Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

The privateer came on, seeming immense from the little smack. Her upper decks appeared full of men and her gun-ports were open. Gindler eased away the sail and let the big ship come down on them, jockeying to be as near as possible.

"Wave at 'em!" Kydd said urgently. Answering waves appeared up at the deckline. They were very close now, every raw detail of her timbers and gun muzzles plain. Gindler put over his tiller and the boat spun about to face the same direction, jibbing and rolling in the side wake of the privateer. Tenacious was precisely dead ahead—still no indication. Kydd waved again, anxiety flooding him at the thought of what hung on the next few minutes.

Gindler jockeyed the boat about, slipping back until the stern windows of the ship came into view then sidling up behind. "The duckling, find th' duck!" Kydd gasped. They searched frantically astern of the ship—but there was no sign of a buoy.

"No!" Kydd cried harshly.

Gindler kept on behind the rearing stern then pointed. "Th-there!" he whooped. Kydd leaned over and saw, in the roiling, bubbling wake, a jaunty duckling bobbing vigorously, much closer to the stern than he had planned.

"Get us in there, f'r God's sake!" he yelled hoarsely, careless of anything but the final task.

Hardening in the sheets Gindler brought the smack closer but startled faces appeared over the stern high above. "Snag the bastard, quick!" he hissed. The boat was bouncing around in the uneven wake and the wind around the looming stern was fitful and chancy.

Clear and positive over the noise of the tumbling water came the sound of a boatswain's calls—to man yards and set sail. Kydd leaned far over the bow, reaching, scrabbling for the duckling. There would be no second chance now, and shouts were coming from above.

He touched the painted wood but it bounced out of reach then skittered back. He grabbed at it with the furthest extremity of his reach—he had it, pulled, but it jerked from his grasp. Kydd cried out in frustration.

The shouts above turned angry, demanding, dangerous. In despair he glanced back at Gindler, whose pale, set face took on a look of determination. He yanked on the sheets and the little boat responded, going right under the stern of the big ship. Kydd fell over the thwarts trying to keep with the buoy but at last he seized it in both hands.

Gindler instantly let out sheets and the smack fell back. Kydd was ready for it and crushed the little duck to him as the soaked line tautened unbearably—then fell slack. It was over.

Near sobbing with relief, Kydd fell back into the boat, still with the duckling clasped to his chest. He looked up— Minotaure was receding from them and, indeed, was loosing sail from every bare yard. She was still heading for Tenacious and waiting until the sails drew, gathering speed for the vital turn.

Kydd held his breath until it hurt—there was no sign, no hint that he had achieved anything: Minotaure was poised for her turn, all ready . . . and still no turn—

He had done it! Incredibly, unbelievably, it had worked! The privateer's steering had locked, to the bewilderment of her crew and now, as he watched, confusion and chaos overtook as orders for setting sail were reversed, panic and fear flooding in as the ship delivered herself into the arms of a ship-of-the-line.

It was over in moments. A disbelieving Tenacious had seen Minotaure come straight at her and sent a challenging ball under her bow. There was nothing any sane captain could do when brought to, helpless under the threat of the broadside of a two-decker—her colours came down slowly and HMS Tenacious took possession of her prize.

Chapter 11

THE PRESIDENT LIFTED ANOTHER ROSE in his cupped hands and sniffed it. "Perfect!" He sighed, raising his eyes to meet those of his new secretary of the Navy, Benjamin Stoddert. Then he straightened and said softly, "I'm right glad you accepted, Ben."

There was a moment of shared feeling. This was not the red-blooded hewing of a vision from the chaos of the revolution twenty years before: it was a time for hard-headed recognition of power and reality in a world at war.

"I fear we may be too late," Stoddert said. "It came all of a moil so quick, John."

The lines in Adams's face deepened. "I don't want war with the French—understand that of all things! I loathe their system and their arrogance, but I'll be doing anything I can think of to prevent an alignment of the United States with one party or the other."

Stoddert followed Adams to the next rose-bush. "Agreed— but we must stand up for ourselves. No one in this world will stand up for us."

Adams straightened. "Ben, I've abrogated the treaty we've had since 1778 with the French. I've swallowed insults from Jefferson about my reasons and finally pulled Congress into line. You have your navy. Leave it to me to take care of the rest of the world."

"Yes, sir." Stoddert saw no reason to dilute a response to French actions, but knew better than to debate Adams's moderate tactics. Besides which, Adams had a personal interest in the formation of this new navy: he had been the one to create the Continental Navy, the motley fleet of the revolution that had taken on the Royal Navy at sea. It had then been disbanded. This Federal Navy was going to be different, professional, and Stoddert had the honour of leading it into existence.

"You have your captains now." It had been a fraught business, the few experienced men available vying for positions of seniority and honour.

"I have. Truxtun, Nicholson, Barry, of course, and the lieutenants." It had taken the personal intervention of the ageing George Washington to settle the question of seniority.

"And the ships." Converted merchantmen to begin with, six frigate-class vessels racing to completion: Constitution, Constellation and others.

"And your budget," Adams said finally. Congress had voted it through, complaining bitterly at the cost of the new vessels, and the Republicans had fought against it as irrelevant to a continental power with no enemies, but now it was going to happen.

"Ben, be careful, my friend," Adams said quietly. Both understood the political risks that were being taken. "Well, I won't keep you." He plucked his rose with a sigh, then turned back to Stoddert. "One thing interests me. How will you forge a—a way of doing things, a spirit of the sea, if you will?"

Stoddert pondered. "It seems to me we acquire it in the same way as we have our common law. We take what we want from the English and cast away the rest." He pursed his lips. "After all, it's the Royal Navy, the first navy of the age."

The main sticking point was Gindler. He had begged Kydd not to mention his part, arguing that for him to have taken an active part in operations against a neutral might cause an international incident. But without Gindler's corroboration his account would not be believed—especially the latter stages, which would have been impossible without an accomplice. He could imagine the polite contempt with which his claim would be met at the wardroom table, seen as a shabby attempt to embellish his experiences. No—he could not risk that.

There was nothing for it but a bald statement of his treatment ashore, his urging of a town meeting and the final instructions from Hartford. He had reported as much verbally to the captain, who had generally approved his conduct, understanding his encounter with the odd notions of democracy obtaining ashore. It would take a lot to put the captain out of humour with such a prize meekly astern, and no doubt this report would be passed on to the admiral with suitably warm words.

Kydd was proud of what he had done and chagrined at having to keep it quiet—Renzi had agreed to go over the report for him before he handed it in, but afterwards Kydd had promised him such a tale as would keep him tolerably entertained.