Invasion (15 page)

By mid-morning the wind had hardened and steadied from the east-north-east and the first white-caps appeared. Snugged down, though, there was little to fear, only the endurance of
Teazer
's endless jibbing and bobbing to her anchors as she lay bows to the seas.

“An easterly,” Renzi said, looking up from his writing in the great cabin.

“It is,” Kydd grunted. “A fair wind for the French, but I have m' doubts that even for His Knobbs, Napoleon the Grand, they'll put to sea in this.”

His tea was now slopping into its saucer, a wet cloth on the side-table necessary to prevent it sliding off. It would be his last for a while, but with a bit of luck they should be over the worst by the next morning and could then get the galley fire going again.

Kydd wedged himself more tightly into his chair, which had been secured to its ringbolts, and reflected ruefully on sea life in a small ship.

After a tentative knock, Purchet looked in at the door. “Er, a word wi' ye, sir.”

Kydd stood. This did not seem to be an official visit. “Thought ye'd like to know of it first. See, Mr. Calloway ain't aboard.”

“Does the first lieutenant know?”

“Um, not yet, sir.”

“Thank you for telling me, Mr. Purchet.”

The boatswain waited.

“Er, I'll take the matter in hand m'self—no need t' trouble Mr. Hallum.”

“Aye, sir. An' if ye wants . . .”

“Well, yes. On quite another matter, tell Mr. Moyes and Mr. Tawse to step aft, would you?”

The boatswain nodded and left. If it ever became official, Calloway was in deep trouble: breaking ship after a direct order from her captain was at the least desertion and would most certainly end in a court-martial with the destruction of his career.

Renzi closed his book. “I, er, need to chase up a reference,” he said hastily, passing Moyes and Tawse as he left.

Moyes was a new-made master's mate and took his duties seriously, but when Kydd questioned him about one of his reefers he could throw no light on the disappearance. “Thank you, Mr. Moyes, you can go.”

“Mr. Tawse,” he said, as menacingly as he could, “I want you t' tell me now where I can find Calloway, and I'll not take no for an answer.”

The little midshipman turned pale but stood his ground. “He's— he's not on board,” he whispered.

“I know that, you simkin! If he can be got back aboard before this blow stops the boats running, he's got a chance t' avoid serious consequences, so where's he t' be found, younker?”

Tawse flushed and stared stubbornly at the deck.

“I'm not talking about a mastheading, this is meat for a court-martial. Flogging round the fleet, I'd not be surprised.” At Tawse's continued silence he went on, “I know about his saucy piece, his— his Sally, was it? He's gone t' ground with her, hasn't he? Answer, you villain!”

The young lad looked about miserably, then said, in a small voice, “He's quean-struck on her, Mr. Kydd, and—and he won't listen to his shipmates . . .” He tailed off under Kydd's venomous look.

It was the end for Calloway unless he could be brought to reason.

A memory came to Kydd of a shy thirteen-year-old painfully learning his letters with dockyard master Thomas Kydd in Antigua those years ago. Now that lad had turned into a fine seaman whom he had been able to set upon his own quarterdeck as midshipman, with a future as bright as any. But if he spared him, ignored the crime, every seaman in
Teazer
would expect their own offence to be treated in the same way.

Calloway must face the consequences and . . . No, damn it! How could he let young Luke be scuppered by some scheming wench? If only he could get to him, talk to the rascal, knock a bit of sense—

“Mr. Tawse! You're guilty o' condoning desertion, failing t' inform your superiors,” Kydd bellowed.

The lad shrank back, his eyes wide.

“And I find there's only one thing as'll save your skin.”

“S-sir?”

“Tell me truly where he's at—and no whoppers or I'll personally lay on th' stripes.”

“I—I don't know, sir. She's—she's not o' the quality, I know. Luke—Mr. Calloway—he won't say much 'cos I think he's worried we'll not approve her station.”

“Where?” Kydd ground out.

“Oh, sir, on stepping ashore we always must leave him at the top o' Dolphin Street. Mustn't follow or he'll give us a quiltin'.”

“That's all?”

“Why, sir, we've never even seen her, no matter where she lives.”

It was hopeless. “You've not heard him talk of her last name a-tall?”

“I can't say as I remember—oh, one day I heard him say as she's got long hair like an angel, as our figurehead has.”

“I see. Well, duck away, Mr. Tawse, and not a word t' anyone. D' you mark my words?”

“Clap a stopper on m' tongue, I will, sir,” the youngster piped.

Kydd bit his lip. The only chance Calloway had now was if someone went ashore and roused him to his duty before it became open knowledge and reached the ears of authority.

Should he send Tawse? And let the lad roam the streets of a sailor-town alone? Purchet or Moyes? No. It would compromise their standing aboard if ever it came out.

Then who? It must be someone he trusted but at the same time a man who had the power to give credible reassurance. Kydd heaved a sigh. It was crazy, but there was only one who could go about the darker side of town knocking on doors and entering taverns, then confront the looby and hale him back aboard. Himself. But he would need a trusted accomplice.

“Mr. Hallum,” he said casually, after going on deck, “I've just recalled something as needs my presence ashore for a short while. Call away the pinnace, if y' please.”

“Sir?” the first lieutenant said, frowning. It would be a wet trip, if not impossible, but a delay in returning would probably prevent his captain being able to get back at all until the storm abated.

“Of course,” Kydd added casually, “should I be unfortunately detained then you've nothing to worry of. We've the safest anchoring in the kingdom.”

“Sir, may I ask what it is—”

“No, sir, you may not.”

A worried look descended on Hallum, but Kydd told him, “I'll need to take the gunner—no, a gunner's mate will suffice.”

“That's Stirk, then, sir?”

“He'll do,” Kydd replied. “Have him lay aft.”

While the boat's crew were being mustered Kydd retired to his cabin, tore off his captain's coat and breeches and pulled on an old pair of Renzi's plain trousers that he had borrowed. With his ancient grego he would probably pass as a merchant skipper on business ashore.

When a mystified Stirk arrived, Kydd laid out the situation before him. “Young Luke's got himself in a moil.”

“I knows, Mr. Kydd, sir.” Nothing could be read from the glittering black eyes.

“And I've a mind t' do something for him.”

No response came.

“Someone should go ashore an' bring the young scamp t' his senses. I've a notion that's t' be me. What d' you say . . . Toby?”

Slowly, Stirk's expression eased into a smile. “As I was athinkin'—shipmate.”

A rush of warmth enveloped Kydd. The years had been stripped away; the old loyalties of his days as a foremast hand had not been forgotten.

Stirk rubbed his chin. “Won't be easy. We'll need t' describe 'em both without anyone knows the cut o' the jib of his dollymops.”

“Heard tell she's a head o' hair like our own figurehead. All we has t' say is, anyone seen a tow-headed youngster with a long-haired filly astern, somewheres south o' Dolphin Street?” Kydd chuckled, aware that his hard-won refined speech was wilting under the influence of the returning years.

“
I
has th' say.”

“Aye,” said Kydd, meekly. “Well, boat's alongside and—”

“Poulden's coxswain,” Stirk said firmly, as though that explained everything. Kydd dutifully went down with his old friend into the boat, leaving a puzzled lieutenant watching.

It was a wet trip, the boat's sail under a close reef, and they surfed forward on the backs of the rolling seas until they grounded with a solid crash on the shingle. Kydd leaped nimbly overside before the recoiling wave could return and waited while the boat was brought up.

“I, er, don't know how long m' business will take, Poulden. Do ye wait for me here.”

Expressionless, his coxswain acknowledged, and Kydd set out with Stirk for Dolphin Street. It did not boast the lofty residences and courts of Middle Street, but a dark maze of interconnecting alleyways between the tap-houses, chandleries and shanties of the boatmen and artisans of the King's Naval Yard.

The rich stink of marine stores, stale beer and fish hung heavily as they moved urgently along. The taverns were full of local sea-folk waiting out the foul weather—and they would be best placed to notice strangers coming and going. Rain squalls added to the wind's bluster and Kydd drew his old grego closer as he waited patiently at the door while Stirk entered the Farrier. He wasn't long inside. “Some reckons they've clapped peepers on 'em but can't say where they's at. We're on th' right course, cuffin.”

Without Stirk to allay suspicions, there wouldn't have been a chance of laying hands on Calloway, who, as a child, had been a barefoot waif in London and knew all the tricks. They hurried on. The wind was rising and Kydd tasted the salt sea spume on the air.

The Brewer's Arms brought news: a fuddled man in the blue jersey of a boatman disclosed gleefully that not only was Calloway known but that he had taken up with the daughter of Jack Cribben, a hoveller who, it seemed, was none too happy about the situation. The obliging boatman was at pains to point out that Cribben could be found in one of the little homes towards the seafront.

“Spread more sail, Toby. We'll have 'im back in a trice.”

The windows of the house were barred, shuttered and wet with the constant spray. Kydd hammered at the door. There was a muffled shout from within and he realised he was being told to go to the back where it was sheltered.

The door was answered by a diminutive, furtive woman, who immediately called Cribben, a powerfully built older man. “Yer business?” he said abruptly, noting Stirk's thick-set figure.

“We need t' talk to Luke Calloway, if y' would.”

Cribben stiffened. “Who says—”

“We know where he's at, mate,” Kydd bit off. “Take us.”

“Hold hard, there, cully! An' who's askin'? Are yez a king's man?”

“We're—shipmates o' the lad who wants him back aboard afore he runs afoul o' the captain,” Kydd said quickly. “Y' see, we know you're not, as who should say, glad t' see him and y' daughter . . .”

“My Sally's not marryin' into th' Navy! She's a sweet lass as needs a steady hand on th' tiller an' one who comes home reg'lar each night. No sailin' away t' them foreign parts, havin' a whale of a time, an' her left wi' the little bantlings an' all.”

“Then we'll take 'im off y' hands, sir,” Kydd said briskly. “Just ask him t' step outside, if ye would.”

Standing legs a-brace, Cribben shook his head and folded his arms defiantly.

“No?” Kydd spluttered. “An' why not?”

“'Cos I'll never be the shabbaroon as cravenly delivers up a body t' the Navy fer anyone, begob.”

A flurry of light rain came with the wind's growing bluster. “Then we'll have t' get 'im f'r ourselves, cock,” Kydd said.

The man did not move. “Y' won't find 'im here.”

“S' where
is
he?” Kydd demanded.

There was no response.

Stirk's fists slowly bunched. “If 'n y' don't give us th' griff, cully, an' that right smartly—”

Kydd caught his eye. “No, drop it, Toby. Sea's gettin' up. We'd best be on our way.” Calloway would be tipped off about a Navy visit and would hide deeper.

As they turned to go a small boy raced around the corner, and burst out excitedly in front of Cribben, “Old Bob Fosh seen a packet in trouble off the North Goodwins.”

Cribben's eyes glinted, then the light died. “I thank 'ee, y' little rascal, even as it's t' no account.” He found a coin for the child, who darted off.

At Kydd's puzzled expression he said, “All of 'em hereabouts is out after th'
Princess
draggin' anchor off the Bunt, seein' as how she'll pay over the odds, bein' an Indiaman. That's going t' leave me wi' no crew to go a-hovelling,” he said bitterly. “Not as ye'd care.”