In a state of high expectation, L’Aurore sighted the island and came up on its windward side, careful to round it close to.
And there was the brig, lying at anchor in the same position they had left her, nothing changed.
‘Seems innocent enough, sir,’ murmured Kendall.
‘Then why’s she still here?’ Kydd said. ‘We’ll heave to abreast, give ’em a look at us.’
He took in the plain but serviceable merchant-service lines. Of medium tonnage, she was not deeply laden, judging from her marks. One or two sailors on deck were idly watching them and there was no flag, which was common enough as owners discouraged the wearing out of perfectly good bunting in vain display. For the moment he had to agree with the master’s assessment.
Ignoring the muttered cynical comments of watching seamen, he ordered, ‘I’ll have the larb’d guns run out as we come up, on my command. And two boats in the water – four armed marines in each, Mr Clinton. I’ll take the barge, Mr Curzon the cutter.’ If he was going to be made to look a fool, he’d give them something to talk about.
In the light airs L’Aurore glided to a stop opposite the brig. Her gun-ports opened and, with a sudden rumble, the length of the gun-deck became filled with the deadly muzzles of her guns. There would be no mistaking her intentions now.
Kydd dropped into the barge and, taking position aft, growled to his coxswain to shove off. Poulden did so, then asked politely, ‘Um, what’re we lookin’ for, then, sir?’
Just what would it be that could turn an innocent ship into a vital part of a great plot to seize back the Cape for Bonaparte? What evidence was there to find that could prove his instinct true? ‘We’ll know that when we find it,’ Kydd replied firmly. As a lieutenant, he had conducted boardings all over the world; the arcane wording of ship’s papers, bills of lading, manifests, equipage – all these he knew and the tricks as well, but this was another matter entirely. If the brig was a neutral he would have to tread very carefully to avoid an international incident, but at the same time ensure he did all it took to unmask any villainy. There would be no second chance.
As they neared, he looked keenly to see if there was the slightest thing untoward. The totality of offensive weapons were two pairs of what looked like ancient six-pounders and an empty port, nothing more. ‘Mr Curzon, stand off until I hail,’ he called across to the cutter, which obediently gave way to the barge, the men laying on their oars.
Poulden headed for the deeper waist of the vessel, where seamen were gathering, and brought the barge alongside. Conscious of being under eye, Kydd swung over the bulwark and rose to meet the resentful look of the brig’s master. ‘Do you have English?’ he asked briskly.
The man shook his head but did, it seemed, understand French, so Kydd went on, in that language, ‘My apologies for the manner of this boarding but we are on the lookout for a notorious pirate known to be in these parts. Your name and ship’s port of registry, if you please.’
‘Enrique, San Salvador.’
A Brazilian? Therefore Portuguese and an ally.
‘Lourenço Marques in palm oil, bound for Rio de Janeiro.’
The seamen about him were tense and watchful, an officer avoiding his eye – in Kydd’s experience, a sign of a bad conscience. He sniffed delicately. In the heat there were many odours but none that could be described as palm oil – all cargo in quantity stank richly, no matter how closely stowed, and he would lay money on there being none in this vessel.
‘Ah, if that is so, Captain Enrique, then perhaps you’ll show me your papers. Shall we go . . . ?’
The older man hesitated, his eyes sliding to the fore-hatchway.
‘Come along, sir! It shouldn’t take long – where is your cabin? Aft, is it?’
‘Er, I . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘It would be better if . . .’
‘If?’ Kydd said, making a show of impatience.
Enrique turned to one of his men and muttered an order. The man gave a lopsided smile, padded off forward, knocked sharply at the fore-companionway and stood aside.
There was movement and the door swung open. One by one, blinking in the bright sunshine and dripping with sweat from their confinement, a stream of soldiers came up from below – a dozen or more, officers and sergeants, each in the unmistakable colour of French infantry of the line.
They glanced bitterly at the graceful frigate and its naked guns lying off and stood stiffly before Kydd. ‘Poncelot, Chef de Bataillon de Chasseurs de la Réunion,’ the oldest said haughtily. His face had cruel lines and held a barely contained rage.
The man had no choice in the manner of his surrender, no gallant stand against great odds, no hot-blooded declarations, simply a bald recognition of impotence, a species of checkmate, but Kydd was unmoved. He needed to know just what a senior infantry officer was doing aboard a lowly brig. And the others: each soldier as he emerged looked hard and experienced, some of Napoleon’s finest, not the raw colonial troops to be expected in the French Indian Ocean islands – another piece of the puzzle.
Kydd bowed, as custom dictated. ‘Captain Kydd of His Majesty’s Frigate L’Aurore. I’m obliged to inform you that by the fortune of war this ship stands taken and its company are now prisoners-of-war. As you may notice, our force is overwhelming and resistance is therefore not possible.’
Poncelot smouldered. ‘What are your conditions?’
‘How many are you?’ Kydd countered.
‘Fifty in all.’
‘Then, in the circumstances, as a gesture of honour, the officers may keep their swords but the men must drop their weapons over the side.’
‘Very well. In the face of impossible odds we do capitulate.’
Kydd bowed again.
The merchant ship carried no colours to be hauled down and these soldiers’ standards or whatever were, no doubt, in their baggage; there would be no ceremonials to please the Royal Marines. Kydd signalled to Curzon to come aboard. ‘Post guards where you see fit, and after these soldiers have thrown their weapons in the sea, keep them on deck while you do a thorough search below in case any have been, um, overlooked.’
‘Aye aye, sir. Er, might one ask how you knew that—’
‘Not every challenge in war is met with powder-smoke, Mr Curzon.’ Nevertheless Kydd was gratified at his lieutenant’s look of amazement and respect.
He turned to the French officer. ‘My condolences on your misfortune, sir. Do let us take a little wine together. The captain’s quarters?’
The cynical smile on the Frenchman showed that he knew full well Kydd’s intention, and he sat in rigid silence in the homely little cabin.
‘Sir, it does cross my mind it’s a singular thing that an experienced and honourable officer such as yourself is only afforded passage in such a humble vessel. For a long voyage surely this is too much to be borne,’ Kydd began.
Poncelot stared at him mutely, his lips curled in contempt. Kydd held back his irritation. It was going to be difficult, if not impossible, to pry any information from this man. How could he secure evidence of the secret army, the uncovering of a grand plot, an admission of intent against Cape Town?
‘The armies of France are victorious throughout Europe, but it is in the colonies that they fail,’ he continued, in a sympathetic tone. ‘Is it because there’s no glory to be won in these parts?’
There was no response. Muffled splashes and plunges announced that the arms were now being dropped overside.
Kydd was frustrated: L’Aurore would now have to accompany the brig as prize back to Cape Town. There was enough evidence to reveal French chicanery, but on such a small scale. Would it be enough to mollify his superiors?
He tried again, but was met with the same mocking silence.
Something was afoot but there was nothing to suggest it had anything to do with a secret army. So few troops: it made no sense, any more than that these were all battle-hardened veterans.