The Privateer's Revenge

by Julian Stockwin

  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 . . .

  The harbour opened to view at the same time as Vicq, no more than a few hundred yards distant, triumphantly fired a gun to weather. Kydd saw with a sinking heart that any channel between Roscoff and the Île de Batz was lost in a desolate and impenetrable rockbound maze.

  “Give ’im best, Mr Kydd,” Rowan said sadly. “Ye did y’ damnedest for us.” Mortification boiled in Kydd. He felt an insane urge to throw the ship on
the reefs to rob Vicq of his victory, but this would be at the cost of lives.

  It was time. “G’ rot ye for a chicken-hearted scut!” came from behind.

  Kydd swung round to a flush-faced Tranter, who had clearly taken refuge in drink as the chase drew to its inevitable climax. “Clap a stopper on’t, y’ useless shab!” Kydd retorted.

  “Or what?” sneered Tranter. “We’re goin’ t’ rot in some Frog chokey f’r years, thanks t’ you! A dandy-prat King’s man as thinks he’s—”

  “One more word from ye, an I’ll—”

  “Ye’re finished! I’ll be takin’ no orders from you no more, Cap’n!”

  Kydd’s pent-up frustration exploded in a fist that felled the man to the deck in one. At that moment a shaft of pale sunlight turned the dull grey seas ahead to green; under the surface the black splotches of seaweed now could be seen streaming away from rocks that had lain hidden before and Kydd saw his chance.

  The waters of the great Gulf of Avranches were draining fast into the Atlantic with the ebb—but the seaweed was not pointing straight ahead: it was at an angle, crossing their bow, indicating that the current was not going round the Île de Batz but instead between it and the port, racing into the confusion of crags and half-tide islets between that had seemed so impassable.

  “Take us in!” he roared.

  Nervously the hand at the tiller worked the vessel round the last rocks and committed Bien Heureuse to the hazard. The current clutched at the lugger and whirled her forward. Distant shouts came from Vicq’s vessel, but as Kydd turned to see what the Frenchman would do, the vessel hauled out for the seaward side of the big island and disappeared.

  Clearly Vicq had no desire to imperil his own ship, but he was confirming, too, that Kydd had stumbled on local knowledge of a channel between, and was hastening round to trap him at the other end.

  Or was he? Kydd’s first instinct was to throw out an anchor and, after a time, double back the way they had come to freedom, leaving a frustrated Vicq to wait for them at the wrong end. But what if the wily corsair had considered this and was at that moment hove-to, ready for an unwary Bien Heureuse to track back into his arms? Or did he reason that Kydd would know this and instead press forward?

  Distracted, Kydd noticed suddenly that the current was converging through scattered islets on a deeper but narrow passage close to the island—and it was carrying them along at a breathtaking pace. If he had had any ideas of returning it would be much harder the farther he went in. And now the tide had receded, exposing vast rock-strewn sandbanks and beaches as they left Roscoff to its somnolence.

  There was no easy answer, just an even chance that Kydd would make the right choice. “Put us in the lee o’ that bluff ahead,” he decided. “We’ll stream a kedge b’ th’ stern.” The craggy cliff-face protruding out from the island with crumbling ruins atop would serve as a temporary refuge, and the ship’s bows would be in the right direction if Vicq came after them so that they had to cut and run.

  The small anchor splashed down and held. Roscoff was in plain view only a mile back but, dried out, was no threat and the lowering island was, as far as he could see, uninhabited. They were safe, but for how long?

  “Get th’ boat in th’ water—now, y’ lubbers.” Vicq was on the other side of the island. He would go and see for himself. Kydd swung over the side into the boat and took the oars. “Get aboard— jus’ you,” he told the seaman holding the painter.

  “N-no, not me!” the man muttered, shrinking back.

  “Be damned t’ ye!” Kydd exploded. “I need someone t’ hold th’ boat, y’ villain!”

  Not a man moved.

  “Anyone!” he bellowed.

  “Stan’ aside, y’ dogs!” shrilled a sailor from the group of men forward, pushing through with a swagger. “I’m wi’ ye, Cap’n.” The boarding ended in an undignified tangle of arms and legs, a cutlass clattering to the bottom boards.

  “Pookie!” Kydd hissed. “Get out this instant, y’ chuckle-headed looby.” But as the man with the painter saw his chance and let go, the boat was taken by the current and slid away rapidly.

  “I’ll—I’ll tan y’ hide, Pookie! I’ll—I’ll . . .” Kydd said angrily, tugging hard at the oars to bring the boat round. A glance showed that too much time would be lost in a return so he pulled it round and headed in.

  Beyond two long islets there was a wide beach and he stroked furiously for it. The boat grounded in the sand with a hiss and he scrambled out. “Seize a hold on th’ painter,” he panted, “an’ if ye lets it float off, I’ll—I’ll slit y’ gizzard.”

  “Aye aye, Cap’n.”

  Kydd pounded off along the beach until he found a way up to the scrubby top. He stopped and looked back. The figure at the boat was clutching the rope with both hands. He shook his fist; the child waved back jauntily.

  A flock of goats scattered at his appearance, and a young herds-man stared at Kydd open-mouthed as he raced past over the patchy ground to the opposite side.

  “Bigod!” Kydd gasped, as he dropped down to look. Tucked in within a headland Vicq was just coming to a light anchor, his sails brailed and ready to loose.

  Kydd leaped to his feet and ran back the way he had come, the goatherd still mesmerised by his antics. His eyes sought out the boat—and his heart nearly stopped. It was still there but the little figure was surrounded by others. Faint shouts eddied up from the beach.

  He ran down the sand, yelling hoarsely; at least they were not in uniform. While their cries were no French that Kydd could understand, their meaning was plain. The little soul they were shouting at held the boat firmly with one hand and was keeping them at bay with a ridiculously large pistol in the other.

  Kydd thrust past, set the boat a-swim, turned it into the waves and scrambled in to take the oars. “Get in, y’ rascal,” he panted, “an’, f’r God’s sake, be careful wi’ the pistol.”

  The child struggled over the gunwales and sat forward as Kydd pulled hard out to sea. “Didn’t matter nohow, it were empty. No one’ll teach me how t’ load it. Will you, Mr Kydd?”

  “Now, look, Pookie,” Kydd panted, “I thank ye f’r th’ service but if’n ye—”

  They came up with Bien Heureuse and were pulled alongside. While he clambered aboard Kydd called to Rowan, “He’s waiting for us, sure enough.” At the other’s grave expression he laughed. “So we’ll disappoint. Cut th’ cable an’ run t’ th’ west.”

  Ready facing the right way, sail was loosed and, wind and tide with them, Bien Heureuse began to shoot through the tortuous channel to the open Atlantic. Nearly overcome with relief Kydd blurted out, unthinking, “An’ see Turner here gets a double tot.”

  The go-between with the conspirators in Paris arrived to meet d’Auvergne late that night. “Le Vicomte Robert d’Aché, this is Mr Renzi, my most trusted confidant.” The man was slightly built, with shrewd, cynical features.

  With a polite smile, d’Auvergne went on, “Le vicomte is anxious that the shipment of arms is brought forward. How does it proceed, Renzi?”

  “The transport from England is delayed by foul winds,” Renzi said smoothly, sensing the real reason for the question was to reassure d’Aché. “I’m sanguine that it shall be with us within the week, sir. Four hundred Tower muskets and one hundred thousand ball cartridge. We lack only the destination.” Setting in motion the requisition had been an interminable grind but allegedly the arms were at sea; local arrangements must be made.

  “La Planche Guillemette. Sign and countersign ‘Le Prince de Galles’—‘Le Roi Bourbon.’”

  “Very well, sir. As soon as I have word . . .”

  D’Auvergne smiled beatifically. “Excellent. Renzi, do escort le vicomte down to the privy stairs. His boat awaits him there.”

  Renzi attempted conversation on the way but tension radiated from a man well aware that he was about to re-enter Napoleonic France in circumstances that were the stuff of nightmares.

  CHAPTER 13

  FAR
FROM SHOWING RESENTMENT at his handling of Tranter, who was keeping sullenly out of the way, the crew seemed to have settled. Kydd saw willing hands and respectful looks. He lost no time in setting them to boarding practice; it would be a humiliation, not to say a calamity, if they were to be repulsed through lack of discipline or skills.

  He appointed Calloway master-at-arms in charge of practice, and for an hour or two the decks resounded to the clash and clatter of blades while the ship stretched ever westward along a desolate coast. Kydd’s plan now was to put distance between him and Vicq, and at dawn be at the point where France ended its westward extent and turned sharply south into the Bay of Biscay. This should be a prime lurking place. All shipping from the south must turn the corner there—up from Spain and Portugal and even farther, from the Mediterranean and Africa, all converging on the Channel at the same point.

  There were disadvantages, of course: not far south was Brest and therefore the British fleet on station. Few French would be willing to run the blockade and, coast-wise, traffic would be wary. But the pickings were better here than most.

  Shortly after three that afternoon they were given their chance: as they lay Portsall Rocks abeam a ship passed into view from the grey haze on the starboard bow. It firmed to an unremarkable square-rigged vessel that held its course to pass them.

  “A Balt!” Rowan said, with certainty. Bluff-bowed and rigged as a snow it certainly qualified but when Bien Heureuse threw out her colours as a signal to speak she held steady and hoisted the Spanish flag.

  “A Baltic Spaniard?” Kydd grunted. “I think not.” The vessel was near twice their size but its ponderous bulk, rolling along, would indicate neither a privateer nor a man-o’-war.

  Calloway stood down his men and came aft. “Them’s Spanish colours, Mr Kydd,” he said.