Kydd scanned the shoreline: the wharf was set on timber pilings. If he could get among them . . . and there, at the end, he saw a spur of light grey rocks extending into the sea.
Back in the boathouse a lanthorn glowed. ‘I believe I have a chance,’ Kydd told Gindler.
‘Yes, Tom. When will you go?’ Gindler was indistinct in the evening shadows but his voice had an edge to it.
‘It has t’ be before midnight. The tide is on the ebb and her gunports’ll fall below the level of th’ wharf before then.’ He picked up the neat piece of canvas Gindler had prepared. It was rolled tightly together with sailmaker’s twine, to which a stronger line was securely fixed.
‘How long will you have this?’ The coil of light line seemed a lot but was probably only fifty feet or so.
‘I think all o’ that,’ Kydd said. The longer it was, the safer the task of picking up the buoy and yanking the line. ‘And th’ last thing – our buoy.’ He cast about for an object that would serve and found some duck decoys: one of the ducklings would suit admirably. He secured it to the light line – and all was complete.
In the blackness of night they stood at the edge of the woods where they were closest to the privateer and had a front-row view of the ship. Lanthorns in her rigging cast bright pools of light on to the wharf; figures paced slowly along the dockside. Work had ceased. This would not be the case if an early-dawn departure was planned.
‘Well, here we are,’ Gindler whispered, ‘and it’s here that we part, my friend. I cannot in all conscience go further, but I’d like to shake the hand of a brave man.’
‘Let’s be started,’ Kydd muttered. He tucked the precious bundle of canvas and rope tightly under his arm and slipped down to the water’s edge, careful to stay in the shadows of the spur of rock.
There he paused, safe for the moment, and listened to the quiet chuckle and ripple of the calm evening sea. The ship was over a hundred yards away – and when he stepped round the spur there was a dozen yards of open beach before the shelter of the wharf piling. For that distance he would be in plain view of the ship.
The single thing in his favour was surprise. They might expect a rush by an armed party, but never by a lone, unarmed man. It was small comfort, but it also seemed the height of absurdity to be going into battle against a heavily gunned privateer armed only with a lump of wood and a piece of dirty canvas.
In the shadow of the rocks he stripped down to his long underwear and stockings, awkward and vulnerable. He laid down his clothes carefully and stumbled over to the inky black sea. He could not risk the forty feet of open beach; the only alternative was to wade off into the outer blackness.
The water was fearfully cold and his heart nearly failed him. He forced himself to continue, his feet feeling the sharp stones and shells on the rocky bottom. Deeper he went – the cold biting into his legs then his waist, leaving him gasping for breath. Out past the end of the spur, the ship was now in plain view and as he turned to round the end he lowered himself into the numbing water to his neck. Past the rock, the bottom turned mercifully to the softness of mud and he leaned forward, shuddering with cold, pushing on parallel to the beach and praying he could not be seen.
Minotaure was bows to sea, her carved stern towards him. There was a light in the captain’s cabin, a dim gold point through the mullioned windows. A couple of figures stood together on her after deck and Kydd could see the occasional red of a drawn pipe, but the rest was in shadow.
There was the odd scurry of unknown sea creatures at his feet, the stubbing of a toe against an invisible barnacled rock – and what seemed an eternity of knifing cold. At last he saw the edge of the wharf piling resolve out of the darkness.
Gratefully he entered the safety of the overhang with its concentrated sea odours and stood upright. A mistake. The tiny evening breeze was now a searching icy blast that stopped his breath. He lowered himself back into the water, which was almost warm by contrast.
Stumbling along in the darkness he passed between the heavily barnacled and slimy piles, clutching his bundle until he came abreast of the looming black vastness of the privateer. Turning towards it he moved forward and felt the slope of the sea-bed suddenly drop away. He pulled back in alarm. He was an awkward swimmer and, encumbered with his device, he could not possibly do other than move upright.
With a sinking heart he realised it was logical to build the wharf for larger ships where the water was deep enough for them to come close in – Minotaure would draw fifteen or twenty feet. Far out of his depth. His frozen mind struggled and he looked around wildly. Past the stern of the ship, tucked in just under the wharf edge he saw a low, elongated shape, a ship’s side punt used by sailors to stand in as they worked their way down the hull caulking and painting.
He pulled the little raft towards him, hoisted his bundle in, and hanging off one end, he thrust out. The punt glided towards the black bulk of the ship’s hull and finally bumped woodenly against it. Kydd’s feet dangled in the freezing depths.
A mix of terror and elation washed over him at the physical touch of the enemy; he worked his way along the hull, sensing noise and movement within until he reached the curved overhang of the stern. Here he would be out of sight from above while he set his trap, but any boat coming down the other side of the hull would burst into view just feet from him without warning.
He took the bundle, his hands shaking as he prepared it. The motionless rudder was lost in the shadows but Kydd could hang on to the rudder chains and be guided down to it. He would have to work by feel. Near the waterline would be the lower hance, a projecting piece at the trailing edge of the rudder; with its hoisting ring plate he could not fail to find it. He felt the barnacle-studded fitting and pulled himself to it. The final act: to thread the line through the score, the inner gap.
He let his hands slide inwards. The pintle strap led to the pintle itself going through the gudgeon eye – and there was the score. A gap just below the waterline and big enough to put his whole fist through. Excitement surged through him. All he had to do now was put the line through with the wedge one side and the rest the other.
He pushed the line through easily enough, then had to bend it on the wedge. His hands were numb but he fumbled it through the screw eye. But when he tried to tie a simple one-handed bowline his stiff fingers could not obey. He scrabbled at the line helplessly, aware that if he lost his hold on the wedge it would sink down for ever into the black depths. He couldn’t feel anything! Nearly weeping with frustration he tried again and failed. Then, with one last effort, he rested his elbows on the edge of the punt, leaving both hands free. Clumsily he managed to manipulate the sodden line.
Letting the wedge hang free by its line he tested it, then let it sink slowly toward the sea-bed. Moving to the other side of the rudder he freed the bundle of canvas and let the pick-up buoy float away. The little bundle, weighted with a fishing lead, sank also, and all that was left of his night’s work was a shabby little duckling floating nearby.
Gindler was waiting behind the rocky spur and when Kydd staggered up from the dark waters he threw a blanket round his frozen body and rubbed furiously. ‘Mr Kydd, you’re the maddest son-of-a-gun I’ve ever heard of!’ he whispered. ‘Now let’s get something hot into you.’
It was King’s calibogus, spruce beer stiffened with New England rum, a drink to which Greaves had introduced him; taken hot in front of the log fire, it was medicine indeed. While Kydd recounted his tale, Gindler threw clams and chunks of cod into a pot, with onion and bacon, and crushed biscuit for thickening, then let the mixture simmer and fill the snug cottage with an irresistible aroma.
‘Er, do pardon me the liberty,’ said Gindler, after the chowder pot had been satisfyingly scraped empty, ‘I can’t help but observe that your character is so – different from your usual King’s officer, Tom. You never hang back when there’s a need to soil the hands, to bear a fist directly – and you speak plainer, if you understand me.’
‘Aye, we
ll, that could be because I come fr’m a different land. I came aft through th’ hawse, as we say. But now I’m a gentleman,’ he added doubtfully.
‘You are indeed,’ Gindler said sincerely.
‘How about your folk, Ned?’ Kydd asked, cradling another calibogus.
‘My mother’s family came over with the Mayflower,’ Gindler said proudly. ‘Settled in the north, near Boston. Pa runs a business . . .’
A grey day broke, and Kydd’s sleepless night was over at last. Today would end in a flurry of gunfire and a captured privateer – or failure. Any one of those barbarous small rocks that had left his feet so sore could snag the line and part it, and they would be left with a useless end. So much could go wrong: even as they breakfasted, a crew member might look over the side of Minotaure and raise the alarm, and then it would be over before it started, or the ship might sail at dawn when Tenacious was not in the offing.
Kydd sat on the porch, brooding. ‘What do ye say we take a walk through th’ town? Perhaps we—’
‘You must stay here, my friend. Your presence near the vessel at this time could be . . . unfortunate.’ Gindler got to his feet. ‘I will undertake a reconnaissance.’
He returned quickly. ‘They’re ready for sea near enough, but there’s a little duck taken up residence under her stern.’
The morning dragged by; Kydd tried to learn a card game but it quickly palled. In the end they sat on the porch and talked, eyes straying out to sea.
‘I believe we must take position now,’ Gindler said lightly. ‘We have our smack ready at hand.’
The craft was not big but had a single mast stepped to a forward thwart, and with a light spritsail took the morning breeze with a will. In nondescript fishermen’s gear Kydd and Gindler saw they were one of a handful of boats chancing the day for sea-bass.
The entrance to the inner sound was no more than a couple of miles across and the one league boundary a half-mile beyond. Gindler eased sheets and steered for the northern point.
‘There she is!’ cried Kydd exultantly. HMS Tenacious under topsails was calmly approaching from the north. All the players were now converging and it was only a matter of time before the final act.
Minotaure had to sail by noon; her captain was waiting for the last possible moment and, as a consequence, would have to face Tenacious. But he would have been told about the midday signal arrangement – why did he wait and risk the confrontation?
Then it dawned on Kydd. Junon was both confident and cool. He wanted the English ship to present herself: he knew he could out-manoeuvre the big ship and in this way could establish where she was and therefore be free of the threat of an unpleasant surprise later.
The privateer’s fore topsail rose: she was about to proceed. Kydd’s heart beat faster. Her headsails fluttered into life and, as he watched, her bow detached from the wharf. The French tricolour was lowered from her ensign staff but reappeared at her mizzen peak. Other canvas made its appearance and Minotaure stood out into the sound.
Her actions were not lost on Tenacious whose battle-ensign soared up to the mainmasthead in answer. Kydd pictured the frenzied rush to quarters and was torn between the desire to be back aboard his ship in action and the knowledge of what he had to do.
Tenacious stood squarely across the entrance at the edge of the boundary, heaving to in the slight winds, while the privateer advanced cautiously towards her under just topsails, not giving the slightest indication of which side she was going to pass.
Kydd’s admiration for the coolness of the French captain increased as he noticed that the wind’s direction had Tenacious hove to with broadside towards, normally a battle-winning raking position, but the bigger ship could not in any circumstances open fire into United States waters and certainly not risk shot ricocheting into the town. Therefore Minotaure could move forward in perfect safety.
‘We need t’ get under her stern,’ Kydd growled. Gindler sheered the boat round and edged more into the sound, keeping safely to one side. The privateer drew nearer and Kydd visualised the wedge and the little bundle bumping over the mud of the sea-bed, hopefully then to stream out behind – or they might already have been torn off.
Kydd spoke, more to himself than to Gindler: ‘When she makes her move, she’ll loose sail t’ crack on speed and only then choose her side an’ put over her helm sharp. Therefore our signal will be when she looses more sail.’ Tenacious would have little chance of reacting in time, being stationary in the water with only the chance of a fleeting shot as the faster vessel surged past.
The privateer came on, seeming immense from the little smack. Her upper decks appeared full of men and her gunports were open. Gindler eased away the sail and let the big ship come down on them, jockeying to be as near as possible.
‘Wave at ’em!’ Kydd said urgently. Answering waves appeared up at the deckline. They were very close now, every raw detail of her timbers and gun muzzles plain. Gindler put over his tiller and the boat spun about to face the same direction, jibbing and rolling in the side wake of the privateer. Tenacious was precisely dead ahead – still no indication. Kydd waved again, anxiety flooding him at the thought of what hung on the next few minutes.
Gindler jockeyed the boat about, slipping back until the stern-windows of the ship came into view then sidling up behind. ‘The duckling, find th’ duck!’ Kydd gasped. They searched frantically astern of the ship – but there was no sign of a buoy.
‘No!’ Kydd cried harshly.
Gindler kept on behind the rearing stern then pointed. ‘Th-there!’ he whooped. Kydd leaned over and saw, in the roiling, bubbling wake, a jaunty duckling bobbing vigorously, much closer to the stern than he had planned.
‘Get us in there, f’r God’s sake!’ he yelled hoarsely, careless of anything but the final task.
Hardening in the sheets Gindler brought the smack closer but startled faces appeared over the stern high above. ‘Snag the bastard, quick!’ he hissed. The boat was bouncing around in the uneven wake and the wind around the looming stern was fitful and chancy.
Clear and positive over the noise of the tumbling water came the sound of a boatswain’s calls – to man yards and set sail. Kydd leaned far over the bow, reaching, scrabbling for the ducking. There would be no second chance now, and shouts were coming from above.
He touched the painted wood but it bounced out of reach then skittered back. He grabbed at it with the furthest extremity of his reach – he had it, pulled, but it jerked from his grasp. Kydd cried out in frustration.
The shouts above turned angry, demanding, dangerous. In despair he glanced back at Gindler, whose pale, set face took on a look of determination. He yanked on the sheets and the little boat responded, going right under the stern of the big ship. Kydd fell over the thwarts trying to keep with the buoy but at last he seized it in both hands.
Gindler instantly let out sheets and the smack fell back. Kydd was ready for it and crushed the little duck to him as the soaked line tautened unbearably – then fell slack. It was over.
Near sobbing with relief, Kydd fell back into the boat, still with the duckling clasped to his chest. He looked up – Minotaure was receding from them and, indeed, was loosing sail from every bare yard. She was still heading for Tenacious and waiting until the sails drew, gathering speed for the vital turn.
Kydd held his breath until it hurt – there was no sign, no hint that he had achieved anything: Minotaure was poised for her turn, all ready . . . and still no turn—
He had done it! Incredibly, unbelievably, it had worked! The privateer’s steering had locked, to the bewilderment of her crew and now, as he watched, confusion and chaos overtook as orders for setting sail were reversed, panic and fear flooding in as the ship delivered herself into the arms of a ship-of-the-line.
It was over in moments. A disbelieving Tenacious had seen Minotaure come straight at her and sent a challenging ball under her bow. There was nothing any sane captain could do when brought to, helpless under the threat of the
broadside of a two-decker – her colours came down slowly and HMS Tenacious took possession of her prize.
Chapter 11
The President lifted another rose in his cupped hands and sniffed it. ‘Perfect!’ He sighed, raising his eyes to meet those of his new secretary of the Navy, Benjamin Stoddert. Then he straightened and said softly, ‘I’m right glad you accepted, Ben.’
There was a moment of shared feeling. This was not the red-blooded hewing of a vision from the chaos of the revolution twenty years before: it was a time for hard-headed recognition of power and reality in a world at war.
‘I fear we may be too late,’ Stoddert said. ‘It came all of a moil so quick, John.’
The lines in Adams’s face deepened. ‘I don’t want war with the French – understand that of all things! I loathe their system and their arrogance, but I’ll be doing anything I can think of to prevent an alignment of the United States with one party or the other.’
Stoddert followed Adams to the next rose-bush. ‘Agreed – but we must stand up for ourselves. No one in this world will stand up for us.’
Adams straightened. ‘Ben, I’ve abrogated the treaty we’ve had since 1778 with the French. I’ve swallowed insults from Jefferson about my reasons and finally pulled Congress into line. You have your navy. Leave it to me to take care of the rest of the world.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Stoddert saw no reason to dilute a response to French actions, but knew better than to debate Adams’s moderate tactics. Besides which, Adams had a personal interest in the formation of this new navy: he had been the one to create the Continental Navy, the motley fleet of the revolution that had taken on the Royal Navy at sea. It had then been disbanded. This Federal Navy was going to be different, professional, and Stoddert had the honour of leading it into existence.
‘You have your captains now.’ It had been a fraught business, the few experienced men available vying for positions of seniority and honour.
Quarterdeck: A Kydd Sea Adventure Page 25