Betrayal (3 page)

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 Maréchal, 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 realised 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 Maréchal 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 Maréchal 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.

‘The cunning beggar,’ he murmured, with reluctant admiration. ‘As he’s made himself as snug as a duck in a ditch!’

The ship was securely moored by bow and stern to the side of the bank at the far end of the reach where her captain could have maximum warning of a cutting-out attack by boats. This also gave an excellent field of fire for, with the guns levered around, it would be an impossibly bloody affair if they approached in boats to storm it.

Kydd lifted the glass again and carefully quartered the riverbank alongside the ship. Men were slashing down the vegetation to create an open space; covered by their opposite broadside, an assault by land would be just as murderous. That left an attack after dark – but a captain so canny would have a boat out to row night guard; illuminations would follow any intrusion and the result would be the same.