"When he hears she's a private ship, he don't want t' know, sees me off," the boy said, astonished.
Kydd grinned mirthlessly. "Tell him Mr Kydd has need o' his services, younker. Another sixpence if he's aboard b' sundown."
That evening, still without a cook, Kydd welcomed Calloway warmly and, over a hot negus in his cabin, told him of his plans. "An' if ye'd wish it, there's a berth f'r master's mate on th' next cruise." Whatever it took, he would get it past Robidou. After all, Calloway was a prime man-o'-war's man and an officer in his last ship. And a master's mate aboard a merchant ship? Well, if the practice was to call mates "lieutenants" in privateers, then surely he could import other ranks.
"I'd like it well, Mr Kydd," Calloway said, in a voice tinged with awe.
It vexed Kydd that he was apparently now touched by the glamour of a corsair. He went on sternly, "In course, as soon as we're rightfully back aboard Teazer I'll see ye on the quarterdeck as reefer again."
"Aye aye, Captain," Calloway said happily.
"Get y' baggage an' be back smartly. I've a cook t' find fr'm somewhere," Kydd said heavily, remembering. If he did not find one—
"Er, I do know o' one."
"A sea-cook? Where?"
Calloway hesitated. "Over in La Salerie, Mr Kydd. I seen him cook up f'r the boatyard there. See, he's of an age, as we'd say— you'd have t' hide th' grog or he's a devil cut loose, but—"
"He's been t' sea?"
The young man's face cleared. "Oh, aye! If ye'd lend ear t' his yarns an' half of it true, why—"
"Get him here!"
Then, suddenly, it was time: after a last frantic scrabble to load stores and find missing crew, they were singling up the shore lines. Shouts were thrown at men standing uselessly about the fo'c'sle and the boatswain knocked a man to the deck in vexation. Canvas rustled as it was hoisted on the fore and a sightseer bent to give the bowline an expert twist and toss into the water. As the wind caught the tall lug and the bow sheered away from the pier, Kydd roared the order that brought in the stern painter—and they were on their way out to sea.
Kydd took a deep breath to steady himself: he was back in command and outward bound on a voyage of fortune—free of the land. But this was in a small, barely armed former salt trader, with an untried crew, and in minutes they could be fighting for their lives—or seizing a rich prize.
As they left St Peter Port there had been no fine gun salutes or pennant snapping bravely at the main, the hallowed ceremony of a King's ship putting to sea to meet the enemy. Instead it had been a casual slipping from the pier to catch the ebb, along with all the other small vessels leaving to go about their business on great waters.
Bien Heureuse picked up the breeze and stood out into the channel of the Little Russel. Kydd took care that they carried only small sail until he was happy he knew his ship better. It was unsettling not to have a Queripel or a sailing-master aboard as they headed out past the sombre rocks round the harbour. Probably Robidou had reasoned that if he needed deeper local knowledge he could ask Rowan or one of the others, but for now he must be the one to give orders.
With clear skies and in only a slight lop, they shaped course past the Plattes for the north of Guernsey. "Where are we headed, Mr Kydd?" Rowan asked, standing by his shoulder, perfectly braced on the heeling deck.
"We're t' quarter th' coast west o' Bréhat," Kydd said, in a tone that did not invite discussion. However, he planned to delay their arrival on these hunting grounds along the north coast of France as there was a driving need to get his ship in fighting array before their first encounter. He did not want arguments: he felt there was quarry in those regions and, besides, his one and only patrol of the French coast had been there so these were the only waters he knew well.
Rowan looked at him keenly but said nothing.
They reached the north of Guernsey and put the tiller down for a smart beat westward in the direction of the open Atlantic where he would have the sea-room to take her measure.
The fresh breeze strengthened in gusts and sent the lee gunwale dipping into the racing side wake: a lesson learned. Bien Heureuse was tender on a wind and would need more men to each mast. Her angle of heel was considerable, even for a fore-and-aft rigged vessel and Kydd found himself reaching for a shroud to steady himself. Approaching seas came in with a hard smack on the weather bow and transformed into solid spray that soaked every unwary hand; she was a wet ship.
He tested the wind, leaning into it with his eyes closed, feeling its strength and constancy. A strong blow from the south-southwest; surely they could carry more sail? He made the order to loose one of the two reefs on the fore—the bow fell off and buried itself in the brisk combers. "An' th' main, Mr Rosco!" Kydd bawled; there was little subtlety in the lug rig, but this brought a definite improvement in her response at the tiller.