Betrayal

might well be additional frigates waiting to trap him between two fires but this was a chance he had to take.

‘He’s seen us, an’ alterin’ towards!’ The lookout’s hail was gleeful.

The Frenchman was hopefully seeing an Indiaman unhappily becalmed, as so often in these seas: one vessel could be in useful breezes while another lying off only a few miles could be hopelessly adrift. The sea-anchor was doing its work; with L’Aurore’s bow end on towards the frigate, her warlike details would remain hidden for a while longer.

By now the ship steadily heading their way could be sighted from the deck. When should Kydd throw off his disguise? It couldn’t last for ever – but just as soon as he did so his quarry would instantly shy off. Or not – it might be a heavy frigate, eighteen-pounders against L’Aurore’s twelves, determined to crush him to preserve the secret of his squadron in the offing . . .

‘Post your men, Mr Oakley,’ Kydd ordered quietly. There was no way he could clear for action until the rat’s nest of improvised sails and rigging had been dismantled and that had better be quick.

‘Damn – he’s been spooked!’ spluttered Gilbey, the first lieutenant, shading his eyes against the fierce glare of sunlight on the sea.

Kydd balled his fists in frustration: the masts were separating to show the frigate turning away. ‘Get us round!’ he roared. A second sea-anchor was hurled over the opposite stern-quarters and hauled on sharply, the bows being bodily rotated to maintain L’Aurore’s bowsprit on the other ship – but things were happening so slowly.

A few minutes later Kendall caught Kydd’s eye. ‘Sir, I do not think he’s running. Doesn’t he desire to keep a’tween us and the land – an’ at the same time catch a land breeze?’

Kydd nodded. ‘He thinks to prevent our escape to the shallows inshore? Not bad – but he doesn’t know who we are or he wouldn’t dare.’

The ship was in plain view now, heeling more to the fluky north-easterly, seeking to take a commanding situation closer to the land. How much longer could he- A warning slap of impatient canvas above answered the question, but Kydd was becoming uneasy: something about the French ship was odd.

‘Be buggered!’ Oakley burst out suddenly. ‘That’s no mongseer frigate! It’s some sort o’ ship-sloop, one o’ them corvettes.’

So keyed up had they been to expect a frigate that, at a distance, they had taken the corvette, a ship-rigged sloop much favoured by the French, as one. In appearance it was near to a miniature frigate, with a single gun- deck, all the sail plan and rigging identical – but much smaller. And, of course, to humble fisher-folk such a ship would appear enormous.

Now the tables were now well and truly turned.

The corvette’s helm was put hard over. ‘Get us under sail – now!’ roared Kydd. The crazy rag-tag rigging was cast off, false sails cascading over the deck in a chaotic jumble to be frantically scooped clear while the topmen raced out on the yards to loose their real canvas.

The shock of recognition could almost be felt over the distance, and in minutes the corvette slewed sharply and set off inshore in an attempt to shake off the bigger ship in the shallows.

‘Move y’selves!’ Kydd bellowed up into the tops. He had no wish at all to try conclusions among the maze of shoals offshore, for the corvette was now heading towards the land under a press of sail that suggested confidence born of sound local knowledge.

‘You’re going after him?’

He hadn’t noticed Renzi come up from below.

‘Of course! This is your foxy Marechal, properly keeps his frigates with his squadron and sends out squiddy ship-sloops or similar. Can’t be better – we can always out-sail and out-gun the villain. I’m to take him and I’ve a notion this captain has a tale to tell.’

‘That seems a reasonable supposition, old fellow. And if you-’

‘Get those men off the yard!’ bawled Kydd, in exasperation. The corvette was now well in with the land, nearly lost against the contrasting vegetation and sand-hills. Until the men were off the spar the yard could not be braced round to catch the wind, but the furl had been as tight as possible to escape detection and two sailors were still scrabbling to cast off gaskets.

They finished, and crabbed frantically along the footrope inward to the top. ‘Brace up roundly!’ Kydd roared instantly, and the men threw themselves into it with a will, jerking the yard around to catch the wind, but the last one off the yard missed his hold and fell backwards with a shriek, cut off when he bounced off the bellying lower sail and into the sea.

‘Man oooverboooaaard!’

Kydd hesitated only for a moment, then blurted the orders to heave to and lower a boat. His features were thunderous. ‘Where away?’ he called to the after lookout. Obediently the man pointed – it was his duty to keep his eyes fixed on the unfortunate in the water until the boat came up with him.

The gig in the stern davits was swung out to serve as the ship’s lifeboat and it kissed the water smartly, stroking strongly away at the lookout’s direction and soon found the topman, who lay gasping as they hauled him over the gunwale. The boat lost no time in making it back.

‘Where is that damned villain?’ Kydd spluttered, vainly casting about, looking for their quarry. ‘The lookouts, ahoy! How’s the Frenchy bear?’

There was no answer. He realised they had glanced away to check the progress of their shipmate’s rescue and neglected their duty. He had now lost sight of the chase. ‘I’ll see those scowbunking beggars afore me tomorrow, Mr Gilbey,’ he threw at his first lieutenant angrily.

Had the corvette gone north – or south? Choose the wrong one and he would lose this precious chance of at least establishing that Marechal was at large in the Indian Ocean and at best gaining a notion of the squadron’s rendezvous position. Back to the north? That would mean a run near close-hauled in this slight wind and, as well, against the current. To the south would give a handsome quartering breeze and going with the current – but was this what the other captain wished him to conclude?

‘Bear away t’ the south, if you please,’ Kydd decided. This was something L’Aurore did well, a slight wind on the quarter – there were few that could stay with her in those conditions and if the Frenchman had headed to the south he would quickly overhaul it. And on the other hand if it was not sighted within a few hours he could be certain that it was off to the north. Then any contest between one out with the ocean breezes and the other anxiously dodging the shallows would be a foregone conclusion.

Their only chart was a single small-scale one painstakingly copied from the Portuguese of nearly a century before, sketchily detailing the littoral with precious few depth soundings – and the mud-banks would surely have shifted in the years since then. Closing with the coast as near as they dared, they could be sure, however, that the brightness of the chase sails could be seen against the darker shore.

The land slid past, a dense variegation in dark green with occasional palms and small hills in otherwise unrelieved flatness. After three hours there had been no sighting.

‘He’s gone north. ’Bout ship, Mr Curzon,’ Kydd ordered.

It was late afternoon: they had to press on to overhaul the corvette before night fell giving it cover to escape. ‘Bowlines to the bridle, Mr Curzon,’ Kydd said crisply, ordering the edge of the big driving sails drawn out forward for maximum speed. L’Aurore stretched out nobly for the horizon to the north, her wake creaming ruler-straight astern and lookouts doubled aloft.

An hour – two, more – and still there was no sign.

Perplexed, Kydd and the sailing master did their calculations. With an essentially onshore wind there was no possibility that their quarry could have made a break directly to seaward while they were away in the south, and even if they had made off as close to the wind as they could, their ‘furthest on’ was still firmly within the circle of visibility of L’Aurore’s masthead. It was a mystery.

‘He’s gone t’ ground,’ Gilbey growled.

‘Aye, but where?’

There was no response.

‘I rather think up a river,’ Renzi suggested.

‘In a ship-rigged vessel?’ Gilbey said scornfully. ‘Even a mongseer corvette draws more’n the depth o’ water of any African river I’ve seen.’

‘Then are you not aware that under our lee is the great Zambezi River, which for prodigious size is matched