Authors: Julian Stockwin
“Mr Calloway?”
“Sir?”
“You aren't planning on making Mr Dillon's day more confusing than it already is for him, are you?”
“What, me, sir?” the crestfallen young man answered.
“Yes, you, sir. I've a need for that gentleman's services in the shortest possible time and it's your job to see he takes inboard his nauticals at the gallop. None o' your tricks with finding the key to the starboard watch or how to swing a sky hook, you rascal. Just show him the ship's main particulars and have him speaking some sea lingo that makes sense. Compree?”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“And our newest reefers?”
“A useless pair, sir, but they'll shape up, or I'll know the reason why.” Calloway had himself started sea life as a runaway waif and clearly had his views about mollycoddled young gentlemen.
“Piping the eye, homesick both. They're together in Mr Bowden's watch. I dare say he knows how to teach 'em their duty,” Calloway added.
Dillon arrived, clutching a large notebook and pencil, and wearing a suitably studious expression.
“This is master's mate Calloway, Mr Dillon. He's to teach you the essentials, which I trust you'll absorb in quick time.”
“You'll not find me wanting in application, Sir Thomas. Mr Calloway?”
Kydd found quickly that he did indeed have a call for a secretaryâin fact, a sore need.
Barely into their voyage there were so many papers at his desk clamouring for his attention. In the course of things, Renzi would discreetly have sorted them for priority and importance before ever he saw them, flagging those needing thought and deliberation as opposed to the “requiring signature” rained on him by an officious ship's clerk.
It was too much to expect of his new man at this stage, and as well there were confidential matters that he'd have to handle himself until there was sufficient trust. He was becoming acutely aware that the task, with its complexity and delicacy, was not one for a temporary jobbing secretary. He needed one who would grow into the job and see it as a long-term prospect.
Was Dillon the man to take it on? His talk of seeing the world might be satisfied in full by the time they reached Gibraltar and Kydd would have to look for another. With Dillon's romantic notions it was not an impossible prospect.
Moodily, he gazed down the deck forward where the watch was bending on a fore-topgallant. A routine procedure, furling and sending down the old sail for repair first, it still required skill and timing. It was Brice in charge at the foot of the mast and Kydd stopped to watch.
The boatswain had immediate control of the men on the yard and Brice was standing impassive, letting Oakley and the topmen get on with it. This was a good sign, demonstrating his understanding of the intermeshing authority of petty officers and men, whose trusting interdependence could so easily be perturbed by interference from the outside.
Once, he had spotted a fouled clew-line block out of sight of the boatswain; with crisp, efficient orders he had dealt with it and returned authority to the boatswain immediately. The officer's seamanship was faultless, no doubt the result of the close-quarter responsibilities he'd have encountered in his small brig in stormy waters. Given a good report from Bowden, he'd have him take full officer-of-the-watch duties earlier rather than later.
A hail from the masthead told of landfall.
Ushant. The strategic hinge point of France where ships for the Mediterranean and further south turned sharply left; those to the New World set out on the long beat into the broad Atlantic.
It was a point of convergence for ships of every nation leaving Europe or inward-bound from overseas to the great ports of the northâand therefore a prime target for privateers of all flags.
In a well-escorted convoy, they had little to fear from those vermin but such a concentration of wealth was a tempting prize. Any stragglers would be set upon without mercy and, as if knowing this, the convoy seemed to huddle even closer.
“Yes, Mr Dillon, that's France, and on that little grey island are some of Napoleon's finest, with cannon and muskets enough to fire into us and do us harm.”
The young man had come up and was staring across the sea with an intense fascination at the first foreign shore he had seen, and that of the enemy to boot.
The wind still in the north, it couldn't have been fairer for the long stretch across the Bay of Biscay to Spain and around to Gibraltar.
The far-off grey island was momentarily hidden by the white of a line-squall of rain, and when it reappeared it was appreciably further along as they passed it.
Since those days long past when, in
Teazer,
these were home waters, Kydd had always felt unease at passing through this foremost hunting ground for sea predators anywhere in the world. The sooner they made the open sea of the deeply indented Bay of Biscay the better he'd like it.
It was not to be.
With the craggy island abeam, a trap was sprung. From the sheltered lobster-claw-shaped inlet of Lampaul Bay sail was sighted emergingâand more, still moreâon a direct course to intercept.
Kydd snatched Curzon's telescope and steadied on the sight. Still some five miles away but in a perfect situation were at least two corvettes and a cloud of lesser craft, possibly privateers, and any number of the inshore vessels the French were employing in ever-increasing numbers to take the war to the British.
It was well conceived: the same northeasterly that was bearing the convoy southward was being used against it, for as it passed the island the crowding hunters would fall in astern of itâto windward, where they could harry the slower merchantmen at will.
And two corvettes: these were ship-rigged, like a frigate, and although smaller, a pair together could take on one, certainly of lighter register like
L'Aurore.
And while the smashing match was going on, the pack of smaller craft would overwhelm the few escorts and it would be a massacre.
“To quarters, Mr Curzon.”
It was plain what had happened: while the convoy was assembling in Portsmouth someone had carelessly mentioned its destination in a waterfront tavern and French agents had picked up on it, giving them plenty of time to mount their ambush.
Dillon's face was flushed with excitement. “They're not our boats, then, Sir Thomas?”
“No, sir, they're not.”
“Thenâ”
Calloway interrupted. “From
Weazel
ââAssume the weather station.'”
“Acknowledge.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
It was what he would have done, put the biggest ship between the enemy and the convoy. Lawson was thinking coolly. He, the two cutters and the schooner would stay with the merchantmen and rely on the frigate to deter.
Clinch and Willock came on deck in still-new cocked hats, each self-consciously fingering a dirk and watching Kydd gravely.
The winds were brisk and steady, the seas slight. There would be no escape in a weather change.
He took another sight: the two corvettes were standing on with all plain sail, and the faster of the lesser vessels were passing them, eager to be in the best position to take their pick of victims while the corvettes were engaged with
L'Aurore.
“Sir, what will we do?” Dillon asked, in thrall.
“Do?” Kydd said sharply. “We fight! The convoy is much more important than we, sir.”
He checked himself. “This is a serious situation, Mr Dillon. You have a battle station and that is next to me. You'll take notes of everything of importance as will assist later in writing my dispatch after any action with the enemy.”
“Yes, Sir Thomas.” The intensity of his concentration was touching.
“There's no need to fret so. You're not expected to bear arms or face the enemy directly, or even to give any orders. Just be sure to keep a clear head and be accurate in your observations. Nothing else, you see.”
To add point to his words he raised the glass again and calmly dictated the strength of the enemy. Dillon wrote furiously and wisely refrained from asking for explanations.
As if for the comfort of his presence, the two young midshipmen sidled up to their captain.
“Where's your station at quarters?” he snapped.
“Well, we don't reallyâ”
“Go to the gunner in the forward magazine and tell him I've sent you.” The last thing he wanted now was a distraction.
Kydd had noticed that the corvettes were separating, revealing that they intended to take
L'Aurore
under fire from two sides. It was likely that, while they'd received word of the convoy and its slight escort, they had not been prepared for an accompanying frigate and were now on the defensive.
An idea was forming. “Mr Curzonâdo attend on me for a moment.”
The officer approached and took off his hat.
“We've a good advantage, I'm persuaded.”
“Sir?”
“A fresh-fettled ship and a fine crew. I intend to make best use of this. I desire you to make known to the gun crews that what I have in mind requires they leave their guns for sail-handling and back to their guns several times. They're to obey orders at the rush, even in peril of their lives, Mr Curzon. All depends on speed and instant execution of the manoeuvre. Is that clear?”
“Understood, sir.”
The enemy was coming on at speed. There were several substantial vessels ahead of the corvettesâtwo with the characteristic three lug-sails of a Brittany privateer and three brig-rigged, foaming out under a taut press of sail.
Now was the time to move.
“Haul to the wind, Mr Kendall. Hard as she can lie.”
L'Aurore
curved about and laid her bowsprit precisely in the centre of the two corvettes now a quarter-mile apart, racing ahead as only a thoroughbred frigate could do.
The effect was instant. The corvettes luffed up into the wind, warily closing together then staying in position and waiting for the onrushing frigate to join battle.
Which was not what Kydd did. Instead he threw up the helm and bore down on the astonished privateer passing to starboard. Too late, its captain saw what had happened and tried to slew around but all this did was to slow the vessel and present an unmissable target.
In a pitiless broadside
L'Aurore
blasted the craft into splintered fragments that, after the smoke had cleared, simply littered the sea.
At the instant the guns had fired Kydd began tacking the frigate about and took up on a course at right angles to the enemy. The leading brig was smashed to flinders by the guns on the opposite broadside, to become more floating wreckage.
The corvettes came to their senses and hardened in for a thrust together at
L'Aurore
but Kydd had anticipated this and wore around. A luckless privateer lugger took the frigate's carronades at close range and was out of the fightâand still with not a shot in anger against them.
Dillon, white-faced with shock at the blast of the guns and mad frenzy of seamen racing from tacks and braces to guns and back again, did his best to keep up. Kydd calmly interpreted the action for his noting down.
All the small craft had scrambled to escape the mayhem, putting back for the protection of the corvettes. The convoy had gained a respite; there would be no wholesale falling upon the helpless merchantmen until
L'Aurore
had been dealt with.
With
Weazel
shepherding them on, the convoy forged south, but now the enemy's force was entirely to windward and behind them and, once regrouped, could run them down as it chose.
Once past
L'Aurore.
Their force was barely diminished: what Kydd had achieved was a moral victory of sorts but it would not last. The enemy was now under no illusions and would plot his moves carefully and with malice.
His frigate was considerably outnumbered and, in a fair fight against these, could not be expected to surviveâbut, damn it, this was not going to be fair.
He had one priceless advantage: this was the combat of a crack frigate of the Royal Navy ranged against a ragtag swarm of privateers, not a disciplined fleet.
This translated to many things: gunnery, sail-handling and, above all, command. The senior corvette captain had no means to communicate with his “squadron” for they were not trained up to signal work, and Kydd's direct assault on the smaller craft had left them in retreat. There would be no co-ordinated simultaneous onslaught, which would certainly have finished
L'Aurore.
Now it was the two corvettes. How could he take them on together?
As he pondered, he caught a glimpse of Brice at the forward guns, standing with his feet on a carronade slide, his arms folded: the picture of calm and fearlessness. The man might be odd in his particulars but with his seamanship and coolness in action he could look to a welcome place in
L'Aurore.
Kydd deliberated on the alternatives. He believed his frigate
to be not only handier but faster so he could turn the tables if he was careful. The main thing was to avoid being trapped between the two.
He glanced back at the convoy. To his surprise it was shaping course inshore to France, not out into the anonymous expanse of ocean. Then he grinned in sudden understanding. A smart move by Lawson.
He knew what to do now.
“Put us about again.”
L'Aurore
went around with a will and took up in a broad diagonal pass across the path of the oncoming corvettes.
The implication was stark: either they manoeuvred to avoid a raking broadside into their unresisting bows or they stood on into
L'Aurore
's fury of shot.
They broke and fell back, firing as they did so.
It was long range and most of the balls fell short and skipped. Several punched holes in the frigate's sails but Kydd had achieved what he needed toâdelay to allow the convoy to escape.
He turned. “Why, are you hit, Mr Dillon?” he asked in concern. The man was on all fours.