Kydd’s barge fell in behind that of Nelson in escort as he was rowed ashore. A sea of people lined the ancient ramparts and towers of Old Portsmouth, stretching all the way to the grassy sward of Southsea.
As he returned on board his ship, Kydd’s face was a picture of wonder. ‘It’s madness! They’ve taken Lord Nelson to their hearts and won’t let him go. He’s their god, they worship him.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Nothing will do save it honours him.’
In his cabin he told Renzi about the seething crowds, the screaming women pressing forward – and the transformation it had wrought in the worn figure of their admiral. ‘It set him up at once, the old fire and ardour, topping it the hero – it’s not to m’ taste, Nicholas, but by glory, I give him joy of it.’
He frowned. ‘And now I, a simple captain, have a decision to make. Do the hands get liberty ashore or will I end with a ship and no crew?’
Without waiting for a response he made his way to the upper deck. The question had no easy answer: it was customary after a major cruise to grant liberty but would
‘Clear lower deck – hands to muster,’ he ordered. Seamen tumbled up from below, wary looks betraying suspicion as to why they had been assembled.
Kydd advanced to the breast-rail. He took in the crowd in the waist and the petty officers along the gangways to the fo’c’sle. Then, loudly, he ordered the flanking marines to take position away behind him on the quarterdeck.
‘L’Aurores, we’ve sailed together now thrice a thousand leagues. We’ve followed Lord Nelson in a chase the like o’ which has never been seen and one to tell your grandchildren.’ He watched the impassive faces for reaction. Oaken with sea and sun, their strong and open features spoke of self-reliance in times of testing, confidence in their skills and a bond between each other – and their ship.
Kydd made his decision. ‘There’s those who’d say I’d be pixie-led to give my ship’s company liberty into that lunacy ashore – but I am! I’ve just returned on board after seeing our Lord Nelson to land and the people are crying out for their hero, because they trust in him and his tars to save them from Bonaparte.
‘We’ve unfinished business with that tyrant, the time will be soon, and I’m putting you on your honour that when Our Nel calls you’re there when he needs you.
‘Mr Howlett, liberty ashore to both watches!’
The surprised stirring among the men turned to incredulous delight. A shout went up. ‘Huzza t’ Lord Nelson! Another f’r Cap’n Kydd! An’ three times three for th’ old
Kydd turned to Howlett and fought down a grin. ‘Now, that’s what I’d call a right oragious body o’ men.’ He left the man standing open-mouthed and went happily below.
‘Well, Nicholas, it’s done. I’m to Guildford for a few days, just to see my folk, settle their fears. It could be that Cecilia is at home. Do you like to come?’
‘No. That is, it’s inconvenient at this time, I find.’
Mercifully, the wind was in the east and the Dublin packet was able to make good progress up the Thames to London. Cecilia patiently held the hand of the Marchioness of Bloomsbury who had ever been a martyr to sea-sickness; the Irish Sea had been days of misery and for her their arrival was not a moment too soon.
It was odd to be back in the capital. There was an uneasy touch of hysteria about the busy crowds, strangers and tradesmen only too ready to pass on the latest dreadful rumour and, above it all, the sense that some climactic thunderclap of history was about to burst upon them.
There was little conversation in the carriage back to the mansion; the marquess, called away suddenly by unrest in Ireland, had been delayed and would follow later while the marchioness wanted only blessed peace, a ceasing of motion.
‘Cecilia, my dear,’ she said weakly, ‘I do so crave the solace of my bed and to be alone. If you would wish to spend a few days with your family . . .’
The nervous excitement of London was disturbing and wearing, and Cecilia lost no time in taking coach to Guildford. The jolting sway of the vehicle was uncomfortable and her mood was bleak as she stared out at the passing countryside. At the front of her mind was the insistent thought that in the very near future she would have to take the decision she dreaded, for Captain Pakenham was making his intentions clear.
If only her brother were near! But Thomas was away in his new ship. She’d received a hurried note from him months ago telling of the great honour to be soon part of Lord Nelson’s fleet and had had nothing since. Presumably he was in a distant ocean chasing after the French . . . and for some reason she did not feel able to broach the subject with her mother.
Jane Rodpole was happily, if boringly, married, with no imagination to speak of, which left Cecilia precisely no one in the world she could talk to. She was on her own in the biggest decision of her life.
The coach clattered through the charming village of Esher, then on to Cobham for a change of horses, but her eyes were unseeing. Everything was pointing inexorably to one overwhelming conclusion: that Nicholas Renzi was now part of her past and the sooner she was reconciled to the fact the quicker she could get on with her life before it was too late.
Then it was Abbotswood and Guildford high street. The coach swung into the Angel posting house and she was handed down by a respectful ostler. The town appeared strangely quiet, subdued and with few people on the street, but as unchanging as it always seemed to be.
She crossed to the Tunsgate and took the short walk to the little school run by her family. She stood for a while, hearing the chant of children in their classrooms and seeing not one but three ensigns – red, white and blue – proudly at the miniature topmast.
Why did life have to be so complicated? With the world in thrall to the terror to come, why must she be made to look into her heart with such anguish? She knocked at the door of the little schoolhouse and a startled maid curtsied and hurried to find her mother.
