Betrayal (10 page)

Popham laid down his pointer and looked at his captains apologetically. ‘So, that’s the situation this month, gentlemen. More of the same – the sixty-fours to remain here, the frigates to cruise occasionally. I’m sorry not to have more entertainment but, as you can see, the French have not been obliging in this.’

Byng of
Belliqueux
’s bass rumble came in: ‘It has to be said, though, that life on this station does have its compensations.’ He had reason to be satisfied: he had been comfortably in command of the ageing sixty-four for five years now and his wife had recently arrived to join him, as had Downman’s in
Diadem
. With the pretty wife of
Leda
’s Honyman, there was now a close social grouping of the married men with family.

‘Be that as it may, we have our duty. Which takes precedence over all else,’ Popham said coldly.

‘Well, I’m for a mort of play at the tables tonight. Frederick?’ There was an affable response to Byng’s query, and the captains made their way out, but something tugged at Kydd and he delayed.

Popham was collecting up his papers and Kydd saw the sagging shoulders, the slow movements, and felt a sudden stab of sympathy. He said impulsively, ‘Er, sir, there’s a French singer at my club, much cried up. Should you wish it, we could spend a pleasant enough evening there.’

The commodore looked up, his face lined and careworn, and broke into a soft smile. ‘Why, so thoughtful in you, Kydd. I shall take you up on the offer, I believe.’

He looked down, saying quietly, ‘And it’s “Dasher” to my friends, as I hope you’ll account me.’

The evening turned out as agreeable as promised and the two found themselves by the log fire, each with a fine brandy. Elsewhere the noisy conviviality continued but they sat in companionable silence, staring into the flames.

At last Popham spoke: ‘Pay no mind to me today, Kydd. I’m prey to the blue devils at times – I’m unhappily possessed of a mind that’s ceaselessly conjuring up quantities of stratagems and devices that have no hope ever of seeing light of day.’

‘It is a disappointment, no doubt, that Mrs Popham is not joining you,’ Kydd said gently. Presumably she would be the one to tame his restless spirit, if anyone could.

‘Elizabeth does not take kindly to foreign climes, and we have a clutch of daughters whose education would suffer if they were parted from their school.’ It was known that Popham had a wife and family, but they had never followed him and he was left, like so many other naval officers, neither bachelor nor married man. Some had taken the easy way out but he had always remained faithful.

Kydd shifted uncomfortably, aware he was talking to the one who had surveyed in the Red Sea, conceived of the Sea Fencibles, had devised the near-invisible catamaran torpedo launchers and a radical new signal system used by Nelson himself, originated the secret Miranda memorandum and was no less than a full fellow of the Royal Society. What possible diversions were to be found in Cape Colony for this fecund brain?

‘In my lower moments I feel driven to strike my flag and return to England, away from this exile.’ He took a deep pull of his brandy. ‘That would be the end of my sea service, of course, but . . .’

Aghast, Kydd tried to find something to say in brotherly sympathy but could think of nothing that did not sound weak.

‘And at other times I damn the eyes of the sluggards in London who couldn’t see a strategical opportunity if it bit them in the ankle. For two pins I’d sail against Montevideo with what I have, rather than wait for their interminable approval until it’s too late.’

Kydd caught a betraying flash of the eyes and, with a tightening of the stomach, realised what it meant. He was being sounded out: the commodore was up to something and needed to know where he stood.

A wash of apprehension was quickly replaced by a surge of understanding and loyalty. Popham was driven by his own need for action but it was in direct accord with his higher duty to his country and the more basic requirement they both shared to achieve something of distinction. Did he really mean it?

‘As well you might, Dasher,’ Kydd said warmly. ‘It would try the patience of a saint.’

He allowed some moments to pass then added casually, ‘And a move against the Dons in South America could well knock them out of the war, I’m persuaded.’

‘You are? It would discommode them to a degree, that much is certain. And the treasure there – I’d rather it were in English hands than Boney’s, don’t you think?’

The eyes were now steadily on Kydd and he returned the gaze confidently. Nothing had been said that was either the truth or what he truly felt.

‘I do. But then all this is to no purpose – there’s nothing can be done without there is approval from Whitehall.’

‘Um,’ Popham said, his gaze not wavering. ‘This must be so, but . . . purely out of curiosity, if I were to be so rash as to make a motion against South America, would you follow, old chap?’

So that was it. A strike against Montevideo!

His mind raced. The question, of course, was hypothetical: if Popham ordered it, Kydd must obey. What was really being asked was: would he join with a whole heart in the enterprise or hang back with carping objections, as some might do in the absence of formal orders from above? If Popham really contemplated the move he must tread very carefully indeed, for if it was later disallowed by the Admiralty then, from this point on, anything Kydd did that smacked of collusion was meat for a court-martial.

There was one overriding objection to any talk of a pre-emptive assault and Kydd knew it had to be brought up immediately: ‘Well, I have to say it, Dasher, it’s a bold enough stroke – but wouldn’t this leave you open to the charge of quitting your station without leave?’ It was axiomatic to faraway Admiralty planning that the strength and whereabouts of its assets around the world were reliably known in the grand chess game that was central to political strategy, and an admiral who was absent from his post was a dangerous liability.

Almost as soon as he had spoken, Kydd found an answer to his own question. ‘Then again, I’d have to confess before you that I followed Nelson when he left his Mediterranean station to chase Villeneuve across the Atlantic, and where would we all be if his courage to leave had failed him then?’

‘Just so,’ said Popham, imperceptibly relaxing. ‘Would that all my captains were of such stout heart.’

Kydd made play of fixing on the light of the fire through his brandy. ‘But then all this is idle talk. The Navy might desire it but the Army must achieve it. How would they be persuaded?’

‘This is true enough, but if you’d heard the talk after mess dinner in the castle enough times, as I have, you’d not be in doubt. They, poor wights, are in far worse case than we. At least we’ve the passing prospect of a privateer or cruiser to look forward to. They’ve nothing but idleness each and every day and pray for any kind of alarum that might test their mettle. To dangle a chance before them to share in such an adventure, why, we’d be trampled underfoot by eager military not desiring to be overlooked.’

Kydd joined in the comradely chuckle but knew the discussion was becoming pointed. ‘Um, yes. But at the same time if ever we’d think to make a descent it must take an expedition of size . . . of cost. Where would—’

‘I should think that question easily answered. If our doughty governor, himself of some record as a military strategist, should be taken by the idea, then he has the power and resources to mount such a one. As to equipment, surely that which served in an opposed landing in Blaauwberg would serve us in an identical campaign elsewhere.’

There was no question but that Popham was seriously considering a full-scale move against Spanish South America and all that that implied. The only question now was where Kydd himself stood. With him . . . or against him?

‘H
e what?’ gasped Renzi, choking on his breakfast. ‘You seriously mean to tell me—’

Kydd nodded.

‘This cannot be! He’s implying that there’s going to be an assault on Spanish America with – if he strips Cape Colony of its entire sea defences – a pair of old sixty-fours, two or three frigates and a brig-sloop? Ha! Either you misheard our noble commander or I’m compelled to believe this southern moon must have powers to induce lunacy beyond the ordinary.’

Kydd paused. In the cold light of day it did seem more of a dream than a possibility, but then he returned strongly: ‘Think of it, Nicholas! Not only will it tear away their main source of income from the Spanish but we deny Bonaparte his tribute and means to wage war. And with such a market opened up to us, our factories and merchants’ll swell in riches past all counting. It’s . . . it’s a chance that, for the sake of England, can’t be missed.’

Recovering, Renzi said, with an irritating air, ‘Tom, have you any conception how vast is the continent of South America? How many leagues of mountains and deserts, hills of silver, towns and cities? I’ll grant it’s a worthy aspiration – but conquest?’ He broke off in snorts of laughter.

Nettled, Kydd waited for him to subside. ‘You don’t know the whole of it, Nicholas. He’s in confidential communication with a cove called Miranda, who’s said South America is ripe and ready for rebellion. And he does know about things – Billy Pitt himself asked him personally to write a secret memorandum on the subject.’

‘That’s as may be. It doesn’t take anything away from the utter hare-brained idiocy of it all. Even supposing he gets an expedition from England prodigious enough in size to land an army, what then? He wins a first battle – and where will he go next? When it takes a year to march to the other side, how does he prevail upon the Spanish to wait for him there?’

Kydd reddened. ‘So this is how you treat commanders of spirit and enterprise? At least Popham’s not falling asleep on a quiet station – he’s looking to find ways to annoy the enemy in the best way he can, and if he’s considering ways for an assault, I, for one, honour him for it,’ he snapped, then helped himself to the last of the precious English marmalade in silence.

‘Humph. Leave us trust he’ll come to his senses. Now, I’ve had some thoughts about
Portrait
. If you’d be so kind as to hear these out . . . ?’

‘Well, if you think they’re important. I’ve a busy day, Nicholas.’

Renzi pushed his plate to one side. ‘Then this. What do you think is the best measure of the scale of the task that awaits?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘The simple exercise of multiplying the words on a page, by the number of pages in a book, gives the result of no less than
one hundred thousand words
!’

He went on in awe, ‘Scratching away at, say, a brisk two or three words a second – why, it’ll be months continuous for me just to cast it in words.’

‘Very well. To first things first, Nicholas. What shall be the meat of your piece? That is to say, you’ve shown me two books which are novels and each is different from the other. Yours will be like . . . ?’

‘Mr John Murray, a most estimable publisher whom I consulted before, I seem to remember did mention that the female fancy is not to be neglected and that a travel work would answer. Should I combine the two it may well prove fruitful.’

‘And shall it be a biography?’

‘It will be built upon the events of my life to be sure but, good heavens, none must suspect it.’

‘Nicholas, you’re aware a novel is a work of fiction? You may write what you will, providing it satisfies.’

‘Ah – there you have it! What will please a reader? An extensive treatment of the customs and economy of the local polity, as observed on my travels? Or is it to be a detailed account of events, whether uplifting or tragic?’

Kydd sighed. ‘I’d be happy with a rousing good tale of your wenching in Venice with your poetic friend on that Grand Tour you never want to talk about.’

Renzi coloured. ‘That is never a subject worthy of literary endeavour, as well you know. Recollect, brother, this has to be fit for a gentlewoman’s eyes.’

‘Then I’d say that you’re at a stand, old chap. Until you know what your readers desire, your words are all puff and vapour.’

‘I’ll think on it,’ Renzi muttered, with a hurt expression.

An apologetic knock on the door announced the mate-of-the-watch with a note. ‘Sent from the commodore, sir. His boat’s still alongside,’ he added.

Brief and polite, the message had obviously been written in haste: ‘If you can spare the time, there’s someone I’d wish you to meet.’

Kydd folded the note and put it into his waistcoat. ‘We’ll talk novels again later, Nicholas.’

There was no indication of the rank of the person, and Kydd compromised by omitting his sword. This was not like Popham: he was generally considerate to his subordinates in the matter of timing. It must be a matter of importance.

The commodore was waiting for him at the rail of
Diadem
beside a chubby figure with a florid face, dressed in comfortable merchant seaman’s rig. ‘This is Captain Waine, Kydd. He’s master of the trader
Elizabeth
, yonder.’ Popham indicated a plain-featured brig at the edge of the anchorage.