France was a dim gray coastline on the horizon as the three ships proceeded under easy sail, the tasks of repair never-ending. As the adrenaline of the battle fell away, and fatigue set in, it was hard to keep going, but it was double tides — working watch and watch without a break — to get the ships seaworthy and battleworthy once more.
A double tot of rum went far to ease the pain. Kydd felt detached from his aches, and spoke out loudly: “A great maulin’ — they outnumbered and outgunned us, but we saw ’em back to their stinking lair! A thunderin’ good drubbin’!”
“Do you think so?” Renzi said, without looking up.
“Why? Do you not? We’ve sent ’em back to where they came from — they won’t try it again.”
“My dear fellow, in the larger scheme of things, this will be seen as a passing brush with a few of their ships-of-the-line — and you are forgetting one thing.” Renzi stopped and looked at Kydd.
“What’s that?”
“Those four came from Douarnenez and now they are in Brest.”
“So?”
“So they have successfully concentrated their force. I don’t believe they were headed for the Caribbean anyway. It was always a move to bring about this very thing.”
Kydd remained silent.
“We did not bring the action to a conclusion, the enemy escaped us. Now there are nine of-the-line in Brest. They can sweep us aside and fall on our convoys and possessions at any time. I doubt if this afternoon will even be dignified as a battle.” Renzi resumed his whipping on the rope.
Kydd glared at him. “I need a bigger fid,” he said shortly, and disappeared over the edge of the mizzen top.
Renzi was right, of course — if he had stopped to think he would have come to the same conclusion. It was just that he was exhilarated by his first fight against the enemy. He had not found himself wanting: he had passed through horror and hardships and he was determined to revel in the feeling.
He stepped out of the mizzen shrouds onto the poop deck, and into the path of Midshipman Cantlow. “Well, now, the dam’ keen Mr. Kydd.” There was a drunken slur to the words and he slapped at his side with an old rattan.
Kydd said nothing, but stood impassive. The last thing he needed now was a run-in with the despised Cantlow.
“An’ I’ve just caught him skulking in the tops!”
Kydd snorted. Although a midshipman was not an officer, they equated to a petty officer in terms of discipline. The charge of hiding to avoid work was nonsense, of course — the boatswain himself had set them to their tasks. His jaw clamped shut as he forced himself to say nothing. Cantlow, if ever he got his promotion, would be of the same dangerous mold as Garrett.
“Say somethin’, then, damn your whistle!” Cantlow shouted.
Kydd knew better than to open his mouth while the midshipman was in this mood.
“You’re in contempt, you vile lubber! Contempt! I’ll teach you manners!” His rattan swept up and caught Kydd on his upraised arm.
Kydd threw up his other arm to protect his face, which seemed to enrage Cantlow. Slashing and whipping, he forced Kydd back to the bulwark, continuing the assault there mercilessly until he was forced to pause, panting.
Dangerously angry, Kydd glared at Cantlow. He remembered Cantlow’s witless shambling on the gundeck during the worst of the fight and suspected the real reason for the drinking.
“Afright now, are you, Mr. Keen Kydd! Then take this, you shy rogue!”
His arm lifted again, but before the blow landed Kydd snatched the rattan out of his grip and with one hand snapped it in two.
Cantlow stood aghast. His eyes widened and he backed away. “Master-at-Arms — sentry!” he yelled, his voice high and constricted.
The officer of the watch on the quarterdeck below appeared irritably, moving out from the break of the poop to see what all the fuss was about. It was Garrett.
The bilboes were situated down in the orlop, in the cockpit. They consisted of a long bar of iron on which leg irons were threaded and Kydd was the only occupant, his ankles clamped in the irons, sitting uncomfortably on the hard deck. He was shaking with fury, as much from Cantlow’s shameless toadying to Garrett as the lies the midshipman had told. He tried to turn over to take a new position but the irons would not budge. He swore helplessly.
Renzi could not visit him — the bilboes were outside the midshipmen’s berth among other things, and Cantlow would surely make certain that Renzi stood accused of plotting with Kydd.
The weak yellow light guttered and the marine sentry coughed and hacked endlessly. It would be a long night before Kydd could account for himself to the Captain in the morning.