Kydd

CHAPTER 12

Well, me boyos, early tomorrer you sees old England agen – ain’t it prime?” Finchett’s announcement did not seem to cheer Kydd and Renzi and, perplexed, he left them to it. The pair moodily sat on the canvas-covered main hatch; there seemed no point in conversation.

Interrupting their introspection, from the masthead there was a sudden hail. “Sail hooo!”

A single vessel within hours of the English coast – there could be little doubt about its origins. The entire maritime trade of England passed up Channel this way, as did the ships of the Navy going about their business of war.

“Youse had better be ready to stow yerselves below agen.”

This was eminent good sense. One of the darker acts of a King’s ship was the stripping of seamen from homeward-bound merchant packets, a hard thing after a voyage to the Indies of a year or more.

“Deck hooo! She’s a cutter under flyin’ jib – ’n’ English colors!” Now there was no doubt: one of the many small warships on patrol. And her deep, narrow hull and that huge bowsprit meant speed. There was no way they could think of outrunning her.

The crew of the Judith had a protection from the press as a Fleet auxiliary, but these were personal to the bearer. There was no help for it: they would have to return to their black hole.

A last reluctant glimpse of the balmy day, and the cutter smartly tacking toward, and they returned below. It was uncomfortable and boring in their close black lair, waiting for the boarding to be over with, but it was infinitely better than the alternative.

The steady swooping movement was replaced by an uneasy bobbing – they had heaved to; a discordant bumping told them that the cutter was alongside. They resigned themselves to it: this might be the first of many such.

Faint shouts – probably Finchett expressing his views on the propriety of the Royal Navy interfering with the merchant service, and after an interminable time they felt the lurch and smooth take-up of sail once more. They waited for the signal, and before long they heard scrabbling at the toggle and the strop falling away. But there was no signal. Perhaps naval seamen were still aboard.

“Wait!” Renzi whispered. “We must be sure.”

The air grew stale, then close. They started to pant and felt giddy.

“We have to get out,” Renzi said. He tried to lift the barrel lid. It didn’t budge. He heaved at it, with no result. Putting his back under the lid, he uncoiled his full weight against it. It gave a little, then slammed down again. “There’s something on it,” he whispered. “Give me a hand.”

He guided Kydd in the blackness to put his back next to his own in the cramped space, and together they thrust upward.

Suddenly it gave and flew open. The hold was in darkness, of course, but on the next barrel a lanthorn stood, casting a dim yellow light.

They climbed out cautiously, but Kydd tripped on a dark shape on the deck next to the barrel. He bent to see what it was – and jerked up in horror.

It was a body. He bent again to roll it over – and his hand came away wet and sticky. “It’s Finchett.”

Renzi knelt and examined the corpse. “There’s a wound in his back,” he said. It didn’t make any sense. Maybe Finchett had been wounded on deck and had tried to reach them, expiring after releasing the strop. Renzi realized their reconnaissance would have to be cautious-something was terribly awry.

Kydd remembered that there was a small hatch forward; it allowed entry into the hold without needing the big main hatch to be opened. They scrambled across the remaining powder barrels and reached the hatchway ladder at the fore part of the hold.

“Careful,” whispered Renzi.

Kydd eased back the sliding hatch an inch. Sunlight flooded in, as did familiar sea sounds. The clean salt air was invigorating.

Renzi put his ear to the opening.

“What is it?” whispered Kydd urgently. He was beginning to feel ghosts.

“Quiet!” snapped Renzi.

Faint voices could be heard. They grew louder, and Renzi eased the hatch shut again.

“What?” Kydd asked.

Renzi looked at him gravely. “They were speaking French, dear fellow.”

The cutter must have been a French corsair under false colors – a smart move, given the circumstances. They had boarded the unaccompanied powder brig, probably massacred the crew and even now would be carrying her into a French port.

They stared at each other. Their immediate future was now very much in question. If they surrendered they would probably be hove overboard; if they waited until they reached port and discharged cargo they would be discovered and would rot in a military prison; and if they hid in their hole they would die there.

Renzi struggled with alternatives, but logic led pitilessly to a series of dead ends. He climbed back down the ladder and put his head in his hands.

“Nicholas! Up here, man!” There was sharp authority in Kydd’s voice. “We need t’ know where we stand. Try to listen t’ what they’re saying.”

Renzi slid the hatch open a crack and put his ear to it. There were two distinct voices, both young and strong, and another distant one, more mature. Their northern French dialect was difficult to follow, but he understood. The distant voice was giving the other two orders – probably the watch on deck, or what passed for it.

The orders themselves gave clues. What was aller vent largue? To go with the wind largue? That would be “large,” of course – the opposite of close hauled. In that case they were going in the opposite direction to before. “We visit Madame Cécile’s establishment when we reach Goulven” – where was that? This heathen dialect! But that meant it was somewhere in Brittany, almost certainly the north coast – they would not risk the longer voyage to Brest or points southward.

Renzi strained to hear, but there was only a tedious description of what they would find in Madame Cécile’s brothel. “We’re on our way to Goulven, which I believe to be on the north coast,” he quietly reported. “We are running large to the south or sou’-west, and I suppose we will reach port tomorrow.

“I can hear two on deck and one aft. There may be more below.”

Unarmed, they wouldn’t have a hope, no matter how much surprise they commanded. He resumed listening. What he heard made him start, but the import was worse – it was desperate.

“They’re saying that they hope they won’t have their prize taken from them by the Navy bound for Brest,” he whispered urgently.

Apparently an unknown force was sailing to make rendezvous with those in Brest. Together they could overwhelm Duke William and the two others, then be free to descend on any valuable British overseas possessions they chose.

Kydd was utterly resolute. “Nicholas, get yourself here!”

Tumbling down the ladder, he swung down to the capacious water barrels along the centerline at the forward end of the hold. He tapped them until he found an empty one. Knocking out one end, he began the laborious task of manhandling it toward the ladder.

Renzi didn’t question Kydd’s judgment: he moved across to help him shift the water cask.

Through gasps of effort Kydd explained: “What would you do if y’ saw your cargo of gunpowder afire?” The water barrel was upended at the base of the ladder. It was a simple matter to stuff it with packing straw. Kydd fetched bilge water, which he liberally sprinkled over the straw. “Need a lot of smoke, not much fire,” he said, and brought the lanthorn.

His eyes shone – with exhilaration or fear Renzi could not be sure.

“Here goes – we get blown t’ glory together or…” Kydd opened the lanthorn and ignited a wisp of straw. The tiny flame seemed to illuminate the entire hold, filling it with ruddy dancing shadows.

He dropped it into the barrel and wisps of gray-white smoke began to issue upward.

At the top of the hold the smoke gathered, swelling and building. Kydd fed in more wet straw while Renzi eased the hatch back a little and returned.

The smoke got thicker, stinging Kydd’s eyes, but they did not have to wait long. Above them there was a yell of fear, the hatch slammed open and white smoke billowed up on deck. There was no attempt to get at the fire and Kydd could hardly blame them: tons of gunpowder ablaze was an awesome threat.

It wasn’t possible to see what was happening but the sounds were graphic enough. Disordered slatting and banging of sails meant that the wheel had been abandoned, sending them up into the wind. Panic and shouting – the thumps and clunking amidships could only be the dory being launched.

“No – wait until they’re well clear. They’ll be rowing f’r their lives, I believe,” said Kydd happily. He inspected the barrel – no need to let it blaze any more. He clapped its lid back on, choking the fire.

They emerged spluttering and red-eyed on deck. The dory was already a good half-mile away and making astonishing speed.

“So, what now?” said Renzi. The dory would surely return when they saw the fire die down.

“Get the boarding muskets,” Kydd replied.

Renzi reserved his views about how long they could keep the dory at bay. Night would be coming soon, and they had to face the urgent problem of how the two of them alone could handle the brig.

They hurried to the master’s cabin. There had been only a halfhearted attempt to clean away the bloodstains, but the small arms chest was in its place against the bulkhead. There were only old-fashioned pieces, but they had been carefully looked after. Kydd and Renzi loaded feverishly from the keg of powder and priming horn, the heavy balls rammed down over the charge.

There were six muskets, enough to deter all but the most determined onslaught. They returned on deck. Sure enough, the dory had stopped, rising and falling with the slight seas, oars held level. There were six of them by count, a prize crew not expecting trouble.

They continued to load until all six muskets were ready.

“I’ll fire, you load,” Kydd said briefly.

The dory bobbed about. They would have been spotted by now, and no doubt there would be an animated discussion going on, thought Renzi.

“So what is our plan, then?” he said lightly. He would not share his fears – he could only see them wallowing about out of control off the French coast and he put their survival time at hours at the most.

“We invite ’em aboard, o’ course,” Kydd said.

Renzi’s eyebrows rose.

“To kindly work our vessel f’r us!” Kydd grinned.

The dory spun about and began the laborious return to the brig. Kydd trained a musket and waited.

It approached and stopped fifty yards away, outside reliable musket range.

“Je monte à bord!”

“What’s he say?”

“He says he is coming aboard.”

A fat man in a purple coat with gold lace was talking, offhand and confident. He had left his hat behind and his unwigged head was covered in corn-colored stubble. He signaled to the man at the oars, who resumed his pull.

Kydd squeezed off a shot. It sent up a waterspout close to the bow of the dory. A furious shout came from the fat man, followed by a more placating tone. The others in the boat watched sullenly.

Renzi took the piece and reloaded it.

“And?”

“He’s offering to make it worth our while to let them continue on their way.”

Kydd loosed another shot, resulting in another angry shout that ended in wheedling.

“He’s saying that unless we yield he will not answer for the consequences,” Renzi reported.

Kydd smiled grimly.

“He says he has a corsair crew who are difficult to control-would we care to put ourselves under his protection?”

It was deadlock. They could not hope to keep the dory away forever, but the dory was in a dangerous position so far to sea and a perilously long pull back to land.

“Tell them to swim for it, Nicholas, the fat one first.”

“What?”

“If they want t’ get aboard, they do it one on one – fat sod first,” Kydd replied with relish.

A violent discussion began. The fat man shouted and gesticulated, his main attention on the thick-set seaman in the bows.

“Another ball, dare I ask?” Renzi said.

The shot went over the heads of the French, and the ball must have gone low, for the boat’s occupants all ducked violently.

The fat man stood up and waved. Kydd sent another ball close to his head and he collapsed back into the dory.

Tearing off his purple coat, he lowered himself, protesting volubly, over the side of the dory. He splashed and spluttered his way toward the brig, puffing and blowing like a grampus at the main chains.

Weapons reloaded, Kydd stood on deck, flintlock cradled as he waited for the man to haul himself up. “Citoyen Hector Jouet,” he snarled, dripping seawater copiously on the deck, wariness struggling with defiance on his face.

Kydd looked at Renzi, who broke into mellifluous French, bowing as he did so.

Jouet looked at him murderously and turned his back. Renzi cut off a length of line and efficiently secured his wrists. He was to remain at rest on the main hatch.

Meanwhile, the dory had crept closer. The well-built man in the bows was next. He plunged into the sea and with powerful strokes came rapidly up with the brig. Kydd’s musket idly lay in his direction as the man submitted to being bound, and sat next to the glowering Jouet. The dory was now only thirty yards off. “Don’t worry, let’s jus’ get ’em aboard,” Kydd said.

A mustached and wiry seaman next swam lazily toward them. The dory was now only some fifteen yards off. The rower lay on his oars. Kydd beckoned, his musket held loose. A man in plain black stood up, his eyes even at this distance fierce and glittering. His hand went inside his coat as though to scratch lice – but when it came out, a long gleaming pistol came with it. He sighted down the long barrel.

Behind Kydd came the sudden earsplitting crack of a musket. The man snapped rigid, then slowly fell forward to splash noisily into the water alongside the dory.

Renzi lowered the musket. “My bird, I think.”

On the main hatch the five men sat, darting deadly glances at them. Renzi knew it would take only one ill-judged move and he and Kydd would die.

Kydd looked at them dispassionately. The brig had two masts, square rigged on both, and a big spanker on the main. Three men could handle the vessel if they attended to each mast in turn. If it came on to blow – well, the whole thing was a gamble anyway.

“Get the fat bugger up here, Nicholas. Secure his feet an’ sit him down forrard o’ the wheel.”

Renzi did so, and Kydd stood with the muzzle of his gun lazily covering the man. “Tell him he gets it in the belly first if there’s trouble. Now the hard-looking bastard – he goes on the wheel.”

The man padded forward and stood at the wheel, his black eyes unblinking in a mask of hatred.

“Better this ill-looking dog’s under eye.” Kydd shifted around so his flintlock covered both men.

“Now tell ’em all we’re blood ’n’ death desperate. If they try anything they’re dead ’uns for sure, but if they behave they may get t’ live.”

Renzi felt as though he was in a cage of lions waiting to pounce if the trainer lost his nerve. He knew that Kydd’s course of action was the only one possible, and he could only admire the cool thinking that had cut through hopelessness to a solution, and the toughness of the mind that had carried it through to make it work. “So, what course?” he asked. He was uncomfortably aware that neither of them had the faintest idea of ocean navigation, and they ran the risk of piling into the Scilly rocks or worse, if they were but points off course in the return to England.

“South-west!”

Renzi was dumbfounded – it would take them away from England. Then he understood. “You’re going to warn Duke William!”

“Of course. If we return to England to tell ’em there, it’ll be too late.”

“But – ”

“Do you want it upon your conscience that you betrayed y’r friends? And our desertion – they’ll be so pleased to be tipped the wink, we’ll be heroes.”

They soon fell into a routine; always the whole five on deck and under eye at the one time, Jouet always under the muzzle of a gun. In everything they did, they moved slowly, carefully, their eyes everywhere, watchful.

The tension was fearful.

Fortunately their course did not require them to tack, and they bowled along south-westward with little attention to the tacks and sheets. When night fell the lanthorn Renzi hung in the rigging played on the three sprawled on the main hatch.

A three-quarters moon rose, bathing them in soft silver glitter, making it easier to check on their captives. Renzi stood guard, occasionally pacing slowly to keep awake, Kydd sleeping on deck beside him.

The moon rose higher, moving behind the swell of the sails. The ceaselessly moving lines of rigging projected stark black against the backlit sails, swaying hypnotically.

Renzi’s eyes grew heavy, and when the moon was high in the night sky he woke Kydd for his watch. It didn’t take him long to drift off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The sudden concussion of a musket burst into his sleep. He sat up, eyes straining to make sense of where he was. Two of the French were standing, brought to a halt by Kydd’s vigilant shot. “Tell them I’ve five other shots’ll be waitin’ for their next move!” he said thickly.

Renzi did so, reloaded the musket and settled down again.

Dawn found them both huddled together, muskets across their knees, bleary-eyed.

How much endurance had they left? It might be days before they encountered the squadron, if at all, for there was no knowing where they might be. All they had as a clue was a half-remembered mental image of the French coast, a picture of a low, nondescript coastline jutting out and going in again that they knew so well from their constant beating up and down.

And over there was the coast right enough, but Renzi did not recognize it in the slightest part. It was going to be a long, long vigil. He stood up and stretched. “Need to pump ship – going forrard.”

Kydd nodded, and stood also, his musket loose and ready.

Renzi passed down the waist, warily eyeing the tense, glowering French. He eased himself and made his way back past them.

In a sudden lunge the wiry sailor made his move. He leaped from behind and a flash of steel flew at Renzi’s throat before he could react.

“Arrêtez-vous!” the man snapped.

Renzi halted. It was a sailmaker’s knife, small and curved and razor sharp. It rested against his windpipe. The man was hidden by his body, so there was no target for Kydd.

But Kydd had the gun instantly jabbing into the fat man. Eyes flashed murder over the space between – and there was absolute stillness. His hand on the trigger, Kydd hauled Jouet to his feet. Carefully, he edged sideways until he had the man at the wheel in sight and the stand of muskets behind his back.

It was stalemate.

Long minutes passed. Renzi held still, a thin half-smile his only concession to emotion. The fat man lay at Kydd’s feet sweating, and the other Frenchmen bunched up behind Renzi.

There was no sound except the slap and crunch of the bow waves and the cheerful pattering of reef points on the sail.

The wiry seaman growled at Renzi.

“He says to throw down your musket.”

“Tell him to – tell him what you like.”

“He says – he desires you to know that my throat will shortly be cut.”

“Remind him that the fat man gets it in the guts instantly.”

The man with the knife made a scornful remark.

“His view is that Jouet’s life is not worth preserving.”

“Then I’ve still five shots ready for them.” Kydd kept his musket on Jouet.

“He says that you will only get one or two shots away before they overcome you, and these are odds they are willing to take.”

Kydd detected only the slightest tremor in Renzi’s voice.

The tableau held – but there would soon be a sudden, desperate move on one side or the other and it would be over quickly in a flurry of death and mutilation.

In helpless fury Kydd glared at them. He jerked the muzzle up when the man with the knife inched Renzi forward. He was aware that the man at the wheel had abandoned it and was ready to spring on him, because the brig had fallen off the wind.

They closed in.

Then Kydd laughed. Harsh, maniacal laughter, barking away.

They stopped.

“They want to know if you’ve gone mad.” There was anxiety in Renzi’s voice.

Kydd stopped laughing. “Tell him if he drops his knife I might consider him my prisoner, or then again I might not.”

Relaxing, Kydd looked at them contemptuously. Slowly he lifted his arm and pointed to the south. Hidden by the sails before but now revealed by their falling off the wind was the plain sight of a British sloop-of-war. She had seen them and was fussing over to investigate.

They lay at their ease on the little foredeck, no duties for them-the lieutenant of the sloop’s prize crew had been most insistent. The sloop had hurried away to alert the Commodore, leaving the Judith and Mary to transport the two at their leisure to rendezvous with the Duke William.

A pigtailed old seaman coiled down the fore halliards. “You lucky buggers!” he said enviously. “Prize money on this little barky’ll set yez up fer life or chirpin’ merry forever.”

“When we finally make it back,” Kydd said dreamily. He would cut a figure in Guildford – gold watch, buy up one of the fashionable shops on High Street, his family wouldn’t believe it. Only a few miles down the road was Hatchlands, a vast estate built for Admiral Boscawen after the last war – and now Thomas Kydd would be the one pointed out parading in town.

Renzi was wrestling with his conscience. He was less than a third of the way through his sentence-would striking it personally lucky make it ethically allowable to remit the remainder? He rather thought not.

Duke William backed her topsails and hove to. Curious faces looked down from her decks high above as Kydd and Renzi mounted the entry steps and came over the bulwarks onto the well-remembered quarterdeck.

Kydd grinned at the jaw-dropping surprise their appearance caused. Tyrell stumped his way rapidly from forward to confront them.

“Take them in charge! Put them in irons this instant!” he roared. Lockwood looked bemused.

“If you’ll allow me to explain, sir,” a voice behind them said smoothly. It was the lieutenant of the prize crew arriving from the entry port.

At that moment the Captain emerged from the cabin spaces. The lieutenant lifted his cocked hat politely and drew them both aside.

Kydd looked around happily. The sounds and smells he remembered surged over him – he nodded to Doggo on the wheel, and grinned cheekily at Elkins, who stood speechless by the mainmast.

The lieutenant doffed his hat again and left – he would have an anxious time on the voyage back to England.

Captain Caldwell came over. Kydd touched his forehead. “I think we might have misjudged you, Kydd,” he said pleasantly.

“Couldn’t abide t’ see Duke William mauled so, sir,” he said respectfully. “May I ask, sir, will we be in time?”

“Set your mind at rest, Kydd. The sloop has probably reached Admiral Howe by now and I daresay we’ll be able to provide a warm enough welcome for the French when he comes out.”

“Sir, will we get prize money f’r the brig?”

Caldwell coughed politely. His eyes slid to Tyrell and back again. “Well, as to that, you must understand that at the time you were technically deserters. I’m sorry.”

Kydd’s heart fell. So much for dreaming.

“But welcome back, Kydd. I can see a fine future for you in the King’s Service, mark my words.”

“Sir – I must point out -”

“Mr. Tyrell?”

“They are deserters!”

“Come now, Mr. Tyrell, let us not allow our zeal for the Service to overcome our common humanity.”

Tyrell’s black eyebrows contracted. “I must insist, sir. The regulations cannot be so lightly set aside – they knew what they were doing!”

The Captain hesitated.

“They should be taken in charge, sir.”

Tyrell’s obdurate manner unbalanced Caldwell. It would go hard with him if for any reason it could be shown later that he had failed in his duty to bring a deserter to justice.

“Very well. Take them below.” He avoided Kydd’s eyes and returned to the cabin spaces.

Kydd struggled to face it. The Articles of War and naval regulations gave little leeway once a crime was proven – desertion was a serious problem for the Navy and the penalties were savage, intended to deter. It was absolutely no use to appeal to natural justice: the law must take its course.

He sat appalled at the impossible-to-conceive prospect of three hun dred lashes – and Duke William was at the end of her sea endurance and must soon sail back to England and the Fleet.

His feet were in bilboes once more – he would have to get used to it, for they would be in irons even after they arrived back in port. He tried to lie back, but could not, the bilboes twisting his leg irons.

What was so hard to bear was that he had involved Renzi, who sat in irons uncomplaining next to him. Kydd sank into a quiet misery.

Early the next morning the Master-at-Arms appeared. “Up!” he said.

Shackles were removed, manacles went on their wrists and they were led up to the upper deck – for exercise, Kydd assumed.

On the quarterdeck the Captain and Tyrell were waiting.

The Master-at-Arms saluted. “Prisoners mustered, sir!” His pig eyes swiveled curiously to Kydd.

Caldwell nodded and stepped forward. “You see there, Kydd,” he said, gesturing over to leeward.

No more than a few cables off lay Artemis, the legendary crack frigate. She kept up lazily with the big battleship, effortlessly slicing through the water. She looked impossibly lovely-as new as Duke William was old, smart as paint and with fresh white sails, gold leaf gleaming on her scrollwork; she was an ocean racer, a lucky ship that had already made her daring captain a rich man.

Kydd turned his dull eyes back to the Captain. “Sir?”

“She has signaled us.”

Kydd wondered what on earth this had to do with him.

“Artemis has prize crews away – she has signaled us to the effect that she would be grateful if we could spare a dozen seamen. I have answered that we can.

“Master-at-Arms, remove the gyves. These men are going to Artemis – thoroughly bad lot, glad to be rid of ’em!

“We’d better get rid of their associates as well. They’d be of like mind, I’ll wager.”

Dumbfounded, Kydd allowed his fetters to be struck off.

Captain Caldwell continued, “The boatswain has explained to me what happened. It seems that unfortunately we left you behind in the hold when the brig sailed. My apologies.”

“Then th’ prize money, sir?” Kydd said, greatly daring.

“Let’s leave it at that, shall we?” Caldwell said smoothly. “Get your dunnage, and let me know who your accomplices are – they will be going with you.”

Kydd and Renzi exchanged a quick expression of wild hope. Tyrell stormed forward, confronting the pair, but Caldwell gestured, placating. “Thank you, Mr. Tyrell. Kindly prepare to be under way in fifteen minutes, will you?

“Now, Kydd, you go as a volunteer and able seaman according to the books – but let me warn you” – the Captain’s expression softened to a half-smile -“you’ll find life in a frigate just a little bit different from that in a ship-of-the-line!”