Quarterdeck(92)

‘And how big is your gap there?’

‘Above six inches – so now we have two flat surfaces a foot long an’ six inches apart. A wedge that size has a chance.’ Kydd grinned boyishly. ‘Just think, Ned, the Frenchy goes t’ sea, sees Tenacious coming for him an’ throws over his helm t’ slip by one side, but his helm is jammed. Before he has time t’ work out the trouble he’s kind enough to deliver himself straight to us.’

‘Congratulations – but of course—’

‘Well, yes, there is th’ question of how t’ get the wedge in there, I’ll grant ye.’

‘And what sort of ship goes to sea with jammed steering?’

‘Ah, I’ve thought of that.’

‘I’m gratified to hear it.’

Kydd gave a dry smile. ‘This is callin’ for something special, and here it is. We screw an eye into one end of th’ wedge and secure a line to it, which is passed through our gap. If you tug on the line it brings the wedge whistling up an’ smack into the gap. But it won’t be us that’s tugging . . .’

‘I stand amazed. Who will?’

‘Ah! Your old friend a drag-sail. It’s only a small piece o’ canvas rolled up and secured to the opposite end of the line, and when it opens it does the tugging.’

‘How?’

‘Well, we need the helm t’ jam only at the right moment – so we must find a trigger to stream our drag-sail just at that time. And here it is – we bundle the canvas up with twine and when we want it to open an’ start pulling the wedge we break the twine.’

‘Which is . . .’

‘Yes, well, this is a long piece of twine, and if you look f’r a discreet little pick-up buoy astern o’ the Frenchy, then that’s the end o’ the twine.’

Gindler didn’t say anything.

‘Well?’ asked Kydd anxiously.

‘I can only . . . I have two objections.’

‘Oh?’

‘Who is going to affix the device? And who is going to find our wee buoy – maybe under gunfire?’

‘I’ll do both,’ said Kydd solemnly, but he had no idea how.

The boathouse provided all they needed. A woodworking bench, try-plane, saws – it would be a straightforward enough task. Kydd blessed the time he had spent in a Caribbean dockyard working for a master shipwright.

‘Ned, I want some good wood for m’ wedge.’

Gindler fossicked about and, from a dark corner, dragged out what looked like a small salvaged ship frame, dark with age. ‘This should suit. It’s live oak, and very hard. Capital for hacking out a wedge.’

‘Aye, well . . .’

‘And it damn near doesn’t float.’

‘Done!’

The try-plane hissed as Kydd applied himself to the work, watched by an admiring Gindler. Indeed, the wood was extremely dense, and Kydd sweated at the task. Gindler had already found the twine and was snipping round a piece of dirty canvas; then he rummaged for a screw eye.

Kydd realised he needed to see the French ship again in the light. The big privateer still lay alongside the commercial wharf but with a renewed, purposeful air, loading sea stores and working at her rigging. As he looked across the little bay at her, it became clear that there was no easy way to get close: there were sentries on deck and quay, and the ship was alert.

Kydd scanned the shoreline: the wharf was set on timber pilings. If he could get among them . . . and there, at the end, he saw a spur of light grey rocks extending into the sea.

Back in the boathouse a lanthorn glowed. ‘I believe I have a chance,’ Kydd told Gindler.

‘Yes, Tom. When will you go?’ Gindler was indistinct in the evening shadows but his voice had an edge to it.

‘It has t’ be before midnight. The tide is on the ebb and her gunports’ll fall below the level of th’ wharf before then.’ He picked up the neat piece of canvas Gindler had prepared. It was rolled tightly together with sailmaker’s twine, to which a stronger line was securely fixed.

‘How long will you have this?’ The coil of light line seemed a lot but was probably only fifty feet or so.

‘I think all o’ that,’ Kydd said. The longer it was, the safer the task of picking up the buoy and yanking the line. ‘And th’ last thing – our buoy.’ He cast about for an object that would serve and found some duck decoys: one of the ducklings would suit admirably. He secured it to the light line – and all was complete.

In the blackness of night they stood at the edge of the woods where they were closest to the privateer and had a front-row view of the ship. Lanthorns in her rigging cast bright pools of light on to the wharf; figures paced slowly along the dockside. Work had ceased. This would not be the case if an early-dawn departure was planned.