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one hand he felt sympathy with what the man had been trying to achieve in the larger picture, but on the other he did not want to be seen in the ranks of those trying to tear him down.
    Yet there was still one niggling concern: might he eventually find himself accused of being an accomplice and arraigned?
    In the morning, at eight precisely, a single gun thudded out from
Gladiator
and a Union flag mounted to her masthead.
    The court-martial of a senior officer of the Royal Navy in what some were calling the trial of the age was beginning with the summoning of the court.
    The majority were admirals and, as was the custom, mere captains took boat first from the man-o’-war steps. There was a sizeable crowd to see them go, held back by redcoats from the garrison, and an excited buzz rose. Kydd was in his full-dress uniform, his star and crimson sash marking him out as one of the sea-heroes so talked about, and he gravely acknowledged the cheers.
    In the boat were other witnesses of like rank, with two older captains who were to sit in judgement. They avoided each other’s gaze until they reached the venerable ship’s side and disembarked one by one.
    An immaculate side-party in white gloves piped them aboard, then the captain of
Gladiator
welcomed them and saw the witnesses aft to a special area where they would wait until called.
    The great cabin was arranged with a long table and chairs, several side-chairs and small tables for officials and attendants.
    One by one the members of the court filed in, in strict order of seniority, the glitter of gold lace and the steely gleam of the sword of the provost marshal adding to the solemn majesty of the moment.
    Last to enter was the president of the court, Admiral Young, who took his high-backed chair with ponderous deliberation. Next to him was the judge advocate who would advise on points of law and procedure. At one end was a bewigged civilian supported by another, the prosecuting counsel for the Admiralty; at the far end two others stood beside an empty chair, Popham’s legal counsel.
    After a muttered consultation the president was ready.
    “Carry on, the Admiralty marshal.”
    This was the warrant for proceedings, under the signature of the highest authority possible.
    A clerk took up a paper and read, in a thin, reedy voice, “‘Whereas Captain Sir Home Popham left the Cape of Good Hope without orders to attack the Spanish settlement on the Rio de la Plata, now this is to command you that you take the said Sir Home Popham under arrest preparatory to his trial by court-martial for his said offence.’”
    Each of the members of the court were then individually put on oath.
    “Bring in the prisoner.”
    Popham wore a faint smile as he stood erect before the court.
    His sword was produced by the provost marshal and handed to the president.
    “You are Captain Sir Home Popham?”
    “I am.” The voice was calm and even. “Mr President, I have thought it advisable to seek legal assistance upon this occasion and I beg leave to ask permission of this court to have this assistance attend me during the trial.”
    “Sir Home, any assistance you may require, the court is very willing to allow you.”
    Popham gave a slight nod in acknowledgement, and the opening gentlemanly play was over.
    Although he was not in the great cabin, Kydd knew what would be happening. A court-martial was a straightforward affair: the precise charge facing the prisoner would be read out, then the prosecution would make its case, producing the entirety of evidence in support of the charge. Following this, the defence would begin with its own evidence, then witnesses would be called and examined by both sides. On completion, after the customary closing address by the prisoner, the court would be cleared for deliberation to a verdict.
    On more than one occasion Kydd had sat on courts that had opened in the morning and concluded before midday; evidence presented, witnesses heard and verdict arrived at—a