Conquest

Highland regiments in fearful conditions below decks – and Britannia, laden with specie for paying troops and the laying in of supplies.

The south-easterly wafted about but then held steady and the little fleet got under way, heading for their rendezvous at Salvador, the last point of land before the assault on the Cape. L’Aurore prudently held an upwind rearward position.

They made better time once the south-easterly trades had got into their stride, soon nearing the Brazilian coast. However, as they reached southward the same south-easterly turned first brisk, then decidedly boisterous.

It stayed that way for the best part of a day, but when it subsided, Kydd spotted a signal of distress flying from William Pitt. If the vessel fell behind he could not risk the others, and it was out of the question for the fine-lined frigate to take the lumbering transport in tow. He ordered the convoy to heave to: he would see for himself. With the mild and obliging Legge, L’Aurore’s carpenter, sitting awkwardly next to Kydd, along with his mates and half a dozen hands, the captain’s barge pulled over to the big ship lying with backed topsails.

It was raining on and off, and Kydd mounted the dripping side-steps in the oppressive damp heat with care. Waiting to greet him were a pair of colonels and an apologetic ship master. ‘Captain Kydd, might I present—’

‘Damn it, the man wants t’ know what’s to do,’ growled the taller of the colonels, fixing Kydd with a flinty stare. ‘An’ I’ll tell him. Oh, Pack, o’ the Seventy-first Highlanders. Think we met briefly at St Jolin’s,’ he added, without waiting for a reply. ‘Sir, we’re served ill by the parcel o’ knaves who outfitted the Pitt for this expedition. A right gimcrack job they made of it.’

Kydd’s eyes narrowed. ‘Colonel, a signal of distress from this ship was observed and I’d be obliged to know —’

‘Come below,’ ordered Pack, without explanation, leading down the hatchway. A wafting stench thickened as Kydd followed him to the main-deck where a musty gloom enveloped them.

As his eyes became accustomed to the shadows he saw the whole deck had been partitioned into horse stalls. But many were empty, and the horses remaining were standing listlessly, swaying with the ship’s movements and occasionally staggering.

‘Sir,’ said Pack, heavily, ‘I ken this is none of y’ doing, but I’ll have ye know we’re in a sad pass. Without horses on the field o’ battle we’re helpless to turn an infantry attack, repel cavalry, press home an advantage – in short, sir, I’m sore puzzled to know how we can claim to be an army without ’em.’

They reached a stall where a grey horse lay on its side, neck extended, breathing in short, rapid gasps. A groomsman and other soldiers in soiled uniforms looked up helplessly.

‘We’ve lost eleven b’ breaking their legs, losing their footing in this damn sea. Others takin’ a fever in this damp and more refusing t’ drink because the water’s sour – some fool thinking to put it into old beer casks – and that’s o’ those that made it through that hell across the equator!’

Pack knelt beside the animal. ‘This is my faithful Lory.’ He looked up with great sorrow. ‘We charged together at Pondicherry and again in Egypt. Now, d’ye see?’ he said, gently lifting the horse’s eyelid. There was an acrid discharge from an eye that held the greatest depth of misery Kydd had ever seen in an animal.

The colonel glared at the groomsman, who muttered defensively, ‘Aye, an’ there’s nowt more we can do, sir. Obedient to y’r orders, th’ best oatmeal in gin an’ hot water three times a day, but I’m grieved t’ say he’s never touchin’ it now, sir.’

Pack lowered his head in dejection – then jerked to his feet and thrust his face at Kydd. ‘Distress! You lecture me o’ distress! I’m to land my regiment in the face o’ the enemy with – with animals only fit for the knacker’s yard.’

He drew in a ragged breath and fixed Kydd with a terrible glare. ‘What are ye going t’ do, man? I say, what’s the Navy going to do about it, hey?’

Kydd returned his stare with a look of mute obstinacy for there was not a single thing he could do.

The noon sight placed them safely south of St Paul’s rocks, a lethal sprawl located squarely across the path of ships crossing from one continent to another, nearly a thousand miles out in the middle of the ocean. However, their position was well known and the track of a vessel could be set ahead of time to clear them. What mariners most feared were hazards to be encountered off continental coasts, under-sea extensions of land that reached out to disembowel incautious ships venturing too close.

But with two powerful enemy squadrons on the loose, Kydd needed to quit the broad sea-lanes, where he knew they would be ranging, to reach the closest point of South America now just a few hundred miles away, and then keep well in until he made Salvador.

Before dusk, with the prospect of Brazil in a day or two, L’Aurore took the lead, Kydd wary of any predators that might be lurking inshore.

Eventually he turned in, his mind alert to the dread cry of ‘Sail!’ Would he wake to be pitched into chaos? How could he shield his flock against a line of battleships? Would it all end with L’Aurore being pounded to a wreck to buy time while his charges fled desperately? As his imagination brought him images of blood and ruin, Kydd turned restlessly in the hot darkness and drifted into sleep.

An urgent cry woke him in a wash of cold shock – but it was not the French. The shriek ‘Breeakers! I see breakers dead ahead!’ was joined by another until all three lookouts were shouting together.

He threw himself out of bed and raced for the hatchway. As he thudded up the steps he heard Gilbey bellowing above, rousing the watch to wear ship. ‘A gun!’ Kydd shouted breathlessly, as he made the deck. ‘Signal the convoy!’

In the inky darkness men pushed and stumbled to their stations, joined by others boiling up from below. Braces and tackles thrown off, the helm went down and the frigate began to pay off, Kydd picking up on the betraying flash of a line of white in the gloom ahead.

The fog swivel forward cracked out at last and was joined by the deeper flash and bang of one of the quarterdeck guns. The level-headed master’s mate Saxton had men around the other guns, and a steady banging started into the night, L’Aurore’s desperate warning to the ships trustfully following her.