There was an even chance of an alliance – but as the French depredations increased so must the Americans’ grudging tolerance of British measures at sea. If the Royal Navy could be induced to grasp the delicacy of their position, there was a chance . . .
With a large white flag streaming from a halliard, Tenacious’s pinnace sailed towards the shore, Lieutenant Kydd in the sternsheets, Midshipman Rawson at the tiller.
It was unfair: Kydd knew next to nothing about the United States and even less about the international law with which he had been told to threaten the local authorities if they did not drive the French back to sea. He was dressed in civilian clothes and unarmed, in accordance with convention when visiting a neutral country. In fact, he had been obliged to don his best rig, the dark green waistcoat and rust-coloured coat that Cecilia had taken such pains to find in Guildford. He held his light grey hat with its silver buckle safely on his knees.
As the low, wooded coast drew closer, Kydd saw the masts and yards of the French privateer beyond the point; it was clear that she was securing from sea. Further in, he made out a timber landing area, and around it a scatter of people.
The sprit-sail was brailed up and lowered, the oars shipped. ‘Head f’r the jetty,’ he growled.
Only one of the figures seemed to wear any semblance of a uniform but a number carried what appeared to be muskets. Kydd braced himself: he was going as a representative of his country and he would not be found wanting in the article of military bearing.
A couple of hundred yards from shore Rawson put the tiller over to make the final run in. Suddenly there was the unmistakable report of a flintlock and a gout of water kicked up sharply, dead in line with the bow.
‘Wha’? God rot ’em, they’re firing on a white flag!’ Kydd spluttered. ‘Keep y’r course, damn you!’ he flung at the midshipman.
The people ashore gesticulated and shouted. One levelled his gun in Kydd’s direction. ‘S-sir, should we—’ hissed Rawson.
‘Take charge o’ y’r boat’s crew,’ Kydd replied savagely. Ashore the weapon still tracked Kydd and then it spoke. The bullet spouted water by the stroke oar, followed by a wooden thump as it struck the boat below where Kydd sat.
‘Sir?’
‘Keep on, damn y’r blood!’ snapped Kydd. Even these ignorant backwoodsmen would know they’d be in deep trouble with their government if they caused loss of life by firing on a flag of truce.
More long guns came on target. There was a flurry of shouting, then the weapons were lowered slowly. Grim-faced, Kydd saw the waiting figures resolve to individuals.
‘Garn back, y’ English pigs!’ yelled one, brandishing a rifle. Others took up the cry. Kydd told Rawson to hold steady and lay alongside. The shouting died down, but a dozen or more people crowded on to the jetty.
‘Oars – toss oars,’ Kydd told the midshipman.
The crowd grew more menacing, one man threatening them with a pitch-fork. The boat drifted to a stop. ‘Bowman, take a turn o’ the painter,’ Kydd ordered. The boat nudged the timbers of the landing-stage; hostile figures shuffled to the edge.
Kydd stood up in the boat. ‘I ask ye to let me land – if y’ please.’ Nobody moved. ‘Then am I t’ take it you’re going to prevent by force the landing on the soil of the United States of America of a citizen of a nation, er, that you’re not at war with?’ It sounded legal, all but the last bit.
‘We don’ want yore kind here. Git back to yer ship or I’ll give yez a charge o’ lead up yer backside as will serve as y’r keepsake of Ameriky.’
‘Get his rope, Jeb – we’ll give ’em a ducking.’ Hands grabbed at the painter, rocking the boat.
‘Hold!’ The crowd fell back to where a well-dressed man waited on horseback. He dismounted and walked to the jetty edge; malice hung about him. ‘Can you not see you’re unwelcome, sir?’ he called evenly to Kydd.
‘Am I so fearsome the whole town turns out t’ oppose me?’
‘You’re an Englishman – that’s enough for these good folk. And Navy too. There’s many here who have suffered their ships taken as prize, youngsters snatched away by the press – they have reasons a-plenty, sir.’ There were cries of agreement. ‘Therefore I’d advise you to return whence you came.’ He folded his arms.
Kydd lowered his head as though in resignation, but his eyes were busy measuring, gauging. He placed a foot on the gunwale, leaped across the gap of water, heaved himself over the edge of the jetty and ended up next to the man. ‘I thank ye for your advice, sir, but as you can see, here I am, landed.’ He dusted himself off. ‘L’tenant Kydd, at your service, sir.’
The man’s reply was cold. ‘Schroeder. Christopher.’ He did not hold out his hand.
Kydd bowed, and looked around at the crowd. ‘I thank ye most kindly for my welcome, and hope m’ stay will be as pleasant.’ When it was clear there would be no interchange, he leaned over and ordered his crew to throw him up his single piece of baggage. ‘Proceed in accordance with y’r previous orders, Mr Rawson,’ he added, and the boat stroked away to sea.
He was now in the United States, and very much alone.
Kydd set off down the path into the village, which he knew by the chart was the tiny seaport of Exbury in the state of Connecticut. It was a pretty township, barely more than a village with square, no-nonsense wooden houses and neatly trimmed gardens – and, to Kydd’s English eyes, unnaturally straight roads with their raised wooden sidewalks. It also had a distinct sea flavour: the resinous smell of a spar-maker, the muffled clang of a ship-smithy and what looked like a well-stocked chandlery further down the street.
Women carrying baskets stopped to stare at him. The men muttered together in sullen groups. ‘Can you let me know where I c’n get lodgings?’ he asked one, who turned his back. When he located the general store to ask, its keeper snapped, ‘We’m closed!’ and slammed the door.
Kydd sat down heavily on a bench beneath a maple tree. It was a near to hopeless mission, but he was not about to give up. He had no idea what had turned the town against him, but he needed lodgings.
A gang of rowdy youngsters started chanting:
‘ . . . And there they’d fife away like fun
And play on cornstalk fiddles
And some had ribbons red as blood
All bound around their middles!
Oh – Yankee doodle, keep it up
Yankee doodle dandy . . .’
Kydd missed the significance of the revolutionary song and, nettled by his politeness, the youths threw stones at him. Kydd shied one back, which brought out a woman in pinafore and bonnet. She glared at him, but shooed away the urchins.
He picked up his bag and set off towards the other end of town. As he passed the houses, each with their doors and windows all closed, a man stepped out on to his porch. ‘Stranger!’ he called sternly.
Kydd stopped. ‘Aye?’
‘You’re the Englishman.’
‘I am, sir – Lieutenant Thomas Kydd of His Majesty’s Ship Tenacious.’
The man was thin and rangy, in working clothes, but had dignity in his bearing. ‘Jacob Hay, sir.’ Kydd shook his hand. It was work-hardened and calloused. ‘Your presence here ain’t welcome, Lootenant, but I will not see a stranger used so. If it’s quarters ye’re after, I’m offerin’.’
‘Why, thank you, Mr Hay,’ said Kydd, aware of several people muttering behind him. Hay glanced at them, then led the way into his house.
‘Set there, Mr Kydd, while we makes up a room for ye.’ Kydd lowered himself into a rocking-chair by the fire. ‘Judith, find something for Mr Kydd,’ he called, through the doorway. A young woman entered with a jug and a china pot. She did not lift her eyes and left quickly.
To Kydd, Hay said, ‘There’s no strong drink enters this house, but you’ll find th’ local cider acceptable.’
Kydd expressed his appreciation and, proffering some coins, added apologetically, ‘I have t’ tell you now, sir, I don’t have any American money for my room.’
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‘Put it away, sir. That won’t be necessary.’ Hay pursed his lips and said, ‘I don’t mean t’ be nosy, but can I ask what business is it y’ have in Exbury? Somethin’ to do with the Frenchy, I guess.’
‘I – have to, er, enquire of the authorities what they mean t’ do in the matter,’ Kydd said cautiously.
‘To do? Nothin’ I guess. Frenchy is here t’ fit a noo mizzen and be on her way, and that’s all – we let him be.’
‘It’s the law, Mr Hay.’
‘Law? No law says we has to send him out fer you to take in that two-decker o’ yourn,’ he said coldly.
‘I have t’ hear the authorities first, y’ understands,’ Kydd said. ‘Who would that be, do ye think?’
Hay’s coolness remained. At length, he said, ‘That’ll be Mr Dwight or Mr Chadwick. Selectmen fer Exbury.’ Seeing the blank look on Kydd’s face, he added, ‘Magistrates, like. Call th’ meetings, run th’ constables.’
‘I’d like to call on ’em, if y’ please,’ Kydd said politely.
‘Time fer that after supper.’ The aroma of fresh-baked bread filled the air. Hay sniffed appreciatively. ‘An’ if I’m not wrong we’re havin’ steamed clams.’
‘ . . . and may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.’
While Mrs Hay set about the dishes, Kydd tried to make conversation. ‘M’ first time in the United States. I have t’ say, it’s a good-lookin’ country.’ Hay regarded him without comment.
Kydd smiled across at Judith, who hastily dropped her eyes. He turned once more to Hay. ‘I’d be obliged if ye could find your way clear t’ tellin’ me why I’m not welcome, Mr Hay.’
Hay’s face hardened. ‘That’s easy enough. We live fr’m the sea by fishing ’n’ trade. We’re a small town, as ye can see, and when a ship is built an’ vittled for tradin’ there’s a piece of everyone in her when she puts t’ sea. Life ain’t easy, an’ when a family puts in their savin’s it’s cruel hard t’ see that ship taken f’r prize by a King’s ship an’ carried into a Canadian port t’ be condemned.’
‘But this is because you’ve been caught trading with the French – the enemy.’
‘Whose enemy?’ Hay snorted. ‘None of our business, this war.’
‘And if the French beat us, then you don’t think they’re going to come and claim back their American empire? They have most o’ the rest of the world.’
Hay grunted. ‘Eat y’r clams, Mr Kydd.’
The atmosphere thawed as the meal progressed. Eventually, after apple pie and Cheddar, Hay sat back. ‘If you’re goin’ t’ see a magistrate, make it Dwight.’ He wouldn’t be drawn any further and Kydd set off alone. At the substantial gambrel-roofed house, which Hay had previously pointed out, he was greeted by a short, tubby man wearing a napkin tucked round his neck.
‘Er, I need t’ see Mr Dwight.’
‘Himself,’ the man said, in a peculiar, rapid delivery. ‘I guess you’re the English officer. Am I right?’
‘Aye, Lieutenant Kydd. Sir, pardon me if I seem unfamiliar with y’r ways, but I need t’ find the authority here in Exbury – the public leader, as it were, in your town.’
Dwight raised his eyebrows, but motioned Kydd inside and closed the door. ‘I’ll shake hands with you in private, if you don’t mind, L’tenant. Now sit ye down, and here’s a little rye whiskey for your chilblains.’
Kydd accepted it.
‘Sir, if you’re lookin’ for our leader, I guess I’m your man. Selectman o’ Exbury. It’s about as high as it goes, short o’ the governor in Hartford. Now, how can I help you?’
‘Sir, I come on a mission o’ some delicacy. No doubt you’re aware that a French privateer lies in your port –’
‘I am.’
‘– which we surprised in the fog in th’ process of takin’ a merchant ship of the United States goin’ about its lawful business.’
‘Don’t surprise me to hear it, sir.’
‘Oh?’ said Kydd, prepared only for disbelief and scorn.
‘Sir. Let me make my position clear. I’m known as a plain-speakin’ man and I’ll tell it straight.
‘I’m a Federalist, same as the President, same as General Washington himself. I won’t try your patience in explaining our politics. Just be assured we stand for the old ways and decent conduct, and we don’t hold with this damn French arrogance and ambition. We’re opposed by a bunch o’ rascals who think t’ sympathise with them on account of their help in the late war – saving y’r presence, sir.’
Kydd began to speak, but was interrupted. ‘I said I’ll speak plain, and I will. We’ve been taking insults to our flag and loss to our trade, and we’ll not have it. There’s going t’ be an accounting, and that soon.
‘But, sir, I’ll have you understand, because we take the same view, this does not mean we’re friends.’
Kydd gathered his thoughts and began again: ‘What we seek, sir, is an indication how you mean to act.’ As smoothly as he could, he continued, ‘You have here a belligerent vessel seeking a neutral haven f’r repairs. According to international law, he must sail within two days. Do ye mean to enforce the law?’
Dwight sighed. ‘Philadelphia is a long ways off – the law is as may be. Here, it’s what the citizens say that counts.’
‘Does this mean—’
‘If I tried t’ arrest the Frenchman with my two constables, I’d start a riot – and be thrown out of office. This town has just lost a ship t’ the British and two lads to your press-gang. And I’d run smack dab against Kit Schroeder.’
‘I believe I’ve met the gentleman,’ Kydd murmured.
‘Owns three ships and the store, knows how t’ lift a cargo with all the right papers to see it past the British an’ then on to a French port. There’s most folks here do business with him and don’t want to see him interfered with, y’ see.’
‘So you’re saying that there’s nothing you c’n do? You mean th’ Frenchy to lie alongside as long as he wants?’ For the sake of local politics the privateer was to be left untouched; Tenacious would be forced to sail in a few days, releasing the vessel to continue her career of destruction. Resentment boiled up in Kydd.
Dwight held up a pacifying hand. ‘Now, I didn’t say there was nothing I could do. I’m a selectman an’ you have come to me with a case. I’ll be letting the governor in Hartford know – but that’ll take some time with the roads as they is. However, I’m empowered to, and I will, issue a warrant for a town meeting to consider, um, whether the committee of public safety should take action to prevent there being a hostile action on our soil. Requiring the Frenchman t’ take himself elsewhere, say. No promises, Mr Kydd, but you’ll get to say your piece and—’
He broke off and cocked his head. Indistinct shouts sounded in the night, rhythmic thuds like a drum. Dwight crossed to the window and pulled the shutter ajar. ‘Trouble,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘Republicans. Don’t like you being here, I guess.’
Kydd peered out. Flickering torches were being borne along towards them, and in their light he saw marching figures, gesticulating, shouting.
‘Had ’em here before, the wicked dogs. Here, lend me a hand, sir.’ They moved over to each window and secured the folding shutters, the smell of guttering candles in the gloom of the closed room now oppressive.
A maid came from the rear, hands to her mouth. ‘We’ll be quite safe, Mary,’ Dwight said, and pulled open a drawer. Kydd caught the glint of a pistol. ‘They’re only here ’cos they’ve had a skinful of Schroeder’s liquor – they’ll be away after they’ve had their fun.’
He eased open the shutter a crack. ‘See that? They’re wearing a tricolour cockade in their hats! Republicans do that so there’s no mistake who it is they support.’
The noise grew close. A drum thudded in an uneven rhythm, while harsh shouts and laughter came clearly through the closed shutters. Suddenly there was a sharp thud and tinkling glass, then another. Dwight stiffened and swore. ‘Breaking windows. I’ll have Schroeder’s h
ide – no need f’r this.’
But, as he had prophesied, the influence of drink faded and the small crowd dispersed. ‘I’m truly sorry you’ve been inconvenienced, Mr Kydd,’ Dwight said, with dignity, ‘but in my country we value free speech above all things. Good night to ye.’
Kydd did not sleep well and was up at cockcrow, pacing along the single cross-street to get the stiffness from his limbs.
It did not take long for the gang of youngsters to find him and begin chanting again, but Kydd grinned broadly and gave them a cheery wave. They soon tired of the sport and darted away. After a few minutes one returned and took station next to him. Kydd guessed he was about ten.
‘Are you English?’ the boy blurted out.
‘Aye. I come fr’m Guildford, which is in Surrey,’ Kydd said.
‘What’s your ship’s name?’
‘Oh, she’s His Britannic Majesty’s sixty-four-gun ship Tenacious, an’ I’m her fifth l’tenant, Kydd, so you have t’ call me “sir”!’
‘Yes, sir,’ the boy said smartly. ‘I’m Peter Miller.’ They walked on together. ‘How do ye keelhaul a man, sir?’
‘What? No, lad, we don’t keelhaul sailors. We flog ’em, never keelhaul.’ Kydd chuckled.
‘Have you ever bin flogged, sir?’ Peter asked, wide-eyed.
Kydd hesitated. It was not an admission he would make in polite company. ‘Yes, a long time ago, before I was an officer.’
Peter nodded seriously. ‘I want t’ join the Navy like you, but my pap says we ain’t got a navy,’ he added defensively.
‘We have Americans in the Royal Navy, lad. Ye could—’
‘No, sir!’ Peter said with spirit. ‘I’ll not serve King George. Er, that’s any king a’tall, not just your king, sir.’
Kydd laughed, and the boy scampered off.
He reached the end of the street, turned the corner and found himself heading towards the French privateer alongside the commercial wharf. At the thought of seeing the ship at such close quarters he quickened his pace. There were idle onlookers standing about on the quay taking their fill of the novel sight; Kydd could see no reason why he should not be one of them.
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