Betrayal

the main-deck. Where should he bring in his crazy craft? The bowsprit reared up from a neat beakhead, revealing a small half-deck within it and a dainty figurehead at its apex. Perfect. They would come in under the shadow of the bow, swing up on the stout boomkin over the headrails to the half-deck, pass up the weapons, then appear on the fo’c’sle deck above the guns.

There was a sudden lurch and a muffled cry, and the island rotated as it rid itself of another clump. The crackle and sputter of musketry above meant that the boats were close – the guns would very shortly be opening fire to cause slaughter in those who had so gamely trusted him. He must not fail after all this . . . The bowsprit was nearing . . .

‘Haul taut!’ he gasped at last.

The effect was almost instant and Kydd craned round. The boatswain had turns around the sapling and was controlling it in just the same way as a hawser around capstan whelps, his fierce grin a joy to see. The island wallowed and swayed but obediently crabbed sidewise in the current, coming closer and closer – and then, incredibly, they were under the trim bow and among the martingale and bobstays. Kydd thrust up for the boomkin and walked his feet over the carved headrails and rolled on to the half-deck gratings.

With the tumult above, there was little need for quiet. ‘Pass up the weapons,’ he hissed, leaning down to grab them. Stirk heaved himself up to the opposite side to do likewise. The men scrambled up thankfully and their near waterlogged craft was abandoned to drift away. A quick muster showed all present – seconds counted now – and Kydd hauled himself up and over the fife-rail on to the fo’c’sle deck.

In a flash he took in the scene: the sweep aft of the open deck below with its guns manned and at the far end the raised quarterdeck, muskets over the taffrail pouring in fire at the boats, figures standing apart, who had to be officers – and all with their attention fixed on their attackers. He took in other things, too: the neat order about the ship that spoke of care and professionalism, the shininess of the ropes from aloft that betrayed their long service at sea and the fact that the guns were manned on one side only: the crew was short-handed, probably for the same reason.

Stirk appeared beside him, then the others, in each hand boarding pistols and a cutlass to the side. With a lopsided grin, Kydd acknowledged the absurdity of reaching an enemy deck in a boarding and having the luxury of a steadying deep breath before the fight. ‘Ready, gentlemen?’

Savage growls answered and, stalking to the after edge of the deck, he howled, ‘King George and the Billy Roarer!’ then plunged down to the main-deck, making for the nearest gun.

The crew wheeled round, gaping. He levelled one pistol and shot the gun-captain, who dropped instantly. The other he fired directly at a large seaman who had reared up, snarling. The man fell back and dropped to his knees, clutching his face with both hands, blood running through his fingers. Two of the crew fled but another two stood irresolute. Kydd flung a heavy pistol at the head of one, which sent him spinning down to be jolted violently by a hurtling body from behind.

Pistols banged about him, men were shrieking, but other gun-crews were recovering and making a rush for them. Kydd wrestled his cutlass free and got inside a red-faced gunner whirling a ramrod, neatly spitting him. Yanking the blade out as the man fell, he was in time to parry a maniacal swing from a boarding axe and in return opened the man’s face in a spurting line of blood. He felt a savage blow to his side and whipped around to see a small cat-like seaman raise an iron gun-crow for a second strike – but he fell as if poleaxed when Pearse, yelling like a banshee, brought his cutlass down with a violent slash and, without stopping, ran on into the mad whirl of fighting.

Kydd found himself in combat with a dark-complexioned Arab, wielding a curved blade with two hands, the man making almost a ballet of his twisting and slashing, unnerving Kydd. Then his opponent tripped forward and impaled himself on his blade.

Kydd swivelled around and saw Oakley’s body on the deck, the red hair unmistakable, blood issuing under him from some wound. Above him, the boatswain’s mate was roaring in helpless anger as he swung and clashed with two murderous assailants. On the other side of the deck, Kydd caught sight of Pearse going down under a crowd of maddened gunners.

A terrible bull-like roar came from behind him. It was Wong, armed with nothing but a capstan bar, insanely whirling it about his head as he lumbered into the fray, the heavy timber crushing, wounding, breaking and bringing the rush to a halt. It was magnificent, but couldn’t last.

Then, from inland, an invisible army opened fire on the enemy end of the deck, dropping men, the savage whip of bullets creating disorder and panic. Volley after volley came – and any Frenchman who could do so swung in dismay to face the onslaught.

It was enough. Cheering wildly, the boats made it inside the arc of guns, and seamen were swarming aboard to fall on the defenders.

It was over very quickly: Frenchmen threw down their weapons and stood sullenly.

Panting and nursing his bruised side, Kydd stood to survey the carnage, then strode aft. ‘Well done, Mr Gilbey,’ he said, shaking his first lieutenant’s hand. ‘See to our men forward, will you?’

‘Qui est le capitaine?’ Kydd demanded of the group of disconsolate officers.

‘He lies wounded below,’ one replied sulkily.

‘Then know that as of this moment your ship is in the possession of His Britannic Majesty.’ Kydd’s heart was still pounding from the heat of combat.

One of the officers offered his sword. He brushed it aside. ‘The honours of war must wait for another time. Be so good as to muster your men aft.’

It was the well-tried routine of taking over a captured ship – but with a twist. Very conveniently he could empty the vessel of the enemy to assemble them under guard on the open ground of the riverbank while he sent Curzon and a party of men to perform the usual rapid search below decks. The second lieutenant reported that Marie Galante was essentially undamaged and ready for sea – no mean prize.

Gilbey returned from forward. ‘I’m truly sorry t’ say Mr Pearse is no more, and Mr Oakley has been skelped – which is t’ say, he’s taken a whiffler to the head, but I’ve a notion he’ll live,’ he added hastily.

‘Very good. Secure the ship – I want a talk with the captain.’

Kydd found the commander in a cot below in the sick-bay, his intelligent brown eyes reflecting a sea of pain. His lower body was soaked in blood from a broken-off splinter, dark and vicious, protruding from eviscerated flesh in his lower thigh.

Kydd felt for the man. He’d been unlucky enough to be caught by the carronade fire at the very outset of the engagement and the surgeon had not yet seen to him.

‘Mes felicitations, le capitaine,’ he gasped. ‘A boat from upstream, masterly! Together with your overwhelming army. Of course, we stood no chance.’ He was an older man, greying early, no doubt with the strain of keeping the seas for long months in fearful conditions. His gaze almost pleaded for understanding.

‘Your dispositions were most intelligent, sir, as gave us much difficulty.’ Kydd would not be the one to disillusion him on the details, and went on, ‘I’m quite certain Admiral Marechal will be the first to honour you for your gallant defence under such odds.’

Instantly the wounded man’s expression stiffened, the pain kept ruthlessly at bay. ‘You are no doubt from a frigate, Captain?’

Kydd caught himself. The question was both astute and pointed: this officer had foreseen the possibility that L’Aurore might well be a scout from a powerful British squadron looking to bring Marechal to battle and would welcome any indication of his whereabouts. He would get nothing from this defeated captain.

More wounded men were being brought down and, at the appearance of the surly French surgeon, Kydd made his excuses and left.

Curzon was ‘entertaining’ the other officers in their own quarters. The second lieutenant, who spoke fluent French, was attempting to bring off a risque story concerning Piccadilly and a lady of the town but it was being received in an icy silence by the two Frenchmen. At Kydd’s interrogative glance he shook his head mutely.

He had the vessel but it was not yielding the information he craved. Frustrated, Kydd moved on to the captain’s cabin. The master looked up from the working chart he had found. ‘Nary a thing, sir,’ he said, swivelling it round so Kydd could see. No squadron line of rendezvous – which could mean just as easily that there wasn’t one as that it