Julian Stockwin - The Privateer's Revenge

"Aye. I see that."

"West of the Azores is a famous place for deep-water privateering, Mr Kydd. Those of an age will recall Talbot of the Prince Frederick in those waters taking two Spanish in fine style. From Bristol to London the bullion took forty-five armed wagons to send it safely to the Tower of London."

"Well . . ."

"Can I expect your proposal?"

Kydd beamed. "Aye, ye can, Mr Job."

He needed a brisk walk along the foreshore to regain his equilibrium while he contemplated the sudden change in his prospects. He had another chance—could he make a success of it? There was rich trade coming in from the Atlantic, but the French were canny and made much use of neutral bottoms. Their allies were largely driven from the seas as well, while the other ships plying the trade routes would be sure to have a vexatious quantity of protective documents. The fabulous Spanish treasure ships were off-limits with the peace still holding, and while there were multitudes of ships afloat, there were millions of square miles of open sea.

But an ocean cruise was a different game altogether from his earlier foray into privateering: a single fat Caribbean trader in sugar could repay their outlay many times over. Two could make him rich. Or none could—He cut short his doubts: this was an opportunity he would take with both hands, all or nothing. However, the proposal needed expertise he did not have, finely judged costing arguments that he would later have to live with.

"Mr Kydd!" Robidou grunted in astonishment. "What can I do for ye? If it's about y'r settlement then I'll tell you—"

"No, Mr Robidou. It's about what I can do f'r you." Kydd knew his man and got to the point. Straight talking, no tacking and veering, simply that if he was given assistance with a proposal he would see to it that Robidou was appointed armateur for the venture.

The name of Zephaniah Job was sufficient to get him a fair hearing and Kydd found himself back in the Three Crowns tavern. He ransacked Robidou's experience: the best area for serious cruising was indeed beyond the Azores—close enough to be at a reasonable sailing distance and far enough that receiving convoys and their escorts would not have formed up. There was stirring talk of cargoes: sugar, coffee, cotton inbound—and outbound exotics like mercury destined for the mines, luxury items for the colonies, bullion. And their chances. French, Batavian, Ligurian, all for the taking, but ready for a fight and disinclined to heave-to at the order of one half their size.

The discussion turned to their ship. Kydd's instinct was for the manoeuvrability of square rig but with the high pointing of fore and aft. Both men agreed on the type of vessel that best fitted the description: a topsail schooner. Robidou knew of one, just laid up for the winter.

As soon as Kydd clapped eyes on the Witch of Sarnia he knew he had to have her. She had been designed and built on speculation as a privateer with a fine-lined hull that took no account of any need for cavernous cargo holds. Low and rakish, there was no mistaking her purpose, but an innocent approach would not be practical with wary deep-water merchantmen, and sailing qualities alone would decide the issue.

She was recently out of the water, propped at the top of the slip and Kydd walked slowly round her, taking in the tight seams, true curves and obviously new construction. This was a sound, well-built and altogether convincing craft as a privateer. His pulse quickened.

A rope-ladder hung over her neat stern and Kydd hauled himself aboard. With most of her gear stored and decks clear of ropes it was possible to take in her sweet lines, leading forward to a bowsprit fully half as long again as the main hull.

As she was bigger than Bien Heureuse his cabin was roomier— narrow, but longer. There were two cabins a side for officers and a pleasant saloon, which would later double as an examining place. Forward, a modest hold was followed by a magazine and store cabins, a galley well and finely contrived crew accommodation.

It was impressive, as unlike Bien Heureuse as it was possible to be, including limewood panelling below and herringbone decking above. Her hull was a wicked black, not from tarred sides but fine enamelling, and with a compelling urgency in her coppered underwater lines, the Witch gave an overwhelming impression of a thoroughbred predator.

Robidou looked pleased at Kydd's evident approval, but cautioned, "This'n is goin' t' be a pretty penny, Mr Kydd. I knows Janvrin and he's not a-goin' t' let this sweet thing go for a song."

The costing began. Although prepared for a bigger outlay than there had been with Bien Heureuse Kydd was shocked as the sum mounted and Robidou's eyebrows rose.

And because it was virtually certain that they would have to fight for their prey, there was the expensive question of armament. A warship had to be equipped to engage in any number of modes: ship-to-ship broadsides, a cutting out, repelling an aggressive boarding, a shore landing—but for Kydd there would be only one: the subduing of a larger ship followed by an unstoppable boarding. And, unlike in a man-o'-war, defensive fire was not required: if the tide turned against them, the slim-lined schooner's response would be to turn and flee, unworried by notions of honour that would have them stay to fight it out.

A gun-deck and rows of cannon were not in contemplation. Instead it would be close-quarter weapons. Swivel guns, a car-ronade or two capable of blasting a sheet of musketballs across the deck and, of course, cutlasses and a pistol for every boarder. Halfpikes and tomahawks were to be carried by some to intimidate, and among the cool-headed he would distribute grenadoes—two pounds of lethal iron ball packed with gunpowder and a lighted fusee to hurl on the opposing deck. And he could see how the topsail cro'jack could be made to do service with stink-pots, devices filled with evil-smelling combustibles . . . In all this the object was to spread fire and fear but without causing damage to a future prize.

Fitting out, manning, storing—without Robidou's head for figures it would have been impossible. More work on the inevitable fees, allowances and imposts, and suddenly it was finished. The proposal was made ready, checked and sent in.

An answer came back with startling promptness: a venture association was being convened immediately on the basis of their proposal and Mr Robidou would be invited to act as armateur. It was extraordinary and wonderful—Kydd was a captain once more.

His exhilaration, however, was tempered by the fact that this was going to be all or nothing: if he failed to deliver a prize he was most certainly finished everywhere.

The Witch of Sarnia was towed to Havelet Bay for fitting out and in the whirlwind of activity Kydd slept aboard and bore a hand himself on turning a deadeye here, stropping a block there. Then it became time to consider his ship's company. Robidou had good advice. "Should ye want t' have a tight crew as will keep loyalty, I'd find a right hard-horse mate an' trust him t' find his own men. They'll owe him, an' he'll owe you, so they'll fight th' barky like good 'uns."

"Ye have an idea o' who . . . ?"

As it happened, Robidou did: the lieutenant on his own last cruise as a privateer. One Henry Cheslyn.

They met at the boat slip; Robidou had been at some pains to prepare Kydd but the sight of the man took him aback. Cheslyn was powerfully built, with a massive leonine head and full beard, and had a deep-sea roll as he walked. Near twenty years Kydd's senior, he had closed, fierce features and flinty eyes in a sea-ruddy face.

"Mr Cheslyn," Kydd acknowledged. What could he say to one so much older and so much more experienced whom he expected to take his orders unquestioned?