Quarterdeck: A Kydd Sea Adventure

by Julian Stockwin

  He sat down and reached for paper, then selected a pen abstractedly. A woman’s hand placed a glass of brandy by him, and her lips softly touched his hair. He twisted round, reached for her hand and kissed it tenderly. ‘My dear,’ he said softly.

  His wife said nothing, just looked down at him for a long moment. Then she left, closing the door behind her.

  Liston sighed and collected his thoughts.

  In respect of the biggest question of the moment – would the United States enter the war against France – there was no answer . . . yet. Liston smiled grimly as he penned his appreciation of the difficulties faced by the beleaguered President.

  Following the commercial success of the contentious Jay treaty of two years before, the French had retaliated by insisting on the letter of the law in their own treaty, which granted free passage to any vessel carrying a French rôle d’équipage. Now a vessel without it would be subject to seizure.

  The consequences to the expanding trade of the young country had been nothing short of catastrophic. Liston picked up Pinckney’s Congressional Report on European Spoliation of American Trade to refresh his mind on the figures.

  It was staggering – worse even than the dire predictions of the fire-breathing Hamilton. In the Caribbean, worst hit, no less than three hundred ships had been taken and, counting the dangerous waters on the approaches to war-ravaged Europe since the Jay treaty, nearly a thousand American flag vessels had hauled down their colours and been carried into French ports; ship, cargo and crew.

  Liston could barely credit that the proud Americans would submit to such intolerable and cynical actions by a so-called ally – but they had. President Adams had stoutly resisted all attempts by Liston and even his own party to be embroiled in a European war, whatever the provocation, but there had to be limits.

  Even so, Liston could see his difficulty. The opposition Republicans were led by the astute and learned Jefferson, talked about as the next president, who would never allow him to declare war on an ally. In any case he did not have the means: he had only a few frigates that had been left part built after a brief alarm over Algerine pirates nearly half a dozen years ago.

  Yet something had to give. In the last few months, insurance rates in the Caribbean had soared to an impossible 25 per cent of ship and cargo value.

  The French were defeating whole nations; coalitions against them had crumbled and they were clearly about to break out of Europe to the wider world. It had made them arrogant and confident, but Liston felt that the latest act was beyond sufferance: envoys of the United States in Paris, attempting to negotiate an amelioration of French attitudes, had been met with a demand for two hundred thousand dollars as a pre-condition for any kind of talks.

  This incitement to naked bribery had appalled the Americans, and when it had leaked out there had been outrage. For the first time it appeared President Adams would have to move – to declare war? And with what?

  Liston dipped his pen and began to write.

  Chapter 10

  ‘May I correct you, sir? We do have a navy,’ Gindler said, with an ironic smile, ‘As of a week ago. Might I explain?’

  It seemed that there had been congressional authorisation for a ‘naval armament’ since the Algerines trouble, but this had been a War Department matter of the time. Now Congress wanted the reality, and had therefore recently established a Department of the Navy to act like the British Admiralty and was to appoint a full secretary of the Navy.

  ‘So, our navy is born.’ Gindler had an engaging smile, but Kydd detected a harder layer beneath his cheery manner.

  Kydd’s head was still muzzy after his visit to the Blue Anchor, and he tried to concentrate. ‘Y’ don’t just say you’ll have a navy – you now have t’ find ships, officers. How are y’ going t’ do that? And dockyards, victualling, slops . . .’

  He looked at Gindler – and felt that this vigorous new country might just find some way. ‘Wish ye well of it, Mr Gindler,’ he said sincerely. Then he added, ‘But I’d be obliged now, sir, if you’d explain what you were doing.’

  ‘Certainly. I was spying on you, Mr Kydd.’

  ‘Wha’?’

  ‘We need to know what a British officer is doing on our soil, you’ll agree?’

  ‘Then why th’ skulking about? It’s no secret why I’m here.’

  ‘Ah. This is not to do with your own good self, I do assure you. It has rather more to do with our democratic way, Mr Kydd. If the citizens of this town, living as they do in Connecticut, find out that I, as an agent of the federal government, am poking around in a matter they conclude is theirs, then I’ll soon need a fast horse out of Exbury.’

  ‘Oh? Have you got what you came for, then?’ Kydd thought the whole thing sounded more than a little far-fetched.

  ‘Shall we say, sir, that I’d rather like to be shaking hands with an English officer as he steps into his boat to return to his ship?’

  ‘Aye. Well, thanks t’ your citizens, the Frenchman lies here untouched an’ my ship must sail away. Have no fear, you’ll have y’r wish, Mr Gindler. At noon I throw out my signal and the boat will come to take me and my English carcass off.’ He smiled wryly, then added, ‘But do walk with me until then, an’ tell me more of y’r plans for a navy.’

  Kydd retrieved his baggage from Jacob Hay and stood with Gindler on the small jetty. Tenacious was approaching and would heave to on the three-mile line for a space while telescopes spied the shore for Kydd’s signal. If there was none, she would fill, stand out to sea and return on the following day.

  ‘If it’s any consolation, my friend, it grieves me as much as it does you,’ Gindler said, in a voice low enough not to be overheard by the ragged crowd that had come to see the defeated Englishman leave.

  ‘Oh?’ said Kydd bitterly. He was in no mood to be consoled.

  Gindler was spared having to answer by the thud of hoofs. The constable hove into view and pulled up his horse. ‘Mr Dwight sends ’is compliments an’ hopes you can pay him a call before y’ leaves.’

  Kydd bit his lip. It was within half an hour of midday, and if he missed the time to display his signal flag, Tenacious would stand offshore for another day.

  The constable leaned down. ‘Noos!’ he said hoarsely, and winked broadly.

  Dwight was businesslike. ‘It’s none of your business, o’ course, Mr Kydd, but you’ll find out anyway – I’ve had word from the governor in Hartford, an’ he takes his advice from Philadelphia. Seems they’ve had enough o’ the Frenchies and I’m to serve an order on their captain that they’ve just twenty-four hours to quit United States territory.’ He stuffed papers into a desk. ‘I guess this means you’ll be about y’r business then, Mr Kydd,’ he added, holding the door open.

  Kydd had minutes – if he could make his signal . . .

  A wily captain like Junon could play it well; he would use all his twenty-four hours to fettle his ship for any circumstance. Then, no doubt, he would sail slowly and directly to the edge of territorial waters, luring Tenacious towards him. When the English ship was committed to his approach he would throw over his helm to one side or the other and, hoisting every possible sail, break out with his superior speed into the open sea.

  Gindler was waiting curiously at the jetty. ‘Minotaure – she’s t’ sail within twenty-four hours,’ Kydd said quietly, catching his breath, watching the main topsail of Tenacious brace sturdily around as she made to heave to.

  ‘Well, now, you leave like a hero.’

  ‘Perhaps not – I have t’ think,’ Kydd said, distracted. True, the Minotaure was forced to sea, but what was the use of this if the privateer could slip away past her pursuer? It was damned bad luck that their sloop, Lynx, would not yet have returned from alerting the admiral of Tenacious’s dispositions, for the two together had a chance of hounding Minotaure to her doom. Could anything be done?

  Desperate times meant desperate measures: Kydd had heard of a drag-sail being used to reduce speed; a disguised ship would pret
end dull sailing to lure a prey. Perhaps he could stay ashore and tie a sail secretly to Minotaure, slow her enough to catch. He soon realised that before the privateer had gone any distance her captain would want to know why she was slowing and discover the trick.

  ‘Mr Kydd!’ Gindler pointed out to sea where Tenacious was bringing round her main topsail yard.

  Kydd pulled the red number-one flag from his pocket and hurried to the front of the gaggle of spectators, spread it wide and let it hang. His news would surely set the ship abuzz.

  There appeared to be little activity on her quarterdeck: the daily run inshore had lost its novelty, no doubt. Then topmen began mounting the shrouds and in a smart display the main topsail came around and filling, at the same time as the main course was loosed – and Tenacious gracefully got under way for the open sea.

  Kydd held the signal high in the forlorn hope that someone was looking back on the little township but, her sails sheeted home, Tenacious made off to the horizon amid the sniggering and laughter of the onlookers.

  Kydd stood mortified. Not only was he left stranded but he had failed to pass on his vital news. Even if he could find a boat quickly no small craft could catch a big square-rigger in full sail. The only certainty was that Tenacious would return the next day.

  And where could he lay his head that night? He knew he could not go back to Hay. ‘Er, Mr Gindler, if y’re familiar with this town, do you know of any lodgin’ house?’

  ‘No, sir, I do not. That is, I don’t know of one fit for a gentleman.’ He smiled. ‘Come now, I can’t have an English guest take back a poor notion of my country. You shall stay with me, Mr Kydd.’

  ‘Why, Mr Gindler, that’s very kind in you.’

  Gindler patted him on the shoulder. ‘And it keeps you safely under my eye . . .’

  ‘I always try to make New England for the summer, a prime place to rest the spirit – and it is here that I stay.’ It was a retired fisherman’s cottage by the edge of the water, complete with its own boathouse.

  ‘Do you fish, Mr Kydd? The halibut and cod here, fresh caught, will by any estimate grace the highest table in the land. We shall try some tonight.’

  Kydd tried to take an interest, but his mind was full of the consequences of his inattention at the jetty. The only glimmer of hope was that if Minotaure made use of her full twenty-four hours, Tenacious would have returned in time to try to catch her prey.

  ‘We shall have to make shift for ourselves, sir,’ Gindler said apologetically. ‘The hire of this cottage does not include servants.’

  ‘Oh? Er, yes, of course, Mr Gindler.’

  ‘This is American territory, Mr Kydd. Be so kind as to address me by my first name, Edward – that is, Ned.’

  ‘Thank you, sir – I mean, Ned, and pray call me Tom.’

  Kydd went out on to the little porch and stared out to sea. Gindler joined him with pewter tankards of cider and they sat in cane chairs.

  ‘If you can believe it, you have my earnest sympathy, Tom,’ he said. ‘Damnation to the French!’ he added.

  ‘But aren’t they y’r friends?’ said Kydd, startled out of his dejection.

  ‘They’ve caused us more grief and loss than ever you English did, curse ’em, and I have that from Secretary of State Timothy Pickering himself.’

  Kydd’s spirits returned. ‘So it wouldn’t cause you heartbreak to see this corsair destroyed.’

  ‘No, sir. It would give me the greatest satisfaction.’

  Kydd grinned savagely. ‘Then let’s get our heads together an’ work out some way we c’n bring about that very thing.’

  Gindler shook his head. ‘We? Recollect, Tom, that this is the territory of the United States. Should I act against a ship of a neutral flag while she’s lying in our waters I’d be hoist by both sides.’

  ‘So I’m on my own again.’

  ‘And I’m duty-bound to oppose any action against a neutral – especially in one of our ports, you’ll understand.’

  Kydd slumped in his chair.

  ‘Tell me, Tom, are we friends?’ Gindler asked.

  Surprised, Kydd agreed.

  ‘Then my scruples tells me it is no crime to help a friend. What do you think?’

  An immediate council of war concentrated on one overriding thing: unless Minotaure could be slowed there was little chance that Tenacious could catch her.

  ‘Then we’re th’ only possible chance,’ Kydd said morosely.

  ‘It seems that way. How about a drag-sail?’

  ‘It would easily be discovered, soon as they put t’ sea and felt its effect. Perhaps I could cut half through a brace or somethin’ that will carry away at the right time,’ Kydd said, more in despair than hope.

  ‘With the barky alert and swarming with men? I don’t think so.’

  It seemed ludicrous to contemplate two men against a frigate-sized ship, but Kydd persevered. ‘There is another way . . .’ he pondered. ‘To slow the Frenchy’s one thing t’ bring him to us, but there’s his steering as well.’

  ‘Steering? Helm and tiller ropes?’

  ‘His rudder.’

  ‘You do anything with that and he’s sure to know just as quick.’

  ‘Not so, if m’ idea is sound.’ It was years ago, but the image was as clear as yesterday. An English frigate careening at a remote island in the south Pacific Ocean – and, in the balmy oceanic winds, the crew scraping and cleaning the vast rearing bulk of the hull. He had been at work around the stern, overawed by the hulking presence of the thirty-foot-high rudder at close quarters, and had gone to inspect its working.

  ‘Ned,’ Kydd said cautiously, ‘may I quiz you on y’r understanding of how rudders are hung?’

  ‘By all means.’

  ‘A pin – the pintle on the rudder, going through the eye of a gudgeon on the hull. Now I ask ye to agree this. At the last extremity o’ the hull is the sternpost.’

  ‘Yes, this must be so. The underwater run of the hull coming together in a fine upright sternpost.’

  ‘And the rudder fits to th’ sternpost with your gudgeons and pintles. Now I particularly desire ye to remark the gap between the forward edge of the rudder and the after edge o’ the sternpost. The thickness of the rudder in a frigate would amaze you – it’s every bit of a foot or more, as must be th’ sternpost, and I mean t’ thrust a wedge between them.’

  ‘A magnificent scheme, but pray how will you apply this wedge?’

  ‘Er, we’ll discuss that part later. F’r now, we have to settle some details. First, th’ gap is only an inch or two wide. No wedge this thick c’n stand the sea forces of a rudder. But – and this needs y’r verifying – there is a very suitable place. At th’ point where the pintle meets the gudgeon the shipwrights cut out a space in th’ rudder below it, or else we cannot unship the rudder. This they call th’ score.’

  ‘And how big is your gap there?’

  ‘Above six inches – so now we have two flat surfaces a foot long an’ six inches apart. A wedge that size has a chance.’ Kydd grinned boyishly. ‘Just think, Ned, the Frenchy goes t’ sea, sees Tenacious coming for him an’ throws over his helm t’ slip by one side, but his helm is jammed. Before he has time t’ work out the trouble he’s kind enough to deliver himself straight to us.’

  ‘Congratulations – but of course—’

  ‘Well, yes, there is th’ question of how t’ get the wedge in there, I’ll grant ye.’

  ‘And what sort of ship goes to sea with jammed steering?’

  ‘Ah, I’ve thought of that.’

  ‘I’m gratified to hear it.’

  Kydd gave a dry smile. ‘This is callin’ for something special, and here it is. We screw an eye into one end of th’ wedge and secure a line to it, which is passed through our gap. If you tug on the line it brings the wedge whistling up an’ smack into the gap. But it won’t be us that’s tugging . . .’

  ‘I stand amazed. Who will?’

  ‘Ah! Your old friend a drag-sail. It’s only a small piec
e o’ canvas rolled up and secured to the opposite end of the line, and when it opens it does the tugging.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, we need the helm t’ jam only at the right moment – so we must find a trigger to stream our drag-sail just at that time. And here it is – we bundle the canvas up with twine and when we want it to open an’ start pulling the wedge we break the twine.’

  ‘Which is . . .’

  ‘Yes, well, this is a long piece of twine, and if you look f’r a discreet little pick-up buoy astern o’ the Frenchy, then that’s the end o’ the twine.’

  Gindler didn’t say anything.

  ‘Well?’ asked Kydd anxiously.

  ‘I can only . . . I have two objections.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Who is going to affix the device? And who is going to find our wee buoy – maybe under gunfire?’

  ‘I’ll do both,’ said Kydd solemnly, but he had no idea how.

  The boathouse provided all they needed. A woodworking bench, try-plane, saws – it would be a straightforward enough task. Kydd blessed the time he had spent in a Caribbean dockyard working for a master shipwright.

  ‘Ned, I want some good wood for m’ wedge.’

  Gindler fossicked about and, from a dark corner, dragged out what looked like a small salvaged ship frame, dark with age. ‘This should suit. It’s live oak, and very hard. Capital for hacking out a wedge.’

  ‘Aye, well . . .’

  ‘And it damn near doesn’t float.’

  ‘Done!’

  The try-plane hissed as Kydd applied himself to the work, watched by an admiring Gindler. Indeed, the wood was extremely dense, and Kydd sweated at the task. Gindler had already found the twine and was snipping round a piece of dirty canvas; then he rummaged for a screw eye.

  Kydd realised he needed to see the French ship again in the light. The big privateer still lay alongside the commercial wharf but with a renewed, purposeful air, loading sea stores and working at her rigging. As he looked across the little bay at her, it became clear that there was no easy way to get close: there were sentries on deck and quay, and the ship was alert.