The Privateer's Revenge

They wheeled about, racing past the silent bulk of the farmhouse and to the ditch. As they clambered over the wall there was the sudden tap of a musket, then others, dismayingly close.

'Move!' Kydd bawled. There was no need now for quiet. They stumbled and rushed towards the sea, tripping and cursing in their frenzy.

Kydd stopped suddenly. 'Where's the marines?' he panted. A double crack to his rear answered him. Ambrose was behind the wall delaying the troops closing in, two firing while two reloaded. It would hold for minutes at most.

Kydd and his men made the beach. The pale sands gave nothing away—there was no boat to be seen. The end must be very near, despite Ambrose's sacrifice. Kydd traced the line of the water's edge along the beach until his eyes watered.

The firing stopped, but then out on the dunes flanking them musket fire stabbed again—inland. The marines must still be doing their duty but it would not be long now.

At that moment a rocket, just half a cable offshore, soared up and burst in a bright sprinkle of stars. 'A gun!' Kydd roared. 'Any wi' a musket, fire it now!'

But, of course, there was none. In the inky darkness no sailor untrained in the art could possibly be relied on to reload a musket; the marines must do it by feel.

'There's no one?' Kydd pleaded.

'Sir! I have this,' Andrews said shamefacedly, handing over a little folding pistol. He had taken it just in case, a foolish notion, but now . . .

'Priming powder?'

It was in a little silver flask. Kydd snatched it and sprinted to the nearest rock. He shook out a large pile and, holding the pistol lock close, stood clear and pulled the trigger. The powder caught in a bright flare, which died quickly but did the job.

'Come on!' Kydd yelled hoarsely. 'For y'r lives!' He broke cover and ran to the water's edge. And there it was, their boat pulling strongly inshore, Stirk at the tiller. It grounded and Kydd stood in the waves, urging the others into it.

'We gotta leave now, sir!' Stirk pleaded. His crew were rotating the boat seaward for a fast withdrawal to the safety of the sea.

'Wait!'

All along the line of dunes the flash of muskets was increasing. Twice Kydd felt the whip of bullets close by. The boat was afloat and pointing out to sea, but he remained standing in the shallows with his hand on the gunwale.

Then there was a flurry of firing from up the beach and figures were staggering across the sand, one with another over his back. 'Ambrose an' the marines!'

Willing hands helped them into the boat and, with frantic strokes, the little craft finally won the open sea.

Troubled and depressed, Renzi stood by the main shrouds, gazing out into the hostile darkness. The talk of a death-wish was nonsense, of course, but it pointed up the core of the difficulty: since losing Rosalynd, Kydd had turned hard and bitter, and no longer possessed the humanity that had informed his leadership before.

It had destabilised his men, who could not be expected to follow one whose character they could not fathom, whose human feeling was so much in doubt and who was said to be deranged by grief. Above all, the iron control and remoteness now set him apart.

There was a distant spatter of firing ashore. Renzi stiffened: the party must have been discovered, he thought. They could not last long against regular French troops and he gripped the shroud.

Standish appeared next to him. 'Seems he's got himself into a pother,' he said casually. 'To be expected. We'll give him an hour, I think.' Renzi could not trust himself to reply.

Another spasm of firing occurred farther along—it grew to a crescendo, musket flashes now atop the dunes all along the beach. Then it lessened and stopped abruptly. It was not possible in the dark to make out what had happened, but Standish let out a theatrical sigh. 'It seems to be all over with Mr Kydd, I do believe.'

'You'll send another boat,' Renzi snapped.

'I will not. There's half the French army there waiting for us to blunder in to the rescue. I'll be taking Teazer to sea and—'

'Boat ahoooyy!' The fo'c'sle lookout's voice cracked with feeling. A distant cry came out of the night. A seaman ran aft and touched his hat to Standish.

'Our boat in sight, sir,' he said, with relish.

The tired party came over the bulwark, ashen-faced, the wounded marine handed up tenderly. Kydd went straight aft to Standish. 'I'm t' see the admiral. You have th' ship till I return.' Without acknowledging Renzi he went over the side and the boat shoved off.

Renzi noted sadly that Kydd had not said a word of praise to the men or ordered a double tot for them, something inconceivable before.

The boat came back quickly; as soon as Kydd was inboard he summoned Standish. 'Th' admiral has decided t' resume th' action. We stand to at dawn.'

This time it was to be both bomb-vessels, Sulphur and her tenders having arrived during the night, and not only that but a daytime assault for maximum accuracy. The tides allowed for an approach at five in the morning and the two ships would pound away for as long as the tide allowed, probably until ten—or until they were overwhelmed by vessels emboldened by daylight, which the French must surely have in readiness. Much would depend on Kydd's inshore squadron . . .

The two bomb-vessels crabbed in and began the elaborate preparations with three anchors and springs attached in such a way that the vessel could be oriented precisely. It was then a technical matter for the gunners: the charge exactly calculated for range and the fuse cut at the right point to explode the thirteen-inch mortar shell just above the ground for deadly effect.