Conquest

The frigate spread her wings and was soon up with the hapless Indiaman. ‘Lost our rudder,’ cried a figure on her quarterdeck. ‘Our bows stove – no hope for it.’

‘You’ll abandon?’ Kydd hailed back.

‘This moment!’

The upper-deck of this prime vessel of the East India Company was crowded; she was much sought after for comfortable berths and gentle living and had been first choice to freight the expedition’s treasure.

Kydd saw boats by the dozen putting out again from the rest of the ships. His duty now was to secure the bullion. ‘Poulden,’ Kydd addressed his coxswain standing quietly by the wheel, ‘take away my barge with your trusties and do what you can to lay hold of the pay chests.’

Confused shouting, muffled screams and female shrieks rising above an excited hubbub drifted across the water.

‘Mr Kendall,’ Kydd called to the sailing master, ‘I want to see us lying off no more than a half-pistol-shot, as will give the boats less distance to pull.’

Poulden returned with twelve heavy chests in the bottom boards. A yardarm whip was quickly rove to sway them out and then he hastily set out again.

Not long after they had left, it became clear that Britannia’s time was upon her. Down by the head, she had taken a pronounced list towards them and those remaining aboard hastened to find a place in the boats. A dull rumble and agonised cracking came from deep within and the heel increased visibly.

Where was Poulden? Kydd saw the last few aboard the Indiaman tumble into the boats but there was no sign of the barge.

Britannia lurched spasmodically, and slowly, grandly, her masts arced down as she lay over for her final moments. Was Poulden below, heroically bringing up the last of the chests? There was no time for delay: L’Aurore had to be manoeuvred clear of the sinking ship.

The end was abrupt: in a corkscrew motion she plunged and capsized, her huge bare hull glistening obscenely before she vanished in a final paroxysm of vast bubbles and plumes of spray.

Beyond, where they had been out of sight behind the big ship, L’Aurore’s barge bobbed disconsolately, waiting while the sea disgorged its wrecked spars and floating debris from the depths before it began pulling back.

Poulden was at the tiller, but when it hooked on at the chains it was plain there were no more chests. ‘Tried, sir, but . . . but there was this – this madman!’ He trailed off, lost for speech.

Stirk, one of the boat party, took up the tale with relish: ‘Aye, a right reg’lar-built loon! Stands athwart th’ chests wavin’ a cutlass, his pockets stuffed wi’ Spanish cobbs, swearin’ as how he’d been a poor man all his days but bigod he was going t’ leave this world stinkin’ rich!’

Salvador was raised within the week without further incident, and L’Aurore thankfully rejoined the expedition fleet at anchor in the majestic sweep of the Bay of All Saints. Popham heard Kydd out courteously, visibly saddened at the news of General Yorke.

But other matters were pressing. Surprised and gratified by the arrival of so many ships in want of repairs, with thousands of mouths to feed and provision for, the merchants and speculators of the tawdry little town immediately trebled their prices, the goods of contemptible quality. And to a man the merchant community refused to accept paper credit on the British Treasury, the news of Trafalgar not yet current.

Many of the horses had died at sea and those left were in a sickly condition. Prices for replacements and additions were ridiculous and subalterns were sent up-country with what little cash remained after the loss of Britannia, but this resulted only in a string of a dozen rangy ponies, beasts untrained for war.

It was not possible to delay further: it was essential to be under way on the last stage before word about their destination slipped out. With as little fuss as possible the fleet put to sea, their destination – the shores of Africa.

Leda was far out on L’Aurore’s beam, a tiny smudge of white on the deep blue horizon. The two frigates racing across the South Atlantic were on a mission of reconnaissance and their orders were clear: if at any time a French battle squadron was sighted, the fastest – L’Aurore – would return down the expedition’s designated track to warn, while the other stayed to track the French.

Otherwise it was a matter then of Leda ranging north up the African coast, L’Aurore south around the Cape with the aim of ensuring there were no lurking enemy waiting to fall upon the rear of the assault. On their return they were to seek what intelligence they could concerning defences and military capability before making rendezvous at the landing.

It was direct evidence of Popham’s anxiety that he had detached his only two frigates for the task, leaving his fleet to sail on blind.

The stakes could not have been higher.

Chapter 2

They made landfall on Africa together, just south of the thirty-fourth parallel. This was close to the southern tip of the continent, and after a mutual wishing of good fortune, the two frigates parted as planned.

‘A penny for ’em, Nicholas,’ Kydd said, coming up behind his friend, who was gazing dreamily at the placid, slumbering coast ahead – that should, nevertheless, be accounted an outpost of the most stirring and wondrous place on earth.

‘I would they were a guinea in the asking, dear fellow,’ Renzi answered absently.

Kydd was long used to his friend’s occasional scholarly detachment from the world; he had been able to provide Renzi with the time and space aboard to devote to his magnum opus on societal imperatives as informed by his far voyaging. That the London publishers were far from receptive to the work must be so discouraging for him.