And what kind of leader was he? His capture, along with that of the men who had trusted him, still smarted in him for it had been only by the greatest good luck that Smith had had French captives on hand whom Buonaparte had needed. What was being said at the mess tables when they took their grog? What judgement was being passed on him? Perhaps he would be perceived as an unlucky weight around whom men seemed to get themselves killed and, indeed, many had since the siege of Acre had started.
Kydd knew that this was at the core of himself as an officer. If the seamen regarded him as square and true they would follow him through anything; if he was seen as a glory-seeker, he might one day find himself alone on an enemy deck.
He could not sleep—the torturing thoughts rioting through his mind made it impossible—and when the marine private arrived at midnight to call him for his watch he almost welcomed it.
Renzi was below at the operations table, staring at the map with its lines and erasures enumerating the many assaults and savage encounters they had endured. So tired, the friends spoke little more than a few words and, after the customary hand-over, Renzi left for his room above.
Kydd had the watch until dawn. If it was quiet it was usual to stay at the headquarters where any could find him, but his heart was so full of dark thoughts that he told the sentries gruffly he would be at the wall.
Hearing the burr and chirp of night insects he paced along the parapet past the occasional sentries next to watch-fires. Out there, in the vast unknown velvet darkness, their mortal enemy lay and plotted their destruction. In the other direction was the inky sea and anchored offshore Tenacious and Tigre, the warmth of golden light from the wardroom windows and clustered lan-thorns on their fo'c'sles so redolent of the sea life, but at the same time so remote from Kydd's place of trial.
He continued pacing, the cool breeze bringing with it the ever-present stench of death, overhead the calm splendour of stars in the moonless heavens. What would they face tomorrow? If the guns kept up their bombardment there would be ruin and panic. The only course would be evacuation and a suicidal rearguard action. His mind shied from the implications.
He heard someone approach in the stillness. It was Laffin. The seamen had no night watches: the man had no reason to be about at that hour. "C'n I talk, if y' please, Mr Kydd?" His expression was indistinct in the gloom.
"What d' ye want?"
"It's Bill Dobbie—sir."
"If ye want to say you're grieving f'r him, then I'll have you know—so am I."
"He were m' mate, sir."
Kydd waited warily.
"We was two-blocks since 'e came aboard in Halifax. 'E was 'appy 'n' did well in Tenacious, 'e did—wanted t' make gunner's mate but didn't 'ave 'is letters, an' so I learned him."
This was by no means unknown but spoke of a deep friendship born of common hardship, which Kydd recognised, with a stab of feeling.
"Has a wife in Brixham an' a little girl—"
"Laffin, why are you telling me this?" Kydd said sharply.
The man hesitated, then straightened. "Sir, I wants ye t' know that I was hasty wi' me words when I called ye a—"
"Aye, well, thank you f'r telling me."
"—an I think as how y' should read this'n. Comes across it while I was makin' up his gear t' give to his wife." He held out a paper, then disappeared into the darkness.
Kydd went to a watch-fire and realised, with a sinking feeling, that it was a letter. Back in the privacy of Headquarters he took the lanthorn across to the table and smoothed out the paper. The writing was strong but childish. Kydd remembered that in Canada not much more than a year ago, Dobbie had been obliged to make his mark on the ship's books, the tell-tale sign of illiteracy.
"My sweet Mary" it began. A letter home to his wife. "Anuther day in this god-blastd hole whi the bedoo like it I dont know for the lif of me."
It was hard to continue—he felt it a violation to read the precious words that would be all that the woman would know of her man's thoughts and feelings before ... Kydd wondered why Laffin had wanted him to read this.
I hav saved for you my dearist mor than eihtgteen gineas to this date. I doant know when wi will return it is a hard time wi are having but my dear it wuld make yuo smil to see the rare drubbing we ar giving the frogs and we not lobsterbaks but jack tar!
Kydd felt his eyes sting but he kept reading.
Wi will win, sweethart there is no dout of that. Yuo see we hav the best men and the best oficers and yuo may beleive that like sir sidny and mr kidd who I hav seen miself with his fine sowrd at the breech in the wall. He giv hart to us all to see him alweys there he is a leson in currage if we see him in charg of us wi will allways tak after him wher he tell us to go ...
The rest dissolved in a blur of tears. Any torturing doubts were now behind him for ever.
"Sir? One hour t' dawn."
Renzi was fully awake but politely thanked the marine, who touched a taper to a little oil-lamp. He lay for a few more moments, then, with a sigh of resolution, threw off the single sheet. He had barely slept and wondered at Kydd's stamina after the much longer perils and hardships he had endured.
Something had spoken to him during the night, a tendril of presentiment reaching out that the day would see a culmination of all their striving. For himself, Renzi had no doubts. When it chose to strike, death could come in so many ways—disease, shipwreck, a round shot. It really was of no consequence. What was of importance was the manner of leaving life. With courage, and no regrets.
In the mirror his face looked back at him, grave but calm. He raised an eyebrow quizzically and silently acknowledged that there was one matter, trivial in the circumstances, but a loose end that his logical self insisted should be resolved to satisfaction, if only to impose a philosophic neatness on his life to this date. It was the decision in the matter of his father's demand that he take up his place as eldest son and heir-apparent to the earldom.
The stakes were plain: if he acceded he would be in the fullness of time the Earl of Farndon and master of Eskdale Hall. If he did not, his father would have no compunction in taking the legal steps necessary to disinherit and disavow him in the succession.
Therefore, in this hour he would make his decision, before he and Kydd went together to meet the dawn and all it would bring. He knew too well the arguments—his life at sea had opened his eyes to the human condition and made all the more precious the insights he had gathered on his adventures. This would cease: the vapid posturings of society were a poor substitute.
Then there was the undeniable fact that he had matured in the face of calls upon his courage, fortitude and skills—he had become a man in the true sense of the word. And had about him the society of others who had been equally formed. Where would he find these on a country estate?
No, he was deluding himself. If he was honest, the true reason was that in essence he wanted excitement before security, stimulation before tranquillity, change before monotony. The sea life.
His instincts were telling him that he should refuse his father. But was this the proper course? He must examine the consequence.
Could he foresee his life as a disavowed son of the aristocracy? He was content to continue with his persona as Renzi. He had means, a small enough competence, but his needs were little as a sea officer. He valued his books far beyond a fashionable lifestyle—it would be sufficient.
This, therefore, should be his decision.
Why, then, was he not convinced of it? At heart he knew that there was one looming consideration that forced the issue, one that his father had used against him without realising its power to move him. His duty. It was his obligation and responsibility to prepare himself to inherit the earldom, and no consideration of personal preference or taste could be allowed to take precedence.