Aware that Robidou was watching him, Kydd took his time. If this was to be his command, nothing could be left to chance. He crossed to the shrouds; they were faded to the plain hemp but when he examined inside the strands, there was the rich black of Stockholm tar.
The deck was uncluttered, the lead of the lines from aloft economical and practical as to be expected of a small crew. There would have to be doubled backstays and the like as in a man-o’-war to provide for rigging carrying away in the thick of an action, and other additions would be needed aloft.
Her ground tackle—anchors and cables—had been landed but could be inspected later, as would the suits of sails going with the sale, but all in all . . . “She’ll do,” Kydd said evenly. “Subject t’ survey, o’ course.”
The pace quickened: it was made very clear that ships in harbour do not catch prizes, and Kydd spent more of his time at St Sampson.
When he called on Robidou he was asked to provide a completion date for the conversion. “We’re livin’ on our capital,” the armateur rasped. “Ye must have crew, but not too quick—they’ll be guzzlin’ on our account soon enough—but they needs t’ plan out their time fr’m when you’re askin’ ’em to sign on, which’ll be less’n a week afore ye sails. An’ that ’ll be as soon as she’s fit t’ swim.”
Kydd made to leave but Robidou stopped him. “Aren’t ye forgettin’ something, Mr Kydd?”
“Er, what’s that, sir?”
“If’n ye goes a-cruisin’ without it, the world will take ye as a pirate.”
“Ah, th’ Letter o’ Marque.” It was the legal document that set him loose on the seven seas to board and seize ships going about their business without being accused of piracy. He had never seen one close to but knew them to be of vital importance.
“Do ye know what’s t’ be done in the applyin’?” When Kydd shook his head, he passed across the single sheet of an old Letter of Marque from a previous voyage.
It would be no trivial matter. The object, it seemed, was to petition the King through the High Court of Admiralty for a grant of reprisal, the legal conceit being that the petitioner was seeking redress for injury from the nominated prince—Bonaparte—through the seizing of his property, namely ships and their cargo.
This in turn required the production of a warrant from the Lords Commissioners for executing the Office of Lord High Admiral of Great Britain for the granting thereof to the named captain and ship. To obtain such it was necessary to make deposition as to the suitability of such a vessel and its commander, with the owners, tonnage and rig, her principal officers, the size of crew and armament to be strictly specified. Even the number of shot for each gun and the state of her sea stores would be noted.
“Th’ suitability of her captain as must appear before ’em?” Kydd had never heard of a naval captain of a privateer—but, then, it was likely that few would wish to boast of the experience. And what of the recent shadow over his naval career?
“That’s as it has t’ be,” Robidou said impatiently. “You’ll not need t’ appear. As Guernseymen we can declare b’ proxy, an’ we has a London agent who’ll weasel th’ thing through any shoal waters for us. He knows what he’s about, an’ we’re payin’ the devil enough for his pains.”
Kydd read on. “A bond?”
“Sureties on the commander against his good conduct. I’m askin’ Paul Le Mesurier t’ stand in the sum o’ one thousan’ five hundred pounds, as he will, trustin’ you’ll steer small in the article o’ seizin’ ships as will fight.”
It staggered Kydd. The princely sum of five years of his total pay as commander was being advanced in trust by a complete stranger on the word of Robidou, which he stood to lose if Kydd ran afoul of some bloody-minded Admiralty clerk who judged that his conduct in boarding had been wanting.
Robidou continued, “Well, now, that’s under way, then. I fancy ye’ll want t’ find a crew.” He paused. “You’ll not know s’ many in th’ islands—do ye wish t’ leave it to me t’ find some as’ll ship with ye?”
“If y’ please, Mr Robidou,” Kydd said.
“I’ll put th’ word about.”
Slowly the replies arrived on Renzi’s desk: a tribute to the skill and dedication of d’Auvergne’s network. Concealed in tree-trunks and under bridges, they were retrieved and, at great risk to the carriers, made their way to the coast, then by fishermen and smugglers to Jersey, now to lie in his hand.
The secrets were held in grubby, spidery letters, some as spirals to be uncurled, others folded to minute squares, in innocent shop receipts or letters to relatives. However, great care was needed, for while the old trick of writing in lemon juice and reading it by the heat of a candle-flame was well known, many preferred to use baking-soda and grape juice. This could be read only the once, then would slowly fade for ever, effectively preventing its later use as evidence.
The messages: fervent support, elaborately worded reasons for unavailability, warnings of billeted troops . . . All needed to be plotted against the route and alternative arrangements made.
CHAPTER 12
KYDD WAS SET UP IN HIS RENDEZVOUS at the Blue Anchor in St Peter Port in due style, ready to stand a muzzler of stingo to any brave tar who wished to sign on with him for a cruise of fortune westward.
It was noisy, hard-drinking work, but Robidou was sitting next to him and it was clear that he was well respected as a privateersman. Among the first to approach was Rowan, a seamed West Country man with a direct eye and quiet manner. His recent experience quickly saw him signed as lieutenant and prize-captain.
A boatswain, Rosco, was next. Bluff, he had a hard-eyed countenance that Kydd liked. Seamen started to appear; there were some prime hands that would not have been out of place on the gun-deck of a man-o’-war—which was probably where they had learned their trade. Others had the look of the wharf-rat about them, but Kydd could not be too particular as numbers were thinning.
Another experienced officer came up: name of Tranter, he could claim service with the Guernseyman Hamon of the Phoenix, which had taken twenty prizes in the Revolutionary War; he was made second prize-captain and lieutenant.
More seamen came; some curious, others disdainful. It was hard to make out their mettle when it was overlaid with the traditional independence of the merchant seaman, but this was not to be a long, deep-sea voyage where any real defects of character could matter.
As time passed, Kydd was perturbed that no gunner had stepped forward: he had secured a pair of nine-pounder carriage guns and needed to see they were fitted properly. A merchant vessel was not equipped with the heavy scantlings of timber round the gun-ports to absorb recoil and they would require sea testing to work up to a safe charge.
By the evening it had become evident that while they would not go short-handed they had not been besieged by eager fortune-hunters and Kydd knew he was lucky to have signed his crew. Now it was time to take on the ship’s boys.
Their main purpose was to manage the ship when the men were away in prize-crews. Paid at the lowest rate and with but a half-share each they were nevertheless vital—and cheap. They crowded up to his table, eyes shining, ready for adventure. He hoped the reality of a cold autumn sea and an overcrowded ship would not too quickly disillusion them and managed a few words of encouragement to each.
The next day Kydd was back at the Bien Heureuse, which was now in the water so he could take his fill of her. Her lugger rig was his main concern as it was seldom encountered in the Navy. This one was similar to a French chasse-marée , with its sharply raked third mast and ringsail with jigger boomkin out over the stern, but she had a lengthy bowsprit over her dignified straight stem, English style.
Time was pressing, and there was so much to see to: the sails had to be in reasonable condition for the weather as it worsened with the season; the running rigging needed to be overhauled— no twice-laid stuff to fail at the crucial moment. And all the time expenses were mounting and Robidou had to be convinced of their necessity.
The Priaulx yard was doing a good job but seemed to have no sense of urgency: it needed goading, and drink money for the ship-wrights, who were, of course, in a way of business that in a King’s yard they were not. A gunner was finally found: Kevern, a sallow and somewhat nervous young man, who had the unsettling habit of agreeing instantly and completely with anything Kydd said.
By now Robidou was showing clear signs of impatience. Kydd’s requirement for more powder and shot was denied curtly; he was allowed the bare minimum of charts and no chronometer. The prize-captain Rowan, however, was unexpectedly helpful in discovering odd rutters and pilots of the waters in French and Dutch.
A small crowd of interested spectators had taken to looking on from the pier, to the hazard of the ship’s stores, being prepared there to be struck below. Driven to distraction Kydd was told that the cook had stormed off in disgust at the primitive stove—and he knew only too well that the men wouldn’t stand for there not being hot scran on board at the right time.
It was chaos and confusion on all sides as Kydd took refuge in his tiny cabin. It smelled of damp bedding and stale tobacco. The timber sides were weeping at the join of the transom, and there would be no money wasted on oiling the faded wood of the bulkhead; it remained a drab and pale-blotched sadness.
He held his head in his hands. What had possessed him to take this on? He would have given a great deal to have his friend Renzi with him, now loyally working at menial clerking in Jersey to give him the chance to clear his name. Yet something had prevented Kydd writing to tell him of his change of situation, some feeling of reluctance to admit to his friend his new status as a privateer.
There were more pressing matters: How could he forge this ship’s company into a fighting whole when they were complete strangers? Not a soul would he have aboard that he had known more than hours only. He would be again without a friend in the world.
Staring gloomily at the grubby skylight he had a sudden idea that set him to calling a ship’s boy. “Here’s a sixpence. Do you find a Mr Luke Calloway as will be at th’ Bethel or workin’ on th’ water-front, an’ tell him th’ captain o’ Bien Heureuse wants t’ speak with him. Off y’ go, then!” It would not only provide Calloway with a job and a chance at real money but Kydd would have a familiar face on board.
It wasn’t until the afternoon that the lad came back, breathless. “I did fin’ a gent b’ that name, but he was pushin’ a handcart, Mr Kydd. An’ when I told ’im what ye wanted, he asked what ship. I told ’im Bien Heureuse, privateer!” He puffed out his cheeks in pride.
“Then where—”
“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 bow-line 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.
He sheeted the little ringsail behind him harder in and was surprised by the response. Not only did she right herself considerably and take fewer seas over the bow but her speed seemed to have incr
eased. And closer to the wind: there were possibilities . . .
He let Bien Heureuse take up full and bye again, then tried her going free, downwind. Without a comfortable breadth of beam she felt uneasy, rolling in a regular arc to one side then lurching to the other—not her best point of sailing, and the absence of a weighty cargo low down didn’t help.
A crestfallen Calloway appeared. “Sorry, sir. Purvis is—um, flustered b’ liquor an’ needs t’ rest.”
Kydd grimaced. Their cook, prostrate with drink. As were other crewmen who had disposed of their advances in the time-honoured way. They would have to be roused soon for the setting of watches, then must abide by the ageless rhythm of the sea. In the Navy such behaviour would earn at the least a night in the bilboes—but this was not the Navy.
“Mr Rowan? I’d be obliged should ye take the deck until we’ve got our watch-bill. Course west b’ south f’r now.” Kydd wanted to get the paperwork squared away while the daylight lasted; there were no clear-light spermaceti lamps aboard this vessel.
The motion was uncomfortable in the confines of his cabin, a pronounced wallow that demanded a sustained bracing against the movement. He turned to his papers, hurriedly stuffed into a box. He had not had time fully to digest the “Admiralty Instructions to Privateers,” a specific set of rules enclosed with the Letter of Marque, which by their infraction would result in the bond forfeited. They seemed straightforward enough, however, in the main to ensure that merchant ships of whatever flag, and particularly neutrals, were not assailed by swarms of ill-disciplined freebooters little better than pirates. From the look of some of his crew this was not impossible, Kydd thought wryly.
The other paperwork would have to wait. He swung out of the cabin and then on deck. In the cold evening bluster he saw only Rowan and the helmsman in any sense on watch, with possibly a pair of lookouts on the foredeck, but more probably they were landmen, unable to keep below-decks.
He stumped down to the curtained officers’ quarters and found the other prize-captain lying in his cot. “Mr Tranter, muster all hands f’r watches,” he snapped.
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