‘Not to worry overmuch, sir,’ Kendall said quietly, ‘but I times these waves at less’n eight seconds now.’
It was the master’s duty to bring sea signs to Kydd’s attention, and this was one that could be of significance in the Caribbean in the hurricane season. ‘Oh? How’s the glass?’
‘Fluky – we’re under twenty-nine an’ a quarter, but hasn’t dropped worth remarking these last four hours.’
Kydd had been in hurricanes before and had no real wish to try his ship against one now; it was prudent to be wary. He glanced ahead: storms swept in from the east and all were individual in their characteristics but there were common portents. At the moment the horizon was clear and there was no high overcast. His concern diminished – it looked to be a regular blow coming in from the Atlantic, more boisterous than usual perhaps but—
‘Sail! I see sail – no, two – up agin the coast!’ The lookout’s hail broke into his thoughts, but already the heavier frigate with her greater height of eye was preparing to go about and Kydd lost no time in conforming. Two sail together was unusual to the point of incredible – there was every possibility that their hunt was over.
After an hour only, the pair were visible from the deck: two pale blobs against the darker green-brown of the Cuban coast, quartering the wind and making remarkably good speed. There was movement out on the yard at Anson’s main-course – she was setting bridles to the forward leech of the sail, with bowlines stretching it out into the teeth of the wind to claw the last particle of drawing power. They must do the same, for any delay in closing with the fast-moving chase there across their bows would end with L’Aurore losing them into the distance.
They were steering an intercepting course, paying off downwind as the two passed ahead five miles distant, then angling in to a stern chase. By now it was certain: the two were French frigates and they were declining action, preserving their ships for their primary task of hunting helpless prey.
It settled quickly into a hard chase. The two ahead stayed tightly together and had every stitch of canvas they could abroad, barrelling into the gathering sunset. L’Aurore and Anson similarly stayed close and tried every trick they could to claw their way up on the pair, but as time passed it was clear they had little chance of hauling up on them before dark.
Dusk drew in, the waves in contrast as they became shadowed, the white of combers startling in the gloom.
Anson set lanthorns aglow in her mizzen-top and, without needing orders, Kydd fell in astern for the night, the weather showing no signs of easing.
There was a moon. It was clear and bright behind them, and with its light on their sails, the enemy frigates were pitilessly revealed.
It was an even match – the contest was anyone’s to lose, and by any man aboard: a mistake in the deceptive light, a line let go too soon putting intolerable strain on a spar, and the ship would be out of the race. Worse – for the remaining frigate it would then be two against one and a different story entirely. Of course it applied to the French as well: if it happened to them, L’Aurore had to be ready to take on the wounded bird while Anson raced on after the other.
Nerves at concert pitch, the four ships stretched out over the sea – until everything changed. A veil of light cloud had spread up from the horizon behind them, high and innocent; now it was joined by denser, lower cloud, which crept out, hiding the stars one by one until it reached the moon. Obscured, its light dimmed, the gloom deepened, then assumed the blackness of night, and the frigates ahead were lost to sight.
It was decision time and Kydd did not envy Lydiard the task. Because their speeds were so even, it was probable that the French would still be in sight in the morning. But they had the opportunity to get away, to make off under cover of dark. They could not turn to starboard for there lay the Cuban coast, but they could to larboard.
The enemy commander would be weighing the advantages of a turn-away against the probability that his opponent would second-guess that he would seize the chance to strike out from his course at some point in the night, in which case his best move would be to keep right on.
Which would Lydiard decide?
The seas were increasing: Kydd felt their savage urge under L’Aurore’s counter, heard the muffled swearing of the two helmsmen as they fought to keep her steady, and knew in his heart what it meant. Before midnight he had confirmation – the barometer was dropping. It was the rate of fall that was the most important, and since the afternoon, it had passed the twenty-nine-inch mark with no sign of slowing.
Somewhere out in the night bluster a storm was gathering, but whether or not it was a dreaded revolving tropical tempest – a hurricane – only time would tell.