Eventually he turned in, his mind alert to the dread cry of ‘Sail!’ Would he wake to be pitched into chaos? How could he shield his flock against a line of battleships? Would it all end with L’Aurore being pounded to a wreck to buy time while his charges fled desperately? As his imagination brought him images of blood and ruin, Kydd turned restlessly in the hot darkness and drifted into sleep.
An urgent cry woke him in a wash of cold shock – but it was not the French. The shriek ‘Breeakers! I see breakers dead ahead!’ was joined by another until all three lookouts were shouting together.
He threw himself out of bed and raced for the hatchway. As he thudded up the steps he heard Gilbey bellowing above, rousing the watch to wear ship. ‘A gun!’ Kydd shouted breathlessly, as he made the deck. ‘Signal the convoy!’
In the inky darkness men pushed and stumbled to their stations, joined by others boiling up from below. Braces and tackles thrown off, the helm went down and the frigate began to pay off, Kydd picking up on the betraying flash of a line of white in the gloom ahead.
The fog swivel forward cracked out at last and was joined by the deeper flash and bang of one of the quarterdeck guns. The level-headed master’s mate Saxton had men around the other guns, and a steady banging started into the night, L’Aurore’s desperate warning to the ships trustfully following her.
Suddenly another cry went up. ‘Land hooo! Land all t’ loo’ard!’ The lookout had made out a denser mass of blackness that lay low and ominous on the other side, betrayed only by occasional flecks of white at the shoreline.
Committed to their turn away it seemed that they had run into some kind of bay or inlet and Kydd could not see how they would beat out against the wind into the unknown rock-strewn night.
‘I have the ship, Mr Gilbey,’ he bawled, and wheeled on the quartermaster. ‘Midships your helm.’ Then, roaring down the deck at the boatswain, ‘Mr Oakley, belay that wear – we anchor!’
Cancelling a manoeuvre in mid-action in the darkness and substituting another was incredibly risky. He knew his crew to be the best – but what of the convoy following? Spotting Curzon in a laced nightshirt, loyally with his men at the main-mast, he hailed, ‘Take a crew. And fire any gun to larboard you find charged!’
It was usual to meet the dawn with guns ready loaded and he was in effect ordering a rolling broadside. Any ship following would have no doubt there was deadly danger ahead.
By degrees the confusion lessened. The brailed-up sails, flogging murderously in the stiff wind, were brought under control as a first anchor was readied and let go. Riding lanthorns were rigged in the tops, and soundings were taken that had Kendall pursing his lips in worry.
Answering gun-flashes came out of the night; one by one pinpricks of lights flickered into existence as other captains saw the peril and decided to ride it out at anchor until daylight revealed the situation.
Were they in time? Anything could be happening in the invisible darkness, and the hours until dawn dragged unbearably for Kydd. If any of his charges was wrecked, the consequences to the expedition would be disastrous and he would answer for it.
When a grey dawn reluctantly drew back the dim veil yard by yard the scene became clear. They had stumbled across an atoll unlike any Kydd had seen before. It was an utterly desolate low complex of sand and rocks, distorted and evil, in the rough shape of a crescent, and they lay deep within its hollow curve.
Of his dozen sail, ten were safe. Under bare masts they jibbed at anchor, some uncomfortably but, as far as it was possible to see, unharmed.
However, two were in serious trouble. King George, deep laden with artillery and stores and carrying not only General Yorke but reportedly regimental women and children, lay at an angle within an appalling tangle of broken rocks. The Atlantic seethed white around the ship and in the cold early light, black figures could be seen milling about her canted decks.
Britannia, the large Indiaman with near five hundred soldiers and £300,000 in chests of Spanish dollars on board, had clearly been in a collision, her bowsprit broken off short and foremast down, but she was clear of the rocks, drifting along the shore. She would have to be left while they did what they could at the doomed ship.
‘Away, all boats!’ Kydd rapped. Gilbey in the pinnace would take charge at the scene. In a very short time, dozens of other small craft were stroking vigorously for the stricken King George from the ships at anchor.
Kydd took a telescope and trained it on the wreck. Gilbey had the boats coming alongside in an orderly manner and passengers were being made ready to be handed down into them. Over the rearing bows a spritsail yard had been lashed, a precarious bridge to a larger rock clear of the surf; the soldiers were being directed down this to wait in a huddle for the boats.
He handed back the glass. In the best traditions of the sea, lives were being saved by calm and resolute action, and there was every prospect that it would all end without grievous toll.
The boats began to return, survivors heading for the blessed security that was a King’s ship. Some were hauled aboard, crowding the deck. But L’Aurore was a fighting frigate and Kydd waved off any boat not theirs. With these numbers most would have to be redistributed among the other merchantmen.
At last Gilbey made his way back and pulled himself aboard wearily. ‘All off, sir, a good day’s work.’ He hesitated then went on, ‘That is, all save one.’
‘Oh?’
‘The general, I’m grieved t’ say.’
‘General Yorke?’ Kydd said, disbelieving what he heard.
‘He’s – that is to say, he was an old man an’ not so sprightly, sir. When his soldiers went over the sprits’l yard and the passengers an’ women lowered over the side in a bowline he was begged to go with ’em but wouldn’t hear of it. Said high words about honour an’ being a gentleman and insisted on going out on to the yard like his men.’
‘And then?’
‘Well, sir, he waits till all his men are off an’ then gets out on the spar. But, sir, he . . . he took fright as some do an’ froze. Wouldn’t hear of we takes a bowline to him, no, sir. He stayed there till a wave took him and he slipped off below . . . into the surf aroun’ the rocks, an’ we . . . we never found him after.’
‘I’ll need your report in writing on this, Mr Gilbey,’ Kydd said dully. The old soldier, with distinguished service going back to the American war, to end like this . . .
His attention returned to Britannia. It looked as if, with her bows in ruin from the collision, she’d had difficulty in getting an anchor away. Although still drifting, she appeared in no immediate danger.
Then she stopped abruptly. Kydd peered through the glass and saw she had driven into a crag forward. Slewing round under the impetus, she tore off and continued her downwind drift, but within a short time her colours jerked down and were re-hoisted upside-down.
The level-headed master of Britannia was not given to gestures. ‘Buoy ’n’ slip the cable, Mr Oakley!’ Kydd roared down the deck and turned to order sail set. Every minute counted. There was no time to hoist in the boats and they were towed in a gaggle astern as L’Aurore fell off the wind and turned to make for Britannia.
‘Must be bad wounded, them gettin’ their distress flag up s’ quick an’ all,’ muttered someone behind Kydd.
The frigate spread her wings and was soon up with the hapless Indiaman. ‘Lost our rudder,’ cried a figure on her quarterdeck. ‘Our bows stove – no hope for it.’