Conquest

good harbours sailin’ south.’

‘Portuguese,’ Kydd said. ‘Been there since the fifteen hundreds, the south part of their old empire they share with the Moors – Zanzibar and other places. Should be a fine place to stretch the legs.’

The mood brightened at the prospect of an exotic foreign port with novel sights and smells.

‘Then here’s to Lorency Marks!’ Peyton said gleefully, raising his glass.

L’Aurore stretched out willingly, slashing through the glittering seas away from Africa to reach her destination in two boards, not only to make her northing in the face of the north-easterly monsoon but as well to avoid the fast south-going Agulhas current close to the coast.

It was a time to gladden the heart of any sailor. Close-hauled with gear set for long watches at a time, the frigate was rock-steady and predictable, her motion easy and sweet, an occasional burst of salt spray over the bows carrying aft.

Forward, the old sailmaker Greer smiled with satisfaction as the boatswain and his party sent up a patched staysail while the watch on deck sat cross-legged around the main-hatchway teasing oakum, an unassailable excuse to tell yarns and gossip.

At the conn, Lieutenant Bowden gave a shy smile at Kydd, clearly relishing the conditions. Kendall, beside him, was taking in the vast blue bowl of sky with a tranquil gaze, and the quartermaster, having little to do, contentedly chewed his tobacco, gazing with a faraway look out over the headsails.

On impulse Kydd removed his hat and began a leisurely pace forward, enjoying the sights of a frigate in her prime on a bowline, the comfortable creak and thrum of her passage, the gratifying symmetry of masts and lines, sheer and camber, the—

‘Saaail, ho! Saaail three points t’ the weather bow!’

The urgent hail from the foremast lookout cut into his thoughts. At deck level it would be some time before they became visible and it could be anything – there were active trade routes in this part of the world that made it likely to be a merchant ship. But this far out?

‘Deck, hooo! I see three sail – an’ big ’uns!’

Three men-o’-war? Only too aware of the French heavy squadrons at sea, Kydd turned and hurried back to the quarterdeck. ‘Close as she’ll lie!’ he snapped, now fully alert.

L’Aurore was in no real danger: she could wheel and make off downwind at any time she chose, and if these were indeed Willaumez or Marechal, then his duty was clear. He would shadow them until he could establish their course, then clap on every stitch of canvas to get the news to Cape Town. At this distance he could be sure of reaching there days ahead of lumbering battleships.

Another hail. ‘I see eight of ’em – no frigates!’

Kydd breathed a sigh of relief: scouting frigates ahead of the squadron could make it very hard for any shadower.

Away to weather, tiny pale shapes interrupted the horizon as they hove into view, three, four and more until all eight were visible. Gilbey had his sextant up, held flat as he measured the angle between the strangers and L’Aurore’s course. Another sighting, minutes later, confirmed that the distant ships would pass ahead by some margin.

‘Stand down the men,’ Kydd ordered.

‘Sir?’ said Bowden, puzzled.

‘Do you not think it significant that they’re holding course?’

‘That they think us not worthy of attention?’

‘Not at all . . .’

‘Ah! They’ve other business – they’re a John Company convoy!’

‘Well done, Mr Bowden. However, I do think we’ll make our number – for a certainty they’ve not heard of our taking Cape Town.’

For any mariner, after weeks in the oceanic vastness, another ship was always of the deepest interest and the calling to of an important East India Company convoy must seize the attention of every soul in the fleet.

‘Then what is your news, sir, that I’m obliged to stop my progress?’ the commodore said loftily, but with barely concealed anticipation. ‘Consols above five per cent? The nabobs combining against the tax?’

‘I’m to inform you that His Majesty’s arms have met with success on the field of Blaauwberg before Cape Town and as a result the colony is ours.’

‘And?’

Kydd blinked. ‘This is a development of some significance, sir.’

‘Really? I can’t see why. It’s never been our practice to rely on touching at the Cape, and the Dutch have never seen fit to interfere with our trade. What, then, is it to us?’

‘To take on fresh victuals, allow your passengers ashore – er, to fettle your ships?’

‘Hmmph. Your notions on what is of significance to us is singular, sir. I’ll have you know the concerns of a convoy commodore are many. At the moment I’ve no notion where two of my most valuable sail are – they scattered in a blow during the night.’

Kydd bristled – then realised that the stately convoy must have been outward bound for over a month and would not have had word of the greatest news of all. ‘Of course, this is not the reason why I’ve seen fit to speak to you, sir.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s my duty to acquaint you of a great battle, the grandest this age in which the combined fleets of France and