Conquest

Chapter 1

Captain Thomas Kydd held his impatience in check. Still in thrall to the all-so-recent cataclysm of Trafalgar, he and his ship had played escort to the body of Admiral Nelson in their grief-stricken return to England. Then, immediately, he had been given orders for sea, falling back on the Nore to victual and store with the utmost dispatch before setting forth to attempt urgent rendezvous with Commodore Home Popham in Madeira.

Much affected by the loss of the great commander, Kydd had at first resented not being able to attend what would no doubt be the greatest funeral of the age, but as all of Nelson’s victorious battle-fleet, save the legendary Victory, were still faithfully on station, who were he or his men to complain?

Under a press of sail, L’Aurore had braved the hard south-westerlies and was now rounding the last point before the deep anchorage of Funchal Roads opened up.

Madeira was peculiarly well located at the crossroads of the pattern of trade routes that led to Europe; merchant shipping and naval vessels alike gratefully raised landfall before the last few weeks of far voyaging – or girded for long months outward bound. Now, in winter, the little island was at its best: an emerald jewel in the warmer reaches of the Atlantic, with crystal water, succulent fruits and blessed rest for mariners who had won clear of the Channel’s bluster on their way to exotic destinations.

Kydd peered through the throng of shipping to a denser group, and caught sight of the swallowtail of a commodore’s pennant high aloft in an elderly 64-gun ship. They were in time!

He assumed a strong quarterdeck brace. Kydd knew that his ship – a thoroughbred light frigate captured from the French a bare year ago – was at her best, even with all the haste in getting back to sea. His head lifted in pride at the impression she must be making on the eyes now upon her – and he remembered how, in a similar frigate, he had passed this way all those years ago, a young sailor before the mast, making skilled seaman from humble press-ganged beginnings. And now he was captain of his own frigate . . .

This was no time for reminiscing: he had served with Popham before and was eager to make his acquaintance again – and find out what was in store for L’Aurore.

Shortening sail, they threaded their way through the packed shipping, no difficulty for the nimble frigate on a favourable wind, and in short order their anchor plunged down and their thirteen-gun salute cracked out.

He was met on Diadem’s quarterdeck with all the ceremonial of a post-captain coming aboard a flagship. ‘A swift passage, Mr Kydd,’ Popham said, the intelligent eyes appraising. ‘I count myself fortunate that you shall now be able to join our little enterprise.’

There had been just the barest details about it in his orders, Kydd reflected, but he replied respectfully, ‘I’m honoured to be here.’ Then he ventured, ‘Er, you did say “enterprise”, sir? I’m as yet mystified as to its purpose.’

Popham gave him a quizzical look, then dealt with a hovering first lieutenant before inviting Kydd to a sherry below. He wasted no time on pleasantries. ‘The French fleet has been destroyed and the way is made clear for us to take the offensive. This is nothing less than the first move in a race to empire!’

‘Sir, I don’t—’

‘Are you in doubt of empire, Mr Kydd? The world is populated by quantities of benighted heathens who, in the nature of things, will be ruled by one or other of the Great Powers until they be of stature to stand alone. It were better for them that it be us, with our enlightened ways, than the selfish and rapacious Mr Bonaparte, do you not think, sir?’

There could be little arguing at that level, or with the notion that this war of Napoleon would not continue indefinitely. Whoever had the greatest empire at its end would dominate the world and its trade. Kydd finished his sherry. ‘Sir, may I know where we shall, er, strike?’

Popham frowned. ‘You haven’t been informed?’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘Then tonight will be a capital occasion for you to learn at first hand. We sail in thirty-six hours and this evening will be the last chance for some time for the principals of the campaign to dine together in anything approaching civilised comfort. I hope I may see you there.’

At Kydd’s look, he added, ‘And never fear, sir, tomorrow you’ll have the requisite orders and details that shall see you satisfied in the particulars.’

Funchal, the capital of Madeira, was set in a natural amphitheatre among stern mountains, its neat white houses nestling in ascending rows. Surrounded by vineyards and plantations and well supplied by streams from the craggy uplands, it had an unusually attractive scenting from the many groves of figs, mangoes and red-fleshed oranges.

Admiring the pleasant vista from the quarterdeck, Kydd said, to his friend and confidential secretary Nicholas Renzi, ‘I suspect this dinner will be long. If you—’

‘Do not concern yourself on my account, dear chap,’ Renzi murmured. ‘I believe we shall have a tolerable enough time of it ashore.’ The port was well regarded by a number of the ship’s officers, who’d confided they were familiar with where the most agreeable entertainments could be found.

After Trafalgar, Kydd knew L’Aurore’s ship’s company was hard, experienced and reliable – men like Poulden, his coxswain, in the past a stout-hearted seaman who had stood by him when he was a newly promoted lieutenant in those days of endurance in the old Tenacious. Stirk, at a forward six-pounder, hard as nails and from whom, as a raw landman, Kydd had learned lessons of fearlessness and the rough moral code of the lower deck; and Doud, spinning a yarn with the boatswain’s mate, another long-ago messmate who had come to join others from his past, wanting to share fortune with Tom Kydd, their old shipmate.

L’Aurore’s officers had seen three changes. Kydd’s former first lieutenant, Howlett, had been promoted out of the ship, and his second, the tarpaulin Gilbey, had taken his place, with the well-born Curzon moved up to second lieutenant.

The last-minute replacement for third now stood stoically on the quarterdeck, as most junior, to remain on watch aboard while his seniors disported ashore. Before Kydd went below to change, he crossed to the young man. ‘So, do I see you contented with your lot, Mr Bowden?’

He beamed. ‘That I am, Mr Kydd,’ he said proudly. ‘You may depend upon it.’

Hiding a smile, Kydd tested the tautness of a line from aloft. ‘Do you take care of my ship while I’m away, sir. I’ll not have it all ahoo when I return.’

‘I will, sir,’ Bowden replied, and turned to glare at the inoffensive mate-of-the-watch.

The young man had started his naval career as a midshipman under Kydd in the Mediterranean some years before, and then had gone on to be signal midshipman in Victory. In the wave of promotions following the famous battle, he had achieved his lieutenancy – able to claim a reduction in the strict requirement for six years at sea before his lieutenant’s exam – as a passed student of the Naval Academy.

Kydd had initially been puzzled as to how Bowden had managed appointment into a prime 32-gun frigate. Then he’d remembered that, in the young man’s ancient naval family, his uncle was a very senior captain at the Admiralty. It was, however, a most sincere compliment.

At four precisely Kydd stepped out of his carriage into the dignified but antiquated St Jolin’s Castle, nobly perched above the town. An army subaltern in kilt and full Highland regalia came forward to receive him. ‘Captain Kydd? We are expecting you, sir. Come this way, if you will.’

The castle had been borrowed for the occasion and Portuguese soldiery in colourful finery faced stolidly outward from the wall, their eyes ceremoniously following the visitors’ movements in the Continental style.

Met by a rising hubbub of noise, Kydd emerged into a medieval banqueting hall filled with army officers in scarlet and gold, and here and there the dark blue of a naval officer. With the barbaric splendour of massed candles and the glitter of ancient armour and hangings on the lofty walls, it seemed to him a fitting place for the meeting of lords of war on the eve of battle.

He paid careful respect to the aged and pompous castellan wearing dress of another age, and then Popham found him. ‘Kydd, old chap, do come and meet the others.’

There were fellow naval captains: Downman of Diadem, Byng of Belliqueux, Honyman of Leda. And then the army: brigadier generals and colonels, fierce-gazed and each in the warlike colour of Highland regiments.

Finally it was a formal introduction to the principal himself. ‘Sir, may I present Captain Thomas Kydd of L’Aurore frigate of thirty-two guns, new joined. Mr Kydd, Major General Sir David Baird, commander of this expedition.’

Kydd bowed politely, frustrated that he still knew so little of what was afoot.

‘Well, now, sir, and it’s been a long time!’

Taken aback, Kydd noted calculating eyes and a tall, handsome frame. ‘Er, you have the advantage of me, Sir David,’ he said carefully.

Baird’s eyebrows drew together. ‘Come, come, sir! You’ll be telling me next you’ve altogether forgotten our little contretemps in the sands o’ the Nile.’ He threw a look of mock exasperation at Popham. ‘The plicatile boats, was it not? Quite took Kleber’s veterans in the rear – heh, heh! Why, sir, do you think I’ve asked for you specifically in an expedition of a sea-borne nature?’

Kydd realised his summons to Madeira must have been in consultation with Popham, who had been naval commander in the Red Sea at that time, the occasion when a successful landing from the sea had put paid to Napoleon’s stranded Army of Egypt. Baird had been at Alexandria with them for the final scenes. It had been one of the few victories the army could boast of in the last war.

He inclined his head. ‘Ah, on the contrary, sir, that is a success-at-arms that will remain with me for ever.’

‘As it should.’

‘General Baird has a high regard for the Navy, Mr Kydd,’ Popham interposed smoothly.

‘As will be tested to the full at the Cape!’ Baird snapped.

‘The Cape, sir?’

As if to an imbecile, Baird spluttered, ‘The Cape of Good Hope, of course, man!’

The next day Popham duly sent for Kydd. ‘Some refreshment?’ he asked solicitously, beckoning to his steward in the great cabin of Diadem.

Kydd was well aware of the capricious humour of his superior from their shared experience of the American inventor Robert Fulton and his submarines, but he was tired of being left so long in the dark.

However, as Popham began providing details of the enterprise he could see it was a bold, imaginative and daring stroke. In this first thrust of empire the British would move not against the French but the Dutch – to take the strategically vital colony at the very furthest tip of Africa that the Hollanders had settled as far back as 1652.

To date they had done little to antagonise the British, their interests lying more in safeguarding their Spice Islands trade to the east, but as the vessels of every nation heading for India, China and even the new land of Australia must necessarily pass close by, any stiffening of attitude would cause catastrophic harm.

It had been resolved that the situation could not be suffered to continue. The British would seize the Cape so that in any further thrust for empire they would be sitting squarely astride the trade routes of the world.

It was easier said than done. The Dutch were a proud people and could be counted on to resist. An opposed landing on a hostile shore all of seven thousand miles from home would be the most ambitious warlike endeavour Britain had yet contemplated.

The enterprise had been planned and launched in great secrecy; the military transports had sailed from Cork and the naval support from other ports – it was here at Madeira that the final assembly of the fleet had been concluded. It was to be a joint army and navy operation, which was not uncommon, but with the different perspectives of these two arms of the military there was always potential for unforeseen problems.

‘What is our force, sir?’ Kydd asked.

Popham frowned. ‘Not as it will terrify the enemy,’ he muttered. ‘In a descent of this importance we are granted no ships-o’-the-line save three old sixty-fours and a contemptible fifty. For the rest we have but two frigates, a brig-sloop and a gun-brig.’

Kydd blinked, astonished. This was fewer than there had been in many minor operations he had witnessed and he felt a stir of misgiving. Was this a measure of the importance Whitehall was giving the enterprise?

With a sudden cynical insight he saw the reason: if the venture failed, as well it might, the costs would be minimal and easily explained away.

‘And for the landing?’ After his experiences in Egypt and Acre he was well aware of the difficulties facing troops attempting to establish a foothold on a fiercely defended shore.

‘Beyond our preceding gunfire support, nothing. Once landed, the army is on its own.’

‘With—’

‘Soldiers of the Seventy-first and Seventy-second Highland Regiment of Foot, the Seaforths; the Sutherlanders – that’s the Ninety-third – and the South Wales Borderers out from Egypt. For cavalry they rejoice in the Jamaica Light Dragoons. Light artillery: some, the Royal Artillery with six-pounders, providing we can get them landed. And . . . well, shall we say but two brigades in all, of some two to three thousand effectives?’

Against who knew how many troops on their home ground, easy supply lines inland and the ever-present threat of French reinforcements, it was a breathtaking assumption that at the end of a lengthy and wearying voyage they would be fit enough to stand and fight, equipped only with what they could carry with them.

‘If you’ll be frank with me, sir, can you tell me a little of the army commanders?’ It was perhaps presumptuous but Kydd knew that Popham would be open in his opinions: it was his way to allow his subordinates to know his thinking.

‘The Highlanders, a hot-blooded enough lot. Colonel Pack, a firebrand, Lieutenant Colonel the Lord Geoffrey MacDonald, Lord of the Isles – like ’em all, hungry for glory. Well led, they’ll give a good account of themselves, I believe.

‘The generals: there’s Lord Beresford, a prickly chap, second to Baird but competent enough. Yorke, with the artillery – an old-fashioned sort, stickler for the forms but brave to a fault.’

He paused. ‘Major General Baird is likeable enough – we get along. He’s shrewd, a calm thinker and sees things through. I have no doubt but if he sees a chance he’ll not hesitate to take it.’

‘And if not . . . ?’

‘He’ll not sacrifice his men, not after what he’s been through.’

‘Oh?’

‘You saw the sword he wears?’

Kydd remembered a rather outlandish and extravagantly ornamented curved Oriental weapon.

‘He seized that from the still warm body of Tippoo Sahib after Seringapatam and has worn it since. Can’t find it in me to blame him – Baird was once incarcerated by him in chains for three years, with his men of the Seventy-first, in atrocious circumstances, after being overwhelmed in battle by the man’s father. It must have been a sweet revenge indeed.’

‘Just so,’ Kydd said uneasily. ‘Not as if he has a thirst for blood still?’

‘Hmm. Can’t really say. Now to details, sir. I’m to be flag officer afloat for this expedition and you’ll have my orders and form of signals. These will be straightforward enough, your role in this as escorting frigate to the transport convoy, and at the landing, close gunfire support. After that, well, we’ll see how it all goes.’

Drawing his chair closer, Kydd followed where Popham was indicating in a list.

‘This is the composition of our convoy. Thirteen Indiamen for the regiments and artillery, and thirty-seven of all sorts for their impedimenta and stores.’

Kydd gave a tight smile. With their derisory force, it was a frightful risk: if even a single modern French sail-of-the-line came upon their expedition it would result in a massacre. The longer they were at sea the more exposed to this risk they were, and it would prove a nightmare to provide water and victuals to the thousands of soldiers as they sailed through the fearsome equatorial heat down the length of Africa. And their horses would suffer horrifically, clapped under hatches as they passed through the burning desert of the doldrums.

As if reading Kydd’s thoughts, Popham nodded. ‘Long weeks at sea, yes. However, we shall be touching at the Brazils to water and recuperate before the final leg.’

The anti-clockwise wind-circulation pattern in the South Atlantic made the longer semi-circular passage away from Africa across the ocean to South America the more efficient. But that last leg remained more than four thousand miles and Kydd’s heart went out to the soldiers who must endure for so long, then be called upon to give their all in a convulsive life-and-death struggle.

‘In course,’ Popham added lightly, ‘before we get under way we will purchase replacements for any horses that may die on passage.’

Popham’s responsibility was to ensure the safe arrival of the whole complex structure to its climax at the landing: the jocular tone hid deep worry. Despite his reservations, Kydd asked, with brisk enthusiasm, ‘Then, sir, what is our plan for the final assault?’

‘Why, Captain, that rather depends on the report of the frigate sent to reconnoitre before our arrival, don’t you think?’ he said, with an innocent smile.

In the cold light of morning, the invading fleet made ready to sail. To a casual onlooker it was impressive: fifty or more sail crowding Funchal Roads, a mighty armada about to descend on a luckless enemy.

But to any knowledgeable observer the truth was very different. A dozen of the very largest were nothing more than Indiamen, some with troops – but, as well, laden with luxury cargo and passengers, intended in the event of a dismal failure to continue on to Calcutta and the Raj. Other ships, crammed with artillery and stores, were slow and vulnerable. Still more were anonymous utilitarian hulls, of varying size down to the pipsqueak Jack, a Botany Bay ship hired for the task by a harried Transport Board and of questionable fitness for the long voyage.

And all that had been spared to escort them could virtually be counted on the fingers of one hand.

It was madness. Compelling evidence lay at anchor away to one side: a survivor of an Indies convoy found by Admiral Allemand and his squadron, which had sortied from Rochefort, the so-called ‘invisible squadron’ sent to play havoc off the coasts of Africa.

This convoy, escorted by a single ship, the 50-gun Calcutta, had been set upon by five ships-of-the-line, frigates and corvettes, but in a magnificent yet doomed show of defiance and resolution she had fought the odds, leading the enemy away from her convoy. She had finally struck her colours to prevent further loss of life but all except one of her charges had been able to escape.

Allemand was still at sea, whereabouts unknown. So, too, was the breakout fleet of Admiral Jean-Baptiste Willaumez, even larger and reputedly including Napoleon’s brother – both somewhere in the wastes of ocean, looking for prey and revenge for Trafalgar. If either came up with Popham’s fleet, there would be a massacre.

‘This will do, Mr Kendall,’ Kydd told the sailing master, satisfied with their offshore position, which was well placed to receive the ships now awkwardly getting under way and endeavouring to assemble in some sort of order. The seaward approaches were secured by the other frigate, Leda, and the two sloops, and the convoy, in two loose columns, began falling in behind Raisonnable and Diadem.

As if in concord with their mood, the sky was leaden and louring, the seas with an irritated slop and hurry, while Kydd manoeuvred L’Aurore back and forth in the inevitable never-ceasing efforts to encourage stragglers. Eventually the lines of ships, backing and filling with impatience, were rewarded by the Blue Peter in Diadem whipping down. They were on their way.

At first it was fresh going, running the north-east trade-winds down, the airs warming by the day until in flying-fish weather the convoy laid the Cape Verde islands to larboard to enter the deep Atlantic.

They were lucky: it was at all of three degrees north latitude before the winds eased to a pleasant zephyr and settled to a wispy breeze, fluky and baffling. The doldrums.

Sails hung in their gear, slatting lazily, while the heat descended in a thick, inescapable blanket, melting the tar in deck seams, turning the enclosed mess-deck into a torment to be endured. For three days it continued, ships scattered in random stillness over the glittering furnace, each with its burden of suffering.

On the fourth the first blessed whispers of air from the south-east arrived, playful cats-paws on the sea surface that lifted canvas and set lines from aloft to a cheerful rattle. Sweating sailors braced around and L’Aurore glided forward, the chuckling of water at her forefoot bringing pleased smiles to every face.

However, what could set a fine frigate to motion was not enough for the cumbrous transports, which lay obstinately unmoving. Even when the wafting breeze firmed, it left some like massive drifting logs, and as the day wore on it became clear that the convoy was in danger of disintegrating because those who were able to sailed on.

Kydd was summoned to pass within hail of Popham and received orders to stay by the laggards as a separate formation. He watched the others sail off at speeds not much more than a baby’s crawl; they were still distant white blobs on the horizon in the morning when he set about marshalling his brood.

They were a round dozen sail, including the important King George, with General Yorke and the expedition’s artillery aboard, the William Pitt transport, others with Highland regiments in fearful conditions below decks – and Britannia, laden with specie for paying troops and the laying in of supplies.

The south-easterly wafted about but then held steady and the little fleet got under way, heading for their rendezvous at Salvador, the last point of land before the assault on the Cape. L’Aurore prudently held an upwind rearward position.

They made better time once the south-easterly trades had got into their stride, soon nearing the Brazilian coast. However, as they reached southward the same south-easterly turned first brisk, then decidedly boisterous.

It stayed that way for the best part of a day, but when it subsided, Kydd spotted a signal of distress flying from William Pitt. If the vessel fell behind he could not risk the others, and it was out of the question for the fine-lined frigate to take the lumbering transport in tow. He ordered the convoy to heave to: he would see for himself. With the mild and obliging Legge, L’Aurore’s carpenter, sitting awkwardly next to Kydd, along with his mates and half a dozen hands, the captain’s barge pulled over to the big ship lying with backed topsails.

It was raining on and off, and Kydd mounted the dripping side-steps in the oppressive damp heat with care. Waiting to greet him were a pair of colonels and an apologetic ship master. ‘Captain Kydd, might I present—’

‘Damn it, the man wants t’ know what’s to do,’ growled the taller of the colonels, fixing Kydd with a flinty stare. ‘An’ I’ll tell him. Oh, Pack, o’ the Seventy-first Highlanders. Think we met briefly at St Jolin’s,’ he added, without waiting for a reply. ‘Sir, we’re served ill by the parcel o’ knaves who outfitted the Pitt for this expedition. A right gimcrack job they made of it.’

Kydd’s eyes narrowed. ‘Colonel, a signal of distress from this ship was observed and I’d be obliged to know—’

‘Come below,’ ordered Pack, without explanation, leading down the hatchway. A wafting stench thickened as Kydd followed him to the main-deck where a musty gloom enveloped them.

As his eyes became accustomed to the shadows he saw the whole deck had been partitioned into horse stalls. But many were empty, and the horses remaining were standing listlessly, swaying with the ship’s movements and occasionally staggering.

‘Sir,’ said Pack, heavily, ‘I ken this is none of y’ doing, but I’ll have ye know we’re in a sad pass. Without horses on the field o’ battle we’re helpless to turn an infantry attack, repel cavalry, press home an advantage – in short, sir, I’m sore puzzled to know how we can claim to be an army without ’em.’

They reached a stall where a grey horse lay on its side, neck extended, breathing in short, rapid gasps. A groomsman and other soldiers in soiled uniforms looked up helplessly.

‘We’ve lost eleven b’ breaking their legs, losing their footing in this damn sea. Others takin’ a fever in this damp and more refusing t’ drink because the water’s sour – some fool thinking to put it into old beer casks – and that’s o’ those that made it through that hell across the equator!’

Pack knelt beside the animal. ‘This is my faithful Lory.’ He looked up with great sorrow. ‘We charged together at Pondicherry and again in Egypt. Now, d’ye see?’ he said, gently lifting the horse’s eyelid. There was an acrid discharge from an eye that held the greatest depth of misery Kydd had ever seen in an animal.

The colonel glared at the groomsman, who muttered defensively, ‘Aye, an’ there’s nowt more we can do, sir. Obedient to y’r orders, th’ best oatmeal in gin an’ hot water three times a day, but I’m grieved t’ say he’s never touchin’ it now, sir.’

Pack lowered his head in dejection – then jerked to his feet and thrust his face at Kydd. ‘Distress! You lecture me o’ distress! I’m to land my regiment in the face o’ the enemy with – with animals only fit for the knacker’s yard.’

He drew in a ragged breath and fixed Kydd with a terrible glare. ‘What are ye going t’ do, man? I say, what’s the Navy going to do about it, hey?’

Kydd returned his stare with a look of mute obstinacy for there was not a single thing he could do.

The noon sight placed them safely south of St Paul’s rocks, a lethal sprawl located squarely across the path of ships crossing from one continent to another, nearly a thousand miles out in the middle of the ocean. However, their position was well known and the track of a vessel could be set ahead of time to clear them. What mariners most feared were hazards to be encountered off continental coasts, under-sea extensions of land that reached out to disembowel incautious ships venturing too close.

But with two powerful enemy squadrons on the loose, Kydd needed to quit the broad sea-lanes, where he knew they would be ranging, to reach the closest point of South America now just a few hundred miles away, and then keep well in until he made Salvador.

Before dusk, with the prospect of Brazil in a day or two, L’Aurore took the lead, Kydd wary of any predators that might be lurking inshore.

Eventually he turned in, his mind alert to the dread cry of ‘Sail!’ Would he wake to be pitched into chaos? How could he shield his flock against a line of battleships? Would it all end with L’Aurore being pounded to a wreck to buy time while his charges fled desperately? As his imagination brought him images of blood and ruin, Kydd turned restlessly in the hot darkness and drifted into sleep.

An urgent cry woke him in a wash of cold shock – but it was not the French. The shriek ‘Breeakers! I see breakers dead ahead!’ was joined by another until all three lookouts were shouting together.

He threw himself out of bed and raced for the hatchway. As he thudded up the steps he heard Gilbey bellowing above, rousing the watch to wear ship. ‘A gun!’ Kydd shouted breathlessly, as he made the deck. ‘Signal the convoy!’

In the inky darkness men pushed and stumbled to their stations, joined by others boiling up from below. Braces and tackles thrown off, the helm went down and the frigate began to pay off, Kydd picking up on the betraying flash of a line of white in the gloom ahead.

The fog swivel forward cracked out at last and was joined by the deeper flash and bang of one of the quarterdeck guns. The level-headed master’s mate Saxton had men around the other guns, and a steady banging started into the night, L’Aurore’s desperate warning to the ships trustfully following her.

Suddenly another cry went up. ‘Land hooo! Land all t’ loo’ard!’ The lookout had made out a denser mass of blackness that lay low and ominous on the other side, betrayed only by occasional flecks of white at the shoreline.

Committed to their turn away it seemed that they had run into some kind of bay or inlet and Kydd could not see how they would beat out against the wind into the unknown rock-strewn night.

‘I have the ship, Mr Gilbey,’ he bawled, and wheeled on the quartermaster. ‘Midships your helm.’ Then, roaring down the deck at the boatswain, ‘Mr Oakley, belay that wear – we anchor!’

Cancelling a manoeuvre in mid-action in the darkness and substituting another was incredibly risky. He knew his crew to be the best – but what of the convoy following? Spotting Curzon in a laced nightshirt, loyally with his men at the main-mast, he hailed, ‘Take a crew. And fire any gun to larboard you find charged!’

It was usual to meet the dawn with guns ready loaded and he was in effect ordering a rolling broadside. Any ship following would have no doubt there was deadly danger ahead.

By degrees the confusion lessened. The brailed-up sails, flogging murderously in the stiff wind, were brought under control as a first anchor was readied and let go. Riding lanthorns were rigged in the tops, and soundings were taken that had Kendall pursing his lips in worry.

Answering gun-flashes came out of the night; one by one pinpricks of lights flickered into existence as other captains saw the peril and decided to ride it out at anchor until daylight revealed the situation.

Were they in time? Anything could be happening in the invisible darkness, and the hours until dawn dragged unbearably for Kydd. If any of his charges was wrecked, the consequences to the expedition would be disastrous and he would answer for it.

When a grey dawn reluctantly drew back the dim veil yard by yard the scene became clear. They had stumbled across an atoll unlike any Kydd had seen before. It was an utterly desolate low complex of sand and rocks, distorted and evil, in the rough shape of a crescent, and they lay deep within its hollow curve.

Of his dozen sail, ten were safe. Under bare masts they jibbed at anchor, some uncomfortably but, as far as it was possible to see, unharmed.

However, two were in serious trouble. King George, deep laden with artillery and stores and carrying not only General Yorke but reportedly regimental women and children, lay at an angle within an appalling tangle of broken rocks. The Atlantic seethed white around the ship and in the cold early light, black figures could be seen milling about her canted decks.

Britannia, the large Indiaman with near five hundred soldiers and £300,000 in chests of Spanish dollars on board, had clearly been in a collision, her bowsprit broken off short and foremast down, but she was clear of the rocks, drifting along the shore. She would have to be left while they did what they could at the doomed ship.

‘Away, all boats!’ Kydd rapped. Gilbey in the pinnace would take charge at the scene. In a very short time, dozens of other small craft were stroking vigorously for the stricken King George from the ships at anchor.

Kydd took a telescope and trained it on the wreck. Gilbey had the boats coming alongside in an orderly manner and passengers were being made ready to be handed down into them. Over the rearing bows a spritsail yard had been lashed, a precarious bridge to a larger rock clear of the surf; the soldiers were being directed down this to wait in a huddle for the boats.

He handed back the glass. In the best traditions of the sea, lives were being saved by calm and resolute action, and there was every prospect that it would all end without grievous toll.

The boats began to return, survivors heading for the blessed security that was a King’s ship. Some were hauled aboard, crowding the deck. But L’Aurore was a fighting frigate and Kydd waved off any boat not theirs. With these numbers most would have to be redistributed among the other merchantmen.

At last Gilbey made his way back and pulled himself aboard wearily. ‘All off, sir, a good day’s work.’ He hesitated then went on, ‘That is, all save one.’

‘Oh?’

‘The general, I’m grieved t’ say.’

‘General Yorke?’ Kydd said, disbelieving what he heard.

‘He’s – that is to say, he was an old man an’ not so sprightly, sir. When his soldiers went over the sprits’l yard and the passengers an’ women lowered over the side in a bowline he was begged to go with ’em but wouldn’t hear of it. Said high words about honour an’ being a gentleman and insisted on going out on to the yard like his men.’

‘And then?’

‘Well, sir, he waits till all his men are off an’ then gets out on the spar. But, sir, he . . . he took fright as some do an’ froze. Wouldn’t hear of we takes a bowline to him, no, sir. He stayed there till a wave took him and he slipped off below . . . into the surf aroun’ the rocks, an’ we . . . we never found him after.’

‘I’ll need your report in writing on this, Mr Gilbey,’ Kydd said dully. The old soldier, with distinguished service going back to the American war, to end like this . . .

His attention returned to Britannia. It looked as if, with her bows in ruin from the collision, she’d had difficulty in getting an anchor away. Although still drifting, she appeared in no immediate danger.

Then she stopped abruptly. Kydd peered through the glass and saw she had driven into a crag forward. Slewing round under the impetus, she tore off and continued her downwind drift, but within a short time her colours jerked down and were re-hoisted upside-down.

The level-headed master of Britannia was not given to gestures. ‘Buoy ’n’ slip the cable, Mr Oakley!’ Kydd roared down the deck and turned to order sail set. Every minute counted. There was no time to hoist in the boats and they were towed in a gaggle astern as L’Aurore fell off the wind and turned to make for Britannia.

‘Must be bad wounded, them gettin’ their distress flag up s’ quick an’ all,’ muttered someone behind Kydd.

The frigate spread her wings and was soon up with the hapless Indiaman. ‘Lost our rudder,’ cried a figure on her quarterdeck. ‘Our bows stove – no hope for it.’

‘You’ll abandon?’ Kydd hailed back.

‘This moment!’

The upper-deck of this prime vessel of the East India Company was crowded; she was much sought after for comfortable berths and gentle living and had been first choice to freight the expedition’s treasure.

Kydd saw boats by the dozen putting out again from the rest of the ships. His duty now was to secure the bullion. ‘Poulden,’ Kydd addressed his coxswain standing quietly by the wheel, ‘take away my barge with your trusties and do what you can to lay hold of the pay chests.’

Confused shouting, muffled screams and female shrieks rising above an excited hubbub drifted across the water.

‘Mr Kendall,’ Kydd called to the sailing master, ‘I want to see us lying off no more than a half-pistol-shot, as will give the boats less distance to pull.’

Poulden returned with twelve heavy chests in the bottom boards. A yardarm whip was quickly rove to sway them out and then he hastily set out again.

Not long after they had left, it became clear that Britannia’s time was upon her. Down by the head, she had taken a pronounced list towards them and those remaining aboard hastened to find a place in the boats. A dull rumble and agonised cracking came from deep within and the heel increased visibly.

Where was Poulden? Kydd saw the last few aboard the Indiaman tumble into the boats but there was no sign of the barge.

Britannia lurched spasmodically, and slowly, grandly, her masts arced down as she lay over for her final moments. Was Poulden below, heroically bringing up the last of the chests? There was no time for delay: L’Aurore had to be manoeuvred clear of the sinking ship.

The end was abrupt: in a corkscrew motion she plunged and capsized, her huge bare hull glistening obscenely before she vanished in a final paroxysm of vast bubbles and plumes of spray.

Beyond, where they had been out of sight behind the big ship, L’Aurore’s barge bobbed disconsolately, waiting while the sea disgorged its wrecked spars and floating debris from the depths before it began pulling back.

Poulden was at the tiller, but when it hooked on at the chains it was plain there were no more chests. ‘Tried, sir, but . . . but there was this – this madman!’ He trailed off, lost for speech.

Stirk, one of the boat party, took up the tale with relish: ‘Aye, a right reg’lar-built loon! Stands athwart th’ chests wavin’ a cutlass, his pockets stuffed wi’ Spanish cobbs, swearin’ as how he’d been a poor man all his days but bigod he was going t’ leave this world stinkin’ rich!’

Salvador was raised within the week without further incident, and L’Aurore thankfully rejoined the expedition fleet at anchor in the majestic sweep of the Bay of All Saints. Popham heard Kydd out courteously, visibly saddened at the news of General Yorke.

But other matters were pressing. Surprised and gratified by the arrival of so many ships in want of repairs, with thousands of mouths to feed and provision for, the merchants and speculators of the tawdry little town immediately trebled their prices, the goods of contemptible quality. And to a man the merchant community refused to accept paper credit on the British Treasury, the news of Trafalgar not yet current.

Many of the horses had died at sea and those left were in a sickly condition. Prices for replacements and additions were ridiculous and subalterns were sent up-country with what little cash remained after the loss of Britannia, but this resulted only in a string of a dozen rangy ponies, beasts untrained for war.

It was not possible to delay further: it was essential to be under way on the last stage before word about their destination slipped out. With as little fuss as possible the fleet put to sea, their destination – the shores of Africa.

Leda was far out on L’Aurore’s beam, a tiny smudge of white on the deep blue horizon. The two frigates racing across the South Atlantic were on a mission of reconnaissance and their orders were clear: if at any time a French battle squadron was sighted, the fastest – L’Aurore – would return down the expedition’s designated track to warn, while the other stayed to track the French.

Otherwise it was a matter then of Leda ranging north up the African coast, L’Aurore south around the Cape with the aim of ensuring there were no lurking enemy waiting to fall upon the rear of the assault. On their return they were to seek what intelligence they could concerning defences and military capability before making rendezvous at the landing.

It was direct evidence of Popham’s anxiety that he had detached his only two frigates for the task, leaving his fleet to sail on blind.

The stakes could not have been higher.