Their bold attack was unexpected, and opposition melted as more British seamen poured through the gunports and battered a path toward the cabin spaces aft.
Jumping to the enemy foredeck Kydd nearly impaled himself on a pike shoved at him by a fearfully pale young man. Kydd’s cutlass came up and being inside the long pike he turned its length to his advantage—it was easy to force the pike aside, leaving the man at his mercy.
The face sagged in sudden realization. Kydd’s blade slashed forward and with an inhuman shriek the Frenchman crunched and gouted blood. Kydd drew the cutlass back, the gray steel now streaked red.
The man was already at Kydd’s feet, a spreading pool of blood under his jerking body. Kydd looked up. A larger seaman with a mustache threw himself toward him, his cutlass ready at point. Kydd clumsily came to an outside half-hanger and felt a violent clash of steel. The cutlass flashed back and Kydd’s inside guard was only just in time and instinctive. The assault ended in a deadly slither along his blade to the hilt. It banged against his forehead and he felt the hot burn of a wound.
The man was overbearing, thrusting, slashing—Kydd gave ground. Suddenly his antagonist slipped on the spreading pool of blood, and reflexively threw out his arms. Kydd thrust out and felt his blade jar against bone before sinking deep into softer tissue. The cutlass was jerked from his hands, but it was the man falling to his knees, Kydd’s blade jutting from his chest.
Kydd looked around wildly. It was impossible to make sense of the mêlée, and he caught the flash of movement of a French officer who lunged toward him with a rapier. Horror seized Kydd, but in a frenzied split second he remembered his pistols and drew one from his belt. At the full length of his arm he shoved the heavy weapon straight into the face of the officer and pulled the trigger. The man’s face became a mask of blood and bone and he crashed to the deck in front of Kydd.
His first victim still lay sprawled on his side. Kydd stamped his foot on the body of the other seaman and heaved out his cutlass. He looked around. Men were fleeing, general confusion. He heard Neville’s shouted orders from ahead, and hurried forward to the scrimmage by the boat-space. It had broken up by the time he reached it, but re-formed farther aft.
Abreast the main jeer bitts a wall of the enemy had formed across the deck and was pressing the seamen from Artemis hard. Surrounded by enemy, Neville was in the front, his blade faster than a snake’s tongue. Kydd fell back, arms exhausted and burning with fatigue, but there was no retreat. He slashed and parried, swaying forward and back, weariness blunting his skills. Stubbornly he called on his last store of strength, furious that things had to end in this way.
Suddenly, gloriously, there was the sound of wild cheering as Stirk boiled up from the after hatchway in the enemy’s rear. He whirled his blade like a lunatic and close behind him were Renzi and the others in a triumphant assault.
The French broke, then ran. Screaming harshly Kydd flailed after them, but they bolted down the hatchway and into the rigging, leaving the British in possession of the deck.
“Follow me!” screamed Neville. Kydd stumbled after him, a huge grin at the sight of Renzi alongside him. They reached the quarterdeck. Neville’s sword slashed at the clumsy attempt the French had made to keep the tricolore hoisted high on the stump of the wrecked mizzenmast, and the enemy colors tumbled down. He held them aloft in his hands, an ecstatic expression on his face. Insane cheering broke out, again and again, and echoed from Artemis.
Kydd stopped and lowered his stained weapon in a daze. It was victory! A swelling pride swept over him suddenly and he looked down the long deck of the enemy ship with its piled-up ruin of rigging and bodies, a battlefield of blood and desperation—and knew the warrior’s pulsing triumph.
Around him others had come to a stop, as did the French. Sullen and tense, first one, then the rest of the enemy let their pikes, tomahawks and cutlasses drop to the deck. A strange silence hammered at Kydd’s ears after the furious clash of battle. Then the sailors began to move again at the shouts of petty officers as they directed their men to surround the prisoners.
Renzi appeared, his smoke-grimed figure and apologetic half-smile making Kydd feel guilty that he had not spared time to think of his friend as he had hewn and slashed his way along the enemy decks.
Beside him Neville staggered then steadied himself against the fallen mizzen. He seemed to be working under some emotional burden. “Well done, you men. I—I’m proud of you all,” he said huskily. Sheathing his sword clumsily he looked up to where the ensign of the Royal Navy floated free above the French on the stump of the mast. His eyes did not leave the flags; he seemed to sag.
Worried, Kydd then noticed the deck beneath Neville—bright flowers of scarlet blossomed on the planking. Neville slid down to a sitting position, looking oddly preoccupied. Kydd moved to his side and steadied him, but Neville shrugged off his support irritably. “S-secure the prisoners,” he ordered no one in particular. His eyes had a glassy look.
No one moved: they were staring at him. “A-and cu’ away thi’ raffle,” he said, in a pitiable version of his usual crisp delivery. The eyes focused. “Abou’ y-your duty, m-men!” he ordered, in a querulous tone. Kydd felt at his side—his hand came away steeped in blood. Neville’s eyes turned to him, puzzled, then his body seemed to collapse inwards of itself and, with Kydd tenderly supporting, Neville subsided to the deck. He lay still on his back, but his eyes moved, seeking out the ensign, which they fixed and held. For long moments he did not move, then gently, his body relaxed and stilled.
Kydd waited, but the mantle of death was unmistakable. “He’s gone,” he murmured, and closed the still open eyes. He felt an upwelling of emotion, which threatened to overwhelm him.
A voice spoke next to him, a cool, steadying voice. “As of this moment there is no British officer aboard,” said Renzi. Kydd looked up at him, grateful for the intervention but not sure what he meant.
“We must find the enemy captain at once,” Renzi went on. Of course—the capitulation could not be completed until the Captain had yielded his sword. Renzi crossed over to one of the growing numbers of disarmed French sailors. The man looked dazed as he questioned him, then pointed toward a knot of bodies draped around the base of the mainmast.
The imperatives of war meant that the corpse must be found and deprived of its sword, and Kydd reluctantly approached the charnel house, where men had been dragged to die. Movement caught his eye. Propped up against the mast was a hideously wounded man with his left hip and part of his back blasted away by a round-shot. The man was doggedly biting and tearing at papers, his eyes rolling in unspeakable pain.
Kydd knelt down and saw gold lace beneath the clotted blood. He realized that this was the Captain. Overcome with compassion, Kydd reached out to stop the manic activity.
He was pushed aside by Parry, who grabbed uselessly at the paper fragments. “Damn him!” he said in disgust.
The Frenchman smiled, and passed from the world.
“The Master believes we shall descry St. Catherine’s at seven bells,” Renzi said. His tone was guarded, but Kydd could tell he was charged with feeling. They were sitting on the fore-hatch, busy with other seamen on endless coils of shot-riven rope. It was not unpleasant—the morning sun was warm and beneficent, their progress a crawl under the jury driver, an ingenious contraption of spare topmast and leather butt lashing.
Kydd had lain sleepless in his hammock all night, trying to put the nightmarish, jerking scenes of death and peril from his mind. Time and again the piteous pale face of the youngster he had slaughtered cringed and begged. Kydd questioned his own humanity until his brain staggered under the weight of his doubts.
Wallowing astern, the Citoyenne pumped ship every hour, her hull and rigging a crazy patchwork of hasty repair, but above the tricolor floated Artemis’s battle ensign.
“Did you notice?” Renzi said, in a low voice.
Kydd knew that his friend would now reveal what was troubling him.
“The French captain, Maillot,” Renzi said quietly.
Kydd remembered the gory corpse, the manic biting. “What about him?”
“The papers he was destroying.”
“Yes?”
“It was his commission.”
“But all officers carry theirs on them in battle—in case they’ve captured.”
“Parry found it amusing,” Renzi said drily. “Said it was a fine time to find it a worthless Jacobin scrap of paper, that he must destroy it.”
“But—”
“Exactly. I do not believe a man in his last minutes would think to commit such an act.”
“Then why—”
Renzi looked away. “It was an act by the bravest man I know,” he said softly.
Kydd sighed with exasperation. “Why so?” he said.
Renzi opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind. “You will forgive me, but at times my philosophies lead me down strange paths.” He picked up his splice and continued his work.
“Damn strange, if y’ asks me.” Kydd snorted.
Renzi’s face lifted—it was troubled. “Would you have me take the last mortal act of a gallant man and turn it to ashes? Or do I honor his memory and remain silent?”
There was no doubt in Kydd’s mind. “If it is a matter touching on the safety of England then y’ have no choice—y’r logic will say, you are overborne by the higher.”
“Yes.”
“Would you be so timid, were you to make the decision under stress o’ battle? You would not—the matter is not decided till the flag is down.”
“You are in the right of it, dear fellow.” Renzi stared down for a moment. “Come,” he said.
He went to the shrouds, pretending to be passing a line. Kydd joined him, understanding that Renzi needed to be away from the ears of others.
“His commission, he would not destroy it—but he would if in his final agony he believed it to be some other paper, one that was of vital urgency to the security of his nation. I believe that in one of his other pockets we shall find this paper, whatever it might be.”
Kydd stared at him. “We must tell this.”
“And have Parry admit his contempt was misplaced? I think not. We find it ourselves, if indeed it is there.”
The body of Captain Maillot was laid out in the orlop, on the main-hatch. It would be given a funeral with full honors when they reached England in one or two days, but meanwhile it would rest below, sword and cocked hat laid carefully upon it.
A single lanthorn shed a soft light on the still form, and on the marine sentry loosely at attention at the foot of the shroud.
They approached and the sentry snapped awake. “Gerroff!”
“This the Frog captain?” Kydd asked.
“Yeah—now yer’ve clapped peepers on ’im, bugger off!”
Kydd sauntered up to the sentry. “Last chance we gets, y’know. Seein’ his face an’ that,” he went on. The sentry didn’t reply, stiffening his posture.
Renzi glanced meaningfully at Kydd, who tried again. “It was we who got to him first, you knows,” he said. “There he was, all gory an’ all, we were the ones who saw him, there dyin’.”
The sentry shifted slightly and said from the corner of his mouth, “Saw yez do yer boardin’. That wuz a plucky do—bad luck to me if it ain’t.”
“Then let’s see his face, pay our respects like,” Kydd wheedled.
The man looked nervous. “Me sergeant catches me …”
Kydd eased a black bottle from inside his waistcoat. He started, as though noticing the sentry for the first time. “Why, there’s m’ bad manners. You’ve been down here, looking after his Nobbs, with never a drop—here, take a rummer while we have a quick peek.”
The sentry offered his musket to Kydd to hold, and took a long pull. Renzi quickly undid the lacing at the head of the shroud to reveal the pale face and staring eyes of Maillot. A sickening odor drifted up.
“’Ere, yer can’t do that!” The sentry had noticed Renzi move the sword and hat and continue unlacing down the length of the corpse.
“Have another pull if ye likes,” Kydd urged.
Renzi found nothing in the pockets. If there had been an alternative paper it was not there anymore. He knew that if they were found, any explanation would be futile. It would be assumed they were robbing the corpse—a hanging offense. He threw a despairing glance at Kydd, then clamped his kerchief to his face and burrowed deeper into the dead captain’s inner clothing. He tried to ignore the coldness of death.
“Hey, stop that, yer thievin’ sod!” The sentry had come to his senses, and tried to pull Renzi off the body. Kydd held him back, and at that moment Renzi froze. His hand withdrew. In it was a single sheet of closely written paper. He held it to the light, and Kydd could see his eyes gleam. “Set him to rights, Tom. We have it.”
The paper was stuffed back and the body restored to a state of proper reverence.
Snatching back the bottle, Kydd hurried after Renzi to the open air again.
“Secret coast signals—priceless,” whispered Renzi. “But how—”
Kydd grinned back at him. “Easy! Let’s say you overheard the French prisoners talking among ’emselves, thought it proper to lay it before Black Jack that he might find somethin’ interesting should he rummage the body.”
CHAPTER 2
God rot their bones for an infernal set of useless lubberly rogues!” exploded the Admiral, his face reddening at the pressure of the starched collar at his neck.
His wife sighed in exasperation. “Now, John, you well know how I disapprove of your sea language in the house.”
The Admiral held his tongue, acutely aware of how very little it would take to provoke him to indulge his rage. He took some satisfaction from casting loose the fastening of his high collar, hoping it would be concealed under the snowy lace cravat. “You would bear me some sympathy, m’dear, were you to know the very considerable vexations I endure as a consequence of His Majesty’s unexpected decision to visit,” he growled. He would get the sympathy, he knew, but not the understanding. King George’s sudden decision to leave the capital, to witness personally the triumphant entry of the battered victor and her prize, was causing untold difficulties for the Port Admiral.
“Of course, my love, it must be a grievous trial to you.” Lady Clowes had her own views on what constituted a vexation: she was personally responsible for the success of the royal entertainments, and if they were a failure in any way it would be held against her, but if they passed off without drama she would be forgotten. She had only that odious flag lieutenant to assist her, and he a simple sea officer with no appreciation of the subtleties of Court etiquette. “Try not to think about it too much, dear,” she added absently. Her thoughts were more on what to do with the ambitious Lady Saxton. The Dockyard Commissioner’s wife was married to a mere post captain but he was a baronet: if these ambitions were to be contained she faced a nice dilemma of precedence at the Court presentations.
“I beg pardon, sir.” The flag lieutenant appeared at the doorway.
“Damn you, sir! When we are—”
“My earnest apologies, sir, but we have had word from Brigadier Crossley,” the lieutenant broke in carefully. “He desires you to know that the press of people now is such that he fears for the safe progress of the King’s procession.” He waited, his eyes averted from Lady Clowes.
“Ah.” The Admiral felt his choler rising once more. So much for the Army—nothing to do but march up and down all day and now they couldn’t be trusted to clear a path through the crowds. “I shall attend in my office within the hour. I’m sure they’ll hold till then,” he said testily.
“Sir,” the lieutenant acknowledged, and vanished.
“John?” His wife had seen the signs and moved to head off the storm.
“Yes?”
“Be so good as to rehearse with me why this event is so glorious at this time,” she said demurely.
“It’s simple, my dear. We�
�re at war with a mad parcel of rascals who are unstoppable on land. This is the first time we’ve been able to try their mettle at sea as equals, and now we’ve proved they can be stopped. The country has good reason to be grateful to Captain Powlett, I believe.” The Admiral said no more, but he found he was rather looking forward to hearing about the now famous engagement at first hand.
Kydd slipped hand over hand down the fore-topgallant backstay to the deck, arriving breathless. “Something amiss—I c’n see quantities of people, Nicholas, all th’ way fr’m Portsmouth Point along t’ the old castle.”
Renzi performed a neat belay on the line as he contemplated Kydd’s excitement. If there really was any civil disturbance in Portsmouth they would not be proceeding calmly into harbor with their prize.
“There is talk that the French contemplate a landing,” he said.
Kydd looked at him sideways. “There’s something happened,” he retorted stubbornly.
They had reached a point some five miles off the Nab and the brisk northeasterly was making it tricky for them to gain ground toward Spithead, hampered as they were by their jury rig and Citoyenne under tow astern.
Sailors gathered on the foredeck to try to make sense of the tumult ashore. “Fleet’s still at anchor,” observed Adam, adding that this would not be the case were there any real threat.
Petit paused in his work, and tried to make out the anonymous multitude of humanity up and down the distant shore. “Ain’t never seen a crowd like it since the last age.”
“’Oo’s that, then?” said Stirk.
As Artemis approached St. Helens, first one, then several small craft came around the headland. From their press of sail they appeared to be in some degree of commotion, their fore-and-aft canvas straining perilously in the sea breeze.
Artemis opened the angle into the last stretch before Spithead, the sailing boats pressing forward fast, with several larger hulks and lighters also creeping out toward them.
The first of the boats reached them. It was a small yawl, crammed with passengers who waved energetically. The boat hissed past and tacked smartly about, dangerously close. A second arrived, with figures clinging to the shrouds shouting a frantic welcome. Soon there were dozens of sailing craft, weaving and dodging, the raucous whoops from their passengers leaving no doubt why they had come.
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