The evolutions would not affect L’Aurore for the four frigates would be out ahead in a broad line of search, kept in touch with the commander-in-chief by the sloops. In case of foul weather, rendezvous lines were established, as usual coded by number, their actual location kept separately.
In the event they fell in with a French battle-squadron, an engagement was expected in which the Fighting Instructions and Admiralty signal code of 1799 were to be strictly observed. Positioned outside the line of battle, Acasta and L’Aurore were designated repeating frigates, another two to take station ahead and astern of the line. Kydd recalled that this was precisely what he had done at Trafalgar, and with the same signal code.
It was straightforward and he expected no difficulties. L’Aurore, however, was showing signs of wear after a winter in the south. There was a small but persistent leak, probably through timbers strained by taking the mud so often in Buenos Aires. As well, a fore topmast bore evidence of being sprung, and the carpenter was shaking his head over a strake repaired as best he could without a dockyard after taking a ball between wind and water. And, of course, as always, there was cordage that, after ceaseless operations aloft, was beginning to fray.
Nothing that a spell in a dockyard wouldn’t mend, though.
Next day, in beautiful weather set fair to melt the hardest heart, the frigates put to sea. After a rapid reconnoitre they took up positions off the north of Barbados at the corners of a five-mile square and lay to.
Then the Leeward Islands Squadron weighed and proceeded to sea.
Kydd took his fill. It was always a grand sight, a battle-fleet moving out to take possession of the sea by right, a line of mighty sail-of-the-line in warlike arrogance and symmetry throwing down a challenge to whomsoever might dispute it.
They formed up: the flagship Northumberland in the centre, Atlas in the van and Hannibal in the rear. Kydd knew from his memories of Tenacious off Toulon that it was now the stuff of nightmares on the quarterdeck of every ship, to stay not only in the line of sight astern from the flagship but, as well, at the stipulated distance apart. This would be achieved only by judicious and delicate sail-trimming: more showing of a headsail, a quick clewing up of a topsail corner, spilling wind to bring down speed. All in a frenzied reaction to deal with chance wind-flaws, drifting with the current and the sheer sliding inertia of thousands of tons of battleship.
At last satisfied, Cochrane signalled the ‘Proceed’. Ponderously, the line began to lengthen, the ships picking up speed and settling on course to the north-north-west, each vessel nobly moving out one after another over the sparkling, gem-like sea. And on each an officer-of-the-watch sighing with relief that the task was now resolved to keeping pace and distance with the next ahead.
Kydd reflected that the ignorant might scorn the entire exercise as futile and pretentious, but to know one’s ship in manoeuvre down to mere feet was a priceless asset in battle and tight navigation – and it was precisely why Cornwallis off Brest exercised his blockading fleet into miracles of precision with none but the seagulls to admire the display.
Another hoist went up: frigates to deploy as instructed. Acasta, as senior, sent up her pennant, Captain Dunn now in command of the four. He lost no time in ranging out ahead. As the distant topgallants of the fleet sank below the horizon astern, he flew his signal for taking station, L’Aurore, the lightest but fastest, dispatched furthest to seaward of the four. They settled to their task – a sweep in advance of the fleet on a broad front all of sixty nautical miles across.
Within hours the frigates were a long way apart, a tiny patch of white on the horizon to larboard the only evidence of Magicienne, their next abreast, but still in signalling reach with the oversize flags each carried. And, far to the south, the topgallants of Atlas led the line.
Masthead lookouts were relieved of their important duty every glass – even half an hour so high aloft was a trial of the best of seamen, an Atlantic sea abeam causing a roll that ceaselessly swept and jerked them to and fro through a seventy-foot arc. One misplaced hand-hold and the impetus would tear them from their perch to pitch into the sea or end a broken corpse on deck.
Kydd remained on the quarterdeck, staying to see the sea-watch hanking and tying off after the sail-trimming, which kept them at a pace that would allow them to stay within signalling distance.
He was reluctant to go below for there could be no finer prospect than this: a lovely frigate at her best, in seas that lifted the heart with their beauty – and his to command, to direct and to cherish.
The twist of fortune that saw him and his ship now in the Caribbean had indeed snatched him from Hell to Paradise. But close on its heels another thought came: if Renzi was right, was it a fool’s Paradise he was in?
The voyage north was uneventful, the island passages clear of enemy battle-fleets, the broad ocean innocent of threat. Under boundless blue skies and hurrying white combers they ranged on to the north-west until they stood in with the Straits of Florida and lay to, awaiting the fleet to come up with them.
The L’Aurores were getting tanned and fit after their ordeal. Kydd had not seen a man before him for punishment since they had arrived, and the roars of mealtime jollity on the mess-deck told of contentment and fulfilment. In their off-watch leisure, they congregated in companionable groups on the foredeck in traditional yarning over a clay pipe, some working at needlepoint and scrimshaw – the age-old arts of the deep-sea mariner.
One by one the line of ships hove up over the horizon, the original single line transformed by a previous evolution into two columns. In faultless precision, they wore in succession to bear away back to the south-east. The frigates then passed down the noble lines of battleships to resume their watch and ward ahead.
Days later, the long island of La Désirade was raised, a verdant outlier that pointed like a finger at Guadeloupe. The frigates were recalled to attend on the fleet and together, in a display of insolence, the Leeward Islands Squadron swept down on the capital, Pointe-à-Pitre, deep inside a bay.
Kydd stood watching the passing coast, richly green and so full of memories. It was here that he had nearly been made prisoner as the French had retaken the island a dozen years before. And as a young seaman he’d learned lessons of leadership and endurance that would stay with him for ever.
They closed to within a few miles of Pointe-à-Pitre, brazenly taking their fill of the scene – the little town with its neat houses, a large church and, in the small rock-studded harbour, dozens of small craft huddling in as close as they could, none that could be considered worth noticing by such a powerful squadron. For the citizens of Guadeloupe it must have been both terrifying and galling to see such might flaunted with impunity, even if a naval force alone could do little against them.
Having made their point, the squadron stood out to sea past the rumpled heights of the outlying island of Marie-Galante, with its cliffs and multitude of sugar-mills, then shaped course for Martinique, which they raised the following morning. This large island was the most important possession in the French Caribbean and Cochrane proceeded majestically on, in extended line ahead, past the volcanic peaks and crags of the west coast to the grand bay where lay the capital, Fort de France.
The port was well sheltered and spacious but Kydd had heard of the notorious banks and shoals that made it a hazard for any ship of size to enter, a problem to be faced if ever the British were to make an attempt on the island.
In light airs in the lee of the island, the battle-squadron passed by at a walking pace that a lone scouting frigate would never dare, giving plenty of time to contemplate the sights. There were ships by the score, some alongside at one of the three moles but most lay at anchor deep within the bay. Kydd lifted his glass: there inside were two small warships with no sail bent on.
Leaving, they passed close by the legendary Diamond Rock – silent now, but this impossibly steep conical monolith, only a mile or so off Martinique, had once been captured and fortified by the Royal Navy
and commissioned as a sloop-of-war. They had caused havoc with shipping entering and leaving Fort de France until Villeneuve, with Nelson hot on his heels, had fatally delayed his battle-fleet to pound it into submission and then had fled back to Europe, his mission to bring destruction to the British Caribbean islands a total failure.
In shimmering seas they stretched south-east for another day and, late in the evening, made out the north point of Barbados. In the soft glow of a tropical dusk they sailed along it, the twinkling lights of homesteads and plantations vying for allure with the brilliant stars that seemed to hang so low.
The fleet arrived in Carlisle Bay to an impeccable night moor and, duty done, the Leeward Islands Squadron went to its rest.
Chapter 3
‘Only for a small visit, as it were, sir,’ Curzon, L’Aurore’s high-born second lieutenant, asked, in an uncharacteristically humble tone, ‘as will satisfy them on the particulars of our good ship.’
Kydd saw no reason why not. Curzon had relatives in Barbados and, no doubt, had said warm things about L’Aurore that had aroused their curiosity. And his was a post of some significance in the ship; he was quite entitled to bring visitors on board.
Then Kydd had an idea, one that, now they were part of the defending force, would reinforce the ship’s standing with the Barbadians.
‘Certainly you may, Mr Curzon. But not for a short time, sir, I will not allow it.’
‘Sir?’
‘If they cast about to muster a dozen others as well, then they shall all be our guests – at a quarterdeck ball.’
It was generally accounted a princely idea, and the news went about the ship like wildfire. While officers could rejoice in the honours of the ball, the seamen would be treated to the edifying spectacle of their betters sporting a toe. And it went without saying that the ship would require prettifying to a degree: it would not do for L’Aurore to be paltry before the rest of the squadron.
‘And I expect you to be forward in the matter of arrangements, if you please,’ Kydd told Curzon.
It was remarkable how the list grew. As a signals frigate, there was no shortage of gay bunting to drape about to soften warlike outlines – but how to indicate to the shore that flowers by the basket would be appreciated to place at the bitts and around the binnacle, and that a certain circumspection should be exercised in ballgowns in consideration of a frigate’s modest space about decks?
Naturally, midshipmen would be in attendance on the guests – but could they be fully trusted in the article of politeness, manners … decorum?
And music: in L’Aurore the Royal Marines were stout hands with fife and drum but a society evening seemed to need a little more. The capstan fiddler, perhaps?
Boatswain Oakley could be relied on to see the lower rigging triced up out of the way, but what about the training-tackle ringbolts for the nine-pounders? Avoided without thought by any sailor, these iron rings, set in the deck inboard, would prove a sad hazard for a lady with eyes only for her partner.
Kydd left these questions to Curzon, while he bent his attention to whom else he should invite. The governor might well take offence were he not included. And this was a major naval station: the commander-in-chief must be on the list, but which others? By order of seniority, the captains of the ships-of-the-line must rate first – some had their wives and daughters but in all they would probably outnumber the Barbadians. The military? He had a hazy idea that there were three regiments garrisoned, implying three colonels of the same substantive rank as himself, who would frown at an all-naval gathering in an entertainment-starved island. And then there was …
It was getting out of hand – until a happy thought struck. ‘Oh, Renzi, dear fellow! I have a small task for you.’
Kydd rubbed his hands in glee. It was working out better than he had hoped. As they lay at anchor in the still, warm evening he reviewed arrangements. Guests would be arriving at dusk to a lanthorn-lit, gaily decorated quarterdeck, welcomed by the airs of a very creditable orchestra wheedled by Renzi from other ships. The deck was now clear of encumbrance: its guns had been trundled to the breast-rail at the forward end of the quarterdeck, then covered with deal planking and every tablecloth the gunroom possessed to form a creditable refreshments table. The ringbolts had been drawn by an obliging carpenter, which left the area abaft the mizzen-mast an enchanting ballroom.
Chairs were placed around the capstan-head for resting couples, and strung along the shrouds, a line of light cast a soft gold on the dance-floor, tended by a grinning ship’s boy dressed as a page. A party of smartly dressed seamen waited expectantly at the ship’s side, for ladies visiting L’Aurore would not be expected to scramble up: an ornamented boatswain’s chair was waiting to sway them aboard.
‘We have a “regret unable” from the governor but the admiral and his lady will be attending,’ Renzi murmured, ‘for a short time only, he pleading advancing age. The garrison commander and wife accept with pleasure – I’ve allowed him two officers of local birth, and it would be churlish to refuse the colonel of the West Indian Regiment, they so ardent in their loyalty. As to our naval friends, I found it necessary to set the bar at post-captain and that from only the larger sail-of-the-line. In all a very creditable response, I think you’ll agree.’
‘Well done, Nicholas. Were there, as who should say, hearts repining for want of an invitation?’
‘None,’ Renzi said smoothly. ‘Not when they learned that a second ball is projected, especially for officers of the middling sort and thereby promising to be of a livelier character.’
‘You wicked dog!’ Kydd laughed with delight. ‘So I must throw the ship over to a jaunting on another occasion. A rattling good plan, brother.’
He moved forward to greet the first guests, a puffing gentleman, who had insisted on taking the side-steps, while his wife alighted daintily to the deck from the boatswain’s chair, apparently no stranger to the device. They were followed by Captain Pym of Atlas and his lady, piped aboard by a well-scrubbed boatswain, then a brace of young misses exclaiming with delight as their parents, too, made their way aboard.
‘Punch, ladies and gentlemen?’ Kydd offered after the introductions. He beckoned a hovering midshipman forward and turned to nod to the orchestra, which quickened its pace.
More guests arrived, and he found himself at the centre of a gaily chattering throng, his heart lifting at the happy scene.
‘Upon my word, sir, but this is a pretty ship indeed!’ The young lady curtsied as she came under notice from the great captain. ‘I’ve heard it’s quite a flyer, sir.’
‘Why, so she is, my dear.’ Kydd tried frantically to remember her introduction at the levee, recalling in time that this was Amelia, the eldest of a substantial sugar factor. ‘As we sailors must call a ship “she” for her flightsome ways, Miss Amelia.’
She was in a filmy pale-blue muslin gown, well suited to the warmth of the evening. It did nothing to hide her comeliness.
‘I shall try to remember, sir,’ she said seriously, but dimpled prettily. ‘And you are her captain. How proud you must be!’
‘She has her quips and quillets, as it must be said – especially in a lasking breeze – but, yes, I own myself much taken with her.’ Out of the corner of his eye Kydd caught an envious look from several nearby officers.
The boatswain’s call sounded again and he raised his eyes to see which of the squadron captains would be next.
It was Tyrell. He stepped aboard, looking around suspiciously. Kydd excused himself to go to greet him. ‘Why, Rufus, we’re pleased you’re able to come. Will you—’
‘May I present my wife, Kydd.’
He had had no idea Tyrell was married or that his wife was on station with him. He gave a polite bow. ‘I hope you’ll enjoy the evening, Mrs Tyrell.’
‘Oh, I’m sure I shall!’ she exclaimed brightly. She was short and slender, her face lined but soft, almost wistful.
Tyrell took her arm firmly and snapped, ‘Come, m’ dear –
we have our duty to the others.’
Kydd returned to his young lady. She had already attracted admirers: Lieutenant Bowden, handsome in his full dress uniform, and Lieutenant Clinton, of the Royal Marines, resplendent in his scarlet and gold. Both retreated in confusion at the arrival of their captain to snare their prize.
‘Shall I be your escort while we take a turn about the decks?’ Kydd said, offering his arm. A dazzling smile was his reward and they stepped off together. He was conscious that it had been too long since he had had female company of such quality, and he let her pleasant talk wash about him, contributing a little about this or that when it seemed appropriate.
The orchestra struck a chord and Curzon, as master of ceremonies, came forward to announce the first dance.
‘Miss Amelia?’ Kydd murmured, with an elegant bow.
‘Why, of course, my captain!’ she responded breathlessly, and they strolled back, past the motionless helm, its spokes intertwined with greenery and flowers, and on to the open area that extended to the curved taffrail over the stern.
There was immediate movement to the side and an outburst of clapping as it was assumed that Kydd had selected his partner to open the ball.
He beamed and bowed at Curzon, who took his cue and called the sets in foursomes. Amelia took her place at the head opposite and bobbed girlishly at Kydd’s flourish.
In view of the warm evening the steps were measured but, even so, Kydd was grateful for a spell at the end of the dance and went to fetch a cool lime cordial for them both. As he returned, he noticed a bent figure out of the lanthorn light beyond the chattering groups. It was Tyrell, inspecting the fall of one of the lines from aloft. In L’Aurore the contented seamen took pride in their ship, spending the occasional dog-watch to point rope – adding a tapered finish to the end in a show of seaman-like skill.
Kydd guessed that in Hannibal this was something they would never feel inclined to do – and he reflected on how much Tyrell was losing to his ship by treating his men as he did.
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