Conquest

The leading ships were hull-up now, their angling course allowing them closer. At that moment, therefore, L’Aurore was under tight scrutiny from telescopes. Kydd kept his own glass on them for there was one move that would turn the tables – if the French detached the faster frigates to deal with him and then, ranging further, found nothing.

But the frigates were kept back: the cautious French were playing safe in case L’Aurore was a scout for a distant British squadron, tasked to lure them on to bigger ships. They were left unmolested to play out their gambit and Kydd’s anxiety began to subside. If he could keep them on this course after him until dark they would be drawn sufficiently clear of the convoy.

One piece of irony was that L’Aurore was easily outpacing the French when she should be keeping well in sight, leading them on. If this squadron was Marechal’s then it must have been at sea for months, if not years, and was slowed by marine growth. He ordered a discreet drag-sail over the bows that would keep them in sight.

Kydd was gratified: a classic manoeuvre of evasion and deception had saved the priceless argosy at the cost of not a single shot. And probably not too severe a delay in reaching Lourenco Marques. All in all it was— He was interrupted by the sudden cry of a lookout. ‘Deck, hoooo! A sail – no two, right ahead!’ It was absurd – three sightings so close, here in the vast reaches of the ocean.

Was this the other jaw of a trap? It made no sense – why was the whole squadron involved? And, in any event, how could these two know which course L’Aurore would take? If it was all by chance, was this the rest of Marechal’s scouting force? Or an English naval detachment? Or innocent strangers caught up in a larger war? Whatever the reality, a decision had to be made. If—

‘They’s Indiamen!’ came the disbelieving cry from the lookout. Then Kydd remembered the commodore had mentioned that two of his charges had been separated in the night. And, by the cruellest misfortune, L’Aurore’s ploy had led the French straight to them. In one stroke it had altered the situation decisively and he must take the consequences.

‘Cast off the drag-sail!’ he roared forward, and snapped the orders to make straight for the pair. Forcing his mind to an icy coolness, he weighed up the alternatives. Abandoning the two merchantmen to their fate in the face of such odds was unthinkable – it would make his name a byword for dishonour. This left only the heroic and ultimately useless sacrifice of L’Aurore in their forlorn defence – the logic of war demanded it and that was what had to be done.

He would not make it easy: it would be played out to the last throw. There was the tiniest chance that if he could get the Indiamen to wear about and flee for their lives then, with the enemy slowed by their bottoms being foul, the two Company ships could disappear into the enfolding night – but that was hours away.

In the Indiamen someone quick-witted enough to work out what was afoot had them wheeling about without being told, seeing Kydd’s colours if not his nonsense signal.

All too soon, however, it was apparent why they had separated from the convoy. One of the two that flew the bright red stripes of the Company was favouring her foremast. She had unseasonable reefs in her topsail and course – probably the mast had sprung in some squall, unbalancing other sails and making for poor sailing. The other was low in the water, no doubt having sprung a leak in the same blow from wrung timbers. They had almost certainly come together for mutual protection against privateers but, thanks to L’Aurore, they now faced a battle group.

It was the damnedest, most evil luck, and before long the last act must be played out. The mercy was that it would be very quick: once battle was joined they had not the slightest chance. The only question was whether the French commander would send in the frigates to finish it, preserving his 74 from damage.

Kydd would use L’Aurore’s speed and superior wind-holding to best advantage, but the act of protecting would sadly limit his manoeuvring options to just a small space of sea. In terms of tactical planning, there was nothing he could do.

When they had overhauled the Indiamen, Kydd hailed the closest with a speaking trumpet as they bucketed along close together. Few words were spoken, the unknown captain opposite acknowledging with a heartfelt ‘Good luck!’ and sweeping his hat down in an elaborate bow.

Kydd’s instructions to them had been brief: course would be altered to more full and bye, and when the point came for play with the guns L’Aurore would fight for time, while they fled in opposite directions to what safety they could find.

L’Aurore then took position on the enemy side and the three made their best speed for the far horizon. Ironically the conditions were perfect for sailing, the north-easterly steady and urging and no more than a slight swell from the east. Overhead the sky was an immensity of glorious blue with little cloud, and in any other circumstances would have the watch below spending their leisure on deck, admiring their racing motion.

After an hour it became clear that they were losing the race. The French were now in sight from the deck and beginning to spread out as manoeuvring positions were being taken. There would be gunfire before dusk.

Then Kydd heard an indistinct shouting from the men on the fore-deck and saw some pointing away to the east. One broke away and ran to the quarterdeck. Kydd cursed under his breath – settling a quarrel was the last thing on his mind.

It was the seaman Pinto, obviously distracted. ‘Sir – sir, look! T’ the east’d!’

Taken aback he looked to where Pinto was pointing at a cloud not as big as man’s fist but somewhat darker than the others and with a distinctive reddish centre some thirty or so degrees above the horizon.

‘Sir! This I been told b’ my shipmates as have traded wi’ Africa is the Ox-eye!’

‘Get back for’ard, y’ Portugee fool!’ Gilbey flared. ‘We’ll have none o’ y’r Papist notions aboard this ship!’

‘Hold!’ Kydd said. Before he’d been elevated to the quarterdeck he had been mess-mates with Pinto and knew the man not to be given to superstition. ‘What’s then your Ox-eye?’

‘Is called “Olho de boi” – the eye of bull – an’ we see it before a terrible kind o’ storm.’

‘Have you heard of this, Mr Kendall?’

‘I never have, sir. That’s not to say the Portuguese don’t have a right steer on things, they being in these waters a mort longer’n we.’