Julian Stockwin - Conquest

My gay cockade, my hanger too ,

And thought them wondrous smart;

But now, alas! My coat is rent ,

My hanger’s pawned, my money spent;

Shiv’ring walk the quarterdeck ,

Dreading first lieutenant’s check

Who struts the weather side!

Amid the appreciative applause Curzon came in with another, delivered in a charming boyish falsetto:

I’m here or there a jolly dog ,

At land or sea I’m all agog ,

To fight, or kiss, or touch the grog –

O! I’m but a jovial mid-ship-man!

About to launch into the second verse, he stopped awkwardly and ribald cries went up. ‘Go on, sir! Can y’ not remember the words?’

But in the august presence of their captain it would never do to continue the rest of the racy ballad. Bowden came to the rescue, the only one in the gunroom who knew their commander had a voice. ‘Sir, can you feel it in your heart to favour us with . . . ?’

Kydd quickly reviewed his repertoire, which now included pieces from salon and drawing room, but they were not what was wanted. Instead he held up his hand and in the respectful hush began in a soft but manly baritone:

Tom Truelove woo’d the sweetest fair

That e’er to tar was kind;

Her face was of a beauty rare ,

More beautiful her mind;

This tale, his mess-mates sorrowing tell ,

How sad and solemn three times rang;

Tom Truelove’s knell . . .

When he finished there was an incredulous silence then a storm of acclamation. It had brought a rush of sailorly feeling, the age-old warmth of mariners alone together in a far-off sea, tender remembrances of a native land stealing into their thoughts to soften their existence.

Another wistful song was offered by Bowden, one more from Curzon and, after obliging remarks on the efforts of the officers’ cook that evening, the gunroom lapsed into an introspective quiet.

‘I’m thinking we should be raising a glass t’ our little piece o’ empire,’ Gilbey reflected moodily, ‘as they’ve got so much going against ’em.’

Clinton snorted, his face flushed. ‘Blaauwberg showed Johnny Dutchman what we can do, damn their eyes!’

‘An undefeated army in the field, nothing in the granary and a country half the size of Europe to hold down – I’ll wager we’ll be packing our bags for England in the space of a three-month,’ Peyton said cynically, helping himself to the bottle.

‘Never so, Doctor!’ the master, Kendall, rumbled. It was the first he had spoken that night and heads turned to listen. ‘We’ve a navy second t’ none other, c’n keep ourselves well supplied an’ them Hollanders starving. An’ never forget, any wants t’ take the Cape back has to get past us.’

‘Get past us?’ Peyton drawled sarcastically. ‘Then you haven’t heard of the heavy squadrons Bonaparte sent to sea after Trafalgar? Three, or was it four, sir?’ he challenged Kydd.

‘Five, I believe,’ Kydd said mildly. ‘Let me see . . . We’ve L’Hermite in the Gulf o’ Guinea with frigates, Leissègues with four o’-the-line – but he’s for the Caribbean, I fancy. La Meillerie with four frigates off West Africa, but Willaumez with six battleships in the South Atlantic at this moment and Maréchal still in the Indian Ocean.’

‘And we with a couple of paltry sixty-fours and a single pair of frigates – even if one be none other than His Majesty’s Ship L’Aurore ,’ Peyton returned, his words heavy with irony.

There was an edge to Kydd’s voice as he replied, ‘I should leave the strategicals to us, Doctor. The gentlemen here are not concerned, neither should you be.’

‘Has anyone stepped ashore in this Lourenço Marques?’ Bowden asked lightly. ‘I’ve never heard of it before now.’

It seemed there were none who had in fact done so. ‘As it needs our Mr Renzi t’ tip us the griff,’ Gilbey said, solemnly regarding his port. There was a general murmur of agreement: Renzi was a valued member of the gunroom and his presence missed.

‘The pilot hasn’t much t’ say,’ Kendall said thoughtfully. ‘Around twenty-five south latitude, one o’ the last half-good harbours sailin’ south.’

‘Portuguese,’ Kydd said. ‘Been there since the fifteen hundreds, the south part of their old empire they share with the Moors – Zanzibar and other places. Should be a fine place to stretch the legs.’

The mood brightened at the prospect of an exotic foreign port with novel sights and smells.

‘Then here’s to Lorency Marks!’ Peyton said gleefully, raising his glass.

L’Aurore stretched out willingly, slashing through the glittering seas away from Africa to reach her destination in two boards, not only to make her northing in the face of the north-easterly monsoon but as well to avoid the fast south-going Agulhas current close to the coast.

It was a time to gladden the heart of any sailor. Close-hauled with gear set for long watches at a time, the frigate was rock-steady and predictable, her motion easy and sweet, an occasional burst of salt spray over the bows carrying aft.

Forward, the old sailmaker Greer smiled with satisfaction as the boatswain and his party sent up a patched staysail while the watch on deck sat cross-legged around the main-hatchway teasing oakum, an unassailable excuse to tell yarns and gossip.

At the conn, Lieutenant Bowden gave a shy smile at Kydd, clearly relishing the conditions. Kendall, beside him, was taking in the vast blue bowl of sky with a tranquil gaze, and the quartermaster, having little to do, contentedly chewed his tobacco, gazing with a faraway look out over the headsails.

On impulse Kydd removed his hat and began a leisurely pace forward, enjoying the sights of a frigate in her prime on a bowline, the comfortable creak and thrum of her passage, the gratifying symmetry of masts and lines, sheer and camber, the—

‘ Saaail, ho! Saaail three points t’ the weather bow! ’

The urgent hail from the foremast lookout cut into his thoughts. At deck level it would be some time before they became visible and it could be anything – there were active trade routes in this part of the world that made it likely to be a merchant ship. But this far out?

‘ Deck, hooo! I see three sail – an’ big ’uns! ’

Three men-o’-war? Only too aware of the French heavy squadrons at sea, Kydd turned and hurried back to the quarterdeck. ‘Close as she’ll lie!’ he snapped, now fully alert.

L’Aurore was in no real danger: she could wheel and make off downwind at any time she chose, and if these were indeed Willaumez or Maréchal, then his duty was clear. He would shadow them until he could establish their course, then clap on every stitch of canvas to get the news to Cape Town. At this distance he could be sure of reaching there days ahead of lumbering battleships.

Another hail. ‘ I see eight of ’em – no frigates! ’

Kydd breathed a sigh of relief: scouting frigates ahead of the squadron could make it very hard for any shadower.

Away to weather, tiny pale shapes interrupted the horizon as they hove into view, three, four and more until all eight were visible. Gilbey had his sextant up, held flat as he measured the angle between the strangers and L’Aurore ’s course. Another sighting, minutes later, confirmed that the distant ships would pass ahead by some margin.

‘Stand down the men,’ Kydd ordered.

‘Sir?’ said Bowden, puzzled.

‘Do you not think it significant that they’re holding course?’

‘That they think us not worthy of attention?’