Seaflower

towards the enemy. She fell off the wind a little and her intention became clear — to pass close astern of the other vessel to send her puny balls smashing through the unprotected stern and down the length of her enemy.

Stirk raced from gun to gun. Fortunate to be at quarters, they were at the ready, but Farrell roared, 'Larboard — firing to larboard!'

This was away from the enemy. Kydd was baffled by the order. Then the barque responded. The United States flag whipped down arid the French flag rose to replace it in jerky movement. At the same time the vessel came around sharply into the wind, to stay about. Well before Seaflower could come up to deliver her blow, the bluff sides of her antagonist were swinging around on the other tack to parallel the little cutter and present her full broadside.

Kydd's throat constricted — a crushing weight of metal would be slamming into them in seconds. He glanced at Farrell who, to his astonishment, wore an expression of ferocious glee.

'We have you now, Mr Frenchman!' he roared triumphantly. The barque's swing had been a mistake. Farrell snapped, 'Ready about! Lee, oh!' and Seaflower pirouetted prettily to leave her with her larboard guns laid faithfully on the barque's stern. They passed close enough to see pale faces over the taffrail and sails slatting in confusion as, no doubt, orders were being angrily countermanded.

There was nothing to miss. The line of windows at the stern gallery dissolved as gun after gun on Seaflower's deck crashed out, the balls' brutal impact causing ruin along the length of the enemy. Kydd felt a furious exaltation — it was the first smoke of battle he had smelt since the great frigate struggle between Artemis and Citoyenne.

The last gun banged out and Seaflower was past. With her crew cheering madly, the guns were served, but there was a new peril — a square-rigged vessel would back topsails and stay where she was, battering the helpless victim into submission, but with her fore-and-aft rig there was no way Seaflower could do the same. She continued on her course, her only hope to get out of range before the enemy could recover, but the black hull was already turning. Seaflower lay over under her press of sail, but there was no escape. Kydd's hands sweated at the helm — but he was tied to his place of duty and must stand and take whatever fate had in store for him.

The enemy broadside came. But in ones and twos. Paltry puffs of powder smoke, the thin crack of four-pounders. And a whole gundeck of cannon staring silently at them. 'Caught 'em on the hop goin' about!' growled Stirk in disgust.

'They got the yeller fever an' can't man the guns!' someone shouted. Kydd's mind raced; this was no explanation for small-calibre guns.

Jarman smiled. 'She's a Mongseer merchant jack, puttin' on a show,' he said, with satisfaction. It was a pretence: the open gunports sported only quakers, wooden imitation guns that could not fire. Her bluff was called. The tiny Seaflower had not run for her life as intended, and had dared to attack. Incredulous shouts and cheers broke out while the trim cutter closed in exultantly on her prey.

*      *      *

'Damme f'r a chuckle-headed ninny, but that was rare done!' Patch said, lowering his cutlass to finger the quality of the cordage on the deck of their prize. 'Knoo the exac' time she'd weather th' point, and was there a-waitin',' he continued admiringly. 'Keeps it to 'imself, he does, an' four hours out we has a fat prize.' The French sailors sat morosely on the main-hatch while Farrell and the sailing master inspected below decks.

It was a matter of small hours to escort the prize back to Port Morant; the talk was all on the astonishing intelligence their sagacious captain must have had, and happy anticipation of prize money to claim later.

Farrell did not appear affected by his fortune. He appeared punctiliously on deck at appropriate times in the ship's routine, courteous but firm in his dealings with his ship's company, and considerate and businesslike with Jarman and Merrick, who stood watches opposite each other. Seaflower seemed to respond with spirit. Square sails set abroad and her prodigious fore-and-aft canvas bowsed well taut, she slashed purposefully through the royal-blue seas at a gallop, her deck alive with eager movement.

By the last dog-watch, deep into the Caribbean, Kydd joined Renzi at his customary