Caribbee

Chapter 9

Mysterious land under their lee, the three frigates glided quietly inshore, a thickening in the gloom of a moonless night. As one, sail was struck and their anchors tumbled down – the Curacao expedition came to its rest.

‘Well, now, Nicholas. How do you feel that you’ve caused an armada such as this to stir?’ Kydd said, in a tone that suggested he was only half in jest. They were together on deck, watching as the ship secured from sea.

‘If truth be told, rather less than overjoyed, brother.’

‘Since your report I’ve never seen Dacres so far heated. Volleys orders in all directions like musket fire, rages at his flag-lieutenant for not performing miracles and conjures another frigate from somewhere for the final assault.’ Kydd shook his head in wonder. ‘What was it you told him?’

‘Naught but what I witnessed. It was not a conversation I’d like to repeat and I’m glad to be out of it now, having done my duty.’

‘How so?’ Kydd asked curiously.

‘Well, if you must know, he made me swear on my honour to the truth of what I was telling him, high words about a gentleman’s honour and so forth. An inquisition to which I’m unaccustomed, dear fellow.’

‘You can surely see that he’s concerned he’s not following some fantastical logical theory that will be laughed at later if-’

‘I know what I saw and heard.’

‘Yes, but he’s to mount an invasion of Curacao as the only means he has to lay hands on the villains running your operation. The expense of such has to be justified to their lordships of the Admiralty later, of course, and to take up precious men-o’-war at this time is not a trivial matter, old trout.’

Renzi smiled thinly. ‘Quite. I do observe, however, that he is letting it be generally known that this is a strike for empire against the Dutch, and keeping quiet about the other. I’d like to think it’s a ploy to protect his intelligence source, but rather suspect it to be a way of keeping face should we fail in our larger object.’

‘You’re being hard on the man, Nicholas. With no other in support o’ your theory, can you blame him for steering small?’

‘Umm. So we are three frigates only?’

‘It will be four. Fisgard joins us here as soon as she can. While we could have ships-of-the-line, should we ask, we need frigates as can sail up the channel.’

‘Is that Aruba?’ Renzi said, looking at the island that loomed in the blackness.

‘A place of assembly only. One of your three Dutch islands with Bonaire. It’s a night’s sail from Curacao – don’t want ’em dismayed before time. If they tumble to what we’re about, they won’t know which island we’re making motions towards.’

‘So, four frigates to set against an enemy who’s ashore with, I’m obliged to remark, a plenitude of forts and guns? It will be a singular plan indeed that sets sail against soldiers.’

‘Well, we won’t be long in the waiting. All captains will come together in an hour to hear of it.’

‘Aboard the saucy Arethusa?’

‘The same. Charles Brisbane. Never met the fellow, but heard he was with Nelson at Bastia, and not so long before we arrived, with Lydiard in Anson, took the Spanish frigate Pomona from under the guns of Moro Castle at Havana, a fine piece of work. Well trusted by Dacres, which is why he has this command.’

‘So – Arethusa, Anson, Fisgard and ourselves, no soldiers, no artillery, no horses …’

‘More than a match, don’t you think?’

It was with a twinge of envy that Kydd came aboard Arethusa.

This famous ship, subject of ballad and many a fore-bitter sea-song, was a heavy frigate and it showed. Besides guns half the size again of L’Aurore’s, her every dimension was bigger – length, beam, spars, anchors and accommodation. The grandest, Captain Brisbane’s own great cabin, was no exception and was furnished as to be expected of a successful senior captain with prize money to spare.

The man was tall and carried himself with a peculiar intensity, his eyes large and expressive. He was an impeccable host and quickly settled his guests to a small but well-planned supper.

Soon Kydd found himself reminiscing with the amiable Brisbane about Jervis, the irascible Lord St Vincent, while the older man brought to mind in an amusing way the Great Siege of Gibraltar so many years before.

He knew Lydiard of Anson, of course, and after giving a modest account of Trafalgar, he heard in return of him in an eighteen-gun sloop assisting a British warship in an epic battle against an enemy frigate that had ended when it finally struck. As luck would have it, it was recounted, when boats were lowered to take possession a damaged fore-mast fell and the French took the opportunity to re-hoist colours and make their escape.

‘Right, gentlemen,’ Brisbane said, as supper things were cleared away and a light Madeira was produced. ‘I rather think it time to talk about the morrow. This is not by way of a council-of-war but your acquainting with my plan, which, should it fail, will be my responsibility entirely.’

It needed saying: a council-of-war implied a shared liability. Brisbane was not a commodore and had no other authority than that of senior captain but was making it clear he was taking the burden for failure entirely on himself.

‘The first matter that we must touch on is-’

A distant wail of boatswain’s pipes sounded faint and clear. ‘Ah – that must be William now. Stout fellow, he must have cracked on sail quite unreasonably to be with us.’

He waited until there was a polite knock at the door and a pleasant, much-weathered officer appeared.

‘Ah, yes. Gentlemen – Captain Bolton of Fisgard, who cannot abide to be overlooked in the article of fighting.’

After introductions were complete, Brisbane resumed:

‘As I was about to say, I would have you under no misapprehension as to the main objective of this descent on Curacao.’

There were puzzled looks and he went on quickly, ‘Which is, you’ll be surprised to learn, not to add further conquest to His Majesty’s dominions but for quite another reason. I have confidential instructions from Admiral Dacres that direct me to turn my best endeavours to the locating and extirpation of a secret base from which the French are conducting a species of guerre de course by naval means against our sugar trade.’

He cut short the general stir. ‘This is the reason why we have been so singularly unsuccessful in our protection, being unknowingly beset by a fleet operation under naval direction when we expected it to be privateers of the common sort. This must be stopped or we suffer ruinous loss to our commerce at great hazard to our conduct of the war as a whole.’

‘Charles, would it be impertinent to enquire as to how we’ve gained possession of this information?’ Lydiard asked.

‘I’m told it’s from a source of intelligence that the admiral considers of the highest quality. I conceive it may be relied upon, old fellow.’

‘Then-’

‘Then it does colour the nature of our assault. We have the location of the base and it is my intention that, once we have penetrated their defences, we hold while we send a flying column to surround and destroy the operation, after which time we withdraw.’

He considered for a moment, then added, with a wolfish smile, ‘That is, unless we are sanguine that we have succeeded beyond the ordinary. In which case our assault might then be better termed an invasion.’

Kydd warmed to the man. Here was a leader who was not going to let opportunities pass for want of enterprise.

‘Let’s talk now of what we face. The harbour of Willemstad is called the Schottegat and is in the nature of an inland water of considerable extent. The only entrance is a mile-long channel, a hundred yards or so wide at best. On the right side is the older main town, on the left extensive civil works. The town is protected by Fort Amsterdam, a large fort at the seaward entrance of the channel to the right. It rates two tiers of sixty guns in all. There’s another, Fort Republiek, even bigger, at the other end of the channel, also on the right.’

‘So we land on the left?’ Bolton said.

‘Ah, no. With both forts on the right, the Hollanders will feel sure we’ll land up the coast on the left, form up and advance on them. Without a doubt they’ve their soldiery there, waiting to welcome us. I’ve a notion we’re to surprise ’em and take the direct route to the right.’

‘In the teeth of these forts? A brazen move, I believe,’ Lydiard drawled.

‘You think so? But then our hand is forced – it’s to the right a mile or so that the base is located.’

‘Er, we’ve heard nothing of their sea forces,’ Kydd interposed, remembering what Renzi had said about seeing a thirty-six-gun frigate in the harbour.

‘Oh, yes,’ Brisbane replied airily. ‘A twenty-two-gun corvette and a thirty-six-gun frigate were mentioned. These may inconvenience and will have to be silenced, of course.’

Kydd started. This was not a plan: it was a disaster in the making. Was he the death-or-glory type that every sailor feared?

Lydiard seemed uneasy, too, and said carefully, ‘An attack from the front against a prepared enemy is a perilous undertaking at any time, Charles. Could not the main objective be secured by other means – for instance, by the privy landing of a party at night to take the base and its people?’

‘I rather fear the risk is too great.’

‘The risk?’

‘That in failing it would alert the Dutch to what we’re chiefly about. No, this cannot be allowed. We go forward as before.’

‘If the objective is so important,’ Kydd interjected, ‘might we not delay until we can rouse up some military reinforcement and be sure of it?’

‘It is because it is so important that we cannot tolerate delay, dear chap.’

He suddenly grinned. ‘To see you all so mumchance is diverting in the extreme. Let me ease your concerns a little. I have given this much thought and come to the conclusion that to do the opposite of what they expect is our best chance. In this case they will be reckoning that we stand off and salute them with a long cannonade, then send in troops to contest the field in the most obvious place – the clear flat ground to the left of the channel.’

‘And instead?’

‘You will have noticed that the channel orients down to the sou’-sou’-west. With the present easterly we may count on a fair wind to sail on directly inside at the first whisper of daylight. Now, if I were the Dutch commander I’d situate his thirty-six somewhere near the entrance, moored a-crossways to offer his broadside to any unwelcome guest, supported by the corvette in likewise pose.’

‘Sealing off the channel to us? A hard thing to face.’

‘No, for he can’t impede access by his own shipping and must leave a space. Where they can go, so can we. Consider – without warning we appear out of the dawn and without a by-your-leave boldly continue on into the channel, past the fort, past the ships, all of which need time to close up for action. Too late! The town lies under our guns.’

‘And then?’ Bolton said coolly. ‘We’ve marines, armed seamen – do we then at our leisure step ashore and take the capital?’

‘I shall be clearer. The flying column lands and makes straight for the base. That is essential. The rest depends on planning and forethought, with the ability to change objectives at short notice. As I said, I’ve given it much consideration. Here are the details, gentlemen.’

Brisbane produced a scheme from his desk that was a model of military planning. Each ship had its own task: Arethusa would lead and tackle the thirty-six. L’Aurore, the lightest, would follow with the vital task of landing the flying column when practicable. The heavyweight Anson would be next, anchoring mid-channel to menace the worst of the opposition, while Fisgard would take the rear and go to the support of any in difficulty.

At the individual level, each ship’s company’s Royal Marines and seamen would be divided between ‘boarders’ and ‘stormers’ and a skeleton working crew, enabling snap decisions to be made on the spot for their deployment depending on progress.

‘And when the forts wake up?’ Lydiard said, with a half-smile. ‘When we’re at anchor at point-blank range? This is a target even a militiaman may not miss.’

‘An observation well made,’ Brisbane said smoothly. ‘This is why each ship will contribute to a party armed with crowbars and axes who will force entrance into the sea-gate of Fort Amsterdam through the portcullis while the Fisgards storm the rear of the fortress with ladder and grapnel.’

There were gasps but whether in shock or admiration it was difficult to tell.

‘Recollecting that this fort is intended to defend to seaward – we shall be assaulting from landward.’

‘And the other?’ persisted Lydiard.

‘Fort Republiek will be helpless, as being unable to fire on account of ourselves being within the town limits.’

In the cool of the night, there was a gentle, lulling heave to the sea and it seemed preposterous to believe that they had any kind of a chance – Kydd’s experience at the assault and conquest of another Dutch outpost of empire, Cape Town, had shown him how only the professional military had what it took to conduct an advance on the enemy in their own territory. By comparison they were amateurs – courageous, spirited and intelligent, but amateurs for all that.

‘Everything depends on our forcing entry past the fort,’ Bolton said slowly. ‘If we knew that was assured …’

‘It’ll be assured if we do it,’ Kydd snapped. ‘Clap on all sail and press on and we can’t fail.’

Unsaid was what would happen if they penetrated into the desperately restricted waters inside but then found it untenable to remain. To turn completely about by some means and effect a retreat under overwhelming fire …

As morning imperceptibly lightened the tropical seascape in a soft violet, the four frigates hove to ten miles off Curacao, south of Willemstad and the channel, and safely out of sight.

There was that preternatural heightening of the senses as always felt before an action, but Kydd had much to occupy his mind.

Details: the division of seamen into boarders and stormers, the equipping of the boatswain’s party with the right gear, the clearing away of an anchor for rapid letting go and more – down to the colour of the field sign that each man would wear.

Last, every single boat the ship possessed was put into the water for towing.

They were ready.

Brisbane was not one for ceremony, and it was his single flag ‘preparative’ whipping down in Arethusa that set the little armada on its way.

By degrees the light strengthened, and when they made landfall, visibility in the mists of morning was enough. Formless as a dream, the rumpled coast gradually took on reality. The channel entrance was impossible to miss, the gentle fall each side in the even run of the shoreline unmistakable – as was the squat menace of Fort Amsterdam firming out of the haze.

They were committed.

Arethusa took the lead, L’Aurore fell in close astern and the others followed, arrowing on a line of bearing straight for the channel entrance. A quiet torpor seemed to lie on the day-fresh landscape – not a thing moved. They came closer; a Dutch flag drooped atop the fort. Arethusa and each ship following had battle-ensigns a-fly but hoisted at the main-mast head of each was a large white flag of truce, a legitimate move that Brisbane hoped would confuse and delay any response. But it was at the cost of preventing any British ship opening fire while such a flag flew.

Nearer still, and not a gun had fired. Ahead, however, by the seaward entrance, just as Brisbane had foreseen, the thirty-six was moored athwart, its broadside squarely across their track. Beyond, the spars of the corvette were in a similar position, and both had left a space clear for ships to pass.

It was astounding: arrow-straight for the enemy’s vitals and still no gunfire, only the gentle whisper of wind in the sails, the familiar creaking and slatting to be heard in any ship under sail, and ahead the entrance broadening.

A sudden thud – the white of a discharge from the fort rose and swelled in the light airs. The ships stood on. Two more from the casemates. Did they not see the flags of truce? If so, they were ignoring them. Then an uneven firing came on, which hid the fort in roiling gunsmoke.

They had engaged too soon! In the time of reloading the four ships were up with the entrance and then inside, insanely close to the fort, with the town slipping by closer than Portsmouth Point.

Then the light morning breeze hesitated – and backed into the north. Instantly the moment became fraught with peril. Headed by a foul wind, the ships slowed and began to yaw. It was the worst of luck, and Kydd’s mind raced as he tried to think how Brisbane could retrieve their predicament. No complex signals were possible in the rapidly changing circumstances and it was inconceivable that four ships in the tight space could back away now.

Then, as if relenting, the winds veered back to the east and they took up again on their perilous course.

There was a burst of musket fire from the left side as soldiers ran up, and then they were past, heading for the anchored thirty-six. Aboard there was frantic activity on her deck. Men boiled up from below but stopped, paralysed with fear at the sight of the heavy frigate about to pass by her stern to smash in a pulverising broadside. But she did not, for the flag of truce was still flying and not a single shot had been fired from any British ship.

Arethusa’s helm went over and in the same instant her anchor plunged down and she slewed about, her bowsprit crazily jutting over the little seawall and path, pointing directly into the town. By now gunfire had broken out generally in a bewildering chaos of noise and powder-smoke.

L’Aurore followed and, passing Arethusa, did the same, clearing the way for Anson to take position mid-channel. Peering back through the rolling smoke it looked as if Fisgard had taken the ground with the foul wind and was swinging across the water but then she broke free and, as planned, heaved to ready.

Kydd saw that something was going on in Arethusa. A group of officers were clustered around the capstan as Brisbane conspicuously bent to a task: the air was filling with the whip and slam of shot, but he was writing. He finished, folded a note and handed it to a midshipman with a strip of white cloth pinned around his hat.

The brave lad tumbled into the gig and under a large white flag was pulled frantically to a landing place at the Waaigat, a side-water for small craft. Kydd gave a grim smile: Brisbane was giving them chance of surrender before broadsides at point-blank range devastated the town. It was a terrible risk, though, for at any time the Dutch artillery could arrive to smash the ships to ruin.

There was no slackening in the gunfire from the shore and first one then another man fell in Arethusa, and L’Aurore took her first casualty, a fo’c’sle hand, Timmins, who dropped into a motionless huddle.

Kydd felt anger rise. Then the midshipman came into view and scrambled up the side to report to Brisbane.

The white flag at the masthead soon whipped down and Arethusa’s boats were in the water, striking towards the stunned thirty-six, Brisbane waving his sword like a madman.

‘Boarders, awaaaay!’ Kydd roared, and stood aside as men raced to take up their weapons and man the boats. Gilbey seemed to have been infected with the same frenzy and, with drawn blade, bellowed warlike curses at them while they stretched out to take the enemy from the other side. The gloves were off now.

In minutes it was all over in the thirty-six, and Brisbane himself hauled down its colours.

With rising feeling Kydd looked around. Anson had sent boats, which were now alongside the corvette, and fighting was taking place on its upper deck. There could be only one outcome there.

‘Stand to, the stormers!’ he called. It had to be soon or not at all: the enemy could not be given time to bring up forces in mass.

Then he saw what he had been waiting for: Brisbane had taken boat and the men bent to their oars to head for the jetty followed by his other boats.

‘Flying column, away!’ he roared. ‘Mr Curzon, warp alongside the thirty-six and take possession. Stormers, away!’

Kydd took the tiller of his boat as it filled. This was the vital flying column that had to succeed. Beside him a set-faced Renzi sat. Kydd grinned at him and ordered the boat to bear away inshore, bellowing at them as he, too, was caught up in the excitement.

The zing and smack of musketry was all about them but Kydd, with a storm of emotion, had seen that every one of the frigate captains was now in a boat heading in. He waved his sword aloft in a crazy show and saw them all return the gesture.

The boat following each was packed with marines, and as the boats made to land at the jetty they stood off and kept up fire over the heads of those storming ashore. Quickly they assembled and trotted off to the south, in the direction of the ominous massive ramparts of Fort Amsterdam. Kydd motioned his stormers to join them.

The flying column was headed in another direction, to a little jetty on the opposite side of the Waaigat. ‘Go!’ The men needed no encouragement – they formed up quickly. Ten in all: marines, seamen, Kydd and Renzi. Muskets and cutlasses. To take on an entire naval base.

As they made off, Kydd forced himself to an objective coolness. This was not to be a frontal assault on the base but, rather, a holding operation, keeping enemy heads down while a decision was made. Renzi’s information was enough to indicate that the base was only lightly defended, if at all, due to its clandestine nature. Possibly it could be carried by the men he had, that was his decision, but made only after a reconnaissance.

This side of the Waaigat there were few buildings and the road was deserted. Their rapid progress had wrong-footed the Dutch – a furiously rising swell of firing to the south was probably the storming of Fort Amsterdam and their attention was no doubt all there.

‘How far more, Nicholas?’ Kydd panted. Renzi was by his side – it had been given out that he was aware that this was to be a glorious occasion and wished to be present to record the action but in reality his presence was crucial in identifying the location.

‘Not far – under a mile in all. Round this hill and along the shoreline a space,’ he gasped. Sea life was not the best preparation for a fast march and Kydd noted Sergeant Dodd behind breathing deeply too.

The glittering expanse of the Schottegat came into view and with it their objective.

‘Fall back!’ Kydd ordered, bringing them all out of sight, remaining to peer past a thick bush.

‘The old building with the garden near overgrown,’ Renzi pointed out.

It was quiet – too quiet. But then again a wise French commander of a secret base would lie low and keep watch until the purpose and gravity of the British assault became known, then make his move. Any forces he might have would therefore be held within the building – and ready for them.

They didn’t have too much time, however, for at any moment the tide of war could turn against those storming the fort and a retreat would be forced on them. Kydd darted a glance around. ‘We’ve got an advantage. Sar’nt Dodd!’ He had spotted one thing in their favour but wanted confirmation.

‘Sah!’

‘Am I right? The building yonder is more or less on a point of land sticking out into the Schottegat. Doesn’t that mean we need only advance on this side to be sure we have ’em under eye all the time?’

‘Er, yessir.’

‘Very well. Half o’ your men to make a stand here in line, the rest with me.’

They didn’t have the luxury of time to take a cautious approach: they would have to show themselves and rely on those covering them to spot where musket fire was coming from and deal with it.

Kydd, with four men only, ran from bush to tree, dodging until they got close, then dropped to see what they could. There were no lights inside, understandable as such would be aiming points. But there was a menacing, absolute stillness that played on the nerves.

Did the French have an unpleasant surprise waiting? Were they even now squarely in the sights of hidden marksmen waiting for them to trespass before giving away the secret of their presence by opening fire?

Doubts tore at Kydd. The distant firing around Fort Amsterdam was slackening. Now individual shots were all that could be made out. Something had happened. One way or the other there had been a victory won – or lost. There was no more time.

‘Watch out for me!’ he said hoarsely. He got to his feet and sprinted for the door, falling to one side on the expectation of a sudden eruption of armed men.

Nerves keyed up to the limit he listened. Nothing – not even a creak or whisper.

There came the sound of running feet – but it was Dodd arriving to take position the other side of the door.

Kydd stood motionless, listening. Not the tiniest whisper – just the thudding of his heart.

He flashed a warning look at the sergeant. They had to move, and in a violent swing Kydd crashed against the door – and fell sprawling as it gave easily. Dodd stepped over him quickly and went in, bayonet at the ready. Scrambling to his feet, Kydd caught up and, every nerve taut, they moved forward.

There was a sudden crash from a side room. They wheeled to meet the threat. A cat miaowed its annoyance, ran out and was gone.

Cautiously they peered into the room. There was nobody. The other rooms were the same – just the sad debris of a deserted house, the smell of decay. Feverishly they cast this way and that.

At the rear of the house, french windows opened on to a pleasant but overgrown sitting-out area and an ornamental pond that stank with weed. Neglected and shrivelled fruit hung from a small orchard and the grass was thick and rank.

And still there was not the slightest betraying creak or scrape.

Kydd blinked and tried to think, retracing their steps and looking about more carefully.

They searched the house room by room until at last he was forced to accept that there was absolutely nothing anywhere, not the tiniest scrap of evidence to show that this had once been a threatening secret naval base.

‘Call ’em here, Sar’nt,’ he ordered.

The rest arrived, hesitantly looking about, Renzi’s face set tight.

‘Nicholas,’ Kydd asked in a low voice, ‘are you not mistaken in your locations? There’s nothing here to-’

Renzi looked stunned, but managed, ‘It was here, I’ll swear. Just that …’

He went quickly to a side room. ‘This is where …’ He tailed off, staring at the few sticks of mildewed furniture, odorous rubbish in a corner, a broken child’s toy and shook his head in disbelief.

‘But I – I …’

‘You men take the garden. Sar’nt Dodd, I want you to take a good look around outside. Anything – anything at all as will show us where the Frenchies went.’

‘Sah!’

‘Now, Nicholas. I have to ask it of you – you’re entirely sure this is where you were taken?’

With a worried, hunted look Renzi hurried from the house out to where bemused marines and seamen were poking about in the grounds and by the gate. He reached the road, then turned and looked back at the house. ‘It is! This is the place!’

Kydd joined him. ‘Then we’ve a pretty tale to take back to Brisbane, not to say Admiral Dacres. I do hope you have explanations, old fellow.’

‘Excellent, excellent!’ Brisbane said, rubbing his hands with glee. ‘We reduced Fort Amsterdam in something like ten minutes. The citadel yielded without a fight and the town is ours. The last resistance remaining is Fort Republiek on the hill there. I’m shortly to warp up all four frigates and threaten a bombardment as will shake ’em out of their clogs, the villains, then all Curacao will be ours.’

He collected himself and asked solicitously, ‘And, it being the whole point of all these fireworks, you’ve laid hold on the secret Frenchy base, I take it?’

‘Um, not as who’s to say, Charles,’ Kydd answered awkwardly, ‘they being not at home to us.’

He gave a quick account of their morning, finishing with a weak smile.

Brisbane said, ‘Why, it has to be they made for the hills when they heard our first shots. Won’t help ’em, for the island will be ours before noon and we’ll make search for wherever they went to ground. Don’t worry, we’ll find ’em.’

Kydd looked up at Renzi. ‘Now, don’t take this amiss, dear fellow, but if sworn to it, I’d be obliged to say there was nothing in any wise in that house that gives us reason to think anyone was there. No scraps o’ food, papers, odd military bits that show they left in a hurry. Nothing.’

‘I – I can’t account for it, that I’m forced to admit …’

‘An unkind cove would say further there’s not even the slightest piece of evidence to show that would justify our invasion of Curacao in any sense, none at all.’

‘It’s impossible! I just can’t understand it …’

‘Sit down, Mr Renzi,’ Dacres said heavily, eyeing him with distaste. ‘You’ve heard that Captain Brisbane reports not a single sign whatsoever of a Frenchman or a base? None, sir!’

‘This is quite unaccountable to me, sir,’ Renzi began, ‘being that we found the right house and-’

‘There was no evidence at all that Frenchmen were ever there. This is insupportable, sir! You gave me your word of honour on what you say transpired there.’

‘Sir, I-’

‘On your say-so I went ahead with a damn risky invasion of a whole island. What do you say to that, sir?’

‘Why, there’s no possible reply I can make, sir.’

Dacres snorted. ‘Except the action was carried off with the greatest success, I’d be a laughing stock.’

His expression eased fractionally at the reminder of military conquest in his name and he continued more equably, ‘As it is, you should be grateful there was such an outcome as none now will question its reason.’

Renzi kept his silence, burning with embarrassment and anger.

‘I don’t quite know what Commodore D’Auvergne saw in you, Renzi, but as some species of spy you don’t cut it with me, I have to say. Experienced, my left foot!’

Gathering his papers, he snapped, ‘I see no further need of your services, sir. You may indent for outstanding expenses to Mr Wilikins and I shall bid you good-day.’

Rising, Renzi blinked away his anger. As he left Dacres called after him, ‘And, for God’s sake, let’s hear no more of this tomfoolery about secret bases and phantom fleets.’

Kydd tried to be sympathetic but was no hand at disguising his true feelings. ‘Bad luck, is all, m’ friend. They’re sure to be, er, somewhere. A rattling good theory – copper-bottomed logic and, um, well reckoned. Not your fault it didn’t turn out right.’

Renzi said nothing, glowering at his glass.

‘Still, one good thing for you, Nicholas.’

‘Oh?’

‘Nereide frigate returned from the dockyard while we were gone.’

‘So?’

‘Cheer up, old trout. That means we’re to return to Barbados. You won’t have to look ’em in the eye any more.’

‘You don’t believe I saw anything. You think it was all an opium dream.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Never mind. I’m doubting my own senses anyway.’

Kydd tactfully steered the conversation away. ‘At the end of the hurricane season Barbados is a fine place. I’ve a mind to enjoy it, brother.’

‘With Miss Amelia?’

‘Why, if she takes a fancy.’

L’Aurore slipped out of Port Royal the next day in company with Arethusa.

It was a pleasant passage to Barbados, the two frigates conscious of making a fine sight as they stretched away through the very centre of the Caribbean.

As they neared the Leeward Islands, though, it became clear that the seas were deserted – swept clean. To fail to raise a single sail in all that distance was not natural. Whatever was feeding on the West Indian trade was abroad still, mysterious and malignant.

It was deeply unsettling.

Dispatches had gone ahead by cutter, and by the time they reached Barbados the whole of Bridgetown was out en fete to see and greet the victors of Curacao. As they came to their moorings in Carlisle Bay boats streamed out, some with quantities of ladies intent on throwing flowers on to the quarterdeck; others stood screaming their adulation, and still more came out simply to circle the two frigates and gaze on the heroes of the hour.

But what brought the greatest flush of pride to Kydd’s face was the Leeward Islands Squadron manning yards in their honour, lines of great ships acknowledging valour and achievement.

It had been a breathtaking adventure crowned with success, but deep within, it was disturbing. The main objective had been missed – was this, then, the people seizing on any good news to alleviate an impending apocalypse?

‘Ship open to visitors until sunset, Mr Gilbey,’ Kydd told the first lieutenant, then went below to sort out his paperwork. Back under the command of Cochrane, there were so many matters to attend to, not the least of which was the rendering of his accounts to the satisfaction of the acidulous clerk of the cheque.

He worked at the pile and was pleased at progress when a messenger arrived. ‘An’ Mr Curzon would be happy to see you on deck, sir.’

This was unusual to the point of puzzling, for it was the general form for an officer-of-the-watch requesting his captain’s presence on deck in filthy weather as a situation deteriorated.

Kydd tugged on his hat and emerged on the upper deck, ready for whatever had to be faced.

‘Sir, she vows that no other will do to receive her expression of admiration for the action just passed.’

‘Why, Miss Amelia!’

The officers all about the banqueting hall roared with laughter. Brisbane was a fine speaker – modest, entertaining and with a good line in anecdotes that his all-naval audience were in a mood to appreciate.

The baffling losses had built a frustration that demanded release, and the evening was well on its way. It was a pity that Renzi could not attend – he was out of sorts after his humiliating experience and this warm gathering would have restored a measure of equanimity. Why he had claimed he had been taken into a secret base and concocted a story that had had Dacres mounting an expedition was an utter mystery. Kydd sincerely hoped it wasn’t a delusion brought on by his conspicuous lack of literary success.

‘Wine with you, sir!’ The youthful sloop commander just along was looking at him with something uncomfortably like hero worship.

He graciously complied, realising a little self-consciously that there was every reason for the attitude. Not only with the legendary Nelson at Trafalgar, he had service going back as far as the beginning of the last war, during the dark days of the French Revolution. And now he was a proven frigate captain roaming the seas …

The feast had been cunningly prepared with old favourites but, in deference to the climate and setting, many a Caribbean delicacy as well. He tucked into more jerk pork and idly listened to Bolton, two down, weave a complicated yarn about Fisgard and the North Sea.

There was no doubt now, he was succeeding in life. The Curacao action would be noticed in England and he had been a principal in the affair. And, of course, with the taking of two significant-sized warships with little damage and three minor there would be useful awards of prize money to look forward to.

And in society – there was no mistaking the gleam in Miss Amelia’s eye and the envious looks of her sister. There had been a casual invitation from her father for an at-home in the near future, whatever that meant …

Yes, things were looking rosy for him, he concluded. As long as this vexing threat hanging over them was dealt with.

The spirited hum of conversation slackened as the cloth was drawn, and blue smoke spiralled up as the brandy came out. Several officers left to ‘ease springs’, leaving their places empty.

Kydd allowed his thoughts to wander agreeably as he relaxed back in his chair.

Suddenly aware that a figure had taken the vacant chair opposite, he refocused and prepared to engage in easy conversation.

It was Tyrell.

‘You! Um, Kydd, isn’t it?’ The man’s voice was thick with drink but it still held a steely hardness.

‘It is.’ He was enjoying the evening too much to have it affected by a bitter and aggrieved sot. He would indulge the man for a few minutes, then make his excuses.

‘Damn it, man! I’ve seen you afore, sir, and I’d like to know where.’

Kydd’s warm feelings drained away.

If this ghost from his past was intent on laying bare those raw memories of his brutish rite of passage into the Navy, he would resist. Yet the feral presence before him of the one whose terrifying figure had most haunted his existence then still had the power to unnerve.

‘If you must, Rufus, it was I who saw you home the night of the levee if you’ll recall.’

‘Not that, y’ fool. Years past, some time in the last war. Long time back. Where did I see you? Answer me, sir!’

Kydd took a breath, then steadied. He replied coolly, ‘Why, the London season, perhaps. Vauxhall Gardens by night is not to be missed and-’

‘Never trifle with such tommyrot! Popinjays prancing up and down like ninnies, gib-faced dandies with fusty tomrig in tow – I’ve forbidden my wife to attend ever, against her fool wishes I’m sorry to say, and I’m surprised you see fit to show your face at such – such folly!’

‘Then I’m at a stand, sir,’ Kydd drawled carefully. Wanting to strike back at the apparition from his past, he forced himself to muse artlessly, ‘In the sea service – were you at the Nile at all? I was a lieutenant in Tenacious, as I recollect, and-’

‘No!’

‘At Trafalgar, then. I was at the time in my present command and had the honour-’

Tyrell’s face reddened. ‘Neither!’ he retorted. ‘I’ve always been disappointed in m’ hopes for a fleet action of merit. No, sir, I’ve a notion it’s to be years before … and somewhere …’

‘Then at the theatre? Do you favour Miss Jordan at all? Much faded now but an actress of fine parts, I’m persuaded.’

Tyrell thumped the table angrily. ‘I never forget a face, sir,’ he grated. ‘As many a deserter who thought to hide can testify. No, Kydd, I’ll have your number and won’t be denied.’

Just south of the Garrison Savannah Renzi had found a small, perfectly formed beach, which, with its arc of offshore reefs, was not favoured by the fisher-folk or, it seemed, by others. His mood was black and he didn’t want company.

He went to a gnarled tree overhanging the glistening white sand and sat in its shade, gazing out over the translucent green seas, waves lazily creaming in at regular intervals. The hot smell of sun on sand was soothing and he felt his mood gradually ease.

He had some thinking to do. It had been a humiliating and embarrassing experience, not only for his standing with the admiral, which was not so important to him, but more for his friendship with Kydd. Did Kydd really believe that he had made up a story about stealing into a secret base to cover the failure of his logical theory? If so, it was difficult to blame him, for there was not a shred of independent evidence that such did in fact exist.

He realised he had now to face a disturbing, frightening possibility. Was it all a species of dream, of ardent wish-fulfilment, generated by a fevered brain to …

To what? As far as he was aware, there was no mental instability in his family, no incidents in his past to lead him to doubt his senses now. Even so, he was no medical man and it had to be considered.

Two possibilities. Either he was mad, deluded and not responsible – or he was not.

Take the first. There was nothing he could do about this and presumably he must wait for the inevitable spiral into madness. So, do nothing.

The other. If he was not, then … it had really happened. And therefore he must find an explanation consistent with the facts as reported by his own perceptions.

Fact: he had heard from the informant directly, one who had without prompting confirmed his theory and told him where to find the base.

Fact: he had acted on this and duly uncovered it. While there, the experience had been entirely what he would have expected, given the circumstances.

Fact: a short time later, at the taking of Curacao, the self-same house had been utterly without any sign that it was his secret base, and the losses had continued. It was beyond reason to imagine that a complex operation conducted there and hastily vacated would have left no traces whatsoever.

He heaved a sigh. It would take a heroic effort of imagination to reconcile these.

After cudgelling his brain for as long as he could bear it, he lay back in the sand, looking up through the gently waving branches to the immense bowl of innocent blue sky, and let his mind wander.

So what would he do if he were the commander of a clandestine naval operation needing to keep its secret secure? Presumably anything: if it were knocked out, so would be the nerve-centre of the planned predation. How would he go about this? It would seem reasonable to take every care to seal tight the headquarters so none could possibly suspect its existence, the consequence of discovery being so catastrophic.

Yet that didn’t fit with what he had seen. That was not how it had been in Curacao: the building was not properly guarded and, in any case, while the Dutch were French allies and vassals, they were proud and independent, and it would be a questionable thing indeed to rely on them allowing a covert operation on their sovereign territory.

But he had overheard with his own ears naval talk, the name Duperre and so on. In complete agreement with what he had heard from his informant. It made no sense at all unless …

A new thought took shape, one that, wildly improbable as it was, brought together these mutually conflicting elements and went on to explain everything.

He sat up, energised. It would of course imply a brilliant mind, one with organisational skills well beyond the ordinary, whose grasp of the shadowy world of undercover operations was nothing short of masterly – for he was considering that the entire business with Curacao had been nothing but a charade, aimed squarely at himself.

This great mind had heard of Renzi’s theory of a fleet controlled and deployed centrally against Britain’s Caribbean trade, probably from some public indiscretion by the dismissive Dacres. He had realised that someone had stumbled on the truth and needed to move instantly before any steps were taken to uncover and neutralise his base.

The move Duperre – if that was his name – had taken was breathtaking, a perfect solution. Comprehensively discredit Renzi and thereby his theory.

The result would be no more talk of searching for a mythical secret base: the Royal Navy would go on to become spread impossibly thin in endless vain patrols.

And, damn it, Duperre had succeeded: thanks to the clever failure at Curacao, there was not the slightest chance of Renzi’s theory ever being revisited or any other explanation listened to.

Masterly.

But Duperre had had necessarily to yield one vital point. As a result of his subterfuge, he could not help but provide Renzi with a priceless piece of knowledge: by going to such lengths he had confirmed that what Renzi had come up with was the reality. He had been right after all.

The realisation came in a releasing flood that begged for action. He scrambled to his feet and began pacing up and down, reviewing what had happened.

Orders must have gone out to send a clever agent whose task it would be to contact Renzi and give him information that bore out what he already believed, while at the same time dispatching men and orders to Curacao to set up the dummy base in accordance. Really quite simple and, being prepared to accept anything that supported his theory, Renzi had fallen for it. A stickler for detail, this canny mastermind had been so thorough in his orders that not the tiniest scrap or indication would be found – the careful replacing of rubbish and other forlorn detritus of a long-deserted house was nothing short of artistic.

Then how would the fleet operation work? The crucial element was communications. To achieve such rapid response to both threat and promise there had to be an incredibly speedy method of passing on information and orders.

Renzi’s pacing quickened. To get intelligence out implied a network of spies relaying news of planned trading-ship movements, however it was done. That would result in orders to the nearest predator, wherever concealed, to lie in wait for it.

Then there was intelligence of naval movements. Much more difficult but not impossible. Knowledge of patrol lines, the known habits of individual captains – an astute and imaginative mind could make much of this. Then the word would go out for redeployment and the other half of the equation was fulfilled.

Finally, a central headquarters was required from which this controlling genius could operate his chessboard.

That had to be how it was.

Renzi’s first reaction was to tell Kydd – but he would then, very reasonably, demand proof. And there were so many unanswered questions. If the base was not at Curacao, then where was it? As he’d reasoned before, there were very few places that met the conditions for a secret lair.

A network of spies spread throughout the islands was a cumbersome and expensive proposition – and, above all, why had the Navy not intercepted at least one of the fast advice-boats or whatever was used in the tight communications system with them? Equally, how was a naval fleet, even of smaller ships, able to stay so long at sea without returning to port?

He had to find an answer to each question before he broached the subject to anyone – but how?