Gathering his papers, he snapped, ‘I see no further need of your services, sir. You may indent for outstanding expenses to Mr Wilikins and I shall bid you good-day.’
Rising, Renzi blinked away his anger. As he left Dacres called after him, ‘And, for God’s sake, let’s hear no more of this tomfoolery about secret bases and phantom fleets.’
Kydd tried to be sympathetic but was no hand at disguising his true feelings. ‘Bad luck, is all, m’ friend. They’re sure to be, er, somewhere. A rattling good theory – copper-bottomed logic and, um, well reckoned. Not your fault it didn’t turn out right.’
Renzi said nothing, glowering at his glass.
‘Still, one good thing for you, Nicholas.’
‘Oh?’
‘Nereide frigate returned from the dockyard while we were gone.’
‘So?’
‘Cheer up, old trout. That means we’re to return to Barbados. You won’t have to look ’em in the eye any more.’
‘You don’t believe I saw anything. You think it was all an opium dream.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Never mind. I’m doubting my own senses anyway.’
Kydd tactfully steered the conversation away. ‘At the end of the hurricane season Barbados is a fine place. I’ve a mind to enjoy it, brother.’
‘With Miss Amelia?’
‘Why, if she takes a fancy.’
L’Aurore slipped out of Port Royal the next day in company with Arethusa.
It was a pleasant passage to Barbados, the two frigates conscious of making a fine sight as they stretched away through the very centre of the Caribbean.
As they neared the Leeward Islands, though, it became clear that the seas were deserted – swept clean. To fail to raise a single sail in all that distance was not natural. Whatever was feeding on the West Indian trade was abroad still, mysterious and malignant.
It was deeply unsettling.
Dispatches had gone ahead by cutter, and by the time they reached Barbados the whole of Bridgetown was out en fête to see and greet the victors of Curaçao. As they came to their moorings in Carlisle Bay boats streamed out, some with quantities of ladies intent on throwing flowers on to the quarterdeck; others stood screaming their adulation, and still more came out simply to circle the two frigates and gaze on the heroes of the hour.
But what brought the greatest flush of pride to Kydd’s face was the Leeward Islands Squadron manning yards in their honour, lines of great ships acknowledging valour and achievement.
It had been a breathtaking adventure crowned with success, but deep within, it was disturbing. The main objective had been missed – was this, then, the people seizing on any good news to alleviate an impending apocalypse?
‘Ship open to visitors until sunset, Mr Gilbey,’ Kydd told the first lieutenant, then went below to sort out his paperwork. Back under the command of Cochrane, there were so many matters to attend to, not the least of which was the rendering of his accounts to the satisfaction of the acidulous clerk of the cheque.
He worked at the pile and was pleased at progress when a messenger arrived. ‘An’ Mr Curzon would be happy to see you on deck, sir.’
This was unusual to the point of puzzling, for it was the general form for an officer-of-the-watch requesting his captain’s presence on deck in filthy weather as a situation deteriorated.
Kydd tugged on his hat and emerged on the upper deck, ready for whatever had to be faced.
‘Sir, she vows that no other will do to receive her expression of admiration for the action just passed.’
‘Why, Miss Amelia!’
The officers all about the banqueting hall roared with laughter. Brisbane was a fine speaker – modest, entertaining and with a good line in anecdotes that his all-naval audience were in a mood to appreciate.
The baffling losses had built a frustration that demanded release, and the evening was well on its way. It was a pity that Renzi could not attend – he was out of sorts after his humiliating experience and this warm gathering would have restored a measure of equanimity. Why he had claimed he had been taken into a secret base and concocted a story that had had Dacres mounting an expedition was an utter mystery. Kydd sincerely hoped it wasn’t a delusion brought on by his conspicuous lack of literary success.
‘Wine with you, sir!’ The youthful sloop commander just along was looking at him with something uncomfortably like hero worship.
He graciously complied, realising a little self-consciously that there was every reason for the attitude. Not only with the legendary Nelson at Trafalgar, he had service going back as far as the beginning of the last war, during the dark days of the French Revolution. And now he was a proven frigate captain roaming the seas …