Betrayal (7 page)

‘So . . .’

‘So nothing! Just a fortnight later, you and Our Nel clear the seas of the French fleet, so what’s the use o’ these toys when there’s no more invasion to be feared? They paid him off and sent him packing back to the United States.’

‘Pity – a strange cove, but I liked him,’ Kydd said.

‘Well, we’ll hear no more of his plunging boats, I believe. We’ve a war to fight and only the finest seamanship and gunnery will win that . . .’

‘You were at Trafalgar, then?’ Popham asked, somewhat defensively.

‘In a small way of things, o’ course. I have to say, your telegraphic signals were well received by the fleet,’ Kydd said, and then, more strongly, ‘Especially after Nelson made use of ’em to entertain us before the engagement. “England expects that—”’

‘Quite so. I did hear of it.’ A shadow passed across his features. Kydd had been present at both the Nile and Trafalgar, the defining battles of the age, but through ill luck Popham had never seen a grand fleet action. ‘And now . . . here we are,’ he concluded softly.

‘I’m sorry, sir?’

‘I meant to say that we’re safe here in Cape Colony, are we not? But lacking the one thing that a naval officer craves above all else . . .’

‘A chance for distinction?’

‘Just so. We’re both in like state – you’ve a fine start to your career but unless something happens you’ll moulder away your best years here at the Cape. And I – well, shall we say that unless I can distinguish myself while I still have my mighty fleet then I shall join you in sliding from the consciousness of their lordships?’

‘Will we not soon be recalled?’

‘Why so? We’re doing a sterling job, holding the Cape for King George. Why disturb it? We’ll put down the occasional privateer or even a loose frigate but nothing to stand against the exploits of others who are adding to our empire by the month.’

That gave Kydd pause: it made disturbing sense – yet . . .

‘We’re at a strategic position here, sir. Who’s to say the French may wish soon to dispute these seas in force?’

‘They won’t now, m’ friend. Their squadrons are scattered, defeated and gone home. The Channel Fleet blockade will take care of their sorties in the future. No, we’re to remain at rest foreseeably, I fear.’

‘Is there nothing . . . ?’

‘I’m giving it some high thought,’ Popham replied mysteriously, ‘as may yet yield a possibility.’ He stared out into the wild darkness with a strange expression, then resumed briskly, ‘Meanwhile, do stand down your ship for a week or two. You’ve deserved it. We’ll share a dinner on another occasion.’

‘Quite set me aback, Nicholas.’ Kydd laughed, shaking out his wet clothing. ‘Here we have the commodore confiding he’s bored, to me, a junior frigate captain – a prickly gullion in the past, as I remember. You don’t suppose he’s a reason for it?’ he added awkwardly, noticing Renzi wore an odd, hunted look.

His friend brightened a little. ‘The reigning flag officer? I’d rather think he’s more pleased at your success that rids him of a pressing anxiety.’

‘Well, whatever, he’s given us leave to stand down for a brace of weeks. Do you fancy a time of it ashore?’

‘Er, not at this time, Tom.’

Kydd was not to be dissuaded. Only a short while before, his friend had been the colonial secretary of Cape Colony with hopes of tenure before being unexpectedly replaced by a civil-service appointee sent out from England. Now he was staying aboard, unable to face the imagined stares of the townsfolk. ‘I have to say it’ll be quite necessary, I’m afraid, dear chap. I’m resolved this ship is to be fumigated and sweetened while she lies idle and no man may stay on board.’

With the urgency of the situation there had been little opportunity since leaving England the previous year for attending to the needs of his ship. And she had now been through a tropic summer – and, besides, Kydd had ideas about her appearance. ‘I’ll be staying at my club for the duration, the Africa on the Heerengracht,’ he said, with relish. ‘Capital roast game, wines a supernaculum. I’d be honoured to have you as my guest, dear fellow.’

‘That’s civil in you, right enough . . . On a point of some delicacy,’ Renzi murmured, ‘would it be impertinent of me to enquire in what manner you’ll introduce me?’

Kydd snorted. ‘Why, this is a gentlemen’s club. Should I introduce you as my friend then that is all that need be said, old trout.’

‘Then perhaps I will accept your kind offer.’

The news of a fumigation was well received by
L’Aurore
’s company, with its prospect of enforced shore leave, and even more so when it became known that a contractor would be engaged for the unpleasant business.

Next day the bad weather seemed to have blown itself out and, almost apologetically, the sun began spreading its warmth and good feeling about the anchorage.
L’Aurore
went to two anchors and secured fore and aft in preparation for the fumigation. Early in the afternoon a towed lighter approached and, gleefully, the ship’s company made ready for their liberty.

‘Cap’n Kydd, sir,’ a large Dutchman said, raising his shapeless hat as he came over the bulwark. ‘Piet Geens. Are ye prepared a’tall?’

‘We are.’ Kydd was used to the routine with his long service in the Navy.

Geens walked back and shouted something down to the men in the lighter and returned. ‘Well, we’m ready to start, Kapitein.’

In high spirits the liberty-men were sent on their way, leaving
L’Aurore
echoing and empty, the only ones left aboard being Kydd, a small party of men on deck to assist – and keep an eye on proceedings – and Renzi.

A row-guard provided by
Diadem
slowly circled as the Dutchman and Kydd went below to spy out the task. ‘What’s your method, Mr Geens?’ Kydd asked.

‘Why, the only one as truly answers, Mijnheer. An’ recommended by y’r Transport Board itself for th’ use of India troopships. In short, fumes o’ vitriol. Kills rats ’n’ mice, weevil an’ cockroach. All that creeps an’ crawls ends the same.’

This was the deepest form of fumigation possible but the ship had to be sealed for greatest effect. The platform timbers above the hold had been removed and the men’s belongings taken to the upper deck; gear was becketed back out of the way, gratings covered with tarpaulins and hatchways closed with laced canvas flaps. ‘Ver’ good, Kapitein. We begin. In twenty-four hours you have y’r ship back, sweet as a nut.’

An alarming number of casks and sacks were piled on deck. Curious, Kydd went across and peered into one. It was filled with crude yellow cakes. ‘That’s y’r common flowers o’ sulphur,’ Geens said.

‘And this?’ Kydd held up a sack of dirty white crystals.

‘Is best nitre. Sulphur don’t burn s’ well, we give it nitre – one part to every eight o’ the yellow cake. Then we get plenty o’ them vitriolic acid fumes. Want t’ see?’

‘Er, no, I’ll leave it all to you, Mr Geens,’ Kydd said. ‘Carry on, please.’

Tin pans were charged with a small coil of quick-match in the coarse-ground mixture and distributed below. Men with pails of mud moved about, completing the seal and shortly afterwards the first acrid whiffs could be detected.

‘Time we weren’t here, Nicholas.’

The Africa Club welcomed Kydd warmly. Word of the little action in East Africa had got about, and in a dark-polished room ornamented with game trophies and shields with crossed assegais, those waiting for a full accounting of it had assembled.

‘Have t’ hand it to ye, Kydd, ’twas a grand stroke!’ The red-faced and moustachioed ivory trader, Ditler, chortled, beckoning him to an adjacent leather chair. ‘A peg o’ whisky for y’ tale.’

Others drew up their chairs companionably but Kydd remained standing. ‘And this is my particular friend, Nicholas Renzi,’ he said pointedly.

‘Of course he is,’ soothed the cocoa planter Richardson, ‘as will have a whisky too, eh, Renzi? Hey?’

‘Thank you, no,’ Renzi said politely. ‘Although anything out of Stellenbosch would gratify, if it does not inconvenience.’ If any knew him as other than Captain Kydd’s friend, it could not be detected in their expressions.

Kydd found himself in the seat of honour in the centre and awaited his libation.

Despite what Popham had said, a lengthy stay in Cape waters had its compensations, he had to admit. Who would have thought, in those impossibly remote days in the musty Guildford wig shop, that he would later find himself in a splendid gold-laced uniform in these exotic surroundings?

‘Thank you, Cuthbert,’ he said, accepting his whisky – a single malt, he was pleased to note. After his experience with the Highlanders at Blaauwberg nothing less would serve.

Cradling the drink he found himself further reflecting on his conversation with Popham.

‘Ahem!’

‘Ah, yes,
Marie Galante
.’ Kydd was not a born story-teller and in his own ears the account sounded matter-of-fact and predestined. He’d omitted his doubts and worries as they’d gone into action, the need to rise above his own fears and terror of the unknown to order men into those same hazards, yet the simple telling was received with something like reverence, and he ended the tale pink-faced.

‘Good God, man! Y’ sit there so cool an’ tell us you spent your night on the riverbank? Never heard o’ such blazin’ courage!’ Ditler’s admiration was clear.

‘Er, what—’

‘Well, the crocs f’r one!’

‘Oh?’

‘Surely y’ know they stalk abroad at night, wanting t’ devour sleeping prey. They snap their jaws shut on ye, there’s no hope for it – all over!’ He threw up his arms in an expressive gesture.

‘And y’r hippos too, Kydd,’ came the gravelly tones of the white-haired, sun-touched Baker. ‘They’s on land an’, it being their river, should y’ get a-tween them an’ it, why, at four ton coming at ye faster than y’ can run . . .’ He shook his head, speechless.

‘Not forgetting it’s lion country,’ Richardson brought in, with relish, raising his glass to Kydd. ‘Go around in hunting bands at night, they do. Take a terrible lot o’ kaffirs, poor devils.’ Kydd remembered the massive presence they’d sensed passing by in the inky darkness and shivered.

Ditler put in strongly, ‘And y’ talked on sailing a floatin’ island downriver? B’ glory, and ye’re a mile an’ a half braver than I,’ he said, in awestruck tones.

‘The water-snakes?’ Baker wondered.

‘Not merely,’ was the reply. ‘I was thinking more o’ your frightsome bull shark o’ the Zambezi, as is not content wi’ what’s in the sea but must range miles up into the river.’

‘Even into freshwater?’ Kydd swallowed.

‘Right up t’ the shallows o’ the headwaters. Nasty, vicious brutes, c’n take a man out of a canoe, even,’ he declared. ‘Not t’ be beat in the article of killing. Even the crocs do step lightly around ’em, and—’

Kydd decided to change the subject. ‘Thank you, Mr Ditler, and I’ll bear ’em in mind the next time we move on the enemy. You gentlemen have ventured up the coast? I’d welcome a steer on what’s to be found in those parts after what I saw there.’

The talk brightened into trade prospects at the fringe of the Arab world, barely touched by events outside. Then came well-polished stories of the white man in Africa, as warm and entertaining as the yarns to be heard over any wardroom dinner at sea.

Content, Kydd winked at Renzi, then settled back and let the talk wash over him.

‘It’s done, Cap’n,’ Geens said importantly, holding out the requisite papers to sign.

‘I’ll see below first, if I may,’ Kydd replied, and set off purposefully. The gun-ports and gratings had been open all morning but there was still a sour, biting odour about the ship.

They went down to the main-deck where the pungency caught him at the back of the throat, making him gag. There, a half a dozen men with sacks were scooping up a carpet of vermin, some of which still writhed and contorted: dead cockroaches, grubs and other insects, all driven by the fumes from their hiding places to expire in the open.

On the mess-deck, around the dark cavity of the hold, rat carcasses lay in horrifying abundance. While
L’Aurore
had seen first Trafalgar and then Blaauwberg, these were the hidden passengers who had been lurking in the nether regions, oblivious to events and with only the ship’s precious sea provisions in mind. Geens used wooden tongs to lift up a still feebly moving rat for Kydd’s inspection. ‘See? Does for ’em all in the end. Gaspin’ for air, comes out but it’s no good, he’s blind, o’ course. Vitriolic acid eats out his eyes, the plaguey villain.’ He sniffed, dropping the rat into the sack.

Kydd felt duty-bound to stay aboard as the men reluctantly made their way back to their ship, suffering with them until the vessel was habitable again. He had split the ship’s company in two to share the duties, and the first on board were set to sweeten the vessel – from stem to stern a mighty scrubbing with vinegar and lime, the deckhead beams liberally anointed with a powerful concoction of Geen’s own devising. The cable tiers were lime whitewashed, and twice, two feet of seawater was let in to flood the bilges, the reeking water then pumped over the side until it ran clear.

After their heroic efforts this party happily made its way ashore to its favoured waterfront punch-house to wash away the taste with Cape brandy while the other watch came on board for the even more taxing job of painting ship.

Boatswain Oakley, his head bandaged and in pain, took charge. Preparation was thorough: wood painstakingly scraped back before the paint was carefully mixed. The pigment, oil and litharge was poured into an old fish-kettle in proportions to his satisfaction, and on an upper-deck charcoal fire, the mixture was boiled, then strained through a bread-bag to be laid on warm.

Kydd had his firm views on appearance: it was to stay the Nelson chequer, a smart black hull with a warlike band of yellow along the line of guns, the gun-ports menacing regular squares in black. Lower masts below the tops were well varnished; above the tops, they were painted black, as were the yards, with white tips at their extremities to aid in working aloft in the dark.

Then there was the detailing: scarlet inner bulwarks before the guns, a stout mixture of varnish and tar on the binnacle and belfry and here and there a dash of white. The flutings of the headrails and cheeks saw dark blue to set off the carved scroll-work, and their old-fashioned lion and crown figurehead claimed a handsome gilding of gold-leaf. Kydd himself found the necessary wherewithal to ensure the ornamentation shone around the quarter-galleries and stern-lights.