"Mr Purvis says as if ye has y'r particular taste he will oblige, Mr Kydd."
"That's kind in him," Kydd said. "Now, you duck below an' crowd some victuals inboard. I've got work f'r all hands this forenoon as'll have 'em all in a sweat." He chuckled. The smell of hot food was irresistible and he realised he was very hungry.
Later, restored after his meal Kydd went on deck. He had given it some thought: there was no use trying to bring things along by setting masts to compete or appealing to some sense of nautical excellence. These merchant seamen were used to a sea life very different from the Navy, often with parsimonious owners providing tiny crews barely adequate to do the job, leaving little time or energy for non-essentials.
No, it would be necessary to go about it in other ways. The first was to trust the mates, that they would see to it their men would not let them down.
"Mr Rowan! I desire ye t' exercise y'r men under sail. What do y' have in mind?"
At first it was a shambles, but that was to be expected. Order out of chaos, seamen out of men, the time-honoured sequence when each had to learn the ropes on an unfamiliar ship that did things in its own particular way. "Different ships, different long-splices" was the old saw. But Rowan proved experienced and wise, and well before midday each point of sailing, every manoeuvring task, any major event to be expected in a chase had been completed to satisfaction.
With a core of competence at the heart of the watch it would now be possible to build on it and start the task of bringing along the ordinary seamen, landmen and boys to their rightful standing and respect as full able-bodied seamen.
After a hearty noon meal of beef stew, it was time to attend the guns. Kevern assembled a crew and they set to on their main armament.
It quickly became obvious that they were paradoxically both over-and undergunned. A vessel of their tonnage could be expected to mount at least four carriage guns a side. In his desire for the authoritative heavy crash of a sizeable gun Kydd had acquired a pair of nine-pounders. It had been a mistake: they were too long, unwieldy, and their full recoil would send them right across the deck; if they had to reduce charges out of respect to Bien Heureuse's light timbers the weapons would be of no more use than smaller ones.
Kydd realised he should have stayed with more but lighter guns and felt resentful that Kevern had let him go to sea so encumbered. He consoled himself, however, with the thought that a pitched gun-battle was the last thing he wanted. A quick chase and rapid boarding: that was the way to get an unspoiled prize.
They were making headway: the restraining of his Navy instincts and understanding of his men's ways had gone a long way to winning their grudging respect. It was left to see how they would behave in a boarding. Should he begin to exercise with cutlass and pistols?
Along the horizon on the larboard bow Kydd saw, just starting to lift, the low untidy jumble of dark granite islets that was the north of France. There was little time left now to prepare. He took a deep breath. So much depended on—
"Saaail hoooo!" An excited whoop from forward shattered his thoughts.
"Where awaaay?" he bellowed. The lookout obliged with a pointing finger. There were no tops and ratlines up the shrouds with the lug-rig so he was at essentially the same level.
An excited roar went up and Kydd fumbled for his pocket telescope. This close to the coast, the odds were in favour of it being French and a prize—so soon! His heart thudded as he tried to focus.
They had surprised the ship as it had come round the cliffy headland into full view. No more than three or four miles away it was sailing along the shore on a course past them.
"Steady as she goes!" Kydd called urgently, and rounded on Rowan. "I want these men out o' sight below—now!" They would play the harmless coastal trader for as long as possible. Nothing would be more calculated to alarm their prey than a sudden alteration towards them with crowded decks.
He lifted the telescope again, gripped by rising excitement. So far the vessel was holding its course, and they would hold theirs, imperceptibly inclining towards their victim until they could make a lunge. His mind clamped in concentration on their relative positions and speeds. They were close-hauled westward in brisk seas while the stranger was driving before the wind, a dramatic contrast of pale sail against a backdrop of the sullen, dark-grey squall front spreading behind it. Flickering white wave crests showed in the darkening water nearer.
Kydd's eyes watered as he stared through the glass. It was a brigantine of sorts, so not a warship, and showed no colours. It shaped course closer to the coastline, opening the distance they would have to cover to intercept.
Offshore there was another of the innumerable uninhabited islets. A white mist was lifting on its far side, a token of mighty seas from the Atlantic ceasing their thousands of miles' travel in the concussive finality of iron-hard granite.