Quarterdeck

along the dockside. Work had ceased. This would not be the case if an early-dawn departure was planned.

'Well, here we are,' Gindler whispered, 'and it's here that we part, my friend. I cannot in all conscience go further, but I'd like to shake the hand of a brave man.'

'Let's be started,' Kydd muttered. He tucked the precious bundle of canvas and rope tightly under his arm and slipped down to the water's edge, careful to stay in the shadows of the spur of rock.

There he paused, safe for the moment, and listened to the quiet chuckle and ripple of the calm evening sea. The ship was over a hundred yards away—and when he stepped round the spur there was a dozen yards of open beach before the shelter of the wharf piling. For that distance he would be in plain view of the ship.

The single thing in his favour was surprise. They might expect a rush by an armed party, but never by a lone, unarmed man. It was small comfort, but it also seemed the height of absurdity to be going into battle against a heavily gunned privateer armed only with a lump of wood and a piece of dirty canvas.

In the shadow of the rocks he stripped down to his long underwear and stockings, awkward and vulnerable. He laid down his clothes carefully and stumbled over to the inky black sea. He could not risk the forty feet of open beach; the only alternative was to wade off into the outer blackness.

The water was fearfully cold and his heart nearly failed him. He forced himself to continue, his feet feeling the sharp stones and shells on the rocky bottom. Deeper he went—the cold biting into his legs then his waist, leaving him gasping for breath. Out past the end of the spur, the ship was now in plain view and as he turned to round the end he lowered himself into the numbing water to his neck. Past the rock, the bottom turned mercifully to the softness of mud and he leaned forward, shuddering with cold, pushing on parallel to the beach and praying he could not be seen.

Minotaure was bows to sea, her carved stern towards him. There was a light in the captain's cabin, a dim gold point through the mullioned windows. A couple of figures stood together on her after deck and Kydd could see the occasional red of a drawn pipe, but the rest was in shadow.

There was the odd scurry of unknown sea creatures at his feet, the stubbing of a toe against an invisible barnacled rock— and what seemed an eternity of knifing cold. At last he saw the edge of the wharf piling resolve out of the darkness.

Gratefully he entered the safety of the overhang with its concentrated sea odours and stood upright. A mistake. The tiny evening breeze was now a searching icy blast that stopped his breath. He lowered himself back into the water, which was almost warm by contrast.

Stumbling along in the darkness he passed between the heavily barnacled and slimy piles, clutching his bundle until he came abreast of the looming black vastness of the privateer. Turning towards it he moved forward and felt the slope of the sea-bed suddenly drop away. He pulled back in alarm. He was an awkward swimmer and, encumbered with his device, he could not possibly do other than move upright.

With a sinking heart he realised it was logical to build the wharf for larger ships where the water was deep enough for them to come close in—Minotaure would draw fifteen or twenty feet. Far out of his depth. His frozen mind struggled and he looked around wildly. Past the stern of the ship, tucked in just under the wharf edge he saw a low, elongated shape, a ship's side punt used by sailors to stand in as they worked their way down the hull caulking and painting.

He pulled the little raft towards him, hoisted his bundle in, and hanging off one end, he thrust out. The punt glided towards the black bulk of the ship's hull and finally bumped woodenly against it. Kydd's feet dangled in the freezing depths.

A mix of terror and elation washed over him at the physical touch of the enemy; he worked his way along the hull, sensing noise and movement within until he reached the curved overhang of the stern. Here he would be out of sight from above while he set his trap, but any boat coming down the other side of the hull would burst into view just feet from him without warning.

He took the bundle, his hands shaking as he prepared it. The motionless rudder was lost in the shadows but Kydd could hang on to the rudder chains and be guided down to it. He would have to work by feel. Near the waterline would be the lower hance, a projecting piece at the trailing edge of the rudder; with its hoisting ring plate he could not fail to find it. He felt the barnacle-studded fitting and pulled himself to it. The final act: to thread the line through the score, the inner gap.

He let his hands slide inwards. The pintle strap led to the pintle itself going through the gudgeon eye—and there was the score. A gap just below the waterline and big enough to put his whole fist through. Excitement surged through him. All he had to do now was put the line through with the wedge one side and the rest the other.

He pushed the line through easily enough, then had to bend it on the wedge. His hands were numb but he fumbled it through the screw eye. But when he tried to tie a simple one-handed bowline his stiff fingers could not obey. He scrabbled at the line helplessly, aware that if he lost his hold on the wedge it would sink down for ever into the black depths. He couldn't feel anything! Nearly weeping with frustration he tried again and failed. Then, with one last effort, he rested his elbows on the edge of the punt, leaving both hands free. Clumsily he managed to manipulate the sodden line.

Letting the wedge hang free by its line he tested it, then let it sink slowly toward the sea-bed. Moving to the other side of the rudder he freed the bundle of canvas and let the pick-up buoy float away. The little bundle, weighted with a fishing lead, sank also, and all that was left of his night's work was a shabby little duckling floating nearby.

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 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 fire, 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 fill the snug cottage with an irresistible aroma.

'Er, do pardon me the liberty,' said Gindler, after the chowder pot had been satisfyingly scraped empty, 'I can't help but observe that your character is so — different from your usual King's officer, Tom. You never hang back when there's a need to soil the hands, to bear a fist 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.