The Privateer's Revenge (31 page)

“Ye have an idea o' who . . . ?”

As it happened, Robidou did: the lieutenant on his own last cruise as a privateer. One Henry Cheslyn.

They met at the boat slip; Robidou had been at some pains to prepare Kydd but the sight of the man took him aback. Cheslyn was powerfully built, with a massive leonine head and full beard, and had a deep-sea roll as he walked. Near twenty years Kydd's senior, he had closed, fierce features and flinty eyes in a sea-ruddy face.

“Mr Cheslyn,” Kydd acknowledged. What could he say to one so much older and so much more experienced whom he expected to take his orders unquestioned?

They stood regarding one another until Cheslyn spoke. “Cap'n Robidou says as ye're no strut-noddy,” he said truculently, in a deep-chested voice. “An' he reckons ye're sharp. But yez a King's man—ever bin in a merchant hooker blue-water, like?”

“Aye,” said Kydd evenly. “An' a gallows sight further'n you, I'd wager.”

Robidou cut in apprehensively: “Mr Kydd took a convict ship t' Botany Bay in the peace, Henry.”

Cheslyn ignored him. “Says ye've odd notions o' discipline—you ain't a-thinkin' o' goin' Navy?” he grunted sourly.

“Mr Cheslyn. I'm t' be captain o' the
Witch
. She's in the trade o' reprisal. I'm in the business o' finding m'self a sack o' guineas, an' anything or anyone goes athwart m' bows in that is goin' t' clew up fish-meat.

“So there's no misunderstandin', I'm writin' down m' expectations in th' articles f'r all t' sign, an' the one who's t' be m' first l'tenant will be in no doubt where I stand.”

“Mr Kydd knows men,” Robidou interjected firmly, “as he started a common foremast jack, ye'll know.”

“Aye, well, I'll think on it,” Cheslyn said, with a last piercing look at Kydd before he stumped away.

“A hard man.” Robidou sighed, “Ye'll need t' steer small with him—but I'll tell ye now, he's bright in his nauticals an' a right mauler in a fight. If y' makes him mate, ye'll have no trouble with y' crew.”

Within three days Cheslyn had assembled a core of hardened, wolf-ish seamen, all of whom, it seemed, were capable privateersmen of his long acquaintance. They packed Kydd's rendezvous, taking his measure silently.

This was not a time for fancy speeches. Kydd spoke to them of Caribbean wealth and South American treasure, of a mighty ocean but a well-found ship, shipmates and courage, spirit and discipline. Any who would go a-roving with him might return with a fistful of cobbs but must sign Kydd's articles and take his orders without a word. He finished. The room broke into a hubbub of excited talk. “S' who'll be first t' sign f'r an ocean cruise in th' saucy
Witch?
” he roared, above the noise.

They crushed forward, Cheslyn elbowing his way to the front. He raised his eyes once to Kydd, then bent to the book and scrawled awkwardly.

“Mate an' first l'tenant!” Kydd called loudly. “An' be s' good as t' introduce me to y'r men, Mr Cheslyn.”

For his officers he had brought the one-eyed Le Cocq as his second, a short man but reputed fearless. Gostling, an experienced prize-master, was third. Kydd was surprised when Rosco, the boatswain of
Bien Heureuse,
fronted at the table.

“Y' has y'r chance now, Mr Kydd,” he rumbled, and scratched his name. “An' I wants a piece of it,” he said forcefully.

With Rosco as boatswain, and a cold-eyed mariner, Perchard, the gunner, he was well on the way to complement—and then Luke Calloway entered. Pale but resolute he stood before Kydd. “I'd wish t' be wi' ye, sir.” How the young man had heard of the venture he had no idea—rumours must be flying in St Peter Port about this late-season cruise into the Atlantic.

“Ah, there's a berth if ye want it, Mr Calloway,” Kydd said, “but I have t' tell ye, this is not y'r regular-goin' cruise. We'll be up against th' big ones as'll object t' being taken by a pawky schooner, an' will want t' give us a right pepperin'.”

This was not the real reason: the men he would have aboard were a callous, pugnacious crew and young Calloway would be hard put to handle them.

“Sir, I—I'd want t' ship out, if y' please.”

“Er, Luke, if it's pewter ye're lackin', then—”

“Able seaman afore th' mast would suit main well, Mr Kydd.” Kydd nodded and threw open the book for signing. Ironically Calloway would probably succeed better at that level without the need to assert himself over the hard characters in the crew, and his seaman's skills were second to none.

It was time for the final act. “Send in th' boys,” he called to the door. Instantly the room was filled with an urgent press of youngsters eager to ship out in the
Witch of Sarnia,
the talk of the town.

One fought to the fore and stood proudly and expectantly before him. Kydd's heart fell at the sight of Pookie Turner. “No, it won't do,” he said sadly. “It's an ocean voyage an' I can't—”

The young face set. “Cap'n, y' knows I—”

“I can't, an' ye knows why.” Kydd looked pointedly at the eager boy behind.

At the end of the day Kydd sat back, satisfied. These were a dissimilar breed of men to the coastal privateers of his previous experience: tough, competent and professional, deep-sea sailors of one mind—the ruthless pursuit of prey and profit. This alone would make it an altogether different experience. All he had to do was put them in the way of what they desired and they would follow him.

“You're a black-hearted villain!” Rosie taunted him, hearing of Pookie's attempt to sign on. “Can't you understand? She wants adventure and excitement before the mast, Captain, just like you do. Shame on you!”

“Rosie, I'm never before th' mast in
Witch,
and I'll have y' know this is an ocean voyage wi' a crew o' right cut-throats as any I've seen. It's not right an' proper f'r a young—”

“Y' have ship's boys to do men's work, so if Pookie wants to be a boy why can't she be? Make her y' cabin-boy to keep her under eye if you have to, but I don't think she'll need any o' your protectin'.” Kydd thought wryly of her prowess over the other boys with her fists, while Rosie went on warmly, “Besides, if
you
don't take her, she'll be back on the streets up to her old tricks. And don't forget her share of the booty. Won't this help her poor mama?”

“It's too late betimes, Rosie. I've closed books an' we sail on th' tide tomorrow forenoon. She's a game 'un, she'll find something else,” he added lamely.

It was a day of autumn overcast, with a brisk wind that fluttered dresses and tugged at hats as
Witch of Sarnia
made ready for sea. A crowd had come to see the smart privateer that was reputedly making a daring foray into the Atlantic Ocean on which much Guernsey money was riding.

They lined the quay, gentlemen and ladies, quantities of curious wharf-loafers and the odd redcoat soldier with his woman. Robidou appeared and pushed through the crowd, waving what seemed to be a book. “Just been published,” he shouted against the excitement, passing it to Kydd. “Someone gave it me f'r interest— but I think ye should have it.”

Kydd yelled back his thanks, but there would be precious little time for books. “Stand by for'ard!” he bawled. As they began to single up the lines his eye was caught by a lone figure standing apart from the others.

With a grin he recognised Pookie who, no doubt, had come down hoping for a last-minute change of heart—so, with an exaggerated beckoning, the
Witch of Sarnia
's crew was complete. The delighted youngster threw a small bundle aboard, grabbed a rope, twirled round and landed lightly on the deck with a huge smile.

Departure was easy enough in the southerly; sail mounted quickly as lines were let go and hauled in, and water opened up between ship and quay. With Cheslyn by Kydd's side in well-worn sea gear, hard men efficiently handing along tackle falls, and overhead the crack and slap of a topsail spreading along its boom, the schooner made for the twin piers at the entrance.

A knot of spectators on the very end waved gaily, and as they passed close on their way to the open sea the group broke into whooping and shouts. A firework whizzed skywards and another followed. Kydd was touched: his theatrical friends were not allowing him to seek his fortune on the vasty deep without due ceremony. He waved back energetically, which would have produced expressions of horror on
Teazer
's quarterdeck. “Kind in 'em to see us on our way,” he murmured to Cheslyn, who had looked at him askance but Kydd, feeling the
Witch
heel as she took the wind at the harbour entrance eagerly seeking the freedom of the open sea, was letting nothing spoil his happiness of the moment.

They passed between the vessels anchored in the Great Road, each with decks lined with interested sailors watching the privateer head out—Kydd knew that the
Witch
's fine lines would be attracting admiration while her sleek and deadly black form would leave no doubt as to her mission.

Through the Little Russel and leaving the shelter of Herm they met long seas—combers urged up on the lengthy swell by a brisk westerly from the deep Atlantic. Kydd and Robidou had taken the
Witch
out earlier with a skeleton crew to try her mettle, and with one or two changes to the set of her sails he was satisfied and confident in her sea-keeping.

He had discovered that
Witch of Sarnia
had completed only one voyage previously, and that a poor one under an over-cautious captain, but
he
would take full advantage of her qualities—he would have to if she was to have any chance of closing quickly with a prey. His crew were hard-bitten enough, but would they follow into the teeth of a larger crew intent on repelling boarders as he knew a man-o'-war's men would? Could he—

“Saaail!”
The cry came at the sudden emergence of a sizeable ship from beyond the point—and directly athwart their path. It took no more than a heartbeat to realise that the noble lines belonged to HMS
Teazer
. Kydd guessed that Standish had been waiting for him: hearing of Kydd's Atlantic mission he had positioned himself ready for where he must come and was up to some sort of mischief.

“Ye'll 'ware she's a King's ship,” Cheslyn muttered pointedly.

“Aye,” said Kydd, evenly, watching as
Teazer
laid her course to intercept them. He was in no mood for Standish's posturing and gave orders that had
Witch
wheeling about and heading away downwind, mounting the backs of the combers before falling into the trough following in a series of uncomfortable sliding and jerks.

“What d' ye do that for?” Cheslyn spluttered. “He's a brig, an' we can point higher, b' gob!” It was true—the schooner had had every chance of slipping past by clawing closer to the wind but Kydd had seen something . . .

“An' what does this'n mean?” Cheslyn growled. “As if ye're of a mind t'—”

“I'd thank ye t' keep a civil tongue in y' head,” retorted Kydd, carefully sighting ahead. If this was going to work he would need everything he had learned of the frightful rocks about them.

“Be damned! Ye're losin' y' westin' by th' hour—this ain't how to—”

Kydd turned and smiled cynically: beyond
Teazer
was another,
Harpy,
summoned by the signal flags he had spotted, so obviously in place to swoop if they had tried to slip by.

Cheslyn had the grace to redden, and kept quiet as Kydd made his estimations. Astern, the two brig-sloops were streaming along in grand style, shaking out yet more sail with the wind directly behind them. The fore-and-aft rig advantage of the
Witch,
however, was now lost to him, and with the brigs' far greater sail area spread to the wind the end seemed inevitable.

Along the deck worried faces turned aft: if Standish had the press warrants, in a short time any not native-born could find himself immured in a King's ship for years.

Ahead was a roil of white, which was the half-tide reef of the Platte Fougère; Kydd stood quietly, watching it carefully, his eye straying back to the two warships, willing them on. Then, at the right moment, he rapped, “Down helm—sheet in hard!”

Pitching deeply the
Witch
came slewing round to larboard, men scrabbling for purchase with bare feet as they won the sheets in a furious overhand haul. The schooner took up immediately at right angles to her previous course, now broadside to wind and waves in a dizzying roll—but she was passing the reef to its leeward.

Kydd grinned: he knew
Teazer
's limits and there was no way she could brace round as quickly when she cleared the reef. Watching her thrashing along dead astern Kydd decided it was time to end the charade. Eyeing the jagged black islets of the Grandes Brayes farther on the bow he sniffed the wind for its precise direction. “Stand by t' go about, Mr Cheslyn.” This time there was no argument and the man stumped off, bellowing his orders.