His telescope told him that the vessel was larger than they and low in the water—a full cargo? A handful of men stood on deck, no doubt filled with consternation at their sudden appearance. The lugger held its course for minutes longer, then curved sharply into the wind and made for the open sea.
"Go after him, then," Kydd growled happily at the helmsman. An exultant roar went up from the men busy at the ropes and Bien Heureuse heeled sharply. The hunt was on.
"Clear away an' give him a gun, Mr Kevern." The first would be unshotted and to weather, the demand to heave-to. The next would be a ball across the ship's bows. Failing a response to this, there would be a cannon shot low over the decks.
With an apologetic crack the nine-pounder under reduced charge spoke out, the rank odour of powder smoke nevertheless carrying aft its message of threat and challenge. "Boarders, Mr Tranter,"
Kydd warned. In the event of resistance he wanted no delay in the manoeuvre to give their opponents time to rally.
The two ships stretched out over the sea, leaving the lumpy grey islands to disappear into the rain astern with the pursuer straining every line and stitch of canvas to close with their prey. As Kydd watched, he saw suddenly that the fleeing craft was falling off the wind. Then, incredibly, it was turning towards them. Rowan cursed and muttered, "That there's Trois Frères o' St Malo—I should o' known."
"Frenchy privateer?"
"A Malouin? He is that. Cap'n Vicq, an' he's a Tartar, particular well manned 'n' armed. We'd best—"
"Helm up!" Kydd roared, to the startled man at the tiller, "T' th' Triagoz!" It was a single near conical rocky islet ahead set in endless reefs but it was the only land in sight—and down to leeward.
With a dispiriting wallow Bien Heureuse slewed about for the distant hillock and picked up speed. Kydd thought furiously. The other was a larger ship and almost certainly more experienced— and these were home waters for the Malouin. In these seas it had the edge—with superior numbers and firepower.
Tranter came aft. "Th' bastard's got us! Tide's on the ebb an' we can't—"
"Hold y' jabber!" Kydd snarled. He had just noticed that the wily Vicq with his slight advantage of speed had eased away to parallel his run for the Triagoz but was closing with every yard. They could not strike for the open sea because Vicq would be waiting there, but on the other hand they were being pressed slowly but surely against the hostile land.
It was the same trick he had used on the Cornish coast to box in another privateer to a rockbound coast—but this time he himself was the victim. The deck fell quiet as each man took in the dire situation. Their captain was the only one who could save them now.
Kydd had no illusions about Vicq. His initial move to flee had drawn Kydd into betraying his true character as a privateer and, further, had lured him into the open sea. Now he had the patience to make sure of Bien Heureuse and win the bounty Napoleon Bonaparte had promised to any who could rid him of a detested English privateer.
By definition they could not prevail in an encounter at sea. Therefore they must keep in with the land. He recalled his first sighting of the lugger low in the water; without doubt, this was the outset of a cruise for Vicq with the ship full of prize-crew and stores. Kydd made his decision: with their lesser draught the only course left to them was to head for the rocks and shallows under the coast to try to shake off the larger craft.
"South!" he ordered. Into the embrace of the land—enemy land. Once again Bien Heureuse bucketed round, taking up on the larboard tack in a race for life and safety.
Vicq conformed immediately and tucked himself in astern for the chase but when Kydd reached the reef-strewn coast and swung cautiously away to the south-west Vicq angled over at once to keep his clamping position to seawards.
Close inshore the prospect was fearfuclass="underline" granite crags, deadly rocky islets emerging with the falling tide—and everywhere the betraying surge of white from unseen sub-sea threats.
Rowan was sent up the foremast in an improvised boatswain's chair to try to spot imminent perils ahead—a trying task with the mast's manic dipping and swaying in the following wind. Vicq remained at a distance, passing on the outer side of the forbidding Plateau de la Méloine and allowing Bien Heureuse the inner passage. In a chill of fear Kydd saw why.
With the wind dead astern the only course was ahead—and into the five-mile stretch of Morlaix Bay. Constrained to keep close inshore Bien Heureuse would need longer going round, and with Vicq taking a straight course to cross it there was only one outcome. The two vessels would converge on the other side of the bay and Kydd's sole voyage as a privateer would be summarily finished.
He balled his fists. It was not just the humiliation of craven surrender—for he could not in all conscience consider a fight against superior odds with the crew he had—it was that the investors who had believed in him would now lose every farthing.
His ship's company would be taken prisoner and, as privateers-men, had no hope of release. And, of course, he would be among them. He could reveal his true identity and claim the protection of his naval rank to be later exchanged, but he knew Bonaparte would make much of capturing a commander, Royal Navy, as captain of a privateer. He could never suffer such dishonour to his service.
Although he would not fight, Kydd was determined to resist capture with everything he had. He fixed Vicq with a terrible concentration, noticing he was disdaining the shallows at the head of the bay. This allowed Kydd to weather a menacing central peninsula but it was only delaying the final act.
As they came to understand the meaning of the drama, panic-stricken local fishermen scattered. They had obviously felt quite secure previously, for at the end of the other side of the bay was Roscoff, where Teazer had been cheated of her prize.
In less than a mile Bien Heureuse would reach the far side. Vicq was on an intercept course under the same wind from astern, which would prevent Kydd's retreat. The climax would occur close in off the ancient port in full view of the townsfolk and the gunboats sallying forth would put paid to any escape.
But the tide had been on the ebb for some time and Kydd reasoned it must now be close to its lowest point. Roscoff harbour was therefore an expanse of mud so neither the gunboats nor any other could be a threat. His spirits rose: the bay finished in the sullen mass of the Île de Batz, three miles long but so close to port that every approaching ship must pass warily round it. If he could think of a way . . .
The harbour opened to view at the same time as Vicq, no more than a few hundred yards distant, triumphantly fired a gun to weather. Kydd saw with a sinking heart that any channel between Roscoff and the Île de Batz was lost in a desolate and impenetrable rockbound maze.
"Give 'im best, Mr Kydd," Rowan said sadly. "Ye did y' damnedest for us." Mortification boiled in Kydd. He felt an insane urge to throw the ship on the reefs to rob Vicq of his victory, but this would be at the cost of lives.
It was time. "G' rot ye for a chicken-hearted scut!" came from behind.
Kydd swung round to a flush-faced Tranter, who had clearly taken refuge in drink as the chase drew to its inevitable climax. "Clap a stopper on't, y' useless shab!" Kydd retorted.
"Or what?" sneered Tranter. "We're goin' t' rot in some Frog chokey f'r years, thanks t' you! A dandy-prat King's man as thinks he's—"
"One more word from ye, an I'll—"
"Ye're finished! I'll be takin' no orders from you no more, Cap'n!"
Kydd's pent-up frustration exploded in a fist that felled the man to the deck in one. At that moment a shaft of pale sunlight turned the dull grey seas ahead to green; under the surface the black splotches of seaweed now could be seen streaming away from rocks that had lain hidden before and Kydd saw his chance.