Julian Stockwin - Kydd

“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.”