Stirk held his tongue. He had his misgivings and they were growing; his coming forward had given his shipmates heart to do likewise. He glanced back at L’Aurore, seeing Captain Kydd looking down as they cast off. Why weren’t all naval officers like him? Square and true, worth any man’s following.
The schooner swung away from L’Aurore and both ships took up close-hauled out to the east, to make an offing before going about and raising Puerto de Barahona, Infanta tucking in astern of her senior.
Stirk watched Buckle hovering around the wheel, nervously checking their heading. Nearby was Luke Calloway, master’s mate and second in command, barely in his twenties.
Now, there was one of the right sort. He’d started out as an illiterate ship’s boy and had pulled himself up by his own efforts. Stirk gave a wry grin: that both he and the captain had been old shipmates didn’t trouble him – he was an old sea-dog and knew he could never hoist in all the book learning necessary to go further. Just as long as those like Kydd and Calloway earned respect by their actions he would take their orders happily.
This junior lieutenant was of another stamp. Like a young pup, he was trying too hard to please – and seemed to have had a very patchy naval background. Word had it he had no experience of square rig worth a spit, and all of it within the Caribbean, hardly the nursery for young officers that the blockading squadrons offered.
Stirk took some comfort in that, as boatswain of the craft, he oversaw all manoeuvres and was in a position to intervene if things got into a tangle. Once action started it could be different … and then it might be another story.
The two ships put about at midday, allowing an easy sail while they closed the coast. The intention was to make landfall as dusk was clamping in, allowing enough light for recognising, but hopefully not so much that anything out of place would be spotted. Buckle seemed quite at home with schooner rig, not often to be seen in naval service, and sensibly turned in after they settled on their final board.
At daybreak, some twenty miles off the coast, L’Aurore heaved to and called Infanta alongside to take aboard the volunteers held back from the small passage. They crowded into the little schooner but it would get worse for them in their final approach when they would be crammed out of sight below.
‘Mr Buckle! Is there anything more you need?’ To Stirk, Kydd’s voice from the quarterdeck sounded tinged with anxiety, which did little to settle his own unease.
‘Er, I can’t think of anything,’ Buckle called back.
‘Then I’ll wish you and Infanta good fortune.’
The schooner got under way and passed L’Aurore to take position ahead. Any watcher on land would now see a plucky little craft crowding on sail in a desperate attempt to escape capture by making the safety of the harbour.
Stirk made the most of the fading light and went around the decks, checking. In the circumstances, the plan had to be simple. Enter Puerto de Barahona past any fortifications by bluff, and when within, spy out any vessel worth the cutting out. If there were anything to be gained by raiding ashore, then any general mayhem would be acceptable – a blue rocket would signal L’Aurore they were landing, a red that the defences were too strong.
The coast loomed, thickly verdant and rumpled; the port was neither enemy nor friend at first appearance, an unsettling lack of certainty.
Buckle stood stiffly by the wheel, clearly conscious of his role, pale-faced in his cocked hat and sword. ‘Right – everyone below, we’re nearly there,’ he ordered.
‘Sir,’ Stirk said heavily, ‘wouldn’t ye like to be in somethin’ more comfortable t’ wear, like?’ It was not up to him to point out the obvious: that an officer in the King’s uniform was an unusual sight in a privateer.
Their run in was straightforward enough: chalk cliffs stood out stark in the fading light, angling down as if pointing to a cluster of buildings. Closer in, the harbour could be made out – a gap in two white-fringed reefs, then a low hook of land enfolding from the right. Small, but ideal for a privateer hideaway – no frigate was ever going to close with those reefs.
The schooner, with the last of the sea breeze behind her, surged inside them. Balked of her prey, L’Aurore gave up and headed back out to sea. All eyes in Infanta were on the low spit of land to the right. What would be revealed when they were inside it?
Long minutes later they had their answer: a near half-mile length of calm water with a sizeable brig at anchor and, at the far end, signs of a shipbuilding slip.
The helm went over and they sheeted in for the run-up.
‘We go for the brig, do you think?’ Buckle asked.