“Like this,” Kydd said, and advanced down the sand. The others followed. He had gambled that the fisherman would not be alarmed if they came normally, and he was right.
The man looked up as they approached, and his eyes widened at their appearance. He had an oaken, seamed old face and a neat beard. He dropped the net and scrambled to his feet. He spoke, but not in any French that Renzi knew. His voice was high and fluting, querulous.
“He’s speaking Breton,” Renzi muttered.
“Monsieur, unfortunately I have not the Breton tongue,” he said in French.
“Alors. Who are you, that you stink so much?” Pirou replied.
“Tell ’im that we’re takin’ the boat now,” Piggott spat.
His English gave the game away. “L’anglais!” Pirou gasped.
“Get him!” Kydd said, seizing an arm.
Pirou shouted desperately. They forced him to the ground, his frail old bones no match for the soldiers.
“Mon brave, I would be desolated were I to be obliged to silence you,” Renzi said, hefting a rock significantly. The man subsided, but a fierce glint remained in his eyes. Renzi found a length of rope and they bound him.
“He comes with us,” Kydd said shortly, knowing that it was too dangerous to leave him there. They carried him to the boat and lowered him inside.
“You three on that side,” Kydd said sharply.
“Shut it, mate! See these?” Piggott tapped the stripes on his arm. “Sergeant. I’m takin’ charge!” He walked around and stood menacingly over Kydd, who faced up to him, his eyes flaring.
The corporal thrust forward. “Now, Toby, we’re goin’ on the sea. Let them take over fer now. Come on, mate, they’re sailors ’n’ knows wot they’re about.”
Piggott glared, but eventually growled an acknowledgment.
With five men, the boat lifted easily. They carried it down the sand and into the water. The waves swept in boisterously and Kydd’s heart lifted at the boat’s eager bob. Exhilaration filled him.
Waves slapped the transom hard. “Bows to sea,” he warned.
The soldiers clumsily obeyed and the boat rotated to seaward. They pushed it out knee deep, the waves surging in.
“Right – in th’ boat,” Kydd ordered, holding it by the squared-off transom. Renzi got aboard first and helped the soldiers over the side and, with a kick backwards, Kydd finally heaved himself in.
“Get down – only one man must be seen in the boat,” Kydd hissed at the soldiers. Without a word Renzi took the oars, pulling strongly through the shallows out toward the blessed horizon, the wonderful salt sea smell penetrating through the stink of dried pig sludge.
After a while Kydd rolled on to his back and looked up at the blue sky and fluffy clouds. The boat bobbed and the water chuckled under the bow; the fishing gear smelled strongly but pleasantly and there was nothing more he could do but lie down and stare up dreamily.
A lazy half hour later, Renzi’s long, comfortable strokes slowed and he stopped and boated the dripping oars. He stood up and, to Kydd’s amazement, stripped stark naked.
“Come on in,” said Renzi, and made a neat dive overside.
Kydd sat up. They were to seaward of a seaweed-strewn rocky islet. They would not be seen from the shore.
Renzi surfaced, spluttering, at the boat’s side. “A mite cold for my taste,” he said, through chattering teeth, “but needs must.” He reached into the boat for his clothes and began to wash them in the sea.
“My oath! That’s wot to do,” said Piggott.
The mire dissolved into the clear green water, and five naked men shouted and laughed in the simple joy of being alive.
“Let’s rig the sail.” Renzi rummaged over the tightly rolled canvas, lashed with its own rigging, and tried to make sense of it. Pirou glared at them balefully, and when asked about it spat over the side, remaining mute.
The sail turned out to be a peculiar form of dipping lug, but it ran up the mast easily enough. The reason for the rig soon became clear: it could be maneuvered by one man at the tiller.
They continued their voyage, Kydd at the tiller now, the small boat scudding along in the pleasant breeze as it took them out farther and farther. The sun increased in strength, benign and warm.
The waves grew higher, the little boat swooping up hills of water, and down into valleys. Occasionally a boisterous roller would burst spray over them, and the soldiers started to look apprehensive.
They untied the old man, who rubbed his arms accusingly. The corporal suddenly heaved and vomited over the side, bringing on the same in the little private. They hung limply over the gunwale.
The sun rose higher. The distant land lost its distinctiveness, becoming an anonymous craggy coastline. A larger wave thumped the side and splashed them – the soldiers cried out in alarm.
The water felt cold and disconcerting, and swilled in the bottom of the boat. Kydd held the tiller tightly.
“We’re sinking!” A squawk of terror came from the private.
Kydd hesitated. There was certainly a good deal of water in the bottom, and his face creased in anxiety. The boat felt sluggish somehow, not so willing.
The water was gaining, that much was clear – but why? The soldiers bailed frantically with anything they could find, and seemed near panic. He sensed their fear and felt it wash up against himself. The swell surged higher, now appearing menacing and sinister – it was amazing how different it was to be in a little cockleshell instead of striding the decks of a man – o’-war.
There was little that could be done to find the leak with the boat crowded as it was. The soldiers gabbled to each other in their terror, and cold dread crept over Kydd. To have got so far, and then to die by the very element he had yearned for! He gripped the tiller, his eyes searching for an answer.
Then he caught the triumphant stare of the old man-and realized what had happened. “He’s pulled the bung! Get at it, Nicholas!”
Renzi thrust past the old man and, sure enough, the water was gouting in. He prized the bung from the fisherman’s grasp and pushed it home.
The effect was noticeable. As the bailed water flew over the side, the boat returned to its previous jaunty bob.
“We must be out far enough,” Renzi said.
The rocks and islands had fallen away astern and it looked a safe distance for a big ship to be traveling offshore. The vast seascape, however, seemed careless of their existence, exuberant rollers surging past, superimposed on a massive underlying swell that seemed to flex like mighty muscles moving under the surface of the ocean.
Renzi doused the little sail and took position at the oars again, keeping the bows facing the oncoming rollers with occasional tugs. They waited.
It had seemed a good idea, simply to wait for the blockading cruisers to happen by, but they had no idea of strategic naval movements and, as the day wore on, the idea lost its appeal and finally slipped toward fantasy. There must be over a thousand miles of coastline to blockade, and with how many ships? The chances that one would happen along just at this time were small, in fact vanishingly small.
The seas were now relatively slight, the weather kind and sunny, but that would not last – it could change with terrifying speed, faster possibly than they could make it back to land. The boat could not take even a small deterioration in conditions.
Kydd was aching with the fatigue that bracing against the constant jerking about was producing. It was a never-ending struggle to avoid being flung this way and that as the boat slammed to and fro. The corporal had lost his headgear and was touched by the sun. He was clearly suffering: weak from seasickness, he flopped about as the seas buffeted the tiny boat, his eyes rolling. The private was sunk in misery, facing outboard with both arms over the side. Piggott sat with his back to the mast, his eyes closed.
What if a ship finally came and it was French? The thought stabbed at Renzi, but it was the more likely outcome, given that they were only a few miles from France. He decided not to speak of it, but furtively checked the horizon. It was empty.