Betrayal tk-13

by Julian Stockwin

  The morning dawned clear and bright, the weather perfect for Kydd’s plans: a gentle warm breeze, a flat, calm seascape and crystal visibility to the northern horizon. It was time to prepare.

  ‘Strike all sail, if y’ please,’ he said. Canvas vanished from every yard and was furled above in a tight harbour stow. L’Aurore slowed and then idly drifted.

  ‘Stream the sea-anchor,’ he ordered. A canvas triangle on a line was lowered over the transom. The frigate felt its gentle tug as the pressure of the south-setting Mozambique current took charge, L’Aurore’s bows swinging obediently to face into it – to the north.

  It was time for the finale. ‘Rig false sails, Mr Oakley,’ Kydd demanded.

  From half a hundred blocks came the squealing of sheaves as quite another suit of sails fell from the yards. ‘Brace around, y’ sluggards!’ But this was not to catch the wind at the most effective angle – it was the opposite. Each yard was trimmed edge on to the slight breeze, the sails hanging shivering and impotent. Any with the slightest acquaintance of a full-rigged ship would have been mightily puzzled to see L’Aurore now. An ingenious system of tackles and beckets allowed her to set topsails where the lower course would be, topgallants from the topsail yards and royals above. In effect, setting the frigate’s sail plan down by one tier.

  This gave her the appearance of a small Indiaman, trying a dash inside Madagascar instead of the more direct route on the far side. Men looked up in wonder at their Lilliputian fit of sails, and overside at their total lack of motion. Kydd gave a half-smile: this was not normally the way a full-blooded frigate faced the enemy.

  There was not long to wait. Within an hour there was an excited hail from the masthead. To the north, square sail! Long minutes later another cry confirmed it as a three-master. Unable to restrain himself Kydd leaped for the shrouds and joined the lookout in the bare fore-topgallant masthead. He fumbled for his pocket telescope and steadied it on the far distant blob of white. There, unmistakably, was a full-rigged ship and he waited impatiently for its hull to lift above the horizon.

  Eventually, to his intense satisfaction, Kydd saw a single line of gun-ports along the length of the ship. No merchantman this: a frigate on the loose without a shadow of a doubt.

  He snapped his glass shut and, with a tigerish grin at the lookout, swung down to the deck again. ‘It’s him. We’ll soon see if we’ve gulled the looby.’

  L’Aurore lay barely lifting with the slight sea. With no way on, only the idle rattle and bang of gear aloft intruded on the senses. It was not Kydd’s plan to engage in battle: his priority was to rely on L’Aurore’s proven speed to keep with the ship until he was led to the squadron. There might well be additional frigates waiting to trap him between two fires but this was a chance he had to take.

  ‘He’s seen us, an’ alterin’ towards!’ The lookout’s hail was gleeful.

  The Frenchman was hopefully seeing an Indiaman unhappily becalmed, as so often in these seas: one vessel could be in useful breezes while another lying off only a few miles could be hopelessly adrift. The sea-anchor was doing its work; with L’Aurore’s bow end on towards the frigate, her warlike details would remain hidden for a while longer.

  By now the ship steadily heading their way could be sighted from the deck. When should Kydd throw off his disguise? It couldn’t last for ever – but just as soon as he did so his quarry would instantly shy off. Or not – it might be a heavy frigate, eighteen-pounders against L’Aurore’s twelves, determined to crush him to preserve the secret of his squadron in the offing …

  ‘Post your men, Mr Oakley,’ Kydd ordered quietly. There was no way he could clear for action until the rat’s nest of improvised sails and rigging had been dismantled and that had better be quick.

  ‘Damn – he’s been spooked!’ spluttered Gilbey, the first lieutenant, shading his eyes against the fierce glare of sunlight on the sea.

  Kydd balled his fists in frustration: the masts were separating to show the frigate turning away. ‘Get us round!’ he roared. A second sea-anchor was hurled over the opposite stern-quarters and hauled on sharply, the bows being bodily rotated to maintain L’Aurore’s bowsprit on the other ship – but things were happening so slowly.

  A few minutes later Kendall caught Kydd’s eye. ‘Sir, I do not think he’s running. Doesn’t he desire to keep a’tween us and the land – an’ at the same time catch a land breeze?’

  Kydd nodded. ‘He thinks to prevent our escape to the shallows inshore? Not bad – but he doesn’t know who we are or he wouldn’t dare.’

  The ship was in plain view now, heeling more to the fluky north-easterly, seeking to take a commanding situation closer to the land. How much longer could he-A warning slap of impatient canvas above answered the question, but Kydd was becoming uneasy: something about the French ship was odd.

  ‘Be buggered!’ Oakley burst out suddenly. ‘That’s no mongseer frigate! It’s some sort o’ ship-sloop, one o’ them corvettes.’

  So keyed up had they been to expect a frigate that, at a distance, they had taken the corvette, a ship-rigged sloop much favoured by the French, as one. In appearance it was near to a miniature frigate, with a single gun-deck, all the sail plan and rigging identical – but much smaller. And, of course, to humble fisher-folk such a ship would appear enormous.

  Now the tables were now well and truly turned.

  The corvette’s helm was put hard over. ‘Get us under sail – now!’ roared Kydd. The crazy rag-tag rigging was cast off, false sails cascading over the deck in a chaotic jumble to be frantically scooped clear while the topmen raced out on the yards to loose their real canvas.

  The shock of recognition could almost be felt over the distance, and in minutes the corvette slewed sharply and set off inshore in an attempt to shake off the bigger ship in the shallows.

  ‘Move y’selves!’ Kydd bellowed up into the tops. He had no wish at all to try conclusions among the maze of shoals offshore, for the corvette was now heading towards the land under a press of sail that suggested confidence born of sound local knowledge.

  ‘You’re going after him?’

  He hadn’t noticed Renzi come up from below.

  ‘Of course! This is your foxy Marechal, properly keeps his frigates with his squadron and sends out squiddy ship-sloops or similar. Can’t be better – we can always out-sail and out-gun the villain. I’m to take him and I’ve a notion this captain has a tale to tell.’

  ‘That seems a reasonable supposition, old fellow. And if you-’

  ‘Get those men off the yard!’ bawled Kydd, in exasperation. The corvette was now well in with the land, nearly lost against the contrasting vegetation and sand-hills. Until the men were off the spar the yard could not be braced round to catch the wind, but the furl had been as tight as possible to escape detection and two sailors were still scrabbling to cast off gaskets.

  They finished, and crabbed frantically along the footrope inward to the top. ‘Brace up roundly!’ Kydd roared instantly, and the men threw themselves into it with a will, jerking the yard around to catch the wind, but the last one off the yard missed his hold and fell backwards with a shriek, cut off when he bounced off the bellying lower sail and into the sea.

  ‘Man oooverboooaaard!’

  Kydd hesitated only for a moment, then blurted the orders to heave to and lower a boat. His features were thunderous. ‘Where away?’ he called to the after lookout. Obediently the man pointed – it was his duty to keep his eyes fixed on the unfortunate in the water until the boat came up with him.

  The gig in the stern davits was swung out to serve as the ship’s lifeboat and it kissed the water smartly, stroking strongly away at the lookout’s direction and soon found the topman, who lay gasping as they hauled him over the gunwale. The boat lost no time in making it back.

  ‘Where is that damned villain?’ Kydd spluttered, vainly casting about, looking for their quarry. ‘The lookouts, ahoy! How’s the Frenchy bear?’

  There was no answer. He rea
lised they had glanced away to check the progress of their shipmate’s rescue and neglected their duty. He had now lost sight of the chase. ‘I’ll see those scowbunking beggars afore me tomorrow, Mr Gilbey,’ he threw at his first lieutenant angrily.

  Had the corvette gone north – or south? Choose the wrong one and he would lose this precious chance of at least establishing that Marechal was at large in the Indian Ocean and at best gaining a notion of the squadron’s rendezvous position. Back to the north? That would mean a run near close-hauled in this slight wind and, as well, against the current. To the south would give a handsome quartering breeze and going with the current – but was this what the other captain wished him to conclude?

  ‘Bear away t’ the south, if you please,’ Kydd decided. This was something L’Aurore did well, a slight wind on the quarter – there were few that could stay with her in those conditions and if the Frenchman had headed to the south he would quickly overhaul it. And on the other hand if it was not sighted within a few hours he could be certain that it was off to the north. Then any contest between one out with the ocean breezes and the other anxiously dodging the shallows would be a foregone conclusion.

  Their only chart was a single small-scale one painstakingly copied from the Portuguese of nearly a century before, sketchily detailing the littoral with precious few depth soundings – and the mud-banks would surely have shifted in the years since then. Closing with the coast as near as they dared, they could be sure, however, that the brightness of the chase sails could be seen against the darker shore.

  The land slid past, a dense variegation in dark green with occasional palms and small hills in otherwise unrelieved flatness. After three hours there had been no sighting.

  ‘He’s gone north. ’Bout ship, Mr Curzon,’ Kydd ordered.

  It was late afternoon: they had to press on to overhaul the corvette before night fell giving it cover to escape. ‘Bowlines to the bridle, Mr Curzon,’ Kydd said crisply, ordering the edge of the big driving sails drawn out forward for maximum speed. L’Aurore stretched out nobly for the horizon to the north, her wake creaming ruler-straight astern and lookouts doubled aloft.

  An hour – two, more – and still there was no sign.

  Perplexed, Kydd and the sailing master did their calculations. With an essentially onshore wind there was no possibility that their quarry could have made a break directly to seaward while they were away in the south, and even if they had made off as close to the wind as they could, their ‘furthest on’ was still firmly within the circle of visibility of L’Aurore’s masthead. It was a mystery.

  ‘He’s gone t’ ground,’ Gilbey growled.

  ‘Aye, but where?’

  There was no response.

  ‘I rather think up a river,’ Renzi suggested.

  ‘In a ship-rigged vessel?’ Gilbey said scornfully. ‘Even a mongseer corvette draws more’n the depth o’ water of any African river I’ve seen.’

  ‘Then are you not aware that under our lee is the great Zambezi River, which for prodigious size is matched only by your Congo?’

  ‘Nobody but a main fool would take a ship up among all th’ crocodiles an’ such,’ Gilbey replied, but stood back as the master brought up the chart and they saw that indeed the river entered the sea close by – but with an awkward twist. Like the Nile, it ended in a delta of many mouths – four, at least.

  ‘You’re right, Nicholas,’ Kydd agreed. ‘But up a river? If he’s there, he’s trapped, but then how to get at him?’

  ‘Sure t’ be boats against broadsides,’ Gilbey muttered.

  ‘Right,’ said Kydd, briskly, ignoring him. ‘Which mouth’s it to be, gentlemen? Four – we’ll take ’em one at a time.’

  Kydd did not add that, quite apart from the time it would need, there was the possibility that their prey could go inland and around, then scuttle out of one of the other mouths. They being near to forty miles apart, it would be impossible to tell from which he would emerge. ‘We start with the first ’un – the Chinde River, it says here,’ he said, tapping the chart.

  So close in, it was an easy fix when the first Zambezi mouth was sighted. Discoloured water could be seen more than five miles out, and across their path was the white of breaking seas on a monstrous bar a mile across and extending directly out to sea for three – just one branch of a giant African river endlessly disgorging into the ocean from the vast and mysterious interior.

  ‘I’m not taking her in,’ Kydd told Renzi. ‘Moor offshore, send in a boat. Go myself, I believe, reconnoitre what we’re up against,’ he added casually, inviting Renzi along, too. He left unspoken that it was also a chance to satisfy his curiosity and see the wonders of tropical Africa. The odds were against the corvette lying hidden in the very first river mouth they visited.

  Kydd’s barge was of modest draught and not designed for fighting, but they were not expecting any. With his coxswain, Poulden, at the tiller, Renzi in the sternsheets with him, four hands ready for the oars and Doud in the eyes of the boat with a hand lead, they pushed off under sail.

  They passed along in the lee of the bar. A channel of some depth quickly became evident, which they used to follow into the estuary – a two-mile-wide sprawl of constantly sliding grey-green water. They then left behind the ceaseless hurry of the sea’s waves and cool breezes for the lowering heat and humidity, the echoing quiet and rich stink of the dark continent.

  The sailors looked about, fascinated. On either bank was the uniform low tangle of mangroves from which a miasma of decay drifted out as uncountable numbers of birds beat their way into the air at their intrusion. Bursts of harsh sounds from hidden creatures came on the air and insects swarmed annoyingly.

  Doud urgently hailed aft: ‘’Ware rocks!’

  Ahead were three or four bare brown humps – but as they watched one disappeared and others turned to offer gaping mouths. ‘Hippos!’ Renzi said, and others turned to watch, exclaiming excitedly.

  ‘Eyes in the boat!’ Kydd growled. The age-old call to boat discipline seemed out of keeping on a frigate’s barge in an African river and a sense of unreality crept in. Naval service had taken him to many exotic places in the world but this promised to be the strangest.

  Where the estuary narrowed, the mangroves gave way to low grassy banks and open woodland. At the water’s edge were four of the largest crocodiles Kydd had ever seen, basking in the late-afternoon sun. The boat glided past them in silence, every man thinking of the consequences of pitching overboard.

  Somewhere far upstream the wet season was sending down vast quantities of water, swelling the river and bringing brown silt, tearing clumps of earth from the bank and with it masses of vegetation, occasionally even floating islands of light woodland.

  The river took a sharp left turn, Kydd straining for any sign of the French ship. He didn’t need Doud’s patient soundings to know that there was more than enough water for even a ship-sloop.

  Or a frigate? Kydd dismissed the thought quickly. There would be sufficient depth but these sharp bends were beyond a square-rigger to negotiate. If the corvette was up one of these river mouths it would be because it had been towed up by its boats against the current; out of the question with L’Aurore. ‘Keep to the outer side o’ the bends,’ Kydd told Poulden. ‘It’ll be deepest there.’

  Obediently the tiller went over but as they neared the opposite bank a well-trodden open area came into view with a family of elephants drinking and splashing. They looked up in surprise: indignant, one made to rush at them but stopped and lifted its trunk, trumpeting angrily. A screeching bird flapped overhead.

  The loop opened up but only to reveal another bend winding out of sight. The evening was drawing in, bringing with it clouds of midges. The warm, breathy breeze was dropping: much less and it would be ‘out oars’ and a hard pull. By now they were near a dozen miles inland and no sign of any Frenchman.

  It was time to return. ‘That’s enough, Poulden, we’re going back,’ Kydd said, twisting to see what Renzi was
pointing at.

  ‘Is that not … or am I sun-touched?’ A piece of floating debris, caught on the bank at the sharpest point of the bend, had a regular shape that seemed to owe nothing to nature.

  ‘Take us near,’ Kydd ordered. As they drew closer his interest quickened.

  ‘Brail up!’ he snapped. When the boat lost way he motioned it into the muddy bank where it softly nudged in next to the half-buried object.

  ‘Haul it in, Doud,’ he called. The seaman wiggled it free of the mud and pulled inboard a stout round object, familiar to any seaman. The provision cask was passed down the boat to Kydd. Burned into the staves was the barely decipherable legend: ‘Marie Galante’ and underneath roman numerals, then ‘Rochefort’ with a date.

  ‘Ha! He’s here, an’ just broached his supper,’ Kydd grunted, smelling the interior disdainfully. Not only had they the name of the corvette but Rochefort was the port from which Marechal had sailed. ‘Bear off, and haul out back up the river.’

  Under way once more the feeling of unreality increased. Evening was setting in, livid orange inland under a long violet cloud-line with shadows advancing, yet here they were, closing with the enemy.

  They swept around the left-hand bend and still another lay ahead to the right. Then, sharp black in the evening sky, above the growth of the intervening bend, they saw the upperworks of a full-rigged ship.

  ‘Easy!’ Kydd snapped. ‘Down sail, out oars. Now, Poulden, take us close in. Then I want you to quant us around slowly so I can take a peek without disturbing ’em at their supper.’

  Using an upturned oar, the barge was poled along, nosing slowly around until Kydd, leaning over the bow, suddenly hissed, ‘Avast! Keep us there.’

  The bend opened into a lengthy reach nearly a half-mile long – and at its further end was their chase. Kydd fumbled for his spy-glass and trained it on the vessel. He looked intently to see how it was defended.