Point before sunset, and headed north-westward past the red cliffs of Sail Rock.
'This will do, Mr Jarman,' growled Swaine.
'Sir?' said Jarman, puzzled.
'Manchioneal Bay. Good enough holding, I'd have thought'
'We anchor?'
'For the night — no sense in risking a night passage inshore, when we can arrive early tomorrow.' Swaine looked narrowly at Jarman.
'Aye-aye, sir,' Jarman said, his face blank. The anchor went down off the muddy river between the reefs, the stream flowing fast from the recent rains.
Kydd dropped down the fore hatchway to the hubbub of the mess-deck. On one side Patch was holding court, men clustered around his table. As Kydd approached he looked up, resentment and anger in his face. He spoke to Alvarez but his eyes were on Kydd. 'So where's our piggin' prizes comin' from, we lie with our hook down all th' time? This ain't work worth a spit, all hard-lyin' an' no purse at th' end of it - we're nothin' but a parcel o' scranny-pickers.'
Farthing muttered, 'Some says as how we's a Judas boat now - sittin' like this, we ain't a chance.' Others joined in.
Kydd waited patiently for them to make their feelings known. By long-hallowed custom of the sea, seamen in their mess were free to voice their grumbles to each other, short of mutiny or sedition.
It subsided, as Kydd had known it would, but when he resumed his way forward to the petty officer's mess, the privateersman pushed to his feet, locking his gaze on Kydd's. His hand dropped to his knife. Kydd froze. The knife came out. Then, in a vicious one-handed movement, the blade flickered from his palm and thudded into a deck beam between the astonished men of the opposite mess-table, pinioning a hapless cockroach.
The talking died away in an edgy silence. The reality was that they were only a King's cutter, whose duties were mainly despatches and reconnaissance; their prizes before were a lucky chance and not to be relied upon. Patch was not the only privateersman aboard — Kydd realised it could get ugly if their captain . . . 'If y’ askin' to have y'r blade cropped, I can oblige ye,' Kydd said mildly. His hands dropped loosely to his side but he tensed. Any hasty words from Patch now and he'd see him in irons: there was no other way.
At the sudden quiet, the canvas screen of the petty officer's mess at the end of the mess-deck suddenly pulled back. 'What's th' gripin', mate?' Stirk called.
'Nothin', Toby. Shipmates talkin' cat-blash is all,' Kydd said loudly, but he continued to stand, watching Patch. Slowly, the privateersman unwound and, turning away his gaze, moved to retrieve his knife. Kydd followed him with his eyes, then continued on.
'Gettin' worried they can't see us takin' prizes with this owner,' he said briefly, accepting a pot from Renzi inside their mess.
'An' ain't that the truth!' said Stiles, lifting his tankard in disgust. 'He'll be a-kissin' his dear ones just this minute, if y' believes young Luke.'
'Kissing ... ?'
'His dear ones — loves 'is bottles so much he's a kissin' of 'em every day,' Stiles grated.
Stirk gave a brief smile, then leaned forward. 'Other ways yez c'n get a taste o' gold, these parts ...'
The others leaned forward to hear. 'Yair, wasn't it in the Caribbee yer Cap'n Kidd buried 'is treasure? Nearly a million in gold 'n' jools! An' guarded b' ten dead men an' never found till this day?'
Eyes gleamed in the lanthorn light, then he turned to Kydd. 'Now then, cully,' Stirk said, 'yer must know somethin' about it, 'e bein' kin an' all.'
Kydd smiled. 'Terrible great pirate, I grant ye, but no kin o' mine — he comes fr'm
