Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

A mix of terror and elation washed over him at the physical touch of the enemy; he worked his way along the hull, sensing noise and movement within until he reached the curved overhang of the stern. Here he would be out of sight from above while he set his trap, but any boat coming down the other side of the hull would burst into view just feet from him without warning.

He took the bundle, his hands shaking as he prepared it. The motionless rudder was lost in the shadows but Kydd could hang on to the rudder chains and be guided down to it. He would have to work by feel. Near the waterline would be the lower hance, a projecting piece at the trailing edge of the rudder; with its hoisting ring plate he could not fail to find it. He felt the barnacle-studded fitting and pulled himself to it. The final act: to thread the line through the score, the inner gap.

He let his hands slide inwards. The pintle strap led to the pintle itself going through the gudgeon eye—and there was the score. A gap just below the waterline and big enough to put his whole fist through. Excitement surged through him. All he had to do now was put the line through with the wedge one side and the rest the other.

He pushed the line through easily enough, then had to bend it on the wedge. His hands were numb but he fumbled it through the screw eye. But when he tried to tie a simple one-handed bowline his stiff fingers could not obey. He scrabbled at the line helplessly, aware that if he lost his hold on the wedge it would sink down for ever into the black depths. He couldn't feel anything! Nearly weeping with frustration he tried again and failed. Then, with one last effort, he rested his elbows on the edge of the punt, leaving both hands free. Clumsily he managed to manipulate the sodden line.

Letting the wedge hang free by its line he tested it, then let it sink slowly toward the sea-bed. Moving to the other side of the rudder he freed the bundle of canvas and let the pick-up buoy float away. The little bundle, weighted with a fishing lead, sank also, and all that was left of his night's work was a shabby little duckling floating nearby.

Gindler was waiting behind the rocky spur and when Kydd staggered up from the dark waters he threw a blanket round his frozen body and rubbed furiously. "Mr Kydd, you're the maddest son-of-a-gun I've ever heard of!" he whispered. "Now let's get something hot into you."

It was King's calibogus, spruce beer stiffened with New England rum, a drink to which Greaves had introduced him; taken hot in front of the log fire, it was medicine indeed. While Kydd recounted his tale, Gindler threw clams and chunks of cod into a pot, with onion and bacon, and crushed biscuit for thickening, then let the mixture simmer and fill the snug cottage with an irresistible aroma.

"Er, do pardon me the liberty," said Gindler, after the chowder pot had been satisfyingly scraped empty, "I can't help but observe that your character is so — different from your usual King's officer, Tom. You never hang back when there's a need to soil the hands, to bear a fist directly—and you speak plainer, if you understand me."

"Aye, well, that could be because I come fr'm a different land. I came aft through th' hawse, as we say. But now I'm a gentleman," he added doubtfully.

"You are indeed," Gindler said sincerely.

"How about your folk, Ned?" Kydd asked, cradling another calibogus.

"My mother's family came over with the Mayflower," Gindler said proudly. "Settled in the north, near Boston. Pa runs a business . . ."

A grey day broke, and Kydd's sleepless night was over at last. Today would end in a flurry of gunfire and a captured privateer— or failure. Any one of those barbarous small rocks that had left his feet so sore could snag the line and part it, and they would be left with a useless end. So much could go wrong: even as they breakfasted, a crew member might look over the side of Minotaure and raise the alarm, and then it would be over before it started, or the ship might sail at dawn when Tenacious was not in the offing.

Kydd sat on the porch, brooding. "What do ye say we take a walk through th' town? Perhaps we — "

"You must stay here, my friend. Your presence near the vessel at this time could be . . . unfortunate." Gindler got to his feet. "I will undertake a reconnaissance."

He returned quickly. "They're ready for sea near enough, but there's a little duck taken up residence under her stern."

The morning dragged by; Kydd tried to learn a card game but it quickly palled. In the end they sat on the porch and talked, eyes straying out to sea.

"I believe we must take position now," Gindler said lightly. "We have our smack ready at hand."

The craft was not big but had a single mast stepped to a forward thwart, and with a light spritsail took the morning breeze with a will. In nondescript fishermen's gear Kydd and Gindler saw they were one of a handful of boats chancing the day for sea-bass.

The entrance to the inner sound was no more than a couple of miles across and the one league boundary a half-mile beyond. Gindler eased sheets and steered for the northern point.

"There she is!" cried Kydd exultantly. HMS Tenacious under topsails was calmly approaching from the north. All the players were now converging and it was only a matter of time before the final act.

Minotaure had to sail by noon; her captain was waiting for the last possible moment and, as a consequence, would have to face Tenacious. But he would have been told about the midday signal arrangement—why did he wait and risk the confrontation?

Then it dawned on Kydd. Junon was both confident and cool. He wanted the English ship to present herself: he knew he could out-manoeuvre the big ship and in this way could establish where she was and therefore be free of the threat of an unpleasant surprise later.

The privateer's fore topsail rose: she was about to proceed. Kydd's heart beat faster. Her headsails fluttered into life and, as he watched, her bow detached from the wharf. The French tricolour was lowered from her ensign staff but reappeared at her mizzen peak. Other canvas made its appearance and Minotaure stood out into the sound.

Her actions were not lost on Tenacious whose battle-ensign soared up to the mainmasthead in answer. Kydd pictured the frenzied rush to quarters and was torn between the desire to be back aboard his ship in action and the knowledge of what he had to do.

Tenacious stood squarely across the entrance at the edge of the boundary, heaving to in the slight winds, while the privateer advanced cautiously towards her under just topsails, not giving the slightest indication of which side she was going to pass.

Kydd's admiration for the coolness of the French captain increased as he noticed that the wind's direction had Tenacious hove to with broadside towards, normally a battle-winning raking position, but the bigger ship could not in any circumstances open fire into United States waters and certainly not risk shot ricocheting into the town. Therefore Minotaure could move forward in perfect safety.

"We need t' get under her stern," Kydd growled. Gindler sheered the boat round and edged more into the sound, keeping safely to one side. The privateer drew nearer and Kydd visualised the wedge and the little bundle bumping over the mud of the seabed, hopefully then to stream out behind — or they might already have been torn off.

Kydd spoke, more to himself than to Gindler: "When she makes her move, she'll loose sail t' crack on speed and only then choose her side an' put over her helm sharp. Therefore our signal will be when she looses more sail." Tenacious would have little chance of reacting in time, being stationary in the water with only the chance of a fleeting shot as the faster vessel surged past.