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.
The leading ships were hull-up now, their angling course allowing them closer. At that moment, therefore, L’Aurore was under tight scrutiny from telescopes. Kydd kept his own glass on them for there was one move that would turn the tables – if the French detached the faster frigates to deal with him and then, ranging further, found nothing.
But the frigates were kept back: the cautious French were playing safe in case L’Aurore was a scout for a distant British squadron, tasked to lure them on to bigger ships. They were left unmolested to play out their gambit and Kydd’s anxiety began to subside. If he could keep them on this course after him until dark they would be drawn sufficiently clear of the convoy.
One piece of irony was that L’Aurore was easily outpacing the French when she should be keeping well in sight, leading them on. If this squadron was Maréchal’s then it must have been at sea for months, if not years, and was slowed by marine growth. He ordered a discreet drag-sail over the bows that would keep them in sight.
Kydd was gratified: a classic manoeuvre of evasion and deception had saved the priceless argosy at the cost of not a single shot. And probably not too severe a delay in reaching Lourenço Marques. All in all it was— He was interrupted by the sudden cry of a lookout. ‘Deck, hoooo! A sail – no two, right ahead!’ It was absurd – three sightings so close, here in the vast reaches of the ocean.
Was this the other jaw of a trap? It made no sense – why was the whole squadron involved? And, in any event, how could these two know which course L’Aurore would take? If it was all by chance, was this the rest of Maréchal’s scouting force? Or an English naval detachment? Or innocent strangers caught up in a larger war? Whatever the reality, a decision had to be made. If—
‘They’s Indiamen!’ came the disbelieving cry from the lookout. Then Kydd remembered the commodore had mentioned that two of his charges had been separated in the night. And, by the cruellest misfortune, L’Aurore’s ploy had led the French straight to them. In one stroke it had altered the situation decisively and he must take the consequences.
‘Cast off the drag-sail!’ he roared forward, and snapped the orders to make straight for the pair. Forcing his mind to an icy coolness, he weighed up the alternatives. Abandoning the two merchantmen to their fate in the face of such odds was unthinkable – it would make his name a byword for dishonour. This left only the heroic and ultimately useless sacrifice of L’Aurore in their forlorn defence – the logic of war demanded it and that was what had to be done.
He would not make it easy: it would be played out to the last throw. There was the tiniest chance that if he could get the Indiamen to wear about and flee for their lives then, with the enemy slowed by their bottoms being foul, the two Company ships could disappear into the enfolding night – but that was hours away.