The Privateer's Revenge (7 page)

Teazer
edged away to make sea-room, but Queripel said anxiously, “An' nothing t' starb'd.” At the same time a distant avalanche of thuds sounded and the sea was alive with rising plumes. Boxed in as they were by sand-shoals to the south and the peninsula to the north, their approach track left precious little space for manoeuvre—and of a certainty the gunners in the old fort were well aware of it. No inquisitive British warship was to be allowed sight of the harbour.

A ball slapped through the fore topsail, leaving a ragged hole, another parted a backstay with a musical twang, and they were not yet within a mile or so of the harbour. Dowse whispered to Standish, “Action t' be avoided, did ye say, sir?”

“Hold y' course!” snarled Kydd, as the helmsman allowed the ship to fall off the wind.

Standish whipped up his glass. “Sir—I see . . . two, no, three and more craft under sail and leaving.”

Kydd raised his own telescope, then lowered it. “Gunboats,” he said heavily.

It altered everything. Small lug-rigged open craft they each mounted a cannon in their bows. One, two—possibly four or five—
Teazer
could take on but, well-handled, a swarm together could bring the broadside of a frigate to bear. It was time to retreat.

Renzi entered the cabin noiselessly to see Kydd at his desk, head in his hands. He stood by the stern windows for a moment, then turned. “An unfortunate situation,” he said softly. His friend did not look up. “As would vex the saintliest,” he added.

Kydd raised his head and mumbled something, but Renzi was shocked by the red-rimmed, puffy eyes. Kydd gestured wearily at a chair and Renzi sat quietly.

“I'll not quit,” Kydd croaked.

“It would seem we have little choice,” Renzi said.

“Standish wants t' land a party an' scale th' heights t' look down the other side into th' harbour.”

“With the old town all along the top and roused by our presence? I think not.”

“A boat in th' night? But they'd never see anything.”

Renzi pursed his lips. No course of action suggested itself and in going on he was only humouring Kydd. “Then possibly some sort of . . . spy, agent who, when landed, will mingle unnoticed and . . .”

Kydd's head lifted. “You?” he said, and smiled.

Renzi treasured the look for the memory of shared times now past, but said wryly, “The character of a Norman townsman might well be beyond my powers, I fear.”

The light died in Kydd's eyes more and he slumped back. “I shall think on it,” he said finally. “Tell Mr Queripel t' present himself with his charts, if y' would.”

Shortly, HMS
Teazer
got under way from where she had been lying hove-to and made away to the west, yet another frustrated English man-o'-war thwarted in her mission to uncover Bonaparte's secrets. No doubt there were those in Granville seeing her fade away over the horizon who were blessing the port's odd topography for repelling the foe so easily.

But among the islands of Chausey
Teazer
ceased her retreat and rounded to in a channel east of the larger. Renzi and Standish waited at the conn, the rich stink of seaweed drifting out from the scatter of rocky islets. A desolate cluster of sod huts was the only sign of life.

“It sounds a right madness,” Standish said sullenly. Renzi fore-bore to reply, for Kydd had been curt and unfeeling: he alone would carry out the plan. Any other conversation was stilled by Kydd's arrival on deck.

“Sir, you've given thought to what this means for the customary usages of war?”

“Yes.” Kydd was apparently in no mood to discuss matters. “Ye have y'r orders, Mr Standish. Mind you fail me not, sir,” he added grimly. “You have th' ship.”

The lieutenant stepped forward. “Aye aye, sir.”

The yards came round and, taking the pleasant wind on her quarter,
Teazer
's forefoot chuckled contentedly as she began to circle the forlorn group of rocks. Before long she found what she was looking for.

“It'll do,” Kydd said shortly. “Mr Andrews, go below an' find a notebook,” he told the young midshipman. “I'll be telling ye what to write.”

The white-faced lad hesitated. What Kydd contemplated was causing consternation round the ship. Renzi motioned the lad to one side. “I do believe, sir, that any clerkly duty belongs rightfully to me,” he said to Kydd. “And, as it happens, my notebook is ready by me.”

The little fishing-boat bobbed disconsolately under
Teazer
's guns while the pinnace pulled out to it. By common consent in wartime the fisher-folk were left alone to go about their business but now Kydd had seen fit to capture one. If it resulted in reprisals and the sea fisheries of Britain suffered . . .

The three-man crew had little choice: they were relieved of their rank-smelling fishing smocks and headgear and sent back to
Teazer
while Stirk and Renzi set about acquainting themselves with the rigging of the little two-master that reeked so of eel and shellfish.

It was a simple but effective lugsail rig, the Breton
chasse-marée
, a “tide-chaser” that was fast and agile in these shallow waters, but Renzi had a considerable sense of foreboding. Trespassing in French waters out of uniform they could be taken up as spies—and the French would stop at nothing to prevent information about their invasion preparations getting out.

And the only way their stratagem would work was if they sailed right up to the entrance, ignoring the heavy cannon of the fort and the gunboats at readiness inside. He swallowed and glanced at Stirk, who sat impassively forward next to the foremast stepped so close to the stem. There were distinct advantages to those not cursed with a vivid imagination, he thought ruefully.

The frayed brown sails fluttered then tautened and the boat leaned willingly into the wind, heading back to Granville and its home while Renzi wedged himself against the gunwale. All depended on things having settled down after the English ship had been seen to give up. But was Kydd to be trusted in his judgements? It was so troubling, his obsession with duty. Did his headstrong daring mask carelessness with others' lives?

Cape Lihou loomed ahead; sail were dotted here and there, issuing out from between the pier-heads, free to continue their coastal voyages. Renzi was aware that locally their little craft would be well known, and with strangers seen aboard, to answer a friendly hail might result in alarm and disaster.

They were close enough now to make out the embrasures of the fort at the tip of the peninsula, the long, defensive walls along the old town and the high stone piers extending well out, a perfect concealment.

Faint shouts came from over to starboard—another
chassemarée
, waving for attention. Instinctively Renzi ducked and began to throw odd bits of gear to Stirk, who quickly caught on, busying himself industriously at nothing. Kydd remained stolidly at his steering oar, concentrating on the approach.

The ruse of being too occupied to talk seemed to satisfy: with several final derisory yells, the fishing vessel passed across their stern and away. The afternoon light was mellowing to early evening, but if they made it to the entrance soon, they would have no difficulty in seeing into the port. A coaster emerged and, loosing topsails, made off to the south; they were now less than a mile from the entrance. Under his fishing smock Renzi readied his notebook and pencil—they would have minutes only. He dared a glance at Kydd. His concentration was intense.

Angry voices came from astern: a French advice boat making importantly for the entrance as well. Kydd fell away from the main track to let it by. Renzi busied himself once more and caught glimpses of faces, some bored, others staring down the worthless fishermen as they overtook to make the sharp turn to pass within the piers.

“On m' mark,” Kydd whispered savagely. Their lives depended on what happened in the next few minutes. The twin pier-heads, each with the figure of a sentry atop, were now barely hundreds of yards distant, the nearer one drawing back with their advance. In seconds they would know everything.

The pier-heads drew apart and there within was what they had risked so much for—Renzi had time only for a quick impression of an inner harbour all of a quarter-mile in size and crammed with small craft before Kydd leaned on the steering oar and the boat turned sharply towards the entrance.

“Now!” Kydd rapped. Renzi was holding a bucket on a rope over the side as though scooping water but at the command let it go. Under its drag the boat lurched to a snail's pace and Kydd began his count.

“I see six—no, a full dozen o'
chaloupes canonnières
,” he hissed urgently, “No—make it a score. An' more'n I can count o'
bateaux canonnières
—say twenty, thirty?” The piers were approaching slowly and steadily, and if they allowed themselves to be swept inside they would be trapped.

“There's six gun-brigs, an' more building on th' inner strand,” Kydd went on remorselessly.

Something in the muddy water caught Renzi's eye; a subliminal flick of paleness and mottled black. It must be desperately shallow here and—

His mind went cold: years of experience told him that the sea state had changed. The tide was now well and truly on the ebb— Queripel's calculations had been proved inaccurate in these local conditions: they had been counting on an approach with the flood and retreat on the ebb.

It might already be too late. Renzi's imagination saw them making desperately for the open sea only to grind to a sickening stop on some tidal bank. “Er, tide's well on the ebb,” he said, with an edge in his voice.

“Take this down. A frigate—say a 24—building t' th' north, wi' at least ten flat barges next t' it.”

“I do believe we should put about now,” Renzi said pointedly, with an odd half-smile. The piers were near enough that a sentry could be seen looking down on them curiously.

Renzi tried to catch Stirk's eye but he was doing something with the lug-yard. “Tom, we have enough as will convince even—”

“Stand by t' go about!” Kydd hissed. A coastal brig was coming up fast astern, a marked feather of white at her forefoot and, in her relative size, indescribably menacing. Renzi stood ready with his knife.

“Lee-oh!”

The blade severed the bucket rope in one, and at the same time the steering oar dug deeply. Then Renzi understood what Stirk had done: a lugger had to dip the yard round the mast when going about, but he had furtively laid it on the wrong side at the cost of their sailing speed. When they had turned, it was already on the correct side and had gloriously filled, sending the bow seaward.

Renzi leaped to the main lug and worked furiously on the heavy yard. Distant screams of rage across the water made him look up and he saw the brig bearing down on them, frighteningly close. They had not gathered enough speed to clear its path—and the close-hauled larger vessel hemmed in by shoals clearly would not be able to avoid them.

Stirk gripped the gunwale and stared in horror at the onrushing ship but Kydd remained immovably at his post. On the brig men were running urgently to the foredeck shouting, gesticulating.

The ship plunged nearer, its bowsprit spearing the air above them and suddenly it was upon them—but the swash from the bluff bows thrust them aside and they were clear by inches, the barrelling hull towering up and rushing past almost close enough to touch, the noise of her wash sounding like a waterfall. And then it was over, the plain transom receding and men at her taffrail shaking their fists at the lunatic fishermen.

The old boat gathered way agonisingly slowly, her gear straining. Renzi knew that high above them in the fort their antics were being pointed out and probably puzzled over, especially the odd fact that they were shaping course not along the coast but heading directly out to sea.

Now all depended on speed. It would not be long before the French woke up to their audacious incursion and then . . .

The first dismaying sign was the sound of a thin crack high up. Gunsmoke eddied away next to a signal mast at the tip of the headland, clearly to bring attention to a string of flags that had been peremptorily hoisted.

They stood on doggedly but then a deeper-throated thud sounded and, seconds later, a plume arose between them and the open sea.

Renzi looked again over the side and saw that anonymous seabed features were becoming visible in the murky water. Then, with a bump and slewing, they came to a halt.

It was now deadly serious: if they could not get off within minutes they would find themselves left high and dry by the receding tide, easy prey for soldiers cantering up on horses.

“Over th' side!” Kydd shouted, leaping over the low gunwale into the water. It was hard, serrated rock underfoot, the striations parallel with the coast. They manhandled the big boat, heaving until their muscles burned. It moved. Then, juddering, it found deeper water and suddenly they were dangling from the gunwale. At the limits of their strength they flung themselves inboard panting, and hauled in on the slatting and banging sails.