Julian Stockwin - Conquest

‘Not at all . . .’

‘Ah! They’ve other business – they’re a John Company convoy!’

‘Well done, Mr Bowden. However, I do think we’ll make our number – for a certainty they’ve not heard of our taking Cape Town.’

For any mariner, after weeks in the oceanic vastness, another ship was always of the deepest interest and the calling to of an important East India Company convoy must seize the attention of every soul in the fleet.

‘Then what is your news, sir, that I’m obliged to stop my progress?’ the commodore said loftily, but with barely concealed anticipation. ‘Consols above five per cent? The nabobs combining against the tax?’

‘I’m to inform you that His Majesty’s arms have met with success on the field of Blaauwberg before Cape Town and as a result the colony is ours.’

‘And?’

Kydd blinked. ‘This is a development of some significance, sir.’

‘Really? I can’t see why. It’s never been our practice to rely on touching at the Cape, and the Dutch have never seen fit to interfere with our trade. What, then, is it to us?’

‘To take on fresh victuals, allow your passengers ashore – er, to fettle your ships?’

‘Hmmph. Your notions on what is of significance to us is singular, sir. I’ll have you know the concerns of a convoy commodore are many. At the moment I’ve no notion where two of my most valuable sail are – they scattered in a blow during the night.’

Kydd bristled – then realised that the stately convoy must have been outward bound for over a month and would not have had word of the greatest news of all. ‘Of course, this is not the reason why I’ve seen fit to speak to you, sir.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s my duty to acquaint you of a great battle, the grandest this age in which the combined fleets of France and Spain were finally met by the British fleet under Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson off Cape Trafalgar.’

‘Yes? And?’ the commodore said incredulously, jerking upright.

‘Sadly, Lord Nelson died of his wounds at the height of the battle and is now lost to us.’

‘Good God!’ The commodore fell back, stupefied.

‘As it happens, I was present at the engagement,’ Kydd added.

‘But – how was . . . Did we prevail? How many – Sir, can I offer you sherry? You’re in no hurry at all?’

‘That is very kind in you, sir, but the progress of your convoy . . .’

The change of attitude was gratifying, and Kydd gave a powerful account of events, then added sombrely, ‘Now Bonaparte has changed the French conduct of the war at sea. Not able to face our fleet, he’s sent numbers of his battle squadrons to harry our trade.’ He went on to detail the forces unleashed.

The man’s face lengthened: the big privateers based on the French-held Indian Ocean islands were bad enough and the pairs of frigates sent roaming the sea-lanes were worse, but to have to cope with a naval battle squadron was unthinkable. ‘This is grave news, sir. This ship alone bears some six chests of specie and silks to a very great value. Its loss would be catastrophic. And the others – why, in sum it could bankrupt entire trading companies, even cause panic and a run on ’Change! So what does the Navy propose to do, Captain?’ he challenged.

If sail-of-the-line were taken from their blockade to chase the enemy squadrons it would achieve what Villeneuve had failed to – a lifting of the clamping hold on the French ports and thus the ability of their navy to combine and fall on England. The Admiralty would never countenance it.

‘I’m not privy to the dispositions of my commander-in-chief, sir, but you may be sure that there are fast squadrons of our own in close pursuit.’ Whatever could be scraped together from a badly overstretched navy, and set to find their quarry anywhere in the immensity of oceans across the globe, he reflected cynically.

Kydd concluded with a promise to send newspapers of Trafalgar – the gunroom would still have them – and took his leave. In the boat returning to L’Aurore he looked back thoughtfully at the convoy: grand ships of the illustrious British East India Company, run on a discipline little different from the Navy’s and in their bellies the treasure that was allowing Britain to defy the whole of Europe. They must win through.

L’Aurore took up again eagerly, a picture of grace and warlike beauty as she leaned to the wind. In a short while the last of the Indiamen were hull down and then their sails disappeared below the horizon, and the seascape was as if they had never been.

Alone once more, the frigate sped on. ‘I’ll tack about now, I believe, Mr Kendall,’ Kydd said. The manoeuvre was performed at a leisurely pace – there was no point in straining gear – and then they were on the final leg, their course set direct for Lourenço Marques.

Almost unbelievably there was another cry from the masthead. ‘ Saaail! All t’ weather, three – no, five saaail! ’

It couldn’t be another John Company convoy. Then came another hail. ‘ Deck, hooo! They’re all alterin’ course towards! ’

This was the confident act of warships but it was vanishingly unlikely that this was a British squadron for he hadn’t been told to expect any. It was the enemy.

Kydd hailed back: ‘ Whaaat shiiips? ’

There was a hesitation as the lookout strained to see, clinging to a line, his body unconsciously leaning forward while he shaded his eyes. ‘ I see two sail-o’-the-line, three frigates! ’ he finally called down.

Kydd’s orders were straightforward: he was to shadow and report. Yet here was a puzzle: why was the entire squadron going after his single frigate?

Then the icy thought blasted in that this powerful force was in the wake of the East India Company convoy, bare hours astern of them.

Upwind of them, the French were in a dominating position but only one thing stood between them and the convoy: L’Aurore . Against two line-of-battle ships his brave vessel would not survive the first broadside. Yet to step aside and let a catastrophe happen was intolerable. He must try to buy them time.

‘Mr Kendall—’ Even as he was about to give his orders the answer came as to why they were crowding after L’Aurore : they assumed she was an outlying escort and would lead them directly to the convoy.

‘Lay us on the other tack,’ he called to the sailing master, ‘with all haste, and I do expect you to miss stays.’

While L’Aurore floundered in her fright and confusion at sighting the French, Kydd ordered the master’s mate, ‘Make a signal, Mr Saxton!’

Bewildered, the young man fumbled for his notebook then took down, ‘To commander-in-chief: my fore-topsail yard is sprung. I request leave to both watches and – numeral five – men overboard.’

Saxton opened his mouth, then thought better of it and hurried away. Soon three hoists were urgently fluttering aloft as the frigate plunged off to warn her convoy – in precisely the opposite direction.

Would it work?

The topgallants of the enemy were just in sight from the deck; if they took the bait, the tiny white sunlit sails should foreshorten as they hauled their wind in chase. If not, L’Aurore would pass them by and they would disappear.

His mouth dry with tension, Kydd stared out at the distant cluster, willing them to change. Slowly their aspect altered, the glare of white from the sun fading. And it was . . . all of them. Every one of the French squadron was now in pursuit of L’Aurore , being drawn away from the convoy.

But for how long? Any false move on his part and L’Aurore ’s bluff would be called. For a certainty the French commander would then fall back on his original track, straight towards the convoy.