Quarterdeck (35 page)

Gindler was waiting behind the rocky spur and when Kydd staggered up from the dark waters he threw a blanket round his frozen body and rubbed furiously. “Mr Kydd, you’re the maddest

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son-of-a-gun I’ve ever heard of!” he whispered. “Now let’s get something hot into you.”

It was King’s calibogus, spruce beer stiffened with New England rum, a drink to which Greaves had introduced him; taken hot in front of the log fi re, it was medicine indeed. While Kydd recounted his tale, Gindler threw clams and chunks of cod into a pot, with onion and bacon, and crushed biscuit for thickening, then let the mixture simmer and fi ll the snug cottage with an irresistible aroma.

“Er, do pardon me the liberty,” said Gindler, after the chow-der pot had been satisfyingly scraped empty, “I can’t help but observe that your character is so—different from your usual King’s offi cer, Tom. You never hang back when there’s a need to soil the hands, to bear a fi st directly—and you speak plainer, if you understand me.”

“Aye, well, that could be because I come fr’m a different land. I came aft through th’ hawse, as we say. But now I’m a gentleman,”

he added doubtfully.

“You are indeed,” Gindler said sincerely.

“How about your folk, Ned?” Kydd asked, cradling another calibogus.

“My mother’s family came over with the
Mayfl ower,
” Gindler said proudly. “Settled in the north, near Boston. Pa runs a business . . .”

A grey day broke, and Kydd’s sleepless night was over at last.

Today would end in a fl urry of gunfi re and a captured privateer—

or failure. Any one of those barbarous small rocks that had left his feet so sore could snag the line and part it, and they would be left with a useless end. So much could go wrong: even as they breakfasted, a crew member might look over the side of
Minotaure
and raise the alarm, and then it would be over before it started, or the ship might sail at dawn when
Tenacious
was not in the offi ng.

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Julian Stockwin

Kydd sat on the porch, brooding. “What do ye say we take a walk through th’ town? Perhaps we—”

“You must stay here, my friend. Your presence near the vessel at this time could be . . . unfortunate.” Gindler got to his feet. “I will undertake a reconnaissance.”

He returned quickly. “They’re ready for sea near enough, but there’s a little duck taken up residence under her stern.”

The morning dragged by; Kydd tried to learn a card game but it quickly palled. In the end they sat on the porch and talked, eyes straying out to sea.

“I believe we must take position now,” Gindler said lightly.

“We have our smack ready at hand.”

The craft was not big but had a single mast stepped to a forward thwart, and with a light spritsail took the morning breeze with a will. In nondescript fi shermen’s gear Kydd and Gindler saw they were one of a handful of boats chancing the day for sea-bass.

The entrance to the inner sound was no more than a couple of miles across and the one league boundary a half-mile beyond.

Gindler eased sheets and steered for the northern point.

“There she is!” cried Kydd exultantly. HMS
Tenacious
under topsails was calmly approaching from the north. All the players were now converging and it was only a matter of time before the fi nal act.

Minotaure
had to sail by noon; her captain was waiting for the last possible moment and, as a consequence, would have to face
Tenacious.
But he would have been told about the midday signal arrangement—why did he wait and risk the confrontation?

Then it dawned on Kydd. Junon was both confi dent and cool.

He
wanted
the English ship to present herself: he knew he could out-manoeuvre the big ship and in this way could establish where

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she was and therefore be free of the threat of an unpleasant surprise later.

The privateer’s fore topsail rose: she was about to proceed.

Kydd’s heart beat faster. Her headsails fl uttered into life and, as he watched, her bow detached from the wharf. The French tricolour was lowered from her ensign staff but reappeared at her mizzen peak. Other canvas made its appearance and
Minotaure
stood out into the sound.

Her actions were not lost on
Tenacious
whose battle-ensign soared up to the mainmasthead in answer. Kydd pictured the frenzied rush to quarters and was torn between the desire to be back aboard his ship in action and the knowledge of what he had to do.

Tenacious
stood squarely across the entrance at the edge of the boundary, heaving to in the slight winds, while the privateer advanced cautiously towards her under just topsails, not giving the slightest indication of which side she was going to pass.

Kydd’s admiration for the coolness of the French captain increased as he noticed that the wind’s direction had
Tenacious
hove to with broadside towards, normally a battle-winning raking position, but the bigger ship could not in any circumstances open fi re into United States waters and certainly not risk shot ricocheting into the town. Therefore
Minotaure
could move forward in perfect safety.

“We need t’ get under her stern,” Kydd growled. Gindler sheered the boat round and edged more into the sound, keeping safely to one side. The privateer drew nearer and Kydd visualised the wedge and the little bundle bumping over the mud of the sea-bed, hopefully then to stream out behind—or they might already have been torn off.

Kydd spoke, more to himself than to Gindler: “When she makes her move, she’ll loose sail t’ crack on speed and only then
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choose her side an’ put over her helm sharp. Therefore our signal will be when she looses more sail.”
Tenacious
would have little chance of reacting in time, being stationary in the water with only the chance of a fl eeting shot as the faster vessel surged past.

The privateer came on, seeming immense from the little smack. Her upper decks appeared full of men and her gunports 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 fl ooding 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, fi nd 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 fi nal 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

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in the uneven wake and the wind around the looming stern was fi tful 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
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orders for setting sail were reversed, panic and fear fl ooding 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 fi nally pulled Congress into line. You have your navy. Leave it to me to take care of the rest of the world.”

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Julian Stockwin

“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 fl eet 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 fi nally. 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 fi rst 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

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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 fi nal 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.