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 some-thin' 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 stern-post. 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 piece 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.
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.