Conquest

no need for this: Kydd’s orders were that their instructor would be the junior lieutenant and he himself would inspect them only if asked to do so. But he knew why Bowden had come.

‘Thank you, Mr Bowden. Do take a dish of tea with me.’

‘Sir.’ The third lieutenant sat awkwardly in one of the chairs at the stern-lights. ‘Sir – er, the present action —’

‘The gunroom talking wry, are they?’

‘Well, some do say—’

‘As so they may.’

‘Sir?’

‘They haven’t the facts to weigh my decision and are making their judgements on what they see. They should know an active and diligent naval officer has his duty and that is to engage the enemy, which is all that counts.’

‘So you have privy intelligence, sir?’ Bowden asked daringly.

‘Not as who might say,’ Kydd said. ‘Our secret army is not so easily flushed out. It is we, the eyes of the fleet, who have the duty to find it and report, and the present danger must take precedence over anything.’

‘To abandoning an engagement?’

‘Even so.’

‘I see, sir.’

Kydd sighed. ‘There are good and proper reasons that the brig so takes my attention, young Bowden, but shall we leave it that I do feel it in my bones? A sense much prized by captains, believe me.’

‘And if Africaine returns while we’re rummaging?’

‘We have the legs of the Frenchy in anything of a breeze, and Leda will be taking her attention for some hours to come. As long as we don’t delay our investigating then we’ll have time.’

Bowden broke into a broad smile. ‘Then we go forward in faith and cry shame on he who doubts! Thank you, sir.’

Kydd knew he had told him nothing of substance – in fact he’d virtually admitted that gut instinct was driving him on – but to the young man it had been enough.

In a state of high expectation, L’Aurore sighted the island and came up on its windward side, careful to round it close to.

And there was the brig, lying at anchor in the same position they had left her, nothing changed.

‘Seems innocent enough, sir,’ murmured Kendall.

‘Then why’s she still here?’ Kydd said. ‘We’ll heave to abreast, give ’em a look at us.’

He took in the plain but serviceable merchant-service lines. Of medium tonnage, she was not deeply laden, judging from her marks. One or two sailors on deck were idly watching them and there was no flag, which was common enough as owners discouraged the wearing out of perfectly good bunting in vain display. For the moment he had to agree with the master’s assessment.

Ignoring the muttered cynical comments of watching seamen, he ordered, ‘I’ll have the larb’d guns run out as we come up, on my command. And two boats in the water – four armed marines in each, Mr Clinton. I’ll take the barge, Mr Curzon the cutter.’ If he was going to be made to look a fool, he’d give them something to talk about.

In the light airs L’Aurore glided to a stop opposite the brig. Her gun-ports opened and, with a sudden rumble, the length of the gun-deck became filled with the deadly muzzles of her guns. There would be no mistaking her intentions now.

Kydd dropped into the barge and, taking position aft, growled to his coxswain to shove off. Poulden did so, then asked politely, ‘Um, what’re we lookin’ for, then, sir?’

Just what would it be that could turn an innocent ship into a vital part of a great plot to seize back the Cape for Bonaparte? What evidence was there to find that could prove his instinct true? ‘We’ll know that when we find it,’ Kydd replied firmly. As a lieutenant, he had conducted boardings all over the world; the arcane wording of ship’s papers, bills of lading, manifests, equipage – all these he knew and the tricks as well, but this was another matter entirely. If the brig was a neutral he would have to tread very carefully to avoid an international incident, but at the same time ensure he did all it took to unmask any villainy. There would be no second chance.

As they neared, he looked keenly to see if there was the slightest thing untoward. The totality of offensive weapons were two pairs of what looked like ancient six-pounders and an empty port, nothing more. ‘Mr Curzon, stand off until I hail,’ he called across to the cutter, which obediently gave way to the barge, the men laying on their oars.

Poulden headed for the deeper waist of the vessel, where seamen were gathering, and brought the barge alongside. Conscious of being under eye, Kydd swung over the bulwark and rose to meet the resentful look of the brig’s master. ‘Do you have English?’ he asked briskly.

The man shook his head but did, it seemed, understand French, so Kydd went on, in that language, ‘My apologies for the manner of this boarding but we are on the lookout for a notorious pirate known to be in these parts. Your name and ship’s port of registry, if you please.’

‘Enrique, San Salvador.’

A Brazilian? Therefore Portuguese and an ally.

‘Lourenco Marques in palm oil, bound for Rio de Janeiro.’

The seamen about him were tense and watchful, an officer avoiding his eye – in Kydd’s experience, a sign of a bad conscience. He sniffed delicately. In the heat there were many odours but none that could be described as palm