The Privateer's Revenge

worrying about just where in this vast desert of sea he might find prey could wait for the light of day.

At some time in the night he came suddenly to full wakefulness and lay in the dark knowing something was amiss but unable to pinpoint it. There was nothing, no sudden shouting, no change in the regular pitching and heaving of the ship. The feeling intensified, and a sense of preternatural dread stole over him. He rolled out of his bunk, threw on the grego over his nightclothes and hurried up on deck, his eyes straining into the blackness.

The watch-on-deck looked at him in astonishment. 'Cap'n, sir?' said one with concern, approaching. Kydd tried to make sense of his feelings. The rollers showed white in the darkness, seething past as usual, and the overcast made reading the sky conditions difficult. But something was . . .

Then he had it. An almost indefinable continuous low roar at the edge of hearing beneath the bluster of the wind but, once detected, never fading. He froze in horror: a memory from long ago, burned into his soul burst into his consciousness—one night perilously close to the dreaded Cape Horn and . . .

He threw himself at the wheel as he had done then, knocking the helmsman aside, and spun on turns. The little schooner seemed reluctant and frantically Kydd willed it on for otherwise they had but seconds to live.

The roar became audible to the others on deck, who looked at each other in terror as Kydd shrieked, 'Hold! Hold on f'r your lives!'

Then the wind died. In not much more than a breath of air Witch of Sarnia came round into the calm whisper and started canting up—the angle increased sharply and the nearness of a monstrous presence beat on Kydd's senses. 'Hold!' he howled, as the schooner reared higher still and from within the vessel he could hear anonymous thuds, crashing and terrified cries.

The roaring was now overwhelming and suddenly it became a reality. The foaming peak of a rogue wave of mountainous size rolling down on them out of the night like a juggernaut, its feral presence mind-freezing.

Now all depended on whether Kydd's action had been quick enough. As the schooner's bow buried itself in the boiling white of the crest, the wind, which had been cut off by the sheer bulk of the wave, resumed with shocking force—but she was now in the eye of the gale and it blasted equally both sides of the fore and aft sails. By that one fact the Witch had been saved from being slammed sideways, to die rolling over and over broadside at the teeth of the wave.

The deluge took possession of the deck and came rushing aft; at the same time the naked, dripping bow emerged spearing skywards before the vessel fell with a sickening crunch into the back of the great wave. Then the rush of water thinned and disappeared over the side before it reached them.

They were through! But at what cost? Men boiled up from below in terrified incomprehension; above the bedlam Kydd could hear Cheslyn's roar, then saw his bear-like shape forward as he restored order with his fists.

The man handed himself aft, his heavy face streaked with wet hair, eyes red. 'The barky's well shook up below, Mr Kydd,' he said hoarsely. 'You keep th' deck, sir, an' I'll take some hands below an' do what we can till day.'

'Very well, Mr Cheslyn—an' thank ye.'

There was a glimmer of a smile, then he left abruptly.

First light showed much the same bleak seascape: white-streaked waves to the horizon, advancing on them energetically, but there had been no worsening during the night. The barometer holding steady confirmed Kydd's estimate that it was but the North Atlantic exercising its age-old right to nastiness. He faced the wind: the centre would be some six points or more out there on his right hand. If he shaped away more south of west he would avoid the worst of the blow and still be on course for the Azores and their hunting ground.

With a sigh of satisfaction he retired to his cabin; they had survived remarkably well, considering, almost certainly because of their new fit of rigging. Between decks the mess was still being cleared away but nothing vital had suffered.

He was peeling off his sodden clothes when the door flew open and a cabin boy raced in shrieking, 'An' it's a sail!'

It was pale against the east horizon, and of some size. Excitement swept the Witch, even though Kydd knew the chances of it being prize-worthy were not great, given they had not yet reached their hunting ground.

Nevertheless the privateer prepared for a chase, setting topsails abroad in earnest for the first time since St Peter Port and laying her course to intercept. As if scenting the thrill of the hunt the Witch lay down under her full sail and slashed along in exhilarating style.

Feverishly Kydd brought his new-won knowledge to mind for if there were to be word-grinding arguments he would be ready now. And if the ship resisted their examinations they would earn a whole-hearted boarding.

Strangely, the vessel did not shy away downwind but held her course under the same light sails and in perfect confidence.

'A gun, if y' please, Mr Perchard.' As the powder smoke whipped along the decks the Witch of Sarnia broke her colours at the masthead—the Union Flag of Great Britain.

Their intent must be obvious: Why, then, did it not take action? As they drew nearer it became even more perplexing with the ship continuing steadily on, not once varying her eastward course. For some reason her upper rigging was full of men. Putting his telescope down Kydd was certain now that this was a Martinico-man, a French Caribbean trader and therefore an enemy; nearly twice their size, yet not making any manoeuvre to meet the threat.

Cautiously Kydd allowed their courses to converge; then a tricolour rose swiftly up the halliards and instantly up and down the deck-line guns opened with stabs of flame, the smoke carried swiftly to leeward. The lively seas made any kind of accuracy impossible but it was clear to Kydd that they were badly outclassed in weight of metal —any boarding could end up bloody.

Still the stubbornly held course and few sails. Kydd made to pass under her stern at half a mile range—and when the big vessel failed to wheel about to keep his guns bearing on them Kydd understood. 'He's taken th' same wave as we,' he laughed in relief, 'an' is higgled in the top-hamper.' It was the cruellest of luck for the ship, weakened beyond manoeuvring in masts or yards. Witch of Sarnia had sighted them before they had found time for a jury-rig to the injured spars. Kydd thought guiltily of the men who had worked through the night as they had, and when blessed daylight had come, so had their nemesis.