Julian Stockwin - The Privateer's Revenge

Kydd leaped to his feet and ran back the way he had come, the goatherd still mesmerised by his antics. His eyes sought out the boat—and his heart nearly stopped. It was still there but the little figure was surrounded by others. Faint shouts eddied up from the beach.

He ran down the sand, yelling hoarsely; at least they were not in uniform. While their cries were no French that Kydd could understand, their meaning was plain. The little soul they were shouting at held the boat firmly with one hand and was keeping them at bay with a ridiculously large pistol in the other.

Kydd thrust past, set the boat a-swim, turned it into the waves and scrambled in to take the oars. "Get in, y' rascal," he panted, "an', f'r God's sake, be careful wi' the pistol."

The child struggled over the gunwales and sat forward as Kydd pulled hard out to sea. "Didn't matter nohow, it were empty. No one'll teach me how t' load it. Will you, Mr Kydd?"

"Now, look, Pookie," Kydd panted, "I thank ye f'r th' service but if'n ye—"

They came up with Bien Heureuse and were pulled alongside. While he clambered aboard Kydd called to Rowan, "He's waiting for us, sure enough." At the other's grave expression he laughed.

"So we'll disappoint. Cut th' cable an' run t' th' west."

Ready facing the right way, sail was loosed and, wind and tide with them, Bien Heureuse began to shoot through the tortuous channel to the open Atlantic. Nearly overcome with relief Kydd blurted out, unthinking, "An' see Turner here gets a double tot."

The go-between with the conspirators in Paris arrived to meet d'Auvergne late that night. "Le Vicomte Robert d'Aché, this is Mr Renzi, my most trusted confidant." The man was slightly built, with shrewd, cynical features.

With a polite smile, d'Auvergne went on, "Le vicomte is anxious that the shipment of arms is brought forward. How does it proceed, Renzi?"

"The transport from England is delayed by foul winds," Renzi said smoothly, sensing the real reason for the question was to reassure d'Aché. "I'm sanguine that it shall be with us within the week, sir. Four hundred Tower muskets and one hundred thousand ball cartridge. We lack only the destination." Setting in motion the requisition had been an interminable grind but allegedly the arms were at sea; local arrangements must be made.

"La Planche Guillemette. Sign and countersign 'Le Prince de Galles'—'Le Roi Bourbon.'"

"Very well, sir. As soon as I have word . . ."

D'Auvergne smiled beatifically. "Excellent. Renzi, do escort le vicomte down to the privy stairs. His boat awaits him there."

Renzi attempted conversation on the way but tension radiated from a man well aware that he was about to re-enter Napoleonic France in circumstances that were the stuff of nightmares.

CHAPTER 13

FAR FROM SHOWING RESENTMENT at his handling of Tranter, who was keeping sullenly out of the way, the crew seemed to have settled. Kydd saw willing hands and respectful looks. He lost no time in setting them to boarding practice; it would be a humiliation, not to say a calamity, if they were to be repulsed through lack of discipline or skills.

He appointed Calloway master-at-arms in charge of practice, and for an hour or two the decks resounded to the clash and clatter of blades while the ship stretched ever westward along a desolate coast. Kydd's plan now was to put distance between him and Vicq, and at dawn be at the point where France ended its westward extent and turned sharply south into the Bay of Biscay. This should be a prime lurking place. All shipping from the south must turn the corner there—up from Spain and Portugal and even farther, from the Mediterranean and Africa, all converging on the Channel at the same point.

There were disadvantages, of course: not far south was Brest and therefore the British fleet on station. Few French would be willing to run the blockade and, coast-wise, traffic would be wary. But the pickings were better here than most.

Shortly after three that afternoon they were given their chance: as they lay Portsall Rocks abeam a ship passed into view from the grey haze on the starboard bow. It firmed to an unremarkable square-rigged vessel that held its course to pass them.

"A Balt!" Rowan said, with certainty. Bluff-bowed and rigged as a snow it certainly qualified but when Bien Heureuse threw out her colours as a signal to speak she held steady and hoisted the Spanish flag.

"A Baltic Spaniard?" Kydd grunted. "I think not." The vessel was near twice their size but its ponderous bulk, rolling along, would indicate neither a privateer nor a man-o'-war.

Calloway stood down his men and came aft. "Them's Spanish colours, Mr Kydd," he said.

"Aye, we know."

"Are ye going t' take him, sir?"

At first Kydd did not answer. This was so different from a war patrol in a King's ship when stopping a vessel with a row of guns at his back was so straightforward.

"Not so easy as that, lad," Kydd said, then came to a decision. "Bear down on him gently, Mr Rowan," he ordered, and the privateer leaned to the wind on a course to intercept. "Mr Calloway," he said gravely, "you're t' be a sea officer in time, an' I'll always remember it was a hard enough beat t' wind'd for me t' hoist aboard how we takes a prize. " Kydd glanced at the distant ship, still holding her track. "Let me give ye a course t' steer as will see y' through. There's only one thing we're after, an' that's evidence."

"Evidence?"

"Aye, m' friend. Even y' stoutest courage at the cannon's mouth an' the bravest o' boardings won't stand unless we has th' proof." He regarded Calloway seriously. "The richest ship we c'n take will never make us a prize 'less th' Admiralty Court says so, an' this they'll never do without we show 'em evidence as will convince th' judge t' condemn him as good prize."

"A—a judge, Mr Kydd? What's t' be th' crime?"

"An' we're talkin' international law now," Kydd went on, "as all nations agree on. Now here's the 'crime.' The one, if we bring evidence that he's an enemy o' the Crown. The other, if he's a neutral an' he's found a-tradin' with 'em."

"That's all, Mr Kydd?"

"That's all—but th' devil's in th' detail, m' lad."

"Er...?"

"Ye'll be findin' out soon, never fear."

The heavily built merchant ship seemed resigned to her fate, bracing aback her foreyards and slowing. Bien Heureuse went around her stern to take position off her weather side and Kydd cupped his hands. "Bring to f'r boarding, if y' please!" he hailed, across the short stretch of water.

He turned to Rowan. "I'll board, an' take Calloway as m' notary, with three hands t' rummage th' hold," he said. "Have a boardin' party standin' by t' send across if I hail." It was the usual arrangement when not expecting trouble.

Their boat was in the water smartly and Kydd eyed the vessel as they approached. His experience in boarding was extensive but almost all in the Mediterranean and overseas. Here the principles would be the same but the players different.

He had noted that the ship was the Asturias as they rounded her stern; her sides were worn but solid and she had the familiar sparse workaday reliability of a merchantman. A rope-ladder clattered down her sides; he mounted nimbly and swung over on to her upper deck.

"I'm Kydd, an' I hold th' Letter o' Marque of a private cruiser." He offered the paper to the grey-haired man he took to be the master. It was ignored.

"I'll ask ye t' submit to my examination, sir," he said evenly. The ship smelled of the Baltic: an undertone of pine resin and a certain dankness, which seemed to go with vessels from cold climes.

The man snapped orders at one of the men behind, then met Kydd's eyes coldly. "I vill, thenk you," he replied tightly, then added, "Pedersen, master." Yards were laid and sails doused to take the strain off the masts while the ship settled to wait, lifting uneasily on the slight swell.