The Privateer's Revenge

a direct line of sailing.

There was no easy answer. They were only a few days off retiring from the area so perhaps he must let them go—but any accident aboard one of the vessels would make it fall out of line and then it would be theirs; or at night some inexperienced master might lose the convoy and in morning light be found alone on the ocean.

So he would follow in their wake ready to snap up stragglers, like a wolf prowling about a flock of frightened sheep, waiting to catch them off-guard.

They stayed with it through the afternoon and evening. As dusk drew in the frigate, having nothing to fear from revealing her position, hung two lanthorns along the foreyard, three along the main, and settled comfortably in the centre of the two columns of four ships where all might see and be comforted by the bright lights.

There would be no lost sheep, it seemed. The night passed, and the day following, with not the slightest false move by the frigate, which stayed in perfect station between the Witch and the ships huddling together. It was a masterly textbook defence and Kydd wryly honoured the unknown captain.

Two more days went by. They were now approaching France, heading probably to a port south of Brest, possibly Nantes or La Rochelle. Still the skilled blocking. But this course was not altogether out of their way and Kydd would stay with them until the last moment, then head for home.

Meanwhile he would take the opportunity to circumnavigate the convoy slowly, taking in details of each ship and making a hypothetical choice of which he would choose as victim. Speculation passed round Witch as to their qualities and value, but still the frigate kept careful watch and ward.

As they drew nearer the coast they saw various craft, mainly local traders scuttling from port to port and occasionally a larger vessel. Then, with France a low blue-grey smudge ahead at last, everything changed with the sighting of a single vessel closer inshore: not a particularly large ship, a brig, but purposefully beating out towards them.

It posed a dilemma for the frigate captain: Should he abandon his position to windward of the convoy and stand away to intercept the possible threat or remain? If the brig was a warship and hostile it was much more of a threat than the Witch, but if he went to meet it and Kydd struck, he would have to claw back against the wind to come to the rescue.

Kydd watched developments keenly. Soon it became clear that the brig was a man-o'-war, a Royal Navy sloop of the type that was carrying the fight to the enemy in such numbers, come out to try its steel, wheeling about the head of the advancing ships in an arrogant show of inspection. It was too much for the frigate, which loosed sail and charged through the convoy towards the interloper.

An electric thrill whipped through Kydd: at last, here was his chance. A cooler voice intervened to point out that if he was caught with half his men on an enemy deck by the returning frigate the Witch of Sarnia would be blasted out of the water in a single vengeful broadside.

Eight ships. Three or four miles of sea. Was there time to fall on one of the convoy in a wild boarding, seize and sail off with it before the frigate could reach them? All the crew had to do was to put up a stout enough fight to delay matters and they would be saved. It would be a hard and bloody affair. And he had seconds to decide.

At the frigate's decisive move the sloop had kept its distance and was warily stepping away from confrontation. Kydd's instinct was to secure co-operation from the unknown captain and tackle the problem as a team, but a proud navy commander would never stoop to joining with a privateer.

To the starboard rear there was a medium-sized ship-rigged merchantman, probably hailing from the Caribbean and with no particular attraction other than that she had a modest stern quarter and bulwarks to lessen the dangerous climb aboard. She would be his kill.

'Mr Cheslyn, we board!' There was an instant response. He had no need to make bracing speeches: they all knew the stakes—and the reward.

Sheering over to starboard he let the Witch have her head. She rapidly overhauled the merchant ship and set her bowsprit to pass down the vessel's outer side. This was no time to check on the frigate's actions for now they were committed and there was no turning back.

Puffs of smoke appeared from along the afterdeck and were joined by others coming from the tops. A swivel banged, and another. Kydd heard the vicious whip of bullets overhead and felt their thump through his feet as they slammed into the hull.

The gap of water narrowed. 'Fire!' he bellowed. Their six-pounder crashed out, its hail of musket balls sleeting across and, with a hoarse roar, the coehorn mortar joined in, throwing grena-does among the defenders who scattered wildly.

The two vessels came together with a crash, sending Kydd staggering; men stood to hurl grapnels—one collapsed as he took a ball to the chest but others secured a hold and hauled the ships together while the boarders gathered, brandishing their weapons in a bloodthirsty show.

However, there were cool and brave heads on the other ship and seamen darted out and hacked at the grapnel lines with axes and the vessels drifted apart again.

They had to act or it was all over. 'Wi' me!' Kydd shrieked at Cheslyn, in the crazy noise, and raced forward, throwing over his shoulder at the helmsman, 'Take her in!'

On the foredeck Kydd looked frantically about for the fall of a line from aloft, found one and slashed through it; then, as though he were a seaman atop a yard aloft, he ran out on the bowsprit, which was swinging towards the other ship, clamping the coil of line under his arm.

He felt Cheslyn behind him, and others as well—they had moments only, for their impetus through the water would translate to a deflection out by the shock of impact. He reached the cranse iron at the tip of the bowsprit and paused, passing a hurried bowline around the fore topmast stay, conscious of the racing water below and, in the other ship, the men tumbling down from the low poop to meet the sudden threat, and then the long spar was arcing over the enemy deck.

Instantly he dropped. There was only one thing he had to do now but would he live long enough to do it? Then he heard Cheslyn's roaring battle-cry above—followed by the man's body knocking him askew, others dropping by him.

Kydd heaved himself to his feet and felt the line tug away from him. Ignoring the ring and clash of arms around him as Cheslyn parried and thrust to protect him, he threw himself at a kevel-head and passed turns round the thick timber belaying point. The schooner's bowsprit was now fastened to its victim and was thus a bridge into the heart