The Privateer's Revenge (10 page)

They wheeled about, racing past the silent bulk of the farmhouse and to the ditch. As they clambered over the wall there was the sudden tap of a musket, then others, dismayingly close.

“Move!” Kydd bawled. There was no need now for quiet. They stumbled and rushed towards the sea, tripping and cursing in their frenzy.

Kydd stopped suddenly. “Where's the marines?” he panted. A double crack to his rear answered him. Ambrose was behind the wall delaying the troops closing in, two firing while two reloaded. It would hold for minutes at most.

Kydd and his men made the beach. The pale sands gave nothing away—there was no boat to be seen. The end must be very near, despite Ambrose's sacrifice. Kydd traced the line of the water's edge along the beach until his eyes watered.

The firing stopped, but then out on the dunes flanking them musket fire stabbed again—inland. The marines must still be doing their duty but it would not be long now.

At that moment a rocket, just half a cable offshore, soared up and burst in a bright sprinkle of stars. “A gun!” Kydd roared. “Any wi' a musket, fire it now!”

But, of course, there was none. In the inky darkness no sailor untrained in the art could possibly be relied on to reload a musket; the marines must do it by feel.

“There's no one?” Kydd pleaded.

“Sir! I have this,” Andrews said shamefacedly, handing over a little folding pistol. He had taken it just in case, a foolish notion, but now . . .

“Priming powder?”

It was in a little silver flask. Kydd snatched it and sprinted to the nearest rock. He shook out a large pile and, holding the pistol lock close, stood clear and pulled the trigger. The powder caught in a bright flare, which died quickly but did the job.

“Come on!” Kydd yelled hoarsely. “For y'r lives!” He broke cover and ran to the water's edge. And there it was, their boat pulling strongly inshore, Stirk at the tiller. It grounded and Kydd stood in the waves, urging the others into it.

“We gotta leave now, sir!” Stirk pleaded. His crew were rotating the boat seaward for a fast withdrawal to the safety of the sea.

“Wait!”

All along the line of dunes the flash of muskets was increasing. Twice Kydd felt the whip of bullets close by. The boat was afloat and pointing out to sea, but he remained standing in the shallows with his hand on the gunwale.

Then there was a flurry of firing from up the beach and figures were staggering across the sand, one with another over his back. “Ambrose an' the marines!”

Willing hands helped them into the boat and, with frantic strokes, the little craft finally won the open sea.

Troubled and depressed, Renzi stood by the main shrouds, gazing out into the hostile darkness. The talk of a death-wish was nonsense, of course, but it pointed up the core of the difficulty: since losing Rosalynd, Kydd had turned hard and bitter, and no longer possessed the humanity that had informed his leadership before.

It had destabilised his men, who could not be expected to follow one whose character they could not fathom, whose human feeling was so much in doubt and who was said to be deranged by grief. Above all, the iron control and remoteness now set him apart.

There was a distant spatter of firing ashore. Renzi stiffened: the party must have been discovered, he thought. They could not last long against regular French troops and he gripped the shroud.

Standish appeared next to him. “Seems he's got himself into a pother,” he said casually. “To be expected. We'll give him an hour, I think.” Renzi could not trust himself to reply.

Another spasm of firing occurred farther along—it grew to a crescendo, musket flashes now atop the dunes all along the beach. Then it lessened and stopped abruptly. It was not possible in the dark to make out what had happened, but Standish let out a theatrical sigh. “It seems to be all over with Mr Kydd, I do believe.”

“You'll send another boat,” Renzi snapped.

“I will not. There's half the French army there waiting for us to blunder in to the rescue. I'll be taking
Teazer
to sea and—”

“Boat ahoooyy!”
The fo'c'sle lookout's voice cracked with feeling. A distant cry came out of the night. A seaman ran aft and touched his hat to Standish.

“Our boat in sight, sir,” he said, with relish.

The tired party came over the bulwark, ashen-faced, the wounded marine handed up tenderly. Kydd went straight aft to Standish. “I'm t' see the admiral. You have th' ship till I return.” Without acknowledging Renzi he went over the side and the boat shoved off.

Renzi noted sadly that Kydd had not said a word of praise to the men or ordered a double tot for them, something inconceivable before.

The boat came back quickly; as soon as Kydd was inboard he summoned Standish. “Th' admiral has decided t' resume th' action. We stand to at dawn.”

This time it was to be both bomb-vessels,
Sulphur
and her tenders having arrived during the night, and not only that but a daytime assault for maximum accuracy. The tides allowed for an approach at five in the morning and the two ships would pound away for as long as the tide allowed, probably until ten—or until they were overwhelmed by vessels emboldened by daylight, which the French must surely have in readiness. Much would depend on Kydd's in-shore squadron . . .

The two bomb-vessels crabbed in and began the elaborate preparations with three anchors and springs attached in such a way that the vessel could be oriented precisely. It was then a technical matter for the gunners: the charge exactly calculated for range and the fuse cut at the right point to explode the thirteen-inch mortar shell just above the ground for deadly effect.

As the day broke with wistful autumn sunshine the bomb-vessels opened up. Sheets of flame shrouded the small ships in a vast cloud, again the heavy concussion, and this time it was possible to glimpse a black speck hurled high in a parabola, trailing a thin spiral. Seconds later from behind the headland a muffled crash was followed by a lazy column of dirty smoke.

The provocation was extreme and there was every possibility that before long the beleaguered French would burst out of the harbour in a vengeful lunge to crush their tormentors.

The frigate moved in as close as she dared, leadsmen in the chains and kedges streamed, but there was no avoiding the fact that the bomb-vessels could only be defended by the smaller ships with a lesser draught.
Teazer
and the cutter stayed off the entrance to the harbour.

Suddenly, from the harbour mouth came a succession of gunboats—one by one in an endless stream—a growing array until a full twenty-two of the ugly craft were in view.

“Attend at th' entrance!” roared Kydd aft to the signal crew. All possible forces were needed, even if it stripped bare the bomb-vessel defences. “An' give 'em a gun!” As the red-flag signal whipped up, a gun cracked out forward to lend urgency.

The other two sloops hauled their wind for the entrance, but before they arrived the gunboats were roping themselves together in a double line facing outward. “Be damned t' it!” Standish spluttered. “They're defending the harbour as they think we mean to cut 'em out!”

It was telling evidence of the respect and awe in which the Royal Navy was held by her enemies. Nevertheless, the battering the French were receiving was murderous and unceasing. Surely they would attempt some kind of retaliation.

In the light morning airs, powder smoke hung about the ships in slowly roiling masses as the mortars thudded again and yet again, the dun clouds spreading gradually far and wide. There was little response from the forts, sited to overlook the port; the French were paying dearly for having ignored the possibility of an artillery strike from the sea.

Dowse pointed over the side. “Mr Kydd, ye can see—we're makin' foul water.” The tide now fast on the ebb, their keel was stirring up seabed mud.

The bomb-vessels concluded their work and their windlasses heaved in their ground tackle, but it was this moment that held the greatest danger: Would the enemy see the fleet in retreat and throw caution to the winds to seek revenge?

Cerberus
lingered until the last possible moment to cover the withdrawal before bracing round for the run out to sea, her admiral's flag proudly aloft. Still the enemy remained out of sight. But it was time to leave:
Teazer
jockeyed round to take position astern of the flagship, the last to leave the field of battle.

Then, suddenly, the frigate slewed sharply to starboard and slowed to a crawl before stopping altogether. Her sails were let fly, then doused, the big man-o'-war now motionless. “She's gone aground,” hissed Kydd. “We close an' take th' admiral off.”

Things had changed catastrophically: the powerful ship was now helpless. Hard and fast with the ebb far from spent, without the means to manoeuvre, she lay easy prey.

“Sir, we stand ready t' take you off,” bellowed Kydd, through the speaking trumpet to
Cerberus
's quarterdeck. Saumarez could be seen in serious consultation with Selby. Hard decisions must be made: to abandon ship now, in good order and no loss of life, or be forced later to a humiliating scramble over the side in the face of hostile gunfire.

Disdaining an offered hailer, Saumarez cupped his hands and roared back, “I shall stand by the ship, Mr Kydd. Do as you see fit for the defending of the bombs—their preservation is of great importance.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Kydd acknowledged.

The bomb-vessels even now were making a slow but steady retreat to the north-west—but if any of the small squadron was detached, would the remainder be enough to discourage a determined attack on the stranded frigate? On the other hand all could be retained and deployed to prevent the enemy leaving Granville, the only threat of any consequence. But if, once out of sight, the bombs were set upon . . .

“Tell
Harpy
t' come within hail,” Kydd called. It was a moot point whether his temporary command of a squadron defending the bombs could be said still to exist in their absence but he had his orders from the admiral.
Harpy
was dispatched with the schooner
Eling
to chase after and stay with the bombs.

“
Scorpion
t' come within hail.” The bigger ship-sloop affected not to notice the signal but, at
Teazer
's gun, went about and came up, pointedly rounding to windward off her quarter. Kydd ignored the calculated slight: the custom of service was for the senior to lieto while the junior went round her stern to leeward and Carthew, no doubt, was making a point.

“I'd be obliged should you stay wi' the frigate,” Kydd hailed. “
Teazer
an'
Carteret
will lie off th' harbour.” There was an unintelligible acknowledgement from Carthew and the three-master curved away, leaving just one brig-sloop and one tiny cutter to meet whatever challenge would emerge from between those stone piers.

The day wore on; it was clear that
Cerberus
had lost the race against the tide—she was now visibly at an angle and unnaturally still. And the significance would not be lost on the French. With such a prize within reach, there for the taking, it could now be only a matter of time.

Another hour. Now the frigate lay heeled over at a crazy angle, her guns either in the water or impotently skyward, her green-streaked copper bulking indecently, her men moving hand over hand along the decks, the ship a picture of helplessness.

When the attack did come it was cunningly mounted and rapidly carried out. Without warning a stream of other gunboats under oars issued out, one after another. In the light winds
Teazer
and
Carteret
were too late in closing with them, and with their carronades' short range could only blaze away in futile desperation as the shallow-draught gunboats swiftly made away against the wind for the north of the Videcocq rocks, where no British ship could follow.

It was a master-stroke. The gunboats were positioned such that their weapons could bear on the helpless frigate—only one long gun each, but these were full-size eighteen- or twenty-four-pounders. Together they would have the same weight of metal as the broadside of a frigate of equal size. And
Cerberus
could do nothing but endure until the inevitable capitulation.

The guns opened with slow and deliberate fire. The first shot sent up a plume of water just short, others joining to surround the frigate with a forest of splashes—and then, aim improving, dark holes appeared in the naked hull.

Renzi watched in alarm; Kydd's squadron had failed. In just a short while the admiral's flag must be lowered in abject surrender. Then, suddenly, his friend seemed to lose his reason. He wheeled his sloop about and sent her pell-mell at the harbour itself.

In the smoke and confusion of combat a miracle happened. The gunboats abandoned their prey and retreated inside the walls of the harbour, and when the tide returned
Cerberus
was duly refloated and was able to make off to safety.