The Privateer's Revenge(23)

"Now!" Kydd rapped. Renzi was holding a bucket on a rope over the side as though scooping water but at the command let it go. Under its drag the boat lurched to a snail's pace and Kydd began his count.

"I see six—no, a full dozen o' chaloupes canonnières," he hissed urgently, "No—make it a score. An' more'n I can count o' bateaux canonnières—say twenty, thirty?" The piers were approaching slowly and steadily, and if they allowed themselves to be swept inside they would be trapped.

"There's six gun-brigs, an' more building on th' inner strand," Kydd went on remorselessly.

Something in the muddy water caught Renzi's eye; a subliminal flick of paleness and mottled black. It must be desperately shallow here and—

His mind went cold: years of experience told him that the sea state had changed. The tide was now well and truly on the ebb— Queripel's calculations had been proved inaccurate in these local conditions: they had been counting on an approach with the flood and retreat on the ebb.

It might already be too late. Renzi's imagination saw them making desperately for the open sea only to grind to a sickening stop on some tidal bank. "Er, tide's well on the ebb," he said, with an edge in his voice.

"Take this down. A frigate—say a 24—building t' th' north, wi' at least ten flat barges next t' it."

"I do believe we should put about now," Renzi said pointedly, with an odd half-smile. The piers were near enough that a sentry could be seen looking down on them curiously.

Renzi tried to catch Stirk's eye but he was doing something with the lug-yard. "Tom, we have enough as will convince even—"

"Stand by t' go about!" Kydd hissed. A coastal brig was coming up fast astern, a marked feather of white at her forefoot and, in her relative size, indescribably menacing. Renzi stood ready with his knife.

"Lee-oh!"

The blade severed the bucket rope in one, and at the same time the steering oar dug deeply. Then Renzi understood what Stirk had done: a lugger had to dip the yard round the mast when going about, but he had furtively laid it on the wrong side at the cost of their sailing speed. When they had turned, it was already on the correct side and had gloriously filled, sending the bow seaward.

Renzi leaped to the main lug and worked furiously on the heavy yard. Distant screams of rage across the water made him look up and he saw the brig bearing down on them, frighteningly close. They had not gathered enough speed to clear its path—and the close-hauled larger vessel hemmed in by shoals clearly would not be able to avoid them.

Stirk gripped the gunwale and stared in horror at the onrushing ship but Kydd remained immovably at his post. On the brig men were running urgently to the foredeck shouting, gesticulating.

The ship plunged nearer, its bowsprit spearing the air above them and suddenly it was upon them—but the swash from the bluff bows thrust them aside and they were clear by inches, the barrelling hull towering up and rushing past almost close enough to touch, the noise of her wash sounding like a waterfall. And then it was over, the plain transom receding and men at her taffrail shaking their fists at the lunatic fishermen.

The old boat gathered way agonisingly slowly, her gear straining. Renzi knew that high above them in the fort their antics were being pointed out and probably puzzled over, especially the odd fact that they were shaping course not along the coast but heading directly out to sea.

Now all depended on speed. It would not be long before the French woke up to their audacious incursion and then . . .

The first dismaying sign was the sound of a thin crack high up.

Gunsmoke eddied away next to a signal mast at the tip of the headland, clearly to bring attention to a string of flags that had been peremptorily hoisted.

They stood on doggedly but then a deeper-throated thud sounded and, seconds later, a plume arose between them and the open sea.

Renzi looked again over the side and saw that anonymous seabed features were becoming visible in the murky water. Then, with a bump and slewing, they came to a halt.

It was now deadly serious: if they could not get off within minutes they would find themselves left high and dry by the receding tide, easy prey for soldiers cantering up on horses.

"Over th' side!" Kydd shouted, leaping over the low gunwale into the water. It was hard, serrated rock underfoot, the striations parallel with the coast. They manhandled the big boat, heaving until their muscles burned. It moved. Then, juddering, it found deeper water and suddenly they were dangling from the gunwale. At the limits of their strength they flung themselves inboard panting, and hauled in on the slatting and banging sails.

Stirk saw them first. "Be buggered—they's after us!" he gasped, pointing back to the harbour entrance. One by one gunboats were issuing out. It was now all but over.