Caribbee Page 8

  It was giving the chase a further advantage but it couldn’t be helped. Mentally he decided on another hour or so beyond the point, and if they weren’t within striking distance, he’d drop it.

  The rain squall caught up with them just before they rounded the point, the energetic downpour now an irritating inundation that dampened the spirit and hid their quarry. They pressed on resolutely through the rain-slashed sea until, after one more spiteful flurry, the air cleared.

  The grandeur of the sapphire-misted Blue Mountains inland was little consolation for the fact that the schooner was nowhere to be seen. It must be ahead somewhere – or had it tacked about in the murk and even now was stretching away to Hispaniola? Very unlikely – the risk of the rain clearing to reveal them crossing ahead before the frigate’s guns was too much.

  Then it must be beyond the next headland – Booby Point, according to the chart.

  There was little to be gained in going to quarters – their size alone could be relied on to subdue any thought of resistance – but pulses quickened as they rounded it. Nothing.

  Kydd felt a surge of irritation. ‘Clap on more sail,’ he told the master. ‘We’ll go direct and catch him before Northeast Point, only another hour or two.’ If not, he would have to accept they had made their escape.

  In and out of the rain squalls L’Aurore sailed, but when they reached the north-east tip of Jamaica, there was still no sign.

  ‘Wear ship, if you please, we return,’ Kydd said heavily.

  He watched Buckle fumble his duties at the main, saved only by Curzon’s bellowed intervention, and his growing annoyance that his triumphant return was spoiled took focus.

  ‘Mr Buckle to lay aft,’ he roared, and waited while the hapless lieutenant dithered over whether to abandon his men.

  ‘Sir, I’m to tell you that you’ll be landed at Kingston. You’ve no place in this ship.’

  ‘Sir?’

  The crestfallen look that replaced his willing air nearly made Kydd weaken. ‘You’ve to learn your profession in a bigger ship first, I believe.’

  ‘I can get the knack, if you’ll—’

  ‘No. Get your gear together, Mr Buckle.’

  His shoulders drooped as he turned to go. Then he stopped and said humbly, ‘Oh, could I tell you something?’

  Kydd frowned.

  ‘It’s that I’ve heard of your reputation as a fighting captain and, er, I thought …’

  If this was going to be an emotional confession …

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I, um, you see, I was worried you’d think it an almighty cheek should I tell you …’

  ‘What, pray?’ Kydd said, dangerously.

  ‘… where t’ go to hunt the chase.’

  ‘Oh? Where should I go, then?’

  Taking a deep breath, Buckle began, ‘Y’ see, when I was a boy, we came to Jamaica and I went playing in the John Crow Mountains.’

  ‘And?’ said Kydd, heavily.

  ‘Going by raft all the way down the river. Rare fun!’ At Kydd’s look he caught himself and hurried on: ‘Right to the sea, we ends in a little harbour, not big at all – but snug in any nor’-easter.’

  Buckle waited for a response, and when there wasn’t one he went on lamely, ‘When I was mid in the little Ibis I told Captain Hardison about it, and we always used it in place o’ Port Morant, and never the need to haul back after.’

  ‘And you think the schooner is there?’ Kydd snorted. ‘We’ve been close in with the land all the way up the coast and saw nothing.’

  ‘Ah, you wouldn’t. The spit o’ land we shelter behind is thick wi’ trees and you can see naught from seaward.’

  Kydd grimaced, but decided it was worth a look. ‘Show me. You can read a chart?’

  ‘I can, in course,’ Buckle said, with a wounded expression. ‘I passed l’tenant! But I doubts we’ll see it there, it’s so small. Manchioneal Harbour, Mr Hardison calls it.’

  ‘It’s here,’ Kendall conceded. ‘No mention of holding ground, though.’

  ‘We’ll give it a call. What depth o’ water can we expect?’

  ‘Oh, not as would float a frigate,’ Buckle admitted. ‘I just thought, well, the schooner might be lying inside, like.’

  Manchioneal Harbour was as he had said: from seaward it looked like an insignificant indentation in the coast, not worth the investigating.

  Kydd gave orders that had L’Aurore heaving to well clear of the breakers driving inshore. ‘Take away a boat, Mr Gilbey, land on this side and peek through the trees. Mind you’re not seen, and return immediately with your report.’

  The first lieutenant was soon back – the picture of satisfaction. ‘He’s there, sure enough,’ he called up, from the approaching boat. ‘Bung up an’ bilge free.’

  ‘Well done, Mr Buckle,’ Kydd conceded. ‘We have him now.’

  The little harbour was as much a trap as a hideaway and they were the stopper in the bottle.

  Yet one thing could bring everything to a halt. Although it was acting suspiciously, there would be no question of prize-taking if the vessel could prove it was neutral. Kydd decided that, as the officer most experienced at boarding, he would take the pinnace in himself. ‘Four marines and boat’s crew,’ he ordered. ‘And Mr Saxton,’ he added. A master’s mate rather than midshipman to take the tiller and add gravitas to the proceedings.

  The boat surged in, sped on by the white combers, going beyond the spit and turning right into the harbour opening up inside.

  And there was their quarry, sleek and low and lying to single anchor.

  There was no identification but her lines seemed familiar to Kydd – was this a New England schooner, the like of which he had come across in his brief time in the United States as a lieutenant? As they approached, men appeared on deck, then the American flag jerked hastily up the main-mast.

  This was going to be tricky, Kydd allowed: he’d had time to read only once his captain’s appreciation of the current legal situation between Britain and the United States in the West Indies. In essence, the Americans were strict neutrals by international law, allowing them to trade freely with both sides, but there had been developments that he’d not yet been able to study for their implications. If he was wrong in the details, there would not only be an international incident but he himself would be cast into ruinous damages.

  As they came alongside he stood in the boat and hailed: ‘In the King’s name, I direct you to allow me aboard.’

  An older man with seamed features pushed to the side and broke into a smile. ‘Ye’re English, thank the Lord! O’ course y’ may.’

  A small Jacob’s ladder was flipped down and Kydd pulled himself up, Saxton following.

  ‘We thought you was Frenchies, you crackin’ on so serious as y’ were.’ The man extended his hand. ‘Elias Dale, master o’ the Orleans Maid.’

  ‘Captain Thomas Kydd, His Majesty’s Ship L’Aurore. You’re American registry, then, Mr Dale.’

  He gestured up. ‘That’s the Stars ’n’ Stripes sayin’ we are.’

  ‘Then you won’t object were we to take a sight of your papers.’

  The smile eased a fraction. ‘Why, no, o’ course not. I’ll go fetch ’em.’

  While he was away Kydd took in the scene on deck. If it was a trading vessel he was a Chinaman. Fine-lined, there would be no capacious hold to cram full to increase profits, and the four six-pounders appeared altogether too well looked after. And, as well, the silent men crowding the deck in no way had the look of common merchant seamen.

  Dale returned quickly. ‘There you is, Cap’n.’

  He thrust across a bunch of papers.

  Well used to the ploy, Kydd passed them to Saxton to hold then selected them one by one to give each his full and individual attention.

  Registered in New Orleans the previous year, the owners American, the port bound to was Charleston. So far, all seemed in order.

  Kydd glanced up, sensing tension in the watching seamen. One tossed a m
arline spike from hand to hand – he fumbled and it fell on his toe. ‘Merde! J’ai envie de chier!’ he swore, hopping about.

  Saxton caught Kydd’s eye, but Dale came in quickly. ‘A Frenchy from Dominica. I guess I c’n ship who I like, don’t you?’

  Kydd scrutinised the manifest. Aloes from Curaçao, indigo from Bonaire. And no bond listed to cover a valuable cargo?

  ‘I request that you’ll open your hold for inspection, Captain,’ he snapped.

  ‘You’ll rummage m’ ship?’ Dale said incredulously.

  ‘That’s what I said. If the goods in the hold match what’s listed in the manifest, you’re free to go.’

  The man didn’t move. His face was tight.

  ‘Now, if you please.’

  Kydd became conscious that there were even more men on deck, some advancing with violence in their eyes.

  Dale held up his hand to them. ‘Now, I don’t reckon on the ruckus you’re causin’, Mr damn Kydd. You see, m’ men don’t take kindly to it and there’s one helluva lot more o’ them than you’ve got.’

  ‘You’d take on a frigate?’

  ‘Don’t have to, friend. There ain’t nothin’ above a brig can enter here, an’ you knows it. You’re on your own, and while you thinks on it, I can wait here as long as I likes.’

  Kydd knew L’Aurore couldn’t stay indefinitely: a cutting out would be expensive in casualties against a well-manned and alert privateer, and if he sailed away to get more appropriate support it would release them to leave.

  But he had something up his sleeve. He folded his arms and gave a tantalising smile. ‘I think you may be wrong about that,’ he said coolly.

  ‘Why, damn it?’

  ‘My ship carries twelve-pounders, Mr Dale.’

  ‘Ha! What’s that to me?’

  ‘At this moment I have one landed on the spit, and when it’s through to this side at, say, one or two hundred yards range, I doubt it’ll take much more than ten minutes to smash you all to flinders, sir.’

  For a long moment the man stared at him, then sagged. ‘Then I guess you’ve got all the cards. What do we do?’

  ‘The hold, Mr Dale.’

  His instincts had been right: what the Maid was carrying was most certainly not in accordance with the manifest. In fact, the rich assortment suggested quite another explanation.

  Kydd gestured to the marines to come aboard. ‘Mr Dale. You fly the American flag yet you have plunder aboard that proves you to have been a-caper. Without a letter of marque and reprisal, my conclusion can only be that you are pirates, your hand set against each and any.’

  ‘Wha’—’

  ‘As pirates, therefore, no civilised nation will dispute that you’re beyond the law of man and deserving of extermination. I’m bound to hang each and every one of you on the spot. What do you say to that?’

  It had the desired effect. Dale turned to look despairingly at a dark-featured seaman behind.

  The man pushed him aside and, with a sullen bow, said, ‘Je suis le capitaine de la Pucelle d’Orléans, le corsaire.’ He drew out a document. ‘Mon lettre de marque.’

  Trying not to let his satisfaction show, Kydd took it. He’d forced their hand: this was the true captain of the privateer, the American a convincing act.

  ‘Mr Saxton, strike that flag!’

  His heart full, Kydd stood astride the quarterdeck with Renzi at his side as they approached Kingston harbour. He knew his friend must be aware of what he was feeling at the prospect of arriving back at the scenes of his youth. So much had passed. Would it be the same?

  As they were a ship of significance a pilot was taken aboard at Port Morant, and he was free to enjoy a sight he had last seen from the tiller of a tiny cutter putting to sea on that fateful voyage when they had been overwhelmed by the raw forces of Nature.

  And today there was to be no slipping in between Drunkenman’s Cay and the Turtle Head for a King’s frigate: it was the direct route between Lime Cay and Gun Cay, and close about Port Royal Point, the years melting away as well-known seamarks passed.

  Rounding the low, sandy point they opened the harbour, and there at anchor was the Jamaica Squadron. They were relatively few, however: a single ship-of-the-line, two frigates and a number of sloops. The rest must be at sea, Kydd reasoned. At the masthead of the largest there was no admiral’s flag to salute but he recollected there was a fine admiral’s residence ashore.

  L’Aurore glided into the anchorage, secured a place among the frigates, slipped her bower and found her rest.

  ‘I think I must make my number with the admiral, Nicholas. Should you wish to come ashore?’ Kydd asked politely, as he completed his full dress uniform.

  ‘In course, dear fellow. I am, like you, curious indeed to see if it’s the locus that has changed or myself.’

  They made landing at the little pier at the end of one of Kingston’s streets. In the naval way of things, Poulden, as Kydd’s coxswain afloat, would do like service ashore and he was sent to engage transport.

  The hot and dusty streets were as busy and colourful as ever, with the white-and-green-painted houses and tiny gardens with their profusion of tropical plants, the noise and babble of Jamaica on all sides.

  Poulden returned with a ketureen, a light gig with a decorated sun-roof. Standing aside as the two boarded, he swung up next to the driver and ordered, ‘The Admiral’s Pen, y’ villain.’

  There was a show of whip-cracking, and soon they were bowling along for the cooler hills above Kingston, the breeze of motion welcome.

  The residence, with a large blue ensign lazily floating at the mast, came into view and they drew up at the door. ‘I doubt I’ll be long delayed, Nicholas. Do amuse yourself as you will, old fellow.’

  Renzi was content to close his eyes and breathe in the fragrance of frangipani.

  Kydd was greeted by the flag-lieutenant and conducted into the cool inner office of James Richard Dacres, vice admiral of the Blue. Kydd had heard that he had been on station since the beginning of Napoleon’s war, and his near fifty years of sea service had been steady and not undistinguished.

  ‘Captain Kydd, L’Aurore frigate new-arrived, sir,’ he reported.

  ‘Welcome, Mr Kydd. From the Leeward Islands Squadron, I believe, come to join our little band. And with a prize at your tail, I notice – you’ve a good notion of your duty, I see.’

  There was a shrewd intelligence behind his genial manner, and Kydd answered with a guarded ‘I have indeed sir, being recently come from Buenos Aires.’

  ‘Ah. One of Mr Popham’s restless spirits. You’ll be able to tell me more of your southern adventuring on some other occasion.’

  He paused for a moment, considering. ‘Now, sir. I can’t pretend that your presence is anything other than opportune, not to say pleasing. You’ve been in these waters before?’

  ‘Er, only as a youngster, sir.’

  ‘Yes, a midshipman’s view of things can never be accounted reliable. Well, I will tell you myself what will be your chief concerns on this station. The Leeward Islands Squadron is rightly preparing for a descent by a battle-squadron from the Atlantic, presumably commanded by one bolder than Villeneuve. Ours, however, is a very different war, Mr Kydd. I don’t have to tell you that these sugar islands are a fountain of revenue for the government, providing for all from coalition subsidies to the meanest fore-mast jack’s shilling.

  ‘But what we are seeing here, sir, is the imperilling of it not by fleets of men-o’-war but a piecemeal destruction by privateers. At Barbados the West Indies convoy assembles from all over the Caribbean for its voyage across the ocean and will be well escorted, but they must sail as independents from each sugar island before they reach there. I’m not able to provide escorts for all of them, so the others are ready prey for the corsairs that do infest these coasts.

  ‘Understand this is your prime task, Kydd. Exterminate the creatures where you can, deter and dismay by your presence otherwise. No privateer born can stand against a frigate
and they know it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. This leads me to the next. While we bend our every effort to ensure our sugar cargoes reach England, we’re duty-bound to prevent the French from delivering theirs. Thus their ships are fair game to us but they’ve been shamelessly making use of neutrals, particularly the Americans who see no sin in playing both sides. The law is clear, however: both the French and our own Navigation Act forbid them to carry cargoes between colonies and the motherland. At the same time, though, it allows them to trade freely with the same colonies on their own account.’

  ‘I’d heard there’ve been legal developments.’

  ‘Ha! Yes, you’re right. Our American friends are found out. Their practice has been to take up French sugar on the pretence that this is their importing, but when they arrive in a United States port they turn their ship around and head for France with new papers that show it as goods produced at home for export.’

  ‘How then do we—’

  ‘This is what they term a “broken voyage”, and until a legal ruling recently, we’ve had to accept it. Now we look to see if Customs duty has been properly paid, cargo landed in bond and so forth as evidence that it’s not a continuous voyage. Take no rubbish of words – we have it from the highest Admiralty court that the onus is now on the neutral to prove it’s not carrying contraband.’

  ‘I see, sir.’

  ‘I’ll find a lawyer fellow to cover the detail for you – Rule of 1756, Orders in Council of May this year you won’t have seen, that kind of thing.’

  ‘I’d be grateful for a steer, sir, I will admit.’

  ‘Good. Don’t want you hoist by some pettifogging legal snag.’

  He beamed. ‘A light frigate! Just the medicine to rid me of the vermin. And in so doing …’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Well, do I need to spell it out to you, Mr Kydd? Prizes! Our rightful recompense for service on this fever-ridden station. Have you objection to being enriched at the enemy’s expense?’

  ‘Why, no, sir!’

  ‘Then I expect you to be forward in your efforts to land a few more, for both our sakes. I’ll give you five days at Port Royal dockyard and then it’s out in all weathers, m’ boy.’