Another hoist went up: frigates to deploy as instructed. Acasta, as senior, sent up her pennant, Captain Dunn now in command of the four. He lost no time in ranging out ahead. As the distant topgallants of the fleet sank below the horizon astern, he flew his signal for taking station, L’Aurore, the lightest but fastest, dispatched furthest to seaward of the four. They settled to their task – a sweep in advance of the fleet on a broad front all of sixty nautical miles across.
Within hours the frigates were a long way apart, a tiny patch of white on the horizon to larboard the only evidence of Magicienne, their next abreast, but still in signalling reach with the oversize flags each carried. And, far to the south, the topgallants of Atlas led the line.
Masthead lookouts were relieved of their important duty every glass – even half an hour so high aloft was a trial of the best of seamen, an Atlantic sea abeam causing a roll that ceaselessly swept and jerked them to and fro through a seventy-foot arc. One misplaced hand-hold and the impetus would tear them from their perch to pitch into the sea or end a broken corpse on deck.
Kydd remained on the quarterdeck, staying to see the sea-watch hanking and tying off after the sail-trimming, which kept them at a pace that would allow them to stay within signalling distance.
He was reluctant to go below for there could be no finer prospect than this: a lovely frigate at her best, in seas that lifted the heart with their beauty – and his to command, to direct and to cherish.
The twist of fortune that saw him and his ship now in the Caribbean had indeed snatched him from Hell to Paradise. But close on its heels another thought came: if Renzi was right, was it a fool’s Paradise he was in?
The voyage north was uneventful, the island passages clear of enemy battle-fleets, the broad ocean innocent of threat. Under boundless blue skies and hurrying white combers they ranged on to the north-west until they stood in with the Straits of Florida and lay to, awaiting the fleet to come up with them.
The L’Aurores were getting tanned and fit after their ordeal. Kydd had not seen a man before him for punishment since they had arrived, and the roars of mealtime jollity on the mess-deck told of contentment and fulfilment. In their off-watch leisure, they congregated in companionable groups on the foredeck in traditional yarning over a clay pipe, some working at needlepoint and scrimshaw – the age-old arts of the deep-sea mariner.
One by one the line of ships hove up over the horizon, the original single line transformed by a previous evolution into two columns. In faultless precision, they wore in succession to bear away back to the south-east. The frigates then passed down the noble lines of battleships to resume their watch and ward ahead.
Days later, the long island of La Desirade was raised, a verdant outlier that pointed like a finger at Guadeloupe. The frigates were recalled to attend on the fleet and together, in a display of insolence, the Leeward Islands Squadron swept down on the capital, Pointe-a-Pitre, deep inside a bay.
Kydd stood watching the passing coast, richly green and so full of memories. It was here that he had nearly been made prisoner as the French had retaken the island a dozen years before. And as a young seaman he’d learned lessons of leadership and endurance that would stay with him for ever.
They closed to within a few miles of Pointe-a-Pitre, brazenly taking their fill of the scene – the little town with its neat houses, a large church and, in the small rock-studded harbour, dozens of small craft huddling in as close as they could, none that could be considered worth noticing by such a powerful squadron. For the citizens of Guadeloupe it must have been both terrifying and galling to see such might flaunted with impunity, even if a naval force alone could do little against them.
Having made their point, the squadron stood out to sea past the rumpled heights of the outlying island of Marie-Galante, with its cliffs and multitude of sugar-mills, then shaped course for Martinique, which they raised the following morning. This large island was the most important possession in the French Caribbean and Cochrane proceeded majestically on, in extended line ahead, past the volcanic peaks and crags of the west coast to the grand bay where lay the capital, Fort de France.
The port was well sheltered and spacious but Kydd had heard of the notorious banks and shoals that made it a hazard for any ship of size to enter, a problem to be faced if ever the British were to make an attempt on the island.
In light airs in the lee of the island, the battle-squadron passed by at a walking pace that a lone scouting frigate would never dare, giving plenty of time to contemplate the sights. There were ships by the score, some alongside at one of the three moles but most lay at anchor deep within the bay. Kydd lifted his glass: there inside were two small warships with no sail bent on.
Leaving, they passed close by the legendary Diamond Rock – silent now, but this impossibly steep conical monolith, only a mile or so off Martinique, had once been captured and fortified by the Royal Navy and commissioned as a sloop-of-war. They had caused havoc with shipping entering and leaving Fort de France until Villeneuve, with Nelson hot on his heels, had fatally delayed his battle-fleet to pound it into submission and then had fled back to Europe, his mission to bring destruction to the British Caribbean islands a total failure.
In shimmering seas they stretched south-east for another day and, late in the evening, made out the north point of Barbados. In the soft glow of a tropical dusk they sailed along it, the twinkling lights of homesteads and plantations vying for allure with the brilliant stars that seemed to hang so low.
The fleet arrived in Carlisle Bay to an impeccable night moor and, duty done, the Leeward Islands Squadron went to its rest.
Chapter 3
‘Only for a small visit, as it were, sir,’ Curzon, L’Aurore’s high-born second lieutenant, asked, in an uncharacteristically humble tone, ‘as will satisfy them on the particulars of our good ship.’
Kydd saw no reason why not. Curzon had relatives in Barbados and, no doubt, had said warm things about L’Aurore that had aroused their curiosity. And his was a post of some significance in the ship; he was quite entitled to bring visitors on board.
Then Kydd had an idea, one that, now they were part of the defending force, would reinforce the ship’s standing with the Barbadians.
‘Certainly you may, Mr Curzon. But not for a short time, sir, I will not allow it.’
‘Sir?’
‘If they cast about to muster a dozen others as well, then they shall all be our guests – at a quarterdeck ball.’
It was generally accounted a princely idea, and the news went about the ship like wildfire. While officers could rejoice in the honours of the ball, the seamen would be treated to the edifying spectacle of their betters sporting a toe. And it went without saying that the ship would require prettifying to a degree: it would not do for L’Aurore to be paltry before the rest of the squadron.
‘And I expect you to be forward in the matter of arrangements, if you please,’ Kydd told Curzon.
It was remarkable how the list grew. As a signals frigate, there was no shortage of gay bunting to drape about to soften warlike outlines – but how to indicate to the shore that flowers by the basket would be appreciated to place at the bitts and around the binnacle, and that a certain circumspection should be exercised in ballgowns in consideration of a frigate’s modest space about decks?
Naturally, midshipmen would be in attendance on the guests – but could they be fully trusted in the article of politeness, manners … decorum?