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  “We—we must return, Letitia is on her own.” She avoided his eyes, but did not try to move away.

  Kydd sensed he would lose all if he pressed his attentions now. He picked up his candle. “Yes, of course.”

  A trim 28-gun frigate materialized out of the morning haze to seaward, slow and frustrated by the light winds. But Kydd was not watching. He’d gone to the master’s sea cabin, ostensibly to correct charts for the Spanish coast but in reality to struggle with the wording of a letter to Emily. They had returned safely from the cave, and after a somewhat distant leave-taking, which he put down to necessary caution in front of Letitia, they had parted.

  It had now been some days since they had met, and his mind was feverish with thoughts of her. He had to decide if her silence meant that she was waiting for a more bold approach from him, even a romantic gesture. He knew he was not as taut a hand in these waters as he would like, and it was too much to expect a steer from Cockburn, whose cold manner now wounded him.

  All he knew was that he was besotted with her. He stared at the bulkhead, seeing her lovely eyes and perfect lips. It was time for action! He would invite her casually for a tour of the ship—after the dog-watches but before the frustrated men started their interminable drinking and fighting.

  He scratched his head at the taxing necessity of getting the wording exactly right; it would not do to have his motives misconstrued. “Dear Emily” … Damn! Of course he must put something more in the formal way. Another piece of paper. The master did not have many fresh sheets in his cabin desk; he always employed the other sides of used paper for everything except formal work. “Dear Mrs. Mulvany, It would be a right honor to escort you on a visit aboard my ship, HMS Achilles 64.”

  From time to time the officers brought their ladies of the moment on board for a quick and often scandalized peek, and the petty officers and men brought their much more worldly doxies to the fo’c’sle when they had the silver to afford them. His lady was much more the prime article, and he could see her now, by the capstan whelps, cool and elegant, asking how the bars were pinned and swifted, then smiling that warm and special smile at him.

  In a glow, he continued: “Please signify when you are free, and we will meet wherever you say.”

  That was all that was needed. After the visit they would step ashore together, and who knew what might then eventuate? Kydd’s brow furrowed at choosing the closing words, and he decided on a more neutral cast: Your devoted friend, Thomas Paine Kydd.”

  There! He folded the paper, and looked for a wafer to seal it. He rummaged guiltily in the compartments of the master’s desk, but found none, or even red wax. The ship’s messenger would take the letter readily enough on his forenoon rounds for a coin or two, but Kydd did not want him to read its content. He remembered that the caulkers were at work around the main-hatch. He would use a blob of caulking pitch as sealing wax. Admittedly, it was black instead of red, but that would not trouble a lady of Emily’s breeding.

  Kydd strolled back to the quarterdeck and saw the little frigate. She was making a cautious approach, probably to warp alongside the New Mole. Lines were passed, capstans manned, and she was neatly brought in.

  Distracted, Kydd went below to rouse out a crew for cleaning down after the caulkers, but his mind was not on the job. When he returned to the upper deck he caught a glimpse of a boat rounding under the stern of Achilles. It was probably from the frigate, and he watched the bulwark to see who would come over.

  With unbelieving eyes, he saw Renzi hoist himself awkwardly aboard, touch his hat to the officer-of-the-watch, and look around. Kydd crossed over to him rapidly and held out his hand. “Well met, Nicholas!” he said happily, but saw that things were not as usual with his friend. There were dark rings around his eyes and the handshake clearly gave him pain. “You’re in a frigate now,” Kydd offered.

  “I am—Bacchante twenty-eight, a trim enough daughter of Neptune.” A smile cracked through. “Quite fortuitous. Glorious was sadly knocked about in the rencontre before Saint Vincent and lies under repair at Lagos. I act temporarily in the place of a wounded mariner in the frigate, having the duty but never the glory, I fear.” He sighed. “Yet here you lie in the same berth, topping it the sybarite while the world is in a moil—and I took such pains to come here of the especial concern I have for my friend.”

  Kydd colored, but the pleasure at seeing his best friend was profound, and he didn’t rise to the gentle gibe. “You were there in th’ great battle, wi’ a mort o’ prize money t’ come, I suspect.”

  Renzi looked away. “I was, but… You shall have your curiosity satisfied, should you be at liberty to step ashore this afternoon, I have a consuming desire to be at peace. Do you know of such a place we can—”

  “O’ course! We c’n—” Kydd stopped. If a favorable message came from Emily and by his absence he did not respond … It was unfortunate timing but—

  “Er, Nicholas, I’ve just remembered, I have an arrangement f’r tonight. It’s very important, y’ know,” he mumbled. Renzi’s face fell. “With a lady, y’ see,” Kydd added hopelessly.

  “Then we shall rendezvous on the morrow, and you shall hear my tale then,” Renzi said softly.

  Kydd watched him leave, with a pang of guilt.

  There was no reply by noon, and the afternoon hours passed at a snail’s pace; Kydd had donned his best rig, in case Emily wanted to take up his invitation immediately. The ship was in harbor routine. After dinner at noon, those who were allowed, and had the means, quickly made their way ashore, the remainder settled down restlessly.

  By the dog-watches he was torn with doubt. Had he been deceived by her manner, mistaken in his conclusions? But there could be no mistaking the need and urgency of that kiss.

  The evening had turned into a study of scarlet and orange, the sea darkling prettily, with Thomas Kydd, master’s mate, still to be found on deck. Then, after the evening meal, a message came. The coxswain of the gig’s crew brought it to him, apologetically mentioning that due to being called away to attend the captain, he had not had a chance before to pass it along—and this from early afternoon.

  Kydd ground his teeth and clattered below to the gunroom. The master had returned, so his cabin was no longer available. Savagely, he sent the midshipmen to their berth and, silently cursing the impossibility of getting privacy in a warship, settled to open the message under the eye of the sallow surgeon’s mate and his bottle. He inspected the inscription—“Mr. T. Kydd, HMS Achilles”—then split the wafer and hurriedly unfolded the sheet.

  Dear Mr. Kydd,

  Thank you for the kind invitation to visit your ship. Unfortunately, I have rather a lot of engagements at the present, but will let you know when convenient.

  Yours sincerely,

  Mrs. Emily Mulvany

  He reread, and again, slowly, so as not to miss any subtle clues. An initial wash of disappointment was replaced by logic. Of course, she would be otherwise engaged, it had been kind of her to fit him in before. “Mr. Kydd”: cold—or cautious, lest the message fall into the wrong hands? The same might be said of the way she had ended the letter. In any event, he must bide his time.

  Nothing could have been better calculated to ease Kydd’s frustrations than his meeting with Renzi the following day. True to Renzi’s wishes, the pair toiled up the hill to the commissioner’s house, then found the path running along the flanks of the Rock. There was a row of fig trees on the upper side, and a vineyard below, with occasional olive trees to afford shade.

  “This is particularly agreeable to my spirit, Tom,” Renzi said. They walked on in the warm sun in perfect silence but for the sough of the breeze, an occasional murmur of busyness from the distant town below and their own progress along the dusty ground.

  The quiet was calm and companionable. Presently, they came to a flowered area with a fine orange tree in the center and a rustic wooden seat around it, a view of the harbor at their feet.

  “Utterly peaceful—the work of ma
n, yet supernal in its effects.” Renzi sat and stared at the view, then closed his eyes. Kydd’s mind was alive with distractions of the present. Was Emily’s letter a delaying tactic while she reviewed her feelings? Should he press his case more clearly, perhaps?

  “A lady?” Renzi’s lazy murmur cut through his rush of thoughts.

  Kydd glanced suspiciously at him, but Renzi’s eyes were still closed. “Er, y’r in the right of it—but I beg, tell me of y’r battle. I heard it was a thunderin’ good drubbing f’r the Dons.”

  Renzi opened his eyes and stared into space. “Little enough to say. It was a hard-fought encounter and they had overweening forces, but we prevailed.” He looked at Kydd with a sardonic smile. “You would have been diverted by the sight of their Santissima Trinidad—a four-decker of a hundred and thirty guns, a leviathan indeed.”

  As far as Kydd knew, the largest ship in the Royal Navy only had a hundred guns and three decks, so such a monster a third bigger should have made a devastating impact. “Did she—who should say—get among our ships—”

  “We took her.”

  Kydd’s eyes gleamed.

  “Then we forgot about her, so she rehoisted her colors and retired from the field.”

  “But Nelson, did he not—”

  “The man is a genius of the sea war—daring and courageous with it. He will either die young or find great glory, nothing less.”

  Kydd fell silent. While great deeds were happening on the open sea, he was wasting his life in port, going nowhere.

  Renzi shifted position awkwardly. “Somethin’ pains you?” Kydd asked.

  “Only a pinking from a splinter across my chest.” He turned to Kydd. “You made mention of a lady …”

  “Er, yes. Her name’s Emily.”

  “A fine name,” said Renzi dryly.

  “She’s very beautiful.”

  “I have no doubt she has shining parts,” Renzi prompted.

  “There is somethin’ that is stoppin’ her showin’ her true feelings.”

  “She believes you are from an inferior station in life?”

  “No. That’s to say, this is not where the problem lies.” He struggled with what had to come next, feeling a chill of doubt for the first time. “You see, Nicholas, right at th’ moment … she is married.” Kydd blushed, then muttered protestations of love.

  Renzi’s expressionless mask did not change. Then, suddenly, he came to his feet, and paced around the small garden with his hands behind his back, once, twice, then returned to Kydd and stood before him. “It seems to me the lady does not appreciate your true worth, my friend. She probably has cognizance only of the army life, never the navy.” He paused for effect, then announced gravely, “I have a plan.”

  “Yes, Nicholas?”

  “You shall be known for a daring, dangerous and romantic sea feat that will have the whole of Gibraltar talking. She will regard you as her adoring hero, her Galahad.”

  “Ye’re chousin’ me! Achilles is not goin’ to sea, there’s no chance o’ that.”

  “No, but Bacchante is, and she needs men.” Renzi leaned forward. “I’m quite certain that the frigate is bound for the eastern Mediterranean. It is not talked about, there is a smothering secrecy, but the application of a little logic suggests much. The master has taken in certain charts of the area, the vessel is under some kind of Admiralty orders, we are a private ship. The Mediterranean is now without a single English sail—why would the Admiralty risk a single valuable frigate in a sea so hostile?” Renzi paused. “It is because they wish to rescue someone, a grandee, perhaps, but one of some consequence.”

  The romantic possibilities of an audacious rescue of a notable were easy to see.

  Renzi went on, “We have abandoned our ports and bases and retreated to Gibraltar, the princes, governors and such ilk long retrieved. No, this is somewhere that is lately under threat, and for that we can discount the petty fiefdoms of the Levant, the decadent Ottomans, the Barbary Coast—none would rate any personage of importance. Italy—now, the French have been pressing them from over the Alps, they have overrun much of the north. Austria is inviolate—for the moment—and I believe it is to Italy we are headed.”

  A smile broke through; Kydd waited.

  “None of the northern kingdoms of Italy has much in the way of diplomatic representation, so my conclusion is that our dignitary is stranded in the nor’east after fleeing over the Alps and, finding that the English are no longer there, having evacuated the Mediterranean entirely.”

  “Er, what do we find in th’ nor’east ?”

  Renzi rubbed his chin. “Well, there you will find the wild Balkan shore, Ragusa, but also Naples—and Venice.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Kydd spun the wheel experimentally—there was no doubt that Bacchante was a sea witch. Responsive and eager to the helm, she was like a racehorse—and nearly brandnew—as sweet a lady as had ever come down the slip at Buckler’s Hard. His practiced eye flicked up to the leech of the main topsail, and he inched the helm over until the hard edge of the sail began a minute flutter. Satisfied, he checked first against the dog-vane in the shrouds giving the wind angle, then the compass.

  A broad grin broke on his face, and he caught an amused look, tinged with respect, from the officer-of-the-watch. “Damn fine sailer!” he muttered defensively. It had been a few years since he had last held the helm of a top frigate, and that had been the famous Artemis. Unable to suppress a sigh of the deepest satisfaction, he reluctantly surrendered the wheel to the duty helmsman, who was waiting patiently; Kydd had shipped in a vacancy of quartermaster and had the overall responsibility of the conn, his rate of master’s mate willingly put aside temporarily.

  “Fletcher on th’ helm, sir,” he called, as was his duty to the officer-of-the-watch, the courteous Griffith.

  “Thank you, Kydd.” The officer resumed his pacing on the weather side, leaving Kydd to drink in the sheer pleasure of having a live, moving deck under his feet, the sweet curving of deck-lines set about with drum-taut rigging, the urgent hiss of their progress.

  Renzi had been right: it had been announced that they were heading deep into the Mediterranean on some sort of venture to bring off a distressed but unknown worthy hiding somewhere on the other side of Italy. Kydd had jumped at the chance to volunteer for the voyage, even though for them every ship that swam must be hostile—and it was not certain they would survive to return.

  “Do I find you in spirits, then, brother?” Renzi murmured, from behind him.

  Kydd turned to him happily. “Aye, y’ do.” A chance to be involved in a romantic rescue, the prospect of weeks at sea with Renzi before they returned to Gibraltar, and all happening in this lovely frigate. “A spankin’ fine ship!”

  “Larbowlines have the last dog?” Renzi’s question was necessary, for as master’s mate his watches conformed to the officers’ while Kydd was back with the traditional two watches of the men. He was hoping he and Kydd could spend a watch companionably together, as in the old times.

  “First dog-watch.” The forms would have to be observed; while all the ship knew Kydd’s origins, he must now wear the blue short jacket and white trousers of a seaman, while Renzi must appear in the coat and breeches of a warrant officer. Kydd would address him as “Mr. Renzi” on watch, and would take his orders, which, in the immutable way of the navy, he would do without question.

  They strolled together to the lee side of the ship, Kydd automatically checking the yeasty foaming of the wake as it slid aft to join with the other side in a perfectly straight line into the far distance—the helmsman would hear from him if there were any betraying dog-legs.

  “It would seem we are set on a course to round Sicily and enter the Adriatic, but the captain is under orders to keep in with the coast of Africa to avoid being seen.”

  Kydd was acquainted with the charts of the Mediterranean and understood the dangers of such a precaution. He glanced up at the red-white-red of their ensign—that of a unit of the Aus
trian navy, their disguise for this part of the voyage. “Wind fair f’r Malta, five days north t’ Venice, another three—”

  “Master says the wind’s dead foul this time of the year up the Adriatic.”

  “So that lets us get away fast, after,” said Kydd, with a chuckle.

  Renzi gave a half-smile. “We have a Venetian gentleman with us in the gunroom who will be our agent. He warns that we’re in some measure of danger. The advance of the French into Italy is fast and unpredictable, and he cannot guarantee the loyalties of any.”

  But in his present mood Kydd could not be repressed. It should be straightforward enough: a fast passage, send the boats in to bring off the fleeing notable, and a rapid exit, to admiration and acclaim in Gibraltar. They were not looking for trouble—it would go ill for the captain were he to rescue the fugitive, then hazard him in a battle.

  Renzi swung around as the captain appeared at the main-hatch. He wore a frown of worry, and searched the horizon minutely. They were deep into a hostile sea where every man’s hand was turned against them, every sail an enemy. “How does the ship, Mr. Griffith?” he asked at length.

  “Well enough, sir—we shifted three leaguers aft, seems to have cured the griping.” Kydd and his party down in the hold had heaved aft three massive water casks to raise the vessel’s bow, altering her trim such that her stem did not bite so deeply to bring her head to the wind.

  “Very well. Do you spare no pains to impress their duty upon the lookouts!”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  A broad vista of royal blue water, tinting darker as the evening drew on, was broken at the bows by a school of the small dolphins peculiar to this enclosed sea. They played around the bows of Bacchante, more like darting fish than the disciplined phalanx of the oceanic dolphin.

  Renzi had his clay pipe going to his satisfaction and stared out into the blue, letting the peace of the evening calm his senses, the ceaseless wash and slop of the slight waves soothing to the soul.