Invasion Page 5

  There was a wondering unreality about it all: while Teazer was undergoing refit in Portsmouth before joining the Downs Squadron, he had snatched a week to go home for the first time since the beginning of this war of Napoleon. Now he was back in the place where he was born and had grown up. Soon he would be greeting his parents—and with such a tale to tell . . .

  With a deep breath he stepped out into High Street. The noise and smell instantly transported him back to the days of his youth and his eyes sought out the sights: the big hanging clock on the hall opposite the Tunsgate market, the Elizabethan alms-house—and before it the little wig-shop where he had once worked. It was now a print-seller, the shop front filled with luridly coloured patriotic sheets.

  That a war was on did not seem apparent. The business of the town was cheerily going forward with hardly a reminder of the titanic struggle gathering strength out at sea.

  Things were the same—but different.

  As Kydd strode up the street not a soul noticed him but he had now been away for some time. Towards the top he took the little path past the sombre Holy Trinity churchyard to School Lane.

  Several years ago, with his father’s eyesight failing and the wig trade in decline, Kydd’s family had summoned him home in despair. He and Renzi had restored the family fortunes by establishing a small school run along naval lines. The enterprise had thrived, with Jabez Perrot its fierce and strict boatswain keeping order and Mr. Partington its keen young headmaster.

  Kydd wondered if his sister Cecilia would be at home. Since securing a position as a companion to Lady Stanhope she had travelled the world. Kydd knew Cecilia would love to hear his tales as a rakish corsair, even if the reality was a little different. His voyages as a privateer captain had been successful, though, and he hugged to himself the anticipation of revealing his surprise to the family.

  The trim school-house came into view; above it a blue ensign floating—Kydd smiled at the thought of the boatswain’s face when he told him those were the colours he would fly in Admiral Keith’s Downs Squadron. The school was neat and clean, and sounds of dutiful chanting issued from the classroom with the aroma of chalk dust and ink. Kydd crossed the little quadrangle to the residence.

  “Thomas! It’s you!” his mother squealed in delight at the door. “Do come in, son. Ye’ll catch a death if y’ just stands there!”

  “Who is it, Fanny?” The querulous enquiry had come from his father, frail with years and now completely blind.

  “It’s Thomas. An’ how fine he looks in his new cream pantaloons an’ brown leather boots.”

  “Is Cec here?” Kydd asked.

  “No, dear. She’s in America somewheres wi’ th’ marquess an’ lady,” Mrs. Kydd said proudly. “Have ye brought that nice Mr. Renzi wi’ ye?”

  Letting the warmth of the homecoming wash about him, Kydd settled in the best armchair next to the fire while the wide-eyed maid proffered a hot caudle against the cold and chairs were brought up for everyone to hear his tale.

  “So ye was a privateer, son. That’s nice. Was it scareful a-tall, you wi’ all those pirates about on th’ boat?”

  He was sparing in his account of battles and omitted any reference to the tragic loss of his fiancée, Rosalynd, but he made much of the thrill of the chase and exciting tempests until he saw that the old couple were visibly tiring. “How is the school, Ma?” he asked politely.

  Jabez Perrott, the one-legged sailor who had been working in a Guildford bookshop until offered the position of school disciplinarian, was summoned to report, which he did most willingly and with the utmost dignity. He was a grave, upright figure who had taken to wife a respectable widow and become a man of repute at chapel.

  Dinner was announced: Kydd took the place of honour at the other end of the table from his father and nodded to Mr. Partington, who respectfully asked about his sea career. He was lodging at the house but it seemed he had an understanding with a certain young lady and his hopes for connubial bliss were well advanced.

  The unreality crept back. Each had found their place in life and, in a quiet way, had prospered. He, on the other hand, had experienced so much that to tell of it could only invite incomprehension of a world they could not be expected to understand. He was possessed of means beyond any of their imaginings and of memories that could never really be shared; there was now an unbridgeable distance between himself and his folk.

  It wasn’t meant to be like this, his homecoming. He glanced about the room, saw the darted admiring glances, heard the shy chatter, the awkwardly addressed conversation. Perhaps it was because he had been away for so long that they were unsure of him—but in his heart he knew this was not so.

  After the cloth was drawn and he was left with his parents he would bring out his surprise. With rising elation he waited until he had their full attention. “Ma, Pa, I’ve somethin’ to tell ye!”

  “Aye, son?” his mother said quickly, clasping her hands over her knees in excitement. “Is she pretty a-tall?”

  A shadow passed over his face. “No, Ma, it’s not that. It’s—it’s that I’ve done main well in the article o’ prize-takin’ and it’s to tell y’ both I’m now going to see ye into a grand mansion—a prodigious-sized one as ye both deserve.”

  Mrs. Kydd looked at him with some perplexity. “Thomas, dear, we’re comfortable here, y’ knows.”

  Kydd looked at her fondly. “Aye, that’s as may be, but here’s the chance to live like the quality in a great house wi’ rooms an’ grounds an’ things . . .”

  “A big house’d be a worry, dear.”

  “No, Ma! There’s servants as’ll take charge of it for ye. An’ then, o’ course—”

  “Not now, Thomas, love.”

  “Ma! Tomorrow I can talk to the—”

  “Listen, dear. We’re happy here. It’s all we need an’ don’t f’ get, y’r father’s eyes might ha’ failed him but he knows his way about here. A great big place, why, we’d all get lost. Not only that, but what would I put in all them rooms?”

  Taken aback, Kydd could only say, “Ye’ll soon be used to it, Ma. Then ye’ll—”

  “No, son,” his father said firmly. “Pay heed t’ what your mother just said. We stays.”

  “Yes, Pa.”

  “But thank ’ee most kindly for thinkin’ of us in that way, son.” “Yes, Pa.”

  His mother brightly changed the subject. “I’ve jus’ remembered. Mrs. Bawkins always has us t’ tea on Thursdays. Would ye like t’ come an’ say hello?”

  It was the best room in the Angel but Kydd did not sleep well. He took his breakfast early and, as he watched High Street come alive through the quaint windows of the dining room, tried to shake off a lowering dissatisfaction.

  He started to walk to his parents’ home, then realised it would be too early for them and turned back down the hill. The previous evening had not been what he had looked forward to and his parents’ refusal of his offer had given him pause to think.

  Guildford was just the same—or was it? The tradesmen were out in the old ways, their cries echoing in the streets as shops were opened and the town woke to another day. But it seemed subtly different.

  He reached the bottom of the street and the bridge over the river Wey where the road led to the south and Portsmouth. He wanted time to reflect so he wandered down to the towpath, its curving placidity stretching away under the willow trees.

  He had just turned thirty. Was it now time to take stock of his life? By any measure he was a success. He had left Guildford a perruquier and returned a well-to-do sea captain, with experiences of the wider world that any man would . . . But he had returned to Guildford expecting it to be as it always had been . . . He now saw that it had not changed, he had. Those very experiences had given him perspectives on the world that were very different. They had not only broadened his horizons but made it impossible to go back.

  He stopped still. Guildford was of the past, not the future. It was no longer his home . . . but what, then, did he c
all home? Many men and most women of his age had settled in their ways and begun to raise a family. Was it now time for him to cease adventuring and put down roots somewhere? Guildford? The country? He had a not inconsiderable fortune and must be a most eligible bachelor. A stab of pain came at the thought of the death of his fiancée Rosalynd—but he had a duty now to his future.

  The thoughts flowed on. Put down roots? Where? And as what? A gentleman of leisure whose glory days were past? No! Quite apart from the peril under which his country lay at the hands of the French, he knew that he was a man of the sea and belonged there. So was that what he must call home? He would not be at sea for ever and it was the expected and natural thing for any officer to acquire a property for the time when he swallowed the anchor and returned to the bosom of his family.

  Since he had left Guildford, sea adventures had followed each other in exciting succession and his attention had been largely on the present. Perhaps now was the right time to consider where he was going with his life—and who he was.

  There was no point in denying that he was a natural-born sailor who had the gift of sea-sense and tactics, and from long ago he had not been troubled by fear in battle: his end was just as near by land as sea, and duty was a clear path in war. No, there was no doubt that the probability was, given a reasonable run of luck, that he was destined for yet greater honours. Even to the dignity of post-captain? It was not impossible now, for with Napoleon Bonaparte declaring himself Emperor of the French there was no prospect in the near future of peace and unemployment.

  His heart beat faster. To be made post—the captain of a frigate and later even ship-of-the-line, and firmly set on the path that led to . . . admiral!

  It was not impossible, but there were many commanders and few post-captains. It would take much luck and, of course, interest at the highest level, which he did not have: he did not mix in the right circles. He must re-enter the society he had turned his back on when he had chosen Rosalynd, a country lass, over an admiral’s daughter. That much was clear. A chill of apprehension stole over him at the thought of facing patrician gazes again, the practised swift appraisal and rapid dismissal.

  But it had to be acknowledged that he was now a man of substance. He had no need to be intimidated by those grander than he. His situation was quite as fortunate as theirs, probably more so than that of some, and he could validly expect to step forward and claim his place among them.

  The thought swelled. He could afford the trappings, need not fear lacking the resources to keep up with them in whatever pursuit the occasion demanded. He would be treated with politeness and deference, would be allowed and accepted into their company. He would make friends. He would be noticed.

  It was a heady vision but to become a figure in society it was not enough to dress modishly. To be accepted he must comport himself as they did, assume the graces and accomplishments of gentility that Renzi had been so at pains to instil in him when he had first become an officer. He had no desire to be thought quaint, which meant he should quickly acquire the requisite elements of polish such as an acquaintance with the classics, musical accomplishments and, remembering Cecilia’s exasperated comments, gentlemanly speech.

  Was that so hard? If he was to achieve a credible finish then, with his other advantages, he could pass for one of them. Of course, there was the difficulty of his origins, his family, but was this not the way the great families of the day must have started? Northern iron-masters, Liverpool shipping lords, rising merchants of the City of London were all now laying down estates and being honoured in a modern world that was making way for men who were reaching the heights by their own efforts.

  Damn it! He would be one of them and take his place among them by right. And if it took the hoisting in of a few ancient tomes and working on his conversation, so be it. He would meet his future squarely and seize any opportunity with both hands.

  Suddenly impatient, he began to walk back quickly, letting his thoughts race. Above all, he had the means to see it through: if he was right about his prospects, then the sooner he was equipping himself for his destiny the better. It was going to happen. There would be a new Thomas Kydd.

  Feeling surged. But did that mean he was turning his back on Guildford, the place of his birth, that until now he had called home? No. He would put this world gently but firmly to one side. It was just that it was no longer the centre of his universe.

  He hurried along the last few yards to the school-house gate, lightness of spirit urging him onward. “Good mornin’, Ma,” he said happily. “Y’ say Mrs. Bawkins is entertainin’ this afternoon?”

  Teazer was delayed in her refit. A humble brig-sloop had no claim to priority in a dockyard that was at full stretch keeping the vital blockading ships-of-the-line at sea and she was left for long periods in forlorn disarray, her crew in receiving hulks and her officers bored.

  Kydd lost no time in taking rooms ashore. Not for him the noisy intimacy of the Blue Posts at Portsmouth Point, he could now afford to stay where officers of rank were to be found, at the George in Penny Street. And there he began the process of refinement.

  It was vexing that Renzi was in London, out of reach for advice, but on the other hand this was Kydd’s own initiative and he would see it through. He went first to the largest bookshop; the assistant had been studiously blank-faced as he asked for suggestions as to what primers gentlemen found most answered in a classical education.

  He left with a clutch of books and hurried back. The Greek grammar was hopelessly obtuse and required him to learn by rote the squiggly characters of the alphabet before ever he could start. It could wait for later. The other looked more promising; an inter-linear copy of Caesar’s commentaries on the campaign in Gaul, the Latin on one line, English on another. At least it was about the manly pursuit of war, not the fantastical monsters and gods of antique Greece.

  “Omnia Gallia in tres partes divisa est . . .” Did he really have to get his head round all this? Or could he learn some of the more pithy sayings and casually drop them into the dinner-table conversation to the pleased surprise of all? That sounded much the better idea.

  In the matter of polite discourse there could be no hesitation. He would be damned as of the lower orders by his own words just as soon as he opened his mouth in company. Since the days of Cecilia’s patient efforts on his speech, he had slipped back into his comfortable old ways.

  No, this required an all-out effort—and he must apply himself to it this time. Resolved, he gave it careful thought. This was not to be learned casually with others or from books, he needed professional assistance. In the Portsmouth Commercial Directory he found what he was looking for.

  “Mr. Augustus DeLisle?” he asked politely, at the door of a smart Portsea terrace house.

  “It is, sir, at your service,” the rather austere gentleman answered with a slight bow, appraising Kydd’s appearance, then bestowing on him a professional smile.

  “Th’ language coach as can be engaged t’ fit a gentleman for converse even at the Court o’ St. James?” Kydd persisted.

  “The same,” the man said with a sniff. “You should know that I count most of the noble houses of Hampshire among my satisfied clients and—”

  “Are ye available for immediate engagement, sir?” Kydd asked abruptly.

  “Why, at such notice—”

  “I’ve ten guineas to lay in y’r hand as says it’ll fadge.”

  “Er, very well—but be aware, sir, I cannot abide the fugitive aspirate, still less the cruelly truncated participle! You shall bring along your child and he will—”

  “Not a younker, sir, it’s t’ be me.”

  “I—I don’t quite understand you, sir,” the man said uncertainly.

  “M’ name’s Kydd, and I want t’ speak wi’ the best of ’em. Ye’ve got me half a day, every day until I can stand up an’ be taken for a lord.”

  “Every day?” he spluttered. “My young masters usually attend but twice a week and—”

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bsp; “M’ time is limited, sir,” Kydd said impatiently. “I’d be thinkin’ ye a rare ’un if I sees ye refuse half a year’s fee for a few weeks’ work.”

  The refit ground forward in the dockyard but the day came not so many weeks later when Teazer was released and became inhabited once more by her rightful denizens. She stored, watered and took in an overseas allowance of powder and shot, the Downs Squadron being considered so active a station as to warrant a maximum loading.

  There was no time to be lost: Admiral Keith needed every vessel that swam in his crucial command, and Kydd was determined for Teazer to play her part.

  “Er, I have to report, ship ready for sea, sir,” Hallum said awkwardly.

  Kydd grunted. It was now common knowledge about the ship that their clerk was still at large, adrift from leave. A letter of recall had been sent to him, which had been acknowledged, but he had not appeared and it now seemed that the ship would sail without him.

  It was no use. They could not delay. Kydd sighed heavily and went on deck, searching vainly for a hurrying figure on the dockside. “Single up!” he ordered. All lines that tethered them alongside were let go save two. Away from the wharf, dockyard work-boats attended for the sloop to warp out, and in Teazer there was the ageold thrill of the outward bound.

  Sail bent on, men expectantly at their posts, Kydd reluctantly gave the command. “Take us out, Mr. Dowse.”

  Ropes splashed into the murky water and Teazer was ready to spread her wings. Colour appeared at the signal tower. “Our pennant, ‘proceed,’ sir,” squeaked their brand new midshipman, Tawse, wielding the big telescope importantly.

  “Acknowledge,” Kydd said heavily. With the ebb tide Teazer loosed sail and left to meet her destiny.

  The narrow entrance was difficult and needed concentration. They passed the rickety jollity of Portsmouth Point close abeam, then King Henry’s tower on one side with Haslar and Fort Blockhouse only a couple of hundred yards to the other, and they were through.