Kydd(106)

A mustached and wiry seaman next swam lazily toward them. The dory was now only some fifteen yards off. The rower lay on his oars. Kydd beckoned, his musket held loose. A man in plain black stood up, his eyes even at this distance fierce and glittering. His hand went inside his coat as though to scratch lice — but when it came out, a long gleaming pistol came with it. He sighted down the long barrel.

Behind Kydd came the sudden earsplitting crack of a musket. The man snapped rigid, then slowly fell forward to splash noisily into the water alongside the dory.

Renzi lowered the musket. “My bird, I think.”

On the main hatch the five men sat, darting deadly glances at them. Renzi knew it would take only one ill-judged move and he and Kydd would die.

Kydd looked at them dispassionately. The brig had two masts, square rigged on both, and a big spanker on the main. Three men could handle the vessel if they attended to each mast in turn. If it came on to blow — well, the whole thing was a gamble anyway.

“Get the fat bugger up here, Nicholas. Secure his feet an’ sit him down forrard o’ the wheel.”

Renzi did so, and Kydd stood with the muzzle of his gun lazily covering the man. “Tell him he gets it in the belly first if there’s trouble. Now the hard-looking bastard — he goes on the wheel.”

The man padded forward and stood at the wheel, his black eyes unblinking in a mask of hatred.

“Better this ill-looking dog’s under eye.” Kydd shifted around so his flintlock covered both men.

“Now tell ’em all we’re blood ’n’ death desperate. If they try anything they’re dead ’uns for sure, but if they behave they may get t’ live.”

Renzi felt as though he was in a cage of lions waiting to pounce if the trainer lost his nerve. He knew that Kydd’s course of action was the only one possible, and he could only admire the cool thinking that had cut through hopelessness to a solution, and the toughness of the mind that had carried it through to make it work. “So, what course?” he asked. He was uncomfortably aware that neither of them had the faintest idea of ocean navigation, and they ran the risk of piling into the Scilly rocks or worse, if they were but points off course in the return to England.

“South-west!”

Renzi was dumbfounded — it would take them away from England. Then he understood. “You’re going to warn Duke William!”

“Of course. If we return to England to tell ’em there, it’ll be too late.”

“But — ”

“Do you want it upon your conscience that you betrayed y’r friends? And our desertion — they’ll be so pleased to be tipped the wink, we’ll be heroes.”

They soon fell into a routine; always the whole five on deck and under eye at the one time, Jouet always under the muzzle of a gun. In everything they did, they moved slowly, carefully, their eyes everywhere, watchful.

The tension was fearful.

Fortunately their course did not require them to tack, and they bowled along south-westward with little attention to the tacks and sheets. When night fell the lanthorn Renzi hung in the rigging played on the three sprawled on the main hatch.

A three-quarters moon rose, bathing them in soft silver glitter, making it easier to check on their captives. Renzi stood guard, occasionally pacing slowly to keep awake, Kydd sleeping on deck beside him.

The moon rose higher, moving behind the swell of the sails. The ceaselessly moving lines of rigging projected stark black against the backlit sails, swaying hypnotically.

Renzi’s eyes grew heavy, and when the moon was high in the night sky he woke Kydd for his watch. It didn’t take him long to drift off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The sudden concussion of a musket burst into his sleep. He sat up, eyes straining to make sense of where he was. Two of the French were standing, brought to a halt by Kydd’s vigilant shot. “Tell them I’ve five other shots’ll be waitin’ for their next move!” he said thickly.

Renzi did so, reloaded the musket and settled down again.

Dawn found them both huddled together, muskets across their knees, bleary-eyed.

How much endurance had they left? It might be days before they encountered the squadron, if at all, for there was no knowing where they might be. All they had as a clue was a half-remembered mental image of the French coast, a picture of a low, nondescript coastline jutting out and going in again that they knew so well from their constant beating up and down.

And over there was the coast right enough, but Renzi did not recognize it in the slightest part. It was going to be a long, long vigil. He stood up and stretched. “Need to pump ship — going forrard.”