CHAPTER 12
KYDD WAS SET UP IN HIS RENDEZVOUS at the Blue Anchor in St Peter Port in due style, ready to stand a muzzier of stingo to any brave tar who wished to sign on with him for a cruise of fortune westward.
It was noisy, hard-drinking work, but Robidou was sitting next to him and it was clear that he was well respected as a privateersman. Among the first to approach was Rowan, a seamed West Country man with a direct eye and quiet manner. His recent experience quickly saw him signed as lieutenant and prize-captain.
A boatswain, Rosco, was next. Bluff, he had a hard-eyed countenance that Kydd liked. Seamen started to appear; there were some prime hands that would not have been out of place on the gun-deck of a man-o'-war— which was probably where they had learned their trade. Others had the look of the wharf-rat about them, but Kydd could not be too particular as numbers were thinning.
Another experienced officer came up: name of Tranter, he could claim service with the Guernseyman Hamon of the
More seamen came; some curious, others disdainful. It was hard to make out their mettle when it was overlaid with the traditional independence of the merchant seaman, but this was not to be a long, deep-sea voyage where any real defects of character could matter.
As time passed, Kydd was perturbed that no gunner had stepped forward: he had secured a pair of nine- pounder carriage guns and needed to see they were fitted properly. A merchant vessel was not equipped with the heavy scantlings of timber round the gun-ports to absorb recoil and they would require sea testing to work up to a safe charge.
By the evening it had become evident that while they would not go short-handed they had not been besieged by eager fortune-hunters and Kydd knew he was lucky to have signed his crew. Now it was time to take on the ship's boys.
Their main purpose was to manage the ship when the men were away in prize-crews. Paid at the lowest rate and with but a half-share each they were nevertheless vital—and cheap. They crowded up to his table, eyes shining, ready for adventure. He hoped the reality of a cold autumn sea and an overcrowded ship would not too quickly disillusion them and managed a few words of encouragement to each.
The next day Kydd was back at the
Time was pressing, and there was so much to see to: the sails had to be in reasonable condition for the weather as it worsened with the season; the running rigging needed to be overhauled— no twice-laid stuff to fail at the crucial moment. And all the time expenses were mounting and Robidou had to be convinced of their necessity.
Artificers and artisans were signed on—the sailmaker, armourer, carpenter—each with shares negotiated and commensurate, all found outfits of tools and spares. The clock was ticking with the hands signing aboard and taking wages.
The Priaulx yard was doing a good job but seemed to have no sense of urgency: it needed goading, and drink money for the shipwrights, who were, of course, in a way of business that in a King's yard they were not. A gunner was finally found: Kevern, a sallow and somewhat nervous young man, who had the unsettling habit of agreeing instantly and completely with anything Kydd said.
By now Robidou was showing clear signs of impatience. Kydd's requirement for more powder and shot was denied curtly; he was allowed the bare minimum of charts and no chronometer. The prize-captain Rowan, however, was unexpectedly helpful in discovering odd rutters and pilots of the waters in French and Dutch.
A small crowd of interested spectators had taken to looking on from the pier, to the hazard of the ship's stores, being prepared there to be struck below. Driven to distraction Kydd was told that the cook had stormed off in disgust at the primitive stove—and he knew only too well that the men wouldn't stand for there not being hot scran on board at the right time.
It was chaos and confusion on all sides as Kydd took refuge in his tiny cabin. It smelled of damp bedding and stale tobacco. The timber sides were weeping at the join of the transom, and there would be no money wasted on oiling the faded wood of the bulkhead; it remained a drab and pale-blotched sadness.
He held his head in his hands. What had possessed him to take this on? He would have given a great deal to have his friend Renzi with him, now loyally working at menial clerking in Jersey to give him the chance to clear his name. Yet something had prevented Kydd writing to tell him of his change of situation, some feeling of reluctance to admit to his friend his new status as a privateer.
There were more pressing matters: How could he forge this ship's company into a fighting whole when they were complete strangers? Not a soul would he have aboard that he had known more than hours only. He would be again without a friend in the world.
Staring gloomily at the grubby skylight he had a sudden idea that set him to calling a ship's boy. 'Here's a sixpence. Do you find a Mr Luke Calloway as will be at th' Bethel or workin' on th' waterfront, an' tell him th' captain o'
It wasn't until the afternoon that the lad came back, breathless. 'I did fin' a gent b' that name, but he was pushin' a handcart, Mr Kydd. An' when I told 'im what ye wanted, he asked what ship. I told 'im
'Then where—'
'When he hears she's a private ship, he don't want t' know, sees me off,' the boy said, astonished.
Kydd grinned mirthlessly. 'Tell him Mr Kydd has need o' his services, younker. Another sixpence if he's aboard b' sundown.'
That evening, still without a cook, Kydd welcomed Calloway warmly and, over a hot negus in his cabin, told him of his plans. 'An' if ye'd wish it, there's a berth f'r master's mate on th' next cruise.' Whatever it took, he would get it past Robidou. After all, Calloway was a prime man-o'-war's man and an officer in his last ship. And a master's mate aboard a merchant ship? Well, if the practice was to call mates 'lieutenants' in privateers, then surely he could import other ranks.
