Tenacious(13)

Kydd had no experience in a fleet action as an officer. As a master’s mate on the lower deck during the battle of Camperdown he had never been privy to the wider tactical picture on the quarterdeck. Now, as a signal lieutenant, he was expected to act as a crucial link in the chain of command.

‘He’s a fighting seaman, that I like,’ Kydd said firmly. ‘A rear admiral, but goes out in th’ boats himself at Cadíz, takes the fight t’ the enemy.’

‘Seeking a reputation at the cannon’s mouth.’

Bryant snorted impatiently. ‘A plain-sailing admiral – I’m satisfied, an’ I surely know what will answer with him.’

Kydd finished his meal in silence, and went up on deck. A lone figure stood by the hances. It was Bowden, staring out, unseeing. Kydd approached, but before he could say anything the lad had moved away.

‘Tysoe!’

Kydd’s servant appeared quickly: the Princess Royal was giving a grand reception that evening in honour of Admiral Nelson, and all Gibraltar would be there.

‘Full fig ’n’ sword.’

‘Certainly, sir.’ Kydd held back a smile – Tysoe was never more contented than when he was arrayed in his finery. ‘The silver buckles, sir?’

‘Of course.’ Kydd knew that this was Tysoe’s way of ensuring he would not follow the modish wearing of Hessian half-boots and pantaloons in place of knee-breeches and stockings.

But Tysoe was not privy to the real purpose of the evening. The function was a ruse – seeing a grand party begin, the watching Spaniards would conclude that there would be no martial activity in the fleet that night or, indeed, the following morning. But while the affair was proceeding the darkened vessels at anchor were being prepared. Directly the officers returned in the early hours they would put to sea, and at dawn the Spanish would realise that the English fleet had sailed – but out of their sight and in the opposite direction to their expectation: back into the Mediterranean at last.

At dusk boats put off from all ships, heading for the glittering spangle of lights on Princess Royal’s quarterdeck. The sound of an orchestra and excited voices floated across the still water.

Kydd mounted the side and was greeted by the flag lieutenant. The effect of so much blue and gold of the navy and the scarlet and gold of regimentals was breathtaking under the soft lanthorn light.

An officer of equal standing in the host ship took him into the throng. Seaman servants circulated with wine; ladies stooped to admire the flowers that adorned the bitts round the mast and marvelled at the vivid colours of the flags of every nation draped along the bulwarks.

Kydd felt a well of contentment: this was what it was to be a king’s officer, to taste the sweets of his own achievement in a world he had entered by right, the stage upon which he would perform for the rest of his professional life.

He saw his host bringing forward a young lady, who dimpled with pleasure on seeing Kydd. ‘The Honourable Arabella Grantham. Believes she saw you before,’ he added enviously.

‘Y’r servant, Miss Arabella,’ said Kydd, essaying a deep bow.

‘Mr Kydd, you might not remember, but when you were King Neptune I was a cygnet.’ She giggled.

It stopped him short until he recalled the fancy-dress assembly he had attended the last time he had been in Gibraltar. ‘But o’ course! The cygnet! Er…’

Impulsively she pressed forward, eyes wide. ‘Mr Kydd, it would make me very happy if you could… I have no right—’

‘Y’r pleasure is my command,’ he said immediately, feeling smug. Renzi would be impressed with this evidence of his developing urbanity.

‘Er, yes. Mr Kydd. What I’d adore more than anything in this world…’ her eyes dropped, but the lashes fluttered as she finished breathlessly ‘. . . is that you do introduce me to your famous Nelson.’

A lowly junior lieutenant? Sir Horatio Nelson? ‘Miss Arabella…’ he began. Her blue eyes looked up at him beseechingly. He glanced aft. It was easy to spot Nelson; he was conferring at the centre of a distinguished group of senior officers and their followers.

‘If y’ please.’ He offered his arm awkwardly and navigated them through the throng, warning her of the odd ringbolt and hatch coaming, rehearsing the words he would use that would excuse the impertinence of approaching a flag officer without leave.

Nelson looked distracted as he listened to an anecdote from a jovial admiral who was clearly his senior. It did not take a great leap of imagination to grasp that he would far rather be ranging the seas than dallying in port.

Kydd waited for the account to finish and the guffaws to die, then addressed Nelson with trepidation: ‘S-sir, might I present Miss Arabella Grantham, who did express t’ me a desire to make y’r acquaintance and will not be denied.’