Betrayal Read Free

could be enticed closer until the fast-sailing
L’Aurore
had a chance of closing with it.
    ‘Mr Oakley!’ he hailed, striding back to the quarterdeck. ‘I have a pretty problem in the article of rigging, and I’d be obliged if you’d attend on me.’
    It took some explaining, but it brought a broad grin to the red-headed boatswain, who stumped off forward, bawling for his men. It was hard work, but by the ringing of eight bells at the beginning of the dog-watches it was done, and over supper and grog the seamen had something daring to talk about.
    The morning dawned clear and bright, the weather perfect for Kydd’s plans: a gentle warm breeze, a flat, calm seascape and crystal visibility to the northern horizon. It was time to prepare.
    ‘Strike all sail, if y’ please,’ he said. Canvas vanished from every yard and was furled above in a tight harbour stow.
L’Aurore
slowed and then idly drifted.
    ‘Stream the sea-anchor,’ he ordered. A canvas triangle on a line was lowered over the transom. The frigate felt its gentle tug as the pressure of the south-setting Mozambique current took charge,
L’Aurore
’s bows swinging obediently to face into it – to the north.
    It was time for the finale. ‘Rig false sails, Mr Oakley,’ Kydd demanded.
    From half a hundred blocks came the squealing of sheaves as quite another suit of sails fell from the yards. ‘Brace around, y’ sluggards!’ But this was not to catch the wind at the most effective angle – it was the opposite. Each yard was trimmed edge on to the slight breeze, the sails hanging shivering and impotent. Any with the slightest acquaintance of a full-rigged ship would have been mightily puzzled to see
L’Aurore
now. An ingenious system of tackles and beckets allowed her to set topsails where the lower course would be, topgallants from the topsail yards and royals above. In effect, setting the frigate’s sail plan down by one tier.
    This gave her the appearance of a small Indiaman, trying a dash inside Madagascar instead of the more direct route on the far side. Men looked up in wonder at their Lilliputian fit of sails, and overside at their total lack of motion. Kydd gave a half-smile: this was not normally the way a full-blooded frigate faced the enemy.
    There was not long to wait. Within an hour there was an excited hail from the masthead. To the north, square sail! Long minutes later another cry confirmed it as a three-master. Unable to restrain himself Kydd leaped for the shrouds and joined the lookout in the bare fore-topgallant masthead. He fumbled for his pocket telescope and steadied it on the far distant blob of white. There, unmistakably, was a full-rigged ship and he waited impatiently for its hull to lift above the horizon.
    Eventually, to his intense satisfaction, Kydd saw a single line of gun-ports along the length of the ship. No merchantman this: a frigate on the loose without a shadow of a doubt.
    He snapped his glass shut and, with a tigerish grin at the lookout, swung down to the deck again. ‘It’s him. We’ll soon see if we’ve gulled the looby.’
    L’Aurore
lay barely lifting with the slight sea. With no way on, only the idle rattle and bang of gear aloft intruded on the senses. It was not Kydd’s plan to engage in battle: his priority was to rely on
L’Aurore
’s proven speed to keep with the ship until he was led to the squadron. There might well be additional frigates waiting to trap him between two fires but this was a chance he had to take.
    ‘
He’s seen us, an’ alterin’ towards!
’ The lookout’s hail was gleeful.
    The Frenchman was hopefully seeing an Indiaman unhappily becalmed, as so often in these seas: one vessel could be in useful breezes while another lying off only a few miles could be hopelessly adrift. The sea-anchor was doing its work; with
L’Aurore
’s bow end on towards the frigate, her warlike details would remain hidden for a while longer.
    By now the ship steadily heading their way could be