Conquest

but it would not be expected that he would throw his ship entirely in the other direction – towards, instead of away. Understanding, the boatswain tore men from the guns in a frenzy to man the lines as L’Aurore swung about, taking up close-hauled hard to the wind to place herself directly in the path of the French frigate. There would now be a fearful and crippling collision if one of them did not give way – and it would not be Kydd.

At first the other frigate stood on, as though in contempt of the move, but Kydd knew his man now – at this moment he would be coolly reasoning that if L’Aurore’s reckless tactic ended only in tangled rigging it would nevertheless give Leda all the chance she needed to close in and that was a risk he simply could not take.

Grimly holding to his course, Kydd saw the other’s bowsprit, like a spear, swinging round to aim at their vitals – then it wavered, slowed and began falling away. Within less than fifty feet it shot by the awkwardly turning frigate, Kydd regretting that with men away from the guns he could not slam in a broadside as it passed.

There had been a sputtering of musket shot but otherwise they were unscathed, and once past, Kydd lost no time in wheeling about for battle again. The frigate was taking punishment from a vengeful Leda; Kydd’s larboard broadside being ready, he would ease in and resume his pounding when the range was clear. This was how it must be – teamwork.

Leda’s cannonade ceased and she fell back while L’Aurore came up to take the other side. This would be the final act – a brutal battering between two fires until colours were struck. It could take hours – the frigate was still full of fight and, in the hands of its bloody-minded, devious captain, was capable of anything.

Kydd sent L’Aurore forward, her men at the guns keyed up for combat – but before she was in position the big frigate yawed widely to starboard and its broadside hammered out ahead of their own. Again the shock and violence of the enemy’s malice, debris falling from above, the insane flapping of a ragged sail and a hoarse, morbid bubbling from a doubled-over member of a gun crew. Then their own broadside opened up into the gunsmoke, sounding so puny against the eighteens.

So it was to be a smashing match! L’Aurore’s topsails were shivered to spill wind and she eased back to allow Leda to come up for the next bout. Both ships fired simultaneously in a fury of gun-flash and smoke, Leda every bit a match in size and guns for the Frenchman, who nevertheless fought back furiously.

Guns reloaded, L’Aurore began her run in, Kydd alert for any ploy, but this time there were no broadsides. As they began their overlap L’Aurore’s forward guns fired one by one, as soon as they bore in a deliberately aimed cannonade, but were answered gun for gun by the French in a display of cold courage that demanded respect.

But before half her guns had fired, there was the shock of a shot-strike on L’Aurore’s lower fore-yard, and with a rending crack it broke in two, instantly ripping the fore-topsail from top to bottom and descending to the fore-deck in a tangle of ropes and torn canvas.

The sails thus unbalanced had an immediate effect – L’Aurore reeled like a drunken man from side to side as the helmsmen fought to keep her from surging into the side of Africaine. Quick work on the quarterdeck had the driver boom sheet thrown off and the big fore-and-aft sail in brails to correct for it. However, to all intents and purposes, L’Aurore was out of the fight, falling away while the other topsails were doused until she was dead in the water.

Kydd waited for the boatswain’s report, knowing Oakley would not be rushed. ‘Could be worse, Mr Kydd. A clean break t’ larb’d. I’ve a notion t’ fish the spar with stuns’l booms an’ capstan bars. We’ve a chance!’

Kydd trusted him. It would be hard work, laying along the strong bars and tight-lashing them to the wounded yard, while above, the jeer and other large blocks must be overhauled and much of the rigging re-rove. It would take time, and even as he watched, the two duelling frigates moved away, still firing. Honyman in Leda would know that they would rejoin as soon as they could – perhaps two or three hours?

While the work went on, Kydd paced up and down. The strange events leading up to the battle didn’t make sense, and neither did the peculiar action of the frigate in falling on them as if utterly to destroy L’Aurore, to remove her from the world of man. The ships had never met before; whoever the astute and skilful French captain was, he could not have known Kydd was L’Aurore’s captain and therefore any element of personal vengeance was highly unlikely.

And close to the coast, frigates simply did not hazard themselves like that unless they had duties of watching the shore, which had no meaning in these regions. Was it something to do with the secret army? Was there a connection with the brig? What if the brig contained something of such value to this secret army that it needed an escort of force – so important, in fact, that its very presence in that location had to be a closely guarded secret in itself? The more he thought about it, the more it added up. That was why the Frenchman had tried to crush them – to stop the secret getting out.

Was it guns, gold, a famous general? Whatever it was, it could prove the key to solving the whole riddle of the boastful threat to take Cape Colony.

A growing conviction rose that he should be where the brig lay, unmasking its secrets, and not here, contributing in a minor way to a battle. Impatiently he strode up to where the boatswain had his crew splicing, heaving, stropping and seizing in a frenzy of activity. The L’Aurore’s were clearly in good heart, laying in with a will and, judging from their banter, relishing a re-match.

‘As quick as you know how, Mr Oakley,’ Kydd urged.

‘Aye aye, sir,’ the boatswain responded, aggrieved.

A mysterious brig? Supposition? In the cold light of reason it didn’t seem much to set against the action he was now contemplating. The easier thing would be to forget about it and rejoin the fray, but he could not.

‘Let’s be having sail on her, then!’ The fore-yard was now in place at the slings and the running rigging led along. Bending on the new topsail would test the repair and he was eager to be under way.

On the footrope of the fished yard as it took the wind, a gleeful Oakley raised his arm in acknowledgement as it eased to the strain, and Kydd gave the orders that saw sail drop from the yards and brought L’Aurore back to life.

‘Cast to larb’d,’ he ordered crisply.

‘Larb’d, sir?’ said Gilbey, puzzled. At best this would have L’Aurore at right angles to