose.
'Thank you, it was kind in you to bring them.' She paused, taking in the fine figure he made in his sea uniform; probably in his mid-twenties and, from the strength in his features, she guessed he had seen much of the world.
'Achilles — from the Caribbean? Then you would know Mr Kydd - the famous one who rescued Lord Stanhope and sailed so far in a tiny open boat, with his maid in with them as well.'
The young man frowned and hesitated, but his dark eyes held a glint of humour. 'Aye, I do — but it was never th' maid, it was Lady Stanhope's travellin' companion.' His glossy dark hair was gathered and pulled back in a clubbed pigtail, and couldn't have been more different from the short, powdered wigs of an army officer.
'You may think me awfully forward, but it would greatly oblige if you could introduce me to him,' she dared.
With a shy smile, he said, 'Yes, miss. Then might I present m'self? Thomas Kydd, master's mate o' the Achilles'
