The morning watch was always a tense time, for enemy ships could appear out of the cold dawn light and fall upon an unprepared vessel. As with most naval vessels, Achilles met the dawn at quarters, ready for any eventuality.
A ship-of-the-line with a frigate in company had little to fear, and as the light of day gradually extended, the boredom of waiting saw gun-crews dozing, watch-on-deck relaxed, captain not on deck.
The situation caught everyone by surprise. In the strengthening light the comfortable but indistinct loom of the frigate to starboard resolved by degrees into a much larger ship, further off.
Eastman, the master, snatched the night glass from Binney, the officer-of-the-watch, and sighted on the vessel. 'Blast m' eyes if that ain't a Mongseer!' he choked. The telescope wavered slighdy. 'An' another comin' up fast!'
Binney snatched the glass back. 'The captain,' he snapped, to a gaping midshipman.
Kydd crossed to the ship's side and strained to make out the scene. The larger vessel, ship-rigged and just as large as Achilles, was making no moves towards them. The tiny sails beyond were the other ship that Eastman had spotted.
'Mr Binney?' Dwyer was breathless and in his night attire.
'Sir, our frigate is not in sight. The lights we saw during the night were this Frenchman, who it seems thought ours were, er, some other. There's another of 'em three points to weather.' He handed the telescope over.
The morning light was strengthening rapidly and it was possible to make out details. 'Frenchy well enough,' Dwyer murmured. As he trained the telescope on the ship, her masts began to close, her length foreshorten. 'She's woken up — altering away.'
'Off ter get with the other 'un,' offered someone.
'Yeeesss, I agree,' Dwyer said, and handed back the telescope. 'Bear up, Mr Binney, and we'll go after him.'
He turned to the master. 'What's our offing from the French coast?'
'About twelve leagues, sir.' Near to forty miles; but no ports of consequence near. The captain's eyes narrowed, then he shivered and hurried below.
Kydd clattered down the main hatchway; his place at quarters was the guns on the main deck forward, under Binney. The captain and his officers were now closed up on the quarterdeck, so he and Binney could assume their full action positions.
Low conversations started among the waiting guncrews: a weighing of chances, exchanging of verbal wills, a comparative estimate of sailing speeds — the age-old prelude to battle. Kydd grimaced at the sight of the new hands, nervously chattering and fiddling with ropes. Mercifully the course alteration to eastward was downwind, the complex motion of before was now a gentle rise and fall as she paced the waves. The landmen would at least have a chance of keeping their footing.
One had the temerity to ask Poynter their chances. He stroked his jaw. 'Well, m' lad, seein' as we're outnumbered two ter one, can't say as how they're so rattlin' good.' The man turned pale. 'Should give it away, but the cap'n, bein' a right mauler, jus' won't let 'em go, we has -ter go 'em even if it does fer us . . .' He drew himself up, and scowled thunderously at the man. 'An' you'll be a-doin' of yer dooty right ter the end, now, won't yez?'
Kydd himself was feeling the usual qualms and doubts before an action, and when the man looked away with a sick expression he smiled across at him encouragingly. There was no response.
'Hey, now!' An excited cry came from one of a gun-crew peering out of a gunport. 'She ain't French, she's a Spaniard!'
Kydd pushed his way past the crew and took a look. The larger vessel, stern to, had just streamed the unmistakable red and yellow of the Spanish sea service. At the same time he saw that she had not pulled away — but the other ship was much nearer, as tight to the wind as she could.
Poynter appeared next to Kydd, eagerly taking in the scene. Kydd glanced at him: his glittering, predatory eyes and fierce grin was peculiarly reassuring.
'Ha!' Poynter snarled in triumph. 'Yer sees that? She ain't a-flyin' a pennant — she's a merchant jack is she, the fat bastard!' The stem-on view of the ship had hidden her true character, but Poynter had spotted the obvious.
It seemed that on deck they had come to the same conclusion, for above their heads there was a sudden bang and reek of powder-smoke as a gun was fired to leeward to encourage the Spaniard to strike her colours.
Binney couldn't resist, and came over to join them at the gunport. 'She's a merchantman, you say.'
'She is,' said Poynter, who saw no reason why he should enlighten an officer.
The fleeing ship did not strike, and Kydd saw why: the other ship, the frigate, coming up fast must be her escort. The odds were now reversed, however. He did not envy the decision the frigate must take: to throw herself at a ship-of-the-line, even if of the smallest type, or to leave the merchantman to her fate. A frigate escort for just one merchant ship would see them safe against most, but a lone ship-of-the-line on passage would not be expected.