Quarterdeck (33 page)

This might be a French agent on his trail or a crazed citizen seeking revenge on an Englishman—and Kydd was unarmed. He remembered the trees where he had met Peter. He walked on rapidly and, at the end of the road, turned the corner, then sprinted towards them. He heaved himself up among the leaves and on to a branch overlooking the path by the road.

His shadower swung round the corner and stopped, looking baffl ed. He moved forward cautiously but did not appear armed.

Kydd waited. The man increased his pace and came nearer, treading carefully. Kydd tensed and, when the man passed beneath, dropped on his shoulders. The two fell in a heap, but Kydd was faster and wrenched the man over, gripping his throat one-handed in restraint.

The man ceased struggling and stared up at Kydd, who slowly released his hold. “Er, if you’d kindly let me up, I’ll try to explain.” The voice was American, polite and apologetic.

“Do, if y’ please.” Kydd had never heard a footpad so well-spoken, but did not drop his guard.

The man dusted himself off and smiled ruefully. “My name’s Edward Gindler—Lootenant Gindler—and this kind of work is not t’ my liking, I’ll have you know.”

“Lieutenant—Army?”

“Navy.”

“Don’t try t’ gull me—the United States doesn’t have a navy.”

The visitors had left. Liston climbed the stairs painfully to his private room, ruing the onset of age with its aches and pains, but he knew his duty.

He sat down and reached for paper, then selected a pen
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abstractedly. A woman’s hand placed a glass of brandy by him, and her lips softly touched his hair. He twisted round, reached for her hand and kissed it tenderly. “My dear,” he said softly.

His wife said nothing, just looked down at him for a long moment. Then she left, closing the door behind her.

Liston sighed and collected his thoughts.

In respect of the biggest question of the moment—would the United States enter the war against France—there was no answer

. . . yet. Liston smiled grimly as he penned his appreciation of the diffi culties faced by the beleaguered President.

Following the commercial success of the contentious Jay treaty of two years before, the French had retaliated by insisting on the letter of the law in their own treaty, which granted free passage to any vessel carrying a French
rôle de l’équipage.
Now a vessel without it would be subject to seizure.

The consequences to the expanding trade of the young country had been nothing short of catastrophic. Liston picked up Pinckney’s
Congressional Report on European Spoliation of
American Trade
to refresh his mind on the fi gures.

It was staggering—worse even than the dire predictions of the fi re-breathing Hamilton. In the Caribbean, worst hit, no less than three hundred ships had been taken and, counting the dangerous waters on the approaches to war-ravaged Europe since the Jay treaty, nearly a thousand American fl ag vessels had hauled down their colours and been carried into French ports; ship, cargo and crew.

Liston could barely credit that the proud Americans would submit to such intolerable and cynical actions by a so-called ally—but they had. President Adams had stoutly resisted all attempts by Liston and even his own party to be embroiled in a European war, whatever the provocation, but there had to be limits.

Even so, Liston could see his diffi culty. The opposition

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Republicans were led by the astute and learned Jefferson, talked about as the next president, who would never allow him to declare war on an ally. In any case he did not have the means: he had only a few frigates that had been left part built after a brief alarm over Algerine pirates nearly half a dozen years ago.

Yet something had to give. In the last few months, insurance rates in the Caribbean had soared to an impossible 25 per cent of ship and cargo value.

The French were defeating whole nations; coalitions against them had crumbled and they were clearly about to break out of Europe to the wider world. It had made them arrogant and confi dent, but Liston felt that the latest act was beyond sufferance: envoys of the United States in Paris, attempting to negotiate an amelioration of French attitudes, had been met with a demand for two hundred thousand dollars as a pre-condition for any kind of talks.

This incitement to naked bribery had appalled the Americans, and when it had leaked out there had been outrage. For the fi rst time it appeared President Adams would have to move—to declare war? And with what?

Liston dipped his pen and began to write.

Chapter 10

“May I correct you, sir? We
do
have a navy,” Gindler said, with an ironic smile, “As of a week ago. Might I explain?”

It seemed that there had been congressional authorisation for a

“naval armament” since the Algerines trouble, but this had been a War Department matter of the time. Now Congress wanted the reality, and had therefore recently established a Department of the Navy to act like the British Admiralty and was to appoint a full secretary of the Navy.

“So, our navy is born.” Gindler had an engaging smile, but Kydd detected a harder layer beneath his cheery manner.

Kydd’s head was still muzzy after his visit to the Blue Anchor, and he tried to concentrate. “Y’ don’t just
say
you’ll have a navy—

you now have t’ fi nd ships, offi cers. How are y’ going t’ do that?

And dockyards, victualling, slops . . .”

He looked at Gindler—and felt that this vigorous new country might just fi nd some way. “Wish ye well of it, Mr Gindler,”

he said sincerely. Then he added, “But I’d be obliged now, sir, if you’d explain what you were doing.”

“Certainly. I was spying on you, Mr Kydd.”

“Wha’?”

“We need to know what a British offi cer is doing on our soil, you’ll agree?”

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“Then why th’ skulking about? It’s no secret why I’m here.”

“Ah. This is not to do with your own good self, I do assure you.

It has rather more to do with our democratic way, Mr Kydd. If the citizens of this town, living as they do in Connecticut, fi nd out that I, as an agent of the federal government, am poking around in a matter they conclude is theirs, then I’ll soon need a fast horse out of Exbury.”

“Oh? Have you got what you came for, then?” Kydd thought the whole thing sounded more than a little far-fetched.

“Shall we say, sir, that I’d rather like to be shaking hands with an English offi cer as he steps into his boat to return to his ship?”

“Aye. Well, thanks t’ your citizens, the Frenchman lies here untouched an’ my ship must sail away. Have no fear, you’ll have y’r wish, Mr Gindler. At noon I throw out my signal and the boat will come to take me and my English carcass off.” He smiled wryly, then added, “But do walk with me until then, an’ tell me more of y’r plans for a navy.”

Kydd retrieved his baggage from Jacob Hay and stood with Gindler on the small jetty.
Tenacious
was approaching and would heave to on the three-mile line for a space while telescopes spied the shore for Kydd’s signal. If there was none, she would fi ll, stand out to sea and return on the following day.

“If it’s any consolation, my friend, it grieves me as much as it does you,” Gindler said, in a voice low enough not to be over-heard by the ragged crowd that had come to see the defeated Englishman leave.

“Oh?” said Kydd bitterly. He was in no mood to be consoled.

Gindler was spared having to answer by the thud of hoofs. The constable hove into view and pulled up his horse. “Mr Dwight sends ’is compliments an’ hopes you can pay him a call before y’

leaves.”

Kydd bit his lip. It was within half an hour of midday, and if he
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Julian Stockwin

missed the time to display his signal fl ag,
Tenacious
would stand offshore for another day.

The constable leaned down. “Noos!” he said hoarsely, and winked broadly.

Dwight was businesslike. “It’s none of your business, o’ course, Mr Kydd, but you’ll fi nd out anyway—I’ve had word from the governor in Hartford, an’ he takes his advice from Philadelphia.

Seems they’ve had enough o’ the Frenchies and I’m to serve an order on their captain that they’ve just twenty-four hours to quit United States territory.” He stuffed papers into a desk. “I guess this means you’ll be about y’r business then, Mr Kydd,” he added, holding the door open.

Kydd had minutes—if he could make his signal . . .

A wily captain like Junon could play it well; he would use all his twenty-four hours to fettle his ship for any circumstance.

Then, no doubt, he would sail slowly and directly to the edge of territorial waters, luring
Tenacious
towards him. When the English ship was committed to his approach he would throw over his helm to one side or the other and, hoisting every possible sail, break out with his superior speed into the open sea.

Gindler was waiting curiously at the jetty. “
Minotaure—
she’s t’ sail within twenty-four hours,” Kydd said quietly, catching his breath, watching the main topsail of
Tenacious
brace sturdily around as she made to heave to.

“Well, now, you leave like a hero.”

“Perhaps not—I have t’ think,” Kydd said, distracted. True, the
Minotaure
was forced to sea, but what was the use of this if the privateer could slip away past her pursuer? It was damned bad luck that their sloop,
Lynx,
would not yet have returned from alerting the admiral of
Tenacious
’s dispositions, for the two together had a chance of hounding
Minotaure
to her doom.

Could anything be done?

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Desperate times meant desperate measures: Kydd had heard of a drag-sail being used to reduce speed; a disguised ship would pretend dull sailing to lure a prey. Perhaps he could stay ashore and tie a sail secretly to
Minotaure,
slow her enough to catch. He soon realised that before the privateer had gone any distance her captain would want to know why she was slowing and discover the trick.

“Mr Kydd!” Gindler pointed out to sea where
Tenacious
was bringing round her main topsail yard.

Kydd pulled the red number-one fl ag from his pocket and hurried to the front of the gaggle of spectators, spread it wide and let it hang. His news would surely set the ship abuzz.

There appeared to be little activity on her quarterdeck: the daily run inshore had lost its novelty, no doubt. Then topmen began mounting the shrouds and in a smart display the main topsail came around and fi lling, at the same time as the main course was loosed—and
Tenacious
gracefully got under way for the open sea.

Kydd held the signal high in the forlorn hope that someone was looking back on the little township but, her sails sheeted home,
Tenacious
made off to the horizon amid the sniggering and laughter of the onlookers.

Kydd stood mortifi ed. Not only was he left stranded but he had failed to pass on his vital news. Even if he could fi nd a boat quickly no small craft could catch a big square-rigger in full sail. The only certainty was that
Tenacious
would return the next day.

And where could he lay his head that night? He knew he could not go back to Hay. “Er, Mr Gindler, if y’re familiar with this town, do you know of any lodgin’ house?”

“No, sir, I do not. That is, I don’t know of one fi t for a gentleman.” He smiled. “Come now, I can’t have an English guest take back a poor notion of my country. You shall stay with me, Mr Kydd.”

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Julian Stockwin

“Why, Mr Gindler, that’s very kind in you.”

Gindler patted him on the shoulder. “And it keeps you safely under my eye . . .”

“I always try to make New England for the summer, a prime place to rest the spirit—and it is here that I stay.” It was a retired fi sherman’s cottage by the edge of the water, complete with its own boathouse.

“Do you fi sh, Mr Kydd? The halibut and cod here, fresh caught, will by any estimate grace the highest table in the land.

We shall try some tonight.”

Kydd tried to take an interest, but his mind was full of the consequences of his inattention at the jetty. The only glimmer of hope was that if
Minotaure
made use of her full twenty-four hours,
Tenacious
would have returned in time to try to catch her prey.

“We shall have to make shift for ourselves, sir,” Gindler said apologetically. “The hire of this cottage does not include servants.”

“Oh? Er, yes, of course, Mr Gindler.”

“This is American territory, Mr Kydd. Be so kind as to address me by my fi rst name, Edward—that is, Ned.”

“Thank you, sir—I mean, Ned, and pray call me Tom.”

Kydd went out on to the little porch and stared out to sea.

Gindler joined him with pewter tankards of cider and they sat in cane chairs.

“If you can believe it, you have my earnest sympathy, Tom,”

he said. “Damnation to the French!” he added.

“But aren’t they y’r friends?” said Kydd, startled out of his dejection.

“They’ve caused us more grief and loss than ever you English did, curse ’em, and I have that from Secretary of State Timothy Pickering himself.”

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Kydd’s spirits returned. “So it wouldn’t cause you heart-break to see this corsair destroyed.”

“No, sir. It would give me the greatest satisfaction.”

Kydd grinned savagely. “Then let’s get our heads together an’ work out some way we c’n bring about that very thing.”