The Privateer's Revenge (26 page)

At the forehatch men unable to contain themselves snatched a look. “Keep th' heads down, y' blaggards!” he bellowed. The stranger would be wielding telescopes, too.

The offshore island disappeared into the advancing rain curtain and Kydd's gaze turned to the vessel. As he tried to make out more detail its perspective altered, curving ponderously round to take up on a course away, back where it had come. They had been discovered.

“Sheet away, y' lubbers!” he shouted, at the men boiling up from below. The stranger—now the chase—was hard by the wind, clawing as desperately as it could to windward but it had lost much ground and now lay barely a mile ahead. A lazy smile came to Kydd's face: in their panic they had put the helm to the wrong side and now found themselves on the other tack to
Bien Heureuse
. They could not possibly weather the headland.

“We have him now.” Kydd laughed. “He'll be ours afore sundown.” They would keep to seaward and wait for the chase to come out to them.

Bien Heureuse
was lined with eager privateersmen, each hungrily making the same calculation. A sizeable merchantman with a small crew, judging by their tardiness in putting about and taking up close-hauled. Her cargo? Probably returning from Biscay with wine and brandy, risking a quick dash across Baie de Saint Brieuc—a pity for him that a Guernsey privateer just happened to be round the point.

There was no hope for the Frenchman and Kydd wondered why he held on so doggedly. Then the first squall arrived. In a wash of cold down-draught
Bien Heureuse
entered a wall of rain, passing into a hissing roar of water that stippled the sea white in a drenching deluge. It stunned the wind momentarily and the sails hung limp and wet.

They emerged damp and chill but the chase was still ahead and closer. Then another wall of rain closed round them, and the sails, now deprived of a steady wind, flapped and banged. Visibility was reduced to yards, and the seas lost their liveliness as they were beaten to rounded hillocks in the swell.

Kydd squinted into the chaos, which seemed to go on and on. Where
was
everything in this never-ending rain world? Uneasily aware of the treacherous currents surging over unforgiving ground he gave the order to veer sheets and
Bien Heureuse
slowed to a crawl.

The rain volleyed in a loud drumming on their deck, gurgling down the lee scuppers; when it finally stopped, the chase had disappeared. The headland was much closer but there was no sign of the brigantine. Had he successfully weathered the headland? If so, he was away up the coast and could be anywhere.

Then Kydd saw the offshore island again—it was well within reach and would make a perfect place for the Frenchman to lurk out of sight while Kydd went chasing past, then take up on his old course, his voyage delayed only by a few hours.

“Lay us t' wind'ard o' that island!” Kydd snapped. The breeze had picked up and pierced like a knife through his sodden clothes. He shuddered.

“The island?” Rowan said uncertainly. “Are ye sure?”

“He thinks t' wait out o' sight—he's too lubbardly t' have weathered th' point,” Kydd said.

Tranter cut in: “I don't reckon he's there at all. We're wastin' time—”

“Get y' men ready f'r a boardin', Mr Tranter, an'
you
stop y' pratin'!” Kydd answered, with sudden anger.

His heart fell at the sight of the rabble in the waist. They were as unlike a naval boarding party as it was possible to be, jabbering, excited men with drawn cutlasses and lurid headgear. Where was the lethal discipline of a sectioned assault? Where the calm weighing of opportunity and deadly resolve?

“Hold 'em there, Mr Tranter,” Kydd called, with an edge of sarcasm. They were up against terrified merchant sailors and the likelihood was that any fight would be minimal.

A nine-pounder was cleared away and Kydd sent Calloway to the forward crew to stiffen them. They were as ready as they could be.

Drawing near, the island seemed the ideal bolt-hole, and at a respectful distance they took time to round the white-fringed weather shore. Kydd kept his telescope up, straining for sight of a naked mast above the irregular lumpiness of the bare rock.

They circled the island in silence, ready for a panic-stricken dash. Nothing. At a loss Kydd carefully quartered the sea. The brigantine had to be somewhere, a little cove perhaps, a hidden river mouth

. . . The prey had escaped.

Tranter snorted and stormed below. The men followed in ones and twos, with scornful looks aft.

Kydd caught Rowan's eye. “Where did he go, d' ye think?”

“I don't think y' give th' Frenchy credit, Mr Kydd. He's one cool hand, waits f'r the main squall, then slashes about t' stay inside it an' passes us close in th' murk an' away off t' Paimpol, cool as y' please.”

It was galling. It seemed these French
matelots
in their home waters were every bit as bold and seamanlike as the English, certainly far from being frightened sheep about to be snapped up by a passing wolf. “We press on,” Kydd grunted. “There'll be more—an' I know where . . .”

The Sept Îles resolved out of the grey murkiness as he remembered them from the deck of
Teazer
. The only question now was whether to pass to seaward or take the inner channel. He decided quickly. “South about, lad,” he told the helmsman. There was no point in crisp naval orders to an officer-of-the-watch in this vessel.

Obediently the young seaman swung the tiller and
Bien Heureuse
headed into the channel under easy sail in the fluky north-easterly, every man on eager lookout, as guineas would go to him who first sighted their prey.

This time there was no gunfire from the old fort—they must appear as innocent as the salt trader they had once been. As they passed through unnoticed, Kydd tugged his coat closer and sighed. He was now a captain again, even if it was of a jackal of the seas. He was under no orders other than his own, with nothing to do but fall upon any sail sighted. No other purpose or distraction; no convoys, senior officers, strict instructions. This was what it was to prowl the seas as a single-minded predator. No wonder the carefree life of a pirate in past ages had—

“Saaail!”
screamed two men, simultaneously—or was that a seaman and a sharp-eyed boy?

Kydd swung up his glass eagerly. As they emerged from the passage on the other side of Sept Îles he saw a three-masted lugger on the same course. It had taken the deeper seaward route and they had met the other side not more than a mile or two apart.

His telescope told him that the vessel was larger than they and low in the water—a full cargo? A handful of men stood on deck, no doubt filled with consternation at their sudden appearance. The lugger held its course for minutes longer, then curved sharply into the wind and made for the open sea.

“Go after him, then,” Kydd growled happily at the helmsman. An exultant roar went up from the men busy at the ropes and
Bien Heureuse
heeled sharply. The hunt was on.

“Clear away an' give him a gun, Mr Kevern.” The first would be unshotted and to weather, the demand to heave-to. The next would be a ball across the ship's bows. Failing a response to this, there would be a cannon shot low over the decks.

With an apologetic crack the nine-pounder under reduced charge spoke out, the rank odour of powder smoke nevertheless carrying aft its message of threat and challenge. “Boarders, Mr Tranter,”

Kydd warned. In the event of resistance he wanted no delay in the manoeuvre to give their opponents time to rally.

The two ships stretched out over the sea, leaving the lumpy grey islands to disappear into the rain astern with the pursuer straining every line and stitch of canvas to close with their prey. As Kydd watched, he saw suddenly that the fleeing craft was falling off the wind. Then, incredibly, it was turning towards them. Rowan cursed and muttered, “That there's
Trois Frères
o' St Malo—I should o' known.”

“Frenchy privateer?”

“A Malouin? He is that. Cap'n Vicq, an' he's a Tartar, particular well manned 'n' armed. We'd best—”

“Helm up!” Kydd roared, to the startled man at the tiller, “T' th' Triagoz!” It was a single near conical rocky islet ahead set in endless reefs but it was the only land in sight—and down to leeward.

With a dispiriting wallow
Bien Heureuse
slewed about for the distant hillock and picked up speed. Kydd thought furiously. The other was a larger ship and almost certainly more experienced— and these were home waters for the Malouin. In these seas it had the edge—with superior numbers and firepower.

Tranter came aft. “Th' bastard's got us! Tide's on the ebb an' we can't—”

“Hold y' jabber!” Kydd snarled. He had just noticed that the wily Vicq with his slight advantage of speed had eased away to parallel his run for the Triagoz but was closing with every yard. They could not strike for the open sea because Vicq would be waiting there, but on the other hand they were being pressed slowly but surely against the hostile land.

It was the same trick he had used on the Cornish coast to box in another privateer to a rockbound coast—but this time he himself was the victim. The deck fell quiet as each man took in the dire situation. Their captain was the only one who could save them now.

Kydd had no illusions about Vicq. His initial move to flee had drawn Kydd into betraying his true character as a privateer and, further, had lured him into the open sea. Now he had the patience to make sure of
Bien Heureuse
and win the bounty Napoleon Bonaparte had promised to any who could rid him of a detested English privateer.

By definition they could not prevail in an encounter at sea. Therefore they must keep in with the land. He recalled his first sighting of the lugger low in the water; without doubt, this was the outset of a cruise for Vicq with the ship full of prize-crew and stores. Kydd made his decision: with their lesser draught the only course left to them was to head for the rocks and shallows under the coast to try to shake off the larger craft.

“South!” he ordered. Into the embrace of the land—enemy land. Once again
Bien Heureuse
bucketed round, taking up on the lar-board tack in a race for life and safety.

Vicq conformed immediately and tucked himself in astern for the chase but when Kydd reached the reef-strewn coast and swung cautiously away to the south-west Vicq angled over at once to keep his clamping position to seawards.

Close inshore the prospect was fearful: granite crags, deadly rocky islets emerging with the falling tide—and everywhere the betraying surge of white from unseen sub-sea threats.

Rowan was sent up the foremast in an improvised boatswain's chair to try to spot imminent perils ahead—a trying task with the mast's manic dipping and swaying in the following wind. Vicq remained at a distance, passing on the outer side of the forbidding Plateau de la Méloine and allowing
Bien Heureuse
the inner passage. In a chill of fear Kydd saw why.

With the wind dead astern the only course was ahead—and into the five-mile stretch of Morlaix Bay. Constrained to keep close inshore
Bien Heureuse
would need longer going round, and with Vicq taking a straight course to cross it there was only one outcome. The two vessels would converge on the other side of the bay and Kydd's sole voyage as a privateer would be summarily finished.

He balled his fists. It was not just the humiliation of craven surrender—for he could not in all conscience consider a fight against superior odds with the crew he had—it was that the investors who had believed in him would now lose every farthing.

His ship's company would be taken prisoner and, as privateersmen, had no hope of release. And, of course, he would be among them. He could reveal his true identity and claim the protection of his naval rank to be later exchanged, but he knew Bonaparte would make much of capturing a commander, Royal Navy, as captain of a privateer. He could never suffer such dishonour to his service.

Although he would not fight, Kydd was determined to resist capture with everything he had. He fixed Vicq with a terrible concentration, noticing he was disdaining the shallows at the head of the bay. This allowed Kydd to weather a menacing central peninsula but it was only delaying the final act.

As they came to understand the meaning of the drama, panic-stricken local fishermen scattered. They had obviously felt quite secure previously, for at the end of the other side of the bay was Roscoff, where
Teazer
had been cheated of her prize.

In less than a mile
Bien Heureuse
would reach the far side. Vicq was on an intercept course under the same wind from astern, which would prevent Kydd's retreat. The climax would occur close in off the ancient port in full view of the townsfolk and the gunboats sallying forth would put paid to any escape.

But the tide had been on the ebb for some time and Kydd reasoned it must now be close to its lowest point. Roscoff harbour was therefore an expanse of mud so neither the gunboats nor any other could be a threat. His spirits rose: the bay finished in the sullen mass of the Île de Batz, three miles long but so close to port that every approaching ship must pass warily round it. If he could think of a way . . .