Through the Little Russel and leaving the shelter of Herm they met long seas—combers urged up on the lengthy swell by a brisk westerly from the deep Atlantic. Kydd and Robidou had taken the Witch out earlier with a skeleton crew to try her mettle, and with one or two changes to the set of her sails he was satisfied and confident in her sea-keeping.
He had discovered that Witch of Sarnia had completed only one voyage previously, and that a poor one under an over-cautious captain, but he would take full advantage of her qualities—he would have to if she was to have any chance of closing quickly with a prey. His crew were hard-bitten enough, but would they follow into the teeth of a larger crew intent on repelling boarders as he knew a man-o'-war's men would? Could he—
"Saaail!" The cry came at the sudden emergence of a sizeable ship from beyond the point—and directly athwart their path. It took no more than a heartbeat to realise that the noble lines belonged to HMS Teazer. Kydd guessed that Standish had been waiting for him: hearing of Kydd's Atlantic mission he had positioned himself ready for where he must come and was up to some sort of mischief.
"Ye'll 'ware she's a King's ship," Cheslyn muttered pointedly.
"Aye," said Kydd, evenly, watching as Teazer laid her course to intercept them. He was in no mood for Standish's posturing and gave orders that had Witch wheeling about and heading away downwind, mounting the backs of the combers before falling into the trough following in a series of uncomfortable sliding and jerks.
"What d' ye do that for?" Cheslyn spluttered. "He's a brig, an' we can point higher, b' gob!" It was true—the schooner had had every chance of slipping past by clawing closer to the wind but Kydd had seen something . . .
"An' what does this'n mean?" Cheslyn growled. "As if ye're of a mind t'—"
"I'd thank ye t' keep a civil tongue in y' head," retorted Kydd, carefully sighting ahead. If this was going to work he would need everything he had learned of the frightful rocks about them.
"Be damned! Ye're losin' y' westin' by th' hour—this ain't how to—"
Kydd turned and smiled cynically: beyond Teazer was another, Harpy, summoned by the signal flags he had spotted, so obviously in place to swoop if they had tried to slip by.
Cheslyn had the grace to redden, and kept quiet as Kydd made his estimations. Astern, the two brig-sloops were streaming along in grand style, shaking out yet more sail with the wind directly behind them. The fore-and-aft rig advantage of the Witch, however, was now lost to him, and with the brigs' far greater sail area spread to the wind the end seemed inevitable.
Along the deck worried faces turned aft: if Standish had the press warrants, in a short time any not native-born could find himself immured in a King's ship for years.
Ahead was a roil of white, which was the half-tide reef of the Platte Fougère; Kydd stood quietly, watching it carefully, his eye straying back to the two warships, willing them on. Then, at the right moment, he rapped, "Down helm—sheet in hard!"
Pitching deeply the Witch came slewing round to larboard, men scrabbling for purchase with bare feet as they won the sheets in a furious overhand haul. The schooner took up immediately at right angles to her previous course, now broadside to wind and waves in a dizzying roll—but she was passing the reef to its leeward.
Kydd grinned: he knew "Teazer's limits and there was no way she could brace round as quickly when she cleared the reef. Watching her thrashing along dead astern Kydd decided it was time to end the charade. Eyeing the jagged black islets of the Grandes Brayes farther on the bow he sniffed the wind for its precise direction. "Stand by t' go about, Mr Cheslyn." This time there was no argument and the man stumped off, bellowing his orders.
Kydd thanked his stars for an experienced crew: what he was contemplating was not for the faint of heart. Rapidly assuring himself once again of the exact relative position of the islets, reef and the wind's eye, he gave the order to go about.
Witch of Sarnia did not hesitate. She pirouetted to the other tack and took up quickly, passing into the few-hundred-yards-wide channel between reef and islets—and thrashing into the teeth of the wind where no square-rigger could go.
With a pang for his old command, Kydd saw Teazer left far astern as the Witch energetically made the north tip of Guernsey and round. It was done. They had won the open Atlantic and the rest was up to him.
The low lines of the privateer meant exhilarating going, but there was a price to pay: very soon Kydd found his new command was going to be a wet ship, knifing through the waves instead of soaring over them; with every second or third roller the decks were thoroughly sluiced.