Julian Stockwin - The Privateer's Revenge

Renzi's arm was seized and he was forced to one side. "Stay with me!" a woman's voice urged, as she propelled him across the glade into the woods and they plunged deeper into the wilder depths flying over bracken and fallen tree boles. Shots popped behind them and the squeal of horses pierced the night air.

Mercifully the terrifying sounds lessened and, panting uncontrollably, they stopped at the edge of a meadow, still and serene in the beginnings of a moonrise. Renzi was confused: they were certainly no closer to the sea but the drumming hoofbeats were going away. "My brother, he draws them from us," the woman said brokenly.

"He—he is a brave man," Renzi said, affected.

"Is his duty," she sobbed. "We must go."

The mad scramble resumed; Renzi, however, now saw that they were going in a wide sweep along the edge of the woods to reach the landing place. Everything depended on his endurance in overcoming pain and exhaustion.

But what if the privateer, hearing the shots and commotion, had considered that this was none of his business and left? Renzi could tell now that a body of dragoons had entered the wood on its far side, not far from where they were.

He stumbled on, aware of the woman's agonised breathing. Then the wan glitter of the sea showed through the trees and they reached the shore. "This way," she gasped, urging him to the left.

They rounded a small point of land—and there was a boat, ready afloat and bows to sea. Renzi's relief nearly overwhelmed him and it took his last ounce of strength to reach it. "You waited!" he panted wildly to Jacot.

The man looked puzzled. "Why, in course I wants th' other half o' me money, Mr Giramondo."

Almost spent with emotion Renzi urged the woman, "Quickly, into the boat!"

"No." She wept. "I stay with Henri."

"Get in." Jacot pulled Renzi aboard. "We has t' leave now, Mr Giramondo." When Renzi looked back, no one was there.

Kydd sent Gostling as prize-master of the Martinico-man; an English port was only several days' easy sail to leeward. The mood aboard was exultant but Kydd knew they had been lucky—the next could well be hard-fought and he insisted on serious practice with cutlass, pike and musket, a difficult task on a pitching deck.

Flores, the farthest flung of the Azores, was raised as planned, the distant blue-grey peak of Morro Alto reminding him of other times. Having arrived it would now be nothing but hard work; searching, waiting, lurking—Kydd had chosen the area because he knew that merchant masters, at this time of the year, from both the East Indies and the Caribbean, converged north of the island group to pick up the reliable south-westerly trade winds to speed them into Europe.

On the other hand, without fighting-tops his single lookout in their tiny crow's-nest on the foremast would have a height-of-eye of only some forty feet, say seven miles to the horizon. Any number of ships at that very moment were certain to be passing either side as they sailed, perhaps only a dozen miles or so away, perfectly hidden.

"Keep y'r eyes open there!" he roared up at the lookout. He had impressed on them time and again that a prize could appear from anywhere—ahead or just as easily approaching from the beam or even crossing astern.

The day ended quietly, and night saw them lasking along under easy sail. Soon after midnight the overcast cleared and a fat, gibbous moon rose. By morning the weather was near balmy with bright sunlight and a glittering sea.

So far south the temperatures were more than tolerable and Kydd was enjoying the utter contentment of flying-fish weather in a well-found craft, knowing that even if the rest of the voyage proved fruitless he had cleared the costs and, judging from Cheslyn's comments, probably produced some return into the bargain.

The ship fell into routine, far from naval in its details but as comprehensive as Kydd could make it in the circumstances, chief of which was practice with weapons.

In another four days they had reached the limits of their beat across the tracks of homeward-bound vessels and put about for the slant to the south-west. Unusually the weather calmed until they found themselves ghosting along in a glaring sea, a luminous band of white concealing where water met sky.

The sun grew higher and warmer. On the bow the mist burned off and there, revealed for all to see, was a ship. Incredulous yells broke out as its delicate image took form. They were sighted in turn, the vessel's masts coming together, then separating as it put down its helm and made off as fast as it could.

It had gone into a quartering run to allow its square sails to fill to best advantage and, in the light airs, the Witch was finding it a hard chase. No colours or any indication of origin was visible and the angle of the ship made identification impossible. Their own flag would be difficult to make out, end on as it would be.

As noon passed the situation changed: an afternoon breeze strengthened and the schooner picked up speed over the deep blue of the sea. Within an hour white horses were studding the seascape and, their prey encumbered with cargo, eventual success was assured.

"Larb'd side, do y' think, Mr Cheslyn?" Kydd said amiably. He had closed up his crew to quarters, the small gun-crews at the six-pounders, the rest flinting pistols and edging cutlasses—no martial thunder of drums or bravely waving pennons, simply hard-faced men making ready for a fight.

The anticlimax when it came was cruel. As they fore-reached on the sea-worn ship there was sudden activity among the few on her afterdeck and her topsail sheets were let fly as English colours soared up into her rigging.

Rosco recognised the ship. " Bristol Pride, or I'm a Dutchman. Trades wi' Nova Scotia an' the West Country in dried cod an' colonial goods. Reg'lar as clockwork an' this must be her last voyage o' th' season."

The Witch of Sarnia ranged alongside and the Canadian twang of the master floated over the water to confirm that they were indeed on passage from Halifax to Falmouth with such a freighting. Kydd waved and hailed back suitably, aware that the black schooner hissing along so close to them must make a handsome showing.

Nevertheless, this was no prey for the Witch. "Sheer off," he ordered the helm.

"Mr Kydd!" Calloway called urgently, racing up to him.

"Wha—?"

"There, sir!" He pointed vigorously below the Bristol Pride's bowsprit. The buckler, a blanking piece inserted in the hawse while at sea, had been knocked out and an arm was protruding from the hole, frantically jerking a white shirt.

After a split second's incomprehension Kydd bellowed, "Stand to!" at the boarders. "Mr Perchard, a shot afore his bow!"

But they had no stomach for a fight against the numbers that the Witch of Sarnia could muster and Kydd quickly found himself in delighted possession of a French prize of three days before. Her English crew, confined to the fo'c'sle, had found means to alert them and now the bilingual Québecois master and his prize-crew were themselves prisoners.

"Some happy sailors going home t' England," Calloway said mournfully, as they bade farewell to Bristol Pride, "but no prize f'r us, is she, Mr Kydd?"

"No prize," agreed Kydd, then broke into a fierce grin. "But for us there's th' salvage on recapture. One sixth o' th' entire value an' no questions asked."

This was a time for celebration—and relief—for Kydd had needed to demonstrate faith in himself before the investors and had commuted his entire pay for the voyage into shares, which would accrue to his account if, and only if, the voyage was successful.

The length and breadth of the privateer fell quiet as every man figured his own reward. And Kydd now saw his position in the world transformed: even if they met with no more good luck, he had not only cleared expenses but was well on the way to being far better off than at any other time in his life.