'My earnest apologies, sir, but we have had word from Brigadier Crossley,' the lieutenant broke in carefully. 'He desires you to know that the press of people now is such that he fears for the safe progress of the King's procession.' He waited, his eyes averted from Lady Clowes.
'Ah.' The Admiral felt his choler rising once more. So much for the Army — nothing to do but march up and down all day and now they couldn't be trusted to clear a path through the crowds. I shall attend in my office within the hour. Tm sure they'll hold till then,' he said testily.
'Sir,' the lieutenant acknowledged, and vanished.
John?' His wife had seen the signs and moved to head off the storm.
'Yes?'
'Be so good as to rehearse with me why this event is so glorious at this time,' she said demurely.
'It's simple, my dear. We're at war with a mad parcel of rascals who are unstoppable on land. This is the first time we've been able to try their mettle at sea as equals, and now we've proved they can be stopped. The country has good reason to be grateful to Captain Powlett, I believe.' The Admiral said no more, but he found he was rather looking forward to hearing about the now famous engagement at first hand.
* * *
Kydd slipped hand over hand down the fore-topgallant backstay to the deck, arriving breathless. 'Something amiss — I c'n see quantities of people, Nicholas, all th' way fr'm Portsmouth Point along t' the old castle.'
Renzi performed a neat belay on the line as he contemplated Kydd's excitement. If there really was any civil disturbance in Portsmouth they would not be proceeding calmly into harbour with their prize.
'There is talk that the French contemplate a landing,' he said.
Kydd looked at him sideways. 'There's something happened,' he retorted stubbornly.
They had reached a point some five miles off the Nab and the brisk north-easterly was making it tricky for them to gain ground towards Spithead, hampered as they were by their jury rig and Citoyenne under tow astern.
Sailors gathered on the foredeck to try to make sense of the tumult ashore. 'Fleet's still at anchor,' observed Adam, adding that this would not be the case were there any real threat.
Petit paused in his work, and tried to make out the anonymous multitude of humanity up and down the distant shore. 'Ain't never seen a crowd like it since the last age.'
"Oo's that, then?' said Stirk.
As Artemis approached St Helens, first one, then several small craft came around the headland. From their press of sail they appeared to be in some degree of commotion, their fore-and-aft canvas straining perilously in the sea breeze.
Artemis opened the angle into the last stretch before Spithead, the sailing boats pressing forward fast, with several larger hulks and lighters also creeping out towards them.
The first of the boats reached them. It was a small yawl, crammed with passengers who waved energetically. The boat hissed past and tacked smartly about, dangerously close. A second arrived, with figures clinging to the shrouds shouting a frantic welcome. Soon there were dozens of sailing craft, weaving and dodging, the raucous whoops from their passengers leaving no doubt why they had come.
'Well, glory be,' Petit breathed. 'It's fer us, mates.'
On the quarterdeck Captain Powlett emerged from the hatchway and paced slowly with a fixed expression. He wore full dress uniform with sword and decorations, a resplendent figure compared to his usual Spartan sea rig.
The far-off bark of a gun broke through the hullabaloo, the smoke eddying away from the bow of a naval cutter trying to break through the scrimmage. It fussed its way alongside.
The group of seamen forward watched as an officer clambered aboard and a polite exchange followed on the quarterdeck. Then things moved swiftly. The tow was cast off, and lighters and hulks gathered about to take the prize in hand leaving the battle-pitted Artemis to proceed on alone under easy sail. Their salute to the Admiral at Spithead banged out regularly, but they passed the great fleet at anchor without stopping - they would enter the harbour itself.
Artemis shortened to topsails for the last mile into the narrow entrance, the line of passage taking her parallel with the shore a bare couple of hundred yards to starboard, past the furiously cheering crowds that swarmed over every imaginable viewpoint. Grateful that his station in the foretop allowed him to witness these marvellous events, Kydd looked out on a scene that he knew would stay with him all his life.
A gun went off below him. It startled him: they had no reason to salute. Then a seaman pointed out the colourful standard hoisted on the dockyard signal tower. "Is Nibs,' he said laconically.
The salute banged on - the full twenty-one for the King of England. They were now passing through the close entrance. They glided past the rickety old buildings of Portsmouth Point close in to starboard, every window full of cheering figures. On the opposite side of the entrance was the darkened brick solidity of Fort Blockhouse, and beyond it Haslar naval hospital. As many wounded and sick sailors that were able to had hobbled down to the water's edge, and a military band thumped out 'Hearts of Oak'.