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  While Tysoe saw to the unpacking, Kydd sat in the bow window for the sake of the light and picked up the Portsmouth Post. Although ostensibly just reporting the facts, there was malice behind the words. “The Trial of Sir Home Popham … upon the most serious charge of abandoning his station … the unfortunate failure of the unsanctioned enterprise … must now answer for it before his peers …” In three dense columns the writer had laid out the essentials. The article began with the British army’s near-run conquest and subsequent control of the Dutch-held Cape of Good Hope, at six thousand miles distance of England, leaving the victorious army in control but the Navy’s small squadron under Popham on guard against a vengeful counter-stroke.

  The narrative ran on: it was the “unaccountable desire of the naval commander to cross the Atlantic without orders on a brazen attempt to invade South America, which notwithstanding that the capital Buenos Aires had actually been captured in no way excused the action, still less the consequent shipping back of millions in silver bullion.”

  The piece pointed out that the adventure had failed, with the ignominious surrender of the British forces to the rag-tag Spanish colonial forces, which was greatly to be regretted. Then, in ponderous, elliptical prose, it scouted the rumours that the entire venture had been for the personal profit of this distinguished officer.

  Kydd threw the paper aside. The author had not even mentioned the immense strategic advantage of detaching Spain from her colonies and their sustaining wealth—if successful, it would almost certainly have thrown her out of the war.

  The Hampshire Register took a different and more sympathetic tack, wondering if the entire affair was the work of Popham’s enemies, seeking to destroy his reputation. The undoubted benefit to British commerce of opening up the Plate river trade in hides and grain and as a market for industrial goods, it claimed, was never going to be recognised by stiff-necked Tories intent on bringing down Popham.

  That was the daily newspapers. The radical Cobbett in his Annual Register had ranted against the expedition as having “originated in a spirit of rapacity and plunder” and even questioned whether Popham “had ever been placed in a situation to have had a single shot fired at him.” There had been pamphlets too, some making direct accusations of avarice and corruption and others of sordid dealings in India.

  What was it about Popham that roused such emotions? Kydd shook his head and decided to take a stroll in the warm evening air.

  There were many about, some no doubt on their way to Governor’s Green to an open-air meeting on the trial he’d seen posted up, so he shaped course towards the seafront with its view of the fleet at Spithead.

  He hadn’t gone far when he heard a cry and saw a figure hurrying towards him. It was his former second lieutenant.

  “Good day to you, Mr Bowden. What brings you here?”

  “The trial in course, Sir Thomas. As I have a certain interest and … and I find myself at leisure at the moment,” he added.

  They began to walk together.

  “Your own presence I gather, sir, is rather more than a passing curiosity?”

  “I’m summoned as witness. A sad business.” Then Kydd said offhandedly, “Look, if you’ve nothing better, shall you wish to sup with me? The George is famous for its lamb cutlets, as I remember.” They dined together in a quiet corner, the young man respectful and attentive.

  But Kydd needed someone to whom he could speak in confidence. It was the inevitable consequence of the sea service: at any time the odds were that his friends and fellow captains were away in their ships, scattered over the globe in the vast oceanic arena that was now modern war.

  “You knew Commodore Popham well,” prompted Bowden.

  “As far as any man can penetrate his character,” Kydd replied. “A vastly intelligent fellow—you remember Fulton and his submarine boats, his inventing of the telegraph code we used at Trafalgar, the catamaran torpedoes, his raising of the Sea Fencibles—he’s a fellow of the Royal Society and knows more about conjunct operations than any man alive.”

  “Conjunct?”

  “Where the navy and army join to effect some blow against the enemy that neither may achieve on their own. He was with the Duke of York in Flanders, and that successful destruction of the sluice gates at Ostend in ’ninety-eight? It was his plan, not to mention his transport of Indian soldiers across the Red Sea to take the French in the rear when we were hard-pressed in Alexandria.”

  “Then why …?” began Bowden, carefully.

  “I can’t answer that. I’ve got along with him well enough but I can see how his superior ways could upset some of the blue-bloods. He’s a genius for making enemies—and friends, for that matter.”

  “So the charge is leaving station, sir.”

  “A very severe one, young fellow. If the Admiralty thinks you to be in one place, and makes plans to use your fleet in that belief, then finds too late you’re off somewhere else, can you blame them for feeling peeved?”

  “Our talk in the gun-room was that he had secret intelligence he was acting upon. Did you believe him, sir, or should I not be asking this of you?”

  “No, you should not, but I’ll tell you, as it has to come out in the trial. He told me at the time, without any evidence about him, that he was in thick with the prime minister and others and that they’d together devised a plan of attack on South America and that this was interrupted by Trafalgar. This means that the whole thing against Buenos Aires could have been an official move, not his own idea.”

  “Ah. I see that the only way he can prove this is to call the prime minister as witness, but he’s—”

  “Quite. Pitt dying is a big blow to his story. That is, if it wasn’t all a bit of a stretcher from the beginning.”

  “Sir, can I ask you a personal question, as bears on the trial?”

  “You can—but I’m not bound to answer it.”

  “Sir, can you tell me why you fell in with his proposal to quit station?”

  “I … I judged it more in keeping with a naval officer’s duty to do something in a rush of events than sit idle waiting for orders. I conceived that there was an opportunity of strategical significance that, if missed, would be a betrayal of the higher cause.”

  “Sir, there were those in L’Aurore who observed you close to him, even as his special confederate in the whole matter. I hope you will excuse my plain speaking, but they might be forgiven for wondering why you are not standing next to him at the trial.”

  “Do you think I should be?” Kydd asked.

  “No, sir,” Bowden said. “You showed loyalty to your superior as so you should. And, besides,” he added, with a twist of a smile, “were you not following orders, as you must?”

  “You’ll go far in the service, young whipper-snapper.”

  “Then may I know what position you’ll take in court?” Bowden persisted.

  “Position? There’s only one possible, as you should know.”

  “Oh?”

  “I tell the whole truth.” Kydd paused, then said with a slow smile, “That is, I answer every question put to me, neither more nor less than the matter being asked. If certain questions are not put, then …”

  “And if they require to know whether you believe Commodore Popham was right to—”

  “That is a matter of opinion, not evidence, and has no place in a court-martial,” Kydd barked.

  He had thought hard about his position and this was the only one he could square with his conscience. On the one hand he felt sympathy with what the man had been trying to achieve in the larger picture, but on the other he did not want to be seen in the ranks of those trying to tear him down.

  Yet there was still one niggling concern: might he eventually find himself accused of being an accomplice and arraigned?

  In the morning, at eight precisely, a single gun thudded out from Gladiator and a Union flag mounted to her masthead.

  The court-martial of a senior officer of the Royal Navy in what some were calling the trial
of the age was beginning with the summoning of the court.

  The majority were admirals and, as was the custom, mere captains took boat first from the man-o’-war steps. There was a sizeable crowd to see them go, held back by redcoats from the garrison, and an excited buzz rose. Kydd was in his full-dress uniform, his star and crimson sash marking him out as one of the sea-heroes so talked about, and he gravely acknowledged the cheers.

  In the boat were other witnesses of like rank, with two older captains who were to sit in judgement. They avoided each other’s gaze until they reached the venerable ship’s side and disembarked one by one.

  An immaculate side-party in white gloves piped them aboard, then the captain of Gladiator welcomed them and saw the witnesses aft to a special area where they would wait until called.

  The great cabin was arranged with a long table and chairs, several side-chairs and small tables for officials and attendants.

  One by one the members of the court filed in, in strict order of seniority, the glitter of gold lace and the steely gleam of the sword of the provost marshal adding to the solemn majesty of the moment.

  Last to enter was the president of the court, Admiral Young, who took his high-backed chair with ponderous deliberation. Next to him was the judge advocate who would advise on points of law and procedure. At one end was a bewigged civilian supported by another, the prosecuting counsel for the Admiralty; at the far end two others stood beside an empty chair, Popham’s legal counsel.

  After a muttered consultation the president was ready.

  “Carry on, the Admiralty marshal.”

  This was the warrant for proceedings, under the signature of the highest authority possible.

  A clerk took up a paper and read, in a thin, reedy voice, “‘Whereas Captain Sir Home Popham left the Cape of Good Hope without orders to attack the Spanish settlement on the Rio de la Plata, now this is to command you that you take the said Sir Home Popham under arrest preparatory to his trial by court-martial for his said offence.’”

  Each of the members of the court were then individually put on oath.

  “Bring in the prisoner.”

  Popham wore a faint smile as he stood erect before the court.

  His sword was produced by the provost marshal and handed to the president.

  “You are Captain Sir Home Popham?”

  “I am.” The voice was calm and even. “Mr President, I have thought it advisable to seek legal assistance upon this occasion and I beg leave to ask permission of this court to have this assistance attend me during the trial.”

  “Sir Home, any assistance you may require, the court is very willing to allow you.”

  Popham gave a slight nod in acknowledgement, and the opening gentlemanly play was over.

  Although he was not in the great cabin, Kydd knew what would be happening. A court-martial was a straightforward affair: the precise charge facing the prisoner would be read out, then the prosecution would make its case, producing the entirety of evidence in support of the charge. Following this, the defence would begin with its own evidence, then witnesses would be called and examined by both sides. On completion, after the customary closing address by the prisoner, the court would be cleared for deliberation to a verdict.

  On more than one occasion Kydd had sat on courts that had opened in the morning and concluded before midday; evidence presented, witnesses heard and verdict arrived at—a man condemned to hang at the yardarm.

  The president turned to the judge advocate. “The letter of complaint, if you please.”

  The archaic practice was for the charges to be framed in the form of a grievance from the Admiralty to be addressed by the assembled court.

  Rising to his feet and adjusting his spectacles, the learned gentleman outlined the case to the court: “‘By the commissioners for executing the office of Lord High Admiral of Great Britain and Ireland, etc., to William Young, Esquire, Admiral of the Blue, and second officer in the command of His Majesty’s ships and vessels at Portsmouth and Spithead. By command of their lordships, William Marsden, first secretary to the Admiralty.’” The words rolled out with a practised delivery.

  “‘Whereas, by an order … Sir Home Popham, then captain of His Majesty’s Ship Diadem … was directed to take under his command … for the purpose of capturing the enemy’s settlements at the Cape of Good Hope in conjunction with the troops of Major General Sir David Baird … and whereas it appears from letters from the said Sir Home Popham that he was proceeding to Rio de la Plata with a view to attack the Spanish settlements for which he had no direction or authority whatsoever, and he did withdraw from the Cape the whole of the naval force which had been placed under his command for the sole purpose of protecting it, thereby leaving the Cape, which it was his duty to guard, not only exposed to attack and insult … all of which the said Sir Home Popham did notwithstanding that he had previous information of detachments of the enemy’s ships being at sea … And whereas it appears to us, that a due regard to the good of His Majesty’s service imperiously demands that so flagrant a breach of public duty should not pass unpunished.’” He flashed a glance at Popham. “‘We send herewith, for the support of the charge, the following papers, viz:

  “‘The copy of an order from the lords commissioners of the Admiralty … to Sir Home Popham, to take the ships therein named under his command, and to proceed to the Cape of Good Hope …’”

  Some eighteen orders and instructions were cited, and after a small cough to signify a change of tempo, the reading concluded with, “‘And we do hereby require and direct you forthwith to assemble a court-martial; which court (you being the president thereof) is hereby required and directed to enquire into the conduct of, and try the said captain, Sir Home Popham, for the offences with which he is charged accordingly. Given under our hands …’”

  The judge advocate turned to the president. “Further, sir, I have here a letter directing Mr Jervis, counsel for the affairs of the Admiralty and navy, assisted by Mr Bicknell, to conduct the prosecution on the part of the Crown.”

  At the opposite end of the table to Popham, a thin, predatory figure in legal robes rose and bowed briefly to the president. Before sitting he fixed an intent look on Popham.

  It was crowded in the witness waiting area. Several left to stretch their legs on deck for a space. A seamed old captain sitting next to Kydd leaned sideways and whispered, “They’re no doubt making sure o’ things. That legal cove prosecuting can call old Jarvie ‘uncle,’ did ye know?”

  Kydd felt dismay. Was St Vincent really going to such lengths or was it merely coincidence that his nephew was leading the prosecution? Either way, however Kydd answered as a witness, his words would doubtless be known to the implacable old admiral the same day. When under examination it would be wise to weigh what he said very carefully indeed.

  “This court now sits. Pray read to the court the evidence in support of the charge.”

  “Very good, Mr President. Document One. Copy of Instructions to Sir Home Popham.

  “‘By the commissioners for executing the office of Lord High Admiral of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, etc., the Lord Viscount Castlereagh, one of His Majesty’s principal secretaries of state, having, with his letter …’” He read aloud the actual instructions to Popham in the matter of preparation for the descent on Cape Colony in all their meticulous wording.

  “Document Two. Copy of a letter to Sir Home Popham …”

  One by one the orders and strictures that had passed out of the Admiralty from hopeful beginning to disastrous end were revealed, a damning avalanche of evidence that took nearly two hours to complete. Included were intelligence appraisals from military commanders in the field, advisories from the new governor of the colony and correspondence between the secretary of state for war and the Admiralty.

  It finally ceased.

  Popham had been listening politely, his faint smile still in place, but as soon as the judge advocate sat down he spoke crisply: “Mr Pre
sident, I beg leave to point out that Document One is in error, sir.”

  Admiral Young blinked in perplexity. “Sir Home, these are Admiralty documents. How can they possibly be in error?”

  “May I draw the court’s attention to a significant omission? If you’ll note the passage relating to the governor having information concerning where the French had prosecuted their voyage, here we read ‘the Indies,’ which is clearly in error.”

  “I don’t really see—”

  “Sir, the accompanying dispatch makes clear that the ‘West Indies’ is signified. If this document is to be received as it stands I shall have been sorely calumnied, for if understood as the ‘East Indies’ a most improper impression of my motives for proceeding would have been deduced. Sir, these are copies. That a clerk may have omitted the word is to be regretted, but worse would be to let it stand. I must insist that the word ‘West’ be inserted to correct the error.”

  “This is most untoward. Mr Jervis, do you wish to speak to the matter of this omission?”

  “Sir, I am not prepared, not having the original dispatch by me.” The prosecutor glared down the table. “I’m not disinclined to admit that there might be such a mistake alluded to by the honourable captain, but without the original I cannot state positively.”

  “Then—”

  “The matter is trivial. This dispatch is not entered in as evidence against the honourable captain but read in the statement of the charge only.”

  “Sir Home?”

  “I am aware that the document is not admissible evidence against me, but I allow I’m desirous that every document laid before the court should be correct in its particulars. Indeed, sir, I’m anxious that everything should transpire, as concealment is not in my interest.”

  “Mr Jervis?”

  “This conversation is very irregular, sir. As the paper is not adduced in evidence, any mistake in it cannot be considered material.” He shot a venomous look at Popham. “However, I would have no objection to accede to the honourable captain’s wish.”