The Privateer's Revenge(12)

Mid-afternoon the signal to tack was thrown out from Cerberus, with the amplification that the two would advance in line-abreast by the same distance. Kydd had been expecting this, and from noon had both watches on deck and lines ranged along ready for the manoeuvre. The hoist jerked down—the execute. In frenzied excitement Teazer hauled and braced, spinning about handily under her brig rig full minutes before the frigate, surging ahead in a fluster of foam but quickly finding need to brail her courses and idle until Cerberus had steadied on her new track.

The waning sun brought with it brisker winds: oceanic westerlies that had a fetch of thousands of miles and a steady pressure that drove unwary sailors staggering across the deck. It was exhilarating sailing—men came from below to watch Teazer take the combers on her bow in a crunch of seas, a dizzying swoop and lift, while out there on their beam to windward was the thrilling picture of a thoroughbred frigate snoring along in a smother of white, close-hauled under a full press of sail.

Purchet came aft and touched his hat, leaning forward to make himself heard. "She's like t' wring her topmasts, sir," he said respectfully. Aloft, every sail was as taut as a board, thrumming with nervous tension and with edges in a mad flutter. The boatswain crossed to a sheet and thumped it with a closed fist. It was as unyielding as an iron bar. He looked back significantly.

Kydd did not speak at first; his gaze went to the topsails, which shivered on the point of going aback where the apprehensive helmsman was luffing up, spilling wind to avert disaster. "Single reef in th' courses," he allowed grudgingly.

Out on their beam the frigate was making splendid sailing, her wake racing past and with only the occasional graceful nod and sway in answer to the lively conditions. Teazer, however, was now taking the seas heavily forward, the straining impulse of her sails sending her into steep oncoming waves with an explosion of white sea and then the shock of a sudden slowing. Courses were double-reefed and topsails to a precautionary single.

"Signal, sir," reported a midshipman. Cerberus was visibly pulling ahead. "Our pennant, keep better station!" The flags streamed out high and clear. It was, no doubt, something of a sweet revenge for the frigate captain, for as Teazer struggled to keep up Cerberus increased her lead, all the while keeping the signal flying.

It was not until dusk, and Teazer floundering miles astern, that the frigate relented and, with a fine show, brought to until the little sloop could come up.



It had been a fruitless chase, the French long gone and nothing to show.

When they had cast anchor again in St Peter Port, Kydd had been summoned by Captain Selby to Cerberus; what had been said Renzi did not know, but Kydd had retired immediately to his cabin, ejecting him. As he left, Renzi caught sight of Kydd slumping in his chair, staring unseeingly out of the stern windows.

Allowing an hour to pass he had returned under some pretence of letters to be signed at the same time as Tysoe, Kydd's servant, had under his advice brought in wine and left quickly. Kydd said nothing but accepted a glass.

"A drollery to reflect that Guernsey is undoubtedly the chief supplier to our smuggling fraternity in Cornwall, and here we are to consider them our charges to protect," Renzi said lightly.

Kydd stared into his wine.

"And such a singular part of the realm, I've read. The guidebook tells that they still converse in a species of ancient Norman French, which your Parisian would find it a sore puzzle to understand." He inspected his wine. "A visit ashore should prove most diverting . . ."

"Go, then."

"I had rather hoped for your company in such an interesting place, as we may talk about at a later time."

"Understand that I only have th' one interest—to do my duty, an' no other!"

Renzi tried once more. "It might prove restorative to the spirit to accept something of the kindness and hospitality that is undoubtedly on offer to the heroes who defend these shores. To taste something of the delicacies peculiar to these climes—it seems the gâche alone will reward the asking."

"I'm stayin' aboard." Kydd's voice was flat and spiritless.



Standish returned bubbling with tales of St Peter Port and its social attractions; it seemed that, as a colourful landfall, it was fulfilling every expectation.

Renzi was sorely tempted: what he had read so far in the guidebook had been explicit about the remarkable differences in social attributes to be experienced on the island neither a colony nor a contiguous moiety of either England or France. They were stationed here, true, but for how long? Better to snatch a glimpse now.

It was not hard to conceive of an excuse that must take him ashore, two papers needed the signature of the civil authority, and soon he was in "Teazer's boat heading for St Peter Port, the town above the enfolding arms of a north and south pier set about a tidal harbour.