The boat surged in, sped on by the white combers, going beyond the spit and turning right into the harbour opening up inside.
And there was their quarry, sleek and low and lying to single anchor.
There was no identification but her lines seemed familiar to Kydd – was this a New England schooner, the like of which he had come across in his brief time in the United States as a lieutenant? As they approached, men appeared on deck, then the American flag jerked hastily up the main-mast.
This was going to be tricky, Kydd allowed: he’d had time to read only once his captain’s appreciation of the current legal situation between Britain and the United States in the West Indies. In essence, the Americans were strict neutrals by international law, allowing them to trade freely with both sides, but there had been developments that he’d not yet been able to study for their implications. If he was wrong in the details, there would not only be an international incident but he himself would be cast into ruinous damages.
As they came alongside he stood in the boat and hailed: ‘In the King’s name, I direct you to allow me aboard.’
An older man with seamed features pushed to the side and broke into a smile. ‘Ye’re English, thank the Lord! O’ course y’ may.’
A small Jacob’s ladder was flipped down and Kydd pulled himself up, Saxton following.
‘We thought you was Frenchies, you crackin’ on so serious as y’ were.’ The man extended his hand. ‘Elias Dale, master o’ the Orleans Maid.’
‘Captain Thomas Kydd, His Majesty’s Ship L’Aurore. You’re American registry, then, Mr Dale.’
He gestured up. ‘That’s the Stars ’n’ Stripes sayin’ we are.’
‘Then you won’t object were we to take a sight of your papers.’
The smile eased a fraction. ‘Why, no, o’ course not. I’ll go fetch ’em.’
While he was away Kydd took in the scene on deck. If it was a trading vessel he was a Chinaman. Fine-lined, there would be no capacious hold to cram full to increase profits, and the four six-pounders appeared altogether too well looked after. And, as well, the silent men crowding the deck in no way had the look of common merchant seamen.
Dale returned quickly. ‘There you is, Cap’n.’
He thrust across a bunch of papers.
Well used to the ploy, Kydd passed them to Saxton to hold then selected them one by one to give each his full and individual attention.
Registered in New Orleans the previous year, the owners American, the port bound to was Charleston. So far, all seemed in order.
Kydd glanced up, sensing tension in the watching seamen. One tossed a marline spike from hand to hand – he fumbled and it fell on his toe. ‘Merde! J’ai envie de chier!’ he swore, hopping about.
Saxton caught Kydd’s eye, but Dale came in quickly. ‘A Frenchy from Dominica. I guess I c’n ship who I like, don’t you?’
Kydd scrutinised the manifest. Aloes from Curaçao, indigo from Bonaire. And no bond listed to cover a valuable cargo?
‘I request that you’ll open your hold for inspection, Captain,’ he snapped.
‘You’ll rummage m’ ship?’ Dale said incredulously.
‘That’s what I said. If the goods in the hold match what’s listed in the manifest, you’re free to go.’
The man didn’t move. His face was tight.
‘Now, if you please.’
Kydd became conscious that there were even more men on deck, some advancing with violence in their eyes.
Dale held up his hand to them. ‘Now, I don’t reckon on the ruckus you’re causin’, Mr damn Kydd. You see, m’ men don’t take kindly to it and there’s one helluva lot more o’ them than you’ve got.’
‘You’d take on a frigate?’
‘Don’t have to, friend. There ain’t nothin’ above a brig can enter here, an’ you knows it. You’re on your own, and while you thinks on it, I can wait here as long as I likes.’
Kydd knew L’Aurore couldn’t stay indefinitely: a cutting out would be expensive in casualties against a well-manned and alert privateer, and if he sailed away to get more appropriate support it would release them to leave.
But he had something up his sleeve. He folded his arms and gave a tantalising smile. ‘I think you may be wrong about that,’ he said coolly.
‘Why, damn it?’
‘My ship carries twelve-pounders, Mr Dale.’
‘Ha! What’s that to me?’
‘At this moment I have one landed on the spit, and when it’s through to this side at, say, one or two hundred yards range, I doubt it’ll take much more than ten minutes to smash you all to flinders, sir.’