Kydd brightened. This would mean that Rowley couldn’t demand his papers for another day.
In the event it promised to be a jolly, defiant occasion, well suited to show that, in the febrile atmosphere, the British were showing no sign of panic or even nervousness.
As Kydd processed with the others, a splendid vision of a crack frigate captain in his star and sash, he saw that the seating was promiscuous, the few ladies well spread out and no attention paid to rank or standing. He was ushered to a seat at the extravagantly ornamented table, between a colonel and a post-captain he didn’t recognise, and opposite a plainly dressed, stern-faced and venerable man displaying the riband and star of the rare and prestigious Order of the Garter, in precedent well above Kydd’s knightly place … and then Rowley, with his flag-lieutenant alongside.
Frowning, Rowley gave the barest of nods to Kydd and turned to the plain-dressed man, engaging him in deep conversation.
It couldn’t have suited Kydd better and, after discovering his naval companion was Ambrose, captain of Implacable 74 and a genial fellow, he then did his duty by the army officer, a distracted and morose staff colonel.
The dinner progressed agreeably, Kydd learning that the distinguished gentleman of the Garter opposite was Lord Haig, an Admiralty secretary of long standing, who clearly preferred listening to talking.
Ambrose had a fine line in dits, and the flag-lieutenant joined in the gusts of laughter at the right places, bringing a savage glare from Rowley to return him to his duty.
‘Mind you, Kydd, there’s one saucy frigate I can bring to remembrance as can put your Tyger to the blush.’
‘I’d be entertained to hear it, old fellow,’ Kydd said, with feeling.
‘Ah. Going back a mite, before the last war. Wonderful creature, I was first luff in her for a year or so, sorry indeed to leave. You probably heard of her – Artemis, the flying Artemis as was. In the time just before Black Jack Powlett was owner and took her around the world.’
Kydd froze, his fork stopped in mid-air. And, opposite, Rowley stared, then looked away quickly.
‘Yes. Lovely thing, would beat anything afloat on a bowline. Heard that she came to a sad end on a reef somewhere Godforsaken. Crying shame – a ship to love, bless her. Bahamas, was it?’
‘Azores,’ Kydd answered quietly, watching Rowley.
‘Oh? Could have sworn it was the Bahamas.’ Puzzled, he saw who Kydd was looking at and added his own polite glance of interrogation.
Rowley gave a start. ‘What? Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he stuttered.
‘Sir, you did have service in Artemis, did you not?’ the flag-lieutenant said silkily. ‘And wasn’t that when she took the rocks?’
Giving him a venomous look, Rowley muttered, ‘Oh, yes. I do recall now.’
Haig trailed off his conversation abruptly while he listened keenly, leaving his brigadier dinner companion mystified.
‘Wouldn’t you say, then, a barky of the finest sort?’ prompted Ambrose.
‘Perhaps, but a scurvy crew of the worst kind,’ Rowley threw back. ‘Could do nothing with ’em, the scrubs. Their fault, of course. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?’
Kydd felt a dull burn but tried to clamp a fierce hold on the volcano of feeling building. ‘Many would take issue with that,’ he said thickly. ‘The fault doesn’t lie there, does it?’
Haig sat absolutely still, his eyes unblinking.
‘You wouldn’t know, Kydd, you were just a miserable foremast jack then!’
Kydd choked back his anger but under the tablecloth bunched his fists.
Rowley spat, ‘How can press-gang meat have a clue of what’s going on, in a filthy night when-’
‘I saw everything. Everything! Quartermaster-o’-the-watch – your watch!’ Kydd’s face was pale, rigid and accusing.
Rowley didn’t say a word but gave Kydd a look of such appalling hatred that it had others at the table falter and stare back.
With a curious look Haig glanced from one to the other. ‘Interesting, indeed. Nothing of this was mentioned at the inquiry. I remember it well – I sat on it. Artemis frigate lost in mysterious circumstances in the Atlantic, no on-deck witnesses surviving – perhaps we should look into it a whit further.’
Chapter 69
The encampment of General Moore, forty miles from Madrid
Rain drummed on the canvas of the tent and made noisy waterfalls where it descended to the ground.
‘It’s true, then,’ Moore muttered dully, holding a grubby piece of paper before a candle.
‘Sir?’ Packwood said, suddenly alert.
‘The Spanish right has broken, fallen back – they’re routed. And here we are, not two days’ march from Madrid and nothing between us and Bonaparte. He has the capital now. He’s to put brother Joseph back on the throne and then he’ll be after us.’
‘The men are in good heart, sir. As are your generals. If you choose to stand against Napoleon they’ll be there with you in good spirit.’
‘No, Packwood, I’m not going to ask that. This is the only army England has at this time and it’s as much my duty to preserve it as win battles.’
It had been Moore who, at the Shorncliffe military ranges, had forged the professionalism and dedication that had transformed the army from its stolid eighteenth-century lines of tramping redcoats to an active and aggressive modern force.
The wood and canvas chair creaked as he shifted position. ‘We’ll have to move quickly. This dispatch directs us to Vigo where the transports will mass to take us off. The question is how to get there.’
‘While the French are descending on us all from the same direction, surely we’re talking about retracing our route in the opposite direction back to the coast, to Lisbon?’
‘No,’ Moore said decisively. ‘Our Spanish allies are a broken reed but we owe it to them not to scuttle away without a show of spirit. It’s to be Galicia, across the mountains.’
Packwood chose his words carefully. ‘Sir, if we make Lisbon we’ve no need to go to Vigo and-’
‘We go overland to the north. Bonaparte at our heels I don’t worry on. He’s a huge army and massive field train to move and the mountains will check even him.’
‘The weather is-’
‘Be damned to the weather. My men know what’s at stake. They’ll do their duty and, once at Vigo, they’ll be able to get on board and take their rest. The navy will never let us down, Packwood, trust me.’
Chapter 70
Aboard HMS Tyger
The islands across the entrance of Vigo loomed up through the sea-fret, misty and dull, the only dash of brightness the continuous band of white at their base. The rain was now a torment, bitterly cold, driving and appearing out of nowhere without warning.
After the rapid but uncomfortable rolling passage north, Tyger took the southern channel, grateful for the shelter, yet another seasonal gale was lashing the coast from the south-west. But where were the hundreds of transports, clawed from every port in the south of England and fitted out for the evacuation of a whole army? As far as Kydd could see, only a scattered handful of the smaller sort was tucked away in the lee of the islands.
These were strange waters for Kydd. In all the years of blockade it had been an enemy port, heavily defended, and he was entering it now for the first time and without the comfort of a decent chart. Vigo itself lay seven miles further in; Tyger pressed on and made her way to Vigo roads, hoping to see more transports, but none were there.
The carefully laid plans he’d drawn up were useless without the transports – he couldn’t even begin to allot berthing and stores, if the ships and their capacities were unknown.
But at least he was away from the toxic atmosphere in Lisbon. He’d left without tendering the detailed plans demanded by Rowley. His orders were brusque, pointed and demanding: at his peril, to render services at Vigo that would see the British expeditionary force safely embarked in the transports provided.