The Privateer's Revenge Read online

  It was time for the final act. “Send in th’ boys,” he called to the door. Instantly the room was filled with an urgent press of youngsters eager to ship out in the Witch of Sarnia, the talk of the town.

  One fought to the fore and stood proudly and expectantly before him. Kydd’s heart fell at the sight of Pookie Turner. “No, it won’t do,” he said sadly. “It’s an ocean voyage an’ I can’t—”

  The young face set. “Cap’n, y’ knows I—”

  “I can’t, an’ ye knows why.” Kydd looked pointedly at the eager boy behind.

  At the end of the day Kydd sat back, satisfied. These were a dissimilar breed of men to the coastal privateers of his previous experience: tough, competent and professional, deep-sea sailors of one mind—the ruthless pursuit of prey and profit. This alone would make it an altogether different experience. All he had to do was put them in the way of what they desired and they would follow him.

  “You’re a black-hearted villain!” Rosie taunted him, hearing of Pookie’s attempt to sign on. “Can’t you understand? She wants adventure and excitement before the mast, Captain, just like you do. Shame on you!”

  “Rosie, I’m never before th’ mast in Witch, and I’ll have y’ know this is an ocean voyage wi’ a crew o’ right cut-throats as any I’ve seen. It’s not right an’ proper f’r a young—”

  “Y’ have ship’s boys to do men’s work, so if Pookie wants to be a boy why can’t she be? Make her y’ cabin-boy to keep her under eye if you have to, but I don’t think she’ll need any o’ your protectin’.” Kydd thought wryly of her prowess over the other boys with her fists, while Rosie went on warmly, “Besides, if you don’t take her, she’ll be back on the streets up to her old tricks. And don’t forget her share of the booty. Won’t this help her poor mama?”

  “It’s too late betimes, Rosie. I’ve closed books an’ we sail on th’ tide tomorrow forenoon. She’s a game ’un, she’ll find something else,” he added lamely.

  It was a day of autumn overcast, with a brisk wind that fluttered dresses and tugged at hats as Witch of Sarnia made ready for sea. A crowd had come to see the smart privateer that was reputedly making a daring foray into the Atlantic Ocean on which much Guernsey money was riding.

  They lined the quay, gentlemen and ladies, quantities of curious wharf-loafers and the odd redcoat soldier with his woman. Robidou appeared and pushed through the crowd, waving what seemed to be a book. “Just been published,” he shouted against the excitement, passing it to Kydd. “Someone gave it me f’r interest— but I think ye should have it.”

  Kydd yelled back his thanks, but there would be precious little time for books. “Stand by for’ard!” he bawled. As they began to single up the lines his eye was caught by a lone figure standing apart from the others.

  With a grin he recognised Pookie who, no doubt, had come down hoping for a last-minute change of heart—so, with an exaggerated beckoning, the Witch of Sarnia’s crew was complete. The delighted youngster threw a small bundle aboard, grabbed a rope, twirled round and landed lightly on the deck with a huge smile.

  Departure was easy enough in the southerly; sail mounted quickly as lines were let go and hauled in, and water opened up between ship and quay. With Cheslyn by Kydd’s side in well-worn sea gear, hard men efficiently handing along tackle falls, and overhead the crack and slap of a topsail spreading along its boom, the schooner made for the twin piers at the entrance.

  A knot of spectators on the very end waved gaily, and as they passed close on their way to the open sea the group broke into whooping and shouts. A firework whizzed skywards and another followed. Kydd was touched: his theatrical friends were not allowing him to seek his fortune on the vasty deep without due ceremony. He waved back energetically, which would have produced expressions of horror on Teazer’s quarterdeck. “Kind in ’em to see us on our way,” he murmured to Cheslyn, who had looked at him askance but Kydd, feeling the Witch heel as she took the wind at the harbour entrance eagerly seeking the freedom of the open sea, was letting nothing spoil his happiness of the moment.

  They passed between the vessels anchored in the Great Road, each with decks lined with interested sailors watching the privateer head out—Kydd knew that the Witch’s fine lines would be attracting admiration while her sleek and deadly black form would leave no doubt as to her mission.

  Through the Little Russel and leaving the shelter of Herm they met long seas—combers urged up on the lengthy swell by a brisk westerly from the deep Atlantic. Kydd and Robidou had taken the Witch out earlier with a skeleton crew to try her mettle, and with one or two changes to the set of her sails he was satisfied and confident in her sea-keeping.

  He had discovered that Witch of Sarnia had completed only one voyage previously, and that a poor one under an over-cautious captain, but he would take full advantage of her qualities—he would have to if she was to have any chance of closing quickly with a prey. His crew were hard-bitten enough, but would they follow into the teeth of a larger crew intent on repelling boarders as he knew a man-o’-war’s men would? Could he—

  “Saaail!” The cry came at the sudden emergence of a sizeable ship from beyond the point—and directly athwart their path. It took no more than a heartbeat to realise that the noble lines belonged to HMS Teazer . Kydd guessed that Standish had been waiting for him: hearing of Kydd’s Atlantic mission he had positioned himself ready for where he must come and was up to some sort of mischief.

  “Ye’ll ’ware she’s a King’s ship,” Cheslyn muttered pointedly.

  “Aye,” said Kydd, evenly, watching as Teazer laid her course to intercept them. He was in no mood for Standish’s posturing and gave orders that had Witch wheeling about and heading away downwind, mounting the backs of the combers before falling into the trough following in a series of uncomfortable sliding and jerks.

  “What d’ ye do that for?” Cheslyn spluttered. “He’s a brig, an’ we can point higher, b’ gob!” It was true—the schooner had had every chance of slipping past by clawing closer to the wind but Kydd had seen something . . .

  “An’ what does this’n mean?” Cheslyn growled. “As if ye’re of a mind t’—”

  “I’d thank ye t’ keep a civil tongue in y’ head,” retorted Kydd, carefully sighting ahead. If this was going to work he would need everything he had learned of the frightful rocks about them.

  “Be damned! Ye’re losin’ y’ westin’ by th’ hour—this ain’t how to—”

  Kydd turned and smiled cynically: beyond Teazer was another, Harpy, summoned by the signal flags he had spotted, so obviously in place to swoop if they had tried to slip by.

  Cheslyn had the grace to redden, and kept quiet as Kydd made his estimations. Astern, the two brig-sloops were streaming along in grand style, shaking out yet more sail with the wind directly behind them. The fore-and-aft rig advantage of the Witch, however, was now lost to him, and with the brigs’ far greater sail area spread to the wind the end seemed inevitable.

  Along the deck worried faces turned aft: if Standish had the press warrants, in a short time any not native-born could find himself immured in a King’s ship for years.

  Ahead was a roil of white, which was the half-tide reef of the Platte Fougère; Kydd stood quietly, watching it carefully, his eye straying back to the two warships, willing them on. Then, at the right moment, he rapped, “Down helm—sheet in hard!”

  Pitching deeply the Witch came slewing round to larboard, men scrabbling for purchase with bare feet as they won the sheets in a furious overhand haul. The schooner took up immediately at right angles to her previous course, now broadside to wind and waves in a dizzying roll—but she was passing the reef to its leeward.

  Kydd grinned: he knew Teazer’s limits and there was no way she could brace round as quickly when she cleared the reef. Watching her thrashing along dead astern Kydd decided it was time to end the charade. Eyeing the jagged black islets of the Grandes Brayes farther on the bow he sniffed the wind for its precise direction. “St
and by t’ go about, Mr Cheslyn.” This time there was no argument and the man stumped off, bellowing his orders.

  Kydd thanked his stars for an experienced crew: what he was contemplating was not for the faint of heart. Rapidly assuring himself once again of the exact relative position of the islets, reef and the wind’s eye, he gave the order to go about.

  Witch of Sarnia did not hesitate. She pirouetted to the other tack and took up quickly, passing into the few-hundred-yards-wide channel between reef and islets—and thrashing into the teeth of the wind where no square-rigger could go.

  With a pang for his old command, Kydd saw Teazer left far astern as the Witch energetically made the north tip of Guernsey and round. It was done. They had won the open Atlantic and the rest was up to him.

  The low lines of the privateer meant exhilarating going, but there was a price to pay: very soon Kydd found his new command was going to be a wet ship, knifing through the waves instead of soaring over them; with every second or third roller the decks were thoroughly sluiced.

  But the Witch lived up to her name. It was remarkable how close she held to the wind and her square sail aloft gave added impetus and, at the same time, a degree of manoeuvrability that required fewer men for the same tasks than a sloop.

  The vessel type had originated in England, but it was the Americans who had termed it a schooner and taken it as their own, adding special features. From his time on the North American station Kydd recognised the deeply roached topsail that allowed it to clear the rigging; the lead of the schooner stay that was like a shroud moved forward, easing pressure on the foremast to spread an expansive fore staysail.

  Engrossed in becoming acquainted with his lady he failed at first to notice Cheslyn next to him.

  “Goes like a witch, don’t ye think?” he offered, but the man’s features remained stony, and an expressionless Le Cocq stood with him.

  “This time o’ year, after th’ equinoctials, gets chancy,” the big man said cautiously. “B’sides, the glass is still droppin’.”

  Kydd looked at him in surprise. “Why, if I didn’t know th’ better, I’d have t’ say m’ first l’tenant’s gone qualmish!”

  Cheslyn reddened. “The Witch ain’t built f’r heavy weather. An’ that there’s no lady’s puff.” He gestured at the low-lying dark-grey cloud masses across their path.

  “A squall or two, I’ll grant ye, but this is only y’ regular-goin’

  Western Ocean blash!” Kydd had seen the Atlantic at its worst and this was no threat at the moment. “I’m t’ raise Flores in five days, Mr Cheslyn, do y’ like it or no.” If the wind stayed steady from the west they could do this even earlier in one slant to the south-south-west and then they would be at their cruising ground.

  He turned and left for his cabin, the prospect of rest suddenly enticing. He closed the door firmly; it was not a big cabin—a high bunk over drawers on one side, a working desk with lamp the other and a neat dining-table at the after end. Mercifully there was a skylight above, with a compass repeat farther forward. He ripped off his spray-soaked coat and boots, let them drop carelessly, heaved himself into his bunk and closed his eyes.

  The Witch was close-hauled and had an angle of heel that could be alarming on first meeting but he wedged himself in familiarly and let the sounds of the sea wash past him. Reaching ever westwards into the vastness of the Atlantic involved an endless repetition of a sudden crunch from the bows followed by a defiant rapid upwards lift, then an eager long glide downward and forward, the hiss of their way quite audible through the hull.

  Weariness laid its hand on him and thoughts crowded in, but one in particular would not let go. Unless he succeeded, this was going to be the very last voyage he would make as a captain. Neither the Navy nor others would ever offer him employment again.

  A double wave thumped the bows and the schooner lost her stride with an affronted wiggle, which dislodged Robidou’s book in the bedside rack. It fell into his bunk. Kydd sat up and opened the little volume. Thomas Hartwell Horne. A Compendium . He leafed through. It was an exposition in clear English of the Prize Law of 1793 in the form of a handbook of guidance to privateers and ships-of-war, and it had been published by Clarke of Portugal Street this very year.

  One stout passage caught his eye: “Lawful force may be used to enforce a boarding, it being assumed a vessel cannot be proved innocent otherwise. Contumacious resistance to fair inquiry is evidence of guilt in law, to be followed by just confiscation.”

  So, if any objected to his boarding, whatever the circumstances, he had the whole force of the law at his back. And whatever else there was in this little treasure . . .

  As he addressed himself to the task of teasing out the practical meanings of the legal rules he barely noticed a tiny knock at the door. It was repeated unsteadily.

  “Come!” he called loudly.

  It was Pookie, gamely passing hand to hand in the lively motion with a small cloth bundle. “S-sir, Mr Purvis says as how th’ fire ain’t lit but wonders if this’n will do.” It was cuts of cold meat, cheese and bread.

  “It’ll do fine, younker.” The little figure had a pale face and Kydd felt for the effort it must have cost to come below where there was no horizon to steady senses thrown awry by the relentless heave and jerking. “No—leave that, I’ll do it,” he protested, when his carelessly cast aside wet gear was painfully but tidily stowed in the side-locker. “Compliments t’ th’ officer o’ th’ deck,” he added, “an’ because ye have the youngest eyes in th’ ship ye’re t’ be lookout. F’r prizes, o’ course.”

  The child looked up gratefully and scuttled out.

  Kydd resumed his book, munching hungrily on the cold victuals, but he soon noticed a definite change in the rhythm of the vessel, a sulky twist after each lift. He frowned and glanced up at the compass repeat.

  North-west? Be damned to it! He slipped out of his bunk, grabbed his grego and made the upper deck. “Mr Cheslyn? What’s th’ meaning of—”

  “I’ve taken in reefs an’ we’re headin’ f’r shelter in Falmouth,” he said truculently, against the bluster of the wind.

  “Ye’ve abandoned course!” Kydd burst out in amazement. “An’ without s’ much as a by-y’-leave?” It was a near treasonable of-fence in the Navy.

  “Take a look f’r y’self!” Cheslyn said, heated, pointing at the layer of darkness near the horizon ahead.

  Kydd caught his anger. “An’ what’s the barometer say?” he asked dangerously.

  “A bare twenty-nine—an’ losin’ fast.”

  Without a word Kydd crossed to the hatchway, then to the saloon where a neat Fortin barometer hung on gimbals. He looked closely: as he suspected the fiducial point had not been set—the vernier would not read reliably without a true datum. He tapped the mercury column carefully and adjusted the levelling screw, then saw the reading was closer to twenty-nine and a quarter inches, a figure not out of place in a southern English autumn.

  Snorting with contempt, he resumed the deck. Behind Cheslyn the stocky figure of Le Cocq was flanked by Gostling and the boatswain, Rosco, hovered uncomfortably. No one spoke.

  “Who has th’ deck?” Kydd said loudly, knowing full well who it was.

  “Me,” snapped Cheslyn.

  “Get back on course west b’ north,” Kydd said coldly, “an’ we’ll douse th’ fore staysail I think.”

  “We reckon it’s goin’ t’ be evil doin’s afore long, an’ we—” “We?”

  “As every sailor knows, a westerly in th’ fall ain’t t’ be trusted. An’ with th’ barometer—”

  “At twenty-nine and a quarter? What lubber can’t do a correction?” Kydd said scornfully. “I’ve crossed th’ Western Ocean enough times an’ I know what I see—what ye have ahead is a parcel o’ black squalls only, nothing t’ fret upon.”

  It was worrying that Cheslyn, a reputed North Atlantic mariner, was having trouble with this weather—until Kydd realised he might have other more mercenary reasons for a quick
visit to Falmouth. “Bear up, there,” he commanded the helmsman. “Course, west b’ north.”

  The others flicked anxious glances at Cheslyn, and Kydd wondered darkly what tales of sea-woe he had been spinning to them. “This I’ll do,” he said. “Should th’ glass fall below twenty-nine before dark I’ll put about f’r Falmouth.”

  It was not much of a concession—if it fell so quickly he would flee in any event—but he was confident in his reading of the sea and felt it unlikely. But he missed having a sailing-master to fall back on for advice and the comfort of such wisdom at his side. He was on his own and would have to stand by his decisions.

  Just as dusk was closing in, the first line-squalls arrived. As he suspected, they were short-lived but with disconcerting venom, short periods of screaming and droning in the rigging, and bucking in the canvas. Kydd knew that, behind, a series of black squalls was marching in from windward with an abrupt drop in temperature and the wind veering sharply in their wake.

  He was determined to press on. The Witch of Sarnia was well found, nearly new, and her gear could be trusted. It would be uncomfortable and daunting to some but they would do it. But once deep into the ocean, what if a real Atlantic howler coming out of the unknown fell upon them?

  A black squall, heavy with stinging rain, blustered over them; the keening winds that followed brought a shock of raw cold as they bullied at watch-coats and oilskins. Kydd sent below those he could, but realised this might not have been a mercy to any still finding their sea-legs; in the fitful conditions the schooner was skit-tish and unpredictable in her movements.

  The seas, however, were constant from the west, long combers, white-streaked down their backs and as powerful as bulls, coming at them ceaselessly. Kydd ticked off the seconds between cresting: if the time had increased, the swell was lengthening, a sure sign of weather to windward.

  Another squall; in square rig, with these backing and veering winds, there would be heavy work in the bracing of yards and at the tacks of so many more sails, but in the Witch, with but two main sails, it was so much less.