The Privateer's Revenge(93)

His exhilaration, however, was tempered by the fact that this was going to be all or nothing: if he failed to deliver a prize he was most certainly finished everywhere.

The Witch of Sarnia was towed to Havelet Bay for fitting out and in the whirlwind of activity Kydd slept aboard and bore a hand himself on turning a deadeye here, stropping a block there. Then it became time to consider his ship's company. Robidou had good advice. "Should ye want t' have a tight crew as will keep loyalty, I'd find a right hard-horse mate an' trust him t' find his own men. They'll owe him, an' he'll owe you, so they'll fight th' barky like good 'uns."

"Ye have an idea o' who . . . ?"

As it happened, Robidou did: the lieutenant on his own last cruise as a privateer. One Henry Cheslyn.

They met at the boat slip; Robidou had been at some pains to prepare Kydd but the sight of the man took him aback. Cheslyn was powerfully built, with a massive leonine head and full beard, and had a deep-sea roll as he walked. Near twenty years Kydd's senior, he had closed, fierce features and flinty eyes in a sea-ruddy face.

"Mr Cheslyn," Kydd acknowledged. What could he say to one so much older and so much more experienced whom he expected to take his orders unquestioned?

They stood regarding one another until Cheslyn spoke. "Cap'n Robidou says as ye're no strut-noddy," he said truculently, in a deep-chested voice. "An' he reckons ye're sharp. But yez a King's man—ever bin in a merchant hooker blue-water, like?"

"Aye," said Kydd evenly. "An' a gallows sight further'n you, I'd wager."

Robidou cut in apprehensively: "Mr Kydd took a convict ship t' Botany Bay in the peace, Henry."

Cheslyn ignored him. "Says ye've odd notions o' discipline—you ain't a-thinkin' o' goin' Navy?" he grunted sourly.

"Mr Cheslyn. I'm t' be captain o' the Witch. She's in the trade o' reprisal. I'm in the business o' finding m'self a sack o' guineas, an' anything or anyone goes athwart m' bows in that is goin' t' clew up fish-meat.

"So there's no misunderstandin', I'm writin' down m' expectations in th' articles f'r all t' sign, an' the one who's t' be m' first l'tenant will be in no doubt where I stand."

"Mr Kydd knows men," Robidou interjected firmly, "as he started a common foremast jack, ye'll know."

"Aye, well, I'll think on it," Cheslyn said, with a last piercing look at Kydd before he stumped away.

"A hard man." Robidou sighed, "Ye'll need t' steer small with him—but I'll tell ye now, he's bright in his nauticals an' a right mauler in a fight. If y' makes him mate, ye'll have no trouble with y' crew."



Within three days Cheslyn had assembled a core of hardened, wolfish seamen, all of whom, it seemed, were capable privateersmen of his long acquaintance. They packed Kydd's rendezvous, taking his measure silently.

This was not a time for fancy speeches. Kydd spoke to them of Caribbean wealth and South American treasure, of a mighty ocean but a well-found ship, shipmates and courage, spirit and discipline. Any who would go a-roving with him might return with a fistful of cobbs but must sign Kydd's articles and take his orders without a word. He finished. The room broke into a hubbub of excited talk. "S' who'll be first t' sign f'r an ocean cruise in th' saucy Witch?" he roared, above the noise.

They crushed forward, Cheslyn elbowing his way to the front. He raised his eyes once to Kydd, then bent to the book and scrawled awkwardly.

"Mate an' first l'tenant!" Kydd called loudly. "An' be s' good as t' introduce me to y'r men, Mr Cheslyn."

For his officers he had brought the one-eyed Le Cocq as his second, a short man but reputed fearless. Gostling, an experienced prize-master, was third. Kydd was surprised when Rosco, the boatswain of Bien Heureuse, fronted at the table.

"Y' has y'r chance now, Mr Kydd," he rumbled, and scratched his name. "An' I wants a piece of it," he said forcefully.

With Rosco as boatswain, and a cold-eyed mariner, Perchard, the gunner, he was well on the way to complement—and then Luke Calloway entered. Pale but resolute he stood before Kydd. "I'd wish t' be wi' ye, sir." How the young man had heard of the venture he had no idea—rumours must be flying in St Peter Port about this late-season cruise into the Atlantic.

"Ah, there's a berth if ye want it, Mr Calloway," Kydd said, "but I have t' tell ye, this is not y'r regular-goin' cruise. We'll be up against th' big ones as'll object t' being taken by a pawky schooner, an' will want t' give us a right pepperin'."

This was not the real reason: the men he would have aboard were a callous, pugnacious crew and young Calloway would be hard put to handle them.

"Sir, I—I'd want t' ship out, if y' please."