Circulating, he made amiable conversation to Pym and his lady, politely remarking on her elaborate bead-embroidered evening dress, then partnered a Mrs Pulteney for the contre-danse.
Gilbey moved up to tell him that the commander-in-chief was approaching and Kydd took position to greet him. The calls pealed shrilly, and an agreeably surprised Cochrane came aboard for his promised visit, accompanied by his wife, a short but remarkably voluble lady in plain lemon who did not hold back her approval.
At refreshments Kydd artfully trapped Mrs Jobson, wife of the King’s Harbour Master so that at the resumption of dancing he was well placed to lead her out for the Boulangere, a dance that involved facing first one partner and then another – which, by great coincidence, was Miss Amelia. At changes, it was the work of moments to transfer allegiance and, as smoothly as he had planned, they were together again.
‘I do declare, sir, you cut a rare figure at dancing.’ Her eyes shone and Kydd glowed. ‘And in your own ship, as you were so good as to show me. You are too kind and I’m vexed as to how I might return the politeness.’
She bit her lip prettily, then said brightly, ‘You must pay us a visit, sir. Do come and meet Papa – I’m sure he would be agreeable.’
The dull thump sounded from some way off to the south-westward, its origin hidden by the hanging grey-white sheets of rain drifting in from the Atlantic but it was from the general direction of Acasta, which had been paired with L’Aurore for the routine sweep to the south of Barbados ordered by Cochrane.
Kydd wore L’Aurore around and headed into the murk to find his senior, who was summoning him by gun, flag communications being impossible in the conditions. The veil thinned and he caught sight of the sternwork of the big frigate and closed, passing around her lee and coming within hail.
Dunn was on her quarterdeck and raised his speaking trumpet. ‘I’ve just spoken to a Dansker who swears he spotted a heavy frigate in the squalls to the suth’ard,’ he blared, ‘standing to the sou’-west.’
Kydd waited. This would not be the first merchantman to report an innocent trader with painted gun-ports as a fearsome warship.
‘He could be mistaken, but we can’t take the chance on it being a scouting frigate for a Frenchy raiding fleet, thinking to enter the Caribbean not by the usual passages. I desire you’ll sail south to eleven and thirty latitude, touch at Grenada for intelligence and return to Barbados. I’ll be looking towards Trinidad. Clear?’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
‘Should you fall in with the enemy you will waste not a moment in alerting Admiral Cochrane. This is your first and last duty.’
‘Understood, sir.’
‘Very well. Carry on, Captain.’
The two ships parted and Kydd set to the mission. L’Aurore, with the north-easterlies right aft, risked stunsails to larboard for a fast run. The passage between Tobago and Grenada into the Caribbean from the Atlantic was not much more than thirty miles wide and, with luck and speed, he could be in its centre at dawn and in a prime position to spot any fleet.
L’Aurore did her best for him, eating up the distance into the evening and then the night. It was not comfortable going for it was one of her quirks that, with wind and sea aft, a deep rolling and twisting set in that had the boatswain looking anxiously up at the spars, and seamen passing hand to hand along the decks.
Casts of the log, adjusted for speed over the ground in a following sea, gave hope that they would meet their goal in good time. In the early hours they reached the 11 degrees 30 minutes track; Kydd bore up due west and shortened sail.
They were now astride the entry channel and at daybreak their crosstree lookout would be in a position to spy any sail on either side – if the weather held. If it was a questing frigate, the battle-fleet would not be far behind, and Kydd had his strategy ready for returning by the swiftest means: he would round Grenada and pass inside the Windward Islands until the wind was fair for Barbados, then raise it in a single board.
There were other factors in the equation but he had long ago concluded that worrying about potential problems was futile: they had to be met individually if and when they cropped up. He turned in and, after a sound sleep, was up with the others at quarters to meet the dawn.
The night changed by degrees into a new day, the tropical morning as usual arriving in minutes, the transformation from silent darkness to lively sunrise always a thing of rapture.
No sudden cry from the masthead shattered the calm, no menacing line of sail was seen widening across their path: the horizon was clear.
‘Stand down, Mr Gilbey,’ Kydd ordered, and turned to go.
‘Deck hooo!’ The hail from the lookout was hesitant but insistent. ‘I think I see sail – broad on the larb’d bow.’
‘Get up there, m’ lad,’ Kydd said to Searle, handing him his pocket telescope.
The youngster swung importantly into the shrouds and rapidly mounted to the tops and then the crosstrees where he joined the lookout. They spoke briefly and Searle held up the glass to where the lookout pointed.
After a few seconds he stiffened, slammed the glass shut and grabbed for a stay, riding it down to the deck. ‘Sir! It’s a ship right enough, big ’un as I could see, but, er, it was setting sail as we looked at it.’ This accounted for the lookout’s initial confusion.
‘Courses or t’gallants?’ Kydd demanded.
‘Um, it seemed to be tops’ls only, sir.’
It made no sense. Unless it was a scout in advance of the main fleet, which had kept on small sail only during the night so as not to range too far ahead. Or was it an innocent merchantman resuming full sail after a night under easy canvas?
If it was a frigate, then the fleet was close astern and he should heave to and stop his progress to leeward, needing as it did a beating back against the wind to make up distance lost. If not, then hanging back could result in missing an enemy further onward.
The deck fell silent, seamen and officers waiting patiently for his command.
Kydd decided: the only way to settle the question was to close with and identify the strange sail even at the cost of later clawing back his windward position. ‘We stand on. Hands to breakfast, if you please.’
He stayed as the deck cleared. Then, as the sail was not yet visible, he went below himself.
He’d only just begun to eat when a messenger brought the news that the wind had fallen and the officer-of-the-watch feared the pursuit was in jeopardy. He swore under his breath, for his valet Tysoe had contrived jugged kippers and scrambled eggs, but when he reached the open deck, there was now no more than a playful zephyr.
‘Masthead lookout!’ he bellowed. ‘How’s the chase?’
There was a pause, then a mournful ‘Standin’ away. The bugger’s fore-reachin’ on us.’
Kydd ignored Curzon’s muttered profanity. With the wind coming in from astern, the conditions would reach out in their own good time and take the other too. And, conversely, any change for the brisker here would see them close on a chase helpless in the calms. There was nothing for it, however: all measures must be taken to come up with the fleeing ship before it vanished over the horizon completely.
All hands were turned up for the effort of clothing L’Aurore in as much sail as she could take. Stunsails to each yardarm, royals, bonnets, ringtails to the staysails and driver, watersails below the stunsails. Her slight motion increased, a cheerful bubbling at the forefoot, the creak of spars taking up wind pressure – but within two hours the lookout had lost the chase.
It was the worst outcome possible: they were no further forward in identification, while the chase now had freedom to break off to left or right – or to rendezvous with a fleet already within the Caribbean, which it would otherwise have led L’Aurore on to discover. The question for Kydd now was whether to press on along the same track.