Kydd thanked his stars for an experienced crew: what he was contemplating was not for the faint of heart. Rapidly assuring himself once again of the exact relative position of the islets, reef and the wind's eye, he gave the order to go about.
Witch of Sarnia did not hesitate. She pirouetted to the other tack and took up quickly, passing into the few-hundred-yards-wide channel between reef and islets—and thrashing into the teeth of the wind where no square-rigger could go.
With a pang for his old command, Kydd saw Teazer left far astern as the Witch energetically made the north tip of Guernsey and round. It was done. They had won the open Atlantic and the rest was up to him.
The low lines of the privateer meant exhilarating going, but there was a price to pay: very soon Kydd found his new command was going to be a wet ship, knifing through the waves instead of soaring over them; with every second or third roller the decks were thoroughly sluiced.
But the Witch lived up to her name. It was remarkable how close she held to the wind and her square sail aloft gave added impetus and, at the same time, a degree of manoeuvrability that required fewer men for the same tasks than a sloop.
The vessel type had originated in England, but it was the Americans who had termed it a schooner and taken it as their own, adding special features. From his time on the North American station Kydd recognised the deeply roached topsail that allowed it to clear the rigging; the lead of the schooner stay that was like a shroud moved forward, easing pressure on the foremast to spread an expansive fore staysail.
Engrossed in becoming acquainted with his lady he failed at first to notice Cheslyn next to him.
"Goes like a witch, don't ye think?" he offered, but the man's features remained stony, and an expressionless Le Cocq stood with him.
"This time o' year, after th' equinoctials, gets chancy," the big man said cautiously. "B'sides, the glass is still droppin'."
Kydd looked at him in surprise. "Why, if I didn't know th' better, I'd have t' say m' first l'tenant's gone qualmish!"
Cheslyn reddened. "The Witch ain't built f'r heavy weather. An' that there's no lady's puff." He gestured at the low-lying dark-grey cloud masses across their path.
"A squall or two, I'll grant ye, but this is only y' regular-goin'
Western Ocean blash!" Kydd had seen the Atlantic at its worst and this was no threat at the moment. "I'm t' raise Flores in five days, Mr Cheslyn, do y' like it or no." If the wind stayed steady from the west they could do this even earlier in one slant to the south-south-west and then they would be at their cruising ground.
He turned and left for his cabin, the prospect of rest suddenly enticing. He closed the door firmly; it was not a big cabin—a high bunk over drawers on one side, a working desk with lamp the other and a neat dining-table at the after end. Mercifully there was a skylight above, with a compass repeat farther forward. He ripped off his spray-soaked coat and boots, let them drop carelessly, heaved himself into his bunk and closed his eyes.
The Witch was close-hauled and had an angle of heel that could be alarming on first meeting but he wedged himself in familiarly and let the sounds of the sea wash past him. Reaching ever westwards into the vastness of the Atlantic involved an endless repetition of a sudden crunch from the bows followed by a defiant rapid upwards lift, then an eager long glide downward and forward, the hiss of their way quite audible through the hull.
Weariness laid its hand on him and thoughts crowded in, but one in particular would not let go. Unless he succeeded, this was going to be the very last voyage he would make as a captain. Neither the Navy nor others would ever offer him employment again.
A double wave thumped the bows and the schooner lost her stride with an affronted wiggle, which dislodged Robidou's book in the bedside rack. It fell into his bunk. Kydd sat up and opened the little volume. Thomas Hartwell Horne. A Compendium. He leafed through. It was an exposition in clear English of the Prize Law of 1793 in the form of a handbook of guidance to privateers and ships-of-war, and it had been published by Clarke of Portugal Street this very year.
One stout passage caught his eye: "Lawful force may be used to enforce a boarding, it being assumed a vessel cannot be proved innocent otherwise. Contumacious resistance to fair inquiry is evidence of guilt in law, to be followed by just confiscation."
So, if any objected to his boarding, whatever the circumstances, he had the whole force of the law at his back. And whatever else there was in this little treasure . . .
As he addressed himself to the task of teasing out the practical meanings of the legal rules he barely noticed a tiny knock at the door. It was repeated unsteadily.
"Come!" he called loudly.
It was Pookie, gamely passing hand to hand in the lively motion with a small cloth bundle. "S-sir, Mr Purvis says as how th' fire ain't lit but wonders if this'n will do." It was cuts of cold meat, cheese and bread.
"It'll do fine, younker." The little figure had a pale face and Kydd felt for the effort it must have cost to come below where there was no horizon to steady senses thrown awry by the relentless heave and jerking. "No—leave that, I'll do it," he protested, when his carelessly cast aside wet gear was painfully but tidily stowed in the side-locker. "Compliments t' th' officer o' th' deck," he added, "an' because ye have the youngest eyes in th' ship ye're t' be lookout. F'r prizes, o' course."
The child looked up gratefully and scuttled out.
Kydd resumed his book, munching hungrily on the cold victuals, but he soon noticed a definite change in the rhythm of the vessel, a sulky twist after each lift. He frowned and glanced up at the compass repeat.
North-west? Be damned to it! He slipped out of his bunk, grabbed his grego and made the upper deck. "Mr Cheslyn? What's th' meaning of—"
"I've taken in reefs an' we're headin' f'r shelter in Falmouth," he said truculently, against the bluster of the wind.
"Ye've abandoned course!" Kydd burst out in amazement. "An' without s' much as a by-y'-leave?" It was a near treasonable offence in the Navy.
"Take a look f'r y'self!" Cheslyn said, heated, pointing at the layer of darkness near the horizon ahead.
Kydd caught his anger. "An' what's the barometer say?" he asked dangerously.
"A bare twenty-nine—an' losin' fast."
Without a word Kydd crossed to the hatchway, then to the saloon where a neat Fortin barometer hung on gimbals. He looked closely: as he suspected the fiducial point had not been set—the vernier would not read reliably without a true datum. He tapped the mercury column carefully and adjusted the levelling screw, then saw the reading was closer to twenty-nine and a quarter inches, a figure not out of place in a southern English autumn.
Snorting with contempt, he resumed the deck. Behind Cheslyn the stocky figure of Le Cocq was flanked by Gostling and the boatswain, Rosco, hovered uncomfortably. No one spoke.
"Who has th' deck?" Kydd said loudly, knowing full well who it was.
"Me," snapped Cheslyn.
"Get back on course west b' north," Kydd said coldly, "an' we'll douse th' fore staysail I think."
"We reckon it's goin' t' be evil doin's afore long, an' we—"
"We?"
"As every sailor knows, a westerly in th' fall ain't t' be trusted. An' with th' barometer—"
"At twenty-nine and a quarter? What lubber can't do a correction?" Kydd said scornfully. "I've crossed th' Western Ocean enough times an' I know what I see—what ye have ahead is a parcel o' black squalls only, nothing t' fret upon."