Conquest Page 16

  There was an edge to Kydd’s voice as he replied, ‘I should leave the strategicals to us, Doctor. The gentlemen here are not concerned, neither should you be.’

  ‘Has anyone stepped ashore in this Lourenço Marques?’ Bowden asked lightly. ‘I’ve never heard of it before now.’

  It seemed there were none who had in fact done so. ‘As it needs our Mr Renzi t’ tip us the griff,’ Gilbey said, solemnly regarding his port. There was a general murmur of agreement: Renzi was a valued member of the gunroom and his presence missed.

  ‘The pilot hasn’t much t’ say,’ Kendall said thoughtfully. ‘Around twenty-five south latitude, one o’ the last half-good harbours sailin’ south.’

  ‘Portuguese,’ Kydd said. ‘Been there since the fifteen hundreds, the south part of their old empire they share with the Moors – Zanzibar and other places. Should be a fine place to stretch the legs.’

  The mood brightened at the prospect of an exotic foreign port with novel sights and smells.

  ‘Then here’s to Lorency Marks!’ Peyton said gleefully, raising his glass.

  L’Aurore stretched out willingly, slashing through the glittering seas away from Africa to reach her destination in two boards, not only to make her northing in the face of the north-easterly monsoon but as well to avoid the fast south-going Agulhas current close to the coast.

  It was a time to gladden the heart of any sailor. Close-hauled with gear set for long watches at a time, the frigate was rock-steady and predictable, her motion easy and sweet, an occasional burst of salt spray over the bows carrying aft.

  Forward, the old sailmaker Greer smiled with satisfaction as the boatswain and his party sent up a patched staysail while the watch on deck sat cross-legged around the main-hatchway teasing oakum, an unassailable excuse to tell yarns and gossip.

  At the conn, Lieutenant Bowden gave a shy smile at Kydd, clearly relishing the conditions. Kendall, beside him, was taking in the vast blue bowl of sky with a tranquil gaze, and the quartermaster, having little to do, contentedly chewed his tobacco, gazing with a faraway look out over the headsails.

  On impulse Kydd removed his hat and began a leisurely pace forward, enjoying the sights of a frigate in her prime on a bowline, the comfortable creak and thrum of her passage, the gratifying symmetry of masts and lines, sheer and camber, the—

  ‘Saaail, ho! Saaail three points t’ the weather bow!’

  The urgent hail from the foremast lookout cut into his thoughts. At deck level it would be some time before they became visible and it could be anything – there were active trade routes in this part of the world that made it likely to be a merchant ship. But this far out?

  ‘Deck, hooo! I see three sail – an’ big ’uns!’

  Three men-o’-war? Only too aware of the French heavy squadrons at sea, Kydd turned and hurried back to the quarterdeck. ‘Close as she’ll lie!’ he snapped, now fully alert.

  L’Aurore was in no real danger: she could wheel and make off downwind at any time she chose, and if these were indeed Willaumez or Maréchal, then his duty was clear. He would shadow them until he could establish their course, then clap on every stitch of canvas to get the news to Cape Town. At this distance he could be sure of reaching there days ahead of lumbering battleships.

  Another hail. ‘I see eight of ’em – no frigates!’

  Kydd breathed a sigh of relief: scouting frigates ahead of the squadron could make it very hard for any shadower.

  Away to weather, tiny pale shapes interrupted the horizon as they hove into view, three, four and more until all eight were visible. Gilbey had his sextant up, held flat as he measured the angle between the strangers and L’Aurore’s course. Another sighting, minutes later, confirmed that the distant ships would pass ahead by some margin.

  ‘Stand down the men,’ Kydd ordered.

  ‘Sir?’ said Bowden, puzzled.

  ‘Do you not think it significant that they’re holding course?’

  ‘That they think us not worthy of attention?’

  ‘Not at all . . .’

  ‘Ah! They’ve other business – they’re a John Company convoy!’

  ‘Well done, Mr Bowden. However, I do think we’ll make our number – for a certainty they’ve not heard of our taking Cape Town.’

  For any mariner, after weeks in the oceanic vastness, another ship was always of the deepest interest and the calling to of an important East India Company convoy must seize the attention of every soul in the fleet.

  ‘Then what is your news, sir, that I’m obliged to stop my progress?’ the commodore said loftily, but with barely concealed anticipation. ‘Consols above five per cent? The nabobs combining against the tax?’

  ‘I’m to inform you that His Majesty’s arms have met with success on the field of Blaauwberg before Cape Town and as a result the colony is ours.’

  ‘And?’

  Kydd blinked. ‘This is a development of some significance, sir.’

  ‘Really? I can’t see why. It’s never been our practice to rely on touching at the Cape, and the Dutch have never seen fit to interfere with our trade. What, then, is it to us?’

  ‘To take on fresh victuals, allow your passengers ashore – er, to fettle your ships?’

  ‘Hmmph. Your notions on what is of significance to us is singular, sir. I’ll have you know the concerns of a convoy commodore are many. At the moment I’ve no notion where two of my most valuable sail are – they scattered in a blow during the night.’

  Kydd bristled – then realised that the stately convoy must have been outward bound for over a month and would not have had word of the greatest news of all. ‘Of course, this is not the reason why I’ve seen fit to speak to you, sir.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s my duty to acquaint you of a great battle, the grandest this age in which the combined fleets of France and Spain were finally met by the British fleet under Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson off Cape Trafalgar.’

  ‘Yes? And?’ the commodore said incredulously, jerking upright.

  ‘Sadly, Lord Nelson died of his wounds at the height of the battle and is now lost to us.’

  ‘Good God!’ The commodore fell back, stupefied.

  ‘As it happens, I was present at the engagement,’ Kydd added.

  ‘But – how was . . . Did we prevail? How many – Sir, can I offer you sherry? You’re in no hurry at all?’

  ‘That is very kind in you, sir, but the progress of your convoy . . .’

  The change of attitude was gratifying, and Kydd gave a powerful account of events, then added sombrely, ‘Now Bonaparte has changed the French conduct of the war at sea. Not able to face our fleet, he’s sent numbers of his battle squadrons to harry our trade.’ He went on to detail the forces unleashed.

  The man’s face lengthened: the big privateers based on the French-held Indian Ocean islands were bad enough and the pairs of frigates sent roaming the sea-lanes were worse, but to have to cope with a naval battle squadron was unthinkable. ‘This is grave news, sir. This ship alone bears some six chests of specie and silks to a very great value. Its loss would be catastrophic. And the others – why, in sum it could bankrupt entire trading companies, even cause panic and a run on ’Change! So what does the Navy propose to do, Captain?’ he challenged.

  If sail-of-the-line were taken from their blockade to chase the enemy squadrons it would achieve what Villeneuve had failed to – a lifting of the clamping hold on the French ports and thus the ability of their navy to combine and fall on England. The Admiralty would never countenance it.

  ‘I’m not privy to the dispositions of my commander-in-chief, sir, but you may be sure that there are fast squadrons of our own in close pursuit.’ Whatever could be scraped together from a badly overstretched navy, and set to find their quarry anywhere in the immensity of oceans across the globe, he reflected cynically.

  Kydd concluded with a promise to send newspapers of Trafalgar – the gunroom would still have them – and took his leave. In the boat returni
ng to L’Aurore he looked back thoughtfully at the convoy: grand ships of the illustrious British East India Company, run on a discipline little different from the Navy’s and in their bellies the treasure that was allowing Britain to defy the whole of Europe. They must win through.

  L’Aurore took up again eagerly, a picture of grace and warlike beauty as she leaned to the wind. In a short while the last of the Indiamen were hull down and then their sails disappeared below the horizon, and the seascape was as if they had never been.

  Alone once more, the frigate sped on. ‘I’ll tack about now, I believe, Mr Kendall,’ Kydd said. The manoeuvre was performed at a leisurely pace – there was no point in straining gear – and then they were on the final leg, their course set direct for Lourenço Marques.

  Almost unbelievably there was another cry from the masthead. ‘Saaail! All t’ weather, three – no, five saaail!’

  It couldn’t be another John Company convoy. Then came another hail. ‘Deck, hooo! They’re all alterin’ course towards!’

  This was the confident act of warships but it was vanishingly unlikely that this was a British squadron for he hadn’t been told to expect any. It was the enemy.

  Kydd hailed back: ‘Whaaat shiiips?’

  There was a hesitation as the lookout strained to see, clinging to a line, his body unconsciously leaning forward while he shaded his eyes. ‘I see two sail-o’-the-line, three frigates!’ he finally called down.

  Kydd’s orders were straightforward: he was to shadow and report. Yet here was a puzzle: why was the entire squadron going after his single frigate?

  Then the icy thought blasted in that this powerful force was in the wake of the East India Company convoy, bare hours astern of them.

  Upwind of them, the French were in a dominating position but only one thing stood between them and the convoy: L’Aurore. Against two line-of-battle ships his brave vessel would not survive the first broadside. Yet to step aside and let a catastrophe happen was intolerable. He must try to buy them time.

  ‘Mr Kendall—’ Even as he was about to give his orders the answer came as to why they were crowding after L’Aurore: they assumed she was an outlying escort and would lead them directly to the convoy.

  ‘Lay us on the other tack,’ he called to the sailing master, ‘with all haste, and I do expect you to miss stays.’

  While L’Aurore floundered in her fright and confusion at sighting the French, Kydd ordered the master’s mate, ‘Make a signal, Mr Saxton!’

  Bewildered, the young man fumbled for his notebook then took down, ‘To commander-in-chief: my fore-topsail yard is sprung. I request leave to both watches and – numeral five – men overboard.’

  Saxton opened his mouth, then thought better of it and hurried away. Soon three hoists were urgently fluttering aloft as the frigate plunged off to warn her convoy – in precisely the opposite direction.

  Would it work?

  The topgallants of the enemy were just in sight from the deck; if they took the bait, the tiny white sunlit sails should foreshorten as they hauled their wind in chase. If not, L’Aurore would pass them by and they would disappear.

  His mouth dry with tension, Kydd stared out at the distant cluster, willing them to change. Slowly their aspect altered, the glare of white from the sun fading. And it was . . . all of them. Every one of the French squadron was now in pursuit of L’Aurore, being drawn away from the convoy.

  But for how long? Any false move on his part and L’Aurore’s bluff would be called. For a certainty the French commander would then fall back on his original track, straight towards the convoy.

  The leading ships were hull-up now, their angling course allowing them closer. At that moment, therefore, L’Aurore was under tight scrutiny from telescopes. Kydd kept his own glass on them for there was one move that would turn the tables – if the French detached the faster frigates to deal with him and then, ranging further, found nothing.

  But the frigates were kept back: the cautious French were playing safe in case L’Aurore was a scout for a distant British squadron, tasked to lure them on to bigger ships. They were left unmolested to play out their gambit and Kydd’s anxiety began to subside. If he could keep them on this course after him until dark they would be drawn sufficiently clear of the convoy.

  One piece of irony was that L’Aurore was easily outpacing the French when she should be keeping well in sight, leading them on. If this squadron was Maréchal’s then it must have been at sea for months, if not years, and was slowed by marine growth. He ordered a discreet drag-sail over the bows that would keep them in sight.

  Kydd was gratified: a classic manoeuvre of evasion and deception had saved the priceless argosy at the cost of not a single shot. And probably not too severe a delay in reaching Lourenço Marques. All in all it was— He was interrupted by the sudden cry of a lookout. ‘Deck, hoooo! A sail – no two, right ahead!’ It was absurd – three sightings so close, here in the vast reaches of the ocean.

  Was this the other jaw of a trap? It made no sense – why was the whole squadron involved? And, in any event, how could these two know which course L’Aurore would take? If it was all by chance, was this the rest of Maréchal’s scouting force? Or an English naval detachment? Or innocent strangers caught up in a larger war? Whatever the reality, a decision had to be made. If—

  ‘They’s Indiamen!’ came the disbelieving cry from the lookout. Then Kydd remembered the commodore had mentioned that two of his charges had been separated in the night. And, by the cruellest misfortune, L’Aurore’s ploy had led the French straight to them. In one stroke it had altered the situation decisively and he must take the consequences.

  ‘Cast off the drag-sail!’ he roared forward, and snapped the orders to make straight for the pair. Forcing his mind to an icy coolness, he weighed up the alternatives. Abandoning the two merchantmen to their fate in the face of such odds was unthinkable – it would make his name a byword for dishonour. This left only the heroic and ultimately useless sacrifice of L’Aurore in their forlorn defence – the logic of war demanded it and that was what had to be done.

  He would not make it easy: it would be played out to the last throw. There was the tiniest chance that if he could get the Indiamen to wear about and flee for their lives then, with the enemy slowed by their bottoms being foul, the two Company ships could disappear into the enfolding night – but that was hours away.

  In the Indiamen someone quick-witted enough to work out what was afoot had them wheeling about without being told, seeing Kydd’s colours if not his nonsense signal.

  All too soon, however, it was apparent why they had separated from the convoy. One of the two that flew the bright red stripes of the Company was favouring her foremast. She had unseasonable reefs in her topsail and course – probably the mast had sprung in some squall, unbalancing other sails and making for poor sailing. The other was low in the water, no doubt having sprung a leak in the same blow from wrung timbers. They had almost certainly come together for mutual protection against privateers but, thanks to L’Aurore, they now faced a battle group.

  It was the damnedest, most evil luck, and before long the last act must be played out. The mercy was that it would be very quick: once battle was joined they had not the slightest chance. The only question was whether the French commander would send in the frigates to finish it, preserving his 74 from damage.

  Kydd would use L’Aurore’s speed and superior wind-holding to best advantage, but the act of protecting would sadly limit his manoeuvring options to just a small space of sea. In terms of tactical planning, there was nothing he could do.

  When they had overhauled the Indiamen, Kydd hailed the closest with a speaking trumpet as they bucketed along close together. Few words were spoken, the unknown captain opposite acknowledging with a heartfelt ‘Good luck!’ and sweeping his hat down in an elaborate bow.

  Kydd’s instructions to them had been brief: course would be altered to more full and bye, and when the point came for play with the
guns L’Aurore would fight for time, while they fled in opposite directions to what safety they could find.

  L’Aurore then took position on the enemy side and the three made their best speed for the far horizon. Ironically the conditions were perfect for sailing, the north-easterly steady and urging and no more than a slight swell from the east. Overhead the sky was an immensity of glorious blue with little cloud, and in any other circumstances would have the watch below spending their leisure on deck, admiring their racing motion.

  After an hour it became clear that they were losing the race. The French were now in sight from the deck and beginning to spread out as manoeuvring positions were being taken. There would be gunfire before dusk.

  Then Kydd heard an indistinct shouting from the men on the fore-deck and saw some pointing away to the east. One broke away and ran to the quarterdeck. Kydd cursed under his breath – settling a quarrel was the last thing on his mind.

  It was the seaman Pinto, obviously distracted. ‘Sir – sir, look! T’ the east’d!’

  Taken aback he looked to where Pinto was pointing at a cloud not as big as man’s fist but somewhat darker than the others and with a distinctive reddish centre some thirty or so degrees above the horizon.

  ‘Sir! This I been told b’ my shipmates as have traded wi’ Africa is the Ox-eye!’

  ‘Get back for’ard, y’ Portugee fool!’ Gilbey flared. ‘We’ll have none o’ y’r Papist notions aboard this ship!’

  ‘Hold!’ Kydd said. Before he’d been elevated to the quarterdeck he had been mess-mates with Pinto and knew the man not to be given to superstition. ‘What’s then your Ox-eye?’

  ‘Is called “Olho de boi” – the eye of bull – an’ we see it before a terrible kind o’ storm.’

  ‘Have you heard of this, Mr Kendall?’

  ‘I never have, sir. That’s not to say the Portuguese don’t have a right steer on things, they being in these waters a mort longer’n we.’

  ‘Tell us more about your Ox-eye.’

  Pinto looked scornfully at the first lieutenant, then explained that it was portent to a tempest of unusual severity, one coming with no warning other than the Ox-eye, which would grow in size until it dominated the heavens.