Quarterdeck

As the yardarm stay tackles were hooked on to the boat Houghton added, 'Take an arms chest too, Mr Kydd.' Some of the ships carried convicts for the defensive works in St John's.

Kydd went to his cabin and found his sword, part of the uniform and authority of a naval officer when boarding a strange vessel. Tysoe helped fasten the cross strap and buckle on his scabbard sling. 'Nothing but a merchantman all ahoo.' Kydd chuckled at the sight of his grave expression.

'Get a boat compass,' Kydd told Rawson, as he came back on deck. Seamen tumbled into the big launch, then helped sway down the arms chest; there was no point in shipping mast and sails in the flat calm.

Rawson returned with a small wooden box with a four-inch compass set in gimbals. Kydd had the bearing of the hapless vessel and checked that the indication with the boat compass was good. This was handed down, and he watched Rawson go aboard the launch, correctly wearing his midshipman's dirk. Kydd then went down the side, last to board.

'Take the tiller, if y' please,' Kydd told Rawson, taking his place in the sternsheets. The surgeon sat patiently on the opposite side. 'Why, Mr Pybus, you haven't any medicines?' he said, seeing no bag or chest.

'Oh? You know what it is then I must treat? Wounds, inflamed callibisters, one of a dozen poxes? I tried to persuade these brave fellows to load aboard my dispensary entire but . . .'

Houghton called down loudly from the ship's side: 'I'll thank you to lose no time, Mr Kydd!'

'Aye aye, sir,' Kydd threw back. 'Get moving!' he muttered to Rawson.

'Fend off forrard,' Rawson ordered. 'Out oars—give way, together.' Kydd gently wedged the compass into the bottom of the boat, careful to ensure there was no iron near. Their lives might depend on it.

The men stretched out. It was a good three miles to pull but conditions were ideal: not any kind of sea and the air was cool and dry—it might be different in the fogbank. Kydd saw that Thorn, the stroke oar, was pulling well, long and strong and leaning into it. He was a steady hand with a fine gift for ropework. Further forward was Poulden, who, Kydd vowed to himself, he would see as a petty officer in Tenacious.

Rawson stood with the tiller at his side, his eyes ahead. 'Mr Rawson,' Kydd said quietly, 'you haven't checked your back bearing this last quarter-mile.'

The youth flashed an enquiring glance astern at the diminishing bulk of Tenacious, and looked back puzzled.

Kydd continued mildly, 'If we're runnin' down a steady line o' bearing, then we should fin' that where we came from bears exactly astern. If it doesn't, then . . .' At the baffled response Kydd finished, 'Means that we're takin' a current from somewheres abeam. Then we have t' allow for it if we want to get back, cuf-fin.' He had been checking surreptitiously for this very reason.

The white blankness of the fogbank approached and suddenly they left a world with a horizon, a pale sun and scattered ships, and entered an impenetrably white one, where the sun's disc was no longer visible, its light wholly diffused and reduced to a weak twilight. Men's voices were muffled and a dank moisture lay on everything as a tiny beading of slippery droplets.

They pulled through the wreathing fog-smoke, Kydd making certain of their course—its reciprocal would lead them back to their ship. Paradoxically the heavy breathing of the men at the oars sounded both near yet far in the unpleasant atmosphere that was weighing heavy on his sleeves and coat and trickling down his neck from his hat.

'Sir?' Poulden cocked his head intently on one side. 'Sir! I c'n hear a boat!'

'Oars!' snapped Kydd. The men ceased pulling. 'Still! Absolute silence in the boat!' They lay quietly, rocking slightly. It was long minutes of waiting, with the cheerful gurgle and slap of water along the waterline an irritating intrusion. Men sat rigid, avoiding eyes, listening.

Then there was something. A distinct random thump, a bang of wood against wood and a barely synchronised squeaking, which could only be several oars in thole pins or rowlocks—and close.

It was probably innocent, but what boat would be abroad in these conditions without good reason? The sound faded, but just as Kydd was about to break the silence it started again somewhat fainter—but where? The swirling clammy white was a baffling sound trap, absorbing and reflecting, making guesses of direction impossible.

Kydd felt a stab of apprehension. 'Break out the arms—I'll take th' tiller. Quickly!' he hissed.

The wooden chest emptied quickly. Cutlasses were handed along with a metallic slither, one or two tomahawks, six boarding pistols. Kydd saw that they were ready flinted and prayed that the gunner's party had them loaded. He drew his sword. The fine-edged weapon, which had seemed so elegant, now felt flimsy and insubstantial beside the familiar broad grey steel of a cutlass.

He laid the naked blade across his knees and experimentally worked the tiller. Rawson fingered his dirk nervously, but the surgeon lolled back with a bored expression. He had no weapon and, in reply to Kydd's raised eyebrows, gave a cynical smile.

Waiting for the men to settle their blades safely along the side, Kydd held up his hands for quiet once more. In the breathless silence, a drip of water from oars, the rustle of waves and an occasional creak were deafening. Kydd concentrated with every nerve. Nothing.

He waited a little longer, automatically checking that their heading remained true, then ordered quietly, 'Oars, give way, together.' The men swung into it and the bluff-bowed launch got under way again.

In one heart-stopping instant a boat burst into view, headed directly for them. In the same moment Kydd registered that it was hostile, that it was a French chaloupe, and that it had a small swivel gun in its bow.

His instincts took over. 'Down!' he yelled, and pulled the tiller hard over. The swivel cracked loudly—Kydd heard two shrieks and felt the wind of a missile before the bow of the enemy boat thumped heavily into their own swinging forepart. French sailors, their faces distorted with hatred, took up their weapons and rose to their feet in a rush to board.

The launch swayed as the British responded, snarls and curses overlaid with challenging bellows as they reached for their own weapons in a tangle of oars and blood. Pistols banged, smoke hung in the still air. One Frenchman collapsed floppily, his face covered with blood and grey matter; another squealed and dropped his pistol as he folded over.

It was the worst form of sea warfare, boat against boat, nothing but rage and butchery until one side