Kydd (35 page)

The steady swooping movement was replaced by an uneasy bobbing — they had heaved to; a discordant bumping told them that the cutter was alongside. They resigned themselves to it: this might be the first of many such.

Faint shouts — probably Finchett expressing his views on the propriety of the Royal Navy interfering with the merchant service, and after an interminable time they felt the lurch and smooth take-up of sail once more. They waited for the signal, and before long they heard scrabbling at the toggle and the strop falling away. But there was no signal. Perhaps naval seamen were still aboard.

“Wait!” Renzi whispered. “We must be sure.”

The air grew stale, then close. They started to pant and felt giddy.

“We have to get out,” Renzi said. He tried to lift the barrel lid. It didn’t budge. He heaved at it, with no result. Putting his back under the lid, he uncoiled his full weight against it. It gave a little, then slammed down again. “There’s something on it,” he whispered. “Give me a hand.”

He guided Kydd in the blackness to put his back next to his own in the cramped space, and together they thrust upward.

Suddenly it gave and flew open. The hold was in darkness, of course, but on the next barrel a lanthorn stood, casting a dim yellow light.

They climbed out cautiously, but Kydd tripped on a dark shape on the deck next to the barrel. He bent to see what it was — and jerked up in horror.

It was a body. He bent again to roll it over — and his hand came away wet and sticky. “It’s Finchett.”

Renzi knelt and examined the corpse. “There’s a wound in his back,” he said. It didn’t make any sense. Maybe Finchett had been wounded on deck and had tried to reach them, expiring after releasing the strop. Renzi realized their reconnaissance would have to be cautious-something was terribly awry.

Kydd remembered that there was a small hatch forward; it allowed entry into the hold without needing the big main hatch to be opened. They scrambled across the remaining powder barrels and reached the hatchway ladder at the fore part of the hold.

“Careful,” whispered Renzi.

Kydd eased back the sliding hatch an inch. Sunlight flooded in, as did familiar sea sounds. The clean salt air was invigorating.

Renzi put his ear to the opening.

“What is it?” whispered Kydd urgently. He was beginning to feel ghosts.

“Quiet!” snapped Renzi.

Faint voices could be heard. They grew louder, and Renzi eased the hatch shut again.

“What?” Kydd asked.

Renzi looked at him gravely. “They were speaking French, dear fellow.”

The cutter must have been a French corsair under false colors — a smart move, given the circumstances. They had boarded the unaccompanied powder brig, probably massacred the crew and even now would be carrying her into a French port.

They stared at each other. Their immediate future was now very much in question. If they surrendered they would probably be hove overboard; if they waited until they reached port and discharged cargo they would be discovered and would rot in a military prison; and if they hid in their hole they would die there.

Renzi struggled with alternatives, but logic led pitilessly to a series of dead ends. He climbed back down the ladder and put his head in his hands.

“Nicholas! Up here, man!” There was sharp authority in Kydd’s voice. “We need t’ know where we stand. Try to listen t’ what they’re saying.”

Renzi slid the hatch open a crack and put his ear to it. There were two distinct voices, both young and strong, and another distant one, more mature. Their northern French dialect was difficult to follow, but he understood. The distant voice was giving the other two orders — probably the watch on deck, or what passed for it.

The orders themselves gave clues. What was
aller vent largue?
To go with the wind largue? That would be “large,” of course — the opposite of close hauled. In that case they were going in the opposite direction to before. “We visit Madame Cécile’s establishment when we reach Goulven” — where was that? This heathen dialect! But that meant it was somewhere in Brittany, almost certainly the north coast — they would not risk the longer voyage to Brest or points southward.

Renzi strained to hear, but there was only a tedious description of what they would find in Madame Cécile’s brothel. “We’re on our way to
Goulven, which I believe to be on the north coast,” he quietly reported. “We are running large to the south or sou’-west, and I suppose we will reach port tomorrow.

“I can hear two on deck and one aft. There may be more below.”

Unarmed, they wouldn’t have a hope, no matter how much surprise they commanded. He resumed listening. What he heard made him start, but the import was worse — it was desperate.

“They’re saying that they hope they won’t have their prize taken from them by the Navy bound for Brest,” he whispered urgently.

Apparently an unknown force was sailing to make rendezvous with those in Brest. Together they could overwhelm
Duke William
and the two others, then be free to descend on any valuable British overseas possessions they chose.

Kydd was utterly resolute. “Nicholas, get yourself here!”

Tumbling down the ladder, he swung down to the capacious water barrels along the centerline at the forward end of the hold. He tapped them until he found an empty one. Knocking out one end, he began the laborious task of manhandling it toward the ladder.

Renzi didn’t question Kydd’s judgment: he moved across to help him shift the water cask.

Through gasps of effort Kydd explained: “What would you do if y’ saw your cargo of gunpowder afire?” The water barrel was upended at the base of the ladder. It was a simple matter to stuff it with packing straw. Kydd fetched bilge water, which he liberally sprinkled over the straw. “Need a lot of smoke, not much fire,” he said, and brought the lanthorn.

His eyes shone — with exhilaration or fear Renzi could not be sure.

“Here goes — we get blown t’ glory together or . . .” Kydd opened the lanthorn and ignited a wisp of straw. The tiny flame seemed to illuminate the entire hold, filling it with ruddy dancing shadows.

He dropped it into the barrel and wisps of gray-white smoke began to issue upward.

At the top of the hold the smoke gathered, swelling and building. Kydd fed in more wet straw while Renzi eased the hatch back a little and returned.

The smoke got thicker, stinging Kydd’s eyes, but they did not have to wait long. Above them there was a yell of fear, the hatch slammed open and white smoke billowed up on deck. There was no attempt to get at
the fire and Kydd could hardly blame them: tons of gunpowder ablaze was an awesome threat.

It wasn’t possible to see what was happening but the sounds were graphic enough. Disordered slatting and banging of sails meant that the wheel had been abandoned, sending them up into the wind. Panic and shouting — the thumps and clunking amidships could only be the dory being launched.

“No — wait until they’re well clear. They’ll be rowing f’r their lives, I believe,” said Kydd happily. He inspected the barrel — no need to let it blaze any more. He clapped its lid back on, choking the fire.

They emerged spluttering and red-eyed on deck. The dory was already a good half-mile away and making astonishing speed.

“So, what now?” said Renzi. The dory would surely return when they saw the fire die down.

“Get the boarding muskets,” Kydd replied.

Renzi reserved his views about how long they could keep the dory at bay. Night would be coming soon, and they had to face the urgent problem of how the two of them alone could handle the brig.

They hurried to the master’s cabin. There had been only a halfhearted attempt to clean away the bloodstains, but the small arms chest was in its place against the bulkhead. There were only old-fashioned pieces, but they had been carefully looked after. Kydd and Renzi loaded feverishly from the keg of powder and priming horn, the heavy balls rammed down over the charge.

There were six muskets, enough to deter all but the most determined onslaught. They returned on deck. Sure enough, the dory had stopped, rising and falling with the slight seas, oars held level. There were six of them by count, a prize crew not expecting trouble.

They continued to load until all six muskets were ready.

“I’ll fire, you load,” Kydd said briefly.

The dory bobbed about. They would have been spotted by now, and no doubt there would be an animated discussion going on, thought Renzi.

“So what is our plan, then?” he said lightly. He would not share his fears — he could only see them wallowing about out of control off the French coast and he put their survival time at hours at the most.

“We invite ’em aboard, o’ course,” Kydd said.

Renzi’s eyebrows rose.

“To kindly work our vessel f’r us!” Kydd grinned.

The dory spun about and began the laborious return to the brig. Kydd trained a musket and waited.

It approached and stopped fifty yards away, outside reliable musket range.

“
Je monte à bord!
”

“What’s he say?”

“He says he is coming aboard.”

A fat man in a purple coat with gold lace was talking, offhand and confident. He had left his hat behind and his unwigged head was covered in corn-colored stubble. He signaled to the man at the oars, who resumed his pull.

Kydd squeezed off a shot. It sent up a waterspout close to the bow of the dory. A furious shout came from the fat man, followed by a more placating tone. The others in the boat watched sullenly.

Renzi took the piece and reloaded it.

“And?”

“He’s offering to make it worth our while to let them continue on their way.”

Kydd loosed another shot, resulting in another angry shout that ended in wheedling.

“He’s saying that unless we yield he will not answer for the consequences,” Renzi reported.

Kydd smiled grimly.

“He says he has a corsair crew who are difficult to control-would we care to put ourselves under his protection?”

It was deadlock. They could not hope to keep the dory away forever, but the dory was in a dangerous position so far to sea and a perilously long pull back to land.

“Tell them to swim for it, Nicholas, the fat one first.”

“What?”

“If they want t’ get aboard, they do it one on one — fat sod first,” Kydd replied with relish.

A violent discussion began. The fat man shouted and gesticulated, his main attention on the thick-set seaman in the bows.

“Another ball, dare I ask?” Renzi said.

The shot went over the heads of the French, and the ball must have gone low, for the boat’s occupants all ducked violently.

The fat man stood up and waved. Kydd sent another ball close to his head and he collapsed back into the dory.

Tearing off his purple coat, he lowered himself, protesting volubly, over the side of the dory. He splashed and spluttered his way toward the brig, puffing and blowing like a grampus at the main chains.

Weapons reloaded, Kydd stood on deck, flintlock cradled as he waited for the man to haul himself up. “Citoyen Hector Jouet,” he snarled, dripping seawater copiously on the deck, wariness struggling with defiance on his face.

Kydd looked at Renzi, who broke into mellifluous French, bowing as he did so.

Jouet looked at him murderously and turned his back. Renzi cut off a length of line and efficiently secured his wrists. He was to remain at rest on the main hatch.

Meanwhile, the dory had crept closer. The well-built man in the bows was next. He plunged into the sea and with powerful strokes came rapidly up with the brig. Kydd’s musket idly lay in his direction as the man submitted to being bound, and sat next to the glowering Jouet. The dory was now only thirty yards off. “Don’t worry, let’s jus’ get ’em aboard,” Kydd said.

A mustached and wiry seaman next swam lazily toward them. The dory was now only some fifteen yards off. The rower lay on his oars. Kydd beckoned, his musket held loose. A man in plain black stood up, his eyes even at this distance fierce and glittering. His hand went inside his coat as though to scratch lice — but when it came out, a long gleaming pistol came with it. He sighted down the long barrel.

Behind Kydd came the sudden earsplitting crack of a musket. The man snapped rigid, then slowly fell forward to splash noisily into the water alongside the dory.

Renzi lowered the musket. “My bird, I think.”

On the main hatch the five men sat, darting deadly glances at them. Renzi knew it would take only one ill-judged move and he and Kydd would die.

Kydd looked at them dispassionately. The brig had two masts, square
rigged on both, and a big spanker on the main. Three men could handle the vessel if they attended to each mast in turn. If it came on to blow — well, the whole thing was a gamble anyway.

“Get the fat bugger up here, Nicholas. Secure his feet an’ sit him down forrard o’ the wheel.”

Renzi did so, and Kydd stood with the muzzle of his gun lazily covering the man. “Tell him he gets it in the belly first if there’s trouble. Now the hard-looking bastard — he goes on the wheel.”

The man padded forward and stood at the wheel, his black eyes unblinking in a mask of hatred.

“Better this ill-looking dog’s under eye.” Kydd shifted around so his flintlock covered both men.

“Now tell ’em all we’re blood ’n’ death desperate. If they try anything they’re dead ’uns for sure, but if they behave they may get t’ live.”

Renzi felt as though he was in a cage of lions waiting to pounce if the trainer lost his nerve. He knew that Kydd’s course of action was the only one possible, and he could only admire the cool thinking that had cut through hopelessness to a solution, and the toughness of the mind that had carried it through to make it work. “So, what course?” he asked. He was uncomfortably aware that neither of them had the faintest idea of ocean navigation, and they ran the risk of piling into the Scilly rocks or worse, if they were but points off course in the return to England.

“South-west!”

Renzi was dumbfounded — it would take them away from England. Then he understood. “You’re going to warn
Duke William
!”