Caribbee(15)

‘Shall I be your escort while we take a turn about the decks?’ Kydd said, offering his arm. A dazzling smile was his reward and they stepped off together. He was conscious that it had been too long since he had had female company of such quality, and he let her pleasant talk wash about him, contributing a little about this or that when it seemed appropriate.

The orchestra struck a chord and Curzon, as master of ceremonies, came forward to announce the first dance.

‘Miss Amelia?’ Kydd murmured, with an elegant bow.

‘Why, of course, my captain!’ she responded breathlessly, and they strolled back, past the motionless helm, its spokes intertwined with greenery and flowers, and on to the open area that extended to the curved taffrail over the stern.

There was immediate movement to the side and an outburst of clapping as it was assumed that Kydd had selected his partner to open the ball.

He beamed and bowed at Curzon, who took his cue and called the sets in foursomes. Amelia took her place at the head opposite and bobbed girlishly at Kydd’s flourish.

In view of the warm evening the steps were measured but, even so, Kydd was grateful for a spell at the end of the dance and went to fetch a cool lime cordial for them both. As he returned, he noticed a bent figure out of the lanthorn light beyond the chattering groups. It was Tyrell, inspecting the fall of one of the lines from aloft. In L’Aurore the contented seamen took pride in their ship, spending the occasional dog-watch to point rope – adding a tapered finish to the end in a show of seaman-like skill.

Kydd guessed that in Hannibal this was something they would never feel inclined to do – and he reflected on how much Tyrell was losing to his ship by treating his men as he did.

He looked around for Mrs Tyrell and saw her in shy conversation with Curzon, doing his duty to leave no guest unattended. He turned back in time to see Amelia claimed by Bowden. She flashed him a smile before she was whisked away for a Tartan Pladdie.

Circulating, he made amiable conversation to Pym and his lady, politely remarking on her elaborate bead-embroidered evening dress, then partnered a Mrs Pulteney for the contre-danse.

Gilbey moved up to tell him that the commander-in-chief was approaching and Kydd took position to greet him. The calls pealed shrilly, and an agreeably surprised Cochrane came aboard for his promised visit, accompanied by his wife, a short but remarkably voluble lady in plain lemon who did not hold back her approval.

At refreshments Kydd artfully trapped Mrs Jobson, wife of the King’s Harbour Master so that at the resumption of dancing he was well placed to lead her out for the Boulangère, a dance that involved facing first one partner and then another – which, by great coincidence, was Miss Amelia. At changes, it was the work of moments to transfer allegiance and, as smoothly as he had planned, they were together again.

‘I do declare, sir, you cut a rare figure at dancing.’ Her eyes shone and Kydd glowed. ‘And in your own ship, as you were so good as to show me. You are too kind and I’m vexed as to how I might return the politeness.’

She bit her lip prettily, then said brightly, ‘You must pay us a visit, sir. Do come and meet Papa – I’m sure he would be agreeable.’

The dull thump sounded from some way off to the south-westward, its origin hidden by the hanging grey-white sheets of rain drifting in from the Atlantic but it was from the general direction of Acasta, which had been paired with L’Aurore for the routine sweep to the south of Barbados ordered by Cochrane.

Kydd wore L’Aurore around and headed into the murk to find his senior, who was summoning him by gun, flag communications being impossible in the conditions. The veil thinned and he caught sight of the sternwork of the big frigate and closed, passing around her lee and coming within hail.

Dunn was on her quarterdeck and raised his speaking trumpet. ‘I’ve just spoken to a Dansker who swears he spotted a heavy frigate in the squalls to the suth’ard,’ he blared, ‘standing to the sou’-west.’

Kydd waited. This would not be the first merchantman to report an innocent trader with painted gun-ports as a fearsome warship.

‘He could be mistaken, but we can’t take the chance on it being a scouting frigate for a Frenchy raiding fleet, thinking to enter the Caribbean not by the usual passages. I desire you’ll sail south to eleven and thirty latitude, touch at Grenada for intelligence and return to Barbados. I’ll be looking towards Trinidad. Clear?’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

‘Should you fall in with the enemy you will waste not a moment in alerting Admiral Cochrane. This is your first and last duty.’

‘Understood, sir.’