The Iberian Flame

Chapter 9

Plymouth was in its usual crowded bustle and Millbay was no exception, boats a-swim, the docks working, cargo and carts of all description hurrying in every direction. Along the waterfront the sailors’ taverns were alive with jollity.

A short distance up the hill was the grim face of the prison. It was all too easy to conjure the sight of those big double gates bursting open and a flood of men racing down the short distance to the ships.

He had to do something. Go to the authorities? With what? A carefully planned uprising in the prison would have to be kept concealed at all costs. If he went to them with his hypothetical tale of mass escape he’d be taken for a madman.

Kydd’s mind raced. If he was right, a ship nearby would be prepared for the break – and almost certainly Marceau would be getting himself aboard in readiness.

He had to find that vessel. In dismay, Kydd looked around at the vast body of shipping. It would be impossible for him to search every one. He needed help.

At a run he made for the nearest tavern, the Mermaid. Still in his comfortable country breeches and gaiters he threw open the door and bawled, ‘A Tyger! Any Tyger, ahoy – I need a Tyger!’

The noise fell away in astonishment then Brewster, a foretopman, pot in hand, called from the rear, ‘Aye, Cap’n – what can we do for ye?’

‘Where’s gunner’s mate Stirk take his noggin?’

‘Why, the China Gate, just along, sir.’ There was growing incredulity as it spread about who was asking. Several sailors got to their feet to see better as Kydd waved an acknowledgement and left hurriedly. Some spilled out into the street in curiosity.

The China Gate was an old but well-favoured establishment. It was no stranger to King’s men wanting to be away from the usual haunts in dock.

He found Stirk in the snug with Doud and Pinto. They looked up in bewilderment at seeing their captain before them. ‘Toby, can ye bear a fist?’ Kydd said breathlessly, unconsciously falling back into seaman’s lingo.

It took him just minutes to set out the situation and then, with a whoop, they hurried outside, quickly joined by others.

‘A ship o’ size, high in the water – no freighting but outward bound.’ Kydd was guessing but it was a reasonable assumption. ‘Probably a neutral.’

With a dozen or more men spreading out it wasn’t long before there was a brisk hail from Pinto, pointing at a barque, Marie Cristobal of Bremen. With no sign of handling cargo, not only was she sea-ready with sail bent onto the yards, but significantly her lines ashore had been singled up, boats in the water ready for hauling off.

And a lack of crew was telling: just one figure on her poop looking down in dismay. She could easily be crewed by the fleeing captives.

It fitted.

Kydd ran up the brow, Stirk close behind. ‘In the King’s name!’ he roared at the quaking ship-keeper, who rapidly stepped aside. ‘Get below, see if you can rouse up the Frenchy,’ he told Stirk.

‘The glory hole, begob!’

Kydd grinned. This was the hideaway most merchant ships possessed for valuable men they wanted hidden from the press. ‘Go to it, Toby.’

In minutes he’d returned with a struggling Marceau. ‘Scragged the bugger! An’ there’s a couple more we’ve caught with him as can wait.’

Marceau gave a sorrowful shrug but said nothing.

Kydd had his proof. He could give warning and be believed – but in his surge of satisfaction, an iron coolness intervened.

Millbay opened out directly into Plymouth Sound and the open sea. The obvious time to set sail was at the top of the tide, catching the full flow of the ebb. And that would be in a very short while, at a little after three – in less than fifteen minutes.

There would have to be a meticulously prepared form of revolt of all the Preussens at the same instant, timed to happen at the turn of the tide. Therefore what better signal to rise up than the prison clock striking the hour nearest this?

It had to be.

Kydd snatched out his fob watch – bare minutes to go.

It would be no good warning the prison – that would tip off the plotters and trigger the uprising. The nearest military were the Royal Marines in Stonehouse barracks, a good half an hour away. To get to them, turn out a fair-sized detachment and march them back would take more than an hour, far too late. The Citadel, the main garrison fort? But that was on the other side of Plymouth Hoe, even further.

Only one thing could stop the break and Kydd didn’t hold back. ‘Toby, we put blockade on the chokey until we get help. Rouse out every hand from the taphouses to muster at the prison gate. Those who come I’ll square up with a good fist o’ stingo afterwards.’

With roars of good humour the taverns began clearing of seamen, who converged on the prison gate carrying improvised weapons – lumps of wood, chair legs, fire pokers.

At the massive black gates they stopped, spreading out as more and more arrived, fifty, a hundred, two hundred.

Above, in the walkway of the clock tower, a sentry gaped down at the throng. As he did so the clock struck three – and almost immediately he was snatched out of sight.

‘Stand by!’ Kydd hissed.

From inside there were scuffles, shouts and a single shot.

The gates swung wide and a flood of prisoners raced out impatiently.

They were met with a vast roar from the King’s men, who fell on them with a will. Swinging their weapons gleefully in an unholy scrimmage, they were soon driving them back inside.

‘Hold the gate!’ Kydd bellowed.

They’d won – and a little later came the sound of marching feet as the Royal Marines swung into view, responding to a hasty note Kydd had sent when he’d apprehended Marceau.