‘Collas!’ he called, to one of the carpenter’s mates on a hasty survey with Legge, the carpenter.
The man loped aft.
‘You’re relieved of work. Go down and report to Mr Clinton that you’ve orders from me to guard the noisiest prisoners.’
‘Sir?’ Collas said, bewildered.
‘You’re a Guernseyman, know the French?’ Channel Islanders lived within sight of the French coast, and even if their own patois had diverged considerably, they had a trading relationship of centuries standing.
‘Aye, sir.’
‘I want you to listen carefully for any mention of their Admiral Marechal. Anything at all that bears on where he is now. Be sure to let ’em think you’re a regular-going Jack Tar as is ignorant of the French lingo but keep your ears at full stretch. The minute you hear something, let me know. Understood?’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ Collas replied, knuckling his forehead.
Kydd’s mind then turned to the task of getting Marie Galante downriver to the open sea. There was only one way for a square-rigger: boats. It was too much to expect the French to man the oars and, besides, it would cost too many men in the guarding. Fortunately, few would be necessary where they were at present in the open space ashore.
Then there were the technical requirements: any seaman knew that it was much harder to bring a vessel downriver for motion was deceptive: moving at speed relative to the shore might well mean that the ship, brought along by the current, was barely moving relative to the water itself and therefore the rudder could not bite. The ultimate indignity was to lose control and end broadside to the river, stuck immovably bow and stern. In a swift-flowing and massive river such as this, the consequences could be serious.
‘Three boats ahead, one on the stern,’ he decided. ‘Her cable on the bitts and out through the hawse, then the three tows from one bridle.’ This would ensure all towing effort would be from one position, rather than from several points on the structure, which might fight each other. The boat astern was there to correct any yawing. All depended on the boats pulling hard and keeping it going: only by moving through the water would the rudder be effective.
All except the wounded were landed and every man jack available was put to the oars. Kydd himself cast off the last line tethering Marie Galante to the bank after she had been swung around and headed downstream. The men stretched out like heroes. This was not simply their duty but the much more rewarding task of preserving their prize.
The long reach was useful in getting the feel of the craft under tow and, standing next to Poulden at the wheel, Kydd felt increasing confidence. The first bend arrived. Taking a wide and careful sweep, the boats hauled ahead manfully and they were around. The next came almost immediately. ‘Pull, you lubbers!’ roared Gilbey, from the fo’c’sle. ‘Put y’ backs into it!’
Kydd looked over the side. A noticeable ripple was forming a bow-wave: they were making way through the water and therefore under control. Taking the deeper outer curve they were well on their way. Poulden nodded as Marie Galante was obediently nudged into a deeper channel. Just another bend . . . The corvette emerging to the open sea with English colours would be a sight indeed from L’Aurore.
‘Heave out, lay into it!’ Gilbey’s voice cracked with the effort. At this last bend before the estuary and the bar it was crucial to keep way on through the single deep cleft channel through to the blessed depths of the Indian Ocean.
Kydd watched in satisfaction. On return to L’Aurore, he would personally see that the men at the oars spliced the mainbrace – an extra grog ration, even if here it was Stellenbosch wine rather than rum-
There was a sudden thud that was more felt through the deck than heard. Seconds later there were baffled shouts from forward and Gilbey turned to bawl disbelievingly, ‘The tow’s parted!’
It was impossible. Kydd pounded up to see. This was why a bridle was in place at the end of the thick anchor cable: if any one boat-tow parted the rest would be preserved. It could only imply that the massive anchor cable itself had given way.
At the fo’c’sle he looked ahead: the boats were at all angles, men retrieving oars where they had lost them when the heavy tension had suddenly released, sending them headlong into the bottom of the boat. He looked down over the cathead to the hawse, expecting to see the catenary of the big cable curve away into the water – but it had vanished.
Kydd then realised it could mean just one thing: that it had parted inside the hawse after it had left the riding bitts where it was belayed. But this had no meaning! Bellowing an order to Poulden to keep his heading, he flew down the fo’c’sle ladder to the deck below. Then, wheeling round, he ran to the riding bitts – where things became all too clear. Sprawled on deck under the frayed strands of the cable was the blood-soaked body of the captain, a fire-axe flung nearby.
In great pain the man must have crawled up from the sickbay and severed the cable, bringing about the destruction of his own ship. With a crushing sense of finality, Kydd ran aft and up the ladder to the quarterdeck.
‘Not answering th’ helm, sir,’ Poulden said. In his hands the wheel was spinning uselessly.
They were now drifting; there was far too little time to rouse out another cable and all it needed was for a counter-flaw in the current at one end of the ship . . . and there it was. Her head fell off and she began a slewing across the river that got rapidly faster. With the softest of sensations her bow caught in the muddy bank. The colossal mass of water from up-country began taking the ship broadside, an irresistible force, which sent the other end immovably into the opposite bank.
Instantly the water piled up on the upstream side in an unstoppable flood – the deck canted over and racking timber groans from deep within sounded as death throes.
Gilbey came aft, raving impotently at the situation. Kydd cut him short: ‘All boats alongside. Get the wounded out, then see what movables we can take.’ He gave a wintry smile. ‘And don’t delay, we’ve not got long.’
Chapter 2
Kydd squinted down the deck to where the fo’c’sle party, in streaming oilskins, were preparing the bower anchor for their mooring, a wet and perilous exercise in the filthy weather from the north-west. Another ponderous roll of thunder echoed back from Table Mountain and, ahead, ships jibbed nervously under the bluster of autumn wind and grey, fretful seas.
From the fo’c’sle Curzon’s arm shot up and Kydd acknowledged. They were ready to take their place and let slip the anchor past the throng of merchant shipping among the naval squadron at the outer part of the Table Bay anchorage. And the captain of L’Aurore’s first duty was to pay his respects to Commodore Popham, the senior naval officer, Cape Colony.
Although he had lost the corvette he had returned with something much more precious. ‘You have the deck, Mr Curzon. I’m going below to shift rig before I report.’ It was a straightforward moor in the open roadstead, and Gilbey was on hand, but his second lieutenant glowed at the trust.
It was a bucketing, bruising pull to Diadem, the flagship, even in the launch that Kydd had called upon in place of his slighter-built barge. Walls of rain sluiced across, and despite boat-cloak and oilskins, he was soaked and chilled when he finally stepped into the commodore’s cabin.
Popham regarded him without enthusiasm, saying testily, ‘Kydd, do contrive to drip somewhere else, won’t you?’
‘My apologies, sir,’ he said, handing his cocked hat to a servant. ‘I do have news that I’m sanguine will interest you.’
‘Oh?’ Popham said coldly.
Kydd outlined his voyage succinctly, ending with his chase and capture of Marie Galante and her later loss by stranding.