Betrayal

‘I understand, sir,’ the young officer said stiffly.

‘Of course you do. Farewell and good luck.’

Kydd strode ahead with nervous energy. They reached the river unexpectedly, its glittering expanse suddenly in view.

‘Down!’ he hissed. The others in his little group lowered themselves gingerly to the ground, its earthy odour pungent, while Kydd checked forward. On his left was the tight bend that, according to his reckoning, opened to the long reach – and the French corvette.

Bent double, he skirted some bushes but before he reached the end he froze: a playful night breeze had brought with it a wafting hint of tobacco smoke. And, by its pungency, not the honest Virginian issued aboard L’Aurore. Parting the bush infinitely slowly, he swallowed. Not more than a dozen yards away two sentries stood in the moonlight, the occasional glow of their pipes startlingly red. They were conversing with each other in low tones, their muskets slung over their shoulders.

Kydd withdrew with the utmost care. The sentinels posted upstream spoke of a thoroughly professional opponent: were there more at the far end of the reach? This would make it near impossible for the boats to assemble unseen – but doing so would draw all attention downstream, as he wanted.

‘Sentries!’ he whispered to his party, when he reached them. ‘We’ll go a little further upstream.’

Another hundred yards brought them to the next curve of the river and a convenient slope to the water. It would do.

‘Er, how about them crocodiles, sir?’ Pearse asked edgily, quite out of character for the brash youth on the quarterdeck.

‘Take no mind o’ them,’ Kydd said confidently. ‘They’re all asleep.’ They were cold-blooded so it stood to reason, didn’t it?

They settled in the bushes to wait for the night to end. Then the moon vanished and blackness enfolded them. Continuous rustles and scurries came from all directions. From not far away they heard a blood-freezing roar and the piercing death squeal of some animal being taken. And as they crouched together every man sensed a massive presence out in the darkness, close, moving.

Filled with dread, they gripped their puny weapons. A cutlass against one of Renzi’s hippos? Whatever it was, there was no betraying sound and it wasn’t until long minutes had passed that they realised it had moved on.

At last the first rosy lightening of the sky spread from the east and, with tropical swiftness, it was day. A precautionary look around gave no reason for alarm.

The river was wreathed with rising mist, shot through with the luminous pearly light of morning, insects darting about prettily.

Kydd got to his feet. ‘Mr Oakley, you’ve the grapnel?’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘Then let’s find ourselves an island.’

They went to the water’s edge, the boatswain testing his swing and Kydd watching upstream, but none of the right size hove into view; any number of pieces of floating debris appeared out of the mist but none to match the stout pad Kydd had tested only the day before.

With impatience giving way to anxiety, Kydd continued to watch for their island. The light grew and strengthened. They couldn’t delay much longer. When a rather lopsided but more substantial piece emerged from the white haze, clearly clumped about a central strong sapling, he ordered, ‘There, Mr Oakley, we’ll try him.’

It was more than thirty yards away but Oakley’s cast was unerring and soon it was pulled into the bank.

‘Get aboard, Stirk – see if you like it.’

Obediently the gunner’s mate waded out to where it was nudging the shallows and hauled himself on. It swayed but seemed to hold firm as Stirk cast about in the tall grass. ‘It’ll fadge, sir, I shouldn’t wonder,’ he finally called back.

The harsh grass looked an excellent hiding place. ‘Right, all aboard!’ Kydd said briskly, ensuring that their weapons were passed first to Stirk. Cutlasses, a brace of pistols apiece – pitifully little to stand against a broadside of guns.

‘Yo-ho, an’ it’s all a-taunt in the tight little Pollywobble,’ clowned Pearse, once he was safely on.

‘Stow it, y’ idiot,’ grunted Stirk, helping the barrel-shaped Wong to clamber aboard.

‘I’ll be forrard,’ Kydd said, ‘Mr Oakley at the stern with the grapnel. The rest of you hunker down amidships.’ The characterless mass of undergrowth was hardly a ship but order had to be brought to an utterly unseamanlike situation, and it seemed to be accepted without question by the ‘crew’.

‘Cast off!’

Oakley released his hold on the bank and the island floated free. Another cast of the grapnel enabled him to haul out to mid-stream and they were on their way. Kydd took a last look about to make sure all was concealed and, with his shaving mirror to hand, Oakley aft with the grapnel watching him expectantly, they drifted languorously up to the last bend.

Concentrating furiously on the tightening ripples, Kydd judged the moment right and nodded to Oakley, who let the grapnel plunge to the riverbed while he paid out the line. Kydd lay full length among the rich-smelling vegetation, carefully parting the grasses to see ahead. Behind him there was muffled conversation and nervous laughter, which was brought to a sudden stop by the boatswain’s sharp growl.

In company with scattered other oddments of flotsam the island slowly cleared the bend – and not two hundred yards ahead lay their target. A fleeting panic washed over Kydd: a lump of floating grass going head to head with a corvette of the French Navy! He fought the feeling down and took up the mirror. Glancing up at the low sun to get the angle just right and shielding it carefully he gave the signal – three times three.

Would they respond?

The corvette seemed utterly unconcerned, a few men idly standing on the bank, a wisp of smoke issuing from the galley funnel forward, the colours not yet hoisted. His gaze flicked back to the end of the reach. No boats!

Apprehension gripped him – had they not seen the signal or was it that they had been intercepted? The island was inexorably being carried down past the moored vessel. Should he go ahead with the boarding or cravenly stay hidden and drift on to safety? Then it would-

The distant thump of a swivel gun sounded and there – gloriously – was Gilbey’s launch, closely followed by Curzon’s cutter and then the others, spreading out across the river to make a broad approach. The frantic baying of a trumpet sounded aboard the corvette, with harsh, urging shouts. Men boiled up from below, scattering to take position at the guns.

Now the island’s languid drift was maddeningly slow – it would take for ever to reach Marie Galante, which lay with its elegant bowsprit towards them but was still some way off. However, Kydd did see not a single flash of faces looking back; it was working entirely to plan.

Gilbey had a quarter-mile of relative safety before the guns of the corvette, levered around to bear aft as far as they could, were in a position to open fire. He used the time well, pausing to get off a good aimed shot from his bow-mounted eighteen-pounder carronade. The other boats did likewise and the corvette suffered two hits, both of which brought shrieks and cries.

The boats, pulling like madmen, were not far from the point of no return where the guns could smash in their deadly grape-shot and canister. Feverishly Kydd willed on their own ungainly craft, only fifty yards or so but-

‘Sir!’ It was Stirk, pulling at his ankle. ‘Sir – the barky’s sinkin’!’

Kydd’s attention jerked back to their island and he twisted round to see. One edge of the island was drooping, bright water among the grass. ‘Clear that side – and keep the damned pistols dry!’ he hissed. He took his own out and laid them on a tussock. A minute later, an entire slab tore away and slowly sank, leaving what remained noticeably lower in the water.

The Zambezi lapped inches from Kydd’s nose and he felt the coolness of water seeping under his body. There was now every reason to suppose it could tip to one side or even break up, throwing them all to the crocodiles. Should he tell Oakley to pull into the bank now or-

Kydd’s mind snapped to a ferocious icy calm. If the island sank, that was something he could do nothing about, but if it remained afloat there was work to do. ‘Stand by, the grapnel!’ he said levelly. The order was relayed by Stirk behind him.

Only yards away the corvette loomed larger and larger but not a soul was visible, all out of sight at the guns on