Normally there would be gun salutes and the military flummery of one commander recognising the authority of another, but there was nothing from the low structure peeping above the trees atop the bluff. There was no flag but that was probably because in high winds any would have been torn to rags in minutes. Nevertheless, to set his mind at rest Kydd needed to be sure that the fort knew its business.
‘I’m going to pay a call on the redcoats. You know what to do, Mr Gilbey.’
He left the first lieutenant to start the unenviable task of clearing away the raffle of fraying rope, remnants of canvas and awkward spars on deck in order that the boatswain, carpenter and sailmaker could get to their work.
The boat, going with wind and waves, made good speed inshore in the still boisterous conditions. Kydd had known better than to go for full dress: one of the boat’s crew was set to constantly bailing from seas over-topping the gunwale and by the time they had crossed the outer reef with its creaming seas he was soaked.
He grabbed the sea-slimed ladder on the little jetty and climbed up, his knees nearly buckling at the unforgiving solidity of the land.
There was no one about. All along the beach palm trees were in frenetic motion in the hard wind, and he slitted his eyes against the grains of sand that whipped about his face.
Having hauled the boat clear of the tideline, its crew stood by while he trudged up into a scrubby wooded area, following the rough track. Calloway was with him, respectfully behind. Then the track veered sharply to parallel the beach under the line of the bluff. This was not leading to the fort – Kydd stopped in vexation. Unless they found the right path it made no sense to go on.
They returned and cast about for any track that led up the face of the cliff and eventually spotted one. It was ill-used and overhung by sharp-leaved vegetation that was lashed by the wind, but eventually it emerged at the top, a hundred or more feet above the sea, in a bare and scrubby flat area.
‘Where the devil …?’ Kydd glanced about but could not see a fort. ‘You go that way, I’ll take this. Hail when you spy it.’
He struck off to the left, irritably batting at waving fronds but stopped when he heard a hesitant call. Relieved, he turned and retraced his steps. Rounding an outcrop he saw Calloway pointing to a deserted ruin.
L’Aurore was facing out to sea, innocently snubbing to her anchors and wide open to devastating attack. An enemy had only to come in on her stationary bow to be free from defensive fire, then criss-cross with impunity while smashing in appalling destruction down L’Aurore’s length. It would take minutes only before his command was reduced to a blood-soaked wreck.
In a fever of anxiety he turned and ran down the track. ‘Get back! Boat in the water, damn you!’ he roared at the stunned boat’s crew. He had a short time only to come up with a solution – and racked his brain on the passage back.
It might work! He bounded up the side-steps and found Gilbey. ‘The launch to take away the kedge,’ he said briefly.
The half-ton anchor would be slung under the launch and carried well to seaward and to one side, there to be dropped. The cable in L’Aurore would come in through a stern port and then be heaved in on the capstan, thereby bringing the frigate around parallel to the shore.
Any enemy now would not meet a defenceless ship bow-on but instead a whole broadside, a wall of guns.
The weather was moderating, a brief glimpse of blue sky lifted spirits, and determined faces could be seen around the ship as they set to with the repairs. It was not easy work, for now the seas were coming in on the beam and, without the damping effect of sails, the rolling was tedious. With heavy spars on deck, it was a dangerous place to be.
They worked on without pause; only the tools and material they carried on board could be used and the stakes could not have been higher.
In the event they had barely two hours before sail was sighted.
Kydd realised the imperatives of weather applied just as much to Frenchmen as any other. This frigate’s captain had no doubt seen L’Aurore’s departure and soon after had himself broken out of the dangerous semicircle in the same seaman-like way. It was no coincidence that they had ended up in the same place.
At this point it was likely that he would be looking to round the end of the island to seek shelter in its lee but would be surprised and puzzled to see the English frigate stolidly at anchor on the wrong, weather side.
What was very certain was that there must be a reckoning between them. One or the other would leave their bones in this place and for L’Aurore, without manoeuvrability, the odds were that it would be she.
Kydd felt frustration build. A fair fight in the open sea was one thing; tethered like a goat for the slaughter another. And there was nothing he could do to speed the repair. The carpenter and sailmaker, with their mates, the most vital men in the ship now, were not to be chivvied into hasty work or the consequences would show at the very worst time. They had to be left to get on with it; Kydd must hope they could finish before the weather moderated and the French emerged from their comfortable lee side to close with them.