Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

"Congratulations—but of course—"

"Well, yes, there is th' question of how t' get the wedge in there, I'll grant ye."

"And what sort of ship goes to sea with jammed steering?"

"Ah, I've thought of that."

"I'm gratified to hear it."

Kydd gave a dry smile. "This is callin' for something special, and here it is. We screw an eye into one end of th' wedge and secure a line to it, which is passed through our gap. If you tug on the line it brings the wedge whistling up an' smack into the gap. But it won't be us that's tugging . . ."

"I stand amazed. Who will?"

"Ah! Your old friend a drag-sail. It's only a small piece o' canvas rolled up and secured to the opposite end of the line, and when it opens it does the tugging."

"How?"

"Well, we need the helm t' jam only at the right moment—so we must find a trigger to stream our drag-sail just at that time. And here it is—we bundle the canvas up with twine and when we want it to open an' start pulling the wedge we break the twine."

"Which is . . ."

"Yes, well, this is a long piece of twine, and if you look f'r a discreet little pick-up buoy astern o' the Frenchy, then that's the end o' the twine."

Gindler didn't say anything.

"Well?" asked Kydd anxiously.

"I can only . . . I have two objections." "Oh?"

"Who is going to affix the device? And who is going to find our wee buoy—maybe under gunfire?"

"I'll do both," said Kydd solemnly, but he had no idea how.

The boathouse provided all they needed. A woodworking bench, try-plane, saws—it would be a straightforward enough task. Kydd blessed the time he had spent in a Caribbean dockyard working for a master shipwright.

"Ned, I want some good wood for m' wedge."

Gindler fossicked about and, from a dark corner, dragged out what looked like a small salvaged ship frame, dark with age. "This should suit. It's live oak, and very hard. Capital for hacking out a wedge."

"Aye, well . . ."

"And it damn near doesn't float."

"Done!"

The try-plane hissed as Kydd applied himself to the work, watched by an admiring Gindler. Indeed, the wood was extremely dense, and Kydd sweated at the task. Gindler had already found the twine and was snipping round a piece of dirty canvas; then he rummaged for a screw eye.

Kydd realised he needed to see the French ship again in the light. The big privateer still lay alongside the commercial wharf but with a renewed, purposeful air, loading sea stores and working at her rigging. As he looked across the little bay at her, it became clear that there was no easy way to get close: there were sentries on deck and quay, and the ship was alert.

Kydd scanned the shoreline: the wharf was set on timber pilings. If he could get among them . . . and there, at the end, he saw a spur of light grey rocks extending into the sea.

Back in the boathouse a lanthorn glowed. "I believe I have a chance," Kydd told Gindler.

"Yes, Tom. When will you go?" Gindler was indistinct in the evening shadows but his voice had an edge to it.

"It has t' be before midnight. The tide is on the ebb and her gunports'll fall below the level of th' wharf before then." He picked up the neat piece of canvas Gindler had prepared. It was rolled tightly together with sailmaker's twine, to which a stronger line was securely fixed.

"How long will you have this?" The coil of light line seemed a lot but was probably only fifty feet or so.

"I think all o' that," Kydd said. The longer it was, the safer the task of picking up the buoy and yanking the line. "And th' last thing—our buoy." He cast about for an object that would serve and found some duck decoys: one of the ducklings would suit admirably. He secured it to the light line—and all was complete.

In the blackness of night they stood at the edge of the woods where they were closest to the privateer and had a front-row view of the ship. Lanthorns in her rigging cast bright pools of light on to the wharf; figures paced slowly along the dockside. Work had ceased. This would not be the case if an early-dawn departure was planned.

"Well, here we are," Gindler whispered, "and it's here that we part, my friend. I cannot in all conscience go further, but I'd like to shake the hand of a brave man."

"Let's be started," Kydd muttered. He tucked the precious bundle of canvas and rope tightly under his arm and slipped down to the water's edge, careful to stay in the shadows of the spur of rock.

There he paused, safe for the moment, and listened to the quiet chuckle and ripple of the calm evening sea. The ship was over a hundred yards away—and when he stepped round the spur there was a dozen yards of open beach before the shelter of the wharf piling. For that distance he would be in plain view of the ship.

The single thing in his favour was surprise. They might expect a rush by an armed party, but never by a lone, unarmed man. It was small comfort, but it also seemed the height of absurdity to be going into battle against a heavily gunned privateer armed only with a lump of wood and a piece of dirty canvas.

In the shadow of the rocks he stripped down to his long underwear and stockings, awkward and vulnerable. He laid down his clothes carefully and stumbled over to the inky black sea. He could not risk the forty feet of open beach; the only alternative was to wade off into the outer blackness.

The water was fearfully cold and his heart nearly failed him. He forced himself to continue, his feet feeling the sharp stones and shells on the rocky bottom. Deeper he went—the cold biting into his legs then his waist, leaving him gasping for breath. Out past the end of the spur, the ship was now in plain view and as he turned to round the end he lowered himself into the numbing water to his neck. Past the rock, the bottom turned mercifully to the softness of mud and he leaned forward, shuddering with cold, pushing on parallel to the beach and praying he could not be seen.

Minotaure was bows to sea, her carved stern towards him. There was a light in the captain's cabin, a dim gold point through the mullioned windows. A couple of figures stood together on her after deck and Kydd could see the occasional red of a drawn pipe, but the rest was in shadow.

There was the odd scurry of unknown sea creatures at his feet, the stubbing of a toe against an invisible barnacled rock— and what seemed an eternity of knifing cold. At last he saw the edge of the wharf piling resolve out of the darkness.

Gratefully he entered the safety of the overhang with its concentrated sea odours and stood upright. A mistake. The tiny evening breeze was now a searching icy blast that stopped his breath. He lowered himself back into the water, which was almost warm by contrast.

Stumbling along in the darkness he passed between the heavily barnacled and slimy piles, clutching his bundle until he came abreast of the looming black vastness of the privateer. Turning towards it he moved forward and felt the slope of the sea-bed suddenly drop away. He pulled back in alarm. He was an awkward swimmer and, encumbered with his device, he could not possibly do other than move upright.

With a sinking heart he realised it was logical to build the wharf for larger ships where the water was deep enough for them to come close in— Minotaure would draw fifteen or twenty feet. Far out of his depth. His frozen mind struggled and he looked around wildly. Past the stern of the ship, tucked in just under the wharf edge he saw a low, elongated shape, a ship's side punt used by sailors to stand in as they worked their way down the hull caulking and painting.

He pulled the little raft towards him, hoisted his bundle in, and hanging off one end, he thrust out. The punt glided towards the black bulk of the ship's hull and finally bumped woodenly against it. Kydd's feet dangled in the freezing depths.