‘Poulden!’ he bellowed, beckoning to him.
Catching something of the urgency, his coxswain hurried up. Kydd laid out his plan. Without any change of expression, Poulden crossed to the fallen gaff and reached out for the end, snagging the signal halliards. He cut off a length, coiling it around his body, leaped to the shrouds and started mounting them.
Kydd, taking the opposite side, launched himself up. Clear of the deck, the wind was frightful, bullying and wrenching as he climbed, doing all it could to tear him from his hold. He reached the futtock shrouds and discreetly took the lubber’s hole route into the top to find Poulden grimly hanging on at each sickening roll, which, magnified by height, always ended in a brutal jerking.
The line went down to where, below, the boatswain was completing the euphroe double seizing. It was grabbed and the heavier rope bent on. Kydd grasped Poulden’s belt as he used both hands to bring up the line, and then they had it.
Lying flat, they peered over the after side of the top down to where the remaining throat-halliard block swung crazily. Hooking his feet where he could, Kydd reached down for the block. At first it avoided him, painfully trapping his fingers against the mast. One-handed, he managed to seize it and manhandle it over to one side against its strop – and Poulden got the rope through in a single try.
Kydd held him again as he drew the rope through the big sheave with both hands until its hanging weight told – and they were done.
By the time they were back on the deck the makeshift driver was jerking up and on the other masts sail was being shown to the wind. To his immense relief Kydd saw that it was working.
Noticeably steadying under the high canvas, L’Aurore got under way again, slow but very sure.
The centre was so near now, rearing up in appalling dark majesty as if to fall on its prey – but they were winning through. As they crossed the hurricane’s track it was now necessary to bring the wind by degrees on to the quarter to break out of the deathly grip of the revolving storm, by taking advantage of the rotation that was now thrusting towards the rear.
Point by point they edged outwards, the wind, which before was coming in from astern, now off the starboard bow. Then, as they won more sea-room, it was abeam until finally it was on the quarter and they were on their way out of the maelstrom.
Against all the odds they had won, but they were not yet out of danger. Their jury-rig driver sail had saved them but it would be useless in the vital manoeuvres of wearing and tacking about, and therefore they could take up on any course – so long as it was on the starboard tack. It was imperative to find somewhere to come to rest and repair.
And providentially they did, but not in the way Kydd would have wished. Some two hours later, with visibility in the still violent conditions down to a mile or two, across their path appeared the loom of an island.
Gradually it extended right across their field of vision, a dark, wooded land that seemed to hold such menace. It was downwind from them, therefore a lee shore. And without the ability to stay about on to the other tack to get around its unknown length, there was only one thing to do.
‘Stand by to anchor – both bowers!’ he roared. ‘And the last five fathoms with keckling,’ he added, with feeling. It had been many years ago but he would remember always the terrible effect of razor-sharp coral on anchor cable.
The men worked with furious intensity for they knew only too well that if their anchors were not ready for letting go by the time they came up with the land they would most surely drive to destruction on the lee shore. Heavy cable, many fathoms of it, had to be brought up from the cable tiers in the lowest part of the ship, hauled along the deck and finally bent on to the anchors on the outside of the bow. Back-breaking work, but with time slipping by, no relief could be had.
Under just enough sail to steady her, the sore-tested frigate closed with the island, which continued to stretch across the horizon. But which island was it? To the west of Jamaica where, without a doubt, they had been blown, there were none in the half-a-thousand miles right to the Yucatán peninsula – except the Caymans. Kydd racked his tired brain, trying to remember how they lay on the chart, then said, ‘Compliments to Mr Buckle and ask him to step aft.’
Looking the worse for weather, his third lieutenant presented himself.
‘Can you tell me the name of this island?’
‘Why, yes, sir.’
‘Well?’
‘That’s Cayman Brac. You see the long bluff—’
In the wind’s bluster Kydd had to lean forward to catch the words.
‘Yes. Is that all?’
‘There’s two Caymans here, three, four miles apart. Not much in ’em, a handful o’ settler families.’
‘I thought they had quite a few – Georgetown, is it?’
‘Ah, no, sir. You’re thinking on Grand Cayman.’
So, a third island – with a dockyard for repairs? ‘How far is that?’
‘Oh, seventy, eighty miles.’
Out of the question – and time was getting short. ‘We’re to anchor here while we repair. Is there anywhere in sight you recommend?’
Buckle gave it thought. ‘There is, more over to the north. As I remember there’s a small landing place.’
‘A settlement?’
‘Not really, sir. Just a fort on the heights above.’
‘Well done, Mr Buckle! It couldn’t be better.’ That had dealt in one with his greatest anxiety: that an enemy might chance upon them while they were helpless at anchor. They’d safely moor under the watchful guns of the fort.
While the lieutenant conned them in, Kydd scanned the shore. The coast was relatively steep and a tiny plain fringed the shoreline all along the north. Close in, the island was beautiful – but would be L’Aurore’s grave if the anchors gave and she blew ashore in the still seething gale. At the right time both bower anchors were let go, the frigate continuing in to the full scope of the cable and then, under their restraint, was swung around to ride it out, facing into the wind and out to sea. It was masterly timing and a feat of seamanship that could only have come from a matchless ship’s company.
Normally there would be gun salutes and the military flummery of one commander recognising the authority of another, but there was nothing from the low structure peeping above the trees atop the bluff. There was no flag but that was probably because in high winds any would have been torn to rags in minutes. Nevertheless, to set his mind at rest Kydd needed to be sure that the fort knew its business.
‘I’m going to pay a call on the redcoats. You know what to do, Mr Gilbey.’
He left the first lieutenant to start the unenviable task of clearing away the raffle of fraying rope, remnants of canvas and awkward spars on deck in order that the boatswain, carpenter and sailmaker could get to their work.
The boat, going with wind and waves, made good speed inshore in the still boisterous conditions. Kydd had known better than to go for full dress: one of the boat’s crew was set to constantly bailing from seas over-topping the gunwale and by the time they had crossed the outer reef with its creaming seas he was soaked.
He grabbed the sea-slimed ladder on the little jetty and climbed up, his knees nearly buckling at the unforgiving solidity of the land.
There was no one about. All along the beach palm trees were in frenetic motion in the hard wind, and he slitted his eyes against the grains of sand that whipped about his face.
Having hauled the boat clear of the tideline, its crew stood by while he trudged up into a scrubby wooded area, following the rough track. Calloway was with him, respectfully behind. Then the track veered sharply to parallel the beach under the line of the bluff. This was not leading to the fort – Kydd stopped in vexation. Unless they found the right path it made no sense to go on.
They returned and cast about for any track that led up the face of the cliff and eventually spotted one. It was ill-used and overhung by sharp-leaved vegetation that was lashed by the wind, but eventually it emerged at th
e top, a hundred or more feet above the sea, in a bare and scrubby flat area.
‘Where the devil …?’ Kydd glanced about but could not see a fort. ‘You go that way, I’ll take this. Hail when you spy it.’
He struck off to the left, irritably batting at waving fronds but stopped when he heard a hesitant call. Relieved, he turned and retraced his steps. Rounding an outcrop he saw Calloway pointing to a deserted ruin.
L’Aurore was facing out to sea, innocently snubbing to her anchors and wide open to devastating attack. An enemy had only to come in on her stationary bow to be free from defensive fire, then criss-cross with impunity while smashing in appalling destruction down L’Aurore’s length. It would take minutes only before his command was reduced to a blood-soaked wreck.
In a fever of anxiety he turned and ran down the track. ‘Get back! Boat in the water, damn you!’ he roared at the stunned boat’s crew. He had a short time only to come up with a solution – and racked his brain on the passage back.
It might work! He bounded up the side-steps and found Gilbey. ‘The launch to take away the kedge,’ he said briefly.
The half-ton anchor would be slung under the launch and carried well to seaward and to one side, there to be dropped. The cable in L’Aurore would come in through a stern port and then be heaved in on the capstan, thereby bringing the frigate around parallel to the shore.
Any enemy now would not meet a defenceless ship bow-on but instead a whole broadside, a wall of guns.
The weather was moderating, a brief glimpse of blue sky lifted spirits, and determined faces could be seen around the ship as they set to with the repairs. It was not easy work, for now the seas were coming in on the beam and, without the damping effect of sails, the rolling was tedious. With heavy spars on deck, it was a dangerous place to be.
They worked on without pause; only the tools and material they carried on board could be used and the stakes could not have been higher.
In the event they had barely two hours before sail was sighted.
Kydd realised the imperatives of weather applied just as much to Frenchmen as any other. This frigate’s captain had no doubt seen L’Aurore’s departure and soon after had himself broken out of the dangerous semicircle in the same seaman-like way. It was no coincidence that they had ended up in the same place.
At this point it was likely that he would be looking to round the end of the island to seek shelter in its lee but would be surprised and puzzled to see the English frigate stolidly at anchor on the wrong, weather side.
What was very certain was that there must be a reckoning between them. One or the other would leave their bones in this place and for L’Aurore, without manoeuvrability, the odds were that it would be she.
Kydd felt frustration build. A fair fight in the open sea was one thing; tethered like a goat for the slaughter another. And there was nothing he could do to speed the repair. The carpenter and sailmaker, with their mates, the most vital men in the ship now, were not to be chivvied into hasty work or the consequences would show at the very worst time. They had to be left to get on with it; Kydd must hope they could finish before the weather moderated and the French emerged from their comfortable lee side to close with them.
But he would have to interrupt their labours: even in these conditions standard procedures required that in sight of the enemy he closed up his ship for action. Once around the headland, though, he could stand them down to resume their efforts.
All eyes were on the foe. Under comfortable sail it did not seem particularly interested in them; this was the thirty-two-gun frigate, the larger of the two, and therefore was probably Sieyès’ command.
Kydd studied the ship carefully through his pocket telescope: every sail was trimmed to perfection and drawing well, and it was not evident that she had just come through a hurricane. The ship’s lines showed it was of recent construction – that implied a fit of eighteen-pounders; thirty-two-gun twelve-pounder frigates, like the pre-war L’Aurore, were no longer being built.
The odds were lengthening.
Hull-up, it was apparent they were making to clear the point, passing slowly across their field of vision to the right. Kydd could not help a jet of envy at the sight of the powerful frigate – the French were certainly master ship-builders and it would be a close thing on the morrow when—
‘He’s not going to wait, the beggar!’ yelled someone.
Kydd looked again. In a lazy curve, the frigate was altering course towards them.
He swallowed hard. This was a most unwelcome development and did not add up. Why was the Frenchman going in against an alerted and positioned ship with all her men ready at their guns? His duty was to avoid battle damage at all costs. Whatever the reason …
‘Stand to your guns!’ Kydd barked, then turned to Gilbey and told him to check that the decks were clear aft.
They were as ready as they could be.
But when the frigate had straightened and settled on course to engage, all became clear. There was to be no braving of L’Aurore’s broadside – instead Sieyès, in one audacious move, was going to end the battle before it started.
The big 32 was taking all the time it needed to sail past L’Aurore’s stern, delivering an overwhelming punishment as it did, raking down the length of the tethered vessel, bringing about the utter destruction Kydd had dreaded, and not taking a shot in reply.
This could only be contemplated by a consummate seaman, utterly sure of himself and his ship’s company to consider such a manoeuvre – running close to deliver the blow but then wheeling about on a sixpence in the perilously short distance before the reef and shallows to reach out to sea again for another pass.
They were helpless to stop it – or were they?
‘Chain shot! Every gun – load with chain!’ Kydd bellowed urgently. He ignored the bewildered looks from the gun-deck. There was so little time.
‘The carpenter – tell him to step up on deck this instant,’ he rapped.
What he had in mind was a once-only move. If it failed, they were most certainly finished.
The enemy frigate lined up for its run with deliberation, as deadly as a bullfighter bringing his sword up for the kill. Nearer and nearer, every detail of the ship showing clear and stark – from the men at the guns to those standing by the ropes for the whirlwind of action that must follow the crushing blast.
Kydd watched with an icy calm: timing alone would determine whether his men lived or died.
It was the forefoot of the oncoming warship that was his mark – the angle between that and—
‘Now!’ he roared.
In a blur of motion the carpenter swung his razor-sharp broad-axe. It thudded into the bar-taut cable of the kedge, near severing it in one. Under the strain the rest parted and fell away. Released from her position athwart the wind, L’Aurore immediately began swinging back to face into the gale streaming in, held as before by her bower anchors. And it brought her broadside around to bear – the tables had been turned.
So close, the enemy frigate was committed but had not reached the point where its own guns could bear – the timing had been perfect. With great satisfaction Kydd saw consternation on the opposing quarterdeck as he blared, ‘Fire!’
The guns thundered and blasted in a deliberate broadside – but upwards, producing instant and visible ruin in the Frenchman’s rigging. Canvas ripped and tore as if by a magic hand, severed lines streamed away and the fore main-yard folded gracefully in two, bringing down with it the fore topsail above.
Sieyès had been overconfident: he had not reckoned on Kydd throwing away his only defensive posture and, more importantly, to abandon the British preference for hammering round-shot into the hull for the French practice of shots into the rigging. Now he was about to pay the price.
And it wasn’t long coming. Fighting desperately to come around in time, with their damage and in the prevailing conditions, they didn’t stand a chance and, slowly but surely, like the inevitable climax of a Greek tragedy,
the frigate struck.
Immediately it slewed and heeled, the seas surging and smashing against the bare, glistening hull like a half-tide rock, beginning a merciless battering and assailing of the doomed ship. By morning there would be nothing but wreckage.
It had been only minutes from start to finish.
Chapter 8
At his book by the stern windows in the great cabin Renzi heard movement on the deck above, then stillness. A few minutes later the silvery shriek of the boatswain’s call was on the air – the captain had returned from the admiral. Oakley liked to make a performance of it, ornamenting the upper notes with clever trills and tailing off in a perfectly contrived falling cadence.
Renzi knew Kydd set great store on the ceremony of piping aboard, not for the honour and personal satisfaction it gave but for it being a token of the discipline and order that arose naturally in the practice of the ancient customs of the Royal Navy.
A little time later his friend emerged into the cabin, Tysoe magically appearing to strip him of his finery.
‘Not as if you seem gratified at your reception, brother.’ Kydd certainly did not much resemble a frigate captain returning after reporting the destruction of an enemy to his commander.
‘Oh, he gives me joy of my victory, Nicholas, and mentioned that Lydiard went on to place a prize crew on the other Frenchy after he lost spars in the storm and hauled down his flag.’
‘Then?’
Kydd broke off to order sherry from Tysoe and continued, ‘As he’s much vexed and distracted by dispatches from Lapwing sloop. It turns out that while we were putting an end to the frigate pair, in quite another area we’re taking losses still, proving it can’t be them.’
‘So the conundrum remains,’ Renzi reflected. ‘Widely separated actions, which can’t be by privateers because we have most under eye in Guadeloupe and Martinique, and there’s no other port in the Caribbean that can sustain same.’
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