Betrayal

Chapter 1

In the dilapidated office Mr Owen looked up from his reckoning. ‘Bananas at eighty reis the quintal seems a little excessive, Mr Ribeiro,’ he said slowly, mopping his brow. The humidity was formidable, the dull heat like a suffocating blanket, but the purser of a frigate of His Majesty’s Navy had his standards and he sweltered in coat and breeches.

Shrugging, the fat Portuguese trader leaned back in his chair. ‘You think? I sell you green ones, not go rot, best in Mozambique.’

Tugging at his clammy neckcloth and dismissively eyeing the hand of half-ripe fruit brought for his inspection, Owen looked pained. ‘My captain wishes only to serve his worthy crew with a mort of sweetness in their diet, but if the price is beyond my allowance . . .’

‘Then I help! I can find th’ red banana, very creamy, very cheap and for you-’

‘No, no, Mr Ribeiro, the crew would think it sharp practice. Were you to vary your price to accommodate a larger order – say, five quintals – and payment in silver reals, then . . .’

Nicholas Renzi, sitting to one side of the table, fanned himself with a palm leaf. The negotiations dragged on and his attention wandered. The doorway was jammed with wide-eyed children, fearful but entranced by this visitation from the outer world. Beyond, in the harsh sunlight, was the noisy ebb and flow of an African market town. The world of war with Napoleon Bonaparte might have been in another universe but it was precisely why he was here. Hove to off the river mouth and enjoying the fresh oceanic breezes was HMS L’Aurore, a thirty-two-gun frigate whose captain was his closest friend, Thomas Kydd.

As his confidential secretary, Renzi had an unquestioned right to come and go on ship’s business; in these last weeks he had often landed with the purser but not to lend his presence for business negotiations to secure fresh foodstuffs. He had every sympathy for the dry Welshman who, as a man of independent business aboard ship, had to balance his costs at supplying stores and necessaries with fairness at the point of issue yet leave himself with sufficient profit to weather financial storms. In the absence of an agent-victualler this meant making a deal with often unscrupulous local merchants that might well be repudiated later by an officious Admiralty functionary in faraway London.

The purser probably suspected but had never enquired the real reason why Renzi so often accompanied him: if there was one thing a scouting frigate needed from the shore even more than fresh victuals it was information. With an infinite number of directions to sail off in, even the tiniest whisper was better than nothing, and Renzi had personally witnessed the effectiveness of Admiral Lord Nelson’s network of merchant intelligence in the Mediterranean before Trafalgar, overseen, it was rumoured, by his own secretary.

The current mission for L’Aurore was an important one. Only a few months before the British had taken Cape Town, the Dutch settlement at the tip of Africa at the Cape of Good Hope, to secure the all-important route to India. With slender military resources, it lay vulnerable to a vengeful counter-attack by the French, specifically by Admiral Marechal, who was known to be at sea with a battle squadron greatly outnumbering the few ships of the Royal Navy on station there.

L’Aurore’s orders were to follow the coast around the south of the continent and up the Indian Ocean side, stopping vessels, seeking word. As far north as Lourenco Marques, there had been not even a rumour, but Kydd had pressed on, if only to prove the French absent from the area. He knew that on the other side of Madagascar the French had strong island bases in a direct line from India, which could well be sheltering a battle group. Leda, the larger fellow frigate to L’Aurore, was sent to look into these, so L’Aurore had sailed on into the Mozambique channel, past hundreds of miles of the frightful remoteness of the dark continent to the foetid flatness of Quelimane, an ancient Arab slave market but now a lonely outpost of the Portuguese empire, itself dating from the daring voyage of Vasco da Gama in the 1490s.

‘Five quintal?’ Ribeiro came back with a frown. ‘We just quit o’ three cargo for Zanzibar, not so many left. Cost me more to find.’

Idly Renzi looked out at a grove of densely clustered scrub palms nearby. To his surprise he made out arrays of the unmistakable yellow curves of magnificently sized fruit. More than enough, surely. ‘Er, may we not avail ourselves of those fine bananas yonder, or are they spoken for perhaps?’ he enquired.

The other two men turned to him with surprise. ‘Do allow I should conduct my business without your valued assistance, Mr Renzi,’ Owen said huffily. ‘Those are not bananas, rather plantains, which every soul knows may only be suffered to be eaten after cooking.’ He turned back to Ribeiro and stiffly concluded arrangements for a delivery of three quintals of standard bananas.

As Renzi rose with the purser, he offered casually, ‘Then your trade prospers, Mr Ribeiro?’

The man looked up guardedly. ‘As is always the chance o’ luck in these days. Why you ask?’

‘Oh, just that Mr Napoleon is stirring up trouble in these parts. Has your business suffered at the hands of the French at all?’

‘They don’t trouble as we,’ Ribeiro replied.

‘Then you haven’t heard – his ships of war are at sea. He seeks bases for his privateers, territory to add to France. Should he decide on Quelimane, well, as you have no friends . . .’

‘Er, no friends?’

‘Those who will rid you of him, should you tell them in time. You haven’t seen any French ships – big ones, I mean to say?’ Renzi added.

‘Um, no, not b’ me.’

‘Perhaps have had word of such?’ It was a last try. So far north and failing any intelligence, L’Aurore must now cease her search and put about for Cape Town with nothing to report.

‘No.’

Renzi shrugged and turned to go.

‘Wait.’ Ribeiro hauled himself to his feet, snorting with the effort. ‘I not seen, but the fishers? They on the sea, they will know.’ He went to the doorway and called over a wizened man on the other side of the street.

After a brief exchange in some African dialect, Ribeiro beamed. ‘He say yes! Ver’ big one, two day ago up th’ coast.’

Renzi snapped to full alert. ‘Just one? Where was it going?’

‘He remember Pebane way – t’ the north.’

Curious onlookers joined them, and another seamed individual broke in with excited jabber.

‘He say he saw as well, four day ago but swear it were off t’ the south.’

Renzi frowned. How much reliance should he place on these fishermen? A lone ship – and was it truly a big one?

‘How many masts did it have?’ he asked.

Both were insistent that it was three-masted and square-rigged on each. This, therefore, was not a local trader, nor yet a privateer or even an armed schooner, for it was ship-rigged in exactly the same way as a frigate or ship-of-the-line. Was it one of Marechal’s scouting frigates ranging ahead of the deadly squadron?

His heart quickened, but Kydd would need to know details. North or south – where was it headed? If he offered money to the wider community for information they would say anything they thought would please him but he did have something up his sleeve. ‘Oh, Mr Owen,’ he said to the purser, ‘do send for my sea-bag, if you will.’

One of the boat’s crew, red-faced with exertion in the heat, hurried up with a mysterious carry-all, surrounded by a noisy crowd of screeching children and their elders. Renzi took it, bowing politely to the young seaman who, taken aback, awkwardly bowed in return and for good measure touched his forelock.

Looking significantly at Ribeiro, Renzi opened it and peered inside. The hubbub died to an expectant hush as others flocked to join the throng. After a pause he straightened in satisfaction, then pointedly laced it shut. ‘Mr Ribeiro,’ he announced importantly, ‘our good King George is concerned at the hard life of the fishermen of Quelimane. He directs me to distribute these small gifts as a token of his esteem – but only to the worthy fisher-folk themselves.’

The faces around him looked doubtful, but after his words had been translated, several grinning, weatherbeaten men pushed themselves to the front. Renzi regarded them solemnly, then dipped into the bag and drew out the red uniform coat of a private of the Royal Marines. A collective gasp went up as it was presented to the oldest fisherman, who drew it on reverently.

He twirled about in his finery to universal admiration, and Renzi hid a grin at the sight of the patched and worn cast-off that had been routinely consigned to the boatswain’s rag-chest. More treasures were handed out: a pair of seamen’s white duck trousers with frayed bottoms, a sailor’s jacket with two brass buttons still on it, half a dozen holed stockings.

Renzi allowed that he would be obliged if he could hear from any who had seen the big ship, and stood back to let the noise and jollity overflow as things were tried on, exchanged, bartered. One man detached from the rest and passed along his observation, then more came forward. Renzi carefully entered their words into his notebook until in all he had eleven firm reports.

Such men’s lives depended on knowing where they were so he now had the time and position of each sighting; individually plotting them on the chart would give a clear picture of the track.

Pleased with himself, he politely withdrew, leaving them to their bounty.

‘Well done, Nicholas!’ Kydd said happily, wielding his dividers on the East Africa chart. ‘I do hope Mr Oakley is not too discommoded by our making free with his rag-chest. Look here, I think I have it . . .’

Renzi leaned over. The neatly encircled dots marched from the south regularly until, near Pabane in the north, the last two made an irregular hook. ‘He’s come from around Madagascar to spy out the channel, and here in the north he’s turned about and is starting to head back. We have a chance.’

‘Dear chap – you’re omitting one thing . . .’

‘Oh?’

‘These are past reports, this latest being yesterday. By now the fellow is well on.’

‘Not so. See – on this track, the speed made between points is trifling. He’s spending his time casting about, conducting a good search while our fisher-folk have to land their catch smartly and lose no time in returning. Nicholas, I’ll wager should we rest here we’ll see him topsails over, say, early tomorrow.’

Kendall, the sailing master and a man of few words, nodded in agreement and a reluctant smile surfaced. ‘Sir, there’s th’ question o’-’

‘Yes. If he’s a frigate his first duty is to report to his admiral, not offer battle with a chance o’ damage, so he’ll bear away as soon as he sights us and we’ll not discover his squadron rendezvous. We’re to calm his fears in some way, I believe.’

And lure him on. There was no way Kydd could alter his ship into a lesser breed or make it appear impotent, and with no handy island to conceal themselves . . . ‘I shall think on it, Mr Kendall,’ he said, and began pacing up and down. Nothing came of it so he went out on deck. It was pleasant under the quarterdeck awning, now permanently rigged, and by his order all officers had doffed coat and waistcoat and now felt the breeze gratefully through loose shirts.

‘Sir,’ acknowledged Curzon, the officer-of-the-watch, touching his hat. ‘A conclusion, at all?’

‘Mayhap we’ll sight a scout tomorrow. We stay off and on this coast – he’ll come from the north, if he does.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

Kydd looked about the bright seascape, then at the distant palm-fringed shore. It would not do to dignify these remote outposts with a visit by a full post-captain, Royal Navy, so he had never once set foot on this Africa, with its steaming tropical forests and all the mystery of an unknown continent, so different from the south. Perhaps one day . . .

‘’Scuse me, sir.’ An anxious voice broke into his thoughts. It was Searle, one of the volunteers of the first class, brought on board in those dark months before Trafalgar – less than a year before, Kydd realised, with surprise.

The young lad was all but unrecognisable as the pale, terrified schoolboy who had presented himself, resolutely determined to be an admiral one day. Now he was inches taller, lithe and brown, with confidence yet still a degree of modesty about him. Here was his next midshipman.

In his inattention Kydd had nearly tripped over the bight of a circle of long-splicing that the lad was working on. He picked up the piece and squinted down its length. ‘Why, that is a caution to the fo’c’slemen themselves, I’d swear.’ On the gratings a blank-faced seaman sat cross-legged. A wash of warmth came at the sight of Doud, lined and tattooed, the picture of a deep-sea mariner. Long ago it had been this man who had made it possible for him, a raw landman, to climb the rigging to the main-top in the old Royal Billy at Spithead. Later he had ventured out on the main-yard, to the topsail yard and then-

Suddenly he had it! This thinking about masts and yards, sails – a frigate would rightly shy from another if the mission was more important, but if it came across easy meat, a contemptible little sloop, perhaps, then it could make to capture it or even ignore it. Either way it could be enticed closer until the fast-sailing L’Aurore had a chance of closing with it.

‘Mr Oakley!’ he hailed, striding back to the quarterdeck. ‘I have a pretty problem in the article of rigging, and I’d be obliged if you’d attend on me.’

It took some explaining, but it brought a broad grin to the red-headed boatswain, who stumped off forward, bawling for his men. It was hard work, but by the ringing of eight bells at the beginning of the dog-watches it was done, and over supper and grog the seamen had something daring to talk about.

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 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 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.

‘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.

He lowered the glass and slid it shut. He couldn’t ask his men to take on such odds even with the stakes of intelligence to be won. The Marie Galante was perfectly safe: they could stay for as long as patience held out, for water and a supply of meat were on hand and it would need only occasional boat trips to tell them when L’Aurore had given up and sailed away. It was galling but it had to be accepted: the Frenchman had prevailed.

There was now no other course than to sail back to Cape Town, bearing the tantalising news that Marechal appeared to be at large but where or when and with what force was anybody’s guess.

‘Return,’ he told Poulden, and made his way back to the sternsheets with Renzi.

His coxswain waited for a sizeable mat of vegetation to be carried past by the current before poling out, then told his crew to hoist sail. The boat curved around, carefully avoiding the relic of torn riverbank that had come down from far up the mysterious Zambezi. Kydd’s thoughts, however, were on what he could do to retrieve something from the situation. At least they didn’t have to search up the remaining three mouths and-

A preposterous idea entered his mind that teased him with its possibilities. He twisted round to glance back whence they’d come. Yes – it could work if . . .

‘Poulden. Lay us alongside the floating greenery, if y’ please.’

The coxswain gave him a puzzled glance but did as requested. Close to, it was a substantial piece of densely matted vegetation, grass of quite another kind from that growing on nearby banks, tall, thick and wreathed with tangling creepers. On one side there were even young saplings and a sprawling bush.

‘Seize on,’ Kydd called to the bowman, who gingerly felt with his boat-hook. The boat swung closer with the current – and Kydd stepped on to the little island, taking care to keep a hold on the boat’s gunwale. It gave a little under his weight and he dared to stand upright. Something near his foot hissed and slithered rapidly away, while a large clumsy bird with a fleshy beak burst out of the bush, cawing.

Kydd trod further into the thick undergrowth. It felt surprisingly substantial and he called to two of the seamen to join him. One caught an ankle and fell prostrate with a frightened oath. The island swayed a little but seemed not to object. They had a chance.

After dinner, Kydd called a council of war aboard L’Aurore.

‘Gentlemen, the corvette rightly assumes our only means of attack is by boat and he’s taking every precaution to defend against it. In the main he’s lying at the head of a straight passage of the river and knows he’s a line of sight that will warn him in plenty of time of an assault. Of a certainty he has his guns trained downriver to slaughter any in attacking boats.’ In quick, bold pencil strokes, he sketched out the situation on a sheet of paper.

He paused and looked up. ‘We will be going in, however.’ Troubled glances were exchanged. ‘But not from the direction he expects. We’ll be coming from upstream.’

‘Ah,’ Curzon said instantly. ‘How are we first going to get our boats past him? Even under cover of dark we’ll be-’

‘We don’t!’

‘Sir?’

‘The boats will be advancing upstream – but not until we’ve boarded him.’

‘I – I don’t follow you, sir.’

Kydd explained about the floating islands. ‘Six boarders concealed in one to signal down the reach when they’re in sight so we’ll know which island they’re aboard. This tells the boats to come into view and begin their attack, drawing the attention of the French entirely to what they’ve been expecting.

‘When abreast the bowsprit of the corvette, the island will be brought alongside and our men will swarm aboard from nowhere to spread alarm and confusion. At this point from concealed positions inland Lieutenant Clinton will order his marines to open a hot fire, which will dismay the defenders, they not knowing his force or what they face.

‘Caught between three lines of attack, he’ll be in a sad moil and that’s when we strike home. Questions?’

After several minutes’ digesting the details of this unconventional cutting-out action, Curzon broke the silence: ‘Just the one, sir. Any signal hoisted on the, er, island will necessarily be seen by even the most dim-witted o’ the French. How, then, are we to preserve our surprise?’

Renzi came in: ‘The ancients got there before us, of course, gentlemen. You will recollect that, at Thermopylae, news of the advance of the Persian host under Xerxes was relayed across the plains to King Leonidas of Sparta by-’

‘Be s’ kind as t’ spare us your history, Mr Renzi, we’ve a war to figure.’

Gilbey’s sarcasm brought a frown from Kydd. ‘Do fill and stand on, Renzi, old chap. We’re all listening.’

‘-by polished shields flashing in the sunlight. I rather thought a mirror in our case,’ he added.

‘Just so,’ Kydd said, with satisfaction. Renzi had on more than one occasion retrieved a situation by recourse to his classical education. ‘Taking care to shield it from being spied by the corvette, naturally.’

‘Um, er-’

‘Mr Bowden?’ He acknowledged the third lieutenant.

‘This floating island, sir. If it’s to be brought alongside the Frenchy – er, how does it steer, as we might say?’

‘A boat grapnel. The corvette is moored on the inside of the bend. The grapnel is cast overside when still out of sight and paid out until we are near abreast. Hauling taut on the line will cause the island to swing into the bank.’

There was a ripple of approval. It was shaping up.

‘It’ll in course be m’self commanding on the island,’ Gilbey pronounced.

‘As first lieutenant your duty is the main attack, not the diversion,’ Kydd said shortly. ‘I shall take care of that.’

‘What will be our force in its entirety, pray?’ Curzon asked.

‘Every boat that swims, all the Royals with our idlers as their loaders. And all volunteers, mark you. You shall be second to Mr Gilbey and Mr Bowden will taste command of a frigate for the first time.’

Bowden jerked upright. ‘Sir, I must protest! This is-’

‘You object to a frigate command at your age, sir? Fie on you!’ Kydd chuckled. ‘No, younker, I need to know L’Aurore is in safe hands while we’re away. Can you think of a better? Oh, and you shall have Mr Renzi for company,’ he added firmly.

‘This’ll do,’ Kydd muttered quietly. Poulden brought the barge to the riverbank safely, lower down the river from the corvette, and the ‘island party’ sprang ashore: gunner’s mate Stirk, who would not be denied his place; boatswain Oakley, who had sworn that only himself could be relied upon with the grapnel; boatswain’s mate Cumby, who had demanded by right to be at his side; Pearse, the raw-boned master’s mate, with a yen to have something to boast of when he returned home; and Wong Hay Chee, former circus strongman and inseparable friend of Stirk.

Nearby, the launch and both cutters began setting the Royal Marines ashore with their number twos – the idlers, those such as the sailmaker’s crew, and stewards who did not stand a watch at sea but could be relied on for the mechanical task of reloading muskets.

There was a three-quarter moon riding high and Kydd cursed under his breath. The assembling men were in plain view, and even if they were doing their best to stay quiet, the clink and leather slap of equipment seemed so loud in the night air. ‘L’tenant Clinton,’ he whispered hoarsely, to the Royal Marines’ officer, ‘do you prove your men’s weapons. If any fires accidentally, I’ll personally slit his gizzard and after that I’ll court-martial the villain. Is that clear?’ Of all things, a musket shot would be best calculated to arouse the enemy instantly.

Clinton smiled and offered him a bag that clicked as he passed it over. ‘I’ve taken precautions, sir. These are their flints without which their muskets will not fire.’ Mollified, Kydd nodded.

A mile or so downstream from the corvette, they would travel in a straight line over the knee-bend in the river to arrive at a point upstream and out of sight from the French, on the way leaving the marines to take position. The boats would retire and wait until full daylight before coming up. Then all would depend on the island party.

They set out. The low, undulating land was mainly open scrub with thicker areas of bushes. The moonlight was not enough to locate the corvette but Kydd had a small pocket compass that allowed him to set a course to intersect the river above the vessel and led off in that direction.

At night the African bush was a petrifying experience: every little sound seemed loaded with menace, and although there were more than fifty men with Kydd, they were strung out behind. His imagination conjured up all manner of dangers. If a lion sprang out on him . . . or one of those beasts with a horn on its nose? If it took a rage against him at the head of the column, then well before the others could . . .

‘Keep closed up,’ he snarled at the marines behind him, drawing his cutlass to slash at an inoffensive bush, then keeping it out at point. He had left his fighting sword aboard ship – in the bloody hacking of a boarding, its fine qualities would not be essential, and if it was lost in a swamp somewhere he would never forgive himself.

‘Sir!’ Clinton pointed into the silvery distance on the left. The upper spars of the Marie Galante were visible about a mile away.

‘Very good,’ Kydd said, stopping. ‘You know your orders. Keep the men at a distance until daybreak, then close up to your positions when you hear firing begin.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘It’s of the first importance that you are not seen before-’

‘I understand, sir,’ the young officer said stiffly.

‘Of course you do. Farewell and good luck.’

Kydd strode ahead with nervous energy. They reached the river unexpectedly, its glittering expanse suddenly in view.

‘Down!’ he hissed. The others in his little group lowered themselves gingerly to the ground, its earthy odour pungent, while Kydd checked forward. On his left was the tight bend that, according to his reckoning, opened to the long reach – and the French corvette.

Bent double, he skirted some bushes but before he reached the end he froze: a playful night breeze had brought with it a wafting hint of tobacco smoke. And, by its pungency, not the honest Virginian issued aboard L’Aurore. Parting the bush infinitely slowly, he swallowed. Not more than a dozen yards away two sentries stood in the moonlight, the occasional glow of their pipes startlingly red. They were conversing with each other in low tones, their muskets slung over their shoulders.

Kydd withdrew with the utmost care. The sentinels posted upstream spoke of a thoroughly professional opponent: were there more at the far end of the reach? This would make it near impossible for the boats to assemble unseen – but doing so would draw all attention downstream, as he wanted.

‘Sentries!’ he whispered to his party, when he reached them. ‘We’ll go a little further upstream.’

Another hundred yards brought them to the next curve of the river and a convenient slope to the water. It would do.

‘Er, how about them crocodiles, sir?’ Pearse asked edgily, quite out of character for the brash youth on the quarterdeck.

‘Take no mind o’ them,’ Kydd said confidently. ‘They’re all asleep.’ They were cold-blooded so it stood to reason, didn’t it?

They settled in the bushes to wait for the night to end. Then the moon vanished and blackness enfolded them. Continuous rustles and scurries came from all directions. From not far away they heard a blood-freezing roar and the piercing death squeal of some animal being taken. And as they crouched together every man sensed a massive presence out in the darkness, close, moving.

Filled with dread, they gripped their puny weapons. A cutlass against one of Renzi’s hippos? Whatever it was, there was no betraying sound and it wasn’t until long minutes had passed that they realised it had moved on.

At last the first rosy lightening of the sky spread from the east and, with tropical swiftness, it was day. A precautionary look around gave no reason for alarm.

The river was wreathed with rising mist, shot through with the luminous pearly light of morning, insects darting about prettily.

Kydd got to his feet. ‘Mr Oakley, you’ve the grapnel?’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘Then let’s find ourselves an island.’

They went to the water’s edge, the boatswain testing his swing and Kydd watching upstream, but none of the right size hove into view; any number of pieces of floating debris appeared out of the mist but none to match the stout pad Kydd had tested only the day before.

With impatience giving way to anxiety, Kydd continued to watch for their island. The light grew and strengthened. They couldn’t delay much longer. When a rather lopsided but more substantial piece emerged from the white haze, clearly clumped about a central strong sapling, he ordered, ‘There, Mr Oakley, we’ll try him.’

It was more than thirty yards away but Oakley’s cast was unerring and soon it was pulled into the bank.

‘Get aboard, Stirk – see if you like it.’

Obediently the gunner’s mate waded out to where it was nudging the shallows and hauled himself on. It swayed but seemed to hold firm as Stirk cast about in the tall grass. ‘It’ll fadge, sir, I shouldn’t wonder,’ he finally called back.

The harsh grass looked an excellent hiding place. ‘Right, all aboard!’ Kydd said briskly, ensuring that their weapons were passed first to Stirk. Cutlasses, a brace of pistols apiece – pitifully little to stand against a broadside of guns.

‘Yo-ho, an’ it’s all a-taunt in the tight little Pollywobble,’ clowned Pearse, once he was safely on.

‘Stow it, y’ idiot,’ grunted Stirk, helping the barrel-shaped Wong to clamber aboard.

‘I’ll be forrard,’ Kydd said, ‘Mr Oakley at the stern with the grapnel. The rest of you hunker down amidships.’ The characterless mass of undergrowth was hardly a ship but order had to be brought to an utterly unseamanlike situation, and it seemed to be accepted without question by the ‘crew’.

‘Cast off!’

Oakley released his hold on the bank and the island floated free. Another cast of the grapnel enabled him to haul out to mid-stream and they were on their way. Kydd took a last look about to make sure all was concealed and, with his shaving mirror to hand, Oakley aft with the grapnel watching him expectantly, they drifted languorously up to the last bend.

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 felicitations, 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 Marechal 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 Marechal 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 risque 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 Marechal. 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.

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.’