Renzi halted. It was a sailmaker’s knife, small and curved and razor sharp. It rested against his windpipe. The man was hidden by his body, so there was no target for Kydd.

But Kydd had the gun instantly jabbing into the fat man. Eyes flashed murder over the space between – and there was absolute stillness. His hand on the trigger, Kydd hauled Jouet to his feet. Carefully, he edged sideways until he had the man at the wheel in sight and the stand of muskets behind his back.

It was stalemate.

Long minutes passed. Renzi held still, a thin half-smile his only concession to emotion. The fat man lay at Kydd’s feet sweating, and the other Frenchmen bunched up behind Renzi.

There was no sound except the slap and crunch of the bow waves and the cheerful pattering of reef points on the sail.

The wiry seaman growled at Renzi.

“He says to throw down your musket.”

“Tell him to – tell him what you like.”

“He says – he desires you to know that my throat will shortly be cut.”

“Remind him that the fat man gets it in the guts instantly.”

The man with the knife made a scornful remark.

“His view is that Jouet’s life is not worth preserving.”

“Then I’ve still five shots ready for them.” Kydd kept his musket on Jouet.

“He says that you will only get one or two shots away before they overcome you, and these are odds they are willing to take.”

Kydd detected only the slightest tremor in Renzi’s voice.

The tableau held – but there would soon be a sudden, desperate move on one side or the other and it would be over quickly in a flurry of death and mutilation.

In helpless fury Kydd glared at them. He jerked the muzzle up when the man with the knife inched Renzi forward. He was aware that the man at the wheel had abandoned it and was ready to spring on him, because the brig had fallen off the wind.

They closed in.

Then Kydd laughed. Harsh, maniacal laughter, barking away.

They stopped.

“They want to know if you’ve gone mad.” There was anxiety in Renzi’s voice.

Kydd stopped laughing. “Tell him if he drops his knife I might consider him my prisoner, or then again I might not.”

Relaxing, Kydd looked at them contemptuously. Slowly he lifted his arm and pointed to the south. Hidden by the sails before but now revealed by their falling off the wind was the plain sight of a British sloop-of-war. She had seen them and was fussing over to investigate.

They lay at their ease on the little foredeck, no duties for them-the lieutenant of the sloop’s prize crew had been most insistent. The sloop had hurried away to alert the Commodore, leaving the Judith and Mary to transport the two at their leisure to rendezvous with the Duke William.

A pigtailed old seaman coiled down the fore halliards. “You lucky buggers!” he said enviously. “Prize money on this little barky’ll set yez up fer life or chirpin’ merry forever.”

“When we finally make it back,” Kydd said dreamily. He would cut a figure in Guildford – gold watch, buy up one of the fashionable shops on High Street, his family wouldn’t believe it. Only a few miles down the road was Hatchlands, a vast estate built for Admiral Boscawen after the last war – and now Thomas Kydd would be the one pointed out parading in town.

Renzi was wrestling with his conscience. He was less than a third of the way through his sentence-would striking it personally lucky make it ethically allowable to remit the remainder? He rather thought not.

Duke William backed her topsails and hove to. Curious faces looked down from her decks high above as Kydd and Renzi mounted the entry steps and came over the bulwarks onto the well-remembered quarterdeck.

Kydd grinned at the jaw-dropping surprise their appearance caused. Tyrell stumped his way rapidly from forward to confront them.

“Take them in charge! Put them in irons this instant!” he roared. Lockwood looked bemused.

“If you’ll allow me to explain, sir,” a voice behind them said smoothly. It was the lieutenant of the prize crew arriving from the entry port.

At that moment the Captain emerged from the cabin spaces. The lieutenant lifted his cocked hat politely and drew them both aside.

Kydd looked around happily. The sounds and smells he remembered surged over him – he nodded to Doggo on the wheel, and grinned cheekily at Elkins, who stood speechless by the mainmast.

The lieutenant doffed his hat again and left – he would have an anxious time on the voyage back to England.

Captain Caldwell came over. Kydd touched his forehead. “I think we might have misjudged you, Kydd,” he said pleasantly.

“Couldn’t abide t’ see Duke William mauled so, sir,” he said respectfully. “May I ask, sir, will we be in time?”

“Set your mind at rest, Kydd. The sloop has probably reached Admiral Howe by now and I daresay we’ll be able to provide a warm enough welcome for the French when he comes out.”

“Sir, will we get prize money f’r the brig?”

Caldwell coughed politely. His eyes slid to Tyrell and back again. “Well, as to that, you must understand that at the time you were technically deserters. I’m sorry.”

Kydd’s heart fell. So much for dreaming.

“But welcome back, Kydd. I can see a fine future for you in the King’s Service, mark my words.”

“Sir – I must point out -”

“Mr. Tyrell?”

“They are deserters!”

“Come now, Mr. Tyrell, let us not allow our zeal for the Service to overcome our common humanity.”

Tyrell’s black eyebrows contracted. “I must insist, sir. The regulations cannot be so lightly set aside – they knew what they were doing!”

The Captain hesitated.

“They should be taken in charge, sir.”

Tyrell’s obdurate manner unbalanced Caldwell. It would go hard with him if for any reason it could be shown later that he had failed in his duty to bring a deserter to justice.

“Very well. Take them below.” He avoided Kydd’s eyes and returned to the cabin spaces.

Kydd struggled to face it. The Articles of War and naval regulations gave little leeway once a crime was proven – desertion was a serious problem for the Navy and the penalties were savage, intended to deter. It was absolutely no use to appeal to natural justice: the law must take its course.

He sat appalled at the impossible-to-conceive prospect of three hun dred lashes – and Duke William was at the end of her sea endurance and must soon sail back to England and the Fleet.

His feet were in bilboes once more – he would have to get used to it, for they would be in irons even after they arrived back in port. He tried to lie back, but could not, the bilboes twisting his leg irons.

What was so hard to bear was that he had involved Renzi, who sat in irons uncomplaining next to him. Kydd sank into a quiet misery.

Early the next morning the Master-at-Arms appeared. “Up!” he said.

Shackles were removed, manacles went on their wrists and they were led up to the upper deck – for exercise, Kydd assumed.

On the quarterdeck the Captain and Tyrell were waiting.

The Master-at-Arms saluted. “Prisoners mustered, sir!” His pig eyes swiveled curiously to Kydd.

Caldwell nodded and stepped forward. “You see there, Kydd,” he said, gesturing over to leeward.

No more than a few cables off lay Artemis, the legendary crack frigate. She kept up lazily with the big battleship, effortlessly slicing through the water. She looked impossibly lovely-as new as Duke William was old, smart as paint and with fresh white sails, gold leaf gleaming on her scrollwork; she was an ocean racer, a lucky ship that had already made her daring captain a rich man.

Kydd turned his dull eyes back to the Captain. “Sir?”

“She has signaled us.”

Kydd wondered what on earth this had to do with him.

“Artemis has prize crews away – she has signaled us to the effect that she would be grateful if we could spare a dozen seamen. I have answered that we can.