Caribbee

Chapter 7

No sooner had L’Aurore rounded Port Royal Point than her pennant number shot up on the flagship – captain to repair on board immediately. Kydd had expected this and, as L’Aurore glided to her anchorage, her gig was already lowering.

‘Where the devil have you been, sir?’ Dacres greeted him, and when he tried to answer brushed him off with, ‘Belay that, we’ve a pretty problem on our hands. Sit down.’

As Kydd had already found out, after one or two had put to sea the rest of the merchantmen had scrambled to follow. ‘Never mind we can’t protect ’em, they have to do it.’ Dacres glared at Kydd as though it was his fault, adding, ‘And now they’re being taken.’

‘Enemy frigate?’

‘You’ve heard? Yes, they’ve sent a pair of raiders – a 32 and a 28 – under a dasher of a captain from La Rochelle, Sieyes. Damn desperate timing for us, I thought.’ His tone hardened. ‘They have to be stopped. Losses at this scale are not to be borne, sir.’

But if the Navy was to be employed in escorting, it could not be on patrol – a dilemma for the admiral that could only be solved by the removal of the threat. Kill the enemy frigates and the Caribbean could revert back quickly to its previous relative peace.

Dacres continued, ‘I have every one of my cruisers out after them, save Anson and yourself. Now you’ll have my orders before sundown to put yourself under Lydiard’s command, and the pair of you will have the Windward Passage and north of Jamaica to yourselves. You’re to store this hour and I’ll expect you to keep the seas in all weathers until they’re found and put down.’

All weathers – this was the tail end of the hurricane season … What was very plain was that while their Caribbean trade was so vulnerable this pair had to be hunted down, whatever it took.

Kydd lost no time in setting L’Aurore to storing and took the opportunity of going to Anson to confer. She was of forty-four guns, one of the class of heavy frigates cut down from a ship-of-the-line to a single gun-deck. Pellew had gone on to glory in one, Indefatigable, and others had since distinguished themselves around the world. They had every chance of success – if they found their quarry.

‘Kydd? Good to meet you at last.’ Lydiard had a jovial manner, his twinkling eyes hinting at a well-developed sense of fun.

‘Er?’

‘At Alexandria in the last war. Saw off Mongseer Crapaud in fine style, if you remember, you being ashore with your, um …’

‘Plicatiles. And damnably unhandy beasts they were, too, those little boats.’

‘Just so. Well, we’ve quite another job to do now, one that’ll stretch us beyond the ordinary, I fear.’

‘That’s how to run ’em to ground first,’ Kydd replied.

‘Indeed. I’ve done a study of the captures so far, trusting we can chase up a pattern of where the devils are operating. And it’s the damnedest thing – some taken off the Leewards, others as far away as Honduras, then Santo Domingo. You’d swear they had wings.’

‘Privateers?’ Kydd offered.

‘Only if you grant they’ve more than doubled their numbers in a month. We’ve been getting the better of the beggars since the beginning of the year and we’ve kept good watch on Guadeloupe and their other nests. No sign of ’em breeding – and besides which, this big jump in numbers we’ve lost only happened since the frigate pair arrived in these waters.’

‘I’d like to know just how they’re causing so much ruin.’

‘Stands to reason, they’ve got us on the run by flying from place to place and never tarrying long enough for us to catch ’em by the tail. Odd, though – for all their seizures, no one’s ever come across a prize of theirs to recapture. Where are they sending ’em in, we ask?’

Kydd digested it all. ‘Taking the long way around to be sure?’ he hazarded.

‘Could be, but this is to say that on the main point we’ve no suspicion of where to look to ferret ’em out. That’s why every sail o’ war Dacres has is out in a different place. Spread thin, but it’s the only way. We’ve got a plum spot, the Windward Passage, but who knows?’

‘Um. So we’re a scouting pair,’ Kydd reflected. ‘Stay in sight until one of us spies something and whistles up the other.’

‘Ah – I was thinking more a distant sweep. Lay away to each side, return to an agreed rendezvous each dawn. Any sighting, retire instantly towards the other.’

‘Nelson before the Nile.’

‘Aye, Nelson style.’

The two frigates slipped to sea in a gathering dusk, their strategy decided; a fast run to the Windward Passage between Cuba to the north and Hispaniola to the south. Then put about for a more thorough search: L’Aurore to comb the waters along the coast of Cuba while Anson looked into the deep gulf in Hispaniola that led to the old French trading harbour of Port-au-Prince.

In the steady north-easterly they drove into the night and, at precisely midnight, went about on the other tack to lay north. Dawn found them flying onwards together, in the increasingly brisk conditions an exhilarating sail. This was a relatively rare experience, for generally there was always the nagging need to conserve canvas and cordage, spars and rigging.

They were therefore treated to the breath-catching sight close abeam of a fellow frigate stretching out under full sail, heaving majestically, every line and scrap of canvas taut and thrumming with a sea music that set the spirit soaring.

By the afternoon they neared the coast of Cuba and, in a neat evolution, both frigates tacked about simultaneously, now hard by the wind on course for their goal, which, given that the weather held, they would raise comfortably by daybreak the next day.

As it happened, the spanking breeze freshened and veered more easterly. As they took up on the new tack, it was with seas smacking hard against the bow, sending spray shooting up to curve and sheet aft, soaking the watch-on-deck, but at least there was no longer the jerking roll from before when the waves had marched in on their beam, now only a determined pitch and toss as L’Aurore butted into the weather.

‘Not to worry overmuch, sir,’ Kendall said quietly, ‘but I times these waves at less’n eight seconds now.’

It was the master’s duty to bring sea signs to Kydd’s attention, and this was one that could be of significance in the Caribbean in the hurricane season. ‘Oh? How’s the glass?’

‘Fluky – we’re under twenty-nine an’ a quarter, but hasn’t dropped worth remarking these last four hours.’

Kydd had been in hurricanes before and had no real wish to try his ship against one now; it was prudent to be wary. He glanced ahead: storms swept in from the east and all were individual in their characteristics but there were common portents. At the moment the horizon was clear and there was no high overcast. His concern diminished – it looked to be a regular blow coming in from the Atlantic, more boisterous than usual perhaps but-

‘Sail! I see sail – no, two – up agin the coast!’ The lookout’s hail broke into his thoughts, but already the heavier frigate with her greater height of eye was preparing to go about and Kydd lost no time in conforming. Two sail together was unusual to the point of incredible – there was every possibility that their hunt was over.

After an hour only, the pair were visible from the deck: two pale blobs against the darker green-brown of the Cuban coast, quartering the wind and making remarkably good speed. There was movement out on the yard at Anson’s main-course – she was setting bridles to the forward leech of the sail, with bowlines stretching it out into the teeth of the wind to claw the last particle of drawing power. They must do the same, for any delay in closing with the fast-moving chase there across their bows would end with L’Aurore losing them into the distance.

They were steering an intercepting course, paying off downwind as the two passed ahead five miles distant, then angling in to a stern chase. By now it was certain: the two were French frigates and they were declining action, preserving their ships for their primary task of hunting helpless prey.

It settled quickly into a hard chase. The two ahead stayed tightly together and had every stitch of canvas they could abroad, barrelling into the gathering sunset. L’Aurore and Anson similarly stayed close and tried every trick they could to claw their way up on the pair, but as time passed it was clear they had little chance of hauling up on them before dark.

Dusk drew in, the waves in contrast as they became shadowed, the white of combers startling in the gloom.

Anson set lanthorns aglow in her mizzen-top and, without needing orders, Kydd fell in astern for the night, the weather showing no signs of easing.

There was a moon. It was clear and bright behind them, and with its light on their sails, the enemy frigates were pitilessly revealed.

It was an even match – the contest was anyone’s to lose, and by any man aboard: a mistake in the deceptive light, a line let go too soon putting intolerable strain on a spar, and the ship would be out of the race. Worse – for the remaining frigate it would then be two against one and a different story entirely. Of course it applied to the French as well: if it happened to them, L’Aurore had to be ready to take on the wounded bird while Anson raced on after the other.

Nerves at concert pitch, the four ships stretched out over the sea – until everything changed. A veil of light cloud had spread up from the horizon behind them, high and innocent; now it was joined by denser, lower cloud, which crept out, hiding the stars one by one until it reached the moon. Obscured, its light dimmed, the gloom deepened, then assumed the blackness of night, and the frigates ahead were lost to sight.

It was decision time and Kydd did not envy Lydiard the task. Because their speeds were so even, it was probable that the French would still be in sight in the morning. But they had the opportunity to get away, to make off under cover of dark. They could not turn to starboard for there lay the Cuban coast, but they could to larboard.

The enemy commander would be weighing the advantages of a turn-away against the probability that his opponent would second-guess that he would seize the chance to strike out from his course at some point in the night, in which case his best move would be to keep right on.

Which would Lydiard decide?

The seas were increasing: Kydd felt their savage urge under L’Aurore’s counter, heard the muffled swearing of the two helmsmen as they fought to keep her steady, and knew in his heart what it meant. Before midnight he had confirmation – the barometer was dropping. It was the rate of fall that was the most important, and since the afternoon, it had passed the twenty-nine-inch mark with no sign of slowing.

Somewhere out in the night bluster a storm was gathering, but whether or not it was a dreaded revolving tropical tempest – a hurricane – only time would tell.

The lights of Anson were still ahead. The decision had been made: it was to stay on their course. Kydd could only guess Lydiard had reasoned that, all other things being equal, the French had chosen to keep on the track their mission required, quite in keeping with the overriding need to fly at utmost speed from one place to another.

He slept fitfully in the jerking cot and woke in the crepuscular pre-dawn light, dressing hurriedly. The motion of the ship was the same but more exaggerated – could they fight a blazing action in this? He crushed the worries as they rose, for when day broke the French might well have gone, Lydiard’s decision the wrong one.

Anson’s bulk materialised ahead as the dawn asserted itself, grey and sombre. She was plunging on regardless, a comforting sight, but all eyes were on the steadily widening circle of visibility – and then suddenly, gloriously, there were the French.

Some way to starboard but still ahead, and appreciably closer.

But that made for difficulties. Normally the chase would continue until either the quarry got away or were overhauled. Then it would be battle – but the conditions overnight had worsened, the winds veering even further aft. Waves were leaving long streaks as they were tumbled on before the relentless pummelling, which now had real force behind its steady streaming from the north-east, and the low cloud was starting to drive before it.

Everything now pointed to the near certainty that a hurricane was out there and all prudent mariners would be taking steps to get out of its way. But in the fast deteriorating conditions all four still plunged on before the storm.

‘Mr Kendall,’ Kydd called across to the grave-faced master, ‘shall we talk?’

‘Aye, sir.’

They stood together, each with a firm grip on a rope, eyeing the white-streaked seascape with concern.

‘Glass is at twenty-eight an’ three-fourths last time I looked, sir.’

Kydd glanced up to the fast-moving clouds overhead. ‘Yes, it looks like a hurricane right enough,’ he said. ‘And we’re driving before it.’

There was a rule of thumb that said to face into the wind and the whirling chaos of the centre was somewhere off nine points on the right hand.

Kendall sniffed the wind. ‘And it veers,’ he muttered. ‘That means …’

He didn’t have to explain it to Kydd. The winds feeding the massive gyre did so at an angle, coming in the same all around the rotating mass. Generations of mariners had learned, however, that all was not equal, finding out the hard way that while there were two directions to step out of the way of the onrushing storm only one was to be trusted.

Turning off to the north side would find the ship up against headwinds, which by their angle would try their malignant best to suck the vessel into the centre. Not only that, as the hurricane track nearly always curved to the north, it would continue to bear down on the fleeing ship.

A turn to the south, though, would have the same winds impelling the ship under and behind the deadly system, much to be preferred. This side was called the navigable, the other the dangerous semicircle.

It was easy enough to find out their situation. By the same rule of thumb, it could be seen that if the direction of the wind as the storm approached continued to veer against the compass, to change clockwise, they could be sure they were in the north; if it backed, they were in the south.

‘… and so we’re plumb within the dangerous semicircle,’ finished Kydd.

‘Sir.’

After his two experiences of a hurricane, years in the past, every instinct tore at him to put over the helm and flee before it was too late – but he could not. While the chase went on he was duty-bound to stay with it. And while the Frenchmen had their turn-aside threatened they were staying on course, and while they did so, Anson was never going to let up the chase and Kydd must stay with her as long as he could.

It was now a test of nerves: sooner or later they had to break and run. Who would be first?

Meanwhile, heavy-weather precautions had to be taken before conditions worsened further.

Royals and topgallants had long since been handed and, in conformity with Anson, a reef put in the topsails. Weather cloths were spread to give some relief to the helmsmen, and life-lines rigged fore and aft. Below decks it was vital to see to the securing of the guns, their breeching and tackles doubled and seized, while the spare tiller was laid along, and relieving tackles for its lines rigged. All that a prudent seaman should do aloft or alow was put in hand.

As the morning wore on, a gale developed, a hard, streaming pressure that had men staggering and all canvas hard as a board, a rising doleful drone among the lines from aloft shredding nerves. Spindrift was driven from seething crests to sting and blind, and L’Aurore began to stagger, an uncomfortable surge and jerking as the underlying swell grew.

By midday there was low racing scud above them, with an ominous thickening of the horizon to the east, an ugly darkness tinged with green edging that was the nightmare of a hurricane astern of them.

They were now down to close-reefed topsails on fore and main but with the mizzen staysail and storm mizzen in place of a topsail on the after mast, and still she laboured. Worry set in. Time was fast running out and with it their options.

It was crazy, but it was war. Through angry, foam-streaked seas in a hardening gale, four ships still clung to their duty, heaving and bucketing along in a chase to the death.

Kydd looked up for the thousandth time to the straining canvas and frantically thrumming lines and knew a decision could not long be delayed. He snatched a glance astern, then at the angle of the wind on their bow and finally at the tableau of fleeting ships – and made up his mind. The first ship to break away would be L’Aurore.

It was a giddy relief, and he could see the same in Kendall’s face when he told him.

‘We’s going to have a hard time of it, I’m thinking,’ he shouted, in Kydd’s ear. ‘Can’t turn aside to the nor’ard – land’s too close.’ Kydd was only too aware that the standard method of escaping the clutches of the dangerous semicircle, by taking the worst of the weather on the starboard bow and clawing out, was not possible.

The alternative was shocking. It required that they fall in with the wind and let it drive them across the very maw of the hurricane as fast as they dared in a bid to make the opposite side before they were overtaken by the ravening storm.

If that were not dangerous enough, there would be the fearful risk that conditions close in would be too much for their fine-lined ship and they would be forced to take in all canvas and lie a-try. When still within the dangerous semicircle, the end would be inevitable – with no ability to fight her way free, L’Aurore would be drawn unresisting into the very centre of the madness to her certain annihilation.

Kydd looked ahead for the final time, taking in the sight of Anson, the heavy frigate still smashing her way powerfully onwards after the distant pair, just visible huddling together in the rack of flying spray and mist, then ordered, ‘Up helm!’

Like a nervous colt, L’Aurore slewed around until the winds came in from astern and then began her mad run downwind across the path of the hurricane. Never at her best dead before the wind, she began an edgy, screwing roll that made moving about the bucking deck a trial, but she picked up speed like the thoroughbred she was. He knew that Lydiard would see them departing but he would understand what was going on. He comforted himself with the thought that, as the lightest of them all, it stood to reason that his ship would be first to break out.

The last he saw of Anson, she was still pressing on into the wind-torn seas after her now invisible foe until all were swallowed up in the ferocious weather.

Now it was a fight for survival, all thoughts of the chase gone. Inescapably every mile made took them closer to the heart of the storm but at the same time urged them nearer to the other side.

This was, quite simply, a race, and one determined by the skill and nerve of the captain in keeping sail on to the last moment to avoid the dreaded lying to. And hanging over it all was the unthinkable catastrophe of but a single spar carried away under the strain, in turn throwing intolerable stress on others until L’Aurore was nothing more than a drifting wreck, to be fallen upon by the triumphant hurricane.

The scene was grand – breathtaking and awful at the same time. Seas were lashed into a fury, their seething crests smoking white and leaving long, tiger-clawed lines of foam as they raggedly advanced in a heaving surge, seeming oddly bright under the dark, hellish sky. The heart of the hurricane was somewhere to larboard in the worst of the contrasting darkness and stinging white – it held a quality of supernatural dread, a terrible beast drumming towards them, its banshee howl making conversation impossible.

Calmly, the master was at the compass with a slate, squinting into the wind and taking regular bearings. It was a vital task, for after plotting they would know the path the hurricane was taking. When the bearing of the centre passed across the estimated track they would know they had at last passed out of the dangerous semicircle. Until then they could do nothing but run before the blast while rolling in mad, jerking swoops.

Then, without warning, catastrophe struck.

Above the quarterdeck a tremendous crack sounded clear over the storm’s roar. Before anyone could react, a heavy spar swept down, with a terrifying rip and bang of straining canvas instantaneously giving way, with the tortured twanging of ropes tried beyond endurance. Skewed by the merciless blast on the ragged remnants of canvas, it crashed to the bulwark, pulping one man and sending two into the boiling sea.

Kydd, knocked to his knees, was disoriented at first but saw the quartermaster leap to the fire-axe on the mizzen-mast and begin a frenzied hacking at the tangled mass of rope and torn canvas. Coming to his senses, he threw a glance up. The driver gaff had given way at the jaws, the hinging point of the long spar that ran out from the mizzen-mast along the top of the big fore-and-aft sail, then had tumbled down, rending the sail and leaving severed lines streaming out to leeward.

Crushing from his mind the knowledge of the men in the sea gasping out the last of their lives, he tried to think.

The ship was now unbalanced, beginning a fishtail slewing with canvas on fore and main only – Gilbey at the main-mast and Curzon forward would know to douse sail instantly, but where did that leave them? As near as, damn it, helpless. As if to underscore his thoughts, L’Aurore sheered to take the wind broadside; she rolled deeply and uncontrollably for she had no canvas to steady her, locked now in a drifting curve that would end in her drawn to destruction in the hurricane’s heart – the penalty for not yet having won clear of the dangerous semicircle.

In some way balancing canvas had to be bent to the mizzen-mast, but all spars and rigging had been snatched to ruin by the plunging spar and there was nothing left on which to set any kind of fore-and-aft sail of the kind needed. It was now desperate, and minutes counted before they were drawn too far in to set anything to claw their way out. The life of every soul aboard was in his hands. What was he to do?

Unaccountably a picture came to him of L’Aurore lying peacefully at anchor in Port Royal, the sun high and baking hot, but on the quarterdeck there was relief in the shadow cast by the tautly spread awning. At first he couldn’t see it – then, marvellously, he understood. The awning was of the thickest grade of canvas and not too dissimilar in shape to the ruined driver, but more than that, its design incorporated a euphroe, a piece of shaped wood that allowed multiple lines to be secured to it.

He had his sail; with the euphroe, a single block could be used to haul it up in the hammering blast and its foot could be spread by the fallen boom.

‘Mr Oakley!’ he yelled at the boatswain, who was heaving frantically at the wreckage. ‘Take a crew and rouse out the quarterdeck awning.’

The distracted man goggled at him in horror and Kydd realised he must have thought his captain had taken leave of his senses. He shouted a hurried explanation and the boatswain raced to obey. Messengers were sent to the two forward masts to prepare to get under way again while the remainder of the wreckage was cut away.

The block? Someone had to mount the shrouds to the mizzen-top to secure one tightly there or all would be in vain. Kydd gave another, searching, look up. There was the throat halliard that had previously held the jaw – it was a tackle of two blocks, now with the lower torn away, leaving the upper. It was in place. It would do.

But how? A line had to be reeved through and sent down again to the ‘sail’ for hauling up but that line had to be strong, very strong – and therefore thick and heavy. Who could take such a weight up the shrouds one-handed? No one.

In despair Kydd saw his idea fading on the practicalities. Cudgelling his wits he came up with a solution: a pair of seamen with a light line mounting opposite shrouds. They would use this to haul up the tail of the heavy rope, reeve it through and send it down. That was it, blast it!

He glanced about to select those he would send. There was Poulden at his post by the wheel. It was insanely dangerous work, but the man was a natural seaman. Another? Then a mad thought entered. It was his idea: had he the right to order others into such peril? The answer, of course, was that he had the right and the duty, but a stubborn streak took possession of him.

‘Poulden!’ he bellowed, beckoning to him.

Catching something of the urgency, his coxswain hurried up. Kydd laid out his plan. Without any change of expression, Poulden crossed to the fallen gaff and reached out for the end, snagging the signal halliards. He cut off a length, coiling it around his body, leaped to the shrouds and started mounting them.

Kydd, taking the opposite side, launched himself up. Clear of the deck, the wind was frightful, bullying and wrenching as he climbed, doing all it could to tear him from his hold. He reached the futtock shrouds and discreetly took the lubber’s hole route into the top to find Poulden grimly hanging on at each sickening roll, which, magnified by height, always ended in a brutal jerking.

The line went down to where, below, the boatswain was completing the euphroe double seizing. It was grabbed and the heavier rope bent on. Kydd grasped Poulden’s belt as he used both hands to bring up the line, and then they had it.

Lying flat, they peered over the after side of the top down to where the remaining throat-halliard block swung crazily. Hooking his feet where he could, Kydd reached down for the block. At first it avoided him, painfully trapping his fingers against the mast. One-handed, he managed to seize it and manhandle it over to one side against its strop – and Poulden got the rope through in a single try.

Kydd held him again as he drew the rope through the big sheave with both hands until its hanging weight told – and they were done.

By the time they were back on the deck the makeshift driver was jerking up and on the other masts sail was being shown to the wind. To his immense relief Kydd saw that it was working.

Noticeably steadying under the high canvas, L’Aurore got under way again, slow but very sure.

The centre was so near now, rearing up in appalling dark majesty as if to fall on its prey – but they were winning through. As they crossed the hurricane’s track it was now necessary to bring the wind by degrees on to the quarter to break out of the deathly grip of the revolving storm, by taking advantage of the rotation that was now thrusting towards the rear.

Point by point they edged outwards, the wind, which before was coming in from astern, now off the starboard bow. Then, as they won more sea-room, it was abeam until finally it was on the quarter and they were on their way out of the maelstrom.

Against all the odds they had won, but they were not yet out of danger. Their jury-rig driver sail had saved them but it would be useless in the vital manoeuvres of wearing and tacking about, and therefore they could take up on any course – so long as it was on the starboard tack. It was imperative to find somewhere to come to rest and repair.

And providentially they did, but not in the way Kydd would have wished. Some two hours later, with visibility in the still violent conditions down to a mile or two, across their path appeared the loom of an island.

Gradually it extended right across their field of vision, a dark, wooded land that seemed to hold such menace. It was downwind from them, therefore a lee shore. And without the ability to stay about on to the other tack to get around its unknown length, there was only one thing to do.

‘Stand by to anchor – both bowers!’ he roared. ‘And the last five fathoms with keckling,’ he added, with feeling. It had been many years ago but he would remember always the terrible effect of razor-sharp coral on anchor cable.

The men worked with furious intensity for they knew only too well that if their anchors were not ready for letting go by the time they came up with the land they would most surely drive to destruction on the lee shore. Heavy cable, many fathoms of it, had to be brought up from the cable tiers in the lowest part of the ship, hauled along the deck and finally bent on to the anchors on the outside of the bow. Back-breaking work, but with time slipping by, no relief could be had.

Under just enough sail to steady her, the sore-tested frigate closed with the island, which continued to stretch across the horizon. But which island was it? To the west of Jamaica where, without a doubt, they had been blown, there were none in the half-a-thousand miles right to the Yucatan peninsula – except the Caymans. Kydd racked his tired brain, trying to remember how they lay on the chart, then said, ‘Compliments to Mr Buckle and ask him to step aft.’

Looking the worse for weather, his third lieutenant presented himself.

‘Can you tell me the name of this island?’

‘Why, yes, sir.’

‘Well?’

‘That’s Cayman Brac. You see the long bluff-’

In the wind’s bluster Kydd had to lean forward to catch the words.

‘Yes. Is that all?’

‘There’s two Caymans here, three, four miles apart. Not much in ’em, a handful o’ settler families.’

‘I thought they had quite a few – Georgetown, is it?’

‘Ah, no, sir. You’re thinking on Grand Cayman.’

So, a third island – with a dockyard for repairs? ‘How far is that?’

‘Oh, seventy, eighty miles.’

Out of the question – and time was getting short. ‘We’re to anchor here while we repair. Is there anywhere in sight you recommend?’

Buckle gave it thought. ‘There is, more over to the north. As I remember there’s a small landing place.’

‘A settlement?’

‘Not really, sir. Just a fort on the heights above.’

‘Well done, Mr Buckle! It couldn’t be better.’ That had dealt in one with his greatest anxiety: that an enemy might chance upon them while they were helpless at anchor. They’d safely moor under the watchful guns of the fort.

While the lieutenant conned them in, Kydd scanned the shore. The coast was relatively steep and a tiny plain fringed the shoreline all along the north. Close in, the island was beautiful – but would be L’Aurore’s grave if the anchors gave and she blew ashore in the still seething gale. At the right time both bower anchors were let go, the frigate continuing in to the full scope of the cable and then, under their restraint, was swung around to ride it out, facing into the wind and out to sea. It was masterly timing and a feat of seamanship that could only have come from a matchless ship’s company.

Normally there would be gun salutes and the military flummery of one commander recognising the authority of another, but there was nothing from the low structure peeping above the trees atop the bluff. There was no flag but that was probably because in high winds any would have been torn to rags in minutes. Nevertheless, to set his mind at rest Kydd needed to be sure that the fort knew its business.

‘I’m going to pay a call on the redcoats. You know what to do, Mr Gilbey.’

He left the first lieutenant to start the unenviable task of clearing away the raffle of fraying rope, remnants of canvas and awkward spars on deck in order that the boatswain, carpenter and sailmaker could get to their work.

The boat, going with wind and waves, made good speed inshore in the still boisterous conditions. Kydd had known better than to go for full dress: one of the boat’s crew was set to constantly bailing from seas over-topping the gunwale and by the time they had crossed the outer reef with its creaming seas he was soaked.

He grabbed the sea-slimed ladder on the little jetty and climbed up, his knees nearly buckling at the unforgiving solidity of the land.

There was no one about. All along the beach palm trees were in frenetic motion in the hard wind, and he slitted his eyes against the grains of sand that whipped about his face.

Having hauled the boat clear of the tideline, its crew stood by while he trudged up into a scrubby wooded area, following the rough track. Calloway was with him, respectfully behind. Then the track veered sharply to parallel the beach under the line of the bluff. This was not leading to the fort – Kydd stopped in vexation. Unless they found the right path it made no sense to go on.

They returned and cast about for any track that led up the face of the cliff and eventually spotted one. It was ill-used and overhung by sharp-leaved vegetation that was lashed by the wind, but eventually it emerged at the top, a hundred or more feet above the sea, in a bare and scrubby flat area.

‘Where the devil …?’ Kydd glanced about but could not see a fort. ‘You go that way, I’ll take this. Hail when you spy it.’

He struck off to the left, irritably batting at waving fronds but stopped when he heard a hesitant call. Relieved, he turned and retraced his steps. Rounding an outcrop he saw Calloway pointing to a deserted ruin.

L’Aurore was facing out to sea, innocently snubbing to her anchors and wide open to devastating attack. An enemy had only to come in on her stationary bow to be free from defensive fire, then criss-cross with impunity while smashing in appalling destruction down L’Aurore’s length. It would take minutes only before his command was reduced to a blood-soaked wreck.

In a fever of anxiety he turned and ran down the track. ‘Get back! Boat in the water, damn you!’ he roared at the stunned boat’s crew. He had a short time only to come up with a solution – and racked his brain on the passage back.

It might work! He bounded up the side-steps and found Gilbey. ‘The launch to take away the kedge,’ he said briefly.

The half-ton anchor would be slung under the launch and carried well to seaward and to one side, there to be dropped. The cable in L’Aurore would come in through a stern port and then be heaved in on the capstan, thereby bringing the frigate around parallel to the shore.

Any enemy now would not meet a defenceless ship bow-on but instead a whole broadside, a wall of guns.

The weather was moderating, a brief glimpse of blue sky lifted spirits, and determined faces could be seen around the ship as they set to with the repairs. It was not easy work, for now the seas were coming in on the beam and, without the damping effect of sails, the rolling was tedious. With heavy spars on deck, it was a dangerous place to be.

They worked on without pause; only the tools and material they carried on board could be used and the stakes could not have been higher.

In the event they had barely two hours before sail was sighted.

Kydd realised the imperatives of weather applied just as much to Frenchmen as any other. This frigate’s captain had no doubt seen L’Aurore’s departure and soon after had himself broken out of the dangerous semicircle in the same seaman-like way. It was no coincidence that they had ended up in the same place.

At this point it was likely that he would be looking to round the end of the island to seek shelter in its lee but would be surprised and puzzled to see the English frigate stolidly at anchor on the wrong, weather side.

What was very certain was that there must be a reckoning between them. One or the other would leave their bones in this place and for L’Aurore, without manoeuvrability, the odds were that it would be she.

Kydd felt frustration build. A fair fight in the open sea was one thing; tethered like a goat for the slaughter another. And there was nothing he could do to speed the repair. The carpenter and sailmaker, with their mates, the most vital men in the ship now, were not to be chivvied into hasty work or the consequences would show at the very worst time. They had to be left to get on with it; Kydd must hope they could finish before the weather moderated and the French emerged from their comfortable lee side to close with them.

But he would have to interrupt their labours: even in these conditions standard procedures required that in sight of the enemy he closed up his ship for action. Once around the headland, though, he could stand them down to resume their efforts.

All eyes were on the foe. Under comfortable sail it did not seem particularly interested in them; this was the thirty-two-gun frigate, the larger of the two, and therefore was probably Sieyes’ command.

Kydd studied the ship carefully through his pocket telescope: every sail was trimmed to perfection and drawing well, and it was not evident that she had just come through a hurricane. The ship’s lines showed it was of recent construction – that implied a fit of eighteen-pounders; thirty-two-gun twelve-pounder frigates, like the pre-war L’Aurore, were no longer being built.

The odds were lengthening.

Hull-up, it was apparent they were making to clear the point, passing slowly across their field of vision to the right. Kydd could not help a jet of envy at the sight of the powerful frigate – the French were certainly master ship-builders and it would be a close thing on the morrow when-

‘He’s not going to wait, the beggar!’ yelled someone.

Kydd looked again. In a lazy curve, the frigate was altering course towards them.

He swallowed hard. This was a most unwelcome development and did not add up. Why was the Frenchman going in against an alerted and positioned ship with all her men ready at their guns? His duty was to avoid battle damage at all costs. Whatever the reason …

‘Stand to your guns!’ Kydd barked, then turned to Gilbey and told him to check that the decks were clear aft.

They were as ready as they could be.

But when the frigate had straightened and settled on course to engage, all became clear. There was to be no braving of L’Aurore’s broadside – instead Sieyes, in one audacious move, was going to end the battle before it started.

The big 32 was taking all the time it needed to sail past L’Aurore’s stern, delivering an overwhelming punishment as it did, raking down the length of the tethered vessel, bringing about the utter destruction Kydd had dreaded, and not taking a shot in reply.

This could only be contemplated by a consummate seaman, utterly sure of himself and his ship’s company to consider such a manoeuvre – running close to deliver the blow but then wheeling about on a sixpence in the perilously short distance before the reef and shallows to reach out to sea again for another pass.

They were helpless to stop it – or were they?

‘Chain shot! Every gun – load with chain!’ Kydd bellowed urgently. He ignored the bewildered looks from the gun-deck. There was so little time.

‘The carpenter – tell him to step up on deck this instant,’ he rapped.

What he had in mind was a once-only move. If it failed, they were most certainly finished.

The enemy frigate lined up for its run with deliberation, as deadly as a bullfighter bringing his sword up for the kill. Nearer and nearer, every detail of the ship showing clear and stark – from the men at the guns to those standing by the ropes for the whirlwind of action that must follow the crushing blast.

Kydd watched with an icy calm: timing alone would determine whether his men lived or died.

It was the forefoot of the oncoming warship that was his mark – the angle between that and-

‘Now!’ he roared.

In a blur of motion the carpenter swung his razor-sharp broad-axe. It thudded into the bar-taut cable of the kedge, near severing it in one. Under the strain the rest parted and fell away. Released from her position athwart the wind, L’Aurore immediately began swinging back to face into the gale streaming in, held as before by her bower anchors. And it brought her broadside around to bear – the tables had been turned.

So close, the enemy frigate was committed but had not reached the point where its own guns could bear – the timing had been perfect. With great satisfaction Kydd saw consternation on the opposing quarterdeck as he blared, ‘Fire!’

The guns thundered and blasted in a deliberate broadside – but upwards, producing instant and visible ruin in the Frenchman’s rigging. Canvas ripped and tore as if by a magic hand, severed lines streamed away and the fore main-yard folded gracefully in two, bringing down with it the fore topsail above.

Sieyes had been overconfident: he had not reckoned on Kydd throwing away his only defensive posture and, more importantly, to abandon the British preference for hammering round-shot into the hull for the French practice of shots into the rigging. Now he was about to pay the price.

And it wasn’t long coming. Fighting desperately to come around in time, with their damage and in the prevailing conditions, they didn’t stand a chance and, slowly but surely, like the inevitable climax of a Greek tragedy, the frigate struck.

Immediately it slewed and heeled, the seas surging and smashing against the bare, glistening hull like a half-tide rock, beginning a merciless battering and assailing of the doomed ship. By morning there would be nothing but wreckage.

It had been only minutes from start to finish.