Julian Stockwin - Betrayal

After dinner, Kydd called a council of war aboard L’Aurore .

‘Gentlemen, the corvette rightly assumes our only means of attack is by boat and he’s taking every precaution to defend against it. In the main he’s lying at the head of a straight passage of the river and knows he’s a line of sight that will warn him in plenty of time of an assault. Of a certainty he has his guns trained downriver to slaughter any in attacking boats.’ In quick, bold pencil strokes, he sketched out the situation on a sheet of paper.

He paused and looked up. ‘We will be going in, however.’ Troubled glances were exchanged. ‘But not from the direction he expects. We’ll be coming from upstream.’

‘Ah,’ Curzon said instantly. ‘How are we first going to get our boats past him? Even under cover of dark we’ll be-’

‘We don’t!’

‘Sir?’

‘The boats will be advancing upstream – but not until we’ve boarded him.’

‘I – I don’t follow you, sir.’

Kydd explained about the floating islands. ‘Six boarders concealed in one to signal down the reach when they’re in sight so we’ll know which island they’re aboard. This tells the boats to come into view and begin their attack, drawing the attention of the French entirely to what they’ve been expecting.

‘When abreast the bowsprit of the corvette, the island will be brought alongside and our men will swarm aboard from nowhere to spread alarm and confusion. At this point from concealed positions inland Lieutenant Clinton will order his marines to open a hot fire, which will dismay the defenders, they not knowing his force or what they face.

‘Caught between three lines of attack, he’ll be in a sad moil and that’s when we strike home. Questions?’

After several minutes’ digesting the details of this unconventional cutting-out action, Curzon broke the silence: ‘Just the one, sir. Any signal hoisted on the, er, island will necessarily be seen by even the most dim-witted o’ the French. How, then, are we to preserve our surprise?’

Renzi came in: ‘The ancients got there before us, of course, gentlemen. You will recollect that, at Thermopylae, news of the advance of the Persian host under Xerxes was relayed across the plains to King Leonidas of Sparta by-’

‘Be s’ kind as t’ spare us your history, Mr Renzi, we’ve a war to figure.’

Gilbey’s sarcasm brought a frown from Kydd. ‘Do fill and stand on, Renzi, old chap. We’re all listening.’

‘-by polished shields flashing in the sunlight. I rather thought a mirror in our case,’ he added.

‘Just so,’ Kydd said, with satisfaction. Renzi had on more than one occasion retrieved a situation by recourse to his classical education. ‘Taking care to shield it from being spied by the corvette, naturally.’

‘Um, er-’

‘Mr Bowden?’ He acknowledged the third lieutenant.

‘This floating island, sir. If it’s to be brought alongside the Frenchy – er, how does it steer, as we might say?’

‘A boat grapnel. The corvette is moored on the inside of the bend. The grapnel is cast overside when still out of sight and paid out until we are near abreast. Hauling taut on the line will cause the island to swing into the bank.’

There was a ripple of approval. It was shaping up.

‘It’ll in course be m’self commanding on the island,’ Gilbey pronounced.

‘As first lieutenant your duty is the main attack, not the diversion,’ Kydd said shortly. ‘I shall take care of that.’

‘What will be our force in its entirety, pray?’ Curzon asked.

‘Every boat that swims, all the Royals with our idlers as their loaders. And all volunteers, mark you. You shall be second to Mr Gilbey and Mr Bowden will taste command of a frigate for the first time.’

Bowden jerked upright. ‘Sir, I must protest! This is-’

‘You object to a frigate command at your age, sir? Fie on you!’ Kydd chuckled. ‘No, younker, I need to know L’Aurore is in safe hands while we’re away. Can you think of a better? Oh, and you shall have Mr Renzi for company,’ he added firmly.

‘This’ll do,’ Kydd muttered quietly. Poulden brought the barge to the riverbank safely, lower down the river from the corvette, and the ‘island party’ sprang ashore: gunner’s mate Stirk, who would not be denied his place; boatswain Oakley, who had sworn that only himself could be relied upon with the grapnel; boatswain’s mate Cumby, who had demanded by right to be at his side; Pearse, the raw-boned master’s mate, with a yen to have something to boast of when he returned home; and Wong Hay Chee, former circus strongman and inseparable friend of Stirk.

Nearby, the launch and both cutters began setting the Royal Marines ashore with their number twos – the idlers, those such as the sailmaker’s crew, and stewards who did not stand a watch at sea but could be relied on for the mechanical task of reloading muskets.

There was a three-quarter moon riding high and Kydd cursed under his breath. The assembling men were in plain view, and even if they were doing their best to stay quiet, the clink and leather slap of equipment seemed so loud in the night air. ‘L’tenant Clinton,’ he whispered hoarsely, to the Royal Marines’ officer, ‘do you prove your men’s weapons. If any fires accidentally, I’ll personally slit his gizzard and after that I’ll court-martial the villain. Is that clear?’ Of all things, a musket shot would be best calculated to arouse the enemy instantly.

Clinton smiled and offered him a bag that clicked as he passed it over. ‘I’ve taken precautions, sir. These are their flints without which their muskets will not fire.’ Mollified, Kydd nodded.

A mile or so downstream from the corvette, they would travel in a straight line over the knee-bend in the river to arrive at a point upstream and out of sight from the French, on the way leaving the marines to take position. The boats would retire and wait until full daylight before coming up. Then all would depend on the island party.

They set out. The low, undulating land was mainly open scrub with thicker areas of bushes. The moonlight was not enough to locate the corvette but Kydd had a small pocket compass that allowed him to set a course to intersect the river above the vessel and led off in that direction.

At night the African bush was a petrifying experience: every little sound seemed loaded with menace, and although there were more than fifty men with Kydd, they were strung out behind. His imagination conjured up all manner of dangers. If a lion sprang out on him . . . or one of those beasts with a horn on its nose? If it took a rage against him at the head of the column, then well before the others could . . .

‘Keep closed up,’ he snarled at the marines behind him, drawing his cutlass to slash at an inoffensive bush, then keeping it out at point. He had left his fighting sword aboard ship – in the bloody hacking of a boarding, its fine qualities would not be essential, and if it was lost in a swamp somewhere he would never forgive himself.

‘Sir!’ Clinton pointed into the silvery distance on the left. The upper spars of the Marie Galante were visible about a mile away.

‘Very good,’ Kydd said, stopping. ‘You know your orders. Keep the men at a distance until daybreak, then close up to your positions when you hear firing begin.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘It’s of the first importance that you are not seen before-’

‘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.