Julian Stockwin - The Privateer's Revenge

Obediently Stirk moved the tiller and the boat headed in. Every sight, every sound that could not be instantly identified was a threat—betrayal and disaster could happen so quickly. The pale beach looked so exposed, a low, dark rock at the end offering the only cover.

The boat hissed to a standstill on the sand at the edge of the water and, taut with tension, the men went over the side, then splashed ashore—aware that the hard sand underfoot was the soil of the enemy. "T' me," Kydd whispered hoarsely, and hurried to the nearby rocks, searching for a sea-facing cove.

They scurried after him to the shelter, their boat and security already heading rapidly seawards. With the whites of eyes flashing about him, Kydd whispered, "No more'n half a mile across here, I've measured it wi' bearings. No lights as c'n be seen, should be all farmland. We come t' a beach th' other side, work our way as close as we need. Questions?"

"If'n we get cut off by a patrol . . ." Ambrose began.

"We don't let ourselves be," Kydd said. He raised his head cautiously above the line of granite. "Nothing. We move."

They crossed a straggling line of coarse grass into low dunes that soon gave way to firmer grassland, but it was now so dark that only gross shadows loomed ahead, not a light within a mile. Kydd struck out inland, the marines on either side, the midshipmen in a nervous crouch behind. The smell of cow pasture was rank after the purity of the sea air.

A stout stone wall materialised across their path with a suspiciously military-looking ditch beyond. They scrambled over and found muddy water at the bottom of the ditch before reaching, panting, the far side. Ahead the ground rose and the skyline could just be made out. Squarely athwart their track was the squat, low shape of a building.

"A sentry post," whispered Calloway, fearfully.

"Sergeant?"

Ambrose sucked in his breath. "Not as any might say . . ."

They waited for long minutes, seeing no signs of life, just hearing the breathy night air playing through the straggling grasses. Then Kydd said, in a hard whisper, "We can't wait all night. We go forward. When we get to the building, we listen." He moved quickly towards the silent shadow.

It was of rough stone but gave no other clue. They pressed up to its cold bulk, keeping an absolute quiet, their breathing seeming loud in the stillness. Nothing. "We go—"

The wooden squeal of a door shattered the silence. It was opening on the opposite side. Then came the clink and slither of—a harness? Sword scabbard? A military accoutrement?

"A marine at each end," hissed Kydd savagely. "Bayonets! Take him wi' cold steel if he turns th' corner."

Ambrose dispatched his men who silently took position, unseen in the inky blackness behind the wall. The random clinking sounded from one side, growing louder and more distinct, almost certainly the spurs of a cavalryman. The footfalls, however, seemed uncertain. Ambrose whispered cynically, "He's bin on the doings 'n' is goin' behind to take a piss."

The sounds drew nearer and nearer—and, in a desperate swing, a terrified young marine transfixed an indistinct figure with an audible meaty thump. The figure dropped, squealing and choking, the unmistakable clatter of a falling bucket like a thunderclap.

"It's—it's an ol' woman! I done an ol' lady!" The marine's cry of horror pierced the night. He dropped beside the frantically twisting shape on the ground, her terror-stricken frail cries turning to pathetic sobs.

Kydd swung on Ambrose. "Sergeant!" he ordered stonily.

The man hesitated only a moment, then crossed over, took the marine's musket and thrust the bayonet expertly; once, twice. There was a last despairing wail that ended in choking and—stillness.

"We got t' go back now," Calloway pleaded, and the other midshipman's wretched puking could be heard to one side. But there was only the serene caress of the night breeze abroad and Kydd turned on them. "On y'r feet," he said harshly. "This is only a farmhouse. We're going on."

Beyond the structure a rough-made access road gave them fast going to the main road to town, crossing in front of them. Halfway! If it were daylight they could probably see down into the harbour from the other side. As it was—

"Halte là—qui vive ?" In the dimness they had not noticed a foot sentry astride the road farther down. "Qui va là?" he called again, more forcefully.

Kydd whipped round: there was only low scrub nearby, pitiful cover. "Sergeant—"

But the sentry had yanked out a pistol and fired at them. Then, hefting his musket, he stood his ground.

"It's no good, sir," Ambrose whispered hastily. "He's stayin' because he knows there's others about." More voices could be heard on the night air.

Kydd stood still for a moment, then said savagely, "Back t' th' boat!"

They wheeled about, racing past the silent bulk of the farmhouse and to the ditch. As they clambered over the wall there was the sudden tap of a musket, then others, dismayingly close.

"Move!" Kydd bawled. There was no need now for quiet. They stumbled and rushed towards the sea, tripping and cursing in their frenzy.

Kydd stopped suddenly. "Where's the marines?" he panted. A double crack to his rear answered him. Ambrose was behind the wall delaying the troops closing in, two firing while two reloaded. It would hold for minutes at most.

Kydd and his men made the beach. The pale sands gave nothing away—there was no boat to be seen. The end must be very near, despite Ambrose's sacrifice. Kydd traced the line of the water's edge along the beach until his eyes watered.

The firing stopped, but then out on the dunes flanking them musket fire stabbed again—inland. The marines must still be doing their duty but it would not be long now.

At that moment a rocket, just half a cable offshore, soared up and burst in a bright sprinkle of stars. "A gun!" Kydd roared. "Any wi' a musket, fire it now!"

But, of course, there was none. In the inky darkness no sailor untrained in the art could possibly be relied on to reload a musket; the marines must do it by feel.

"There's no one?" Kydd pleaded.

"Sir! I have this," Andrews said shamefacedly, handing over a little folding pistol. He had taken it just in case, a foolish notion, but now . . .

"Priming powder?"

It was in a little silver flask. Kydd snatched it and sprinted to the nearest rock. He shook out a large pile and, holding the pistol lock close, stood clear and pulled the trigger. The powder caught in a bright flare, which died quickly but did the job.

"Come on!" Kydd yelled hoarsely. "For y'r lives!" He broke cover and ran to the water's edge. And there it was, their boat pulling strongly inshore, Stirk at the tiller. It grounded and Kydd stood in the waves, urging the others into it.

"We gotta leave now, sir!" Stirk pleaded. His crew were rotating the boat seaward for a fast withdrawal to the safety of the sea.

"Wait!"

All along the line of dunes the flash of muskets was increasing. Twice Kydd felt the whip of bullets close by. The boat was afloat and pointing out to sea, but he remained standing in the shallows with his hand on the gunwale.

Then there was a flurry of firing from up the beach and figures were staggering across the sand, one with another over his back. "Ambrose an' the marines!"

Willing hands helped them into the boat and, with frantic strokes, the little craft finally won the open sea.

Troubled and depressed, Renzi stood by the main shrouds, gazing out into the hostile darkness. The talk of a death-wish was nonsense, of course, but it pointed up the core of the difficulty: since losing Rosalynd, Kydd had turned hard and bitter, and no longer possessed the humanity that had informed his leadership before.