“No — wait until they’re well clear. They’ll be rowing f’r their lives, I believe,” said Kydd happily. He inspected the barrel — no need to let it blaze any more. He clapped its lid back on, choking the fire.
They emerged spluttering and red-eyed on deck. The dory was already a good half-mile away and making astonishing speed.
“So, what now?” said Renzi. The dory would surely return when they saw the fire die down.
“Get the boarding muskets,” Kydd replied.
Renzi reserved his views about how long they could keep the dory at bay. Night would be coming soon, and they had to face the urgent problem of how the two of them alone could handle the brig.
They hurried to the master’s cabin. There had been only a halfhearted attempt to clean away the bloodstains, but the small arms chest was in its place against the bulkhead. There were only old-fashioned pieces, but they had been carefully looked after. Kydd and Renzi loaded feverishly from the keg of powder and priming horn, the heavy balls rammed down over the charge.
There were six muskets, enough to deter all but the most determined onslaught. They returned on deck. Sure enough, the dory had stopped, rising and falling with the slight seas, oars held level. There were six of them by count, a prize crew not expecting trouble.
They continued to load until all six muskets were ready.
“I’ll fire, you load,” Kydd said briefly.
The dory bobbed about. They would have been spotted by now, and no doubt there would be an animated discussion going on, thought Renzi.
“So what is our plan, then?” he said lightly. He would not share his fears — he could only see them wallowing about out of control off the French coast and he put their survival time at hours at the most.
“We invite ’em aboard, o’ course,” Kydd said.
Renzi’s eyebrows rose.
“To kindly work our vessel f’r us!” Kydd grinned.
The dory spun about and began the laborious return to the brig. Kydd trained a musket and waited.
It approached and stopped fifty yards away, outside reliable musket range.
“Je monte à bord!”
“What’s he say?”
“He says he is coming aboard.”
A fat man in a purple coat with gold lace was talking, offhand and confident. He had left his hat behind and his unwigged head was covered in corn-colored stubble. He signaled to the man at the oars, who resumed his pull.
Kydd squeezed off a shot. It sent up a waterspout close to the bow of the dory. A furious shout came from the fat man, followed by a more placating tone. The others in the boat watched sullenly.
Renzi took the piece and reloaded it.
“And?”
“He’s offering to make it worth our while to let them continue on their way.”
Kydd loosed another shot, resulting in another angry shout that ended in wheedling.
“He’s saying that unless we yield he will not answer for the consequences,” Renzi reported.
Kydd smiled grimly.
“He says he has a corsair crew who are difficult to control-would we care to put ourselves under his protection?”
It was deadlock. They could not hope to keep the dory away forever, but the dory was in a dangerous position so far to sea and a perilously long pull back to land.
“Tell them to swim for it, Nicholas, the fat one first.”
“What?”
“If they want t’ get aboard, they do it one on one — fat sod first,” Kydd replied with relish.
A violent discussion began. The fat man shouted and gesticulated, his main attention on the thick-set seaman in the bows.
“Another ball, dare I ask?” Renzi said.
The shot went over the heads of the French, and the ball must have gone low, for the boat’s occupants all ducked violently.
The fat man stood up and waved. Kydd sent another ball close to his head and he collapsed back into the dory.
Tearing off his purple coat, he lowered himself, protesting volubly, over the side of the dory. He splashed and spluttered his way toward the brig, puffing and blowing like a grampus at the main chains.
Weapons reloaded, Kydd stood on deck, flintlock cradled as he waited for the man to haul himself up. “Citoyen Hector Jouet,” he snarled, dripping seawater copiously on the deck, wariness struggling with defiance on his face.
Kydd looked at Renzi, who broke into mellifluous French, bowing as he did so.
Jouet looked at him murderously and turned his back. Renzi cut off a length of line and efficiently secured his wrists. He was to remain at rest on the main hatch.
Meanwhile, the dory had crept closer. The well-built man in the bows was next. He plunged into the sea and with powerful strokes came rapidly up with the brig. Kydd’s musket idly lay in his direction as the man submitted to being bound, and sat next to the glowering Jouet. The dory was now only thirty yards off. “Don’t worry, let’s jus’ get ’em aboard,” Kydd said.