Quarterdeck (30 page)

Rule of War and it is accepted by the world. Why then should we change it so?”

Adams picked up his glass and smiled. “That is well known, Robert, because it favours the Crown so disproportionate.”

“And the French,” continued Liston evenly, “with their demands of equipage and new decrees—”

“We will fi rmly abide by our treaty obligations of 1778.”

“Sir, the point I wish to make is that unless these three systems of law are brought to an expression of harmony, your country’s trade is in continued jeopardy. It would seem therefore but natural that, if only to restore a balance in world affairs, a measure of amity be enacted between our two nations prohibiting these excesses—here I do not exclude the possibility of an alliance.”

“Against France? I think not. The country would never countenance it.”

“Sir, consider, the French have been all but swept from the seas. What more practical way to safeguard your ships than have them watched over by the most powerful nation at sea, under fl ags in amity?”

“Minister, we shall look after our own. We have no need of a foreign power’s intervention.”

“Without a navy?” said Liston gently.

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“Sir, this discussion is concluded.” The President stood up.

“Have you any other matter you wish to lay before me?”

“Thank you, Mr President. While we are in an understanding, may I be so bold as to refer you to the intolerable actions of French agents in arming bands of Indians on the Canadian border?”

That night the minister made his excuses to his wife and retired to the little room where he was accustomed to gathering his thoughts and rendering them lucidly for his master. Another hand would cipher the despatches.

He tested the nib of his quill, his mind ordering events into neat aggregations, then analysis to their natural heads. It was the least that was expected by Lord Grenville, King George’s noble and demanding minister for foreign affairs.

Liston considered carefully: he had been ambassador to the United States for Britain in all but name during many of those turbulent years following the revolution and had acquired a respect for the colonials that bordered on liking. They had followed up their revolution with a constructive, well-considered constitution, which had humanity at its core; the French, even with the American example, had resorted to blood and chaos in an age-old lust for world domination.

There would be no elaborate salutations: Lord Grenville wanted meat in his despatches, personal observations and opinions unfettered by the delicacies of diplomatic language.

The fi rst subject? The likelihood of intervention by America in the titanic world struggle that was reaching its peak. In Europe there was not a single nation of signifi cance, save England, that still stood against France. America remained outside the fi ght, and as a neutral she could afford to; she was profi ting immensely by trading across the interests of the belligerents—there would be little to gain in taking sides.

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Yet the French were growing confi dent, arrogant even, in their dealings. New decrees had been issued by a victorious Directory in Paris that required all merchant ships to carry papers covering their cargo signed by a French consul if they were to escape being taken as a prize of war. There was even talk of an out-of-hand condemnation if British goods of any kind were found aboard.

If the French had the means to enforce this at sea it would have a devastating impact on the Americans. Without a navy, they would have no choice but to bow to French demands. In the end, though, Paris would fi nd it never paid to bully the United States.

But would the Americans see this as cause for war? Some were still sentimentally attached to the British, and others saw French power as a threat that needed balancing. But there were those who remembered France as an ally closely involved in the birth of their nation and would never sanction an aggressive act against her.

Liston sighed. In the end, as always, it came back to politics and personalities in this most democratic of nations. He respected the bluff President, standing four-square for his country, plain-spoken and direct, even with his resolute opposition to British infl uences, but making no secret of his loathing of the French regime.

But he was increasingly isolated: his party, the Federalists, were the patricians, old landowners staunchly in favour of central government—and generally took the British view. His opponents were the Republicans under Thomas Jefferson, who had no love for England and were mainly new money, naturalised immigrants and strongly pro-French.

The two parties were locked in bitter political strife, which Liston could perceive Adams was badly placed to handle. In this odd system his own Vice President, Jefferson, was leader

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of the opposing party and privy to who knew what murky political secrets. And he was gravely handicapped by the extremist Hamilton at his elbow, splitting his party and draining confi -

dence from his administration.

It was a fevered time: mobs were marching at night, shattering windows; newspapers were full of wild rumour and acid attack. He wondered briefl y what Adams would say if he told him that such was his concern, the great George Washington himself was in secret communication with London. From Pennsylvania a deputation had even demanded clarity on the matter of Mr Adams, son of the President, who was said to be betrothed to a daughter of the King of Great Britain and thereby for the same General Washington to hold the United States in trust for the King.

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 fl ag 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 fi nd 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
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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 fi gures 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 fi nal run in. Suddenly there was the unmistakable report of a fl intlock and a gout of water kicked up sharply, dead in line with the bow.

“Wha’? God rot ’em, they’re fi ring on a white fl ag!” Kydd spluttered. “Keep y’r course, damn you!” he fl ung 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 bul-let 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 fi ring on a fl ag of truce.

More long guns came on target. There was a fl urry of shouting, then the weapons were lowered slowly. Grim-faced, Kydd saw the waiting fi gures resolve to individuals.

“Garn back, y’ English pigs!” yelled one, brandishing a rifl e.

Others took up the cry. Kydd told Rawson to hold steady and lay

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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 fi gures shuffl ed 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 keep-sake 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
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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 fl avour: the resinous smell of a spar-maker, the muffl ed 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:

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. . . And there they’d fi fe away like fun
And play on cornstalk fi ddles

And some had ribbons red as blood
All bound around their middles!

Oh—Yankee doodle, keep it up

Yankee doodle dandy . . .

Kydd missed the signifi cance 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 fi re. “Judith, fi nd 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.

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To Kydd, Hay said, “There’s no strong drink enters this house, but you’ll fi nd th’ local cider acceptable.”