Julian Stockwin - The Privateer's Revenge

They passed between the vessels anchored in the Great Road, each with decks lined with interested sailors watching the privateer head out—Kydd knew that the Witch's fine lines would be attracting admiration while her sleek and deadly black form would leave no doubt as to her mission.

Through the Little Russel and leaving the shelter of Herm they met long seas—combers urged up on the lengthy swell by a brisk westerly from the deep Atlantic. Kydd and Robidou had taken the Witch out earlier with a skeleton crew to try her mettle, and with one or two changes to the set of her sails he was satisfied and confident in her sea-keeping.

He had discovered that Witch of Sarnia had completed only one voyage previously, and that a poor one under an over-cautious captain, but he would take full advantage of her qualities—he would have to if she was to have any chance of closing quickly with a prey. His crew were hard-bitten enough, but would they follow into the teeth of a larger crew intent on repelling boarders as he knew a man-o'-war's men would? Could he—

"Saaail!" The cry came at the sudden emergence of a sizeable ship from beyond the point—and directly athwart their path. It took no more than a heartbeat to realise that the noble lines belonged to HMS Teazer. Kydd guessed that Standish had been waiting for him: hearing of Kydd's Atlantic mission he had positioned himself ready for where he must come and was up to some sort of mischief.

"Ye'll 'ware she's a King's ship," Cheslyn muttered pointedly.

"Aye," said Kydd, evenly, watching as Teazer laid her course to intercept them. He was in no mood for Standish's posturing and gave orders that had Witch wheeling about and heading away downwind, mounting the backs of the combers before falling into the trough following in a series of uncomfortable sliding and jerks.

"What d' ye do that for?" Cheslyn spluttered. "He's a brig, an' we can point higher, b' gob!" It was true—the schooner had had every chance of slipping past by clawing closer to the wind but Kydd had seen something . . .

"An' what does this'n mean?" Cheslyn growled. "As if ye're of a mind t'—"

"I'd thank ye t' keep a civil tongue in y' head," retorted Kydd, carefully sighting ahead. If this was going to work he would need everything he had learned of the frightful rocks about them.

"Be damned! Ye're losin' y' westin' by th' hour—this ain't how to—"

Kydd turned and smiled cynically: beyond Teazer was another, Harpy, summoned by the signal flags he had spotted, so obviously in place to swoop if they had tried to slip by.

Cheslyn had the grace to redden, and kept quiet as Kydd made his estimations. Astern, the two brig-sloops were streaming along in grand style, shaking out yet more sail with the wind directly behind them. The fore-and-aft rig advantage of the Witch, however, was now lost to him, and with the brigs' far greater sail area spread to the wind the end seemed inevitable.

Along the deck worried faces turned aft: if Standish had the press warrants, in a short time any not native-born could find himself immured in a King's ship for years.

Ahead was a roil of white, which was the half-tide reef of the Platte Fougère; Kydd stood quietly, watching it carefully, his eye straying back to the two warships, willing them on. Then, at the right moment, he rapped, "Down helm—sheet in hard!"

Pitching deeply the Witch came slewing round to larboard, men scrabbling for purchase with bare feet as they won the sheets in a furious overhand haul. The schooner took up immediately at right angles to her previous course, now broadside to wind and waves in a dizzying roll—but she was passing the reef to its leeward.

Kydd grinned: he knew "Teazer's limits and there was no way she could brace round as quickly when she cleared the reef. Watching her thrashing along dead astern Kydd decided it was time to end the charade. Eyeing the jagged black islets of the Grandes Brayes farther on the bow he sniffed the wind for its precise direction. "Stand by t' go about, Mr Cheslyn." This time there was no argument and the man stumped off, bellowing his orders.

Kydd thanked his stars for an experienced crew: what he was contemplating was not for the faint of heart. Rapidly assuring himself once again of the exact relative position of the islets, reef and the wind's eye, he gave the order to go about.

Witch of Sarnia did not hesitate. She pirouetted to the other tack and took up quickly, passing into the few-hundred-yards-wide channel between reef and islets—and thrashing into the teeth of the wind where no square-rigger could go.

With a pang for his old command, Kydd saw Teazer left far astern as the Witch energetically made the north tip of Guernsey and round. It was done. They had won the open Atlantic and the rest was up to him.

The low lines of the privateer meant exhilarating going, but there was a price to pay: very soon Kydd found his new command was going to be a wet ship, knifing through the waves instead of soaring over them; with every second or third roller the decks were thoroughly sluiced.

But the Witch lived up to her name. It was remarkable how close she held to the wind and her square sail aloft gave added impetus and, at the same time, a degree of manoeuvrability that required fewer men for the same tasks than a sloop.

The vessel type had originated in England, but it was the Americans who had termed it a schooner and taken it as their own, adding special features. From his time on the North American station Kydd recognised the deeply roached topsail that allowed it to clear the rigging; the lead of the schooner stay that was like a shroud moved forward, easing pressure on the foremast to spread an expansive fore staysail.

Engrossed in becoming acquainted with his lady he failed at first to notice Cheslyn next to him.

"Goes like a witch, don't ye think?" he offered, but the man's features remained stony, and an expressionless Le Cocq stood with him.

"This time o' year, after th' equinoctials, gets chancy," the big man said cautiously. "B'sides, the glass is still droppin'."

Kydd looked at him in surprise. "Why, if I didn't know th' better, I'd have t' say m' first l'tenant's gone qualmish!"

Cheslyn reddened. "The Witch ain't built f'r heavy weather. An' that there's no lady's puff." He gestured at the low-lying dark-grey cloud masses across their path.

"A squall or two, I'll grant ye, but this is only y' regular-goin'

Western Ocean blash!" Kydd had seen the Atlantic at its worst and this was no threat at the moment. "I'm t' raise Flores in five days, Mr Cheslyn, do y' like it or no." If the wind stayed steady from the west they could do this even earlier in one slant to the south-south-west and then they would be at their cruising ground.

He turned and left for his cabin, the prospect of rest suddenly enticing. He closed the door firmly; it was not a big cabin—a high bunk over drawers on one side, a working desk with lamp the other and a neat dining-table at the after end. Mercifully there was a skylight above, with a compass repeat farther forward. He ripped off his spray-soaked coat and boots, let them drop carelessly, heaved himself into his bunk and closed his eyes.

The Witch was close-hauled and had an angle of heel that could be alarming on first meeting but he wedged himself in familiarly and let the sounds of the sea wash past him. Reaching ever westwards into the vastness of the Atlantic involved an endless repetition of a sudden crunch from the bows followed by a defiant rapid upwards lift, then an eager long glide downward and forward, the hiss of their way quite audible through the hull.