Another experienced officer came up: name of Tranter, he could claim service with the Guernseyman Hamon of the Phoenix, which had taken twenty prizes in the Revolutionary War; he was made second prize-captain and lieutenant.
More seamen came; some curious, others disdainful. It was hard to make out their mettle when it was overlaid with the traditional independence of the merchant seaman, but this was not to be a long, deep-sea voyage where any real defects of character could matter.
As time passed, Kydd was perturbed that no gunner had stepped forward: he had secured a pair of nine-pounder carriage guns and needed to see they were fitted properly. A merchant vessel was not equipped with the heavy scantlings of timber round the gun-ports to absorb recoil and they would require sea testing to work up to a safe charge.
By the evening it had become evident that while they would not go short-handed they had not been besieged by eager fortune-hunters and Kydd knew he was lucky to have signed his crew. Now it was time to take on the ship's boys.
Their main purpose was to manage the ship when the men were away in prize-crews. Paid at the lowest rate and with but a half-share each they were nevertheless vital—and cheap. They crowded up to his table, eyes shining, ready for adventure. He hoped the reality of a cold autumn sea and an overcrowded ship would not too quickly disillusion them and managed a few words of encouragement to each.
The next day Kydd was back at the Bien Heureuse, which was now in the water so he could take his fill of her. Her lugger rig was his main concern as it was seldom encountered in the Navy. This one was similar to a French chasse-marée, with its sharply raked third mast and ringsail with jigger boomkin out over the stern, but she had a lengthy bowsprit over her dignified straight stem, English style.
Time was pressing, and there was so much to see to: the sails had to be in reasonable condition for the weather as it worsened with the season; the running rigging needed to be overhauled— no twice-laid stuff to fail at the crucial moment. And all the time expenses were mounting and Robidou had to be convinced of their necessity.
Artificers and artisans were signed on—the sailmaker, armourer, carpenter—each with shares negotiated and commensurate, all found outfits of tools and spares. The clock was ticking with the hands signing aboard and taking wages.
The Priaulx yard was doing a good job but seemed to have no sense of urgency: it needed goading, and drink money for the shipwrights, who were, of course, in a way of business that in a King's yard they were not. A gunner was finally found: Kevern, a sallow and somewhat nervous young man, who had the unsettling habit of agreeing instantly and completely with anything Kydd said.
By now Robidou was showing clear signs of impatience. Kydd's requirement for more powder and shot was denied curtly; he was allowed the bare minimum of charts and no chronometer. The prize-captain Rowan, however, was unexpectedly helpful in discovering odd rutters and pilots of the waters in French and Dutch.
A small crowd of interested spectators had taken to looking on from the pier, to the hazard of the ship's stores, being prepared there to be struck below. Driven to distraction Kydd was told that the cook had stormed off in disgust at the primitive stove—and he knew only too well that the men wouldn't stand for there not being hot scran on board at the right time.
It was chaos and confusion on all sides as Kydd took refuge in his tiny cabin. It smelled of damp bedding and stale tobacco. The timber sides were weeping at the join of the transom, and there would be no money wasted on oiling the faded wood of the bulkhead; it remained a drab and pale-blotched sadness.
He held his head in his hands. What had possessed him to take this on? He would have given a great deal to have his friend Renzi with him, now loyally working at menial clerking in Jersey to give him the chance to clear his name. Yet something had prevented Kydd writing to tell him of his change of situation, some feeling of reluctance to admit to his friend his new status as a privateer.
There were more pressing matters: How could he forge this ship's company into a fighting whole when they were complete strangers? Not a soul would he have aboard that he had known more than hours only. He would be again without a friend in the world.
Staring gloomily at the grubby skylight he had a sudden idea that set him to calling a ship's boy. "Here's a sixpence. Do you find a Mr Luke Calloway as will be at th' Bethel or workin' on th' waterfront, an' tell him th' captain o' Bien Heureuse wants t' speak with him. Off y' go, then!" It would not only provide Calloway with a job and a chance at real money but Kydd would have a familiar face on board.
It wasn't until the afternoon that the lad came back, breathless. "I did fin' a gent b' that name, but he was pushin' a handcart, Mr Kydd. An' when I told 'im what ye wanted, he asked what ship. I told 'im Bien Heureuse, privateer!" He puffed out his cheeks in pride.
"Then where—"
"When he hears she's a private ship, he don't want t' know, sees me off," the boy said, astonished.
Kydd grinned mirthlessly. "Tell him Mr Kydd has need o' his services, younker. Another sixpence if he's aboard b' sundown."
That evening, still without a cook, Kydd welcomed Calloway warmly and, over a hot negus in his cabin, told him of his plans. "An' if ye'd wish it, there's a berth f'r master's mate on th' next cruise." Whatever it took, he would get it past Robidou. After all, Calloway was a prime man-o'-war's man and an officer in his last ship. And a master's mate aboard a merchant ship? Well, if the practice was to call mates "lieutenants" in privateers, then surely he could import other ranks.
"I'd like it well, Mr Kydd," Calloway said, in a voice tinged with awe.
It vexed Kydd that he was apparently now touched by the glamour of a corsair. He went on sternly, "In course, as soon as we're rightfully back aboard Teazer I'll see ye on the quarterdeck as reefer again."
"Aye aye, Captain," Calloway said happily.
"Get y' baggage an' be back smartly. I've a cook t' find fr'm somewhere," Kydd said heavily, remembering. If he did not find one—
"Er, I do know o' one."
"A sea-cook? Where?"
Calloway hesitated. "Over in La Salerie, Mr Kydd. I seen him cook up f'r the boatyard there. See, he's of an age, as we'd say— you'd have t' hide th' grog or he's a devil cut loose, but—"
"He's been t' sea?"
The young man's face cleared. "Oh, aye! If ye'd lend ear t' his yarns an' half of it true, why—"
"Get him here!"
Then, suddenly, it was time: after a last frantic scrabble to load stores and find missing crew, they were singling up the shore lines. Shouts were thrown at men standing uselessly about the fo'c'sle and the boatswain knocked a man to the deck in vexation. Canvas rustled as it was hoisted on the fore and a sightseer bent to give the bow-line an expert twist and toss into the water. As the wind caught the tall lug and the bow sheered away from the pier, Kydd roared the order that brought in the stern painter—and they were on their way out to sea.
Kydd took a deep breath to steady himself: he was back in command and outward bound on a voyage of fortune—free of the land. But this was in a small, barely armed former salt trader, with an untried crew, and in minutes they could be fighting for their lives—or seizing a rich prize.
As they left St Peter Port there had been no fine gun salutes or pennant snapping bravely at the main, the hallowed ceremony of a King's ship putting to sea to meet the enemy. Instead it had been a casual slipping from the pier to catch the ebb, along with all the other small vessels leaving to go about their business on great waters.