"Yes, sir," he replied, not meeting Kydd's eyes.
"I'm sure I've seen ye somewhere about—what do they call ye?"
"L-Leon, s' please ye, sir," the boy said, shrinking back.
Realisation dawned. "Be damned, an' Leon it's not! Pookie more like!" Kydd spluttered. "What th' devil—what d' ye think y'r playin' at, y' chuckle-headed loon?" A twelve-year-old waif of a girl in a privateer, however big for her age?
"I—I want t' be a pirate," she said stiffly, "an' sail the seven seas—"
"Pirate?" Kydd choked.
"—t' seize an' plunder, an' then I'll give it to m' ma."
It was rank lunacy. "How—"
"I heard as how you was goin' t' be captain o' the good ship Ben Herses, an' cruise the seas for—"
"Enough o' th' catblash! You're goin' back t' y'r ma."
The child's eyes filled. "Please, Mr Kydd! I want t' be a sailor, see aroun' the world like you do—an' ye did promise us when we signed as we'd be able seamen afore we knew it. That's what y' said."
Kydd's first reaction was to summon the boatswain and have the girl taken off his hands, but then he sat back heavily. The ship was halfway between Guernsey and the French coast with night coming on: he was not risking those rocky outliers to return in the darkness with a fluky wind. She would have to stay on board for the night.
To return in the morning would be to waste their hard-won westing and result in an ignominious arrival in port to explain that one of the hands he had personally signed up was female. Not to speak of the expense, which would be mounting hourly. And he couldn't land the rascal somewhere to pick up later: there was no friendly territory anywhere to the west of Guernsey. Kydd sighed. "What can y'r mother be feeling now, y' scamp?"
"Ma?" she said scornfully. "She's so plagued b' the little 'uns, she'd be main pleased t' see th' last o' me. I been away before, y' know," she added, with self-possession beyond her years.
"Y' can't stay aboard. What if they finds ye a—a female? Does anyone know?"
"No, they doesn't, Mr Kydd," she said stoutly. "Look, I'll be th' same as the others—honest! I'll pull on y'r ropes an' such, just like a man. Don't make me go back."
Kydd had to admit that she was indistinguishable from a boy in her breeches and plain homespun, and her hair, while long, was in keeping with that of the other ship's boys. Her impish features suggested anything but a demure damsel. Despite himself he warmed to her need to escape dreary poverty for the freedoms of the sea. He made up his mind. "Be just th' same as the other lads? Take orders wi'out a cackle? Stand up f'r y'self?"
"I will, Mr Kydd," she said, with fervour.
"Then I'll make ye a deal."
"Mr Kydd?"
"I don't know ye're a female. Nobody told me. Now, if any aboard find out, ye're taken straight t' this cabin th' same instant an' locked in until we make port again. Y' scavey?"
"Aye, Mr Kydd," she whispered, eyes shining.
"An' none o' y'r snafflin' tricks either—sailors has a short way wi' thieves."
"Never, sir. I only did it t' give Ma."
"Remember—if just a one sees ye're female . . ."
"They won't, Mr Kydd."
He looked at her very directly, "And if'n any shows ye any mischief at all, you're t' come t' me directly. I'll not stand f'r it, d' ye hear?"
"Yes, Mr Kydd."
"Right. Well, Mr. Turner, let me tell ye of y'r duties."
Morning found them under small sail tossing uneasily in a long swell from the west. Bleary-eyed men were roused from below to meet the dawn. This would be the last time Kydd allowed the ship not to be ready at quarters—or whatever passed for battle readiness in a privateer.
"Mr Rowan!" he hailed. "I'll give both watches one bell f'r their breakfast an' then we'll turn to f'r some real sailorin'." It was near impossible to work up a ship's company to effectiveness as a fighting unit in such a short time—but it would be their captain they blamed if they failed to take a prize or, worse, were overcome themselves.
The men left the deck, muttering, and Kydd remembered the cook. Going forward he found the forehatch but, praise be, immediately below it Purvis was at work with his pots and pans on the small portable stove. He looked up cheerily. "Ho there, Cap'n!" he breezed.
"Everything in hand?" Kydd called down. The stove was rigged over a bed of bricks under the open hatch but how it was possible to bring in meals for scores of men in such conditions was a mystery to him.
"Aye—all's a-taunto, sir."
Kydd left him to it and returned to his cabin. Inside, an apprehensive cabin boy waited with a steaming dish and plates on a tray under a neat canvas spray-cover. "Why, thank 'ee, er, Turner." Clearly the cook had been consulted and together they had managed a hot breakfast fit for a captain. It was a hearty burgoo and toast thick with Jersey butter—Kydd had not been able to afford his usual private cabin stores and knew he was sharing with his men.