Betrayal (6 page)

Then there were the technical requirements: any seaman knew that it was much harder to bring a vessel downriver for motion was deceptive: moving at speed relative to the shore might well mean that the ship, brought along by the current, was barely moving relative to the water itself and therefore the rudder could not bite. The ultimate indignity was to lose control and end broadside to the river, stuck immovably bow and stern. In a swift-flowing and massive river such as this, the consequences could be serious.

‘Three boats ahead, one on the stern,’ he decided. ‘Her cable on the bitts and out through the hawse, then the three tows from one bridle.’ This would ensure all towing effort would be from one position, rather than from several points on the structure, which might fight each other. The boat astern was there to correct any yawing. All depended on the boats pulling hard and keeping it going: only by moving through the water would the rudder be effective.

All except the wounded were landed and every man jack available was put to the oars. Kydd himself cast off the last line tethering
Marie Galante
to the bank after she had been swung around and headed downstream. The men stretched out like heroes. This was not simply their duty but the much more rewarding task of preserving their prize.

The long reach was useful in getting the feel of the craft under tow and, standing next to Poulden at the wheel, Kydd felt increasing confidence. The first bend arrived. Taking a wide and careful sweep, the boats hauled ahead manfully and they were around. The next came almost immediately. ‘Pull, you lubbers!’ roared Gilbey, from the fo’c’sle. ‘Put y’ backs into it!’

Kydd looked over the side. A noticeable ripple was forming a bow-wave: they were making way through the water and therefore under control. Taking the deeper outer curve they were well on their way. Poulden nodded as
Marie Galante
was obediently nudged into a deeper channel. Just another bend . . . The corvette emerging to the open sea with English colours would be a sight indeed from
L’Aurore
.

‘Heave out, lay into it!’ Gilbey’s voice cracked with the effort. At this last bend before the estuary and the bar it was crucial to keep way on through the single deep cleft channel through to the blessed depths of the Indian Ocean.

Kydd watched in satisfaction. On return to
L’Aurore
, he would personally see that the men at the oars spliced the mainbrace – an extra grog ration, even if here it was Stellenbosch wine rather than rum—

There was a sudden thud that was more felt through the deck than heard. Seconds later there were baffled shouts from forward and Gilbey turned to bawl disbelievingly, ‘The tow’s parted!’

It was impossible. Kydd pounded up to see. This was why a bridle was in place at the end of the thick anchor cable: if any one boat-tow parted the rest would be preserved. It could only imply that the massive anchor cable itself had given way.

At the fo’c’sle he looked ahead: the boats were at all angles, men retrieving oars where they had lost them when the heavy tension had suddenly released, sending them headlong into the bottom of the boat. He looked down over the cathead to the hawse, expecting to see the catenary of the big cable curve away into the water – but it had vanished.

Kydd then realised it could mean just one thing: that it had parted inside the hawse after it had left the riding bitts where it was belayed. But this had no meaning! Bellowing an order to Poulden to keep his heading, he flew down the fo’c’sle ladder to the deck below. Then, wheeling round, he ran to the riding bitts – where things became all too clear. Sprawled on deck under the frayed strands of the cable was the blood-soaked body of the captain, a fire-axe flung nearby.

In great pain the man must have crawled up from the sickbay and severed the cable, bringing about the destruction of his own ship. With a crushing sense of finality, Kydd ran aft and up the ladder to the quarterdeck.

‘Not answering th’ helm, sir,’ Poulden said. In his hands the wheel was spinning uselessly.

They were now drifting; there was far too little time to rouse out another cable and all it needed was for a counter-flaw in the current at one end of the ship . . . and there it was. Her head fell off and she began a slewing across the river that got rapidly faster. With the softest of sensations her bow caught in the muddy bank. The colossal mass of water from up-country began taking the ship broadside, an irresistible force, which sent the other end immovably into the opposite bank.

Instantly the water piled up on the upstream side in an unstoppable flood – the deck canted over and racking timber groans from deep within sounded as death throes.

Gilbey came aft, raving impotently at the situation. Kydd cut him short: ‘All boats alongside. Get the wounded out, then see what movables we can take.’ He gave a wintry smile. ‘And don’t delay, we’ve not got long.’

K
ydd squinted down the deck to where the fo’c’sle party, in streaming oilskins, were preparing the bower anchor for their mooring, a wet and perilous exercise in the filthy weather from the north-west. Another ponderous roll of thunder echoed back from Table Mountain and, ahead, ships jibbed nervously under the bluster of autumn wind and grey, fretful seas.

From the fo’c’sle Curzon’s arm shot up and Kydd acknowledged. They were ready to take their place and let slip the anchor past the throng of merchant shipping among the naval squadron at the outer part of the Table Bay anchorage. And the captain of
L’Aurore
’s first duty was to pay his respects to Commodore Popham, the senior naval officer, Cape Colony.

Although he had lost the corvette he had returned with something much more precious. ‘You have the deck, Mr Curzon. I’m going below to shift rig before I report.’ It was a straightforward moor in the open roadstead, and Gilbey was on hand, but his second lieutenant glowed at the trust.

It was a bucketing, bruising pull to
Diadem
, the flagship, even in the launch that Kydd had called upon in place of his slighter-built barge. Walls of rain sluiced across, and despite boat-cloak and oilskins, he was soaked and chilled when he finally stepped into the commodore’s cabin.

Popham regarded him without enthusiasm, saying testily, ‘Kydd, do contrive to drip somewhere else, won’t you?’

‘My apologies, sir,’ he said, handing his cocked hat to a servant. ‘I do have news that I’m sanguine will interest you.’

‘Oh?’ Popham said coldly.

Kydd outlined his voyage succinctly, ending with his chase and capture of
Marie Galante
and her later loss by stranding.

‘Can’t be helped, I suppose,’ Popham said, with feeling. It was well known that in his career at sea he had never been lucky in prize money. ‘Butcher’s bill?’

‘We lost a master’s mate, with two wounded in the boarding, and one killed and three hurt in the boats by musketry, sir. The French suffered eight dead and eleven wounded, including their captain, who bled to death after his deed.’

‘Hmm. A small price for us, I’m bound to say. You have prisoners?’

‘I have all the officers and skilled hands in
L’Aurore
, and I beg you will give instructions that will see a transport call at Quelimane, where I landed the common
matelots
for want of accommodation.’

‘The next India-bound supply vessel will answer, I should think. Now, I don’t suppose this corvette was with Maréchal at all?’ Popham asked hopefully.

Kydd savoured the moment. ‘No, sir, most definitely not.’

‘Oh? You’ve questioned the officers, of course?’

‘I did, but the intelligence I have for you came from quite another source.’

‘Yes? What is that, pray?’

There was an impatient edge to his tone so Kydd went on quickly: ‘I arranged for a Channel Islander to be in the guard over the prisoners. He overheard ’em say something that’ll surely gratify. It seemed they were bemoaning the fate that sees them in chains in Cape Town while Maréchal and his squadron must be halfway home to Rochefort by now . . .’

‘Ah! So! Excellent news! This could mean—’

‘Their charts have no workings on it to suggest a fleet operation, their logs make no mention of a rendezvous and their last port o’ call was Réunion. Confronted with it, their first lieutenant admitted it was so, that they were merely out on a cruise of depredation against our commerce.’

‘Capital! Then we may take it that Maréchal has abandoned his venture and is returning. The last squadron of threat to Cape Town is gone. This is splendid news, Captain, splendid.’

He seemed to brighten by the minute. ‘My dear fellow, I’m forgetting my manners. May I offer you a restorative negus perhaps?’

The prospect of a piping hot toddy was compelling and Kydd accepted gratefully. He could understand the relief Popham must be feeling. Rather than the negative news from his scouting frigates that the French were not to be found in this area or that, here was a positive indication that the menace was now safely on its way out of Cape waters.

‘I really feel this news is worthy of celebration! You’ll stay and sup with me, Kydd?’

It was an odd dinner for, with the blow from the South Atlantic kicking up respectable-sized rollers, there was no possibility of boats coming out from the shore. The company was restricted to themselves, with
Diadem
’s first lieutenant, Davis, and a bemused passenger, one Scholes, doctor of theology, whose store of amusing anecdotes petered out in the strongly masculine naval company.

‘Sir, do tell of your cutting out o’ this Frenchy corvette. I’ll wager it’s to be my dinner-table yarn for years t’ come,’ Davis said, his voice tinged in equal measure with admiration and envy.

While the darkness of evening fell outside and the bluster of the north-westerly rattled the old-fashioned stern-windows of the sixty-four, Kydd told of the adventure, a modest, straight account with full acknowledgement to those who had contributed.

‘A capital operation indeed,’ Popham declared, ‘in the best traditions and so forth. I for one am honoured to drink your health, sir.’

Glowing, Kydd accepted the compliment and nodded graciously when Scholes observed, ‘I, too, must add my measure of amazement at your remarkable courage. To go forward on your enterprise in the stark knowledge of Africa’s perils and hazards . . .’

Kydd flinched at the memory of the sinking island and that night in the African bush, but Popham was in no doubt. ‘Ah, yes, Doctor, but for the greater prize our good captain is never to be dismayed by the wonders of nature. Is that not so, Kydd?’

The talk fell away and the dinner ended quietly. Davis made his excuses and left, and Scholes found it necessary to retire to attend to his work, leaving them alone to do justice to the fine cognac.

‘I do believe this to be our first chance to take our ease together, Kydd,’ Popham said, after they had settled in the armchairs by the stern-lights.

‘Sir.’

‘You’ve done well for yourself since we first met, I see.’

‘Er, yes, sir.’

‘Mere commander of a brig-sloop to post-captain of a frigate – come, come, that’s no mean achievement. Could it in any wise be connected with your stout action off Ushant?’

‘Um, I think more that Lord Nelson was in sore need of frigates,’ Kydd said uncomfortably. That Nelson himself had called for him when a captured frigate had become available was something he’d clutch to his heart for ever, but now did not seem the right time to mention it.

Popham chuckled. ‘You’re too damn modest for your own good, you know that, Kydd? You’ll never get ahead without you make a commotion about it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Leaning forward to top up Kydd’s glass, Popham then sat back and looked at him quizzically. ‘Do loosen, old chap – I may be commodore for the nonce but this, of course, is but a temporary post while subduing Cape Town. I’ll be reverting back once their lordships deem our task is done and then I’ll be the same as you – post-captain, even if the senior.’

It was singular, but it was true. They were of equal substantive rank and, in terms of shore protocol at least, would then be accorded an equal deference.

‘Do you remember – not so long ago – that little affair with the American Fulton and his submersible? We worked together on it . . .’

‘And you frowned on his submarine boat,’ Kydd said.

‘I was right, was I not?’

‘It has to be said.’

‘Should you want to know what happened to the fellow?’ Popham said idly, twirling his glass.

‘His torpedoes?’

‘Yes. We made some gestures towards Boulogne but with paltry result. Boney himself had the hide to say we were breaking the windows of the good citizens of Boulogne with guineas! Then we made a heroic effort and put on a show for Pitt and the Admiralty off Deal. Tethered an innocent little brig – what was her name?
Dorothea
, that’s it – and sent in the torpedoes.’

He guffawed at the recollection. ‘You should have seen the looks on their faces, Kydd. Not a jot of warning and the brig’s exploded to fragments! St Vincent turned quite grey and Pitt felt ill. A terrific demonstration!’