Kydd

recoil, the breeching rope twanging dangerously.

Through a freak break in the smoke Kydd could see the enemy side. It shuddered visibly under the impact of their double shot and a massive hole appeared magically in the center of his vision. Before the smoke closed in he saw that the enemy guns were still not run out and there seemed to be some sort of jerky activity behind the ports.

The other ship was less than fifteen feet away and when they came together the massive grinding impact sent Kydd staggering. The smoke drifted away and there was the enemy side within touching distance – pockmarked, splintered and with blood running down the side in thin streams from a rent in her sides.

Raging shouts burst out. The enemy seamen were feet away only and with bull roars the British seamen attacked them even through the ports, with ramrods and anything that came to hand: battering, smashing, killing. Cooler hands raced to the arms chest and the flash and bang of pistols stabbed the smoky gloom.

“Awaaay, boarders!” Lockwood’s voice was hoarse. He stood with his sword out, his uniform grimed with powder smoke, eyes reddened.

Seamen nominated for the task ran for the hatchway, snatching pistols and cutlasses as they left.

Kydd turned back to the melee. Opposite, the enemy gunport framed a stout man with a mustache, who gestured violently with his ramrod.

Kydd remembered the cruelty of the French cavalry. Dropping the shot cradle, he ran over to the pistol chest and grabbed a weapon. It felt heavy and cold. Cocking it haphazardly, he aimed past the heads of the working gun crew at the man and banged off the pistol. It bucked viciously in his hand. Stirk and his men turned in surprise but, to his intense satisfaction, Kydd saw the man clutch at his face and drop out of sight.

Duke William had not quite come to a standstill, the enemy’s side slipping past at a walking pace. Stirk’s gun crashed out again, the crew working like madmen on the reload. Kydd’s back and arms felt a burning ache, his efforts at the oars still taking their toll.

Another crunching impact brought long sounds of splintering. The enemy guns began firing again – but they were many fewer.

Kydd felt a peculiar exultation, a rising of blood lust, a call from his Briton forebears. He shrieked defiance as he worked.

A man staggered in a circle, a jagged spear protruding from the side of his chest. He turned and fell and Kydd saw that it was an oaken splinter torn from the deck and driven into him. The man writhed and flopped, and almost in a trance Kydd turned back to the job in hand.

The Royal Billys ran out the gun but suddenly the enemy beakhead was passing from view, a figurehead of a virago with a conical hat and clasping a spear, then empty sea. They had gone past their opponent without coming to a stop.

“Stupid crazy bastard – the fucking lamebrain!” Stirk raved, spittle on his lips underlining his fury. “ ’E ’asn’t fuckin’ backed tops’ls!”

It was elementary: to keep the ship in position while the guns made their play, it was necessary to heave to by putting the topsails aback. Kydd wondered at the scene on deck. It could be that the Captain had fallen and could not give the order.

The firing died away. “Clear away this shit,” Stirk said dully.

Splinters and debris went out the port, the last wounded were taken below. Blood splashes were left-there were more important tasks at hand to ready the guns for the next bout.

Cautiously Jewkes leaned out of the gunport. “Wha – they’re running, the shy bastards!”

Kydd and others joined him at the port and eagerly took in the scene.

The enemy ships had hauled their wind and now shaped course for Brest, their high stern galleries prominent as they sailed away. The battered rigging of the British ships resulted in their falling farther behind, the changed angle again making their guns impotent.

Maddened shouts and cheering stormed from Duke William’s gunports until the chase brought them into range of the batteries ashore. Wearing around, the squadron made a dignified retreat, deeply satisfied that the battlefield was now theirs.

CHAPTER 11

Really, old fellow, I was too busy to worry,” Renzi said. They were sitting astride the cro’jack yard, busy splicing.

“And I,” Kydd agreed, beginning the whipping around an eye splice. He made the turns as tight as he could – Bowyer had always said that you could tell a seaman by his ropework.

“Was it… hot work on deck?” he asked, in a noncommittal tone.

“Hot enough,” Renzi replied.

Kydd wanted to share his newfound secret with his friend. “Heard a good enough piece of philosophy not so long ago,” he began, and told Renzi of Stirk’s secret.

“Oh, yes,” Renzi said. “Same base truth in Julius Caesar: ‘Cowards die many times before their death / The valiant never taste of death but once.’ ” He finished his splice with a workmanlike tuck, testing its strength. “Act two, scene two, I’d hazard.” He saw Kydd’s expression. “But that is not to detract from the essential verities in both sayings,” he added hurriedly. “Perhaps one day we will sail to the Orient – I have a morbid desire to imbibe their metaphysics at the source.”

France was a dim gray coastline on the horizon as the three ships proceeded under easy sail, the tasks of repair never-ending. As the adrenaline of the battle fell away, and fatigue set in, it was hard to keep going, but it was double tides – working watch and watch without a break – to get the ships seaworthy and battleworthy once more.

A double tot of rum went far to ease the pain. Kydd felt detached from his aches, and spoke out loudly: “A great maulin’ – they outnumbered and outgunned us, but we saw ’em back to their stinking lair! A thunderin’ good drubbin’!”

“Do you think so?” Renzi said, without looking up.

“Why? Do you not? We’ve sent ’em back to where they came from – they won’t try it again.”

“My dear fellow, in the larger scheme of things, this will be seen as a passing brush with a few of their ships- of-the-line – and you are forgetting one thing.” Renzi stopped and looked at Kydd.

“What’s that?”

“Those four came from Douarnenez and now they are in Brest.”

“So?”

“So they have successfully concentrated their force. I don’t believe they were headed for the Caribbean anyway. It was always a move to bring about this very thing.”

Kydd remained silent.

“We did not bring the action to a conclusion, the enemy escaped us. Now there are nine of-the-line in Brest. They can sweep us aside and fall on our convoys and possessions at any time. I doubt if this afternoon will even be dignified as a battle.” Renzi resumed his whipping on the rope.

Kydd glared at him. “I need a bigger fid,” he said shortly, and disappeared over the edge of the mizzen top.

Renzi was right, of course – if he had stopped to think he would have come to the same conclusion. It was just that he was exhilarated by his first fight against the enemy. He had not found himself wanting: he had passed through horror and hardships and he was determined to revel in the feeling.

He stepped out of the mizzen shrouds onto the poop deck, and into the path of Midshipman Cantlow. “Well, now, the dam’ keen Mr. Kydd.” There was a drunken slur to the words and he slapped at his side with an old rattan.

Kydd said nothing, but stood impassive. The last thing he needed now was a run-in with the despised Cantlow.

“An’ I’ve just caught him skulking in the tops!”

Kydd snorted. Although a midshipman was not an officer, they equated to a petty officer in terms of discipline.