Betrayal (5 page)

Concentrating furiously on the tightening ripples, Kydd judged the moment right and nodded to Oakley, who let the grapnel plunge to the riverbed while he paid out the line. Kydd lay full length among the rich-smelling vegetation, carefully parting the grasses to see ahead. Behind him there was muffled conversation and nervous laughter, which was brought to a sudden stop by the boatswain’s sharp growl.

In company with scattered other oddments of flotsam the island slowly cleared the bend – and not two hundred yards ahead lay their target. A fleeting panic washed over Kydd: a lump of floating grass going head to head with a corvette of the French Navy! He fought the feeling down and took up the mirror. Glancing up at the low sun to get the angle just right and shielding it carefully he gave the signal – three times three.

Would they respond?

The corvette seemed utterly unconcerned, a few men idly standing on the bank, a wisp of smoke issuing from the galley funnel forward, the colours not yet hoisted. His gaze flicked back to the end of the reach. No boats!

Apprehension gripped him – had they not seen the signal or was it that they had been intercepted? The island was inexorably being carried down past the moored vessel. Should he go ahead with the boarding or cravenly stay hidden and drift on to safety? Then it would—

The distant thump of a swivel gun sounded and there – gloriously – was Gilbey’s launch, closely followed by Curzon’s cutter and then the others, spreading out across the river to make a broad approach. The frantic baying of a trumpet sounded aboard the corvette, with harsh, urging shouts. Men boiled up from below, scattering to take position at the guns.

Now the island’s languid drift was maddeningly slow – it would take for ever to reach
Marie Galante
, which lay with its elegant bowsprit towards them but was still some way off. However, Kydd did see not a single flash of faces looking back; it was working entirely to plan.

Gilbey had a quarter-mile of relative safety before the guns of the corvette, levered around to bear aft as far as they could, were in a position to open fire. He used the time well, pausing to get off a good aimed shot from his bow-mounted eighteen-pounder carronade. The other boats did likewise and the corvette suffered two hits, both of which brought shrieks and cries.

The boats, pulling like madmen, were not far from the point of no return where the guns could smash in their deadly grape-shot and canister. Feverishly Kydd willed on their own ungainly craft, only fifty yards or so but—

‘Sir!’ It was Stirk, pulling at his ankle. ‘Sir – the barky’s sinkin’!’

Kydd’s attention jerked back to their island and he twisted round to see. One edge of the island was drooping, bright water among the grass. ‘Clear that side – and keep the damned pistols dry!’ he hissed. He took his own out and laid them on a tussock. A minute later, an entire slab tore away and slowly sank, leaving what remained noticeably lower in the water.

The Zambezi lapped inches from Kydd’s nose and he felt the coolness of water seeping under his body. There was now every reason to suppose it could tip to one side or even break up, throwing them all to the crocodiles. Should he tell Oakley to pull into the bank now or—

Kydd’s mind snapped to a ferocious icy calm. If the island sank, that was something he could do nothing about, but if it remained afloat there was work to do. ‘Stand by, the grapnel!’ he said levelly. The order was relayed by Stirk behind him.

Only yards away the corvette loomed larger and larger but not a soul was visible, all out of sight at the guns on the main-deck. Where should he bring in his crazy craft? The bowsprit reared up from a neat beakhead, revealing a small half-deck within it and a dainty figurehead at its apex. Perfect. They would come in under the shadow of the bow, swing up on the stout boomkin over the headrails to the half-deck, pass up the weapons, then appear on the fo’c’sle deck above the guns.

There was a sudden lurch and a muffled cry, and the island rotated as it rid itself of another clump. The crackle and sputter of musketry above meant that the boats were close – the guns would very shortly be opening fire to cause slaughter in those who had so gamely trusted him. He must not fail after all this . . . The bowsprit was nearing . . .

‘Haul taut!’ he gasped at last.

The effect was almost instant and Kydd craned round. The boatswain had turns around the sapling and was controlling it in just the same way as a hawser around capstan whelps, his fierce grin a joy to see. The island wallowed and swayed but obediently crabbed sidewise in the current, coming closer and closer – and then, incredibly, they were under the trim bow and among the martingale and bobstays. Kydd thrust up for the boomkin and walked his feet over the carved headrails and rolled on to the half-deck gratings.

With the tumult above, there was little need for quiet. ‘Pass up the weapons,’ he hissed, leaning down to grab them. Stirk heaved himself up to the opposite side to do likewise. The men scrambled up thankfully and their near waterlogged craft was abandoned to drift away. A quick muster showed all present – seconds counted now – and Kydd hauled himself up and over the fife-rail on to the fo’c’sle deck.

In a flash he took in the scene: the sweep aft of the open deck below with its guns manned and at the far end the raised quarterdeck, muskets over the taffrail pouring in fire at the boats, figures standing apart, who had to be officers – and all with their attention fixed on their attackers. He took in other things, too: the neat order about the ship that spoke of care and professionalism, the shininess of the ropes from aloft that betrayed their long service at sea and the fact that the guns were manned on one side only: the crew was short-handed, probably for the same reason.

Stirk appeared beside him, then the others, in each hand boarding pistols and a cutlass to the side. With a lopsided grin, Kydd acknowledged the absurdity of reaching an enemy deck in a boarding and having the luxury of a steadying deep breath before the fight. ‘Ready, gentlemen?’

Savage growls answered and, stalking to the after edge of the deck, he howled, ‘King George and the
Billy Roarer
!’ then plunged down to the main-deck, making for the nearest gun.

The crew wheeled round, gaping. He levelled one pistol and shot the gun-captain, who dropped instantly. The other he fired directly at a large seaman who had reared up, snarling. The man fell back and dropped to his knees, clutching his face with both hands, blood running through his fingers. Two of the crew fled but another two stood irresolute. Kydd flung a heavy pistol at the head of one, which sent him spinning down to be jolted violently by a hurtling body from behind.

Pistols banged about him, men were shrieking, but other gun-crews were recovering and making a rush for them. Kydd wrestled his cutlass free and got inside a red-faced gunner whirling a ramrod, neatly spitting him. Yanking the blade out as the man fell, he was in time to parry a maniacal swing from a boarding axe and in return opened the man’s face in a spurting line of blood. He felt a savage blow to his side and whipped around to see a small cat-like seaman raise an iron gun-crow for a second strike – but he fell as if poleaxed when Pearse, yelling like a banshee, brought his cutlass down with a violent slash and, without stopping, ran on into the mad whirl of fighting.

Kydd found himself in combat with a dark-complexioned Arab, wielding a curved blade with two hands, the man making almost a ballet of his twisting and slashing, unnerving Kydd. Then his opponent tripped forward and impaled himself on his blade.

Kydd swivelled around and saw Oakley’s body on the deck, the red hair unmistakable, blood issuing under him from some wound. Above him, the boatswain’s mate was roaring in helpless anger as he swung and clashed with two murderous assailants. On the other side of the deck, Kydd caught sight of Pearse going down under a crowd of maddened gunners.

A terrible bull-like roar came from behind him. It was Wong, armed with nothing but a capstan bar, insanely whirling it about his head as he lumbered into the fray, the heavy timber crushing, wounding, breaking and bringing the rush to a halt. It was magnificent, but couldn’t last.

Then, from inland, an invisible army opened fire on the enemy end of the deck, dropping men, the savage whip of bullets creating disorder and panic. Volley after volley came – and any Frenchman who could do so swung in dismay to face the onslaught.

It was enough. Cheering wildly, the boats made it inside the arc of guns, and seamen were swarming aboard to fall on the defenders.

It was over very quickly: Frenchmen threw down their weapons and stood sullenly.

Panting and nursing his bruised side, Kydd stood to survey the carnage, then strode aft. ‘Well done, Mr Gilbey,’ he said, shaking his first lieutenant’s hand. ‘See to our men forward, will you?’

‘
Qui est le capitaine
?’ Kydd demanded of the group of disconsolate officers.

‘He lies wounded below,’ one replied sulkily.

‘Then know that as of this moment your ship is in the possession of His Britannic Majesty.’ Kydd’s heart was still pounding from the heat of combat.

One of the officers offered his sword. He brushed it aside. ‘The honours of war must wait for another time. Be so good as to muster your men aft.’

It was the well-tried routine of taking over a captured ship – but with a twist. Very conveniently he could empty the vessel of the enemy to assemble them under guard on the open ground of the riverbank while he sent Curzon and a party of men to perform the usual rapid search below decks. The second lieutenant reported that
Marie Galante
was essentially undamaged and ready for sea – no mean prize.

Gilbey returned from forward. ‘I’m truly sorry t’ say Mr Pearse is no more, and Mr Oakley has been skelped – which is t’ say, he’s taken a whiffler to the head, but I’ve a notion he’ll live,’ he added hastily.

‘Very good. Secure the ship – I want a talk with the captain.’

Kydd found the commander in a cot below in the sick-bay, his intelligent brown eyes reflecting a sea of pain. His lower body was soaked in blood from a broken-off splinter, dark and vicious, protruding from eviscerated flesh in his lower thigh.

Kydd felt for the man. He’d been unlucky enough to be caught by the carronade fire at the very outset of the engagement and the surgeon had not yet seen to him.

‘
Mes félicitations, le capitaine
,’ he gasped. ‘A boat from upstream, masterly! Together with your overwhelming army. Of course, we stood no chance.’ He was an older man, greying early, no doubt with the strain of keeping the seas for long months in fearful conditions. His gaze almost pleaded for understanding.

‘Your dispositions were most intelligent, sir, as gave us much difficulty.’ Kydd would not be the one to disillusion him on the details, and went on, ‘I’m quite certain Admiral Maréchal will be the first to honour you for your gallant defence under such odds.’

Instantly the wounded man’s expression stiffened, the pain kept ruthlessly at bay. ‘You are no doubt from a frigate, Captain?’

Kydd caught himself. The question was both astute and pointed: this officer had foreseen the possibility that
L’Aurore
might well be a scout from a powerful British squadron looking to bring Maréchal to battle and would welcome any indication of his whereabouts. He would get nothing from this defeated captain.

More wounded men were being brought down and, at the appearance of the surly French surgeon, Kydd made his excuses and left.

Curzon was ‘entertaining’ the other officers in their own quarters. The second lieutenant, who spoke fluent French, was attempting to bring off a
risqué
story concerning Piccadilly and a lady of the town but it was being received in an icy silence by the two Frenchmen. At Kydd’s interrogative glance he shook his head mutely.

He had the vessel but it was not yielding the information he craved. Frustrated, Kydd moved on to the captain’s cabin. The master looked up from the working chart he had found. ‘Nary a thing, sir,’ he said, swivelling it round so Kydd could see. No squadron line of rendezvous – which could mean just as easily that there wasn’t one as that it was being kept private. ‘An’ while m’ French is nothing s’ special, I didn’t see a mention in his log.’

Kydd scanned the neat writing, noting the regular scientific observations that this captain was in the habit of making, but nowhere was there mention of the innumerable signals and irritations of life under the eye of an admiral. On the other hand it would be in keeping with the French character to separate the two, one being confidential. So, short of bringing pressure to bear on the French seamen . . .

He returned to the upper deck and saw them being herded into a square guarded by marines and seamen. Out in the open it was remarkable how many it took to man a ship – and, conversely, how such a large number could fit within the confines of a ship. And then he had an idea.

‘Collas!’ he called, to one of the carpenter’s mates on a hasty survey with Legge, the carpenter.

The man loped aft.

‘You’re relieved of work. Go down and report to Mr Clinton that you’ve orders from me to guard the noisiest prisoners.’

‘Sir?’ Collas said, bewildered.

‘You’re a Guernseyman, know the French?’ Channel Islanders lived within sight of the French coast, and even if their own patois had diverged considerably, they had a trading relationship of centuries standing.

‘Aye, sir.’

‘I want you to listen carefully for any mention of their Admiral Maréchal. Anything at all that bears on where he is now. Be sure to let ’em think you’re a regular-going Jack Tar as is ignorant of the French lingo but keep your ears at full stretch. The minute you hear something, let me know. Understood?’

‘Aye aye, sir,’ Collas replied, knuckling his forehead.

Kydd’s mind then turned to the task of getting
Marie Galante
downriver to the open sea. There was only one way for a square-rigger: boats. It was too much to expect the French to man the oars and, besides, it would cost too many men in the guarding. Fortunately, few would be necessary where they were at present in the open space ashore.