'Saaail hoooo!; There was no need for a bearing. By chance occluded by the islet at the same rate as their advance, the sails of a square-rigger slid into view, heading to cross their path.
'Brig-o'-war!' snarled Merrick. There would be little chance against such a vessel and, with the wind gathering, the further they made the open sea, it favoured the larger craft.
Farrell's telescope went up and steadied. 'I think not, Mr Merrick — to quarters this minute.'
But the merchant brig was not ready for a fight and struck immediately — to the savage delight of Seaflower's company. They entered Bridgetown with a prize in tow, sweet medicine indeed.
To muted grumbles Seaflower was ordered to sea immediately: the niceties of adjudicating shares in prize money between the Admiral whose flag Seaflower wore and the Admiral in whose waters the capture took place would have to be resolved before the sailors saw any, and in any case the Vice Admiralty Court would have to sit first.
As they put to sea again after storing, busy calculations were taking place in a hypothetical but blissful review of personal wealth. 'Merchantmen — so we don' see head money,' Petit grumbled.
Farthing pulled up a cask to sit on. 'An' gun money neither.'
Kydd arrived down the hatchway and joined in. 'Ye're forgettin' that a merchant packet has cargo - that's t' be included, y' loobies.' Gun money and head money were inducements to take on an enemy man-o'-war but the value of a merchant-ship cargo would normally far exceed it.
He paused for effect. 'D'ye know, we return to Port Royal, but if we fall in wi' the Corbeau privateer, we're t' take her?' As a privateer counted as neither a merchant ship nor a man-o'-war, there was no real profit in an action; and even if they did encounter her, a privateer was crammed with men and would make a fierce opponent. 'Could never meet up wi' her, y' never knows,' Kydd said cheerfully, collecting his rain slick and going back on deck. It was a maddening combination of sun and sheeting rain, and Farrell would be on deck shortly to set the course.
Seaflower now sported a pair of chase guns in her bow - and carriage guns at that instead of the swivels of before. Admittedly they were four-pounders only, but a three-inch ball slamming in across the quarterdeck could cause real discomfiture in a quarry. Stirk was eager to try them, but they were crammed in the triangle of bow forward of the windlass and the bowsprit beside. His gun crews could not rely on the usual recoil to bring the gun inboard for loading; they must reload by leaning outside, exposing themselves to enemy sharp-shooters.
'Know anythin' about this Corbeau?' Kydd asked Stirk.
He straightened from his gun and wiped his mouth. 'Patch says as how she's a schooner — not yer squiddy trader, but a big bastard, eight ports a side. Guess at least six-pounders, hunnerd men — who knows?'
Farrell, appearing on deck, put an end to the speculation. 'Mr Jarman. Be so good as to shape course north-about St Lucia.'
'North-about, sir?' repeated Jarman in puzzlement.
'Please,' said Farrell, with some asperity.
'He's chasin' the privateer 'cos he's worried she won't find us,' croaked the helmsman, out of the side of his mouth; north-about would place them between St Lucia and the large island of Martinique, a favourite stalking ground for the more lawless afloat.
They reached the southern end of Martinique in the midst of another rain squall, curtains of white advancing over the sea under low grey skies, the wind suddenly blustery and fitful while it passed.
Afterwards there were the usual wet and shining decks as they emerged into bright sunlight — but crossing their path directly ahead was a schooner. A big vessel, one that could well mount sixteen guns and carry a hundred men. She instantly put up her helm and went about, slashing directly towards Seaflower as if expecting her presence, her fore-and-aft rig robbing the navy craft of the best advantage, her superior manoeuvrability.
'Hard a' larb'd!' Farrell cracked out; they were sheering off not to retreat, but to gain time. The schooner followed downwind in their wake, her two lofty masts allowing nearly twice the sail of Seaflower.
There would be no stately prelude to war, no pretence at false colours: the two antagonists would throw themselves at each other without pause or pity. Aboard Seaflower there was no fife and drummer sounding 'Hearts of Oak', no hammocks in the nettings, no marines drawn up on the poop. Instead there were men running to whip off the lead aprons from gunlocks, and gun equipment was rushed up from below: rammers, handspikes, crows, match tubs. Tompions protecting the bore of the cannon were snatched away and Seaflower's full deck of six-pounders were run out.
Farrell waited, then turned Seaflower on her pursuer. Right around she swung — her broadside crashed out into the teeth of her foe, the smoke swifdy carried away downwind, leaving a clear field of fire for her chase guns, which cracked out viciously in a double fire.
First blood to Seaflower, thought Kydd exultantly, as he centred the tiller. It was, however, a new and unpleasant experience, standing unmoving at the helm, knowing that he was certainly a target for unknown marksmen on the schooner. He glanced at the vesseclass="underline" there were now holes in her sails, but no lasting damage that he could see.
Seaflower completed her turn, her other side of guns coming to bear, but the schooner was already surging round to bring her own guns on target — the two ships opened up almost simultaneously. Kydd heard the savage, tearing passage of cannon balls and was momentarily staggered by the displaced wind of a near miss. Through his feet he felt the bodily thud of a shot in the hull, the sound of its strike a crunch as of a giant axe in wood.
The smoke cleared. The schooner, certainly the Corbeau, was racing along on the opposite tack to Seaflower, her outer jib flapping free where the sheets must have been shot away. Her decks were crowded with men.
Farrell reacted instantly. 'Hard a'-starb'd!' he ordered. They would stay about and parallel the schooner - but Corbeau was there out to windward, she had the weather gauge, she could dictate the terms of the fight. Firing was now general, guns banging up and down the deck, smothering gunsmoke blown down on them, obscuring points of aim. Seafiower's own guns were served with a manic ferocity.