The Privateer's Revenge

understand? She wants adventure and excitement before the mast, Captain, just like you do. Shame on you!'

'Rosie, I'm never before th' mast in Witch, and I'll have y' know this is an ocean voyage wi' a crew o' right cut-throats as any I've seen. It's not right an' proper f'r a young—'

'Y' have ship's boys to do men's work, so if Pookie wants to be a boy why can't she be? Make her y' cabin-boy to keep her under eye if you have to, but I don't think she'll need any o' your protectin'.' Kydd thought wryly of her prowess over the other boys with her fists, while Rosie went on warmly, 'Besides, if you don't take her, she'll be back on the streets up to her old tricks. And don't forget her share of the booty. Won't this help her poor mama?'

'It's too late betimes, Rosie. I've closed books an' we sail on th' tide tomorrow forenoon. She's a game 'un, she'll find something else,' he added lamely.

It was a day of autumn overcast, with a brisk wind that fluttered dresses and tugged at hats as Witch of Sarnia made ready for sea. A crowd had come to see the smart privateer that was reputedly making a daring foray into the Atlantic Ocean on which much Guernsey money was riding.

They lined the quay, gentlemen and ladies, quantities of curious wharf-loafers and the odd redcoat soldier with his woman. Robidou appeared and pushed through the crowd, waving what seemed to be a book. 'Just been published,' he shouted against the excitement, passing it to Kydd. 'Someone gave it me f'r interest— but I think ye should have it.'

Kydd yelled back his thanks, but there would be precious little time for books. 'Stand by for'ard!' he bawled. As they began to single up the lines his eye was caught by a lone figure standing apart from the others.

With a grin he recognised Pookie who, no doubt, had come down hoping for a last-minute change of heart—so, with an exaggerated beckoning, the Witch of Sarnia's crew was complete. The delighted youngster threw a small bundle aboard, grabbed a rope, twirled round and landed lightly on the deck with a huge smile.

Departure was easy enough in the southerly; sail mounted quickly as lines were let go and hauled in, and water opened up between ship and quay. With Cheslyn by Kydd's side in well-worn sea gear, hard men efficiently handing along tackle falls, and overhead the crack and slap of a topsail spreading along its boom, the schooner made for the twin piers at the entrance.

A knot of spectators on the very end waved gaily, and as they passed close on their way to the open sea the group broke into whooping and shouts. A firework whizzed skywards and another followed. Kydd was touched: his theatrical friends were not allowing him to seek his fortune on the vasty deep without due ceremony. He waved back energetically, which would have produced expressions of horror on 'Teazer's quarterdeck. 'Kind in 'em to see us on our way,' he murmured to Cheslyn, who had looked at him askance but Kydd, feeling the Witch heel as she took the wind at the harbour entrance eagerly seeking the freedom of the open sea, was letting nothing spoil his happiness of the moment.

They passed between the vessels anchored in the Great Road, each with decks lined with interested sailors watching the privateer head out—Kydd knew that the Witch's fine lines would be attracting admiration while her sleek and deadly black form would leave no doubt as to her mission.

Through the Little Russel and leaving the shelter of Herm they met long seas—combers urged up on the lengthy swell by a brisk westerly from the deep Atlantic. Kydd and Robidou had taken the Witch out earlier with a skeleton crew to try her mettle, and with one or two changes to the set of her sails he was satisfied and confident in her sea-keeping.

He had discovered that Witch of Sarnia had completed only one voyage previously, and that a poor one under an over-cautious captain, but he would take full advantage of her qualities—he would have to if she was to have any chance of closing quickly with a prey. His crew were hard- bitten enough, but would they follow into the teeth of a larger crew intent on repelling boarders as he knew a man-o'-war's men would? Could he—

'Saaail!' The cry came at the sudden emergence of a sizeable ship from beyond the point—and directly athwart their path. It took no more than a heartbeat to realise that the noble lines belonged to HMS Teazer. Kydd guessed that Standish had been waiting for him: hearing of Kydd's Atlantic mission he had positioned himself ready for where he must come and was up to some sort of mischief.

'Ye'll 'ware she's a King's ship,' Cheslyn muttered pointedly.

'Aye,' said Kydd, evenly, watching as Teazer laid her course to intercept them. He was in no mood for Standish's posturing and gave orders that had Witch wheeling about and heading away downwind, mounting the backs of the combers before falling into the trough following in a series of uncomfortable sliding and jerks.

'What d' ye do that for?' Cheslyn spluttered. 'He's a brig, an' we can point higher, b' gob!' It was true—the schooner had had every chance of slipping past by clawing closer to the wind but Kydd had seen something . . .

'An' what does this'n mean?' Cheslyn growled. 'As if ye're of a mind t'—'

'I'd thank ye t' keep a civil tongue in y' head,' retorted Kydd, carefully sighting ahead. If this was going to work he would need everything he had learned of the frightful rocks about them.

'Be damned! Ye're losin' y' westin' by th' hour—this ain't how to—'

Kydd turned and smiled cynically: beyond Teazer was another, Harpy, summoned by the signal flags he had spotted, so obviously in place to swoop if they had tried to slip by.

Cheslyn had the grace to redden, and kept quiet as Kydd made his estimations. Astern, the two brig-sloops were streaming along in grand style, shaking out yet more sail with the wind directly behind them. The fore-and-aft rig advantage of the Witch, however, was now lost to him, and with the brigs' far greater sail area spread to the wind the end seemed inevitable.

Along the deck worried faces turned aft: if Standish had the press warrants, in a short time any not native-born could find himself immured in a King's ship for years.

Ahead was a roil of white, which was the half-tide reef of the Platte Fougere; Kydd stood quietly, watching it carefully, his eye straying back to the two warships, willing them on. Then, at the right moment, he rapped, 'Down helm—sheet in hard!'

Pitching deeply the Witch came slewing round to larboard, men scrabbling for