Caribbee

by Julian Stockwin

  It was astounding: arrow-straight for the enemy’s vitals and still no gunfire, only the gentle whisper of wind in the sails, the familiar creaking and slatting to be heard in any ship under sail, and ahead the entrance broadening.

  A sudden thud – the white of a discharge from the fort rose and swelled in the light airs. The ships stood on. Two more from the casemates. Did they not see the flags of truce? If so, they were ignoring them. Then an uneven firing came on, which hid the fort in roiling gunsmoke.

  They had engaged too soon! In the time of reloading the four ships were up with the entrance and then inside, insanely close to the fort, with the town slipping by closer than Portsmouth Point.

  Then the light morning breeze hesitated – and backed into the north. Instantly the moment became fraught with peril. Headed by a foul wind, the ships slowed and began to yaw. It was the worst of luck, and Kydd’s mind raced as he tried to think how Brisbane could retrieve their predicament. No complex signals were possible in the rapidly changing circumstances and it was inconceivable that four ships in the tight space could back away now.

  Then, as if relenting, the winds veered back to the east and they took up again on their perilous course.

  There was a burst of musket fire from the left side as soldiers ran up, and then they were past, heading for the anchored thirty-six. Aboard there was frantic activity on her deck. Men boiled up from below but stopped, paralysed with fear at the sight of the heavy frigate about to pass by her stern to smash in a pulverising broadside. But she did not, for the flag of truce was still flying and not a single shot had been fired from any British ship.

  Arethusa’s helm went over and in the same instant her anchor plunged down and she slewed about, her bowsprit crazily jutting over the little seawall and path, pointing directly into the town. By now gunfire had broken out generally in a bewildering chaos of noise and powder-smoke.

  L’Aurore followed and, passing Arethusa, did the same, clearing the way for Anson to take position mid-channel. Peering back through the rolling smoke it looked as if Fisgard had taken the ground with the foul wind and was swinging across the water but then she broke free and, as planned, heaved to ready.

  Kydd saw that something was going on in Arethusa. A group of officers were clustered around the capstan as Brisbane conspicuously bent to a task: the air was filling with the whip and slam of shot, but he was writing. He finished, folded a note and handed it to a midshipman with a strip of white cloth pinned around his hat.

  The brave lad tumbled into the gig and under a large white flag was pulled frantically to a landing place at the Waaigat, a side-water for small craft. Kydd gave a grim smile: Brisbane was giving them chance of surrender before broadsides at point-blank range devastated the town. It was a terrible risk, though, for at any time the Dutch artillery could arrive to smash the ships to ruin.

  There was no slackening in the gunfire from the shore and first one then another man fell in Arethusa, and L’Aurore took her first casualty, a fo’c’sle hand, Timmins, who dropped into a motionless huddle.

  Kydd felt anger rise. Then the midshipman came into view and scrambled up the side to report to Brisbane.

  The white flag at the masthead soon whipped down and Arethusa’s boats were in the water, striking towards the stunned thirty-six, Brisbane waving his sword like a madman.

  ‘Boarders, awaaaay!’ Kydd roared, and stood aside as men raced to take up their weapons and man the boats. Gilbey seemed to have been infected with the same frenzy and, with drawn blade, bellowed warlike curses at them while they stretched out to take the enemy from the other side. The gloves were off now.

  In minutes it was all over in the thirty-six, and Brisbane himself hauled down its colours.

  With rising feeling Kydd looked around. Anson had sent boats, which were now alongside the corvette, and fighting was taking place on its upper deck. There could be only one outcome there.

  ‘Stand to, the stormers!’ he called. It had to be soon or not at all: the enemy could not be given time to bring up forces in mass.

  Then he saw what he had been waiting for: Brisbane had taken boat and the men bent to their oars to head for the jetty followed by his other boats.

  ‘Flying column, away!’ he roared. ‘Mr Curzon, warp alongside the thirty-six and take possession. Stormers, away!’

  Kydd took the tiller of his boat as it filled. This was the vital flying column that had to succeed. Beside him a set-faced Renzi sat. Kydd grinned at him and ordered the boat to bear away inshore, bellowing at them as he, too, was caught up in the excitement.

  The zing and smack of musketry was all about them but Kydd, with a storm of emotion, had seen that every one of the frigate captains was now in a boat heading in. He waved his sword aloft in a crazy show and saw them all return the gesture.

  The boat following each was packed with marines, and as the boats made to land at the jetty they stood off and kept up fire over the heads of those storming ashore. Quickly they assembled and trotted off to the south, in the direction of the ominous massive ramparts of Fort Amsterdam. Kydd motioned his stormers to join them.

  The flying column was headed in another direction, to a little jetty on the opposite side of the Waaigat. ‘Go!’ The men needed no encouragement – they formed up quickly. Ten in all: marines, seamen, Kydd and Renzi. Muskets and cutlasses. To take on an entire naval base.

  As they made off, Kydd forced himself to an objective coolness. This was not to be a frontal assault on the base but, rather, a holding operation, keeping enemy heads down while a decision was made. Renzi’s information was enough to indicate that the base was only lightly defended, if at all, due to its clandestine nature. Possibly it could be carried by the men he had, that was his decision, but made only after a reconnaissance.

  This side of the Waaigat there were few buildings and the road was deserted. Their rapid progress had wrong-footed the Dutch – a furiously rising swell of firing to the south was probably the storming of Fort Amsterdam and their attention was no doubt all there.

  ‘How far more, Nicholas?’ Kydd panted. Renzi was by his side – it had been given out that he was aware that this was to be a glorious occasion and wished to be present to record the action but in reality his presence was crucial in identifying the location.

  ‘Not far – under a mile in all. Round this hill and along the shoreline a space,’ he gasped. Sea life was not the best preparation for a fast march and Kydd noted Sergeant Dodd behind breathing deeply too.

  The glittering expanse of the Schottegat came into view and with it their objective.

  ‘Fall back!’ Kydd ordered, bringing them all out of sight, remaining to peer past a thick bush.

  ‘The old building with the garden near overgrown,’ Renzi pointed out.

  It was quiet – too quiet. But then again a wise French commander of a secret base would lie low and keep watch until the purpose and gravity of the British assault became known, then make his move. Any forces he might have would therefore be held within the building – and ready for them.

  They didn’t have too much time, however, for at any moment the tide of war could turn against those storming the fort and a retreat would be forced on them. Kydd darted a glance around. ‘We’ve got an advantage. Sar’nt Dodd!’ He had spotted one thing in their favour but wanted confirmation.

  ‘Sah!’

  ‘Am I right? The building yonder is more or less on a point of land sticking out into the Schottegat. Doesn’t that mean we need only advance on this side to be sure we have ’em under eye all the time?’

  ‘Er, yessir.’

  ‘Very well. Half o’ your men to make a stand here in line, the rest with me.’

  They didn’t have the luxury of time to take a cautious approach: they would have to show themselves and rely on those covering them to spot where musket fire was coming from and deal with it.

  Kydd, with four men only, ran from bush to tree, dodging until they got close, then dropped to see what they co
uld. There were no lights inside, understandable as such would be aiming points. But there was a menacing, absolute stillness that played on the nerves.

  Did the French have an unpleasant surprise waiting? Were they even now squarely in the sights of hidden marksmen waiting for them to trespass before giving away the secret of their presence by opening fire?

  Doubts tore at Kydd. The distant firing around Fort Amsterdam was slackening. Now individual shots were all that could be made out. Something had happened. One way or the other there had been a victory won – or lost. There was no more time.

  ‘Watch out for me!’ he said hoarsely. He got to his feet and sprinted for the door, falling to one side on the expectation of a sudden eruption of armed men.

  Nerves keyed up to the limit he listened. Nothing – not even a creak or whisper.

  There came the sound of running feet – but it was Dodd arriving to take position the other side of the door.

  Kydd stood motionless, listening. Not the tiniest whisper – just the thudding of his heart.

  He flashed a warning look at the sergeant. They had to move, and in a violent swing Kydd crashed against the door – and fell sprawling as it gave easily. Dodd stepped over him quickly and went in, bayonet at the ready. Scrambling to his feet, Kydd caught up and, every nerve taut, they moved forward.

  There was a sudden crash from a side room. They wheeled to meet the threat. A cat miaowed its annoyance, ran out and was gone.

  Cautiously they peered into the room. There was nobody. The other rooms were the same – just the sad debris of a deserted house, the smell of decay. Feverishly they cast this way and that.

  At the rear of the house, french windows opened on to a pleasant but overgrown sitting-out area and an ornamental pond that stank with weed. Neglected and shrivelled fruit hung from a small orchard and the grass was thick and rank.

  And still there was not the slightest betraying creak or scrape.

  Kydd blinked and tried to think, retracing their steps and looking about more carefully.

  They searched the house room by room until at last he was forced to accept that there was absolutely nothing anywhere, not the tiniest scrap of evidence to show that this had once been a threatening secret naval base.

  ‘Call ’em here, Sar’nt,’ he ordered.

  The rest arrived, hesitantly looking about, Renzi’s face set tight.

  ‘Nicholas,’ Kydd asked in a low voice, ‘are you not mistaken in your locations? There’s nothing here to—’

  Renzi looked stunned, but managed, ‘It was here, I’ll swear. Just that …’

  He went quickly to a side room. ‘This is where …’ He tailed off, staring at the few sticks of mildewed furniture, odorous rubbish in a corner, a broken child’s toy and shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘But I – I …’

  ‘You men take the garden. Sar’nt Dodd, I want you to take a good look around outside. Anything – anything at all as will show us where the Frenchies went.’

  ‘Sah!’

  ‘Now, Nicholas. I have to ask it of you – you’re entirely sure this is where you were taken?’

  With a worried, hunted look Renzi hurried from the house out to where bemused marines and seamen were poking about in the grounds and by the gate. He reached the road, then turned and looked back at the house. ‘It is! This is the place!’

  Kydd joined him. ‘Then we’ve a pretty tale to take back to Brisbane, not to say Admiral Dacres. I do hope you have explanations, old fellow.’

  ‘Excellent, excellent!’ Brisbane said, rubbing his hands with glee. ‘We reduced Fort Amsterdam in something like ten minutes. The citadel yielded without a fight and the town is ours. The last resistance remaining is Fort Republiek on the hill there. I’m shortly to warp up all four frigates and threaten a bombardment as will shake ’em out of their clogs, the villains, then all Curaçao will be ours.’

  He collected himself and asked solicitously, ‘And, it being the whole point of all these fireworks, you’ve laid hold on the secret Frenchy base, I take it?’

  ‘Um, not as who’s to say, Charles,’ Kydd answered awkwardly, ‘they being not at home to us.’

  He gave a quick account of their morning, finishing with a weak smile.

  Brisbane said, ‘Why, it has to be they made for the hills when they heard our first shots. Won’t help ’em, for the island will be ours before noon and we’ll make search for wherever they went to ground. Don’t worry, we’ll find ’em.’

  Kydd looked up at Renzi. ‘Now, don’t take this amiss, dear fellow, but if sworn to it, I’d be obliged to say there was nothing in any wise in that house that gives us reason to think anyone was there. No scraps o’ food, papers, odd military bits that show they left in a hurry. Nothing.’

  ‘I – I can’t account for it, that I’m forced to admit …’

  ‘An unkind cove would say further there’s not even the slightest piece of evidence to show that would justify our invasion of Curaçao in any sense, none at all.’

  ‘It’s impossible! I just can’t understand it …’

  ‘Sit down, Mr Renzi,’ Dacres said heavily, eyeing him with distaste. ‘You’ve heard that Captain Brisbane reports not a single sign whatsoever of a Frenchman or a base? None, sir!’

  ‘This is quite unaccountable to me, sir,’ Renzi began, ‘being that we found the right house and—’

  ‘There was no evidence at all that Frenchmen were ever there. This is insupportable, sir! You gave me your word of honour on what you say transpired there.’

  ‘Sir, I—’

  ‘On your say-so I went ahead with a damn risky invasion of a whole island. What do you say to that, sir?’

  ‘Why, there’s no possible reply I can make, sir.’

  Dacres snorted. ‘Except the action was carried off with the greatest success, I’d be a laughing stock.’

  His expression eased fractionally at the reminder of military conquest in his name and he continued more equably, ‘As it is, you should be grateful there was such an outcome as none now will question its reason.’

  Renzi kept his silence, burning with embarrassment and anger.

  ‘I don’t quite know what Commodore D’Auvergne saw in you, Renzi, but as some species of spy you don’t cut it with me, I have to say. Experienced, my left foot!’

  Gathering his papers, he snapped, ‘I see no further need of your services, sir. You may indent for outstanding expenses to Mr Wilikins and I shall bid you good-day.’

  Rising, Renzi blinked away his anger. As he left Dacres called after him, ‘And, for God’s sake, let’s hear no more of this tomfoolery about secret bases and phantom fleets.’

  Kydd tried to be sympathetic but was no hand at disguising his true feelings. ‘Bad luck, is all, m’ friend. They’re sure to be, er, somewhere. A rattling good theory – copper-bottomed logic and, um, well reckoned. Not your fault it didn’t turn out right.’

  Renzi said nothing, glowering at his glass.

  ‘Still, one good thing for you, Nicholas.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Nereide frigate returned from the dockyard while we were gone.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Cheer up, old trout. That means we’re to return to Barbados. You won’t have to look ’em in the eye any more.’

  ‘You don’t believe I saw anything. You think it was all an opium dream.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Never mind. I’m doubting my own senses anyway.’

  Kydd tactfully steered the conversation away. ‘At the end of the hurricane season Barbados is a fine place. I’ve a mind to enjoy it, brother.’

  ‘With Miss Amelia?’

  ‘Why, if she takes a fancy.’

  L’Aurore slipped out of Port Royal the next day in company with Arethusa.

  It was a pleasant passage to Barbados, the two frigates conscious of making a fine sight as they stretched away through the very centre of the Caribbean.

  As they neared the Leeward Islands, tho
ugh, it became clear that the seas were deserted – swept clean. To fail to raise a single sail in all that distance was not natural. Whatever was feeding on the West Indian trade was abroad still, mysterious and malignant.

  It was deeply unsettling.

  Dispatches had gone ahead by cutter, and by the time they reached Barbados the whole of Bridgetown was out en fête to see and greet the victors of Curaçao. As they came to their moorings in Carlisle Bay boats streamed out, some with quantities of ladies intent on throwing flowers on to the quarterdeck; others stood screaming their adulation, and still more came out simply to circle the two frigates and gaze on the heroes of the hour.

  But what brought the greatest flush of pride to Kydd’s face was the Leeward Islands Squadron manning yards in their honour, lines of great ships acknowledging valour and achievement.

  It had been a breathtaking adventure crowned with success, but deep within, it was disturbing. The main objective had been missed – was this, then, the people seizing on any good news to alleviate an impending apocalypse?

  ‘Ship open to visitors until sunset, Mr Gilbey,’ Kydd told the first lieutenant, then went below to sort out his paperwork. Back under the command of Cochrane, there were so many matters to attend to, not the least of which was the rendering of his accounts to the satisfaction of the acidulous clerk of the cheque.

  He worked at the pile and was pleased at progress when a messenger arrived. ‘An’ Mr Curzon would be happy to see you on deck, sir.’

  This was unusual to the point of puzzling, for it was the general form for an officer-of-the-watch requesting his captain’s presence on deck in filthy weather as a situation deteriorated.

  Kydd tugged on his hat and emerged on the upper deck, ready for whatever had to be faced.

  ‘Sir, she vows that no other will do to receive her expression of admiration for the action just passed.’

  ‘Why, Miss Amelia!’

  The officers all about the banqueting hall roared with laughter. Brisbane was a fine speaker – modest, entertaining and with a good line in anecdotes that his all-naval audience were in a mood to appreciate.

  The baffling losses had built a frustration that demanded release, and the evening was well on its way. It was a pity that Renzi could not attend – he was out of sorts after his humiliating experience and this warm gathering would have restored a measure of equanimity. Why he had claimed he had been taken into a secret base and concocted a story that had had Dacres mounting an expedition was an utter mystery. Kydd sincerely hoped it wasn’t a delusion brought on by his conspicuous lack of literary success.