merchant service, and after an interminable time they felt the lurch and smooth take-up of sail once more. They waited for the signal, and before long they heard scrabbling at the toggle and the strop falling away. But there was no signal. Perhaps naval seamen were still aboard.
“Wait!” Renzi whispered. “We must be sure.”
The air grew stale, then close. They started to pant and felt giddy.
“We have to get out,” Renzi said. He tried to lift the barrel lid. It didn’t budge. He heaved at it, with no result. Putting his back under the lid, he uncoiled his full weight against it. It gave a little, then slammed down again. “There’s something on it,” he whispered. “Give me a hand.”
He guided Kydd in the blackness to put his back next to his own in the cramped space, and together they thrust upward.
Suddenly it gave and flew open. The hold was in darkness, of course, but on the next barrel a lanthorn stood, casting a dim yellow light.
They climbed out cautiously, but Kydd tripped on a dark shape on the deck next to the barrel. He bent to see what it was – and jerked up in horror.
It was a body. He bent again to roll it over – and his hand came away wet and sticky. “It’s Finchett.”
Renzi knelt and examined the corpse. “There’s a wound in his back,” he said. It didn’t make any sense. Maybe Finchett had been wounded on deck and had tried to reach them, expiring after releasing the strop. Renzi realized their reconnaissance would have to be cautious-something was terribly awry.
Kydd remembered that there was a small hatch forward; it allowed entry into the hold without needing the big main hatch to be opened. They scrambled across the remaining powder barrels and reached the hatchway ladder at the fore part of the hold.
“Careful,” whispered Renzi.
Kydd eased back the sliding hatch an inch. Sunlight flooded in, as did familiar sea sounds. The clean salt air was invigorating.
Renzi put his ear to the opening.
“What is it?” whispered Kydd urgently. He was beginning to feel ghosts.
“Quiet!” snapped Renzi.
Faint voices could be heard. They grew louder, and Renzi eased the hatch shut again.
“What?” Kydd asked.
Renzi looked at him gravely. “They were speaking French, dear fellow.”
The cutter must have been a French corsair under false colors – a smart move, given the circumstances. They had boarded the unaccompanied powder brig, probably massacred the crew and even now would be carrying her into a French port.
They stared at each other. Their immediate future was now very much in question. If they surrendered they would probably be hove overboard; if they waited until they reached port and discharged cargo they would be discovered and would rot in a military prison; and if they hid in their hole they would die there.
Renzi struggled with alternatives, but logic led pitilessly to a series of dead ends. He climbed back down the ladder and put his head in his hands.
“Nicholas! Up here, man!” There was sharp authority in Kydd’s voice. “We need t’ know where we stand. Try to listen t’ what they’re saying.”
Renzi slid the hatch open a crack and put his ear to it. There were two distinct voices, both young and strong, and another distant one, more mature. Their northern French dialect was difficult to follow, but he understood. The distant voice was giving the other two orders – probably the watch on deck, or what passed for it.
The orders themselves gave clues. What was
Renzi strained to hear, but there was only a tedious description of what they would find in Madame Cecile’s brothel. “We’re on our way to Goulven, which I believe to be on the north coast,” he quietly reported. “We are running large to the south or sou’-west, and I suppose we will reach port tomorrow.
“I can hear two on deck and one aft. There may be more below.”
Unarmed, they wouldn’t have a hope, no matter how much surprise they commanded. He resumed listening. What he heard made him start, but the import was worse – it was desperate.
“They’re saying that they hope they won’t have their prize taken from them by the Navy bound for Brest,” he whispered urgently.
Apparently an unknown force was sailing to make rendezvous with those in Brest. Together they could overwhelm
Kydd was utterly resolute. “Nicholas, get yourself here!”
Tumbling down the ladder, he swung down to the capacious water barrels along the centerline at the forward end of the hold. He tapped them until he found an empty one. Knocking out one end, he began the laborious task of manhandling it toward the ladder.
Renzi didn’t question Kydd’s judgment: he moved across to help him shift the water cask.
Through gasps of effort Kydd explained: “What would you do if y’ saw your cargo of gunpowder afire?” The water barrel was upended at the base of the ladder. It was a simple matter to stuff it with packing straw. Kydd fetched bilge water, which he liberally sprinkled over the straw. “Need a lot of smoke, not much fire,” he said, and brought the lanthorn.
His eyes shone – with exhilaration or fear Renzi could not be sure.
“Here goes – we get blown t’ glory together or…” Kydd opened the lanthorn and ignited a wisp of straw. The tiny flame seemed to illuminate the entire hold, filling it with ruddy dancing shadows.
He dropped it into the barrel and wisps of gray-white smoke began to issue upward.
At the top of the hold the smoke gathered, swelling and building. Kydd fed in more wet straw while Renzi eased the hatch back a little and returned.
The smoke got thicker, stinging Kydd’s eyes, but they did not have to wait long. Above them there was a yell of fear, the hatch slammed open and white smoke billowed up on deck. There was no attempt to get at the fire and Kydd could hardly blame them: tons of gunpowder ablaze was an awesome threat.
It wasn’t possible to see what was happening but the sounds were graphic enough. Disordered slatting and banging of sails meant that the wheel had been abandoned, sending them up into the wind. Panic and shouting – the thumps and clunking amidships could only be the dory being launched.
“No – wait until they’re well clear. They’ll be rowing f’r their lives, I believe,” said Kydd happily. He inspected the barrel – no need to let it blaze any more. He clapped its lid back on, choking the fire.
They emerged spluttering and red-eyed on deck. The dory was already a good half-mile away and making astonishing speed.
“So, what now?” said Renzi. The dory would surely return when they saw the fire die down.
“Get the boarding muskets,” Kydd replied.
Renzi reserved his views about how long they could keep the dory at bay. Night would be coming soon, and they had to face the urgent problem of how the two of them alone could handle the brig.
They hurried to the master’s cabin. There had been only a halfhearted attempt to clean away the bloodstains, but the small arms chest was in its place against the bulkhead. There were only old-fashioned pieces, but they had been carefully looked after. Kydd and Renzi loaded feverishly from the keg of powder and priming horn, the heavy balls rammed down over the charge.
There were six muskets, enough to deter all but the most determined onslaught. They returned on deck. Sure enough, the dory had stopped, rising and falling with the slight seas, oars held level. There were six of them by count, a prize crew not expecting trouble.
They continued to load until all six muskets were ready.
“I’ll fire, you load,” Kydd said briefly.
The dory bobbed about. They would have been spotted by now, and no doubt there would be an animated discussion going on, thought Renzi.
