Betrayal tk-13 Read online

  Kydd felt duty-bound to stay aboard as the men reluctantly made their way back to their ship, suffering with them until the vessel was habitable again. He had split the ship’s company in two to share the duties, and the first on board were set to sweeten the vessel – from stem to stern a mighty scrubbing with vinegar and lime, the deckhead beams liberally anointed with a powerful concoction of Geen’s own devising. The cable tiers were lime whitewashed, and twice, two feet of seawater was let in to flood the bilges, the reeking water then pumped over the side until it ran clear.

  After their heroic efforts this party happily made its way ashore to its favoured waterfront punch-house to wash away the taste with Cape brandy while the other watch came on board for the even more taxing job of painting ship.

  Boatswain Oakley, his head bandaged and in pain, took charge. Preparation was thorough: wood painstakingly scraped back before the paint was carefully mixed. The pigment, oil and litharge was poured into an old fish-kettle in proportions to his satisfaction, and on an upper-deck charcoal fire, the mixture was boiled, then strained through a bread-bag to be laid on warm.

  Kydd had his firm views on appearance: it was to stay the Nelson chequer, a smart black hull with a warlike band of yellow along the line of guns, the gun-ports menacing regular squares in black. Lower masts below the tops were well varnished; above the tops, they were painted black, as were the yards, with white tips at their extremities to aid in working aloft in the dark.

  Then there was the detailing: scarlet inner bulwarks before the guns, a stout mixture of varnish and tar on the binnacle and belfry and here and there a dash of white. The flutings of the headrails and cheeks saw dark blue to set off the carved scroll-work, and their old-fashioned lion and crown figurehead claimed a handsome gilding of gold-leaf. Kydd himself found the necessary wherewithal to ensure the ornamentation shone around the quarter-galleries and stern-lights.

  The men set to with a will to brighten their living quarters; it was amazing how much a frigate’s below-the-waterline mess-deck could be lightened by a lime whitewash on the bulkheads and ship’s side. The petty officers prettified their own messes, each separated by canvas screens decorated lavishly with mermaids and sea battles, their crockery mess-traps stowed neatly in vertical side lockers: in a frigate there was no need to clear for action on a deck with no guns.

  Kydd found time to relax in his great cabin, the floor-cloth renewed and the furniture sweet-smelling from the lavender-oil-impregnated beeswax that Tysoe, his valet, had applied to overcome the odour of fumigation. The boys had been industrious in their cleaning and priddying and, at Renzi’s suggestion, Kydd’s intricate showcase secretaire had been picked out in gilt around its French polish and green leather.

  The gunroom had come together in noble style to enrich their own sea home. In place of the utilitarian service barrel slung from the forward bulkhead, from which commensal wine was drawn, there was now a beautifully polished elliptical cask made for the purpose and bearing a silver plate with ‘The gunroom, HMS L’Aurore, Cape Colony 1806’ engraved in bold flourishes.

  An elegant locker had been contrived around the rudder trunking, which now served to conceal the gunroom’s stock of dog-eared newspapers and magazines. Gilbey and Curzon’s time ashore had not been wasted: a pair of remarkably animated watercolours of Table Mountain and the Cape of Good Hope now adorned their quarters.

  L’Aurore came alive again. The rhythm of a comfortable harbour routine set in, of hands to turn to, part of ship in the forenoon and liberty ashore in the afternoon. Kydd saw a fierce pride in his ship. In due course there would be hard-fought regattas and other competitive outlets but for now all could revel in as trim and saucy a frigate as any that swam.

  ‘You’ve, um, not received anything from Cecilia, at all?’ Renzi asked offhandedly, twiddling his quill as Kydd opened a packet of ship’s mail from England.

  Renzi’s plans to invite Kydd’s sister Cecilia to visit him in Cape Town and offer his hand in marriage had been dashed when his position as acting colonial secretary had not been ratified. Previously he had written her a letter pouring out his most tender admiration and love for her but delayed sending it until things were fully settled. When the blow came, he’d torn the letter up. Cecilia had known of his tendre for her for some time but the latest communication she’d had from him was a stiff letter of release he’d sent before Trafalgar, citing his lack of prospects. Who knew what her feelings towards him were now?

  Kydd pushed his papers to one side. ‘No, Nicholas, and you shall be the first to know of it should I get a letter from her,’ he said impatiently. ‘This Cape enterprise being in the nature of a secret expedition, I can well see it will have any letter chasing all over the ocean till it catches up with us – which it will, in course.’

  ‘Yes, no doubt you are correct,’ Renzi said, with a troubled look.

  Kydd sighed. ‘You know you now stand in a fair way of losing the woman?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There’s every prospect that, having conquered and held the place, the Admiralty will see fit to keep us here indefinitely, we doing such a sterling job.’

  Renzi’s expression turned bleak. He had sworn to Kydd he would go down on his knees and seek Cecilia’s hand the same day that they reached the shores of England. That time now distant, would she still be free?

  ‘I’d suggest you write to her this hour, m’ friend.’

  ‘Believe me, I’ve tried, but-’

  ‘Then I’d think it wise to consider your position, old horse.’

  A half-smile appeared. Kydd knew the signs and waited for his friend to speak.

  ‘Dear brother, in logic, as I see it, there are three alternatives. The one, that she is already taken by another, which at the moment I cannot know; the second, that she is not, but will nevertheless decline my suit; and the third that … that she will listen favourably to that which I shall propose.’

  After a moment’s reflection he said, ‘So it seems my course is clear. No dilemma, no equivocation or foolish agonising.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘On the one, I am helpless to alter the dictates of Fortune, likewise the second, neither requiring either action or decision. As to the third – this must presuppose I should prepare for the day. Now, in the absence of intelligence to the contrary, each condition bears an equal probability of being the outcome, the odds of one in three. I accept those odds, but you see it makes no difference – in the event of the first two, no prior intervention will affect matters while for the third it will. Therefore, irrespective, I am obliged to assume the last … that I am to marry.’

  ‘Well done, old trout!’ Kydd applauded. ‘Therefore, for both your sakes write to her now! There’s a mail to close tomorrow on Bombay Castle.’

  ‘It’s impossible. I cannot trust that I could write without betraying my true feelings and I abhor pity. Therefore I ask a boon – that you write to her as a brother and enquire of her personal circumstances.’

  Kydd frowned, then nodded reluctantly.

  ‘Meanwhile, in this far region there is one, and one only, contribution to my future with Cecilia left open to me.’

  Kydd waited. It would come out logically, as it always did.

  Renzi took a deep breath, looked skyward, then slammed both fists on the table and choked, ‘That novel! I’m going to write my novel – for Cecilia’s sake!’

  To see Renzi so taken with emotion shook Kydd. ‘Er, why, to be sure – I know you’ll do it, Nicholas,’ he said, with concern. It was clear his friend’s so recent cruel fall from fortune and prospects for marriage had affected him more than he had revealed.

  Renzi took control, then said evenly, ‘I shall dedicate my heart and soul to Portrait of an Adventurer, Tom. Never doubt it for one minute.’

  ‘Yes, Nicholas.’

  Writing a novel had been Kydd’s idea, a suggestion to which, until now, Kydd had never given much more thought, but he knew that it was probably the only th
ing Renzi could do that had any promise for the future. The public seemed to crave such works, and Renzi had had a number of adventures around the world that might inspire such a book. But, most importantly, it would keep his friend occupied until they returned and he could resolve matters with Kydd’s sister.

  ‘Damme – whatever it takes out of me, this is the only thing I can positively do for the both of us,’ Renzi said defiantly.

  ‘I quite understand, m’friend.’

  ‘Not forgetting, mark you, what I said about Cecilia.’

  Kydd smiled: a natural philosopher turned writer of novels? Of course she should never hear of it! He clapped his hand on the desk and gave a mock frown. ‘So, what do you know of novels, ever?’

  ‘Ah. Not much – I confess I’ve yet to read one, my father railing against them so vehemently. I’ve taken some first steps, however, which persuade me that it may not be as plain-sailing a task as first I’d conceived.’

  ‘You’ll do it, Nicholas, never fear.’

  ‘I enquired in our worthy gunroom if there was by chance a reader of novels who might lend me a volume, but it seems there was not. Yet mysteriously by evening a pair lay on my cot. Such noble fellows!’

  He fumbled in his pocket and drew out two well-used pocket editions and passed them across. Curious, Kydd opened one. The Castle on the Rhine; or; The Fatal Warning was its title, and lower down it went on breathlessly to declare that it was the harrowing tale of the fate of Reginald de Vere, who dared pierce the deathly walls of a deserted castle in pursuit of a ghostly love.

  ‘Um, you’ve experience of ghosts at all, Nicholas?’ Kydd asked doubtfully.

  ‘We have an ancestral phantom but I’ve never met it,’ Renzi said apologetically, ‘and never a spirit, of the ghostly sort that is, have I seen at sea.’

  Kydd turned to the second book. ‘Then this other one, “Quentin Dandy, being an account of the peregrinations of a scoundrel and his dreadful end”, in five volumes – but this is the third only, damn it.’

  ‘It must serve, I fear. We need all the research matter we can lay hands on.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘My dear fellow! You don’t imagine I shall exclude my most particular friend from this literary adventure, surely.’

  ‘But I’m a sea officer, fit only to write a log or beg favour of my admiral, Nicholas. What do I know of romance and plotting?’

  ‘Tom, dear fellow, you have a crucial role, one suited only to a clear and strong mind as will not be swayed by fashion and sorcery. In fine, dear friend, you shall be my audience.’

  ‘Oh. To make critical remarks, review your meaning and similar?’

  ‘Er, yes.’

  ‘Then shall I be telling the truth or will I be losing a friend?’ Kydd asked slyly.

  ‘I’ve yet to write a word,’ Renzi said stiffly. ‘There’s a mort of work before then.’

  Gravely, the commodore paced slowly along the assembled divisions, asking a question here, commending an appearance there. Kydd followed: L’Aurore was at her best and he could vouch for her fighting spirit. Some senior officers insisted on a faultless appearance, others fell back on pedantry in the matter of ceremonials, but he knew Popham prized intelligence and audacity above all else – and who on this station had shown more than L’Aurore?

  Concluding his tour, Popham stood genially on the quarterdeck and addressed Kydd loudly: ‘A splendid turn-out, Captain! And as fine a King’s Ship as any I’ve seen. You shall have my order that the mainbrace be spliced this afternoon.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Kydd replied courteously.

  ‘That is, if you’re able to satisfy me in one last particular.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Popham wheeled about and strode purposefully to the spotless after end of the quarterdeck beyond the mizzen-mast. ‘I desire you should make to Diadem the following signal.’

  Saxton, the signals master’s mate, hastily took out his notebook.

  ‘“Report the Christian name of the captain of your main-top.”’

  That would be quite impossible to send with the current Admiralty signal book.

  ‘Telegraph,’ muttered Saxton, instantly, to his petty officer, who lost no time in having the telegraph code flag bent on while Saxton composed the signal. It drew an approving nod from the commodore when ‘Christian’ was not found in the book and Saxton muttered, ‘Um, that is, “fore, forward, bows” and then “name” will do’. He rapidly found the numbers.

  The hoist soared up, to be answered with a spelled-out reply from all three masts of Diadem. ‘Cholmondeley,’ Saxton reported, wooden-faced.

  ‘Very good,’ Popham said graciously. ‘You may stand down your ship’s company, Captain.’

  When this had been done, Kydd asked politely, ‘And may I offer you refreshments, sir?’

  Once in Kydd’s great cabin, hats and swords were put off and Popham eased himself into one of the armchairs by the stern-lights, stretching luxuriously and loosening his neckcloth. ‘A thoroughly good-spirited ship, Kydd. Count yourself blessed you’re her commander.’

  Tysoe arrived with glasses on a tray. ‘To L’Aurore,’ Popham toasted. ‘Long may you reign in her.’

  He put down his glass, adding, ‘As you won’t always serve in such a thoroughbred. Enjoy her while you can, old fellow, for the time will come when you’ll know only the lumbering tedium of a ship-o’-the-line.’

  ‘I will, you may be sure of it,’ Kydd said, with feeling, then realised too late that this must apply to Popham himself at the moment. ‘Which is to say-’

  ‘Of course. And you and she will grow old together on this station.’

  Kydd paused. Popham must be restless if he was bringing this up again. ‘There’s a chance we’ll be superseded and sent home, surely.’

  ‘I rather think not. A pair of old sixty-fours and a couple of frigates is a small enough levy on our fleet – why go to the bother and expense of exchanging ships over such a distance?’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ Kydd said. ‘I suppose we must rest content – it is our purpose and duty, is it not?’

  Unexpectedly, Popham sighed. ‘You’re in the right of it, old fellow. We shouldn’t complain.’ He stared moodily out of the pretty windows at the vast, white-specked ocean expanse. ‘Even when I know for want of communication a priceless opportunity for strategic intervention is slipping by.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Well, in this morning’s mail I received word from my friend Miranda that he is beginning an enterprise of the utmost significance.’ He saw Kydd’s mystification and explained, ‘A gentleman of mixed Spanish ancestry known to me since the year ’ninety-eight. Went to France to learn to be a revolutionary for he ardently desires to rid the Spanish colonies in the south of America of their masters. The French being lukewarm in the matter he then secretly approached the Foreign Office.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He was disappointed in his hopes and came to see me with his intentions. As a newly elected Member of Parliament I took an interest, his proposal possessing certain compelling advantages to the Crown. His plan was to raise widespread rebellion in South America while the attention of the Spanish and French was on the invasion of Great Britain. The benefits to us I need hardly point out. An immediate cessation of the treasure fleet filling Boney’s coffers would provide an intolerable distraction to Spain, caught between two fires, as will probably see it sue for peace, and, of course, an immeasurable increase in trade opportunities once the continent is thrown open to England’s merchants.’

  He had Kydd’s complete attention. Strategy and chance were coinciding for truly global stakes.

  Popham continued: ‘At some length I argued Miranda’s case in a secret memorandum to Billy Pitt, who took it seriously and even told the Admiralty to work up an expedition to assist – this was about the time of Fulton’s torpedoes, so if I appeared a little distracted at the time, I do apologise.’

  ‘Not as ever I noticed,’ Kydd replied carefully.

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sp; ‘Then Villeneuve sailed and the Trafalgar campaign began. We were stripped of ships and unable to sail, and when we did – well, it was to the more direct goal, Cape Town, and, successful, here we remain.’

  ‘So, no expedition.’

  ‘Unhappily, no. And do be discreet in what you say, old fellow. The Spanish suspect there is some villainy afoot but can’t fathom from where.’

  Kydd nodded. ‘But surely, with both the Spanish and French driven from the seas and not to be counted on to interfere, now is the best time to move.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘So, Miranda …’

  Popham shook his head. ‘A shameful thing, I must own. Despairing that we will ever get another expedition together, he is proceeding on his own. His letter coldly informs me that he is shortly to descend on Caracas, the chief town in the north of the continent, there to raise the flag of revolution and independence for all the peoples of South America.’

  ‘And we do nothing?’

  ‘The plan called for us to move simultaneously against the viceroyalty of the River Plate in the south, Montevideo or wherever but …’

  ‘This is hard to take,’ Kydd growled. ‘Such a blow as will ring out around the world! Does not Whitehall see this? Have you had any kind of word?’

  Popham gave a tired smile. ‘Pitt was not well when we sailed on this Cape venture. Conceivably he’s distracted by the news of Austerlitz.’

  ‘We don’t know that.’ Kydd had only recently heard of it: a land battle in some benighted place to the east, where Bonaparte had crushed the armies of both the Austrian and Russian emperors in a titanic battle. Most opinion had it that the Third Coalition, an alliance including Austria, Prussia, England, Russia and Sweden, was as good as destroyed.