The waters of the great Gulf of Avranches were draining fast into the Atlantic with the ebb—but the seaweed was not pointing straight ahead: it was at an angle, crossing their bow, indicating that the current was not going round the Île de Batz but instead between it and the port, racing into the confusion of crags and half-tide islets between that had seemed so impassable.
"Take us in!" he roared.
Nervously the hand at the tiller worked the vessel round the last rocks and committed Bien Heureuse to the hazard. The current clutched at the lugger and whirled her forward. Distant shouts came from Vicq's vessel, but as Kydd turned to see what the Frenchman would do, the vessel hauled out for the seaward side of the big island and disappeared.
Clearly Vicq had no desire to imperil his own ship, but he was confirming, too, that Kydd had stumbled on local knowledge of a channel between, and was hastening round to trap him at the other end.
Or was he? Kydd's first instinct was to throw out an anchor and, after a time, double back the way they had come to freedom, leaving a frustrated Vicq to wait for them at the wrong end. But what if the wily corsair had considered this and was at that moment hove-to, ready for an unwary Bien Heureuse to track back into his arms? Or did he reason that Kydd would know this and instead press forward?
Distracted, Kydd noticed suddenly that the current was converging through scattered islets on a deeper but narrow passage close to the island—and it was carrying them along at a breathtaking pace. If he had had any ideas of returning it would be much harder the farther he went in. And now the tide had receded, exposing vast rock-strewn sandbanks and beaches as they left Roscoff to its somnolence.
There was no easy answer, just an even chance that Kydd would make the right choice. "Put us in the lee o' that bluff ahead," he decided. "We'll stream a kedge b' th' stern." The craggy cliff-face protruding out from the island with crumbling ruins atop would serve as a temporary refuge, and the ship's bows would be in the right direction if Vicq came after them so that they had to cut and run.
The small anchor splashed down and held. Roscoff was in plain view only a mile back but, dried out, was no threat and the lowering island was, as far as he could see, uninhabited. They were safe, but for how long?
"Get th' boat in th' water—now, y' lubbers." Vicq was on the other side of the island. He would go and see for himself. Kydd swung over the side into the boat and took the oars. "Get aboard— jus' you," he told the seaman holding the painter.
"N-no, not me!" the man muttered, shrinking back.
"Be damned t' ye!" Kydd exploded. "I need someone t' hold th' boat, y' villain!"
Not a man moved.
"Anyone!" he bellowed.
"Stan' aside, y' dogs!" shrilled a sailor from the group of men forward, pushing through with a swagger. "I'm wi' ye, Cap'n." The boarding ended in an undignified tangle of arms and legs, a cutlass clattering to the bottom boards.
"Pookie!" Kydd hissed. "Get out this instant, y' chuckle-headed looby." But as the man with the painter saw his chance and let go, the boat was taken by the current and slid away rapidly.
"I'll—I'll tan y' hide, Pookie! I'll—I'll . . ." Kydd said angrily, tugging hard at the oars to bring the boat round. A glance showed that too much time would be lost in a return so he pulled it round and headed in.
Beyond two long islets there was a wide beach and he stroked furiously for it. The boat grounded in the sand with a hiss and he scrambled out. "Seize a hold on th' painter," he panted, "an' if ye lets it float off, I'll—I'll slit y' gizzard."
"Aye aye, Cap'n."
Kydd pounded off along the beach until he found a way up to the scrubby top. He stopped and looked back. The figure at the boat was clutching the rope with both hands. He shook his fist; the child waved back jauntily.
A flock of goats scattered at his appearance, and a young herdsman stared at Kydd open-mouthed as he raced past over the patchy ground to the opposite side.
"Bigod!" Kydd gasped, as he dropped down to look. Tucked in within a headland Vicq was just coming to a light anchor, his sails brailed and ready to loose.
Kydd leaped to his feet and ran back the way he had come, the goatherd still mesmerised by his antics. His eyes sought out the boat—and his heart nearly stopped. It was still there but the little figure was surrounded by others. Faint shouts eddied up from the beach.
He ran down the sand, yelling hoarsely; at least they were not in uniform. While their cries were no French that Kydd could understand, their meaning was plain. The little soul they were shouting at held the boat firmly with one hand and was keeping them at bay with a ridiculously large pistol in the other.
Kydd thrust past, set the boat a-swim, turned it into the waves and scrambled in to take the oars. "Get in, y' rascal," he panted, "an', f'r God's sake, be careful wi' the pistol."
The child struggled over the gunwales and sat forward as Kydd pulled hard out to sea. "Didn't matter nohow, it were empty. No one'll teach me how t' load it. Will you, Mr Kydd?"
"Now, look, Pookie," Kydd panted, "I thank ye f'r th' service but if'n ye—"
They came up with Bien Heureuse and were pulled alongside. While he clambered aboard Kydd called to Rowan, "He's waiting for us, sure enough." At the other's grave expression he laughed.
"So we'll disappoint. Cut th' cable an' run t' th' west."
Ready facing the right way, sail was loosed and, wind and tide with them, Bien Heureuse began to shoot through the tortuous channel to the open Atlantic. Nearly overcome with relief Kydd blurted out, unthinking, "An' see Turner here gets a double tot."
The go-between with the conspirators in Paris arrived to meet d'Auvergne late that night. "Le Vicomte Robert d'Aché, this is Mr Renzi, my most trusted confidant." The man was slightly built, with shrewd, cynical features.
With a polite smile, d'Auvergne went on, "Le vicomte is anxious that the shipment of arms is brought forward. How does it proceed, Renzi?"
"The transport from England is delayed by foul winds," Renzi said smoothly, sensing the real reason for the question was to reassure d'Aché. "I'm sanguine that it shall be with us within the week, sir. Four hundred Tower muskets and one hundred thousand ball cartridge. We lack only the destination." Setting in motion the requisition had been an interminable grind but allegedly the arms were at sea; local arrangements must be made.
"La Planche Guillemette. Sign and countersign 'Le Prince de Galles'—'Le Roi Bourbon.'"
"Very well, sir. As soon as I have word . . ."
D'Auvergne smiled beatifically. "Excellent. Renzi, do escort le vicomte down to the privy stairs. His boat awaits him there."
Renzi attempted conversation on the way but tension radiated from a man well aware that he was about to re-enter Napoleonic France in circumstances that were the stuff of nightmares.
CHAPTER 13
FAR FROM SHOWING RESENTMENT at his handling of Tranter, who was keeping sullenly out of the way, the crew seemed to have settled. Kydd saw willing hands and respectful looks. He lost no time in setting them to boarding practice; it would be a humiliation, not to say a calamity, if they were to be repulsed through lack of discipline or skills.
He appointed Calloway master-at-arms in charge of practice, and for an hour or two the decks resounded to the clash and clatter of blades while the ship stretched ever westward along a desolate coast. Kydd's plan now was to put distance between him and Vicq, and at dawn be at the point where France ended its westward extent and turned sharply south into the Bay of Biscay. This should be a prime lurking place. All shipping from the south must turn the corner there—up from Spain and Portugal and even farther, from the Mediterranean and Africa, all converging on the Channel at the same point.