Betrayal

Kydd ordered. As an afterthought he added, ‘Post a couple of men in the bows for I mean to make it uncomfortable for our friend to follow.’

After his service around Guernsey he knew what to look for in shoal waters, the arrowed ripples, out of synchrony wavelets, the dark of seaweed beneath the surface. As well, he posted two men to lie flat on deck in the eyes of the craft, staring down into the water for the ghostly shadow of reefs or banks looming.

He shielded his gaze to take in the lie of the island. It was often possible to note a backbone of rock stretching out into the sea that would later be a jagged underwater spine extending out – and indeed there was one, pointing like an accusing finger back at Colonia. ‘Two points to starboard, leave it well clear.’ He glanced back at the sloop. It was making remarkably good sailing before the wind, its plain, broad sail-plan working well in this north-easterly. North? The wind was backing – what did this mean in these unholy waters? A faster return certainly, and once around the island they’d take advantage of their fore-and-aft rig to cosy up to the wind and leave the ship-sloop standing.

It would almost certainly be satisfied with seeing them off and let them go. For the moment it was half a mile or so in their wake, but when they began passing the island it gave no sign of breaking off the chase. It made no difference because-

The double yell from forward came too late. With a sharp wooden thump and squeal of outraged timbers, the sumaca reared up and ceased forward motion. Sent sprawling, Kydd picked himself up. ‘Get sail off her – move yourselves!’ he bellowed hoarsely.

The craft had mercifully slewed round, spilling the wind; if it had gone the other way they would have been a dismasted wreck by now. Kydd looked over the side – in the turbid water he saw the line of a ledge below the surface, at right-angles and as abrupt as if it had been built that way. No wonder the sloop had let them crowd on sail.

Garrick scrabbled up the canted deck, nursing an arm. ‘Tide’s on the make, sir. If we could . . .’

Kydd looked sourly at the oncoming enemy. ‘There’s no time. If you’ve any signals, papers, get ’em ditched now.’

Their nemesis hove to well clear and quickly had two boats in the water, pulling strongly towards them. When they found that not only had they a prize but also made prisoner a senior officer of the Royal Navy, there would be no end to the crowing. It was hard to take.

‘Be damned to it! I’m not f’r a Spanish chokey!’ one of the seamen shouted, and leaped into the sea forward, quickly followed by another. It was foolish for they would soon be picked up by the boats and-

Then Kydd saw they had found firm ground under them and were now standing in water no more than chest deep. Kydd looked at Garrick. ‘To the island, I think!’

They scrambled for the bow and lowered themselves in. Trying to ignore the cold and wet, Kydd waved them forward. ‘To the island!’

He thrust ahead, feeling iron-hard sand beneath, powering towards the island a good three hundred yards off. The others followed in a straggling line. Snatching a glance behind, he saw both boats making straight for them and redoubled his efforts, panting hard, stumbling at occasional hidden rocks.

The seabed began rising and the last hundred yards were done in a stumbling run. Suddenly they were among a scatter of light-grey rocks in the sand and then into low woods, spiky branches whipping across their faces until they stood gulping and wheezing together in a clearing.

‘They’s more interested in the Dollars,’ one seaman said. Originally the sailors had called Nuestra Senora de Dolores ‘Our Lady of the Dollars’, but the Spanish now swarming over her would find little to plunder. And then they would come after her crew.

‘I c’n see Staunch!’ a sailor shouted, pointing through a gap in the trees to the sea the other side of the island. Spontaneously they broke into a stumbling run, crashing through the undergrowth and low branches until they emerged on to a rock-studded beach where they waved and shouted.

She sailed on and their hopes faded. ‘They’re not keepin’ a lookout, the shonky bastards!’ But then the two masts started to come together as she began to put back – they were returning to pick them up.

‘God bless ’em, every one!’

‘See if the Dons are after us yet,’ Kydd told a seaman, pointing back the way they’d come.

The man loped off, but returned quickly. ‘Boat on its way,’ he panted. ‘Too many on ’em.’

They were completely unarmed and must surrender to any with a weapon. And Staunch was still some way off.

‘Into the water!’ Kydd barked urgently, and waded into the sea. On the weather side the waves were several feet high, slamming and jostling against him. The seabed under his feet was much less even, with rocks and crevices that twice nearly had him sprawling full-length. From the splashes and cursing behind him he knew it was slowing the others, too.

The sea bottom grew steeper and before they had gone out a hundred yards the water was to his armpits and he was being carried off his feet by the surging waves. They could go no further. Ahead, Staunch was cautiously slowing, but she was way out of reach.

Suddenly, to the right, there was the smack and plume of a bullet. Another whipped over to strike between Kydd and Staunch. He swung around – on the beach, the Spanish were running down to take aim at the water’s edge. He turned back to Staunch – and saw that a boat had been launched, but with only one aboard. Then he understood: they were streaming the boat downwind to them at the end of a long line.

The meaty thump of a ball in flesh and an agonised cry came from nearby as Kydd pressed on. It had been a lucky shot: it would have been impossible to take accurate aim at this distance after a fast run.

The boat was coming quicker. Nearer and nearer, and then within reach. He grabbed at the gunwale and hung there, urging others in, seeing them tumbling over each other and roughly heaving in the wounded seaman. The remaining men hung on where they could and, at his signal, the boat was hauled bodily through the water to the waiting Staunch.

‘Well done, L’tenant,’ Kydd gasped, gratefully accepting the stout oilskin pressed on him. ‘A pity about Dolores.’ He broke off as Selby bawled orders to get under way.

Then he stopped as a thought came – and stayed to blossom into a beautiful, glorious possibility.

The sloop had stopped to take possession of Dolores. It had men away on the island and was otherwise occupied. What if . . .?

‘L’tenant, I desire you to make best speed to the barky. Not ours – the one hove over for careening.’

A broad grin appeared on the officer’s face. The sloop might be grounded but there would be depth of water for a sumaca. ‘Er, we’ve only the carronade,’ he said apologetically. It would take hours of bombardment to reduce a warship with it but Kydd had other ideas.

‘No, not that. Fetch me all the combustibles you can find – we set her afire.’

By the time they had reached a line of sight from the first sloop they were well on their way but had minutes only to accomplish their mission. As they approached, it must have become obvious what they were about, but Kydd was leaving nothing to chance. They came in on the immovable vessel’s bow where its guns could not bear, then lay off.

At the first crash from the stumpy carronade the few men left aboard emerged and hastily tumbled into boats for the shore.

‘Go!’ Kydd roared, himself taking position at the blunt prow of Staunch with two others. A quick look told him that the other sloop had spotted them and was making to return, but in her square rig she was hard up against the wind – yet it was still only minutes they had.

Skilfully the two ships were brought at an angle nose to nose and Kydd reached out to clutch the martingale, swinging a leg up and then levering himself atop the naked bowsprit to slither into the plain fore-deck. The bare decks were deserted and awkwardly canted over but he knew where to go – passing hand to hand he found the fore-hatchway and went down, casting about in the gloom.

Behind him he heard the footsteps of his men. One made salty comment on the alien smell. All ships were much the same between decks and Kydd quickly found what he was looking for: the carpenter’s store-room and workshop. Inside they set to, feverishly heaping into a pile the wood shavings with the oakum and torn cotton ration bags they had brought.

Flint and steel were nervously produced. Kydd took them and ordered the room cleared before upending glue-