Julian Stockwin - The Privateer's Revenge

The day wore on; it was clear that Cerberus had lost the race against the tide—she was now visibly at an angle and unnaturally still. And the significance would not be lost on the French. With such a prize within reach, there for the taking, it could now be only a matter of time.

Another hour. Now the frigate lay heeled over at a crazy angle, her guns either in the water or impotently skyward, her green-streaked copper bulking indecently, her men moving hand over hand along the decks, the ship a picture of helplessness.

When the attack did come it was cunningly mounted and rapidly carried out. Without warning a stream of other gunboats under oars issued out, one after another. In the light winds Teazer and Carteret were too late in closing with them, and with their car-ronades' short range could only blaze away in futile desperation as the shallow-draught gunboats swiftly made away against the wind for the north of the Videcocq rocks, where no British ship could follow.

It was a master-stroke. The gunboats were positioned such that their weapons could bear on the helpless frigate—only one long gun each, but these were full-size eighteen- or twenty-four-pounders. Together they would have the same weight of metal as the broadside of a frigate of equal size. And Cerberus could do nothing but endure until the inevitable capitulation.

The guns opened with slow and deliberate fire. The first shot sent up a plume of water just short, others joining to surround the frigate with a forest of splashes—and then, aim improving, dark holes appeared in the naked hull.

Renzi watched in alarm; Kydd's squadron had failed. In just a short while the admiral's flag must be lowered in abject surrender. Then, suddenly, his friend seemed to lose his reason. He wheeled his sloop about and sent her pell-mell at the harbour itself.

In the smoke and confusion of combat a miracle happened. The gunboats abandoned their prey and retreated inside the walls of the harbour, and when the tide returned Cerberus was duly refloated and was able to make off to safety.

But Kydd was not of a mind to communicate his motives to anyone . . .

CHAPTER 6

IT WAS GALLING IN THE EXTREME. Because of the gravity of the situation Renzi had overcome his scruples and resolved to warn Kydd of the ugly mood that was building, the savage opinions he had overheard and in charity forewarning him of worse to come. He had to make one last try to get through to Kydd. He entered the cabin after a polite knock and waited.

It was difficult to broach after Kydd's wild triumph, and Renzi controlled himself with effort. "If you only knew what coming to you like this is costing me in violation of my sensibilities—"

"Then you're free t' go. An' why you should come an' waste my time with y'r mess-deck catblash I can't think," Kydd threw over his shoulder, then resumed scratching away with his quill.

"May I know at least why we're at anchor here instead of Guernsey?"

The other vessels had retreated to the security of St Peter Port while they were again moored off Chausey Rocks, with a tired and fractious crew.

Kydd looked up, expressionless. "Since y' ask, I'm t' keep a distant watch on Granville f'r a few days t' see what they'll do." His features had aged so: no sign of animation, none of the interest in things round him, only this dull, blinkered obsession with duty.

"Do you not think it wise to apprise your ship's company of this? They've been sorely tested recently, I believe, and now to be robbed of their rest . . ." The heartless dismissal of the old lady's death as the fortune of war had upset many, and the ferocious solo altercation at the harbour mouth had others questioning Kydd's sanity.

"They'll do their duty," Kydd said shortly, and picked up his pen again.

Renzi drew breath sharply and blurted, "Good God above! The ship is falling apart around you and still you won't see! The men need leadership—someone they can trust, that they may look up to, believe in, not a grief-stricken machine who spouts nothing but duty and—"

Kydd's fist crashed on the table. "Rot you f'r a prating dog!" He shot to his feet. "Who are you t' tell me about leading men?" he said. "As we c'n all see, you've left th' world t' others an' taken refuge in y'r precious books."

Cold with fury, Renzi bit out, "Then, as it's clear you no longer value my services or my friendship, I shall be leaving the ship in Guernsey. Good day to you, sir!" He stormed out, pushing past the boatswain who had been about to knock. Kydd stood, breathing rapidly and gazing after the vanished Renzi.

"Um, sir?" Purchet said uncertainly. "It's b' way of bein' urgent, like."

"What is it, then?" he said.

Purchet stepped inside, closing the door. "M' duty t' tell ye, sir," he mumbled, then stopped as if recollecting himself.

"Tell me what, Mr Purchet?" Kydd snapped.

The boatswain took a deep breath. "In m' best opinion, sir, the men are no longer reliable."

Kydd tensed. "Are ye telling me they're in mutiny, Mr Purchet?" Everything from this point forward, even an opinion or words spoken in haste, might well be next pronounced in the hostile confines of a court-martial.

"I cannot say that, sir."

"Then what?"

"They's a-whisperin', thinkin' as I can't hear 'em," he said gravely. The boatswain's cabin in the small sloop was as thin-walled as Renzi's. "I don't take mind on it, usually, but as it's s' bad . . ."

"Tell me, if y' please," Kydd prodded.

"Er, I have t' say it how I hears it," Purchet said.

"Go on."

"Well, one o' the hands has it as how you're out o' your wits wi' grievin' an' says as any doctor worth th' name would have ye out o' the ship. An' they thinks as how this makes ye not responsible, an' therefore it's not right fer them t' take y'r orders."

"An' the others?"

"Sir, they say how as t' prove it, they seen ye change, like, fr'm their cap'n in Plymouth t' a hard-horse Tartar who doesn't hear 'em any more—them sayin' it, o' course," he added hastily. "They seen ye at Granville, th' last fight, an' say that if ye're careless o' your own life, what's theirs worth?"

Kydd waited, his face stony. "Anything else?"

"Why, sir, this afternoon, when young Jacko said them things y' heard, most would say he'd had his grog an' was talkin' wry, like, no need t' seize 'im in irons like that. An' they're a-feared what ye'll do when he comes up afore ye tomorrow."

"And this's y'r mutiny?"

"There's a gallows deal more, sir, as it's not fit f'r ye t' hear." He looked at Kydd defiantly. "I bin in a mutiny once, an' knows the signs. All it wants is f'r one chuckle-headed ninny t' set 'em off wi' hot words, an' then—"

"Thank 'ee, Mr Purchet. Y' did th' right thing," Kydd said formally.

The boatswain shifted awkwardly and mumbled, "Jus' wanted t' warn ye, like."

As had Renzi.

"I'll—I'll think on it," was all Kydd could manage.

"Then I'll be away for'ard," Purchet said, with quiet dignity.

Kydd sat down slowly, cold with shock. Since he had first won command those few years ago in Malta, he had taken satisfaction that his origins before the mast gave him a particular insight into the thinking of his men, but now—a mutiny?

Deep down he knew the reason and it was the one he feared most.

To be brutally honest with himself, he would have to admit that he was confronting personal failure. His seizing on duty as the answer to his pain, a sure and trustworthy lifeline out of the pit of despair that he had grasped so eagerly; this had secured its object, the continuance of his professional functioning, but at grievous cost. By degrees it had changed him, become the master of his soul and now ruled his every action, turning him into a hard-hearted, blinkered automaton.