The Privateer's Revenge

Kydd caught Rowan's eye. 'Where did he go, d' ye think?'

'I don't think y' give th' Frenchy credit, Mr Kydd. He's one cool hand, waits f'r the main squall, then slashes about t' stay inside it an' passes us close in th' murk an' away off t' Paimpol, cool as y' please.'

It was galling. It seemed these French matelots in their home waters were every bit as bold and seamanlike as the English, certainly far from being frightened sheep about to be snapped up by a passing wolf. 'We press on,' Kydd grunted. 'There'll be more—an' I know where . . .'

The Sept Iles resolved out of the grey murkiness as he remembered them from the deck of Teazer. The only question now was whether to pass to seaward or take the inner channel. He decided quickly. 'South about, lad,' he told the helmsman. There was no point in crisp naval orders to an officer-of-the-watch in this vessel.

Obediently the young seaman swung the tiller and Bien Heureuse headed into the channel under easy sail in the fluky north-easterly, every man on eager lookout, as guineas would go to him who first sighted their prey.

This time there was no gunfire from the old fort—they must appear as innocent as the salt trader they had once been. As they passed through unnoticed, Kydd tugged his coat closer and sighed. He was now a captain again, even if it was of a jackal of the seas. He was under no orders other than his own, with nothing to do but fall upon any sail sighted. No other purpose or distraction; no convoys, senior officers, strict instructions. This was what it was to prowl the seas as a single-minded predator. No wonder the carefree life of a pirate in past ages had—

'Saaail!' screamed two men, simultaneously—or was that a seaman and a sharp- eyed boy?

Kydd swung up his glass eagerly. As they emerged from the passage on the other side of Sept Iles he saw a three-masted lugger on the same course. It had taken the deeper seaward route and they had met the other side not more than a mile or two apart.

His telescope told him that the vessel was larger than they and low in the water—a full cargo? A handful of men stood on deck, no doubt filled with consternation at their sudden appearance. The lugger held its course for minutes longer, then curved sharply into the wind and made for the open sea.

'Go after him, then,' Kydd growled happily at the helmsman. An exultant roar went up from the men busy at the ropes and Bien Heureuse heeled sharply. The hunt was on.

'Clear away an' give him a gun, Mr Kevern.' The first would be unshotted and to weather, the demand to heave-to. The next would be a ball across the ship's bows. Failing a response to this, there would be a cannon shot low over the decks.

With an apologetic crack the nine-pounder under reduced charge spoke out, the rank odour of powder smoke nevertheless carrying aft its message of threat and challenge. 'Boarders, Mr Tranter,'

Kydd warned. In the event of resistance he wanted no delay in the manoeuvre to give their opponents time to rally.

The two ships stretched out over the sea, leaving the lumpy grey islands to disappear into the rain astern with the pursuer straining every line and stitch of canvas to close with their prey. As Kydd watched, he saw suddenly that the fleeing craft was falling off the wind. Then, incredibly, it was turning towards them. Rowan cursed and muttered, 'That there's Trois Freres o' St Malo—I should o' known.'

'Frenchy privateer?'

'A Malouin? He is that. Cap'n Vicq, an' he's a Tartar, particular well manned 'n' armed. We'd best—'

'Helm up!' Kydd roared, to the startled man at the tiller, 'T' th' Triagoz!' It was a single near conical rocky islet ahead set in endless reefs but it was the only land in sight—and down to leeward.

With a dispiriting wallow Bien Heureuse slewed about for the distant hillock and picked up speed. Kydd thought furiously. The other was a larger ship and almost certainly more experienced— and these were home waters for the Malouin. In these seas it had the edge—with superior numbers and firepower.

Tranter came aft. 'Th' bastard's got us! Tide's on the ebb an' we can't—'

'Hold y' jabber!' Kydd snarled. He had just noticed that the wily Vicq with his slight advantage of speed had eased away to parallel his run for the Triagoz but was closing with every yard. They could not strike for the open sea because Vicq would be waiting there, but on the other hand they were being pressed slowly but surely against the hostile land.

It was the same trick he had used on the Cornish coast to box in another privateer to a rockbound coast—but this time he himself was the victim. The deck fell quiet as each man took in the dire situation. Their captain was the only one who could save them now.

Kydd had no illusions about Vicq. His initial move to flee had drawn Kydd into betraying his true character as a privateer and, further, had lured him into the open sea. Now he had the patience to make sure of Bien Heureuse and win the bounty Napoleon Bonaparte had promised to any who could rid him of a detested English privateer.

By definition they could not prevail in an encounter at sea. Therefore they must keep in with the land. He recalled his first sighting of the lugger low in the water; without doubt, this was the outset of a cruise for Vicq with the ship full of prize-crew and stores. Kydd made his decision: with their lesser draught the only course left to them was to head for the rocks and shallows under the coast to try to shake off the larger craft.

'South!' he ordered. Into the embrace of the land—enemy land. Once again Bien Heureuse bucketed round, taking up on the larboard tack in a race for life and safety.

Vicq conformed immediately and tucked himself in astern for the chase but when Kydd reached the reef-strewn coast and swung cautiously away to the south-west Vicq angled over at once to keep his clamping position to seawards.

Close inshore the prospect was fearful: granite crags, deadly rocky islets emerging with the falling tide—and everywhere the betraying surge of white from unseen sub-sea threats.

Rowan was sent up the foremast in an improvised boatswain's chair to try to spot imminent perils ahead—a trying task with the mast's manic dipping and swaying in the following wind. Vicq remained at a distance, passing on the outer side of the forbidding Plateau de la Meloine and allowing Bien Heureuse the inner passage. In a chill of fear Kydd saw why.