In the Indiamen someone quick-witted enough to work out what was afoot had them wheeling about without being told, seeing Kydd’s colours if not his nonsense signal.
All too soon, however, it was apparent why they had separated from the convoy. One of the two that flew the bright red stripes of the Company was favouring her foremast. She had unseasonable reefs in her topsail and course – probably the mast had sprung in some squall, unbalancing other sails and making for poor sailing. The other was low in the water, no doubt having sprung a leak in the same blow from wrung timbers. They had almost certainly come together for mutual protection against privateers but, thanks to L’Aurore, they now faced a battle group.
It was the damnedest, most evil luck, and before long the last act must be played out. The mercy was that it would be very quick: once battle was joined they had not the slightest chance. The only question was whether the French commander would send in the frigates to finish it, preserving his 74 from damage.
Kydd would use L’Aurore’s speed and superior wind-holding to best advantage, but the act of protecting would sadly limit his manoeuvring options to just a small space of sea. In terms of tactical planning, there was nothing he could do.
When they had overhauled the Indiamen, Kydd hailed the closest with a speaking trumpet as they bucketed along close together. Few words were spoken, the unknown captain opposite acknowledging with a heartfelt ‘Good luck!’ and sweeping his hat down in an elaborate bow.
Kydd’s instructions to them had been brief: course would be altered to more full and bye, and when the point came for play with the guns L’Aurore would fight for time, while they fled in opposite directions to what safety they could find.
L’Aurore then took position on the enemy side and the three made their best speed for the far horizon. Ironically the conditions were perfect for sailing, the north-easterly steady and urging and no more than a slight swell from the east. Overhead the sky was an immensity of glorious blue with little cloud, and in any other circumstances would have the watch below spending their leisure on deck, admiring their racing motion.
After an hour it became clear that they were losing the race. The French were now in sight from the deck and beginning to spread out as manoeuvring positions were being taken. There would be gunfire before dusk.
Then Kydd heard an indistinct shouting from the men on the fore-deck and saw some pointing away to the east. One broke away and ran to the quarterdeck. Kydd cursed under his breath – settling a quarrel was the last thing on his mind.
It was the seaman Pinto, obviously distracted. ‘Sir – sir, look! T’ the east’d!’
Taken aback he looked to where Pinto was pointing at a cloud not as big as man’s fist but somewhat darker than the others and with a distinctive reddish centre some thirty or so degrees above the horizon.
‘Sir! This I been told b’ my shipmates as have traded wi’ Africa is the Ox-eye!’
‘Get back for’ard, y’ Portugee fool!’ Gilbey flared. ‘We’ll have none o’ y’r Papist notions aboard this ship!’
‘Hold!’ Kydd said. Before he’d been elevated to the quarterdeck he had been mess-mates with Pinto and knew the man not to be given to superstition. ‘What’s then your Ox-eye?’
‘Is called “Olho de boi” – the eye of bull – an’ we see it before a terrible kind o’ storm.’
‘Have you heard of this, Mr Kendall?’
‘I never have, sir. That’s not to say the Portuguese don’t have a right steer on things, they being in these waters a mort longer’n we.’
‘Tell us more about your Ox-eye.’
Pinto looked scornfully at the first lieutenant, then explained that it was portent to a tempest of unusual severity, one coming with no warning other than the Ox-eye, which would grow in size until it dominated the heavens.
Kydd regarded the seas, as easy as they had ever been, a low swell from the east, no omen of a tempest in the offing, all in hand. He looked again at the cloud: small, ovoid and with a red centre; harmless in itself. Then back at the pursuing French. If Pinto was right, they should batten down for the storm soon – but if he was wrong it would be madness to shorten sail at this point: they would then be most surely delivering themselves up to the enemy. On the other hand, if he was right and it was ignored, the ship was in grave danger. How the devil could he confirm the truth of it?
‘Mr Gilbey,’ he said formally, ‘I desire every officer and midshipman to muster in the gunroom.’ What he had in mind was nothing less than the violation of a gentleman’s privacy.
When the mystified group had assembled he told them, ‘I’ve been advised that the odd-looking cloud to starboard means there’s a right clinker of a blow coming.’
The officers looked at each other uneasily. ‘Sir, you’re surely not giving ear t’ the Portuguee?’ Gilbey growled. ‘Such cat-blash as—’
‘We’ve a chance – a small one – to find out. If he’s right, we need to know about it. If he’s wrong, no harm done. There’s one whose intellects I’ve reason to trust, but he’s not aboard this day.’
The purser arrived, looking confused. ‘Ah, Mr Owen. Be so good as to open Mr Renzi’s cabin. Gentlemen, you are to make use of the library you’ll see there to discover references to this “Ox-eye” or in the Portuguese, “Olho de boi”.’
He smiled at their astonishment – he was sure Renzi would appreciate the drollery of the situation. ‘And I’ve no need to mention that time is pressing,’ he added, stepping aside to let them in.
They set to, each selected a volume from the neat racks occupying two sides of the cabin up to the deckhead, and brought it to the gunroom table where brows furrowed in concentration.
Even Kydd was amazed at the abstruse variety of Renzi’s reading. Thick works on the philosophies of the Ottomans, others on the agricultural practices of native peoples, still more on jurisprudence considered culturally – and, blessedly, a shelf and a half on travels and histories.
Curzon was the first to spot it. In a frayed book a century old, Mechanism Macrocosm by one Purshall, there was reference to ‘those Dreadful Storms on the coast of Africa, which the seamen call the “Ox-eye” from their Beginning’.
It was tantalising but more was needed. Bowden came upon a slim and very old piece, Discoveries and Voyages to the East and West Indies, a translated Dutch work with a passing reference, but then he struck gold in a dictionary. ‘Olho de boi’ – from Vocabulario Portuguez e Latino of the Lisbon of eighty years before. But it was all in Portuguese.
‘Get Pinto!’
Awed to be in the presence of so many expectant officers, he took the book gingerly, and frowned. ‘Ah, the Portuguese navigators o’ the Orient Sea, is what we call t’ the east of Africa. Where we is now,’ he said, in dawning wonder.
‘Get on with it!’ Gilbey said peevishly.
‘Be silent, sir!’ Kydd snapped. ‘Carry on, Pinto – anything as can show us what we face.’
‘Says, Ox-eye start from little, grow wi’ colour o’ the funeral, until the face of heaven he turn scareful an’ then the wind come. Captains mus’ lower yards an’ topmasts for is sudden an’ dreadful. It say our Bartolomeu Dias when he sail in this sea in 1488 he—’
‘Thank you, Pinto,’ Kydd said, and summoned the sailing master. ‘Mr Kendall, your opinion, please.’
He listened to the description, then rubbed his chin. ‘Aye, well, it sounds main like a weather gall, the most common being a rainbow. If that’s what it be, an’ so quick, then I’ve a notion it’s talking of a tropical storm in the character of a local blow, but it has to be very . . . intense, if y’ gets my meaning.’