Sheering over to starboard he let the Witch have her head. She rapidly overhauled the merchant ship and set her bowsprit to pass down the vessel's outer side. This was no time to check on the frigate's actions for now they were committed and there was no turning back.
Puffs of smoke appeared from along the afterdeck and were joined by others coming from the tops. A swivel banged, and another. Kydd heard the vicious whip of bullets overhead and felt their thump through his feet as they slammed into the hull.
The gap of water narrowed. "Fire!" he bellowed. Their six-pounder crashed out, its hail of musket balls sleeting across and, with a hoarse roar, the coehorn mortar joined in, throwing grena-does among the defenders who scattered wildly.
The two vessels came together with a crash, sending Kydd staggering; men stood to hurl grapnels—one collapsed as he took a ball to the chest but others secured a hold and hauled the ships together while the boarders gathered, brandishing their weapons in a bloodthirsty show.
However, there were cool and brave heads on the other ship and seamen darted out and hacked at the grapnel lines with axes and the vessels drifted apart again.
They had to act or it was all over. "Wi' me!" Kydd shrieked at Cheslyn, in the crazy noise, and raced forward, throwing over his shoulder at the helmsman, "Take her in!"
On the foredeck Kydd looked frantically about for the fall of a line from aloft, found one and slashed through it; then, as though he were a seaman atop a yard aloft, he ran out on the bowsprit, which was swinging towards the other ship, clamping the coil of line under his arm.
He felt Cheslyn behind him, and others as well—they had moments only, for their impetus through the water would translate to a deflection out by the shock of impact. He reached the cranse iron at the tip of the bowsprit and paused, passing a hurried bowline around the fore topmast stay, conscious of the racing water below and, in the other ship, the men tumbling down from the low poop to meet the sudden threat, and then the long spar was arcing over the enemy deck.
Instantly he dropped. There was only one thing he had to do now but would he live long enough to do it? Then he heard Cheslyn's roaring battle-cry above—followed by the man's body knocking him askew, others dropping by him.
Kydd heaved himself to his feet and felt the line tug away from him. Ignoring the ring and clash of arms around him as Cheslyn parried and thrust to protect him, he threw himself at a kevel-head and passed turns round the thick timber belaying point. The schooner's bowsprit was now fastened to its victim and was thus a bridge into the heart of the other vessel. In minutes it was all over, the defenders falling back in panic at the stream of screeching privateersmen flooding aboard.
Kydd stood apart, watching Cheslyn urgently dispatch men into the rigging and along the deck—then raised his eyes to seek out the frigate. With a lurch of his heart he saw it had skilfully driven the brig clear to leeward, then had worn about instantly and was now beating back ferociously.
They had bare minutes to take possession. Having seen the masterly handling of the frigate Kydd knew it was impossible. Still under full sail, still within the convoy, they had to fight their way out—but to do this they needed to learn enough about the rigging operations of a strange ship to put about without a mistake and there was not the time.
The last of the defenders scuttled out of sight—he was master of the deck but with a hostile crew still unsubdued below. He forced his mind to an icy calm. One thing was clear: this prize was heavy with cargo and would never achieve the swift manoeuvres he needed—and all the time the frigate was thrashing closer.
Defiantly he looked back at the wheel. One of his men held it firmly, not daring to vary the ship's heading until he could be sure of the sail handling. The body of an unknown sailor lay sprawled at his feet.
Then Kydd had it. "Steady as she goes!" he bawled at the helmsman, and hurried over to stand by him. Cheslyn looked aft questioningly. He had groups of men positioned at the base of each mast but Kydd knew that to go about now was simply too risky. Even missing stays would have the frigate right up with them and . . . He shook his head vigorously and concentrated.
They had just this chance. "Follow m' motions!" he croaked at the nervous helmsman. As a square-rigger, they were sailing directly before the south-westerly, which gave them their only advantage—they had a wide angle of possible courses ahead.
"Steer f'r th' Frenchy frigate," Kydd ordered. The helmsman gave a frightened glance but complied, and the ship swung ponderously until it was headed directly towards the ship beating up towards them between the two columns of the convoy.
The man-o'-war did not change its course and Kydd guessed there would be frenzied discussion on her quarterdeck. They stood on stubbornly, but Kydd knew that the frigate captain had only one object—to lay them aboard. He would do his best to oblige.
"Shake out that reef!" he hailed Cheslyn. Sails had been trimmed to achieve an even speed in convoy. Loosing the main and fore-course would give them speed in hand.
The frigate's track did not vary in the slightest and, head to head, the two ships approached each other. Everything now depended on the timing and the placements: Kydd's eye took in not only the menace of the French frigate but the convoy—especially the next-ahead vessel—and he made his calculations deliberately, passing his orders quietly for fine corrections of heading.
Their advance downwind was drawing the next-ahead perilously near, and somewhere on her inner beam there would be a meeting. One or other of the closing ships must give way.
The frigate slashed ahead, straight for them, with no sign of yielding way—but this was not Kydd's concern for at the last possible moment he gave orders to fall away to starboard. Instead of coming to a confrontation their ship instead passed to the outer side of the next-ahead and so close that the pale, shocked faces of the men at the wheel were clear and stark as they bucketed by.
In one move Kydd had placed this ship between him and the frigate as they passed in opposite directions—but the best was yet to come. Enraged by Kydd's bold escape the frigate captain made to bear away closely round the next-ahead's stern, but in his eagerness to grapple gave insufficient allowance for the strength of the fresh winds. In a chorus of splintering smashes, twangs and screams of indignity the frigate made close acquaintance with the vessel's stern quarters and, recoiling, fell off the wind, helpless.
Quickly, Kydd had his new prize angling off into the open sea with Witch of Sarnia close beside.
Outside the Three Crowns Kydd stood in a maze of happiness. He was gazing at a poster on a pillar proclaiming boldly:
FOR SALE BY THE CANDLE
At three crowns tavern, St Peter Port, on Monday the next by Ten o' clock in the Forenoon, The Good Ship héros de guadeloupe, burthen about 400 Tons, lately taken by the witch of sarnia, Letter of Marque, Thomas Kydd, Captain. A remarkable sailer, well found and calculated for the Caribbee trade and may be sent to sea at a Trifling Expence . . . after the Sale, the entire cargo now landed will be set to Auction, inventories may be viewed at . . .
And this was only the first of his two prizes. Hearings had taken place immediately and the evidences of French ownership sent to the Admiralty Prize Court had resulted in swift condemnation as prize, and the vessel was now in the process of being sold at auction.
"Mr Kydd, is it not?" a well-dressed man asked politely, removing his hat. "I believe the heartiest congratulations would be insufficient to express my sense of admiration at your late action. And another prize to your name?"
"Aye, there is, sir," Kydd answered warily.