Only yards away the corvette loomed larger and larger but not a soul was visible, all out of sight at the guns on the main-deck. Where should he bring in his crazy craft? The bowsprit reared up from a neat beakhead, revealing a small half-deck within it and a dainty figurehead at its apex. Perfect. They would come in under the shadow of the bow, swing up on the stout boomkin over the headrails to the half-deck, pass up the weapons, then appear on the fo’c’sle deck above the guns.
There was a sudden lurch and a muffled cry, and the island rotated as it rid itself of another clump. The crackle and sputter of musketry above meant that the boats were close – the guns would very shortly be opening fire to cause slaughter in those who had so gamely trusted him. He must not fail after all this … The bowsprit was nearing …
‘Haul taut!’ he gasped at last.
The effect was almost instant and Kydd craned round. The boatswain had turns around the sapling and was controlling it in just the same way as a hawser around capstan whelps, his fierce grin a joy to see. The island wallowed and swayed but obediently crabbed sidewise in the current, coming closer and closer – and then, incredibly, they were under the trim bow and among the martingale and bobstays. Kydd thrust up for the boomkin and walked his feet over the carved headrails and rolled on to the half-deck gratings.
With the tumult above, there was little need for quiet. ‘Pass up the weapons,’ he hissed, leaning down to grab them. Stirk heaved himself up to the opposite side to do likewise. The men scrambled up thankfully and their near waterlogged craft was abandoned to drift away. A quick muster showed all present – seconds counted now – and Kydd hauled himself up and over the fife-rail on to the fo’c’sle deck.
In a flash he took in the scene: the sweep aft of the open deck below with its guns manned and at the far end the raised quarterdeck, muskets over the taffrail pouring in fire at the boats, figures standing apart, who had to be officers – and all with their attention fixed on their attackers. He took in other things, too: the neat order about the ship that spoke of care and professionalism, the shininess of the ropes from aloft that betrayed their long service at sea and the fact that the guns were manned on one side only: the crew was short-handed, probably for the same reason.
Stirk appeared beside him, then the others, in each hand boarding pistols and a cutlass to the side. With a lopsided grin, Kydd acknowledged the absurdity of reaching an enemy deck in a boarding and having the luxury of a steadying deep breath before the fight. ‘Ready, gentlemen?’
Savage growls answered and, stalking to the after edge of the deck, he howled, ‘King George and the Billy Roarer!’ then plunged down to the main-deck, making for the nearest gun.
The crew wheeled round, gaping. He levelled one pistol and shot the gun-captain, who dropped instantly. The other he fired directly at a large seaman who had reared up, snarling. The man fell back and dropped to his knees, clutching his face with both hands, blood running through his fingers. Two of the crew fled but another two stood irresolute. Kydd flung a heavy pistol at the head of one, which sent him spinning down to be jolted violently by a hurtling body from behind.
Pistols banged about him, men were shrieking, but other gun-crews were recovering and making a rush for them. Kydd wrestled his cutlass free and got inside a red-faced gunner whirling a ramrod, neatly spitting him. Yanking the blade out as the man fell, he was in time to parry a maniacal swing from a boarding axe and in return opened the man’s face in a spurting line of blood. He felt a savage blow to his side and whipped around to see a small cat-like seaman raise an iron gun-crow for a second strike – but he fell as if poleaxed when Pearse, yelling like a banshee, brought his cutlass down with a violent slash and, without stopping, ran on into the mad whirl of fighting.
Kydd found himself in combat with a dark-complexioned Arab, wielding a curved blade with two hands, the man making almost a ballet of his twisting and slashing, unnerving Kydd. Then his opponent tripped forward and impaled himself on his blade.
Kydd swivelled around and saw Oakley’s body on the deck, the red hair unmistakable, blood issuing under him from some wound. Above him, the boatswain’s mate was roaring in helpless anger as he swung and clashed with two murderous assailants. On the other side of the deck, Kydd caught sight of Pearse going down under a crowd of maddened gunners.
A terrible bull-like roar came from behind him. It was Wong, armed with nothing but a capstan bar, insanely whirling it about his head as he lumbered into the fray, the heavy timber crushing, wounding, breaking and bringing the rush to a halt. It was magnificent, but couldn’t last.
Then, from inland, an invisible army opened fire on the enemy end of the deck, dropping men, the savage whip of bullets creating disorder and panic. Volley after volley came – and any Frenchman who could do so swung in dismay to face the onslaught.
It was enough. Cheering wildly, the boats made it inside the arc of guns, and seamen were swarming aboard to fall on the defenders.
It was over very quickly: Frenchmen threw down their weapons and stood sullenly.
Panting and nursing his bruised side, Kydd stood to survey the carnage, then strode aft. ‘Well done, Mr Gilbey,’ he said, shaking his first lieutenant’s hand. ‘See to our men forward, will you?’
‘Qui est le capitaine?’ Kydd demanded of the group of disconsolate officers.
‘He lies wounded below,’ one replied sulkily.
‘Then know that as of this moment your ship is in the possession of His Britannic Majesty.’ Kydd’s heart was still pounding from the heat of combat.
One of the officers offered his sword. He brushed it aside. ‘The honours of war must wait for another time. Be so good as to muster your men aft.’
It was the well-tried routine of taking over a captured ship – but with a twist. Very conveniently he could empty the vessel of the enemy to assemble them under guard on the open ground of the riverbank while he sent Curzon and a party of men to perform the usual rapid search below decks. The second lieutenant reported that Marie Galante was essentially undamaged and ready for sea – no mean prize.
Gilbey returned from forward. ‘I’m truly sorry t’ say Mr Pearse is no more, and Mr Oakley has been skelped – which is t’ say, he’s taken a whiffler to the head, but I’ve a notion he’ll live,’ he added hastily.
‘Very good. Secure the ship – I want a talk with the captain.’
Kydd found the commander in a cot below in the sickbay, his intelligent brown eyes reflecting a sea of pain. His lower body was soaked in blood from a broken-off splinter, dark and vicious, protruding from eviscerated flesh in his lower thigh.
Kydd felt for the man. He’d been unlucky enough to be caught by the carronade fire at the very outset of the engagement and the surgeon had not yet seen to him.
‘Mes felicitations, le capitaine,’ he gasped. ‘A boat from upstream, masterly! Together with your overwhelming army. Of course, we stood no chance.’ He was an older man, greying early, no doubt with the strain of keeping the seas for long months in fearful conditions. His gaze almost pleaded for understanding.
‘Your dispositions were most intelligent, sir, as gave us much difficulty.’ Kydd would not be the one to disillusion him on the details, and went on, ‘I’m quite certain Admiral Marechal will be the first to honour you for your gallant defence under such odds.’
Instantly the wounded man’s expression stiffened, the pain kept ruthlessly at bay. ‘You are no doubt from a frigate, Captain?’
Kydd caught himself. The question was both astute and pointed: this officer had foreseen the possibility that L’Aurore might well be a scout from a powerful British squadron looking to bring Marechal to battle and would welcome any indication of his whereabouts. He would get nothing from this defeated captain.
More wounded men were being brought down and, at the appearance of the surly French surgeon, Kydd made his excuses and left.
Curzon was ‘entertaining’ the other officers in their own quarters. The second lieutenant, who s
poke fluent French, was attempting to bring off a risque story concerning Piccadilly and a lady of the town but it was being received in an icy silence by the two Frenchmen. At Kydd’s interrogative glance he shook his head mutely.
He had the vessel but it was not yielding the information he craved. Frustrated, Kydd moved on to the captain’s cabin. The master looked up from the working chart he had found. ‘Nary a thing, sir,’ he said, swivelling it round so Kydd could see. No squadron line of rendezvous – which could mean just as easily that there wasn’t one as that it was being kept private. ‘An’ while m’ French is nothing s’ special, I didn’t see a mention in his log.’
Kydd scanned the neat writing, noting the regular scientific observations that this captain was in the habit of making, but nowhere was there mention of the innumerable signals and irritations of life under the eye of an admiral. On the other hand it would be in keeping with the French character to separate the two, one being confidential. So, short of bringing pressure to bear on the French seamen …
He returned to the upper deck and saw them being herded into a square guarded by marines and seamen. Out in the open it was remarkable how many it took to man a ship – and, conversely, how such a large number could fit within the confines of a ship. And then he had an idea.
‘Collas!’ he called, to one of the carpenter’s mates on a hasty survey with Legge, the carpenter.
The man loped aft.
‘You’re relieved of work. Go down and report to Mr Clinton that you’ve orders from me to guard the noisiest prisoners.’
‘Sir?’ Collas said, bewildered.
‘You’re a Guernseyman, know the French?’ Channel Islanders lived within sight of the French coast, and even if their own patois had diverged considerably, they had a trading relationship of centuries standing.
‘Aye, sir.’
‘I want you to listen carefully for any mention of their Admiral Marechal. Anything at all that bears on where he is now. Be sure to let ’em think you’re a regular-going Jack Tar as is ignorant of the French lingo but keep your ears at full stretch. The minute you hear something, let me know. Understood?’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ Collas replied, knuckling his forehead.
Kydd’s mind then turned to the task of getting Marie Galante downriver to the open sea. There was only one way for a square-rigger: boats. It was too much to expect the French to man the oars and, besides, it would cost too many men in the guarding. Fortunately, few would be necessary where they were at present in the open space ashore.
Then there were the technical requirements: any seaman knew that it was much harder to bring a vessel downriver for motion was deceptive: moving at speed relative to the shore might well mean that the ship, brought along by the current, was barely moving relative to the water itself and therefore the rudder could not bite. The ultimate indignity was to lose control and end broadside to the river, stuck immovably bow and stern. In a swift-flowing and massive river such as this, the consequences could be serious.
‘Three boats ahead, one on the stern,’ he decided. ‘Her cable on the bitts and out through the hawse, then the three tows from one bridle.’ This would ensure all towing effort would be from one position, rather than from several points on the structure, which might fight each other. The boat astern was there to correct any yawing. All depended on the boats pulling hard and keeping it going: only by moving through the water would the rudder be effective.
All except the wounded were landed and every man jack available was put to the oars. Kydd himself cast off the last line tethering Marie Galante to the bank after she had been swung around and headed downstream. The men stretched out like heroes. This was not simply their duty but the much more rewarding task of preserving their prize.
The long reach was useful in getting the feel of the craft under tow and, standing next to Poulden at the wheel, Kydd felt increasing confidence. The first bend arrived. Taking a wide and careful sweep, the boats hauled ahead manfully and they were around. The next came almost immediately. ‘Pull, you lubbers!’ roared Gilbey, from the fo’c’sle. ‘Put y’ backs into it!’
Kydd looked over the side. A noticeable ripple was forming a bow-wave: they were making way through the water and therefore under control. Taking the deeper outer curve they were well on their way. Poulden nodded as Marie Galante was obediently nudged into a deeper channel. Just another bend … The corvette emerging to the open sea with English colours would be a sight indeed from L’Aurore.
‘Heave out, lay into it!’ Gilbey’s voice cracked with the effort. At this last bend before the estuary and the bar it was crucial to keep way on through the single deep cleft channel through to the blessed depths of the Indian Ocean.
Kydd watched in satisfaction. On return to L’Aurore, he would personally see that the men at the oars spliced the mainbrace – an extra grog ration, even if here it was Stellenbosch wine rather than rum—
There was a sudden thud that was more felt through the deck than heard. Seconds later there were baffled shouts from forward and Gilbey turned to bawl disbelievingly, ‘The tow’s parted!’
It was impossible. Kydd pounded up to see. This was why a bridle was in place at the end of the thick anchor cable: if any one boat-tow parted the rest would be preserved. It could only imply that the massive anchor cable itself had given way.
At the fo’c’sle he looked ahead: the boats were at all angles, men retrieving oars where they had lost them when the heavy tension had suddenly released, sending them headlong into the bottom of the boat. He looked down over the cathead to the hawse, expecting to see the catenary of the big cable curve away into the water – but it had vanished.
Kydd then realised it could mean just one thing: that it had parted inside the hawse after it had left the riding bitts where it was belayed. But this had no meaning! Bellowing an order to Poulden to keep his heading, he flew down the fo’c’sle ladder to the deck below. Then, wheeling round, he ran to the riding bitts – where things became all too clear. Sprawled on deck under the frayed strands of the cable was the blood-soaked body of the captain, a fire-axe flung nearby.
In great pain the man must have crawled up from the sickbay and severed the cable, bringing about the destruction of his own ship. With a crushing sense of finality, Kydd ran aft and up the ladder to the quarterdeck.
‘Not answering th’ helm, sir,’ Poulden said. In his hands the wheel was spinning uselessly.
They were now drifting; there was far too little time to rouse out another cable and all it needed was for a counter-flaw in the current at one end of the ship … and there it was. Her head fell off and she began a slewing across the river that got rapidly faster. With the softest of sensations her bow caught in the muddy bank. The colossal mass of water from up-country began taking the ship broadside, an irresistible force, which sent the other end immovably into the opposite bank.
Instantly the water piled up on the upstream side in an unstoppable flood – the deck canted over and racking timber groans from deep within sounded as death throes.
Gilbey came aft, raving impotently at the situation. Kydd cut him short: ‘All boats alongside. Get the wounded out, then see what movables we can take.’ He gave a wintry smile. ‘And don’t delay, we’ve not got long.’
Chapter 2
Kydd squinted down the deck to where the fo’c’sle party, in streaming oilskins, were preparing the bower anchor for their mooring, a wet and perilous exercise in the filthy weather from the north-west. Another ponderous roll of thunder echoed back from Table Mountain and, ahead, ships jibbed nervously under the bluster of autumn wind and grey, fretful seas.
From the fo’c’sle Curzon’s arm shot up and Kydd acknowledged. They were ready to take their place and let slip the anchor past the throng of merchant shipping among the naval squadron at the outer part of the Table Bay anchorage. And the captain of L’Aurore’s first duty was to pay his respects to Commodore Popham, the senior naval officer, Cape Colony.
Although
he had lost the corvette he had returned with something much more precious. ‘You have the deck, Mr Curzon. I’m going below to shift rig before I report.’ It was a straightforward moor in the open roadstead, and Gilbey was on hand, but his second lieutenant glowed at the trust.
It was a bucketing, bruising pull to Diadem, the flagship, even in the launch that Kydd had called upon in place of his slighter-built barge. Walls of rain sluiced across, and despite boat-cloak and oilskins, he was soaked and chilled when he finally stepped into the commodore’s cabin.
Popham regarded him without enthusiasm, saying testily, ‘Kydd, do contrive to drip somewhere else, won’t you?’
‘My apologies, sir,’ he said, handing his cocked hat to a servant. ‘I do have news that I’m sanguine will interest you.’
‘Oh?’ Popham said coldly.
Kydd outlined his voyage succinctly, ending with his chase and capture of Marie Galante and her later loss by stranding.
‘Can’t be helped, I suppose,’ Popham said, with feeling. It was well known that in his career at sea he had never been lucky in prize money. ‘Butcher’s bill?’
‘We lost a master’s mate, with two wounded in the boarding, and one killed and three hurt in the boats by musketry, sir. The French suffered eight dead and eleven wounded, including their captain, who bled to death after his deed.’
‘Hmm. A small price for us, I’m bound to say. You have prisoners?’
‘I have all the officers and skilled hands in L’Aurore, and I beg you will give instructions that will see a transport call at Quelimane, where I landed the common matelots for want of accommodation.’
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