Victory

motions he descended the side and boarded, an ensign instantly whipping up the little staff on the transom. ‘Give way,’ Kydd murmured.

Poulden crisply gave the orders that had the boat’s crew pulling strongly for the shore. Damn it, Kydd thought, just as soon as he could he’d have them in some sort of uniform jacket and suchlike, even if he must pay for it himself.

‘Eyes in the boat!’ snapped Poulden, as some of the rowers gaped at the alien ships. Kydd kept rigidly facing forward, wishing that he’d been granted the mercy of a boat-cloak against the keen Adriatic wind but, of course, his uniform in all its splendour must be seen from the shore.

‘Hold water st’b’d – oars.’ The boat glided in to the jetty steps, Kydd conscious of the two rows of glittering soldiery drawn up and waiting above.

‘Toss y’r oars!’ Simultaneously every oar was smacked into a knee and brought vertical. With a flick of the tiller, Poulden had the boat alongside.

Kydd mounted the steps with his sword clutched loosely. When he reached the top, an incomprehensible order was screamed and the soldiers flourished and stamped. He duly raised his cocked hat and was saluted by a nervous young subaltern with an enormous silver sabre.

A carriage whisked him up through the immaculate gardens to the white building. In the entrance portico there were two men. The older, with a red sash and swirling moustache, Kydd assumed was the Russian governor.

The other had a dark Mediterranean intensity and introduced himself quietly. ‘Spiridion Foresti, Captain, British resident minister – consul, if you will.’ His English was barely accented.

‘You are new to the Adriatic? You see, it is more usual in these matters to send first a discreet representative to acquaint the local power of your name, your quality . . . and other concerns such that a proper receiving may be effected.’

Kydd flushed. ‘Captain Thomas Kydd, His Britannic Majesty’s Frigate L’Aurore of thirty-two guns.’ This was urbanely relayed while he swept low in a courtly bow.

‘Sir, this is Comte Mocenigo, minister and plenipotentiary for His Imperial Majesty Tsar Alexander, by the Grace of God, Emperor and Autocrat of all the Russias, Tsar of Poland and so forth.’

The count gave a short bow and growled a sentence at Foresti. ‘Sir, the Comte wishes to indicate his sensibility of the honour of a visit by a vessel bearing the flag of Lord Nelson.

‘He’s mortified to confess that a banquet of the usual form will not be possible in the circumstances.’

Kydd bowed again, then discovered that a modest reception in the evening for his officers was to be expected.

‘I should be honoured to attend, sir,’ he said graciously. The Russian nodded, then disappeared into the residence.

Foresti turned to Kydd. ‘Captain, I think you and I should talk together. Your ship?’

Foresti sat in a frigid silence as they were rowed out to L’Aurore but clearly knew enough of naval etiquette to allow Kydd to leave the boat first to be piped aboard before he himself was escorted in.

In Kydd’s great cabin Foresti ignored the grand appointments and waved aside Tysoe’s offer of refreshments. He looked pointedly at Renzi.

‘My confidential secretary of some years, Mr Renzi,’ Kydd said firmly. ‘His learning and linguistic accomplishments have been remarked at the highest level in England.’

‘Renzi? You have the Italian?’

‘Si, abbastanza bene.’

‘And your Greek?’

Renzi added modestly.

‘In the Ionians,’ Foresti remarked acidly, ‘your classical parlance is as donkey dung, sir.’ He looked intently at Kydd. ‘I come to beg that you will tread very lightly about your business in the Levant. All is not as it seems, and should you lose the confidence of the peoples . . .’

‘Sir. You are known to us and I’m persuaded we are to be guided by your wisdom and sagacity,’ Renzi said carefully. ‘Is there perhaps something we should be particularly aware of that will help us in our dealings?’

Foresti gave a tight smile. ‘The captain here will understand that merchant ships have a colourful notion of bearing fair documentation. False papers are more to be expected in every case. Neutral bottoms are where you will find your irregular cargoes – but all this is well known to your profession.

‘What is important for you to understand is that you sons of Nelson believe you have driven the French from the Mediterranean. Nothing is more wrong. They are everywhere, currying favours, intriguing against rulers who treat with the English, preparing for the time when they will return victoriously.’

He drew out a blue handkerchief and blew into it. ‘Their agents are pointing to the success Bonaparte commands in Europe, that in only a short while England will be no more and that it would be well for the wise to be on the winning side.

‘Your allies? Sultan Selim in Constantinople has no control over his satraps, who govern their petty kingdoms in corruption and tyranny. Ali Pasha rules in the Morea – they call him “the butcher of Yannina” but the Russians and the French hasten to do him homage, as does your good Lord Nelson himself. And the Turkish Navy may be at sea, but it favours the French and will never fight for you.

‘The Russians? Mocenigo, I happen to know, is in secret communication with the French and is entirely untrustworthy. The grand Tsar pronounces one thing and does another; their dearest wish is to possess a port that is free from ice the year around and for this they are prepared to fish in troubled waters.’

Kydd’s face gave nothing away. ‘Then what in your opinion is the greatest peril?’

Foresti paused for a moment. ‘That depends. For us it must be the thirteen thousand French troops in Italy at