Victory

Keenly feeling the responsibility of his argosy, its value in cargo, the several thousand souls, he finally gave the orders that had the convoy wheeling about to resume its southward track.

As they passed the forty-three degrees north latitude of Cape Finisterre, invisible miles to leeward, the wind magically changed. Veering sharply north and moderating in a brisk quartering wind, it urged the convoy onward.

It was too good to last. Soon after a watery sun appeared, giving their position as some seventy miles to seaward of Cape St Vincent, the winds dropped and their speed fell away to a walking pace. It was intensely annoying – once past, they could shape course directly for Gibraltar on the last leg with an easy wind astern.

Sail blossomed from every yard but, again, they were constrained by the lumbering transport, which was making poor going in the light airs. At this season and latitude, on the fringe of the south-west trades, calms could occur without warning – and equally within hours a storm could threaten.

Eventually the legendary cape was passed and course was shaped for Gibraltar. The calm, however, lasted into the night, a blaze of stars near enough to touch doing little for Kydd’s mood. In the morning the breeze dropped even further, a playful zephyr all that was left. At noon the transport hung out a signal but it was unreadable, the fluky breeze not enough to raise the flags to read them.

As much for something to do, Kydd sent away a boat to investigate. It was back before long and Curzon wasted no time in telling him the news. ‘Captain Jevons sends his compliments and believes you should know that because of your extended leg to seaward he will soon be in distress for water.’

Kydd bit back his retort: this was a retired post-captain persuaded to take command of the transport and far senior to himself. No doubt he had underestimated the water needs of the cavalry horses and had now found his excuse.

The nearest watering would be somewhere in Iberia and he would not venture his convoy on such a mission. Gibraltar should be only one or two days’ sail or so away – but in this calm? He had no idea how long horses could go without water but guessed it was not a great deal of time. And after seasickness crossing Biscay, the troops would have every incentive to clean themselves up – using their precious drinking water.

In exasperation he ordered the convoy to heave to, a long process with the merchantmen in the light airs strung out all over the ocean. Then it was sweaty heaving for his crew to sway up their last three full leaguers from the hold and lower them into the sea. Fresh water meant that they floated and he left them there wallowing for the transport to grapple and haul in.

‘Deck hoooo!’ The sudden hail from the fore-top took everyone by surprise. ‘T’ loo’ard – sail an’ galleys.’

Suddenly apprehensive, Kydd jumped for the shrouds and stared into the band of pearly haze that was the horizon to the east, the Strait of Gibraltar itself. Then he saw a straggle of small craft, many oared, the lofty sweep of the lateen of a Moorish felucca or some such. There could be only one reason for their presence: word had been passed to Tarifa, or another Spanish nest of corsairs, of a convoy becalmed, ripe for the picking.

Given any kind of workable breeze a frigate would be soon among them to blow them out of the water, but with this – cats-paws prettily darkening the sea in long riffles and disappearing as fast as they came, canvas hanging and slatting aimlessly . . .

The cutter would have oars and the sloop awkward sweeps but, without the agility of the lighter enemy craft, they would easily be evaded. His ships and their valuable cargo would then be picked off one by one. Kydd might soon be known as the captain of a frigate whose entire convoy had been taken right from under his nose by a ragtag swarm of picaroons.

‘Mr Oakley – every man you can get in the tops with buckets, the fire-engine with hoses,’ he ordered urgently. ‘Get those sails wet!’

There was no time for much else; stunsails had long been set and he was ready to try, with the only move he could make, to put himself between the beetling menace and the convoy.

It was hopeless. There was simply a contented gurgling as the helm was put over, long minutes of lazy turning while all the time the threat sharpened into focus. On the transport there were movements of red figures where the soldiers were lining the decks with muskets – but they were in no danger: it was the fat merchantmen they were after.

The cutter and sloop needed no orders – they were already swinging to meet the enemy but they were near helpless in the calm.

‘We’re makin’ way, sir,’ Kendall said, with something between surprise and awe. It was true – a small but regular ripple was spreading out from their forefoot. Kydd joined him in looking down the ship’s side and tried to estimate – one, two knots?

‘Does she answer the helm true?’ he threw at the conn. The helmsman wound on four spokes of the wheel. The bowsprit obediently began stepping across and the man spun the helm back, meeting the swing. The bow stopped and came back. They had steerage way.

‘Damn it – we’ve got a chance!’ Kydd blurted. But first they had to overhaul the entire convoy from their post at the rear. The race was on.

One by one they slipped past the helpless ships, threading their way around drifting vessels, L’Aurore catching every slight wafting breath of air to urge steadily on. Kydd couldn’t keep the smile from his face – this was her true breeding, the ghosting in light airs that he had noticed before. And now it was going to save them all.

Around the deck there were grins and laughter – the spell was lifting. This was a ship a sailor could be proud to be in, one that had the promise of witchery, of feats that could be yarned about for years afterwards.

The Alcestes were starting to change to L’Aurores.

The enemy were suddenly presented with the dismaying picture of a frigate emerging from the crowd of frightened sail, and in the flat calm unaccountably bearing down on them. They huddled together – a fatal mistake, for L’Aurore took her time, then slewed about to open with a broadside on the concentrated group.

After the gun-smoke rolling down on their target had cleared it was very apparent they were not about to be troubled any further by the marauders. Making off as fast as they could to avoid the other broadside, they left three wrecks to be dealt with by the cutter, which was gamely trying to keep with L’Aurore.