Quarterdeck (34 page)

Gindler shook his head. “We? Recollect, Tom, that this is the territory of the United States. Should I act against a ship of a neutral fl ag while she’s lying in our waters I’d be hoist by both sides.”

“So I’m on my own again.”

“And I’m duty-bound to oppose any action against a neutral—especially in one of our ports, you’ll understand.”

Kydd slumped in his chair.

“Tell me, Tom, are we friends?” Gindler asked.

Surprised, Kydd agreed.

“Then my scruples tells me it is no crime to help a friend.

What do you think?”

An immediate council of war concentrated on one overriding thing: unless
Minotaure
could be slowed there was little chance that
Tenacious
could catch her.

“Then we’re th’ only possible chance,” Kydd said morosely.

“It seems that way. How about a drag-sail?”

“It would easily be discovered, soon as they put t’ sea and felt its effect. Perhaps I could cut half through a brace or somethin’ that will carry away at the right time,” Kydd said, more in despair than hope.

“With the barky alert and swarming with men? I don’t think so.”

It seemed ludicrous to contemplate two men against a frigate-sized ship, but Kydd persevered. “There is another way . . .” he pondered. “To slow the Frenchy’s one thing t’ bring him to us, but there’s his steering as well.”

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“Steering? Helm and tiller ropes?”

“His rudder.”

“You do anything with that and he’s sure to know just as quick.”

“Not so, if m’ idea is sound.” It was years ago, but the image was as clear as yesterday. An English frigate careening at a remote island in the south Pacifi c Ocean—and, in the balmy oceanic winds, the crew scraping and cleaning the vast rearing bulk of the hull. He had been at work around the stern, overawed by the hulking presence of the thirty-foot-high rudder at close quarters, and had gone to inspect its working.

“Ned,” Kydd said cautiously, “may I quiz you on y’r understanding of how rudders are hung?”

“By all means.”

“A pin—the pintle on the rudder, going through the eye of a gudgeon on the hull. Now I ask ye to agree this. At the last extremity o’ the hull is the sternpost.”

“Yes, this must be so. The underwater run of the hull coming together in a fi ne upright sternpost.”

“And the rudder fi ts to th’ sternpost with your gudgeons and pintles. Now I particularly desire ye to remark the gap between the forward edge of the rudder and the after edge o’ the sternpost. The thickness of the rudder in a frigate would amaze you—

it’s every bit of a foot or more, as must be th’ sternpost, and I mean t’ thrust a wedge between them.”

“A magnifi cent scheme, but pray how will you apply this wedge?”

“Er, we’ll discuss that part later. F’r now, we have to settle some details. First, th’ gap is only an inch or two wide. No wedge this thick c’n stand the sea forces of a rudder. But—and this needs y’r verifying—there is a very suitable place. At th’

point where the pintle meets the gudgeon the shipwrights cut out

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a space in th’ rudder below it, or else we cannot unship the rudder. This they call th’ score.”

“And how big is your gap there?”

“Above six inches—so now we have two fl at surfaces a foot long an’ six inches apart. A wedge that size has a chance.” Kydd grinned boyishly. “Just think, Ned, the Frenchy goes t’ sea, sees
Tenacious
coming for him an’ throws over his helm t’ slip by one side, but his helm is jammed. Before he has time t’ work out the trouble he’s kind enough to deliver himself straight to us.”

“Congratulations—but of course—”

“Well, yes, there is th’ question of how t’ get the wedge in there, I’ll grant ye.”

“And what sort of ship goes to sea with jammed steering?”

“Ah, I’ve thought of that.”

“I’m gratifi ed to hear it.”

Kydd gave a dry smile. “This is callin’ for something special, and here it is. We screw an eye into one end of th’ wedge and secure a line to it, which is passed through our gap. If you tug on the line it brings the wedge whistling up an’ smack into the gap.

But it won’t be us that’s tugging . . .”

“I stand amazed. Who will?”

“Ah! Your old friend a drag-sail. It’s only a small piece o’

canvas rolled up and secured to the opposite end of the line, and when it opens it does the tugging.”

“How?”

“Well, we need the helm t’ jam only at the right moment—so we must fi nd a trigger to stream our drag-sail just at that time.

And here it is—we bundle the canvas up with twine and when we want it to open an’ start pulling the wedge we break the twine.”

“Which is . . .”

“Yes, well, this is a long piece of twine, and if you look f’r a
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discreet little pick-up buoy astern o’ the Frenchy, then that’s the end o’ the twine.”

Gindler didn’t say anything.

“Well?” asked Kydd anxiously.

“I can only . . . I have two objections.”

“Oh?”

“Who is going to affi x the device? And who is going to fi nd our wee buoy—maybe under gunfi re?”

“I’ll do both,” said Kydd solemnly, but he had no idea how.

The boathouse provided all they needed. A woodworking bench, try-plane, saws—it would be a straightforward enough task.

Kydd blessed the time he had spent in a Caribbean dockyard working for a master shipwright.

“Ned, I want some good wood for m’ wedge.”

Gindler fossicked about and, from a dark corner, dragged out what looked like a small salvaged ship frame, dark with age.

“This should suit. It’s live oak, and very hard. Capital for hacking out a wedge.”

“Aye, well . . .”

“And it damn near doesn’t fl oat.”

“Done!”

The try-plane hissed as Kydd applied himself to the work, watched by an admiring Gindler. Indeed, the wood was extremely dense, and Kydd sweated at the task. Gindler had already found the twine and was snipping round a piece of dirty canvas; then he rummaged for a screw eye.

Kydd realised he needed to see the French ship again in the light. The big privateer still lay alongside the commercial wharf but with a renewed, purposeful air, loading sea stores and working at her rigging. As he looked across the little bay at her, it became clear that there was no easy way to get close: there were sentries on deck and quay, and the ship was alert.

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259

Kydd scanned the shoreline: the wharf was set on timber pilings. If he could get among them . . . and there, at the end, he saw a spur of light grey rocks extending into the sea.

Back in the boathouse a lanthorn glowed. “I believe I have a chance,” Kydd told Gindler.

“Yes, Tom. When will you go?” Gindler was indistinct in the evening shadows but his voice had an edge to it.

“It has t’ be before midnight. The tide is on the ebb and her gunports’ll fall below the level of th’ wharf before then.” He picked up the neat piece of canvas Gindler had prepared. It was rolled tightly together with sailmaker’s twine, to which a stronger line was securely fi xed.

“How long will you have this?” The coil of light line seemed a lot but was probably only fi fty feet or so.

“I think all o’ that,” Kydd said. The longer it was, the safer the task of picking up the buoy and yanking the line. “And th’ last thing—our buoy.” He cast about for an object that would serve and found some duck decoys: one of the ducklings would suit admirably. He secured it to the light line—and all was complete.

In the blackness of night they stood at the edge of the woods where they were closest to the privateer and had a front-row view of the ship. Lanthorns in her rigging cast bright pools of light on to the wharf; fi gures paced slowly along the dockside. Work had ceased. This would not be the case if an early-dawn departure was planned.

“Well, here we are,” Gindler whispered, “and it’s here that we part, my friend. I cannot in all conscience go further, but I’d like to shake the hand of a brave man.”

“Let’s be started,” Kydd muttered. He tucked the precious bundle of canvas and rope tightly under his arm and slipped down to the water’s edge, careful to stay in the shadows of the spur of rock.

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There he paused, safe for the moment, and listened to the quiet chuckle and ripple of the calm evening sea. The ship was over a hundred yards away—and when he stepped round the spur there was a dozen yards of open beach before the shelter of the wharf piling. For that distance he would be in plain view of the ship.

The single thing in his favour was surprise. They might expect a rush by an armed party, but never by a lone, unarmed man. It was small comfort, but it also seemed the height of absurdity to be going into battle against a heavily gunned privateer armed only with a lump of wood and a piece of dirty canvas.

In the shadow of the rocks he stripped down to his long un-derwear and stockings, awkward and vulnerable. He laid down his clothes carefully and stumbled over to the inky black sea. He could not risk the forty feet of open beach; the only alternative was to wade off into the outer blackness.

The water was fearfully cold and his heart nearly failed him.

He forced himself to continue, his feet feeling the sharp stones and shells on the rocky bottom. Deeper he went—the cold biting into his legs then his waist, leaving him gasping for breath. Out past the end of the spur, the ship was now in plain view and as he turned to round the end he lowered himself into the numbing water to his neck. Past the rock, the bottom turned mercifully to the softness of mud and he leaned forward, shuddering with cold, pushing on parallel to the beach and praying he could not be seen.

Minotaure
was bows to sea, her carved stern towards him.

There was a light in the captain’s cabin, a dim gold point through the mullioned windows. A couple of fi gures stood together on her after deck and Kydd could see the occasional red of a drawn pipe, but the rest was in shadow.

There was the odd scurry of unknown sea creatures at his feet, the stubbing of a toe against an invisible barnacled rock—

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261

and what seemed an eternity of knifi ng cold. At last he saw the edge of the wharf piling resolve out of the darkness.

Gratefully he entered the safety of the overhang with its concentrated sea odours and stood upright. A mistake. The tiny evening breeze was now a searching icy blast that stopped his breath.

He lowered himself back into the water, which was almost warm by contrast.

Stumbling along in the darkness he passed between the heavily barnacled and slimy piles, clutching his bundle until he came abreast of the looming black vastness of the privateer. Turning towards it he moved forward and felt the slope of the sea-bed suddenly drop away. He pulled back in alarm. He was an awkward swimmer and, encumbered with his device, he could not possibly do other than move upright.

With a sinking heart he realised it was logical to build the wharf for larger ships where the water was deep enough for them to come close in—
Minotaure
would draw fi fteen or twenty feet.

Far out of his depth. His frozen mind struggled and he looked around wildly. Past the stern of the ship, tucked in just under the wharf edge he saw a low, elongated shape, a ship’s side punt used by sailors to stand in as they worked their way down the hull caulking and painting.

He pulled the little raft towards him, hoisted his bundle in, and hanging off one end, he thrust out. The punt glided towards the black bulk of the ship’s hull and fi nally bumped woodenly against it. Kydd’s feet dangled in the freezing depths.

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
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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 fi nd it. He felt the barnacle-studded fi tting and pulled himself to it. The fi nal 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 fi st 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 fi ngers 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 fl oat away. The little bundle, weighted with a fi shing lead, sank also, and all that was left of his night’s work was a shabby little duckling fl oating nearby.