It had gone into a quartering run to allow its square sails to fill to best advantage and, in the light airs, the Witch was finding it a hard chase. No colours or any indication of origin was visible and the angle of the ship made identification impossible. Their own flag would be difficult to make out, end on as it would be.
As noon passed the situation changed: an afternoon breeze strengthened and the schooner picked up speed over the deep blue of the sea. Within an hour white horses were studding the seascape and, their prey encumbered with cargo, eventual success was assured.
"Larb'd side, do y' think, Mr Cheslyn?" Kydd said amiably. He had closed up his crew to quarters, the small gun-crews at the six-pounders, the rest flinting pistols and edging cutlasses—no martial thunder of drums or bravely waving pennons, simply hard-faced men making ready for a fight.
The anticlimax when it came was cruel. As they fore-reached on the sea-worn ship there was sudden activity among the few on her afterdeck and her topsail sheets were let fly as English colours soared up into her rigging.
Rosco recognised the ship. "Bristol Pride, or I'm a Dutchman. Trades wi' Nova Scotia an' the West Country in dried cod an' colonial goods. Reg'lar as clockwork an' this must be her last voyage o' th' season."
The Witch of Sarnia ranged alongside and the Canadian twang of the master floated over the water to confirm that they were indeed on passage from Halifax to Falmouth with such a freighting. Kydd waved and hailed back suitably, aware that the black schooner hissing along so close to them must make a handsome showing.
Nevertheless, this was no prey for the Witch. "Sheer off," he ordered the helm.
"Mr Kydd!" Calloway called urgently, racing up to him.
"Wha—?"
"There, sir!" He pointed vigorously below the Bristol Pride's bowsprit. The buckler, a blanking piece inserted in the hawse while at sea, had been knocked out and an arm was protruding from the hole, frantically jerking a white shirt.
After a split second's incomprehension Kydd bellowed, "Stand to!" at the boarders. "Mr Perchard, a shot afore his bow!"
But they had no stomach for a fight against the numbers that the Witch of Sarnia could muster and Kydd quickly found himself in delighted possession of a French prize of three days before. Her English crew, confined to the fo'c'sle, had found means to alert them and now the bilingual Québecois master and his prize-crew were themselves prisoners.
"Some happy sailors going home t' England," Calloway said mournfully, as they bade farewell to Bristol Pride, "but no prize f'r us, is she, Mr Kydd?"
"No prize," agreed Kydd, then broke into a fierce grin. "But for us there's th' salvage on recapture. One sixth o' th' entire value an' no questions asked."
This was a time for celebration—and relief—for Kydd had needed to demonstrate faith in himself before the investors and had commuted his entire pay for the voyage into shares, which would accrue to his account if, and only if, the voyage was successful.
The length and breadth of the privateer fell quiet as every man figured his own reward. And Kydd now saw his position in the world transformed: even if they met with no more good luck, he had not only cleared expenses but was well on the way to being far better off than at any other time in his life.
It was astonishing how quickly the balance sheet could change. A cargo ship could carry the equivalent of the complete stock of hundreds of shops, and as prize law conveyed the entire ship and cargo to the captor they were in the same position as a prosperous merchant without the need for capital. It was an intoxicating thought.
But it could all be lost—and in a single day. Should Kydd's examination and sending in of a vessel be successfully challenged and he be cast into damages, then the consequences would be grave: a naval officer had a form of compensation but not a privateer captain.
Then there were the fortunes of war: it was foolish to believe that only merchant shipping was abroad. Sooner or later a vengeful warship might loom and predator would become prey—Bonaparte was incensed at the onslaught of privateers on France's vital trade and was showing no mercy to those who fell into his hands.
And his prizes. Would they arrive safely in an English port or in turn be recaptured, as Bristol Pride had been? That would put everything back to nothing and be a total ruination of their hopes and hard-won gains.
Kydd returned to his cabin. Like a pendulum, his mood changed from awe and delight to despondency. Then the gleeful chatter from his cabin boy, as the place was fussily tidied, restored the balance and he turned his mind to the practicalities of the voyage.
Some ten days of provisioning remained and with only one prize-crew away every reason to press on. Kydd and Cheslyn consulted the charts against the prevailing late-season winds and decided on six days north of the Azores and four south before making for home.
The weather was good, but the sport was not. Day after day in blue seas and trade winds and never a sighting. Could it be because now was the season of hurricanes?
D'Auvergne was solicitous when Renzi returned but the strain was showing in the lines of his face. Date and places duly came; Henri had survived the incident but there was no mention of the fate of any other.
Renzi threw himself into the work. The place of embarkation agreed on, it was possible to assess from the depths of water the size of ship they could use. Bonaparte and his gaol-keepers would be a sizeable party, and while bulwarks would have to be low, deck space was vital.
Word came that Querelle, the final link with Brittany, was in hiding six miles out of Paris. Georges had the keys of the citadel— his plot was manifestly coming together. Reliant on couriers for their news, however, Renzi and d'Auvergne could only await its unfolding.
The indomitable Pichegru was smuggled into the capital and concealed close by the barracks. Others converged on Paris, and within a city in a fever of rumour, Napoleon was said to have secret police reports brought to him in bed as soon as he awoke.
From somewhere deep in the Normandy countryside Henri sent advice that the tenuous line of escape that linked Paris to the coast was complete. Horses were staged ready, parties of soldiers set to delay pursuits. It was the last act.
D'Auvergne alerted his commander-in-chief; for security reasons the time and place of Napoleon's embarkation were not given out to the fleet, but Saumarez promised that, within a bracket of time, the Navy would be conducting live exercises at that precise spot, brig-sloops inshore, frigates in depth.
The day dawned: a crystal clear winter's morning like any other, the French coast the same iron-grey granite the other side of a cold sea. The hours passed: when Renzi and d'Auvergne sat down at last to dinner, tired and overwrought, they ate without conversation.
At the end of the meal they raised a glass in silent tribute to the men who were undoubtedly at that moment engaged in mortal struggle in Paris and those who would be stretched out in a desperate gallop towards them.
"I should think it time now . . ." Renzi said thickly. He got to his feet; d'Auvergne stood up and stretched out his hand. Renzi grasped it, neither man able to find words. Abruptly, Renzi left to bring back Napoleon Bonaparte.
Every vessel was in position. Discreet light signals were exchanged with the shore and Renzi's vessel closed slowly with the coast. It was a tricky task in seamanship, the flat beach selected ideal for carriages but a tidal trap. Kedge anchors were prudently laid to seaward for if they were to ground on the sand as the tide went out . . .