It was the worst outcome possible: they were no further forward in identification, while the chase now had freedom to break off to left or right – or to rendezvous with a fleet already within the Caribbean, which it would otherwise have led L’Aurore on to discover. The question for Kydd now was whether to press on along the same track.
A decision could not be delayed much longer: both ships were being carried into the Caribbean by a current as fast as a man briskly walking. They would be abreast of Grenada later in the day and he would be forced to either break off or go on.
He knew even as he thought about it what he would do. Keep on while the wind was still fair for Grenada, then tack about into St George’s where there was a small British garrison and see if there was news, otherwise warn them. It helped that this was in fact more or less what he had been sent to do.
After midday the breeze freshened, the more extravagant sail was taken in, and by three they were bowling along. The chase was still not in sight. There was nothing for it – L’Aurore hauled her wind for the north, and before evening made landfall on Grand Bay, rounding Point Salines safely well to windward before opening up St George’s Bay itself.
And almost immediately they saw, not more than a mile or two ahead, a terrified merchantman of precisely the same size and rig as their chase desperately making for the safety of the harbour.
It took a short visit only to establish that this was their quarry. The vessel had unusually shortened sail in the night to furled lower courses rather than topsails, the longer to remain out of sight at daybreak. And there was no immediate intelligence of an enemy in the vicinity. They had done what they could.
After spending the night at anchor in order to transit the coral banks to the north in daylight, L’Aurore proceeded back to sea.
There was no guarantee that the big merchantman was the ship seen through the rain squalls by the Danish but it seemed likely; in any event Kydd’s orders were to return to Barbados and report. They slipped north past the steep, tropical slopes of Grenada, taking their leave of the area, and into the island-studded seas to the north.
‘Lay Ronde well to starb’d,’ Kydd instructed, sniffing the breeze. He reluctantly left the sunlit brilliance of the morning and went below to prepare his day.
In the middle of the third paragraph of his report he froze, then jerked upright, listening.
Some preternatural sense had triggered an alarm – something so out of kilter with his ordered world that it made the hairs on his neck rise.
He waited, quill poised. It came again, more felt than heard. The deep crump of an explosion – more; then sounds coming together.
He raced for the cabin door, nearly knocking down Gilbey, on his way to report, who blurted, ‘Gunfire! Heavy gunfire coming from out o’ the north!’
A sudden chill stole over Kydd. It was inexplicable that somewhere ahead a fleet action was taking place among the maze of islands that made up the Grenadines. But, then, with St Lucia and Martinique not so far further on and Barbados itself to the east, was it impossible?
Napoleon’s master-stroke.
Renzi was already on deck and pointed to a distant ragged smudge of smoke that spread as they watched. The rumbling became sharper, then tailed off and the smoke dissipated.
‘All sail to bowlines,’ Kydd snapped, ‘then clear for battle.’ How he might join a major action with not the slightest knowledge of dispositions or foe was not clear, but his duty was: he must get his ship to the British commander on the scene as soon as he could.
Lookouts were tripled with orders to report the character and position of every ship they could see. If he could build a picture before he was engulfed in the madness of combat …
But they remained completely silent as the frigate made for the distant thinning band of smoke. Then, without warning, there was a sudden concussion and a colossal plume of flame and smoke shot up – some unfortunate vessel had blown up before their eyes. It explained why the firing had died away, just as it had those years ago at the Nile when there was utter silence for long minutes after the explosion of the French flagship L’Orient.
The racing wave kicked up by the blast reached them, still with enough energy to send L’Aurore into a fretful jibbing and tossing. Yet as they neared, there were no sightings. Not a sail, let alone a line-of-battle.
In an awed hush L’Aurore progressed on. Eerily, the entire battlefield was innocent of anything save the deep blue and emerald green of the sea. Not a single ship.
A cry from a seaman and an outstretched arm pointed to a dark speck in the water off the bow. Closer, it resolved into a body, clinging to a piece of wreckage.
‘Bring it in,’ Kydd said tersely.