Betrayal

The master studied intently his Remarks, a printed booklet produced by a merchant captain of half a century before that persuasively gave sailing instructions for safe entry into the port of Montevideo. ‘Bear west b’ north until we raise the isle o’ Flores,’ Kendall intoned.

L’Aurore progressed under cautious sail. A shout came from one of the seamen looking over the side: the water had now turned a repellent mud-brown, solid and impenetrable – the great effluvium of a continental river.

‘Leadsmen!’ Kydd snapped.

A monotonous chant began from the forechains. ‘No bottom wi’ this line!’ It would be a wet and cold job but it would last for as long as they were within the estuary.

Then they reached soundings. ‘By the mark – fifteen!’ So far from land and only ninety feet . . .

Barely half an hour later it was by the deep twelve and then eight, shoaling fast – they must be reaching the vast extrusion of sediment extending seaward. At six fathoms Kydd put another man in the opposite forechain to call out of sequence with the first.

‘Laaand hooo!’

Kydd could not see it from the deck. Then came the hail that it was a long, rambling island – Isla de Flores. Montevideo was just fifteen miles further on.

‘The island – no nearer’n three mile, sir.’

They bore away and almost immediately anxious shouts came from the leadsmen. ‘I’ve five fathom! B’ the mark five!’

It was incredible but with no land in sight they had less than twelve feet of water under their keel. Any rise or knoll in the invisible seabed and they would touch.

‘Heave us to, Mr Kendall,’ Kydd ordered, and turned to the boatswain. ‘I want three boats in the water ahead with a hand lead in each.’

Spread in a line across their bows, they would give indication of the best passage. ‘Says here, sir, if you brings up mud, you’re in the channel, black sand and ye’ve strayed either side.’ Now the leadsmen would be looking to the base of their leads, smeared with tallow to bring up an indication of the nature of the sea bottom.

It was agonisingly slow work. The fitful wind fluttered the sides of the sails; it had been mercifully constant until now but if it veered from its south-westerly direction they would be headed, and the reconnaissance would be over.

After a little more than an hour, the mainland of South America was raised at the masthead: Punta Brava at the outer point of the Bay of Montevideo.

When the land could be seen from the quarterdeck it was flat and uninteresting, scrub, occasional sand dunes and then the last point before the bay. Would they see a tell-tale forest of masts, a swarm of angry gunboats emerging?

The water shallowed further and Kydd kept the frigate well offshore as they made the final low headland and the bay opened up. Instantly telescopes trained and searched – and there was no fleet at anchor.

They were still five miles or more off so Kydd swung into the shrouds and mounted to the tops, taking out his pocket telescope. He could see deep within the bay, nothing hidden from this vantage-point.

On the right he saw the untidy low sprawl of a large town, which must be Montevideo, and on the left of the bay a conical hill about four hundred feet high, no doubt the ‘mountain’ that could be seen from across the bay and gave the city its name. There were vessels within but not one that answered the description of a man-o’-war.

In a rush of relief Kydd descended. ‘Nothing,’ he told the group on the quarterdeck.

‘Where now, sir?’ Kendall enquired anxiously.

They had news that would gladden Popham – but would he be satisfied with just that? There had to be deeper channels, perhaps dredged, that would allow large vessels to enter, but these would be known only to pilots and local captains. At the same time this would imply that other channels were available that led deeper into the River Plate. It was his duty therefore to attempt further penetration.

‘We stand on.’

With the boats still leading they hardened in and, close-hauled, stood away. Before they had made more than a few miles the wind failed. Kydd was too much the seaman not to know that this was usually the precursor of a shift in direction and there was only one action that could be contemplated.

‘Get the boats in. We’re going back.’

But in the time it took to heave to, hoist aboard their boats and put about, everything had changed.

In these strange climes, it seemed, it was not to be a simple change of wind direction: from the south-west spread a wide, glistening white fluffiness, a sea-fog. It reached and enveloped them in a clammy embrace until they were swallowed in its soundless immensity.

L’Aurore glided on in the eerie whiteness, the only thing to be heard the subdued chuckle of water at her forefoot and the mournful chant of the leadsmen. If this were an English Channel pea- souper they would be surrounded by a bedlam of horns, gongs and drumbeats, Kydd remembered.

It would be reasonably safe to return to the open sea simply by reversing the plot of compass courses, the wind conveniently on the beam, but he wouldn’t feel secure until-

From the tops came an agitated, breathy hail: ‘Deck hoooo!’

Kydd looked up.

‘Sail – jus’ a pistol shot t’ loo’ard! I see tops’ls of a schooner!’

‘Silence fore ’n’ aft!’ Kydd ordered savagely, in a low voice. This could only be the enemy – at that size never a threat but if they could question the crew . . .

‘Where headed?’ he threw to the lookout.

‘’Cross our bows.’

Their priceless advantage was that in a fore-and-aft-rigged vessel like a schooner there could be no lookout positions aloft, but their own, high up, had been able to see the betraying upper sails of the ship above the fog- bank.

‘Get men below. On my order, just open all gun-ports to larboard,’ Kydd hissed at Curzon.

Gently rippling along, there was ample time to prepare. ‘M’ compliments to Mr Renzi and would he step up here.’

Judging his moment well, precisely as the grey shape of the other craft materialised out of the fog, he swung L’Aurore parallel and roared out the order for the gun-ports to open while trumpets blared and marine drummers beat out a terrifying tattoo.

In the schooner it must have been the stuff of nightmares, a towering enemy frigate appearing like magic out of the mists, apparently about to blast them to splinters. The hapless vessel was grappled and boarded before even her colours had been jerked down in terrified surrender.

‘Nicholas,’ Kydd said, gratified that Renzi’s coming on deck had coincided with the sudden commotion of the appearance and taking of an enemy, ‘would you kindly accompany Mr Gilbey aboard and invite the captain to join us?’

When Renzi returned it was not merely with a Spanish captain but a distinctly unamused gentleman of imperious manner and fine dress. ‘Sir, I have the honour to present His Excellency the Governor of Truxillo.’ Bows were exchanged but the smouldering dark eyes barely concealed thunder and the desire for vengeance.

Kydd nodded to Renzi. It was impressive, the suavity his friend was managing with his new-found Spanish. ‘I shall look forward to entertaining His Excellency in my cabin shortly. As soon as we have concluded our business here.’

The schooner was a fine one, trim-lined and well appointed, her crew standing disconsolately along the deck. An aviso? If so, this was an official vessel and quite likely to be charged with dispatches. The speed of her capture meant almost certainly that these were still aboard. Gilbey could be trusted to intercept any attempt to get rid of them.

The governor was surly and abrupt, and nothing could be learned from courtly questioning except that their presence had been utterly unexpected. No matter: the commodore would follow through with his own interrogation.

The small crew was another matter. When under way once more, the schooner under prize crew and demurely in the frigate’s wake, he had her company examined one by one.

Renzi came up to see Kydd in his cabin. ‘I think you’ll find one man an interesting fellow,’ he said mysteriously.