Renzi put his ear to the opening.
“What is it?” whispered Kydd urgently. He was beginning to feel ghosts.
“Quiet!” snapped Renzi.
Faint voices could be heard. They grew louder, and Renzi eased the hatch shut again.
“What?” Kydd asked.
Renzi looked at him gravely. “They were speaking French, dear fellow.”
The cutter must have been a French corsair under false colors — a smart move, given the circumstances. They had boarded the unaccompanied powder brig, probably massacred the crew and even now would be carrying her into a French port.
They stared at each other. Their immediate future was now very much in question. If they surrendered they would probably be hove overboard; if they waited until they reached port and discharged cargo they would be discovered and would rot in a military prison; and if they hid in their hole they would die there.
Renzi struggled with alternatives, but logic led pitilessly to a series of dead ends. He climbed back down the ladder and put his head in his hands.
“Nicholas! Up here, man!” There was sharp authority in Kydd’s voice. “We need t’ know where we stand. Try to listen t’ what they’re saying.”
Renzi slid the hatch open a crack and put his ear to it. There were two distinct voices, both young and strong, and another distant one, more mature. Their northern French dialect was difficult to follow, but he understood. The distant voice was giving the other two orders — probably the watch on deck, or what passed for it.
The orders themselves gave clues. What was aller vent largue? To go with the wind largue? That would be “large,” of course — the opposite of close hauled. In that case they were going in the opposite direction to before. “We visit Madame Cécile’s establishment when we reach Goulven” — where was that? This heathen dialect! But that meant it was somewhere in Brittany, almost certainly the north coast — they would not risk the longer voyage to Brest or points southward.
Renzi strained to hear, but there was only a tedious description of what they would find in Madame Cécile’s brothel. “We’re on our way to Goulven, which I believe to be on the north coast,” he quietly reported. “We are running large to the south or sou’-west, and I suppose we will reach port tomorrow.
“I can hear two on deck and one aft. There may be more below.”
Unarmed, they wouldn’t have a hope, no matter how much surprise they commanded. He resumed listening. What he heard made him start, but the import was worse — it was desperate.
“They’re saying that they hope they won’t have their prize taken from them by the Navy bound for Brest,” he whispered urgently.
Apparently an unknown force was sailing to make rendezvous with those in Brest. Together they could overwhelm Duke William and the two others, then be free to descend on any valuable British overseas possessions they chose.
Kydd was utterly resolute. “Nicholas, get yourself here!”
Tumbling down the ladder, he swung down to the capacious water barrels along the centerline at the forward end of the hold. He tapped them until he found an empty one. Knocking out one end, he began the laborious task of manhandling it toward the ladder.
Renzi didn’t question Kydd’s judgment: he moved across to help him shift the water cask.
Through gasps of effort Kydd explained: “What would you do if y’ saw your cargo of gunpowder afire?” The water barrel was upended at the base of the ladder. It was a simple matter to stuff it with packing straw. Kydd fetched bilge water, which he liberally sprinkled over the straw. “Need a lot of smoke, not much fire,” he said, and brought the lanthorn.
His eyes shone — with exhilaration or fear Renzi could not be sure.
“Here goes — we get blown t’ glory together or …” Kydd opened the lanthorn and ignited a wisp of straw. The tiny flame seemed to illuminate the entire hold, filling it with ruddy dancing shadows.
He dropped it into the barrel and wisps of gray-white smoke began to issue upward.
At the top of the hold the smoke gathered, swelling and building. Kydd fed in more wet straw while Renzi eased the hatch back a little and returned.
The smoke got thicker, stinging Kydd’s eyes, but they did not have to wait long. Above them there was a yell of fear, the hatch slammed open and white smoke billowed up on deck. There was no attempt to get at the fire and Kydd could hardly blame them: tons of gunpowder ablaze was an awesome threat.
It wasn’t possible to see what was happening but the sounds were graphic enough. Disordered slatting and banging of sails meant that the wheel had been abandoned, sending them up into the wind. Panic and shouting — the thumps and clunking amidships could only be the dory being launched.