As Kydd looked on, mesmerised, he realised that the activity on deck had been that of some hero who had fashioned a steering oar from a plank and had succeeded in wrestling the bow resolutely shoreward. And he also recognised the vessel, with her rakish lines, she was a chasse-marée, a French privateer.
Nobody spoke as a giant breaker curled and fell—and as the boiling surf raced up the sand, it sent the wreck shooting forward. The hero's final actions were rewarded, for as soon as the dark shape of the craft came to rest, the figures stumbled from it on to the blessed firmness. The sea returned in a hissing roar and pushed the craft crazily broadside but the men were not running for safety: they were struggling with something in the wreck. It was a body—no, an injured seaman, and they were dragging him out, then making hastily for the higher ground.
Kydd felt like cheering but Cribben's look was bleak as he grunted, "They've got t' come off of there—tide'll have 'em in a couple of hours."
"Can't we close with th' bank an' take 'em?" Kydd asked.
"Why? They's only mongseers, is all. Let 'em take their chances."
"They're sailors, jus' like us all."
"No."
Kydd felt his blood rise but held himself in check. "Five guineas t' lay off the bank."
Cribben looked at him in astonishment, then peered into Kydd's face as if for reassurance as to his sanity. "Seven."
"Done."
The others looked at Kydd warily, but helped to pull the lugger in as far as was prudent and Kydd signalled to the stranded seamen with exaggerated beckoning movements. There was a distracted wave back but no sign that they understood the urgency of their situation.
Kydd swore; in a short time they would be beyond mortal help. He repeated the signal, then got everyone aboard Daisy May to join in, but the Frenchmen were not going to risk the tide-rips.
"Leave 'em be, the silly buggers," Cribben said dismissively, clearly ready to leave.
Kydd said nothing but began to strip off to his trousers.
"What're ye up to?" Cribben demanded.
"I knows th' French lingo," Kydd retorted, "an' in common pity they have t' be warned."
"We only gets th' bounty fer bringing back bodies, not live 'uns."
Standing on the gunwale Kydd leaped clumsily into the cold shock of the sea and struck out. The current seized him and carried him along but after frantic strokes his toe caught the hard roughness of the sandy bottom and he staggered upright, looking for the castaways.
The chill of the wind's blast nearly took his breath away and when a Frenchman hurried up to him he could hardly control his shuddering. "V-vous êtes i-ici dans un g-grand péril, m-mon brave," he stuttered, and tried to convey the essence of the danger.
It was surreaclass="underline" he was standing on hard-packed brown sand that was about to plunge beneath the sea, talking to a French privateers-man whom it was his duty to kill—and himself, a commander of the Royal Navy, taking orders from a Deal hoveller.
The Frenchmen chattered among themselves, then explained that for reasons of humanity they could not abandon their injured comrade—he had been the one to wield the steering oar—and besides, like many seamen, none could swim. There was such poignant resignation in their faces that Kydd was forced to turn away.
Staggering with the force of a vicious wind squall across the flat banks he tried to flog his frozen mind to thought. Cribben would not keep Daisy May among the leeward shoals for much longer. It was—
A faint shout drew his attention to the lugger. He saw Stirk jump into the sea and strike out for them, Redsull back in Daisy May furiously paying out a line.
Stirk splashed into the shallows and Kydd helped him up. A small double line was threaded through his belt at the small of his back, which he released. Hoarsely, he panted, "They hauls 'em out b' this rope. Cribben's in a rare takin'—but them others'll be good 'uns."
The light line was handed rapidly along as an endless loop until a heavier line arrived and, with a piece of timber for flotation, the rescue was rapidly made complete.
"S' then, Mr. Hoveller, where's our Luke Calloway?" Kydd demanded. Cribben was at the head of the beach with his arms folded, watching Daisy May hauled out of the surf and up the shingle in the fading light.
"Where's m' seven guineas?" snapped the man, keeping his eyes on the straining capstan crew.
"You'll get 'em by sunset t'morrow," Kydd replied tightly.
Then Cribben turned to him with a smile. "I don't rightly know who you is, Mr. Tom, but youse a right taut man o' th' sea as ever I seen, an' I honour ye for it. Follow me."
"I'll go, Toby—no need f'r you," Kydd said.
Cribben stamped up the shingle and into the maze of alleyways. He stopped at the gaunt old edifice of a deserted maltster's and gestured contemptuously. "I know they's got their heads down in that there loft. Take him an' be damned to the shab."
Kydd eased open the ancient double doors and entered into the smelly darkness, the wind covering the noise of his entrance. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he saw dust-covered mash-tubs, long planked floors and, to the side, a flight of rickety steps leading up to the blackness at the top of the building.
Kydd tiptoed to the stairs ears a-prick for any sound.
Halfway up he heard muffled giggling. He completed the climb, arriving at what appeared to be an overseer's office. Within it, he heard furtive movement and beneath the door saw dim light.
He crashed it open. "Mr. Midshipman Calloway! Y'r duty t' your ship, sir!"
With a horrified shriek, a naked girl snatched for covering. Calloway sat up groggily, and glared resentfully at him.
"T' break ship is a crime and an insult t' your shipmates, Luke. Why . . . ?"
"Er, me 'n' Sally, um, we're—"
"Y'r country lies under such a peril as never was. Are ye going t' tell me you're comfortable t' leave the fighting to others while ye cunny burrow with y' trug?"
Calloway reddened and reached for his clothes. "I'm done with roaming," he said stubbornly. "I want t' cast anchor next to m' woman, an' she won't be found in a poxy man-o'-war."
"Leave my Luke be!" screeched the girl. "Him 'n' me's gettin' spliced, ain't we, darlin'?"
Kydd ignored her. "Your duty calls ye, Luke," he said remorselessly.
"I—I'm not . . ."
"I c'n have you taken in irons and haled aboard as a deserter."
The lad stiffened.
"But I won't. I'm leaving—now. And if y' follows me, it's back aboard, no questions asked, all a-taunto. And if y' don't, then you'll have t' live with y'r decision for the rest o' your life . . ."
CHAPTER 6
RENZI CONTEMPLATED THE WIND-TORN SEAS of the Downs through Teazer's salt-encrusted stern windows. Years in Neptune's realm had inured him to the motion and he knew he would miss the honest liveliness and daily challenges of the elements if ever he was obliged to go ashore for good.
For now, though, that was not in question and he blessed his luck in securing a situation that ensured food, board and the company of his friend while he pursued his scholarly quest. It was proceeding welclass="underline" he had settled back into his studies after the catastrophe of the failed plot against Napoleon and, just recently, had reached a delightful impasse in his careful building of the edifice of support of his central hypotheses: the Nomological Determinist position was threatening the entire substructure of his "Economic Man," but once again the sturdy pragmatism of Hobbes, two centuries earlier, was coming to the rescue. In fact, conflated with the naturalistic philosophies of Hume, the so-called "Compatibilists" had—
The distant wail of the boatswain's call sounded. Kydd was being piped aboard after his enforced delay ashore. Voices echoed in the tiny companionway to the great cabin, then Kydd poked his head in, shaking water everywhere.