Quarterdeck

"All bets 'r off, gennelmen!" bawled Akins.

The press of spectators broke into riotous commotion. Kydd's comprehension of events rapidly disintegrated—he was being slapped on the back and idolised by dozens of drunken seamen. An unwilling Tysoe was plied with beer; women's gleeful painted faces danced before him; and Dobbie, now the centre of a throng of seamen, was telling the story of the great mutiny of the Nore.

Admiral Vandeput and his squadron returned three days later, joining Tenacious at her anchorage. Kydd was in the boat returning from the flagship, and could see Renzi waiting on the quarterdeck of Tenacious, and dared a brief wave. It was good to see his friend and the clouds lifted from his spirit.

Clutching the precious pouch of despatches and confidential signal information, Kydd hauled himself up the side and took Renzi's hand. "I'd thought to see you flag-lieutenant b' now," he said.

"Flag-lieutenant? Not if the present incumbent can help it." Renzi chuckled drily. "And while you've been in this Arcadia resting, I've been privy to secrets concerning the cod fishery that would stand you amazed, dear fellow."

"You'll tell me of y'r secrets this very afternoon. You get y'r gear inboard while I get these t' Captain Houghton. I have it from on high that the adm'ral will want t' have his squadron to sea f'r exercises as soon as he's stored—that's t'morrow, I'll wager."

"If it were at all possible, a light walk ashore among the spring blooms would be pleasant, Tom. Our admiral does not spare his minions, you may believe."

The Dartmouth side of the harbour was speckled with green shoots and the ground was firming. They paced it out in the hesitant sunshine, feeling the country awake out of its winter retreat.

"A singular place, Newfoundland," Renzi said, at length. "At times I believed that the island should be entirely covered by curing fish, were it not that room has to be made for the vats of that monstrously malodorous fish oil."

"Your secrets?" Kydd wanted to know.

"Nothing, really. It's a turbulent place that requires the admiral to show firm on occasion—the fisher gentry from Devon have it that Newfoundland is their personal fief, and deliver rough justice to those who say otherwise. You'd smile to hear the talk in an assembly at St John's—you'd swear it was Exeter or Bideford on market day."

They walked on companionably. "So, all has been uneventful in the meantime?" Renzi enquired.

Kydd hesitated. Renzi was the soul of discretion, but that was not the point at issue—his uncle had left the resolution of his problem to him alone: Should he involve his friend in a matter of family?

There was no question: he had been on his own for too long.

"Nicholas, the strangest thing—I met m' uncle f'r the first time not long since." His tone made Renzi look at him sharply.

"Yes—m' father's brother, here in Canada." Kydd went on to tell of his discovery and his quandary—and his decision neither to conform to the story of the bear nor to reveal his uncle's current whereabouts to his family.

"An admirable, even logical decision, Tom, and I honour you for it," Renzi said sincerely.

They strolled on in the quietness at the edge of the forest. "That's not all of the matter, is it, brother?" Renzi said, stopping and facing Kydd directly. "I'd be honoured to share whatever it is that lays its hands on my friend."

Kydd looked away, staring at the jack-pines carpeting the landscape, all seeming the same but when looked at separately every one an individual, uncountable thousands into the blue-grey distance. "Nicholas, it doesn't answer. I have t' face it. I'm not t' be one of y'r deep-dyed, gentleman officers who knows their fox-hunting an' Seasons. I know seamanship an' navigation, not dancin' and talking to ladies."

"Dear fellow, this—"

"When I got my step t' the quarterdeck it was hard t' believe. Then it seemed to me that there was no end t' it—captain of my own ship, even. But I know better than that now. The King's service needs l'tenants for sure, but only the gentlemen will find 'emselves promoted—an' I'm no gentleman, an' now I know it."

"No gentleman? What nonsense—"

"Spare me y'r comfortin' words, Nicholas," Kydd said bitterly. "For my own good, I have t' hoist this aboard an' stop pining f'r what can't be, and that's that."

"But it only requires you learn the marks of civility, the — "

"Is that all it is to be a gentleman, jus' know all the tricks? I don't think so." Kydd fell silent, morosely kicking a pine cone.

"Do you despise gentlemen?" Renzi asked quietly.

Kydd flashed him a suspicious look. "Not as who should say— they were born to it, that's their good luck . . . and yours," he added, with a sardonic smile.

They walked on for a space, then Kydd stopped again. "T' be honest, it sticks in m' gullet that I'm t' leave promotion to others — and I'm of a mind t' do something about it."

"What?"

"Well, in a merchant ship they have no care f'r gentle ways—a berth as mate in an Indiaman would suit me right handsomely, one voyage a year out east, an' my own freight . . ."

"Leave the Navy?"

"And why not?"

Kydd obstinately avoided Renzi's gaze as his friend stared at him.

In a brisk south-easterly early next morning the North American Squadron put to sea for one week's exercising in the waters between Nova Scotia and the United States, the 74-gun HMS Resolution as flagship in the van, the seven ships a picture of grace and might.

In Tenacious, at the rear, the picture was more apparent than real: the file of ships that stretched ahead to the flagship in perfect line also obscured her signals, and the little fleet could not stretch to the luxury of a repeating frigate.

Despairing, Kydd hung out from the rigging to weather, trying to steady his big telescope against the thrumming in the shrouds and bracing himself to catch the meaning of Resolution's signal flags end-on. They were clawing their way out close-hauled; if they were to end on an easterly course passing south of the Thrumcap they would have to pass through the wind's eye.

It was the admiral's choice, to tack about or wear round, and with the Neverfail shoal waiting ahead and the same unforgiving rocks under their lee that had claimed Tribune so recently. Tack or wear—put the helm down or up—it all depended on the signal that would be thrown out to the fleet in the next few minutes.

Captain Houghton stumped up and down the quarterdeck, nervous midshipmen scuttling along behind him, the master keeping a respectful distance to his lee. It was impossible to send the men to their stations until it was known the action to be taken, and they stood about the decks in uneasy groups.

Devil's Island, the most seaward part of Halifax, lay abeam: now there was no reason why they could not bear up—and then there was a tiny flutter of bunting on Resolution's poop.

Kydd concentrated with his glass. A quick refresh from his pocket book had shown him that there was only one flag in the two hoists that differentiated "tack" and "wear"—a yellow diagonal on a blue background—and this was number three, "tack." If he just glimpsed that flag, he could ignore the rest and they would gain a vital edge. Houghton stopped pacing and faced Kydd. Around the ship men followed suit, every face turning towards him.

There! A cluster of flags mounted swiftly in Resolution's rigging, their fluttering edges making the hoist nearly impossible to read—but Kydd's straining eyes had spotted the distinctive number three as the flagship's signal crew bent it on as part of the hoist. Before the flags had reached the peak he roared triumphantly, "It's tack!"

Men raced to their stations; running gear was thumped on the deck and faked for running, afteryards manned by the starboard watch and headyards the larboard, double manning for the greatest speed. The signal jerked down aboard the flagship — execute!

The wheel spun as the quartermaster at the wheel and his mate threw themselves at the task and Tenacious's bluff bow began to move. At the waist, ropes' ends were out as the petty officers ensured the foresheet was let go smartly and the lee brace checked away. In growing excitement Kydd saw that of the file of ships only Tenacious herself at the rear and the flagship at the head had begun a swing round into the wind. His pride swelled at the evidence of his enterprise—they were well into their tacking about while in front, Andromeda, was still in line ahead.

"Helm's a-lee!" Big driving sails began shaking, the yards bracing round while the foreyards took the wind aback to lever her round. "Mainsail haul!" The ship passed slowly through the eye of the wind and all hands heaved and hauled with all their might to make the sails belly out comfortably on to the new tack. It was neatly done.

"Sir!" It was Rawson, tugging on his sleeve urgently. Kydd turned irritably. The midshipman pointed mutely at the line of ships: Resolution had tacked about as fast as they, but all the rest were still thrashing along on the old tack, not one even attempting to go about.

A feeling of growing apprehension crept over Kydd. Something was wrong. Resolution was now in plain view to weather, her entire beam to Tenacious instead of her stern—and as they watched, a flutter of bunting mounted at her main, the original signal. But ominously, there for the whole fleet to see was Tenacious's pennant climbing brazenly aloft. A gun thudded out peremptorily for attention.

"What, in the name of God?" Houghton roared at Kydd. The admiral was telling the world that HMS Tenacious had blundered and should conform to his signal.

"It's tack, but in succession, sir," Rawson whispered urgently, pointing to an entry in the signal book. It was the order to tack, sure enough, but the maddening additional flag at the end indicated that instead of turning into line like a file of soldiers, the admiral wanted the column of ships to reach a fixed point, then wheel round to follow him, thereby preserving their line ahead formation.

"Sir, the signal is 'tack in succession.' I—I'm sorry, sir . . ." Kydd's voice seemed thin and weak.

Houghton's chest swelled and his face reddened, but before the explosion another gun sounded impatiently from the flagship. There was nothing for it but public ignominy.

"Haaands to stations for staying!" Tenacious must obey the last order and come back to her original tack; her ship's company, feeling the shame and the entire fleet's eyes on them, took up their ropes again while Kydd stood mortified, face burning. Tenacious came ponderously about and tried to assume her old place at the end of the line—but by now the line itself was all but gone, preceding ships now having reached the fixed point and tacked round on to the new course.

Cursing, weary men picked up their ropes and prepared to haul round for the third time in a row. But when the due point was reached Tenacious had not picked up enough speed, and when the helm went down she headed up languidly into the wind—and stayed there, held in the wind's eye, in irons.

The master lunged over and took the helm, bawling at the men forward as the ship drifted astern, the hapless officer-of-the-watch nervously clutching his telescope and watching the captain, appalled. Kydd, with nothing to do, could only stand and suffer as the ship tried to regain her dignity.

Finally in her place at the rear of the line stretching away to the east, Tenacious settled down and Kydd turned to his captain, prepared for the worst—but yet another signal streamed out from Resolution. "Fleet will heave to," Kydd reported carefully. Main topsails were backed and way fell off. There had to be a reason why the whole squadron was coming to a stop.

"Flagship, sir—our pennant and, er, 'Send a lieutenant.'" The admiral wanted an official explanation from Tenacious for the recent display—and there would be no bets taken on who would go as the sacrifice . . .

Admiral Vandeput did not spare his squadron. Between Cape Sable and Cape Cod, seven ships sailed resolutely in formation, assuming tactical divisions by signal, running down invisible foes, shortening sail for battle. Curious fishing-boats were diverted by strings of flags run up the flagship's rigging, followed by instant animation aboard every vessel of the squadron—and the occasional gun for attention.

Kydd doggedly improved his acquaintance with the Fighting Instructions and attached signals, and when the squadron was ready to return to port several days later, he was fully prepared. "Sir, vessels in the squadron to retire in order of sailing." It was the return to Halifax. "Signal to wear, sir," Kydd added, as the flags broke at the masthead. This would see the ships turning on their heel and facing where they had been—but this time with Tenacious leading the squadron back to port.

Now was the time to show her breeding in the manoeuvre of going about completely, stern to wind. "Brace in the afteryards— up helm!" The mizzen topsail began shaking, the main just full and the fore up sharp. Tenacious started her swing, the line of ships ahead commenced their wheel about. "Lay y'r headyards square! Shift headsheets!" Her rotation brought the wind right aft, and the weather sheets were eased to become the lee. "Brace up headyards—haul aboard!" Men laboured to get the tack hard in forward and the sheets aft as she came on to her new heading. Tenacious responded with a willing surge.

"Draw jib!" It was the last order before she settled on her new course, the sheets hauled aft to bring the headsails to a full taut-ness. The fo'c'slemen responded heartily, the thought of safe haven in Halifax just hours away lending weight to their hauling.

A crack as loud as a three-pounder gun came from far forward. The crew on the jibsheets fell to the deck, others crouched down and looked about fearfully. It was impossible to see what was happening from aft as the clews of the big courses effectively shut out the scene.

"Can't 'old 'er, sir!" bawled the helmsman, as Tenacious immediately fell off the wind and inevitably out of line. An incomprehensible hail came from forward, amplified by a breathless messenger. "Lost our jibboom, sir!" he yelled, his voice cracking.

Houghton lifted his speaking trumpet. "Douse the fore t'gallant instantly, d'ye hear?" He wheeled round, his face set. A volley of orders brought sail in, and way off the vessel. "You know what to do, get forrard and bear a hand—now!" he snapped at Kydd. Rawson could be relied on to hoist the necessary "not-under-command" general signal that indicated Tenacious was no longer in a position to obey her captain.

Kydd hurried forward. This was Renzi's part-of-ship: Kydd would take orders from him without question. He arrived at the scene to see a tangle of rigging from aloft—and a truncated bowsprit. A thumping from the lee bow and men staring down showed where the failed spar was now.

"Poulden, do you clap on the t'gallant bowline as well." It was strange to hear the crack of authority in Renzi's voice, to see the gleam of hard purpose in his friend's eyes.

"Sir," Kydd reported to the fourth lieutenant.

Renzi flashed a brief smile. "Martingale stay parted, the jib-boom carried away," he said, flicking his eyes up to watch the progress of the jib downhaul, which was clearly being readied to hoist the spar back aboard. "I'm sanguine we'll have it clear soon—it's to loo'ard, and I've taken the liberty to set the fore-topmast stays'l to make a lee while we see to the jib."

The boatswain quickly had the experienced fo'c'slemen at work reeving a heel rope: the fifty feet of Danzig fir surging below was a formidable spar to recover aboard.

Renzi gazed intently at the descending downhaul. "Mr Kydd,

I'd be obliged if you'd inform the captain of our situation, that I've furled the fore t'gallant, but desire the fore t'gallant mast be struck."

Kydd touched his hat, then hastened back to the quarterdeck.

Houghton listened sourly, his eyes straying to the line of ships passing by, beginning the evolution to heave to. "Request Flag to pass within hail," he said. The signals soared up rapidly, but even as they did, Resolution had put down her helm and closed.

Briefly, Houghton passed details by speaking trumpet to the admiral. There was little to discuss: Lynx, a 16-gun ship-sloop, was detached to stand by them while they repaired; the remainder sailed on to Halifax.

It was not an easy repair: even with a spare spar fortunately to hand, the stump of the jibboom had to be extracted from the bowsprit cap and sea-hardened heel ropes cut away. It was sheer bad luck that the bee-block seating the new jibboom to the bowsprit needed reshaping, and now with jib-stay and fittings to apply there was no chance they would complete by dusk.

The hours passed uncomfortably. Without steadying sail on the open sea Tenacious wallowed glumly all night, Cape Cod forty miles under her lee. Kydd had the morning watch: red-eyed and tired, he observed a grey dawn approach with Lynx far out to the southward but stoutly clapping on all sail. Thick mist patches persisted to the north in the calm seas, wisps reaching out occasionally to Tenacious with their clammy embrace.

As soon as there was light enough, work began on the jib-boom, and well before the wan sun had cleared the foreyard it was all but complete.

"What, in hell's name?" Houghton said, stopping his restless pacing. It was gunfire—to the north and not too distant, a distinct thud.

"At least twenty-fours, maybe thirty-twos," growled Bryant, puzzled. Another flurry of thumps in the mist were heard.

Houghton looked nonplussed. "This can only be the squadron—there's not another sail-o'-the-line at sea, unless . . ." He paused, then looked significantly at Bryant. "Send Lynx to investigate with all despatch." It was a disturbing mystery: guns of such weight of metal were only carried by line-of-battle ships.

Lynx disappeared into the light mist while Tenacious had her topsails set and drawing within minutes of her headsails being once more complete. As she began to gather way her mainsail was loosed and she picked up speed.

The royals of a ship showed above the mist, and Lynx burst into view, a signal at her main. "Enemy in sight!" shouted Kydd from the poop, but the signal had been recognised at once.

"Clear for action!"

For the first time on the American side of the Atlantic Tenacious made ready for battle. The mist cleared slightly—giving a tantalising view of two dark shapes before it closed round them once more.

The urgent rhythm of "Hearts of Oak" ceased as Bryant reported the ship cleared fore and aft; it was replaced by a long, solemn drum-roll. Quarters!

Kydd's sword banged against his legs as he raced up the poop-deck ladder—if this were a rogue enemy 74 and frigate escort they were in dire trouble.

"Make to Lynx, 'take position one mile to windward,' if you please," said Houghton. Small fry had no business in the line when big ships met in combat.

Tenacious glided into the trailing mist, the wind now only a dying breeze. The masthead lookout hailed the deck. "Deck hoooo! Two ships, two points t' larboard, near ter five mile off!"

At Houghton's command Kydd exchanged the heavy signal telescope for the more handy glass of the officer-of-the-watch and swung up into the shrouds. He was clear of the mist by the maintop; there was no need to go further—and over there to larboard, protruding through the rumpled white upper surface of the fog, were the upper masts and tops of two vessels—ship rigged, as the lookout had said.

Kydd held the telescope against an upper shroud and gazed intently. Both were under sail but were hove to at an angle to each other. He steadied the glass and found the tricolour of France hanging limply on one, he couldn't tell for the other; certainly they were not ships-of-the-line. He swept once around the horizon, noting that the mist was clearing to patches around the enemy, and bawled down his report, then clambered back to the deck.

"What the devil? You saw no other vessels at all?" Houghton barked. They had unmistakably heard the gunfire of a ship of force.

"Sir, is it—" the master began, then the obscuring mist lifted, and some four miles away almost dead to leeward they saw the enemy.

"Damn my eyes if that ain't a frigate!" Bryant said, in wonder.

"An' that looks like one o' our merchant ships, sir," interposed Hambly.

"Lay us to wind'd of the frigate, Mr Hambly," said Houghton shortly. "We'll look for that damned ship-o'-the-line later."

Adams came up to stand beside Kydd. "Can you just conceive," he said, with a boyish grin, "what discussions must be afoot on her quarterdeck? Just about to take a fat prize and a ship-o'-the-line, no less, sails out of the fog."

Houghton said, over his shoulder, "Mr Kydd, recall Lynx— to take station astern." Aboard the Frenchman there would be something approaching panic: an additional ship in the equation, however small, meant double the worry for the unknown commander of the frigate, now making hasty sail.

"Stuns'ls, sir?" The south-easterly breeze was playful and light and they were bearing down slowly.

"No, Mr Hambly. We'll wait and see what he's going to try first." If the frigate bore away downwind there would be every reason for stuns'ls but if she moved off on the wind Tenacious could not follow until the awkward sails and their booms had been taken in.

With the rapt attention of the entire quarterdeck, the Frenchman's length foreshortened as her yards came round. "She's running large," said Bryant. It would be strange indeed if a frigate did not have the legs over a cumbersome ship-of-the-line in a stern chase and in a matter of hours she would be clean away.

The merchant ship, a large vessel with clean lines, ran up her colours as they approached. "American?" Bryant took off his hat and scratched his head, glancing up at their own ensign as if for reassurance.

"Cousin Jonathan is a neutral—what is the Frenchy up to?" Adams murmured, as they passed the cheering merchant ship under full sail.

"If y' please, sir . . ." began the master.

"Mr Hambly?"

"If I'm not wrong, sir, that's not a National Ship—she's a heavy privateer. Slight in the build, maybe over-sparred, an' the size of her crew . . ."

"I think he's right, sir," agreed Bryant, borrowing a telescope. The sea ahead was now free of mist and the chase, no more than a mile ahead, loosed all plain sail—but no stuns'l.

Houghton pursed his lips. To stand any chance of staying with the chase he must soon spread stuns'ls abroad—a canny captain of the "frigate" would wait for the manoeuvre to complete, then put his own wheel over and go close-hauled, knowing that it would take some time for his pursuer to strike his stuns'ls and follow. But on the other hand, if they did nothing, the chase would draw ahead and disappear. "Mr Hambly, be so good as to see how the chase goes."

The sailing master found his sextant and measured the angle from masthead to waterline of their prey. A few minutes later he repeated the action. "We're dropping astern by as much as two knots, I fear, sir."

"Not worth our trouble," Adams said gloomily to Kydd. "We spread more sail, so does she—an' I've yet to find any two-decker can stay with a frigate. She'll be hull down by sunset."

The Frenchman was now visibly drawing away, disdaining even to set her own stuns'ls. Houghton took a telescope and trained it for a long time on the chase. Suddenly he snapped shut the glass. "Pass the word to Mr Bampton and Mr Renzi—we will yaw, and on command they will pepper the rogue with a full broadside."

The midshipman messenger touched his hat, expressionless. Even he knew that this was a last gesture after which the Frenchman could sail away over the horizon in peace. Houghton's action would hopelessly slow their advance in the light winds. The lad ran off smartly and from the rumbling Kydd could picture the long twenty-fours being run out, hand-spikes plied to make them bear as far forward as they could—and the talk around the guns as men peered out of open gunports to catch a sight of their target.

Houghton paced impatiently, waiting for the youngster to report back, his gaze fixed on the ship ahead.

Reported ready, it needed only the captain's order to complete their final, aggressive, act. Houghton gave a brief smile to the group on the quarterdeck, and said quietly to Hambly, "Larboard, if you please."

Tenacious sheered off slowly, giving the gun-captains time to lay their weapons, so when the order to open fire was given the guns crashed out almost together. Smoke rolled down lazily on their target and, seconds later, the sudden eruption of a forest of white splashes along the line of sight brought war-like roars from the gun-decks.

The wheel spun and, sluggishly, Tenacious traced her bowsprit back on target, and past. She steadied for a moment, and her opposite broadside thundered out across the calm seas. Again the gun-smoke, the close scatter of splashes—then the enemy's miz-zen topmast fell in a graceful curve.

"Please, God . . ." breathed Adams. It was by no means a decisive hit, but the complete absence of square sail on the mizzen might be enough to hamper the vessel, allowing them to close and engage.

Activity died down as every man stared forward, willing the chase to falter, but it was not to be. Sacrificing his wounded topmast, trailing in the water alongside, the French ship ruthlessly cut it loose and continued on as before.

"O' course, she won't grieve over the topmast," Kydd said, glumly. "Going large, she c'n balance by tricing up the clew o' the mains'l one side. She knows all she has t' do is carry on and she'll lose us."

"That may be so," Adams said, "but what happens when she wants to go by the wind? Close-hauled she'd be a cripple."

"And why would she do that?" Bampton's acid comment from behind was nearly lost in a general growl of dismay at the sudden crump of gunfire and smoke issuing out from their quarry.

"She has stern-chasers," Adams remarked soberly. These guns, which could fire straight aft into a pursuer when there was no opportunity to return fire, would be a sore trial. At the next salvo Kydd heard the crack of the guns and, moments later, felt the slam of the passage of one ball over their heads. Several officers ducked automatically, then rose shamefacedly.

"Marines, go below. Stand the men down into the waist, Mr Bryant," Houghton ordered. Although these were only light six-pounders banging away, a hit would kill.

They kept up the chase for another twenty minutes, falling astern the whole while until the first lieutenant approached the captain. "There's no profit in this, sir—we shall have to give him best, I fear."

Houghton glared at him. "Damned if I will! Observe—he cannot run to leeward for ever. On this course he stands to meet the Nantucket shoals off Cape Cod before long. He must choose then between hauling his wind and going east about the Cape to slip into the Gulf o' Maine, or an easier passage west but directly into United States waters.

"I want to box him into the coast. Therefore I shall desire Lynx to lie to his starb'd and persuade him that this is his better course." The little sloop would thus stand between the enemy and a refuge in the wider reaches of the Gulf of Maine—but it would be a foolhardy move for the French captain to take on the little ship knowing that just one lucky hit from any of the sloop's sixteen six-pounders could deliver her straight into the clutches of the waiting bigger ship.

"Aye, sir."

Houghton smiled for the first time. "And when he has to bear away, he's under our lee and then we'll have him . . ."

In the early afternoon, the enemy was far ahead but, with Lynx faithfully to her starboard, the master was satisfied that they were irrevocably within the hook of the shoals, cutting off her escape to the east. "Tides o' five knots or more around 'em. Steep too, so sounding won't answer and if fog comes, it's all up with the ship," he added, with feeling.

The wind dropped further until it was a ghosting calm, favouring the smaller vessel, which glided a little further and out of range before ceasing movement. The three ships lay becalmed in the grey dusk.

Kydd came on watch: the position of the chase the same. In the night hours there was a choice for their quarry—to attempt a repair by the light of bunched lanthorns, or not show any betraying light and hope to steal away in the night.

She chose the latter: were it not for the quick-witted commander of Lynx she might have succeeded. As darkness closed in, the little sloop rigged a makeshift beacon for Tenacious of a cluster of lanthorns in a box beaming their light secretly in one direction only.

Through the night Lynx stayed faithfully with the enemy, her beacon trained; Tenacious lay back in the blackness. When the wind came up some time after midnight and the privateer captain made his move, Houghton knew all about it.

Coming round to the west, the Frenchman clearly wanted to put distance between him and his tormentor before he struck for the open sea, but dawn's grey light showed her the flat nondescript coast of an outlying island of New England to the northeast and two men-o'-war of the Royal Navy to seaward.

Houghton was on deck to greet the dawn, sniffing the wind's direction. "We have him!" he said, with relish. "He can't show much sail forrard with this wind abeam and no square sail aft— we can try for a conclusion before noon, I believe." He looked at the group on the quarterdeck with satisfaction. "It will be a good day's work for all today."

Tenacious bore down, guns run out. With land to leeward and two English ships to weather, the Frenchman's only course was west, the wind veering more southerly. To maintain a reasonable westerly course it was necessary to balance fore and aft sail: with no mizzen topsail the logical thing was to reduce sail forward to compensate and accept a loss of speed.

However, from her cro'jack yard canvas appeared. It was not a sail-bearing spar but the French had lashed a sail along its length, loosed it and secured its clews. They had a drawing square sail aft. Kydd shook his head in admiration; admittedly the "sail" blanketed the poop, silencing the chase guns, but she could keep ahead of her pursuers.

"I'm not concerned," said Houghton, in tones that suggested he was. "There's Long Island Sound ahead—he has to go about or he'll be trapped, so it's there we'll have Lynx waiting."

Kydd's first sight of the United States, therefore, was the nondescript sandy scrubland of Block Island ahead, then the low, forested New England coast to the north.

"Sir, I must point out that these are American waters." There was no response to Adams's concern, Houghton keeping his gaze on the fleeing ship ahead. "They're well known to be jealous of their sovereignty, sir—"

"I know that, damn your blood!" Houghton said. But the Frenchman showed no signs whatsoever of putting down her helm and proceeded to pass Block Island, entering the closed length of Long Island Sound.

"They're mad! They've no way out—what do they—"

"Mr Hambly! Quickly! What's the distance across the widest entrance to the sound?"

"Er, to nor'ard—that's betwixt Matunuck and Sandy Point on th' island—and it's . . . seven miles."

"We can do it. North about it is, Mr Hambly. Have a care you stay exactly mid-channel—the Americans claim one league from the low-water mark, which by my reckoning leaves just a mile breadth for our peaceful passage."

"Aye aye, sir," said Hambly, eyeing the Frenchman, who seemed to have no notion of such niceties.

Leaving Block Island to larboard, Tenacious entered the capacious arm of the sea; there could be no escape now—with both English ships to windward and able to close with the Frenchman if he turned back, it was only a matter of waiting.

"He's wasting time," snorted Houghton, impatient.

"Sir, recollect: the French have been friends to the Americans since their support for them in the late war." Renzi had come up from the gun-deck in curiosity.

Bryant sneered: "Pah! Nonsense! They've seen how the French conduct revolutions and want no part of such roguery."

"Then what is the meaning of his motions now?" Renzi answered quietly. The privateer had run up a huge tricolour, which streamed out to leeward and barely two miles ahead, and boldly put up his helm to pass through the mile-wide entrance to an inner expanse of water.

"One league, sir."

"Yes, yes, I had not forgotten." Houghton bit his lip as he eyed the scene. "Take a cast of the lead. I believe we will anchor. One league off shore precisely."

After one last look at the French privateer, just six miles away and, with calm impunity, preparing to berth in a tiny port, Kydd joined the others in the captain's cabin. Houghton was irascible. "Ideas?"

"Cut 'em out!" Bryant's growl was instant. "And be damned to any consequences. There's nought hereabouts but fisherfolk an' farmers—and the Americans have no navy at all that I've heard about."

"True," said Houghton, thoughtfully, "but I'll remind you that in law this must be construed as a combatant seeking refuge in a neutral port, and it would go ill with any who can be shown to violate it."

"And who's to know? Cloth over our name on the stern, boat's crews at night and you can't make 'em out—"

"I honour the ardency of your spirit, Mr Bryant, but I fear this would provoke extremely."

"Swimmers! Under cover o' dark, they go in with borers, sink the bugger where he lies—"

"Mr Bryant! I will not suffer such language! And, besides, they'll never pierce a copper-sheathed hull without fuss and noise."

The cabin fell quiet until Renzi spoke. "Under the assumption that the sympathies of the Americans must lie with the French, I rather feel they would not be over-nice in the laws applicable in cases of neutrality. We may find ourselves lying at anchor, waiting, for some considerable time. Therefore it would seem logical to sail away—with deep regrets, of course."

Bryant snorted but could find no riposte.

"And while we dally, the admiral is deprived of a major unit of his fleet, which is nominally under his orders . . ."

Houghton grunted. "Possibly, but consider—this privateer is big. Should we leave her to her foul plundering, she can take her pick of the largest prizes. We would certainly be held to account if we did not a thing."

"But if you are unable to effect a solution, by reasons of force majeure, your course is chosen for you. We must give up."

There was a lengthy pause. Then the captain said, "We have stores only for days. An extended voyage was not contemplated. I have no choice."

Bryant let out his breath like a punctured balloon. "To sail."

"Yes." The captain's voice was final. But then he added, "There is, however, one small chance."

"Sir?"

"I will send an officer ashore to parley with the Americans.

They can't object to that. Try to get 'em to see where their interests best lie, bit of law, that sort of thing. It's possible then that they'll throw the Frenchy out to where we'll be waiting for him."

"A long shot, if I may say so, sir." Pringle's languid voice came from the rear of the group of disconsolate officers. "Did you have anyone in mind?"

"That is a matter that exercises me. If I send my first lieutenant there will undoubtedly be a confrontation, which is devoutly to be avoided." Bryant's splutter was ignored. "Any officer of eminence will confer too much consequence on the affair with the local authorities, whoever they may be in these backwoods.

"I rather feel that the name of Lieutenant Kydd suggests itself."