Julian Stockwin - The Privateer's Revenge

The last of the defenders scuttled out of sight—he was master of the deck but with a hostile crew still unsubdued below. He forced his mind to an icy calm. One thing was clear: this prize was heavy with cargo and would never achieve the swift manoeuvres he needed—and all the time the frigate was thrashing closer.

Defiantly he looked back at the wheel. One of his men held it firmly, not daring to vary the ship's heading until he could be sure of the sail handling. The body of an unknown sailor lay sprawled at his feet.

Then Kydd had it. "Steady as she goes!" he bawled at the helmsman, and hurried over to stand by him. Cheslyn looked aft questioningly. He had groups of men positioned at the base of each mast but Kydd knew that to go about now was simply too risky. Even missing stays would have the frigate right up with them and . . . He shook his head vigorously and concentrated.

They had just this chance. "Follow m' motions!" he croaked at the nervous helmsman. As a square-rigger, they were sailing directly before the south-westerly, which gave them their only advantage—they had a wide angle of possible courses ahead.

"Steer f'r th' Frenchy frigate," Kydd ordered. The helmsman gave a frightened glance but complied, and the ship swung ponderously until it was headed directly towards the ship beating up towards them between the two columns of the convoy.

The man-o'-war did not change its course and Kydd guessed there would be frenzied discussion on her quarterdeck. They stood on stubbornly, but Kydd knew that the frigate captain had only one object—to lay them aboard. He would do his best to oblige.

"Shake out that reef!" he hailed Cheslyn. Sails had been trimmed to achieve an even speed in convoy. Loosing the main and fore-course would give them speed in hand.

The frigate's track did not vary in the slightest and, head to head, the two ships approached each other. Everything now depended on the timing and the placements: Kydd's eye took in not only the menace of the French frigate but the convoy—especially the next-ahead vessel—and he made his calculations deliberately, passing his orders quietly for fine corrections of heading.

Their advance downwind was drawing the next-ahead perilously near, and somewhere on her inner beam there would be a meeting. One or other of the closing ships must give way.

The frigate slashed ahead, straight for them, with no sign of yielding way—but this was not Kydd's concern for at the last possible moment he gave orders to fall away to starboard. Instead of coming to a confrontation their ship instead passed to the outer side of the next-ahead and so close that the pale, shocked faces of the men at the wheel were clear and stark as they bucketed by.

In one move Kydd had placed this ship between him and the frigate as they passed in opposite directions—but the best was yet to come. Enraged by Kydd's bold escape the frigate captain made to bear away closely round the next-ahead's stern, but in his eagerness to grapple gave insufficient allowance for the strength of the fresh winds. In a chorus of splintering smashes, twangs and screams of indignity the frigate made close acquaintance with the vessel's stern quarters and, recoiling, fell off the wind, helpless.

Quickly, Kydd had his new prize angling off into the open sea with Witch of Sarnia close beside.

Outside the Three Crowns Kydd stood in a maze of happiness. He was gazing at a poster on a pillar proclaiming boldly:

FOR SALE BY THE CANDLE

At three crowns tavern, St Peter Port, on Monday the next by Ten o' clock in the Forenoon, The Good Ship héros de guadeloupe, burthen about 400 Tons, lately taken by the witch of sarnia, Letter of Marque, Thomas Kydd, Captain. A remarkable sailer, well found and calculated for the Caribbee tradeand may be sent to sea at a Trifling Expence . . . after the Sale, the entire cargo now landed will be set to Auction, inventories may be viewed at . . .

And this was only the first of his two prizes. Hearings had taken place immediately and the evidences of French ownership sent to the Admiralty Prize Court had resulted in swift condemnation as prize, and the vessel was now in the process of being sold at auction.

"Mr Kydd, is it not?" a well-dressed man asked politely, removing his hat. "I believe the heartiest congratulations would be insufficient to express my sense of admiration at your late action. And another prize to your name?"

"Aye, there is, sir," Kydd answered warily.

"Magnificent! Just as in the old days! Oh, might I introduce myself? Robert de Havilland." He handed Kydd a card. "As you may see, I'm a banker and it did cross my mind that should you see fit to favour us with your financial interests then I'm sure that we would be able to offer very advantageous rates to a gentleman as distinguished as yourself. A line of credit against your captures, perhaps? Sovereign investment in Consols at above market—"

"Why, thank ye, Mr de Havilland," Kydd came back politely, "but I'm not ready t' change banks at th' moment." It was truly amazing how many new friends he had made in the few days since his return from sea.

Curious to see proceedings he entered the tavern. It was stifling, packed with merchants watching while the auctioneer droned away on the fine qualities of the vessel under the hammer. A stir went through them when he had finished and an assistant brought a lighted taper.

"Are ye ready, gennelmen? Light th' candle!"

The bids were low at first, then from all sides the serious ones came in. "One fifty t' you, sir—two hundred? Mr Mauger? Two seventy . . ."

Kydd had no idea of the value this represented but was content to let it wash over him. The bids petered out but all eyes were fixed on the candle and Kydd saw that it was burning down to where a blackened pin with a ribbon had been inserted. As the flame neared, the bids redoubled until there was a staccato hammer of shouts before the pin dropped clear, and the highest bidder was declared the new owner.

Turning to go, Kydd was stopped by the auctioneer, who had spotted him. To general acclamation he announced that they had been honoured by the presence of the victorious captor. Kydd blushed and made a hurried escape outside to an unseasonably warm sun.

He strolled along the parade, nodding to respectful passers-by, and pondered the change in life's direction that had brought him so much. He recalled the smugness of Zephaniah Job at the wind-up meeting, the almost fawning attention of Robidou, the ledger figures that told of his restoration to fortune.

Then there was the respect he seemed to have won from Cheslyn and the crew of the privateer at paying-off time. He chuckled aloud to recall a bold and swashbuckling Pookie stepping ashore playing the corsair to the limit as she took home her plunder to present to her mother.

Would Renzi believe how things had changed? His friend's selfless toil in Jersey to keep him going was now no longer necessary. He would ask him to return but without telling him of his great change in fortune, simply say he was due for a surprise. Yes, he must write him a letter . . .

Kydd then remembered a promise, which he would soon be in a position to keep. He planned to take one of those grand and very comfortable mansions in Grange Road.

A celebration, a great dinner occasion—and the only ones invited would be those who had stood so nobly by him. As he hurried along to set it in train he imagined the room resounding to Richard Samson's Shakespearean declaiming, the extravagant gown that Griselda Mayhew would flaunt, the studied nonchalance of Carne, who would probably complain at the waste of a good flyman. It would be a splendid evening.

CHAPTER 16

RENZI WAS ON HIS WAY BACK to Guernsey and to Kydd. He had kept his word and stayed with d'Auvergne until it was obvious there was no more to be done, and then, accepting only what he was owed in wages, he quit the place.