Betrayal

Cradling the drink he found himself further reflecting on his conversation with Popham.

‘Ahem!’

‘Ah, yes, Marie Galante.’ Kydd was not a born story-teller and in his own ears the account sounded matter-of-fact and predestined. He’d omitted his doubts and worries as they’d gone into action, the need to rise above his own fears and terror of the unknown to order men into those same hazards, yet the simple telling was received with something like reverence, and he ended the tale pink-faced.

‘Good God, man! Y’ sit there so cool an’ tell us you spent your night on the riverbank? Never heard o’ such blazin’ courage!’ Ditler’s admiration was clear.

‘Er, what-’

‘Well, the crocs f’r one!’

‘Oh?’

‘Surely y’ know they stalk abroad at night, wanting t’ devour sleeping prey. They snap their jaws shut on ye, there’s no hope for it – all over!’ He threw up his arms in an expressive gesture.

‘And y’r hippos too, Kydd,’ came the gravelly tones of the white-haired, sun-touched Baker. ‘They’s on land an’, it being their river, should y’ get a-tween them an’ it, why, at four ton coming at ye faster than y’ can run . . .’ He shook his head, speechless.

‘Not forgetting it’s lion country,’ Richardson brought in, with relish, raising his glass to Kydd. ‘Go around in hunting bands at night, they do. Take a terrible lot o’ kaffirs, poor devils.’ Kydd remembered the massive presence they’d sensed passing by in the inky darkness and shivered.

Ditler put in strongly, ‘And y’ talked on sailing a floatin’ island downriver? B’ glory, and ye’re a mile an’ a half braver than I,’ he said, in awestruck tones.

‘The water-snakes?’ Baker wondered.

‘Not merely,’ was the reply. ‘I was thinking more o’ your frightsome bull shark o’ the Zambezi, as is not content wi’ what’s in the sea but must range miles up into the river.’

‘Even into freshwater?’ Kydd swallowed.

‘Right up t’ the shallows o’ the headwaters. Nasty, vicious brutes, c’n take a man out of a canoe, even,’ he declared. ‘Not t’ be beat in the article of killing. Even the crocs do step lightly around ’em, and-’

Kydd decided to change the subject. ‘Thank you, Mr Ditler, and I’ll bear ’em in mind the next time we move on the enemy. You gentlemen have ventured up the coast? I’d welcome a steer on what’s to be found in those parts after what I saw there.’

The talk brightened into trade prospects at the fringe of the Arab world, barely touched by events outside. Then came well-polished stories of the white man in Africa, as warm and entertaining as the yarns to be heard over any wardroom dinner at sea.

Content, Kydd winked at Renzi, then settled back and let the talk wash over him.

‘It’s done, Cap’n,’ Geens said importantly, holding out the requisite papers to sign.

‘I’ll see below first, if I may,’ Kydd replied, and set off purposefully. The gun-ports and gratings had been open all morning but there was still a sour, biting odour about the ship.

They went down to the main-deck where the pungency caught him at the back of the throat, making him gag. There, a half a dozen men with sacks were scooping up a carpet of vermin, some of which still writhed and contorted: dead cockroaches, grubs and other insects, all driven by the fumes from their hiding places to expire in the open.

On the mess-deck, around the dark cavity of the hold, rat carcasses lay in horrifying abundance. While L’Aurore had seen first Trafalgar and then Blaauwberg, these were the hidden passengers who had been lurking in the nether regions, oblivious to events and with only the ship’s precious sea provisions in mind. Geens used wooden tongs to lift up a still feebly moving rat for Kydd’s inspection. ‘See? Does for ’em all in the end. Gaspin’ for air, comes out but it’s no good, he’s blind, o’ course. Vitriolic acid eats out his eyes, the plaguey villain.’ He sniffed, dropping the rat into the sack.

Kydd felt duty-bound to stay aboard as the men reluctantly made their way back to their ship, suffering with them until the vessel was habitable again. He had split the ship’s company in two to share the duties, and the first on board were set to sweeten the vessel – from stem to stern a mighty scrubbing with vinegar and lime, the deckhead beams liberally anointed with a powerful concoction of Geen’s own devising. The cable tiers were lime whitewashed, and twice, two feet of seawater was let in to flood the bilges, the reeking water then pumped over the side until it ran clear.

After their heroic efforts this party happily made its way ashore to its favoured waterfront punch-house to wash away the taste with Cape brandy while the other watch came on board for the even more taxing job of painting ship.

Boatswain Oakley, his head bandaged and in pain, took charge. Preparation was thorough: wood painstakingly scraped back before the paint was carefully mixed. The pigment, oil and litharge was poured into an old fish-kettle in proportions to his satisfaction, and on an upper-deck charcoal fire, the mixture was boiled, then strained through a bread-bag to be laid on warm.

Kydd had his firm views on appearance: it was to stay the Nelson chequer, a smart black hull with a warlike band of yellow along the line of guns, the gun-ports menacing regular squares in black. Lower masts below the tops were well varnished; above the tops, they were painted black, as were the yards, with white tips at their extremities to aid in working aloft in the dark.

Then there was the detailing: scarlet inner bulwarks before the guns, a stout mixture of varnish and tar on the binnacle and belfry and here and there a dash of white. The flutings of the headrails and cheeks saw dark blue to set off the carved scroll-work, and their old-fashioned lion and crown figurehead claimed a handsome gilding of gold-leaf. Kydd himself found the necessary wherewithal to ensure the ornamentation shone around the quarter- galleries and stern-lights.

The men set to with a will to brighten their living quarters; it was amazing how much a frigate’s below-the- waterline mess-deck could be lightened by a lime whitewash on the bulkheads and ship’s side. The petty officers prettified their own messes, each separated by canvas screens decorated lavishly with mermaids and sea battles, their crockery mess-traps stowed neatly in vertical side lockers: in a frigate there was no need to clear for action on a deck with no guns.

Kydd found time to relax in his great cabin, the floor-cloth renewed and the furniture sweet-smelling from the lavender-oil-impregnated beeswax that Tysoe, his valet, had applied to overcome the odour of fumigation. The boys had been industrious in their cleaning and priddying and, at Renzi’s suggestion, Kydd’s intricate showcase secretaire had been picked out in gilt around its French polish and green leather.

The gunroom had come together in noble style to enrich their own sea home. In place of the utilitarian service barrel slung from the forward bulkhead, from which commensal wine was drawn, there was now a beautifully polished elliptical cask made for the purpose and bearing a silver plate with ‘The gunroom, HMS L’Aurore, Cape Colony 1806’ engraved in bold flourishes.

An elegant locker had been contrived around the rudder trunking, which now served to conceal the gunroom’s stock of dog-eared newspapers and magazines. Gilbey and Curzon’s time ashore had not been wasted: a pair of remarkably animated watercolours of Table Mountain and the Cape of Good Hope now adorned their quarters.

L’Aurore came alive again. The rhythm of a comfortable harbour routine set in, of hands to turn to, part of ship in the forenoon and liberty ashore in the afternoon. Kydd saw a fierce pride in his ship. In due course there would be hard-fought regattas and other competitive outlets but for now all could revel in as trim and saucy a frigate as any that swam.

‘You’ve, um, not received anything from Cecilia, at all?’ Renzi asked offhandedly, twiddling his quill as Kydd opened a packet of ship’s mail from England.

Renzi’s plans to invite Kydd’s sister Cecilia to visit him in Cape Town and offer his hand in marriage had been dashed when his position as acting colonial secretary had not been ratified. Previously he had written her a letter pouring out his most tender admiration and love for her but delayed sending it until things were fully settled. When the blow came, he’d torn the letter up. Cecilia had known of his tendre for her for some time but the latest communication she’d had from him was a stiff letter of release he’d sent before Trafalgar, citing his lack of prospects. Who knew what her feelings towards him were now?

Kydd pushed his papers to one side. ‘No, Nicholas, and you shall be the first to know of it should I get a letter from her,’ he said impatiently. ‘This Cape enterprise being in the nature of a secret expedition, I can well see it will