As it sank in, there were disbelieving gasps and a snort of derision from a heavily built individual to the left. ‘Ha! What merde do you cast at us, mon putain de capitaine anglais?’
Kydd winced but replied, ‘If he were not my friend, I should not be here. Your captain desires only to be remembered to you, to let you know that he cherishes your loyalty in times past and hopes that it will go some way to sustain you in these hard days.’
He let it hang then added, ‘And, as a captain myself, this is what I would feel for my own company. He’s a prisoner, too, so he’s unable to stand before you but in token of his regard he sends a gift, a basket of bonnes bouches in memory of France, to share between you all.’
The wary looks had now changed to stares of disbelief but the big man spat stubbornly. ‘How’s le patron going to get the stuff from Brittany at all?’
Kydd was being tested. ‘Capitaine Marceau comes from Auvergne, the Haute-Loire, as well you know. And he’s caused them to be made by those in captivity with him who do pine after the friandises of the homeland.’
He brought forward the hamper. ‘Who’s in charge?’
Eyes turned to the big man who, with an acknowledging grunt, stepped up, his large hands unconsciously curled into the characteristic ‘rope-hooky’ of a deep-sea sailor.
‘I give you this from your captain. It’s a small enough thing but comes with his sincere regard.’
In the astonished silence Kydd turned and left.
At the gatehouse the sergeant was cynical. ‘A fine thing ye does, Captain, but I’d not let ye think ye’ve changed anythin’ for ’em. Ye must know for gamblin’ they can’t be beat. Wagers off their clothes, t’baccy, even their next day’s rations. Them things won’t be ate, they’ll be stakes in somethin’ until they falls to bits. Nothing else for ’em to do, see.’
Kydd ignored his contemptuous smirk. He’d done for Marceau what he’d seen as right and honourable.
‘Oi, Sarge!’ A guard bustled in. ‘There’s a Frog outside wi’ something, as wants t’ see the captain.’
It was the big French prisoner, carrying a substantial object covered with a cloth. When Kydd emerged, his stony features softened and he carefully drew back the cloth to reveal a ship model, beautifully worked, rigged and fashioned in the tell-tale ivory of carefully-put-by beef bones. An exquisite production that must have taken untold hours to bring to perfection, it bore the pennant of La Royale pugnaciously to the fore.
‘Cap’n. I’d be much obliged should you present this’n to the capitaine with our humble duty and respects, as he did remember us.’
The man’s eyes pleaded and Kydd melted. ‘O’ course I shall, mon brave. From you – the very next time I see him.’
He threw a look at the sergeant as he left, but the man was staring glassily past his shoulder, refusing to take notice.
Kydd had seen it through. And with the Preussens together in Millbay there was thankfully no need to make visit out to the prison hulks and their burden of misery.
They were moored in a line well up the Hamoaze away from any settlement, kept to the centre of the river, leaving on either side a quarter-mile of swampy shore to trap even the most determined fugitive. Mostly captured French ships no longer fit for the open sea and reduced to bare lower masts, they were a bleak and heart-rending sight.
Shaking off his creeping depression Kydd returned to the land of the free, duty done.
Chapter 5
The London Inn at Ivybridge was more than a common posting house. As a horse-changing stage on the highway to London, it was a centre for rumours and gossip, a place for the sighting of important people on the way to and from the capital. It was also where the mail coach made its call.
Kydd had got into the habit of taking a ride there with Persephone, a very pleasant forty minutes, in time to see the London stage jingle and crash into the cobbled courtyard with the day’s newspapers aboard. While she visited the shops, he could take in the stories of the hour in the taphouse over a fine west-country ale, considerately leaving his paper for others to read in the gleaming brass and sawdust warmth.
On this day he saw that, with the Baltic now a highway for British trade, Boney in Europe was the subject of speculation again. At one end of the continent he would have little opportunity to press on to new lands as his conquests lapped up against his ally Russia. At the other end, as he was now occupying Portugal, he’d reached the far extent of the land world. The Times leader asked what the ruthless Emperor would do next, disbelieving that he’d be satisfied with what he had.
Kydd wondered too. Tyger’s addition to Collingwood’s fleet had to be a measure of the anxiety this was causing.
Further into the paper there was the court circular, then a tedious dissection of what had passed in the House during the week and, at the back, columns of commercial intelligence.
He sighed and turned to hear the local moorland news. As lord of the manor, if only as a figurehead, he was expected to keep up with the concerns and vexations of his tenantry but, in truth, he didn’t know if congratulation or consolation was due to the farmer whose ewe had brought forth a lamb with two heads.
‘Good morning t’ ye, Cap’n,’ a breezy voice broke in. It was the corn factor, whose quaint Elizabethan mill downstream still creaked on in the middle of the village.
‘Good day to you, Mr Glanville,’ Kydd replied genially.
‘Exeter stage be in.’
Kydd nodded. He’d heard it arrive.
‘Wi’ strangers,’ Glanville added, with relish.
‘Oh?’
‘Good ’uns an’ all,’ he went on, in his soft Devon burr. ‘One on ’em says they’s all from Sweden, b’ glory!’
Kydd emptied his glass, his interest aroused. He had a certain regard for these Scandinavians after coming to know Jens Stromsson, the Swedish captain who’d escaped from Sveaborg with him. What they were doing in this part of the world was baffling when their country was in such agitation, but he felt they’d be appreciative to hear a few words from someone who’d been so recently in that far place and he’d picked up a little Swedish.
He strode out to the courtyard. It was easy to find them: four individuals, in outlandish dress in a tight group away from the others, stretching their legs and talking in low mumbles.
Going up to them, he smiled and hailed, ‘Hej, hur mar du?’
They stiffened.
‘I not understand your words,’ one replied, in a strangely stilted French, edging slightly in front of the others.
Kydd bowed. ‘I’m sorry if my Swedish is so execrable.’
Persephone appeared at his side, elegant and commanding in smart riding attire. ‘Darling, who are these people?’
‘Oh, they’re Swedish gentlemen,’ he replied to her, in French for the sake of the group, ‘from the Exeter stage, whose acquaintance I’m desirous of making to let them know something of their motherland as I’m so recently returned.’
There was a tension about the group, all unspeaking, watchful and still.
In English she murmured, ‘They don’t look much like Swedes.’
Kydd remembered she’d made a visit there on a painting expedition the previous year. It was true: the restrained cut of the Nordic dress was not much in evidence – if anything, these men gave the impression of wearing a more modish attire held in check. It was odd.
‘All aboooard! Exeter stage, all aboard!’ The driver, with his many-layered topcoat, puffed his way up into his seat and importantly accepted the whip passed to him, while ostlers held the horses and impatient passengers clambered in.
The four strangers quickly followed but, damn it, there was something that …
He had it! Kydd snapped to attention and roared, ‘Vive l’empereur!’