Kydd(82)

“Get him!” Kydd said, seizing an arm.

Pirou shouted desperately. They forced him to the ground, his frail old bones no match for the soldiers.

“Mon brave, I would be desolated were I to be obliged to silence you,” Renzi said, hefting a rock significantly. The man subsided, but a fierce glint remained in his eyes. Renzi found a length of rope and they bound him.

“He comes with us,” Kydd said shortly, knowing that it was too dangerous to leave him there. They carried him to the boat and lowered him inside.

“You three on that side,” Kydd said sharply.

“Shut it, mate! See these?” Piggott tapped the stripes on his arm. “Sergeant. I’m takin’ charge!” He walked around and stood menacingly over Kydd, who faced up to him, his eyes flaring.

The corporal thrust forward. “Now, Toby, we’re goin’ on the sea. Let them take over fer now. Come on, mate, they’re sailors ’n’ knows wot they’re about.”

Piggott glared, but eventually growled an acknowledgment.

With five men, the boat lifted easily. They carried it down the sand and into the water. The waves swept in boisterously and Kydd’s heart lifted at the boat’s eager bob. Exhilaration filled him.

Waves slapped the transom hard. “Bows to sea,” he warned.

The soldiers clumsily obeyed and the boat rotated to seaward. They pushed it out knee deep, the waves surging in.

“Right — in th’ boat,” Kydd ordered, holding it by the squared-off transom. Renzi got aboard first and helped the soldiers over the side and, with a kick backwards, Kydd finally heaved himself in.

“Get down — only one man must be seen in the boat,” Kydd hissed at the soldiers. Without a word Renzi took the oars, pulling strongly through the shallows out toward the blessed horizon, the wonderful salt sea smell penetrating through the stink of dried pig sludge.

After a while Kydd rolled on to his back and looked up at the blue sky and fluffy clouds. The boat bobbed and the water chuckled under the bow; the fishing gear smelled strongly but pleasantly and there was nothing more he could do but lie down and stare up dreamily.

A lazy half hour later, Renzi’s long, comfortable strokes slowed and he stopped and boated the dripping oars. He stood up and, to Kydd’s amazement, stripped stark naked.

“Come on in,” said Renzi, and made a neat dive overside.

Kydd sat up. They were to seaward of a seaweed-strewn rocky islet. They would not be seen from the shore.

Renzi surfaced, spluttering, at the boat’s side. “A mite cold for my taste,” he said, through chattering teeth, “but needs must.” He reached into the boat for his clothes and began to wash them in the sea.

“My oath! That’s wot to do,” said Piggott.

The mire dissolved into the clear green water, and five naked men shouted and laughed in the simple joy of being alive.

“Let’s rig the sail.” Renzi rummaged over the tightly rolled canvas, lashed with its own rigging, and tried to make sense of it. Pirou glared at them balefully, and when asked about it spat over the side, remaining mute.

The sail turned out to be a peculiar form of dipping lug, but it ran up the mast easily enough. The reason for the rig soon became clear: it could be maneuvered by one man at the tiller.

They continued their voyage, Kydd at the tiller now, the small boat scudding along in the pleasant breeze as it took them out farther and farther. The sun increased in strength, benign and warm.

The waves grew higher, the little boat swooping up hills of water, and down into valleys. Occasionally a boisterous roller would burst spray over them, and the soldiers started to look apprehensive.

They untied the old man, who rubbed his arms accusingly. The corporal suddenly heaved and vomited over the side, bringing on the same in the little private. They hung limply over the gunwale.

The sun rose higher. The distant land lost its distinctiveness, becoming an anonymous craggy coastline. A larger wave thumped the side and splashed them — the soldiers cried out in alarm.

The water felt cold and disconcerting, and swilled in the bottom of the boat. Kydd held the tiller tightly.

“We’re sinking!” A squawk of terror came from the private.

Kydd hesitated. There was certainly a good deal of water in the bottom, and his face creased in anxiety. The boat felt sluggish somehow, not so willing.

The water was gaining, that much was clear — but why? The soldiers bailed frantically with anything they could find, and seemed near panic. He sensed their fear and felt it wash up against himself. The swell surged higher, now appearing menacing and sinister — it was amazing how different it was to be in a little cockleshell instead of striding the decks of a man — o’-war.