Betrayal tk-13 Read online

  ‘The cunning beggar,’ he murmured, with reluctant admiration. ‘As he’s made himself as snug as a duck in a ditch!’

  The ship was securely moored by bow and stern to the side of the bank at the far end of the reach where her captain could have maximum warning of a cutting-out attack by boats. This also gave an excellent field of fire for, with the guns levered around, it would be an impossibly bloody affair if they approached in boats to storm it.

  Kydd lifted the glass again and carefully quartered the riverbank alongside the ship. Men were slashing down the vegetation to create an open space; covered by their opposite broadside, an assault by land would be just as murderous. That left an attack after dark – but a captain so canny would have a boat out to row night guard; illuminations would follow any intrusion and the result would be the same.

  He lowered the glass and slid it shut. He couldn’t ask his men to take on such odds even with the stakes of intelligence to be won. The Marie Galante was perfectly safe: they could stay for as long as patience held out, for water and a supply of meat were on hand and it would need only occasional boat trips to tell them when L’Aurore had given up and sailed away. It was galling but it had to be accepted: the Frenchman had prevailed.

  There was now no other course than to sail back to Cape Town, bearing the tantalising news that Marechal appeared to be at large but where or when and with what force was anybody’s guess.

  ‘Return,’ he told Poulden, and made his way back to the sternsheets with Renzi.

  His coxswain waited for a sizeable mat of vegetation to be carried past by the current before poling out, then told his crew to hoist sail. The boat curved around, carefully avoiding the relic of torn riverbank that had come down from far up the mysterious Zambezi. Kydd’s thoughts, however, were on what he could do to retrieve something from the situation. At least they didn’t have to search up the remaining three mouths andA preposterous idea entered his mind that teased him with its possibilities. He twisted round to glance back whence they’d come. Yes – it could work if …

  ‘Poulden. Lay us alongside the floating greenery, if y’ please.’

  The coxswain gave him a puzzled glance but did as requested. Close to, it was a substantial piece of densely matted vegetation, grass of quite another kind from that growing on nearby banks, tall, thick and wreathed with tangling creepers. On one side there were even young saplings and a sprawling bush.

  ‘Seize on,’ Kydd called to the bowman, who gingerly felt with his boathook. The boat swung closer with the current – and Kydd stepped on to the little island, taking care to keep a hold on the boat’s gunwale. It gave a little under his weight and he dared to stand upright. Something near his foot hissed and slithered rapidly away, while a large clumsy bird with a fleshy beak burst out of the bush, cawing.

  Kydd trod further into the thick undergrowth. It felt surprisingly substantial and he called to two of the seamen to join him. One caught an ankle and fell prostrate with a frightened oath. The island swayed a little but seemed not to object. They had a chance.

  After dinner, Kydd called a council of war aboard L’Aurore.

  ‘Gentlemen, the corvette rightly assumes our only means of attack is by boat and he’s taking every precaution to defend against it. In the main he’s lying at the head of a straight passage of the river and knows he’s a line of sight that will warn him in plenty of time of an assault. Of a certainty he has his guns trained downriver to slaughter any in attacking boats.’ In quick, bold pencil strokes, he sketched out the situation on a sheet of paper.

  He paused and looked up. ‘We will be going in, however.’ Troubled glances were exchanged. ‘But not from the direction he expects. We’ll be coming from upstream.’

  ‘Ah,’ Curzon said instantly. ‘How are we first going to get our boats past him? Even under cover of dark we’ll be-’

  ‘We don’t!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The boats will be advancing upstream – but not until we’ve boarded him.’

  ‘I – I don’t follow you, sir.’

  Kydd explained about the floating islands. ‘Six boarders concealed in one to signal down the reach when they’re in sight so we’ll know which island they’re aboard. This tells the boats to come into view and begin their attack, drawing the attention of the French entirely to what they’ve been expecting.

  ‘When abreast the bowsprit of the corvette, the island will be brought alongside and our men will swarm aboard from nowhere to spread alarm and confusion. At this point from concealed positions inland Lieutenant Clinton will order his marines to open a hot fire, which will dismay the defenders, they not knowing his force or what they face.

  ‘Caught between three lines of attack, he’ll be in a sad moil and that’s when we strike home. Questions?’

  After several minutes’ digesting the details of this unconventional cutting-out action, Curzon broke the silence: ‘Just the one, sir. Any signal hoisted on the, er, island will necessarily be seen by even the most dim-witted o’ the French. How, then, are we to preserve our surprise?’

  Renzi came in: ‘The ancients got there before us, of course, gentlemen. You will recollect that, at Thermopylae, news of the advance of the Persian host under Xerxes was relayed across the plains to King Leonidas of Sparta by-’

  ‘Be s’ kind as t’ spare us your history, Mr Renzi, we’ve a war to figure.’

  Gilbey’s sarcasm brought a frown from Kydd. ‘Do fill and stand on, Renzi, old chap. We’re all listening.’

  ‘-by polished shields flashing in the sunlight. I rather thought a mirror in our case,’ he added.

  ‘Just so,’ Kydd said, with satisfaction. Renzi had on more than one occasion retrieved a situation by recourse to his classical education. ‘Taking care to shield it from being spied by the corvette, naturally.’

  ‘Um, er-’

  ‘Mr Bowden?’ He acknowledged the third lieutenant.

  ‘This floating island, sir. If it’s to be brought alongside the Frenchy – er, how does it steer, as we might say?’

  ‘A boat grapnel. The corvette is moored on the inside of the bend. The grapnel is cast overside when still out of sight and paid out until we are near abreast. Hauling taut on the line will cause the island to swing into the bank.’

  There was a ripple of approval. It was shaping up.

  ‘It’ll in course be m’self commanding on the island,’ Gilbey pronounced.

  ‘As first lieutenant your duty is the main attack, not the diversion,’ Kydd said shortly. ‘I shall take care of that.’

  ‘What will be our force in its entirety, pray?’ Curzon asked.

  ‘Every boat that swims, all the Royals with our idlers as their loaders. And all volunteers, mark you. You shall be second to Mr Gilbey and Mr Bowden will taste command of a frigate for the first time.’

  Bowden jerked upright. ‘Sir, I must protest! This is-’

  ‘You object to a frigate command at your age, sir? Fie on you!’ Kydd chuckled. ‘No, younker, I need to know L’Aurore is in safe hands while we’re away. Can you think of a better? Oh, and you shall have Mr Renzi for company,’ he added firmly.

  ‘This’ll do,’ Kydd muttered quietly. Poulden brought the barge to the riverbank safely, lower down the river from the corvette, and the ‘island party’ sprang ashore: gunner’s mate Stirk, who would not be denied his place; boatswain Oakley, who had sworn that only himself could be relied upon with the grapnel; boatswain’s mate Cumby, who had demanded by right to be at his side; Pearse, the raw-boned master’s mate, with a yen to have something to boast of when he returned home; and Wong Hay Chee, former circus strongman and inseparable friend of Stirk.

  Nearby, the launch and both cutters began setting the Royal Marines ashore with their number twos – the idlers, those such as the sailmaker’s crew, and stewards who did not stand a watch at sea but could be relied on for the mechanical task of reloading muskets.

  There was a three-quarter moon riding high and Kydd cursed under hi
s breath. The assembling men were in plain view, and even if they were doing their best to stay quiet, the clink and leather slap of equipment seemed so loud in the night air. ‘L’tenant Clinton,’ he whispered hoarsely, to the Royal Marines’ officer, ‘do you prove your men’s weapons. If any fires accidentally, I’ll personally slit his gizzard and after that I’ll court-martial the villain. Is that clear?’ Of all things, a musket shot would be best calculated to arouse the enemy instantly.

  Clinton smiled and offered him a bag that clicked as he passed it over. ‘I’ve taken precautions, sir. These are their flints without which their muskets will not fire.’ Mollified, Kydd nodded.

  A mile or so downstream from the corvette, they would travel in a straight line over the knee-bend in the river to arrive at a point upstream and out of sight from the French, on the way leaving the marines to take position. The boats would retire and wait until full daylight before coming up. Then all would depend on the island party.

  They set out. The low, undulating land was mainly open scrub with thicker areas of bushes. The moonlight was not enough to locate the corvette but Kydd had a small pocket compass that allowed him to set a course to intersect the river above the vessel and led off in that direction.

  At night the African bush was a petrifying experience: every little sound seemed loaded with menace, and although there were more than fifty men with Kydd, they were strung out behind. His imagination conjured up all manner of dangers. If a lion sprang out on him … or one of those beasts with a horn on its nose? If it took a rage against him at the head of the column, then well before the others could …

  ‘Keep closed up,’ he snarled at the marines behind him, drawing his cutlass to slash at an inoffensive bush, then keeping it out at point. He had left his fighting sword aboard ship – in the bloody hacking of a boarding, its fine qualities would not be essential, and if it was lost in a swamp somewhere he would never forgive himself.

  ‘Sir!’ Clinton pointed into the silvery distance on the left. The upper spars of the Marie Galante were visible about a mile away.

  ‘Very good,’ Kydd said, stopping. ‘You know your orders. Keep the men at a distance until daybreak, then close up to your positions when you hear firing begin.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘It’s of the first importance that you are not seen before-’

  ‘I understand, sir,’ the young officer said stiffly.

  ‘Of course you do. Farewell and good luck.’

  Kydd strode ahead with nervous energy. They reached the river unexpectedly, its glittering expanse suddenly in view.

  ‘Down!’ he hissed. The others in his little group lowered themselves gingerly to the ground, its earthy odour pungent, while Kydd checked forward. On his left was the tight bend that, according to his reckoning, opened to the long reach – and the French corvette.

  Bent double, he skirted some bushes but before he reached the end he froze: a playful night breeze had brought with it a wafting hint of tobacco smoke. And, by its pungency, not the honest Virginian issued aboard L’Aurore. Parting the bush infinitely slowly, he swallowed. Not more than a dozen yards away two sentries stood in the moonlight, the occasional glow of their pipes startlingly red. They were conversing with each other in low tones, their muskets slung over their shoulders.

  Kydd withdrew with the utmost care. The sentinels posted upstream spoke of a thoroughly professional opponent: were there more at the far end of the reach? This would make it near impossible for the boats to assemble unseen – but doing so would draw all attention downstream, as he wanted.

  ‘Sentries!’ he whispered to his party, when he reached them. ‘We’ll go a little further upstream.’

  Another hundred yards brought them to the next curve of the river and a convenient slope to the water. It would do.

  ‘Er, how about them crocodiles, sir?’ Pearse asked edgily, quite out of character for the brash youth on the quarterdeck.

  ‘Take no mind o’ them,’ Kydd said confidently. ‘They’re all asleep.’ They were cold-blooded so it stood to reason, didn’t it?

  They settled in the bushes to wait for the night to end. Then the moon vanished and blackness enfolded them. Continuous rustles and scurries came from all directions. From not far away they heard a blood-freezing roar and the piercing death squeal of some animal being taken. And as they crouched together every man sensed a massive presence out in the darkness, close, moving.

  Filled with dread, they gripped their puny weapons. A cutlass against one of Renzi’s hippos? Whatever it was, there was no betraying sound and it wasn’t until long minutes had passed that they realised it had moved on.

  At last the first rosy lightening of the sky spread from the east and, with tropical swiftness, it was day. A precautionary look around gave no reason for alarm.

  The river was wreathed with rising mist, shot through with the luminous pearly light of morning, insects darting about prettily.

  Kydd got to his feet. ‘Mr Oakley, you’ve the grapnel?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘Then let’s find ourselves an island.’

  They went to the water’s edge, the boatswain testing his swing and Kydd watching upstream, but none of the right size hove into view; any number of pieces of floating debris appeared out of the mist but none to match the stout pad Kydd had tested only the day before.

  With impatience giving way to anxiety, Kydd continued to watch for their island. The light grew and strengthened. They couldn’t delay much longer. When a rather lopsided but more substantial piece emerged from the white haze, clearly clumped about a central strong sapling, he ordered, ‘There, Mr Oakley, we’ll try him.’

  It was more than thirty yards away but Oakley’s cast was unerring and soon it was pulled into the bank.

  ‘Get aboard, Stirk – see if you like it.’

  Obediently the gunner’s mate waded out to where it was nudging the shallows and hauled himself on. It swayed but seemed to hold firm as Stirk cast about in the tall grass. ‘It’ll fadge, sir, I shouldn’t wonder,’ he finally called back.

  The harsh grass looked an excellent hiding place. ‘Right, all aboard!’ Kydd said briskly, ensuring that their weapons were passed first to Stirk. Cutlasses, a brace of pistols apiece – pitifully little to stand against a broadside of guns.

  ‘Yo-ho, an’ it’s all a-taunt in the tight little Pollywobble,’ clowned Pearse, once he was safely on.

  ‘Stow it, y’ idiot,’ grunted Stirk, helping the barrel-shaped Wong to clamber aboard.

  ‘I’ll be forrard,’ Kydd said, ‘Mr Oakley at the stern with the grapnel. The rest of you hunker down amidships.’ The characterless mass of undergrowth was hardly a ship but order had to be brought to an utterly unseamanlike situation, and it seemed to be accepted without question by the ‘crew’.

  ‘Cast off!’

  Oakley released his hold on the bank and the island floated free. Another cast of the grapnel enabled him to haul out to mid-stream and they were on their way. Kydd took a last look about to make sure all was concealed and, with his shaving mirror to hand, Oakley aft with the grapnel watching him expectantly, they drifted languorously up to the last bend.

  Concentrating furiously on the tightening ripples, Kydd judged the moment right and nodded to Oakley, who let the grapnel plunge to the riverbed while he paid out the line. Kydd lay full length among the rich-smelling vegetation, carefully parting the grasses to see ahead. Behind him there was muffled conversation and nervous laughter, which was brought to a sudden stop by the boatswain’s sharp growl.

  In company with scattered other oddments of flotsam the island slowly cleared the bend – and not two hundred yards ahead lay their target. A fleeting panic washed over Kydd: a lump of floating grass going head to head with a corvette of the French Navy! He fought the feeling down and took up the mirror. Glancing up at the low sun to get the angle just right and shielding it carefully he gave the signal – three times three.

  Would they respond?
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  The corvette seemed utterly unconcerned, a few men idly standing on the bank, a wisp of smoke issuing from the galley funnel forward, the colours not yet hoisted. His gaze flicked back to the end of the reach. No boats!

  Apprehension gripped him – had they not seen the signal or was it that they had been intercepted? The island was inexorably being carried down past the moored vessel. Should he go ahead with the boarding or cravenly stay hidden and drift on to safety? Then it would-The distant thump of a swivel gun sounded and there – gloriously – was Gilbey’s launch, closely followed by Curzon’s cutter and then the others, spreading out across the river to make a broad approach. The frantic baying of a trumpet sounded aboard the corvette, with harsh, urging shouts. Men boiled up from below, scattering to take position at the guns.

  Now the island’s languid drift was maddeningly slow – it would take for ever to reach Marie Galante, which lay with its elegant bowsprit towards them but was still some way off. However, Kydd did see not a single flash of faces looking back; it was working entirely to plan.

  Gilbey had a quarter-mile of relative safety before the guns of the corvette, levered around to bear aft as far as they could, were in a position to open fire. He used the time well, pausing to get off a good aimed shot from his bow-mounted eighteen-pounder carronade. The other boats did likewise and the corvette suffered two hits, both of which brought shrieks and cries.

  The boats, pulling like madmen, were not far from the point of no return where the guns could smash in their deadly grape-shot and canister. Feverishly Kydd willed on their own ungainly craft, only fifty yards or so but-

  ‘Sir!’ It was Stirk, pulling at his ankle. ‘Sir – the barky’s sinkin’!’

  Kydd’s attention jerked back to their island and he twisted round to see. One edge of the island was drooping, bright water among the grass. ‘Clear that side – and keep the damned pistols dry!’ he hissed. He took his own out and laid them on a tussock. A minute later, an entire slab tore away and slowly sank, leaving what remained noticeably lower in the water.

  The Zambezi lapped inches from Kydd’s nose and he felt the coolness of water seeping under his body. There was now every reason to suppose it could tip to one side or even break up, throwing them all to the crocodiles. Should he tell Oakley to pull into the bank now or-Kydd’s mind snapped to a ferocious icy calm. If the island sank, that was something he could do nothing about, but if it remained afloat there was work to do. ‘Stand by, the grapnel!’ he said levelly. The order was relayed by Stirk behind him.