Tenacious (31 page)

At the head of the column Paget was at the centre of an animated group of officers, each apparently with a personal view on recent events. Kydd took off his hat and waited for attention.

“Ah, Mr Kydd. Developments.” He looked distracted and barely glanced at Kydd. “Scouts have returned, they report that the Spanish in Mahon want to parley.”

“Sir?” It could mean anything from abject surrender to an ul-timatum—or a Spanish trick, Kydd told himself, to control his sudden rush of excitement.

“I’m inclined to take it at face value. I shall go forward under flag o’ truce and see what they want. I should be obliged if you would accompany me in case they try any knavish tricks concerning sea matters.” He glanced at Kydd. “Kindly remain silent during the proceedings unless you perceive anything untoward at which you will inform me, never addressing the enemy. Do you understand?”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Paget heaved himself up on his horse, which was patiently held by a soldier. “And get this man a horse, for God’s sake,” he threw at an officer, as he looked down on Kydd’s rumpled, dusty appearance.

The little group of officers walked their horses down the road,

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preceded by a mounted trooper holding a pennon with a vast white flag attached. Ahead, in the distance, a blob of white appeared, resolving by degrees into a group, which to Kydd looked distinctly non-military.

“Halt!” A trumpeter dismounted and marched smartly to the exact point of equidistance and sounded off an elaborate call.

There was movement among the figures opposite but no inclination to treat that Kydd could discern.

They waited in the sun: Kydd could hear Paget swearing under his breath, his horse impatiently picking at the ground with his hoof. At length there was a general advance of the whole mass towards them.

“What the devil!” Paget exploded. “Stand your ground!” he roared back over his shoulder to his officers.

It was apparent that any military component of the Spanish group was conspicuous only by its absence. The florid garments and general demeanour of the leading members seemed more mu-nicipal than statesmanlike as they nervously approached. “Tell

’em that’s far enough,” Paget told an aide.

“Ni un paso más!”
The group stopped, but a man stepped forward uneasily with an old-fashioned frilly tricorne in his hands.

Words were spoken and the man regarded Paget with a look that was half truculent, half pleading.

“Sir, this is Antonio Andreu,
alcalde
of the councillors of Mahon. He wishes you a good day.”

“Dammit! Tell him who I am, and say I’m expecting three more battalions to arrive by the other road presently.”

“He desires to know if there is produce of the land that perhaps he can offer, that you have come such a long way—red wine, olives, some oranges.”

“Also tell him that our siege train arrives by sea tonight, and before dawn Mahon will be held within a ring of iron standing ready to pound his town to dust and rubble.”

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“Mr Andreu mentions that Minorca is famed for its shoes and leather harnesses, which we English will have remembered from the past—I believe he is talking about our last occupation, sir.”

“What does the man want, for God’s sake? Ask him!”

“Sir,” said the lieutenant, very carefully, “on behalf of the citi-zens of Port Mahon he wishes to surrender.”

“He what?” Paget choked.

Andreu’s face was pale. He spoke briefly, then handed up a polished box. “He offers up the keys to Mahon, sir, but deeply regrets that he is not certain of the ceremonial form of a capitulation and apologises profoundly for any unintended slight.”

Taking a deep breath, Paget turned to his adjutant. “I can’t take a surrender from a parcel o’ tradesmen.”

“Sir, it might be considered churlish to refuse.”

“They haven’t even got a flag we can haul down. There are forms an’ conventions, dammit.”

“An expression of submission on their part, sir? Purely for form’s sake . . .”

“Tell ’em—tell ’em this minute they’re to give three hearty hurrahs for King George.”

“They say, sir—er, they say . . .”

“And what do they say, sir?”

“And then may they go home?”

At the head of his seamen Kydd moved through the town. They padded down to the waterfront, past gaping women leaning from windows and curious knots of townsfolk at street corners.

Most were silent but some dared cheers at the sight of the English sailors.

The dockyard was deserted: there was a brig under construction but little other shipping. That left only the boom, set across the harbour further along. Helpful townsfolk pointed it out, then found them the capstans to operate it.

There was little else that Kydd could think to do. It was a magnificent harbour with its unusual deep cleft of water between the heights where the main town appeared to be. It was long and spacious, its entrance flanked by forts. Out to sea were the men-o’-war of the Royal Navy.

Once more the two frigates put about and beat upwind outside the harbour. The Spanish flag flew high over the forts that made the harbour impregnable to external threat. The army was going to have a hard time when it came to the siege.

“Boat putting off—flag o’ truce, sir.”

The captain of HMS
Aurora
held up his hand to acknowledge.

It was a rare sight, as the blockade around Minorca was as tight as could possibly be. Still, the diversion from duty would be welcome. “Heave to, if you please.”

Under sail out in the open sea the boat made heavy weather of it but came on stubbornly in sheets of spray. As it neared he could see only a few figures in it. It was one of the straight-stemmed Minorcan
llauds
that he had seen fishing here. The boat rounded to, the soaring lateen sail brailed up expertly as it came lightly to leeward.

“
Aurora,
ahoy! Permission t’ come aboard!” hailed the deep-tanned figure at the tiller in a quarterdeck bellow, to the great surprise of the frigate’s company agreeably passing time in watching the exchange.

“One to come aboard, Bosun.”

The boat nuzzled gently against the ship’s side and the figure sprang neatly for the side-ropes and pulled himself aboard, correctly doffing his hat first to the quarterdeck and then to the captain.

He was a striking character. Strong in the frame and attractively open in the face, he was nevertheless in a wildly in-appropriate mix of English army and navy uniform—a Spanish
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ruse? “L’tenant Kydd, sir. Late o’ the Port Mahon naval detachment t’ Colonel Paget.” His English was faultless if individual.

“What may we do for you, Lieutenant?” the captain of
Aurora
said carefully.

“Sir, Colonel Paget desires y’ should not fire on th’ Spaniards on any account, but that ye proceed into harbour without delay.”

“I see. I should sail my frigate under the guns of the fortress yonder, and forget the presence of the boom across to the Lazareto?”

“Oh, pay no mind t’ the boom, sir. We’ve just triced it in this hour.”

“Are you not forgetting something, Lieutenant?”

“Sir?”

“That fortress flies the Spanish flag, which I have observed unchanged these three days.”

“Ah—I should explain. Colonel Paget came upon the town, which surrendered a little precipitate before they could fin’ a military man. Y’r flag flies above Fort San Felipe where the only soldiers are t’ be found. The fort is in ruins, havin’ been demolished by the Spaniards t’ discommode us but the soldiers say they won’t surrender until they’ve found the king’s lieutenant and get a proper ceremony.

“Meanwhile, sir, we have the possession and occupation o’ the whole port. If ye’d kindly sail upon Mahon directly the colonel will be obliged—he is anxious to make inventory of the ships and stores that have fallen into our hands.”

The ordered calm and routine aboard HMS
Tenacious
was a welcome reassurance of normality and Kydd paced the decks with satisfaction. His ship was now moored inside the deep emerald harbour of Port Mahon with the rest of the fleet; watering parties were ashore in Cala Figuera.

Kydd contemplated the prospect of an agreeable summons from the commodore in the near future. It had been an extraordinary achievement—the entire island was now in English hands, from the time of landing to capitulation no more than a week, on their side without any loss. And he had played what must surely be seen as a central part in the success.

“Sir, if y’ please . . .” One of the smaller midshipmen tugged at his sleeve.

He turned, frowning at the impropriety, then softening at the boy’s anxiety to please. “Aye?”

“Mate o’ the watch sends his duty an’ the commodore would be obliged should you spare him an hour.”

“Thank ye,” said Kydd, a little surprised at the informality.

He had been expecting something of a rather more public character, but supposed that this was preparatory only. After all, while this was a commodore he did not have the standing and powers
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of a full admiral. Any form of honours would have to come from the commander-in-chief, Admiral Nelson, still in Naples. His heart beat faster.

After reporting to Captain Faulkner in full dress uniform, as befitting a visit to the flag-officer, he was stroked across to
Leviathan
in the gig, thinking warmly that life could not be bettered at that moment. The day before, he had come back aboard and spent an uproarious evening in the wardroom telling of his adventure, being heartily toasted in the warmth of deep camaraderie. Now, dare he think it, he had been noticed and therefore was on the golden ladder of preferment and success.

His instinct had been right—Nelson was showing the way. Seize the moment when it came!

He was politely received by a flag-lieutenant and conducted to the commodore in his great cabin. “Ah, Kydd. Sit ye down, I won’t be long,” Duckworth said, waving Kydd to a chair. The commodore was writing, a frown on his open face as he concentrated on the task. He finished with a scrawl and put his pen down with a sigh. “L’tenant Kydd,” he said heavily, “I do believe that you should bear much of the credit for the success of this expedition. From what I hear, your initiative and courage did much to secure the safety of the force. Do tell me now what happened.”

Kydd began, careful to be exact in his recollections for this would be a matter of record for all time. But as he proceeded he became uneasily aware that he did not have the commodore’s full attention. He fiddled with his pen, squared his papers, inspected the back of his hand. Somewhat put out, Kydd completed with a wry account of his boarding of the frigate and told him of the conclusion of hostilities, but the commodore failed to smile.

Duckworth stood. “May I take the hand of a brave man and a fine officer?” he said directly, fixing Kydd in the eye. “I see a

bright future for you, sir.” Kydd glowed. “Good day to you, Mr Kydd,” the commodore said, and took up his papers once more.

Kydd hovered uncertainly. “What is it, Mr Kydd?” the commodore said testily.

“Sir, dare I say it, but should I be mentioned in y’r dispatches, I’d be infinitely obliged if you’d spell m’ name with a
y
—Kydd, sir, not like the pirate Kidd.” There had been instances of promotion awarded for valour to the wrong officer entirely, which re-grettably it was impossible to undo at the Admiralty.

Duckworth leaned back, eyeing Kydd stonily. “The dispatches for this engagement will be written by another. I haul down my flag tomorrow, Mr Kydd.”

At a loss, Kydd excused himself and withdrew.

“I would have thought somethin’ a bit more rousin’,” Kydd said morosely, not sure at all of what had been transacted in the great cabin.

Adams was sympathetic, and put down his book on the wardroom table. They were alone and Kydd had returned disconsolate from what should have been a memorable interview.

“Luck o’ the draw, old trout. You’ll understand that Duckworth is out of sorts. His mission complete, he has to strike his flag and revert back to plain old captain now.”

“But his dispatches—”

“Dispatches? He’s not the expedition commander, Tom, Stuart is. And I’ve strong reason to know from a friend at Headquarters that he’s a man to seize all the credit that can be scraped together.

His dispatches will say nothing of the navy—all we did was sally out to meet half a dozen Spanish frigates, which instantly put about and had the legs of us. No creditable battle, no mention for anyone.”

“I should’ve smoked it,” Kydd said. Stuart was certainly the
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kind of man to dim another’s candle in order that his become the brighter. “So the general won’t want th’ world to know that he’d got special intelligence as would give him th’ confidence to stretch out an’ take Minorca?”

“I fear that must be the case,” Adams murmured.

“I was present at th’ takin’ of Port Mahon!” Kydd continued stubbornly.

“Dear chap, any battle won swiftly, efficiently and with the minimum of bloodshed must be a bad battle by any definition.

For your triumph and glory you need a good butcher’s bill, one that has you blood-soaked but standing defiant at the end, tho’

many at your side do fall. And we had the bad luck to lose not a single man . . .”

“You’re bein’ cynical, I believe.”

Adams shrugged.

“Besides, m’ name must be mentioned once in high places in the navy, must it not?”

Adams gave a small smile. “I should think not. The successful practice of creeping abroad at night is not an accomplishment that necessarily marks out a future admiral.”