Invasion

'Ach, ve know,' came back a faint hail. 'But vot can we do?'

It was a Prussian barque, a Danziger with a valuable freighting, but when her master realised what was afoot he quickly turned cagey. However, Cribben had done such haggling many times before and did not have to mention how inadvisable it would be if, in the event of an insurance claim, it became known that the offer of a perfectly sound set of ground tackle had been turned down.

It was not long before they were lighter one anchor and cable, and the barque was in possession of a third anchor to windward. Taking advantage of their lee, Daisy May was put about for a rapid trip back before the wind. The absence of the deadweight of an anchor resulted in a lively roll in the beam seas before they were able to shape course into Kellett Gut, away from the chaos of the gale.

'Hoy, Jack!' cried Neame, urgently, throwing out an arm to seaward. At first it was difficult to make out what he meant, but then a passing squall lifted the mist and revealed the stark outlines of a small derelict—a coaster perhaps, dismasted out to sea and now driving to her inevitable doom on the Goodwins.

Kydd's heart went out to the unknown mariners who had suffered this calamity for he knew they could not be helped; Daisy May was too far committed into the narrow passage of the Gut and the wreck would be cast up well before others could come to their aid.

Nevertheless, perhaps out of some sense of brotherly feeling towards them in their extremity, Cribben luffed up and came to in the lee side of the immense sandbank. 'Killick,' he threw at Neame laconically. The man cleared away their little bow anchor, which plummeted down while all eyes followed the final act of the drama.

Figures on the derelict were jerking about in some sort of frantic activity, but the end could not be long delayed. Soon the huge breakers roaring in would rise up as they felt the solid bank under them, bear the derelict aloft and smash it to flinders on the unyielding sand.

As Kydd looked on, mesmerised, he realised that the activity on deck had been that of some hero who had fashioned a steering oar from a plank and had succeeded in wrestling the bow resolutely shoreward. And he also recognised the vessel, with her rakish lines, she was a chasse-maree, a French privateer.

Nobody spoke as a giant breaker curled and fell—and as the boiling surf raced up the sand, it sent the wreck shooting forward. The hero's final actions were rewarded, for as soon as the dark shape of the craft came to rest, the figures stumbled from it on to the blessed firmness. The sea returned in a hissing roar and pushed the craft crazily broadside but the men were not running for safety: they were struggling with something in the wreck. It was a body—no, an injured seaman, and they were dragging him out, then making hastily for the higher ground.

Kydd felt like cheering but Cribben's look was bleak as he grunted, 'They've got t' come off of there—tide'll have 'em in a couple of hours.'

'Can't we close with th' bank an' take 'em?' Kydd asked.

'Why? They's only mongseers, is all. Let 'em take their chances.'

'They're sailors, jus' like us all.'

'No.'

Kydd felt his blood rise but held himself in check. 'Five guineas t' lay off the bank.'

Cribben looked at him in astonishment, then peered into Kydd's face as if for reassurance as to his sanity. 'Seven.'

'Done.'

The others looked at Kydd warily, but helped to pull the lugger in as far as was prudent and Kydd signalled to the stranded seamen with exaggerated beckoning movements. There was a distracted wave back but no sign that they understood the urgency of their situation.

Kydd swore; in a short time they would be beyond mortal help. He repeated the signal, then got everyone aboard Daisy May to join in, but the Frenchmen were not going to risk the tide-rips.

'Leave 'em be, the silly buggers,' Cribben said dismissively, clearly ready to leave.

Kydd said nothing but began to strip off to his trousers.

'What're ye up to?' Cribben demanded.

'I knows th' French lingo,' Kydd retorted, 'an' in common pity they have t' be warned.'

'We only gets th' bounty fer bringing back bodies, not live 'uns.'

Standing on the gunwale Kydd leaped clumsily into the cold shock of the sea and struck out. The current seized him and carried him along but after frantic strokes his toe caught the hard roughness of the sandy bottom and he staggered upright, looking for the castaways.

The chill of the wind's blast nearly took his breath away and when a Frenchman hurried up to him he could hardly control his shuddering. 'V-vous etes i-ici dans un g-grand peril, m-mon brave,' he stuttered, and tried to convey the essence of the danger.

It was surreal: he was standing on hard-packed brown sand that was about to plunge beneath the sea, talking to a French privateers-man whom it was his duty to kill—and himself, a commander of the Royal Navy, taking orders from a Deal hoveller.

The Frenchmen chattered among themselves, then explained that for reasons of humanity they could not abandon their injured comrade—he had been the one to wield the steering oar—and besides, like many seamen, none could swim. There was such poignant resignation in their faces that Kydd was forced to turn away.

Staggering with the force of a vicious wind squall across the flat banks he tried to flog his frozen mind to thought. Cribben would not keep Daisy May among the leeward shoals for much longer. It was—

A faint shout drew his attention to the lugger. He saw Stirk jump into the sea and strike out for them, Redsull back in Daisy May furiously paying out a line.

Stirk splashed into the shallows and Kydd helped him up. A small double line was threaded through his belt at