Then it must be beyond the next headland – Booby Point, according to the chart.
There was little to be gained in going to quarters – their size alone could be relied on to subdue any thought of resistance – but pulses quickened as they rounded it. Nothing.
Kydd felt a surge of irritation. ‘Clap on more sail,’ he told the master. ‘We’ll go direct and catch him before Northeast Point, only another hour or two.’ If not, he would have to accept they had made their escape.
In and out of the rain squalls L’Aurore sailed, but when they reached the north-east tip of Jamaica, there was still no sign.
‘Wear ship, if you please, we return,’ Kydd said heavily.
He watched Buckle fumble his duties at the main, saved only by Curzon’s bellowed intervention, and his growing annoyance that his triumphant return was spoiled took focus.
‘Mr Buckle to lay aft,’ he roared, and waited while the hapless lieutenant dithered over whether to abandon his men.
‘Sir, I’m to tell you that you’ll be landed at Kingston. You’ve no place in this ship.’
‘Sir?’
The crestfallen look that replaced his willing air nearly made Kydd weaken. ‘You’ve to learn your profession in a bigger ship first, I believe.’
‘I can get the knack, if you’ll-’
‘No. Get your gear together, Mr Buckle.’
His shoulders drooped as he turned to go. Then he stopped and said humbly, ‘Oh, could I tell you something?’
Kydd frowned.
‘It’s that I’ve heard of your reputation as a fighting captain and, er, I thought …’
If this was going to be an emotional confession …
‘Well?’
‘I, um, you see, I was worried you’d think it an almighty cheek should I tell you …’
‘What, pray?’ Kydd said, dangerously.
‘… where t’ go to hunt the chase.’
‘Oh? Where should I go, then?’
Taking a deep breath, Buckle began, ‘Y’ see, when I was a boy, we came to Jamaica and I went playing in the John Crow Mountains.’
‘And?’ said Kydd, heavily.
‘Going by raft all the way down the river. Rare fun!’ At Kydd’s look he caught himself and hurried on: ‘Right to the sea, we ends in a little harbour, not big at all – but snug in any nor’-easter.’
Buckle waited for a response, and when there wasn’t one he went on lamely, ‘When I was mid in the little Ibis I told Captain Hardison about it, and we always used it in place o’ Port Morant, and never the need to haul back after.’
‘And you think the schooner is there?’ Kydd snorted. ‘We’ve been close in with the land all the way up the coast and saw nothing.’
‘Ah, you wouldn’t. The spit o’ land we shelter behind is thick wi’ trees and you can see naught from seaward.’
Kydd grimaced, but decided it was worth a look. ‘Show me. You can read a chart?’
‘I can, in course,’ Buckle said, with a wounded expression. ‘I passed l’tenant! But I doubts we’ll see it there, it’s so small. Manchioneal Harbour, Mr Hardison calls it.’
‘It’s here,’ Kendall conceded. ‘No mention of holding ground, though.’
‘We’ll give it a call. What depth o’ water can we expect?’
‘Oh, not as would float a frigate,’ Buckle admitted. ‘I just thought, well, the schooner might be lying inside, like.’
Manchioneal Harbour was as he had said: from seaward it looked like an insignificant indentation in the coast, not worth the investigating.
Kydd gave orders that had L’Aurore heaving to well clear of the breakers driving inshore. ‘Take away a boat, Mr Gilbey, land on this side and peek through the trees. Mind you’re not seen, and return immediately with your report.’
The first lieutenant was soon back – the picture of satisfaction. ‘He’s there, sure enough,’ he called up, from the approaching boat. ‘Bung up an’ bilge free.’
‘Well done, Mr Buckle,’ Kydd conceded. ‘We have him now.’
The little harbour was as much a trap as a hideaway and they were the stopper in the bottle.
Yet one thing could bring everything to a halt. Although it was acting suspiciously, there would be no question of prize-taking if the vessel could prove it was neutral. Kydd decided that, as the officer most experienced at boarding, he would take the pinnace in himself. ‘Four marines and boat’s crew,’ he ordered. ‘And Mr Saxton,’ he added. A master’s mate rather than midshipman to take the tiller and add gravitas to the proceedings.
The boat surged in, sped on by the white combers, going beyond the spit and turning right into the harbour opening up inside.
And there was their quarry, sleek and low and lying to single anchor.
There was no identification but her lines seemed familiar to Kydd – was this a New England schooner, the like of which he had come across in his brief time in the United States as a lieutenant? As they approached, men appeared on deck, then the American flag jerked hastily up the main-mast.
This was going to be tricky, Kydd allowed: he’d had time to read only once his captain’s appreciation of the current legal situation between Britain and the United States in the West Indies. In essence, the Americans were strict neutrals by international law, allowing them to trade freely with both sides, but there had been developments that he’d not yet been able to study for their implications. If he was wrong in the details, there would not only be an international incident but he himself would be cast into ruinous damages.
As they came alongside he stood in the boat and hailed: ‘In the King’s name, I direct you to allow me aboard.’
An older man with seamed features pushed to the side and broke into a smile. ‘Ye’re English, thank the Lord! O’ course y’ may.’
A small Jacob’s ladder was flipped down and Kydd pulled himself up, Saxton following.
‘We thought you was Frenchies, you crackin’ on so serious as y’ were.’ The man extended his hand. ‘Elias Dale, master o’ the Orleans Maid.’
‘Captain Thomas Kydd, His Majesty’s Ship L’Aurore. You’re American registry, then, Mr Dale.’
He gestured up. ‘That’s the Stars ’n’ Stripes sayin’ we are.’
‘Then you won’t object were we to take a sight of your papers.’
The smile eased a fraction. ‘Why, no, o’ course not. I’ll go fetch ’em.’
While he was away Kydd took in the scene on deck. If it was a trading vessel he was a Chinaman. Fine-lined, there would be no capacious hold to cram full to increase profits, and the four six-pounders appeared altogether too well looked after. And, as well, the silent men crowding the deck in no way had the look of common merchant seamen.
Dale returned quickly. ‘There you is, Cap’n.’
He thrust across a bunch of papers.
Well used to the ploy, Kydd passed them to Saxton to hold then selected them one by one to give each his full and individual attention.
Registered in New Orleans the previous year, the owners American, the port bound to was Charleston. So far, all seemed in order.
Kydd glanced up, sensing tension in the watching seamen. One tossed a marline spike from hand to hand – he fumbled and it fell on his toe. ‘Merde! J’ai envie de chier!’ he swore, hopping about.
Saxton caught Kydd’s eye, but Dale came in quickly. ‘A Frenchy from Dominica. I guess I c’n ship who I like, don’t you?’
Kydd scrutinised the manifest. Aloes from Curacao, indigo from Bonaire. And no bond listed to cover a valuable cargo?
‘I request that you’ll open your hold for inspection, Captain,’ he snapped.
‘You’ll rummage m’ ship?’ Dale said incredulously.
‘That’s what I said. If the goods in the hold match what’s listed in the manifest, you’re free to go.’
The man didn’t move. His face was tight.
‘Now, if you please.’
Kydd became conscious that there were even more men on deck, some advancing with violence in their eyes.
Dale held up his hand to them. ‘Now, I don’t reckon on the ruckus you’re causin’, Mr damn Kydd. You see, m’ men don’t take kindly to it and there’s one helluva lot more o’ them than you’ve got.’