There was little that could be done to find the leak with the boat crowded as it was. The soldiers gabbled to each other in their terror, and cold dread crept over Kydd. To have got so far, and then to die by the very element he had yearned for! He gripped the tiller, his eyes searching for an answer.
Then he caught the triumphant stare of the old man-and realized what had happened. “He’s pulled the bung! Get at it, Nicholas!”
Renzi thrust past the old man and, sure enough, the water was gouting in. He prized the bung from the fisherman’s grasp and pushed it home.
The effect was noticeable. As the bailed water flew over the side, the boat returned to its previous jaunty bob.
“We must be out far enough,” Renzi said.
The rocks and islands had fallen away astern and it looked a safe distance for a big ship to be traveling offshore. The vast seascape, however, seemed careless of their existence, exuberant rollers surging past, superimposed on a massive underlying swell that seemed to flex like mighty muscles moving under the surface of the ocean.
Renzi doused the little sail and took position at the oars again, keeping the bows facing the oncoming rollers with occasional tugs. They waited.
It had seemed a good idea, simply to wait for the blockading cruisers to happen by, but they had no idea of strategic naval movements and, as the day wore on, the idea lost its appeal and finally slipped toward fantasy. There must be over a thousand miles of coastline to blockade, and with how many ships? The chances that one would happen along just at this time were small, in fact vanishingly small.
The seas were now relatively slight, the weather kind and sunny, but that would not last — it could change with terrifying speed, faster possibly than they could make it back to land. The boat could not take even a small deterioration in conditions.
Kydd was aching with the fatigue that bracing against the constant jerking about was producing. It was a never-ending struggle to avoid being flung this way and that as the boat slammed to and fro. The corporal had lost his headgear and was touched by the sun. He was clearly suffering: weak from seasickness, he flopped about as the seas buffeted the tiny boat, his eyes rolling. The private was sunk in misery, facing outboard with both arms over the side. Piggott sat with his back to the mast, his eyes closed.
What if a ship finally came and it was French? The thought stabbed at Renzi, but it was the more likely outcome, given that they were only a few miles from France. He decided not to speak of it, but furtively checked the horizon. It was empty.
The sun lowered in the sky, and the breeze grew colder and strength ened. The sea took on a darker, more somber tint as the angle of the sun’s rays dipped.
Renzi knew it would soon be decision time. It was inconceivable that they could survive the night. A tide set could carry them dangerously far down the coast, the weather might clamp in. The only option was to return.
They would have to kill the old man. It was the only way to be sure that he would not betray them. Then they could touch on one of the tiny beaches and hide for the night. He looked at the old fisherman, who sat near Kydd, looking back to the coast with a distant expression, his hands fidgeting — old, tough hands gnarled by the hard work of years.
“We have to return,” Renzi said, and Kydd nodded. Renzi hoisted the sail, ignoring the old man’s exultant look. He reached up to dip the lug for the return passage, but as he did so his eyes caught a subliminal fleck of white somewhere out to seaward. The boat swayed alarmingly as he stood up, but he was heedless. The horizon remained a stippled line, still with no sign. He scanned until his eyes watered and suddenly caught the distant flash of white again before it disappeared. “Sail!” he screamed.
Kydd leaped to his feet, the boat teetering over and just recovering. He dropped to the tiller and they altered course for the stranger.
“What if it’s a Frenchie?” Kydd asked.
Renzi looked at him and shrugged.
The evening waves reared up higher, it seemed, dusky shadows in their wake, the beginnings of a sunset ahead. In a fever of excitement they saw the white fleck come in and out of existence, then remain steady.
“If it’s a Frog, c’n we get away agin’?” the private wanted to know.
“I’m afraid not,” Renzi replied. Almost anything afloat would outsail their little craft. There was no point in hiding the fact.
The white grew in size, resolving into three distinct blobs, and Renzi could see that it was a ship-rigged vessel on a broad reach, cutting their course ahead. Her hull was obscured most of the time by the heave of the swell, but it was sufficient to note that she had but one gundeck, and therefore was not Duke William. The disappointment was hard yet he had no reason to think that it would be Duke William and he was angry with himself for the loose thinking.