Caribbee

Chapter 2

‘I hear the man was pardoned,’ Renzi said, as Kydd entered. ‘As is the right of a commander on his station,’ he continued. ‘It does have its curiosities, however.’

‘Not now, Nicholas, I’m not in the mood.’

‘You see, in law he is a dead man at the moment sentence is pronounced – a reprieve therefore means he is a new man, debts dissolved but property disowned. I wonder if this extends to the state of marriage. His wife is a widow. Must she marry him again or is she free to seek another?’

Kydd shuddered, as if to shake off the stark memory of the rope. ‘Leave it be, old fellow.’

He accepted some wine from his confidential secretary and friend of many years, then added, ‘And who do you think was his captain, as near drove the man to it?’

‘I’ve no idea, but I wager you’re going to tell me.’

‘Tyrell.’

At first it didn’t sink in. Then Renzi sat back with a tight smile. ‘Duke William - first lieutenant.’

‘The same.’

‘Well, well. Fearless as a lion but cold as a hanging judge.’ The smile disappeared. ‘Did he recognise you at all?’

‘Sitting in judgment as his equal on a court-martial? Never a chance,’ Kydd answered, with a dry chuckle. ‘He’s now captain of Hannibal, 74, and thinks his crew the worst kind o’ scum. I do pity ’em with all my heart.’

‘A noble sight,’ Kydd said, to the well-turned-out captain of foot next to him. The proud reply was nearly carried away by the gust of sound as the military band reached the raised dais. It stamped about with a showy twirl of drumsticks and tossing plumes, then retreated, to split neatly about columns of advancing redcoats marching to the oblique before forming line in review order, all in scrupulous time.

In Highland regalia, the governor of Barbados stood at attention, Kydd and lesser dignitaries respectfully at his side. The levee was drawing to a close in the warm evening and there was to be a grand dinner in the old St Anne’s Fort.

The parade ground, the Savannah, was overlooked by the Main Guard, an imposing dusky red building with the white blaze of King George’s cipher prominent and substantial stone barracks beyond.

The ordered scene lifted Kydd’s spirits after the chaos and ragged misery of the south. The fact that they lay under the threat of a vengeful Napoleon striking at the vitals of Britain’s wealth began to recede into the realm of fantasy at this stirring display of military pomp.

The proceedings came to a climax with the entire parade marching forward, six sergeant-majors screaming hoarsely to bring them to a simultaneous halt and ceremonial salute.

Honours of the day complete, the parade moved off, and Kydd and the others followed the governor through the tropical dusk past the drill hall and barracks to the Long Room, fronted by massive square columns.

Inside, it was a blaze of light, the massed brilliance of hundreds of candles in candelabra glittering on gold appointments. The illumination played, too, on the lustrous mahogany about the room and the polished silver set out on the U-shaped table formation. A small military orchestra struck up as the governor took position at the centre.

‘Captain Kydd? Over here, sir, if you would.’ Grudgingly, Kydd allowed that the young subaltern in his elaborate epaulettes over the scarlet and gold of his uniform was a splendid vision. It had always been a source of resentment to the Navy with their austere dark blue and sparse gold lace; a naval officer needed to be at least a ship’s captain before he was allowed even a modest epaulette, never the frogging and other ornamentation of even the lowliest army officer.

Kydd found himself on one wing seated beside an amiable officer, who introduced himself as Richard Wyvill, major in the First West Indian Regiment of Foot. ‘You’re new out from England?’ he enquired politely.

‘No, from Buenos Aires,’ Kydd said, ‘as first came from the Cape of Good Hope.’

At Wyvill’s puzzled look, Kydd told of how the one had been taken, the other lost, in the daring recent feats at the fringe of empire.

Over a capital dish of okra and flying fish, Kydd learned more about the Leeward Islands and their place in the scheme of things, how the untold wealth generated by King Sugar was streaming to England to finance the war and on no account might be jeopardised. And how every effort was being made to deprive the French of the same, and the very real danger of their determined retaliation.

‘Might the station still be called, as who’s to say, a sickly one?’ Kydd asked. In earlier times, a murderous toll in disease had been inflicted on the white soldiers and he had only narrowly survived yellow fever himself.

‘It still vexes, but now we’ve whole regiments of blacks who are not troubled by such concerns.’ That left the white officers, but they would take their chances in the hope that those surviving would be in position for a speed of promotion that could never be matched at home. ‘And, of course, you sailors have only to keep the seas to find yourselves well clear of the marsh airs that bring fever.’

‘The governor – he looks a right sort of cove. Another of your Scotsmen, then?’

‘Indeed. Francis Mackenzie, First Baron Seaforth, chieftain of the Clan Mackenzie, no less.’ When Kydd nodded amiably, he added, ‘As takes no mind of the curse of the Brahan Seer!’

‘Ah, yes,’ Kydd answered blankly, to be enlightened that this was the dire prediction of the eventual downfall of the Seaforth Mackenzies by a shadowy figure more than two centuries back.

Lifting his glass, he saw Tyrell, four places up, forcefully making a point to a hapless colonel who sat back wincing under the tirade.

Kydd glanced across the table to Pym, who raised his glass and offered, ‘If you’re looking for a cruise to line the pockets, m’ friend, then you’ve come to the wrong place for that.’

‘How so?’ Wyvill came in.

‘Our Sir Alexander, he’s not your prize-capturing sort. Takes it to heart since San Domingo that the Frenchies might desire to return and claim what they lost. You frigates’ll be out keeping station on the rest o’ the fleet all hours that God gives, sweeping up ’n’ down to wind’d atwixt here and Bermuda. You’ll see.’

‘He was at San Domingo?’ Taking place earlier in the year, off the not-so-far-distant Hispaniola, it was said to have been the greatest fleet action since Trafalgar.

‘He was – and for his pains had his hat blown from his head by a great shot on his own quarterdeck in Northumberland. Never forgave ’em.’

There were appreciative chuckles while they did their duty on the spicy pepperpot.

By the time the cloth was finally drawn and the brandy had appeared, Kydd had mellowed considerably, the memories of the south continent now in full retreat. Cigars from Spanish Cuba were brandished, and in the blue haze he listened lazily to the ebb and flow of conversation. They were all post-captains and senior field officers at this august gathering, he reflected with pride, and he was here by right, damn it.

He pondered yet again on the turn of fortune that had taken him back to the Caribbean as a frigate captain. It seemed so distant, his time as a young seaman, almost like another life. Only in the Royal Navy was it possible to break through in society as he had done, from the common sort to gentleman with all that it meant in terms of respect, politeness and comforts. In fact, if he did well …

‘Dear fellow – do I see you content with life at all? That your elevated situation here at the centre of empire is not altogether a burden?’

‘Just so, Nicholas,’ Kydd said, in satisfaction, then hurried to add, ‘Yet never so good as if my particular friend was present. How are you?’

Renzi did not reply. A strange expression crossed his face, and he rose and paced about the great cabin restlessly. ‘There’s quite a different matter that concerns me.’

‘Oh? Please to tell your friend, old trout.’

‘It touches on your professional duty, which I’ve sworn never to trespass upon.’

There was something in Renzi’s tone that sounded a note of warning, but Kydd replied warmly, ‘Fire away, Nicholas. I’m sure I’ll appreciate your words.’

Renzi breathed deeply. ‘I’ve a nightmare that will not leave my mind.’

‘I’d have thought a rational sort o’ fellow like you shouldn’t have trouble dealing with such.’

‘You say that we’re to be concerned chiefly with keeping the sea lanes free of vermin. Not to be scouted, true, but in my bones I feel that we’ll soon be faced with much worse than that.’

‘That the French will make an attack? We all know they’d go on the offensive if they could, but we’re ready for ’em! Or is it something else ails you, m’ friend?’

‘It is. Napoleon Bonaparte. I keep seeing him sitting there in the Tuileries brooding over Trafalgar and what it means to his imperial ambitions, witnessing our empire growing and his fading away. He knows that this is, for the most part, funded by the produce of our Caribbean islands and he would stop at nothing to put an end to it. If it’s within his power to strike a devastating blow directly at them, as will deprive us of their substance, then at one stroke he reduces his most implacable foe to penury. No more subsidies to stir up the continental powers against him, no means to sustain the great Navy that protects them – in that event he’s well aware that the only course left us is to sue for peace.’

‘You’re rattled by the bugaboo Boney!’

‘No!’ Renzi drew up his chair quickly and, leaning forward, spoke as gravely as Kydd had ever heard him.

‘Listen to me! The Emperor of France is a ferocious conqueror with a brilliant mind. We should never, ever underestimate him, particularly when crossed. Since Trafalgar he’s all the time he needs to plot and plan a deadly thrust at our vitals, a terrible revenge. I feel it in my bowels that he’s contemplating a master-stroke. It’s a logical move for him – and so like the man.’

He paused to draw breath. ‘Let me mention just two that come to mind.

‘Properly planned this time, a battle group assembles needing merely a single sail-of-the-line from each of the Atlantic ports, but this easily outnumbers our Leeward Island Squadron. It concentrates on one major island, say Jamaica, sweeping contemptuously aside any resistance we can put up, and lands a strong military force. They need only take Kingston and Spanish Town and they have the island.

‘Moving quickly they retrieve their soldiers, leaving a garrison to tie down the troops we have rushed there. This time Barbados is invested – there are at least six landing places, which cannot all be defended. Bridgetown falls and with it the island.

‘In one move the tables are turned. They are in possession of our largest sources of production – and with it most of our ports and dockyards. From these as their base, they may descend on our possessions one by one at their leisure, all before word reaches England and reinforcements are sent.’

Kydd had seen for himself what Bonaparte could achieve; if it were not for Nelson’s triumph at the Nile, history would be telling a much different story of his adventures in the Orient. And it would not be unreasonable to conceive that, secure on land after Austerlitz, he might personally lead the assault, if only for the glory that would be the lot of the victor.

Yet the French Atlantic ports were well blockaded and there were cruisers and sloops by the dozen keeping a weather eye for such – and they had only to alert the North American Squadron, which was wintering in Bermuda, to find ready assistance in a fleet action.

He nodded to Renzi to continue. ‘You mentioned two?’

‘The other? Much cheaper and more easily achieved. A slave revolt! With just a couple of frigates he lands arms by night on every larger island into the hands of agents, who have promised freedom to the slaves for the price of rising up against their masters. If they were timed to move simultaneously, we would inevitably be overwhelmed.’

Kydd tried to think of a reason why it couldn’t happen but failed.

‘The man has the cunning of a wild animal and is twice as ruthless. He will move against us – he has to. Depend upon it.’

Struck by Renzi’s passion, Kydd said weakly, ‘We’ve always known he’s like to raise mischief in the Caribbean but so far …’

‘Tom – I’ve never had such before but I do now confess to a dreadful foreboding. I feel it in my bones – there’s to be a reckoning from Napoleon Bonaparte himself and it’s to be aimed squarely at these islands. While in blithe ignorance we sport and play there’s gathering a storm of retribution – and when it breaks, we will most assuredly be made to suffer.’

‘Nicholas, what are you asking me to do? This is a matter of high strategy and I’m certain it’s been thought on by our lords and masters.’

‘Do? Well, I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do – except perhaps indulge me in my imaginings.’ He gave a half-smile. ‘Meanwhile, carry on, take each day as it comes and glory in your eminence in this veritable paradise.’

True to his word, the commander-in-chief’s orders went out shortly afterwards. They were precise and to the point. The frigates would sail at dawn and establish a secure perimeter for the fleet’s assembly. When satisfied with his dispositions, the commander-in-chief would signal to make good a course to the north-north-west to pass along the entire island chain until 19 degrees north latitude was reached. In this way every entrance to the Caribbean from the open ocean to the east would come under eye. At this point the squadron would bear away to the north-west and do the same off the great Atlantic inward passages in the north, the Mona and Windward, then up to the Bahamas off Spanish Florida.

On their way north the squadron would stand seaward and conduct evolutions; on the return they would show themselves off the French-held islands of Guadeloupe and Martinique.

The evolutions would not affect L’Aurore for the four frigates would be out ahead in a broad line of search, kept in touch with the commander-in-chief by the sloops. In case of foul weather, rendezvous lines were established, as usual coded by number, their actual location kept separately.

In the event they fell in with a French battle-squadron, an engagement was expected in which the Fighting Instructions and Admiralty signal code of 1799 were to be strictly observed. Positioned outside the line of battle, Acasta and L’Aurore were designated repeating frigates, another two to take station ahead and astern of the line. Kydd recalled that this was precisely what he had done at Trafalgar, and with the same signal code.

It was straightforward and he expected no difficulties. L’Aurore, however, was showing signs of wear after a winter in the south. There was a small but persistent leak, probably through timbers strained by taking the mud so often in Buenos Aires. As well, a fore topmast bore evidence of being sprung, and the carpenter was shaking his head over a strake repaired as best he could without a dockyard after taking a ball between wind and water. And, of course, as always, there was cordage that, after ceaseless operations aloft, was beginning to fray.

Nothing that a spell in a dockyard wouldn’t mend, though.

Next day, in beautiful weather set fair to melt the hardest heart, the frigates put to sea. After a rapid reconnoitre they took up positions off the north of Barbados at the corners of a five-mile square and lay to.

Then the Leeward Islands Squadron weighed and proceeded to sea.

Kydd took his fill. It was always a grand sight, a battle-fleet moving out to take possession of the sea by right, a line of mighty sail-of-the-line in warlike arrogance and symmetry throwing down a challenge to whomsoever might dispute it.

They formed up: the flagship Northumberland in the centre, Atlas in the van and Hannibal in the rear. Kydd knew from his memories of Tenacious off Toulon that it was now the stuff of nightmares on the quarterdeck of every ship, to stay not only in the line of sight astern from the flagship but, as well, at the stipulated distance apart. This would be achieved only by judicious and delicate sail-trimming: more showing of a headsail, a quick clewing up of a topsail corner, spilling wind to bring down speed. All in a frenzied reaction to deal with chance wind-flaws, drifting with the current and the sheer sliding inertia of thousands of tons of battleship.

At last satisfied, Cochrane signalled the ‘Proceed’. Ponderously, the line began to lengthen, the ships picking up speed and settling on course to the north-north-west, each vessel nobly moving out one after another over the sparkling, gem-like sea. And on each an officer-of-the-watch sighing with relief that the task was now resolved to keeping pace and distance with the next ahead.

Kydd reflected that the ignorant might scorn the entire exercise as futile and pretentious, but to know one’s ship in manoeuvre down to mere feet was a priceless asset in battle and tight navigation – and it was precisely why Cornwallis off Brest exercised his blockading fleet into miracles of precision with none but the seagulls to admire the display.

Another hoist went up: frigates to deploy as instructed. Acasta, as senior, sent up her pennant, Captain Dunn now in command of the four. He lost no time in ranging out ahead. As the distant topgallants of the fleet sank below the horizon astern, he flew his signal for taking station, L’Aurore, the lightest but fastest, dispatched furthest to seaward of the four. They settled to their task – a sweep in advance of the fleet on a broad front all of sixty nautical miles across.

Within hours the frigates were a long way apart, a tiny patch of white on the horizon to larboard the only evidence of Magicienne, their next abreast, but still in signalling reach with the oversize flags each carried. And, far to the south, the topgallants of Atlas led the line.

Masthead lookouts were relieved of their important duty every glass – even half an hour so high aloft was a trial of the best of seamen, an Atlantic sea abeam causing a roll that ceaselessly swept and jerked them to and fro through a seventy-foot arc. One misplaced hand-hold and the impetus would tear them from their perch to pitch into the sea or end a broken corpse on deck.

Kydd remained on the quarterdeck, staying to see the sea-watch hanking and tying off after the sail-trimming, which kept them at a pace that would allow them to stay within signalling distance.

He was reluctant to go below for there could be no finer prospect than this: a lovely frigate at her best, in seas that lifted the heart with their beauty – and his to command, to direct and to cherish.

The twist of fortune that saw him and his ship now in the Caribbean had indeed snatched him from Hell to Paradise. But close on its heels another thought came: if Renzi was right, was it a fool’s Paradise he was in?

The voyage north was uneventful, the island passages clear of enemy battle-fleets, the broad ocean innocent of threat. Under boundless blue skies and hurrying white combers they ranged on to the north-west until they stood in with the Straits of Florida and lay to, awaiting the fleet to come up with them.

The L’Aurores were getting tanned and fit after their ordeal. Kydd had not seen a man before him for punishment since they had arrived, and the roars of mealtime jollity on the mess-deck told of contentment and fulfilment. In their off-watch leisure, they congregated in companionable groups on the foredeck in traditional yarning over a clay pipe, some working at needlepoint and scrimshaw – the age-old arts of the deep-sea mariner.

One by one the line of ships hove up over the horizon, the original single line transformed by a previous evolution into two columns. In faultless precision, they wore in succession to bear away back to the south-east. The frigates then passed down the noble lines of battleships to resume their watch and ward ahead.

Days later, the long island of La Desirade was raised, a verdant outlier that pointed like a finger at Guadeloupe. The frigates were recalled to attend on the fleet and together, in a display of insolence, the Leeward Islands Squadron swept down on the capital, Pointe-a-Pitre, deep inside a bay.

Kydd stood watching the passing coast, richly green and so full of memories. It was here that he had nearly been made prisoner as the French had retaken the island a dozen years before. And as a young seaman he’d learned lessons of leadership and endurance that would stay with him for ever.

They closed to within a few miles of Pointe-a-Pitre, brazenly taking their fill of the scene – the little town with its neat houses, a large church and, in the small rock-studded harbour, dozens of small craft huddling in as close as they could, none that could be considered worth noticing by such a powerful squadron. For the citizens of Guadeloupe it must have been both terrifying and galling to see such might flaunted with impunity, even if a naval force alone could do little against them.

Having made their point, the squadron stood out to sea past the rumpled heights of the outlying island of Marie-Galante, with its cliffs and multitude of sugar-mills, then shaped course for Martinique, which they raised the following morning. This large island was the most important possession in the French Caribbean and Cochrane proceeded majestically on, in extended line ahead, past the volcanic peaks and crags of the west coast to the grand bay where lay the capital, Fort de France.

The port was well sheltered and spacious but Kydd had heard of the notorious banks and shoals that made it a hazard for any ship of size to enter, a problem to be faced if ever the British were to make an attempt on the island.

In light airs in the lee of the island, the battle-squadron passed by at a walking pace that a lone scouting frigate would never dare, giving plenty of time to contemplate the sights. There were ships by the score, some alongside at one of the three moles but most lay at anchor deep within the bay. Kydd lifted his glass: there inside were two small warships with no sail bent on.

Leaving, they passed close by the legendary Diamond Rock – silent now, but this impossibly steep conical monolith, only a mile or so off Martinique, had once been captured and fortified by the Royal Navy and commissioned as a sloop-of-war. They had caused havoc with shipping entering and leaving Fort de France until Villeneuve, with Nelson hot on his heels, had fatally delayed his battle-fleet to pound it into submission and then had fled back to Europe, his mission to bring destruction to the British Caribbean islands a total failure.

In shimmering seas they stretched south-east for another day and, late in the evening, made out the north point of Barbados. In the soft glow of a tropical dusk they sailed along it, the twinkling lights of homesteads and plantations vying for allure with the brilliant stars that seemed to hang so low.

The fleet arrived in Carlisle Bay to an impeccable night moor and, duty done, the Leeward Islands Squadron went to its rest.