In his inattention Kydd had nearly tripped over the bight of a circle of long-splicing that the lad was working on. He picked up the piece and squinted down its length. ‘Why, that is a caution to the fo’c’slemen themselves, I’d swear.’ On the gratings a blank-faced seaman sat cross-legged. A wash of warmth came at the sight of Doud, lined and tattooed, the picture of a deep-sea mariner. Long ago it had been this man who had made it possible for him, a raw landman, to climb the rigging to the main-top in the old Royal Billy at Spithead. Later he had ventured out on the main-yard, to the topsail yard and then-
Suddenly he had it! This thinking about masts and yards, sails – a frigate would rightly shy from another if the mission was more important, but if it came across easy meat, a contemptible little sloop, perhaps, then it could make to capture it or even ignore it. Either way it could be enticed closer until the fast-sailing L’Aurore had a chance of closing with it.
‘Mr Oakley!’ he hailed, striding back to the quarterdeck. ‘I have a pretty problem in the article of rigging, and I’d be obliged if you’d attend on me.’
It took some explaining, but it brought a broad grin to the red-headed boatswain, who stumped off forward, bawling for his men. It was hard work, but by the ringing of eight bells at the beginning of the dog-watches it was done, and over supper and grog the seamen had something daring to talk about.
The morning dawned clear and bright, the weather perfect for Kydd’s plans: a gentle warm breeze, a flat, calm seascape and crystal visibility to the northern horizon. It was time to prepare.
‘Strike all sail, if y’ please,’ he said. Canvas vanished from every yard and was furled above in a tight harbour stow. L’Aurore slowed and then idly drifted.
‘Stream the sea-anchor,’ he ordered. A canvas triangle on a line was lowered over the transom. The frigate felt its gentle tug as the pressure of the south-setting Mozambique current took charge, L’Aurore’s bows swinging obediently to face into it – to the north.
It was time for the finale. ‘Rig false sails, Mr Oakley,’ Kydd demanded.
From half a hundred blocks came the squealing of sheaves as quite another suit of sails fell from the yards. ‘Brace around, y’ sluggards!’ But this was not to catch the wind at the most effective angle – it was the opposite. Each yard was trimmed edge on to the slight breeze, the sails hanging shivering and impotent. Any with the slightest acquaintance of a full-rigged ship would have been mightily puzzled to see L’Aurore now. An ingenious system of tackles and beckets allowed her to set topsails where the lower course would be, topgallants from the topsail yards and royals above. In effect, setting the frigate’s sail plan down by one tier.
This gave her the appearance of a small Indiaman, trying a dash inside Madagascar instead of the more direct route on the far side. Men looked up in wonder at their Lilliputian fit of sails, and overside at their total lack of motion. Kydd gave a half-smile: this was not normally the way a full-blooded frigate faced the enemy.
There was not long to wait. Within an hour there was an excited hail from the masthead. To the north, square sail! Long minutes later another cry confirmed it as a three-master. Unable to restrain himself Kydd leaped for the shrouds and joined the lookout in the bare fore-topgallant masthead. He fumbled for his pocket telescope and steadied it on the far distant blob of white. There, unmistakably, was a full-rigged ship and he waited impatiently for its hull to lift above the horizon.
Eventually, to his intense satisfaction, Kydd saw a single line of gun-ports along the length of the ship. No merchantman this: a frigate on the loose without a shadow of a doubt.
He snapped his glass shut and, with a tigerish grin at the lookout, swung down to the deck again. ‘It’s him. We’ll soon see if we’ve gulled the looby.’
L’Aurore lay barely lifting with the slight sea. With no way on, only the idle rattle and bang of gear aloft intruded on the senses. It was not Kydd’s plan to engage in battle: his priority was to rely on L’Aurore’s proven speed to keep with the ship until he was led to the squadron. There might well be additional frigates waiting to trap him between two fires but this was a chance he had to take.
‘He’s seen us, an’ alterin’ towards!’ The lookout’s hail was gleeful.
The Frenchman was hopefully seeing an Indiaman unhappily becalmed, as so often in these seas: one vessel could be in useful breezes while another lying off only a few miles could be hopelessly adrift. The sea-anchor was doing its work; with L’Aurore’s bow end on towards the frigate, her warlike details would remain hidden for a while longer.
By now the ship steadily heading their way could be sighted from the deck. When should Kydd throw off his disguise? It couldn’t last for ever – but just as soon as he did so his quarry would instantly shy off. Or not – it might be a heavy frigate, eighteen-pounders against L’Aurore’s twelves, determined to crush him to preserve the secret of his squadron in the offing . . .
‘Post your men, Mr Oakley,’ Kydd ordered quietly. There was no way he could clear for action until the rat’s nest of improvised sails and rigging had been dismantled and that had better be quick.
‘Damn – he’s been spooked!’ spluttered Gilbey, the first lieutenant, shading his eyes against the fierce glare of sunlight on the sea.
Kydd balled his fists in frustration: the masts were separating to show the frigate turning away. ‘Get us round!’ he roared. A second sea-anchor was hurled over the opposite stern-quarters and hauled on sharply, the bows being bodily rotated to maintain L’Aurore’s bowsprit on the other ship – but things were happening so slowly.
A few minutes later Kendall caught Kydd’s eye. ‘Sir, I do not think he’s running. Doesn’t he desire to keep a’tween us and the land – an’ at the same time catch a land breeze?’
Kydd nodded. ‘He thinks to prevent our escape to the shallows inshore? Not bad – but he doesn’t know who we are or he wouldn’t dare.’
The ship was in plain view now, heeling more to the fluky north-easterly, seeking to take a commanding situation closer to the land. How much longer could he- A warning slap of impatient canvas above answered the question, but Kydd was becoming uneasy: something about the French ship was odd.
‘Be buggered!’ Oakley burst out suddenly. ‘That’s no mongseer frigate! It’s some sort o’ ship-sloop, one o’ them corvettes.’
So keyed up had they been to expect a frigate that, at a distance, they had taken the corvette, a ship-rigged sloop much favoured by the French, as one. In appearance it was near to a miniature frigate, with a single gun-deck, all the sail plan and rigging identical – but much smaller. And, of course, to humble fisher-folk such a ship would appear enormous.
Now the tables were now well and truly turned.
The corvette’s helm was put hard over. ‘Get us under sail – now!’ roared Kydd. The crazy rag-tag rigging was cast off, false sails cascading over the deck in a chaotic jumble to be frantically scooped clear while the topmen raced out on the yards to loose their real canvas.
The shock of recognition could almost be felt over the distance, and in minutes the corvette slewed sharply and set off inshore in an attempt to shake off the bigger ship in the shallows.
‘Move y’selves!’ Kydd bellowed up into the tops. He had no wish at all to try conclusions among the maze of shoals offshore, for the corvette was now heading towards the land under a press of sail that suggested confidence born of sound local knowledge.
‘You’re going after him?’
He hadn’t noticed Renzi come up from below.