But he would have to interrupt their labours: even in these conditions standard procedures required that in sight of the enemy he closed up his ship for action. Once around the headland, though, he could stand them down to resume their efforts.
All eyes were on the foe. Under comfortable sail it did not seem particularly interested in them; this was the thirty-two-gun frigate, the larger of the two, and therefore was probably Sieyès’ command.
Kydd studied the ship carefully through his pocket telescope: every sail was trimmed to perfection and drawing well, and it was not evident that she had just come through a hurricane. The ship’s lines showed it was of recent construction – that implied a fit of eighteen-pounders; thirty-two-gun twelve-pounder frigates, like the pre-war L’Aurore, were no longer being built.
The odds were lengthening.
Hull-up, it was apparent they were making to clear the point, passing slowly across their field of vision to the right. Kydd could not help a jet of envy at the sight of the powerful frigate – the French were certainly master ship-builders and it would be a close thing on the morrow when—
‘He’s not going to wait, the beggar!’ yelled someone.
Kydd looked again. In a lazy curve, the frigate was altering course towards them.
He swallowed hard. This was a most unwelcome development and did not add up. Why was the Frenchman going in against an alerted and positioned ship with all her men ready at their guns? His duty was to avoid battle damage at all costs. Whatever the reason …
‘Stand to your guns!’ Kydd barked, then turned to Gilbey and told him to check that the decks were clear aft.
They were as ready as they could be.
But when the frigate had straightened and settled on course to engage, all became clear. There was to be no braving of L’Aurore’s broadside – instead Sieyès, in one audacious move, was going to end the battle before it started.
The big 32 was taking all the time it needed to sail past L’Aurore’s stern, delivering an overwhelming punishment as it did, raking down the length of the tethered vessel, bringing about the utter destruction Kydd had dreaded, and not taking a shot in reply.
This could only be contemplated by a consummate seaman, utterly sure of himself and his ship’s company to consider such a manoeuvre – running close to deliver the blow but then wheeling about on a sixpence in the perilously short distance before the reef and shallows to reach out to sea again for another pass.
They were helpless to stop it – or were they?
‘Chain shot! Every gun – load with chain!’ Kydd bellowed urgently. He ignored the bewildered looks from the gun-deck. There was so little time.
‘The carpenter – tell him to step up on deck this instant,’ he rapped.
What he had in mind was a once-only move. If it failed, they were most certainly finished.
The enemy frigate lined up for its run with deliberation, as deadly as a bullfighter bringing his sword up for the kill. Nearer and nearer, every detail of the ship showing clear and stark – from the men at the guns to those standing by the ropes for the whirlwind of action that must follow the crushing blast.
Kydd watched with an icy calm: timing alone would determine whether his men lived or died.
It was the forefoot of the oncoming warship that was his mark – the angle between that and—
‘Now!’ he roared.
In a blur of motion the carpenter swung his razor-sharp broad-axe. It thudded into the bar-taut cable of the kedge, near severing it in one. Under the strain the rest parted and fell away. Released from her position athwart the wind, L’Aurore immediately began swinging back to face into the gale streaming in, held as before by her bower anchors. And it brought her broadside around to bear – the tables had been turned.
So close, the enemy frigate was committed but had not reached the point where its own guns could bear – the timing had been perfect. With great satisfaction Kydd saw consternation on the opposing quarterdeck as he blared, ‘Fire!’
The guns thundered and blasted in a deliberate broadside – but upwards, producing instant and visible ruin in the Frenchman’s rigging. Canvas ripped and tore as if by a magic hand, severed lines streamed away and the fore main-yard folded gracefully in two, bringing down with it the fore topsail above.
Sieyès had been overconfident: he had not reckoned on Kydd throwing away his only defensive posture and, more importantly, to abandon the British preference for hammering round-shot into the hull for the French practice of shots into the rigging. Now he was about to pay the price.
And it wasn’t long coming. Fighting desperately to come around in time, with their damage and in the prevailing conditions, they didn’t stand a chance and, slowly but surely, like the inevitable climax of a Greek tragedy, the frigate struck.