‘If you’ll be frank with me, sir, can you tell me a little of the army commanders?’ It was perhaps presumptuous but Kydd knew that Popham would be open in his opinions: it was his way to allow his subordinates to know his thinking.
‘The Highlanders, a hot-blooded enough lot. Colonel Pack, a firebrand, Lieutenant Colonel the Lord Geoffrey MacDonald, Lord of the Isles – like ’em all, hungry for glory. Well led, they’ll give a good account of themselves, I believe.
‘The generals: there’s Lord Beresford, a prickly chap, second to Baird but competent enough. Yorke, with the artillery – an old-fashioned sort, stickler for the forms but brave to a fault.’
He paused. ‘Major General Baird is likeable enough – we get along. He’s shrewd, a calm thinker and sees things through. I have no doubt but if he sees a chance he’ll not hesitate to take it.’
‘And if not . . . ?’
‘He’ll not sacrifice his men, not after what he’s been through.’
‘Oh?’
‘You saw the sword he wears?’
Kydd remembered a rather outlandish and extravagantly ornamented curved Oriental weapon.
‘He seized that from the still warm body of Tippoo Sahib after Seringapatam and has worn it since. Can’t find it in me to blame him – Baird was once incarcerated by him in chains for three years, with his men of the Seventy-first, in atrocious circumstances, after being overwhelmed in battle by the man’s father. It must have been a sweet revenge indeed.’
‘Just so,’ Kydd said uneasily. ‘Not as if he has a thirst for blood still?’
‘Hmm. Can’t really say. Now to details, sir. I’m to be flag officer afloat for this expedition and you’ll have my orders and form of signals. These will be straightforward enough, your role in this as escorting frigate to the transport convoy, and at the landing, close gunfire support. After that, well, we’ll see how it all goes.’
Drawing his chair closer, Kydd followed where Popham was indicating in a list.
‘This is the composition of our convoy. Thirteen Indiamen for the regiments and artillery, and thirty-seven of all sorts for their impedimenta and stores.’
Kydd gave a tight smile. With their derisory force, it was a frightful risk: if even a single modern French sail-of-the-line came upon their expedition it would result in a massacre. The longer they were at sea the more exposed to this risk they were, and it would prove a nightmare to provide water and victuals to the thousands of soldiers as they sailed through the fearsome equatorial heat down the length of Africa. And their horses would suffer horrifically, clapped under hatches as they passed through the burning desert of the doldrums.
As if reading Kydd’s thoughts, Popham nodded. ‘Long weeks at sea, yes. However, we shall be touching at the Brazils to water and recuperate before the final leg.’
The anti-clockwise wind-circulation pattern in the South Atlantic made the longer semi-circular passage away from Africa across the ocean to South America the more efficient. But that last leg remained more than four thousand miles and Kydd’s heart went out to the soldiers who must endure for so long, then be called upon to give their all in a convulsive life-and-death struggle.
‘In course,’ Popham added lightly, ‘before we get under way we will purchase replacements for any horses that may die on passage.’
Popham’s responsibility was to ensure the safe arrival of the whole complex structure to its climax at the landing: the jocular tone hid deep worry. Despite his reservations, Kydd asked, with brisk enthusiasm, ‘Then, sir, what is our plan for the final assault?’
‘Why, Captain, that rather depends on the report of the frigate sent to reconnoitre before our arrival, don’t you think?’ he said, with an innocent smile.
In the cold light of morning, the invading fleet made ready to sail. To a casual onlooker it was impressive: fifty or more sail crowding Funchal Roads, a mighty armada about to descend on a luckless enemy.
But to any knowledgeable observer the truth was very different. A dozen of the very largest were nothing more than Indiamen, some with troops – but, as well, laden with luxury cargo and passengers, intended in the event of a dismal failure to continue on to Calcutta and the Raj. Other ships, crammed with artillery and stores, were slow and vulnerable. Still more were anonymous utilitarian hulls, of varying size down to the pipsqueak Jack, a Botany Bay ship hired for the task by a harried Transport Board and of questionable fitness for the long voyage.
And all that had been spared to escort them could virtually be counted on the fingers of one hand.
It was madness. Compelling evidence lay at anchor away to one side: a survivor of an Indies convoy found by Admiral Allemand and his squadron, which had sortied from Rochefort, the so-called ‘invisible squadron’ sent to play havoc off the coasts of Africa.
This convoy, escorted by a single ship, the 50-gun Calcutta, had been set upon by five ships-of-the-line, frigates and corvettes, but in a magnificent yet doomed show of defiance and resolution she had fought the odds, leading the enemy away from her convoy. She had finally struck her colours to prevent further loss of life but all except one of her charges had been able to escape.
Allemand was still at sea, whereabouts unknown. So, too, was the breakout fleet of Admiral Jean-Baptiste Willaumez, even larger and reputedly including Napoleon’s brother – both somewhere in the wastes of ocean, looking for prey and revenge for Trafalgar. If either came up with Popham’s fleet, there would be a massacre.
‘This will do, Mr Kendall,’ Kydd told the sailing master, satisfied with their offshore position, which was well placed to receive the ships now awkwardly getting under way and endeavouring to assemble in some sort of order. The seaward approaches were secured by the other frigate, Leda, and the two sloops, and the convoy, in two loose columns, began falling in behind Raisonnable and Diadem.
As if in concord with their mood, the sky was leaden and louring, the seas with an irritated slop and hurry, while Kydd manoeuvred L’Aurore back and forth in the inevitable never-ceasing efforts to encourage stragglers. Eventually the lines of ships, backing and filling with impatience, were rewarded by the Blue Peter in Diadem whipping down. They were on their way.
At first it was fresh going, running the north-east trade-winds down, the airs warming by the day until in flying-fish weather the convoy laid the Cape Verde islands to larboard to enter the deep Atlantic.
They were lucky: it was at all of three degrees north latitude before the winds eased to a pleasant zephyr and settled to a wispy breeze, fluky and baffling. The doldrums.
Sails hung in their gear, slatting lazily, while the heat descended in a thick, inescapable blanket, melting the tar in deck seams, turning the enclosed mess-deck into a torment to be endured. For three days it continued, ships scattered in random stillness over the glittering furnace, each with its burden of suffering.
On the fourth the first blessed whispers of air from the south-east arrived, playful cats-paws on the sea surface that lifted canvas and set lines from aloft to a cheerful rattle. Sweating sailors braced around and L’Aurore glided forward, the chuckling of water at her forefoot bringing pleased smiles to every face.
However, what could set a fine frigate to motion was not enough for the cumbrous transports, which lay obstinately unmoving. Even when the wafting breeze firmed, it left some like massive drifting logs, and as the day wore on it became clear that the convoy was in danger of disintegrating because those who were able to sailed on.
Kydd was summoned to pass within hail of Popham and received orders to stay by the laggards as a separate formation. He watched the others sail off at speeds not much more than a baby’s crawl; they were still distant white blobs on the horizon in the morning when he set about marshalling his brood.
They were a round dozen sail, including the important King George, with General Yorke and the expedition’s artillery aboard, the William Pitt transport, others with Highland regiments in fearful conditions below decks – and Britannia, laden with specie
for paying troops and the laying in of supplies.
The south-easterly wafted about but then held steady and the little fleet got under way, heading for their rendezvous at Salvador, the last point of land before the assault on the Cape. L’Aurore prudently held an upwind rearward position.
They made better time once the south-easterly trades had got into their stride, soon nearing the Brazilian coast. However, as they reached southward the same south-easterly turned first brisk, then decidedly boisterous.
It stayed that way for the best part of a day, but when it subsided, Kydd spotted a signal of distress flying from William Pitt. If the vessel fell behind he could not risk the others, and it was out of the question for the fine-lined frigate to take the lumbering transport in tow. He ordered the convoy to heave to: he would see for himself. With the mild and obliging Legge, L’Aurore’s carpenter, sitting awkwardly next to Kydd, along with his mates and half a dozen hands, the captain’s barge pulled over to the big ship lying with backed topsails.
It was raining on and off, and Kydd mounted the dripping side-steps in the oppressive damp heat with care. Waiting to greet him were a pair of colonels and an apologetic ship master. ‘Captain Kydd, might I present—’
‘Damn it, the man wants t’ know what’s to do,’ growled the taller of the colonels, fixing Kydd with a flinty stare. ‘An’ I’ll tell him. Oh, Pack, o’ the Seventy-first Highlanders. Think we met briefly at St Jolin’s,’ he added, without waiting for a reply. ‘Sir, we’re served ill by the parcel o’ knaves who outfitted the Pitt for this expedition. A right gimcrack job they made of it.’
Kydd’s eyes narrowed. ‘Colonel, a signal of distress from this ship was observed and I’d be obliged to know—’
‘Come below,’ ordered Pack, without explanation, leading down the hatchway. A wafting stench thickened as Kydd followed him to the main-deck where a musty gloom enveloped them.
As his eyes became accustomed to the shadows he saw the whole deck had been partitioned into horse stalls. But many were empty, and the horses remaining were standing listlessly, swaying with the ship’s movements and occasionally staggering.
‘Sir,’ said Pack, heavily, ‘I ken this is none of y’ doing, but I’ll have ye know we’re in a sad pass. Without horses on the field o’ battle we’re helpless to turn an infantry attack, repel cavalry, press home an advantage – in short, sir, I’m sore puzzled to know how we can claim to be an army without ’em.’
They reached a stall where a grey horse lay on its side, neck extended, breathing in short, rapid gasps. A groomsman and other soldiers in soiled uniforms looked up helplessly.
‘We’ve lost eleven b’ breaking their legs, losing their footing in this damn sea. Others takin’ a fever in this damp and more refusing t’ drink because the water’s sour – some fool thinking to put it into old beer casks – and that’s o’ those that made it through that hell across the equator!’
Pack knelt beside the animal. ‘This is my faithful Lory.’ He looked up with great sorrow. ‘We charged together at Pondicherry and again in Egypt. Now, d’ye see?’ he said, gently lifting the horse’s eyelid. There was an acrid discharge from an eye that held the greatest depth of misery Kydd had ever seen in an animal.
The colonel glared at the groomsman, who muttered defensively, ‘Aye, an’ there’s nowt more we can do, sir. Obedient to y’r orders, th’ best oatmeal in gin an’ hot water three times a day, but I’m grieved t’ say he’s never touchin’ it now, sir.’
Pack lowered his head in dejection – then jerked to his feet and thrust his face at Kydd. ‘Distress! You lecture me o’ distress! I’m to land my regiment in the face o’ the enemy with – with animals only fit for the knacker’s yard.’
He drew in a ragged breath and fixed Kydd with a terrible glare. ‘What are ye going t’ do, man? I say, what’s the Navy going to do about it, hey?’
Kydd returned his stare with a look of mute obstinacy for there was not a single thing he could do.
The noon sight placed them safely south of St Paul’s rocks, a lethal sprawl located squarely across the path of ships crossing from one continent to another, nearly a thousand miles out in the middle of the ocean. However, their position was well known and the track of a vessel could be set ahead of time to clear them. What mariners most feared were hazards to be encountered off continental coasts, under-sea extensions of land that reached out to disembowel incautious ships venturing too close.
But with two powerful enemy squadrons on the loose, Kydd needed to quit the broad sea-lanes, where he knew they would be ranging, to reach the closest point of South America now just a few hundred miles away, and then keep well in until he made Salvador.
Before dusk, with the prospect of Brazil in a day or two, L’Aurore took the lead, Kydd wary of any predators that might be lurking inshore.
Eventually he turned in, his mind alert to the dread cry of ‘Sail!’ Would he wake to be pitched into chaos? How could he shield his flock against a line of battleships? Would it all end with L’Aurore being pounded to a wreck to buy time while his charges fled desperately? As his imagination brought him images of blood and ruin, Kydd turned restlessly in the hot darkness and drifted into sleep.
An urgent cry woke him in a wash of cold shock – but it was not the French. The shriek ‘Breeakers! I see breakers dead ahead!’ was joined by another until all three lookouts were shouting together.
He threw himself out of bed and raced for the hatchway. As he thudded up the steps he heard Gilbey bellowing above, rousing the watch to wear ship. ‘A gun!’ Kydd shouted breathlessly, as he made the deck. ‘Signal the convoy!’
In the inky darkness men pushed and stumbled to their stations, joined by others boiling up from below. Braces and tackles thrown off, the helm went down and the frigate began to pay off, Kydd picking up on the betraying flash of a line of white in the gloom ahead.
The fog swivel forward cracked out at last and was joined by the deeper flash and bang of one of the quarterdeck guns. The level-headed master’s mate Saxton had men around the other guns, and a steady banging started into the night, L’Aurore’s desperate warning to the ships trustfully following her.
Suddenly another cry went up. ‘Land hooo! Land all t’ loo’ard!’ The lookout had made out a denser mass of blackness that lay low and ominous on the other side, betrayed only by occasional flecks of white at the shoreline.
Committed to their turn away it seemed that they had run into some kind of bay or inlet and Kydd could not see how they would beat out against the wind into the unknown rock-strewn night.
‘I have the ship, Mr Gilbey,’ he bawled, and wheeled on the quartermaster. ‘Midships your helm.’ Then, roaring down the deck at the boatswain, ‘Mr Oakley, belay that wear – we anchor!’
Cancelling a manoeuvre in mid-action in the darkness and substituting another was incredibly risky. He knew his crew to be the best – but what of the convoy following? Spotting Curzon in a laced nightshirt, loyally with his men at the main-mast, he hailed, ‘Take a crew. And fire any gun to larboard you find charged!’
It was usual to meet the dawn with guns ready loaded and he was in effect ordering a rolling broadside. Any ship following would have no doubt there was deadly danger ahead.
By degrees the confusion lessened. The brailed-up sails, flogging murderously in the stiff wind, were brought under control as a first anchor was readied and let go. Riding lanthorns were rigged in the tops, and soundings were taken that had Kendall pursing his lips in worry.
Answering gun-flashes came out of the night; one by one pinpricks of lights flickered into existence as other captains saw the peril and decided to ride it out at anchor until daylight revealed the situation.
Were they in time? Anything could be happening in the invisible darkness, and the hours until dawn dragged unbearably for Kydd. If any of his charges was wrecked, the consequences to the expedition would be disastrous and he would answer for it.
When a grey dawn reluctantly drew
back the dim veil yard by yard the scene became clear. They had stumbled across an atoll unlike any Kydd had seen before. It was an utterly desolate low complex of sand and rocks, distorted and evil, in the rough shape of a crescent, and they lay deep within its hollow curve.
Of his dozen sail, ten were safe. Under bare masts they jibbed at anchor, some uncomfortably but, as far as it was possible to see, unharmed.
However, two were in serious trouble. King George, deep laden with artillery and stores and carrying not only General Yorke but reportedly regimental women and children, lay at an angle within an appalling tangle of broken rocks. The Atlantic seethed white around the ship and in the cold early light, black figures could be seen milling about her canted decks.
Britannia, the large Indiaman with near five hundred soldiers and £300,000 in chests of Spanish dollars on board, had clearly been in a collision, her bowsprit broken off short and foremast down, but she was clear of the rocks, drifting along the shore. She would have to be left while they did what they could at the doomed ship.
‘Away, all boats!’ Kydd rapped. Gilbey in the pinnace would take charge at the scene. In a very short time, dozens of other small craft were stroking vigorously for the stricken King George from the ships at anchor.
Kydd took a telescope and trained it on the wreck. Gilbey had the boats coming alongside in an orderly manner and passengers were being made ready to be handed down into them. Over the rearing bows a spritsail yard had been lashed, a precarious bridge to a larger rock clear of the surf; the soldiers were being directed down this to wait in a huddle for the boats.
He handed back the glass. In the best traditions of the sea, lives were being saved by calm and resolute action, and there was every prospect that it would all end without grievous toll.
Conquest Page 2
