Invasion Read online

  Renzi closed his book. “I, er, need to chase up a reference,” he said hastily, passing Moyes and Tawse as he left.

  Moyes was a new-made master’s mate and took his duties seriously, but when Kydd questioned him about one of his reefers he could throw no light on the disappearance. “Thank you, Mr. Moyes, you can go.”

  “Mr. Tawse,” he said, as menacingly as he could, “I want you t’ tell me now where I can find Calloway, and I’ll not take no for an answer.”

  The little midshipman turned pale but stood his ground. “He’s— he’s not on board,” he whispered.

  “I know that, you simkin! If he can be got back aboard before this blow stops the boats running, he’s got a chance t’ avoid serious consequences, so where’s he t’ be found, younker?”

  Tawse flushed and stared stubbornly at the deck.

  “I’m not talking about a mastheading, this is meat for a court-martial. Flogging round the fleet, I’d not be surprised.” At Tawse’s continued silence he went on, “I know about his saucy piece, his— his Sally, was it? He’s gone t’ ground with her, hasn’t he? Answer, you villain!”

  The young lad looked about miserably, then said, in a small voice, “He’s quean-struck on her, Mr. Kydd, and—and he won’t listen to his shipmates . . .” He tailed off under Kydd’s venomous look.

  It was the end for Calloway unless he could be brought to reason.

  A memory came to Kydd of a shy thirteen-year-old painfully learning his letters with dockyard master Thomas Kydd in Antigua those years ago. Now that lad had turned into a fine seaman whom he had been able to set upon his own quarterdeck as midshipman, with a future as bright as any. But if he spared him, ignored the crime, every seaman in Teazer would expect their own offence to be treated in the same way.

  Calloway must face the consequences and . . . No, damn it! How could he let young Luke be scuppered by some scheming wench? If only he could get to him, talk to the rascal, knock a bit of sense—

  “Mr. Tawse! You’re guilty o’ condoning desertion, failing t’ inform your superiors,” Kydd bellowed.

  The lad shrank back, his eyes wide.

  “And I find there’s only one thing as’ll save your skin.”

  “S-sir?”

  “Tell me truly where he’s at—and no whoppers or I’ll personally lay on th’ stripes.”

  “I—I don’t know, sir. She’s—she’s not o’ the quality, I know. Luke—Mr. Calloway—he won’t say much ’cos I think he’s worried we’ll not approve her station.”

  “Where?” Kydd ground out.

  “Oh, sir, on stepping ashore we always must leave him at the top o’ Dolphin Street. Mustn’t follow or he’ll give us a quiltin’.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Why, sir, we’ve never even seen her, no matter where she lives.”

  It was hopeless. “You’ve not heard him talk of her last name a-tall?”

  “I can’t say as I remember—oh, one day I heard him say as she’s got long hair like an angel, as our figurehead has.”

  “I see. Well, duck away, Mr. Tawse, and not a word t’ anyone. D’ you mark my words?”

  “Clap a stopper on m’ tongue, I will, sir,” the youngster piped.

  Kydd bit his lip. The only chance Calloway had now was if someone went ashore and roused him to his duty before it became open knowledge and reached the ears of authority.

  Should he send Tawse? And let the lad roam the streets of a sailor-town alone? Purchet or Moyes? No. It would compromise their standing aboard if ever it came out.

  Then who? It must be someone he trusted but at the same time a man who had the power to give credible reassurance. Kydd heaved a sigh. It was crazy, but there was only one who could go about the darker side of town knocking on doors and entering taverns, then confront the looby and hale him back aboard. Himself. But he would need a trusted accomplice.

  “Mr. Hallum,” he said casually, after going on deck, “I’ve just recalled something as needs my presence ashore for a short while. Call away the pinnace, if y’ please.”

  “Sir?” the first lieutenant said, frowning. It would be a wet trip, if not impossible, but a delay in returning would probably prevent his captain being able to get back at all until the storm abated.

  “Of course,” Kydd added casually, “should I be unfortunately detained then you’ve nothing to worry of. We’ve the safest anchoring in the kingdom.”

  “Sir, may I ask what it is—”

  “No, sir, you may not.”

  A worried look descended on Hallum, but Kydd told him, “I’ll need to take the gunner—no, a gunner’s mate will suffice.”

  “That’s Stirk, then, sir?”

  “He’ll do,” Kydd replied. “Have him lay aft.”

  While the boat’s crew were being mustered Kydd retired to his cabin, tore off his captain’s coat and breeches and pulled on an old pair of Renzi’s plain trousers that he had borrowed. With his ancient grego he would probably pass as a merchant skipper on business ashore.

  When a mystified Stirk arrived, Kydd laid out the situation before him. “Young Luke’s got himself in a moil.”

  “I knows, Mr. Kydd, sir.” Nothing could be read from the glittering black eyes.

  “And I’ve a mind t’ do something for him.”

  No response came.

  “Someone should go ashore an’ bring the young scamp t’ his senses. I’ve a notion that’s t’ be me. What d’ you say . . . Toby?”

  Slowly, Stirk’s expression eased into a smile. “As I was athinkin’—shipmate.”

  A rush of warmth enveloped Kydd. The years had been stripped away; the old loyalties of his days as a foremast hand had not been forgotten.

  Stirk rubbed his chin. “Won’t be easy. We’ll need t’ describe ’em both without anyone knows the cut o’ the jib of his dollymops.”

  “Heard tell she’s a head o’ hair like our own figurehead. All we has t’ say is, anyone seen a tow-headed youngster with a long-haired filly astern, somewheres south o’ Dolphin Street?” Kydd chuckled, aware that his hard-won refined speech was wilting under the influence of the returning years.

  “I has th’ say.”

  “Aye,” said Kydd, meekly. “Well, boat’s alongside and—”

  “Poulden’s coxswain,” Stirk said firmly, as though that explained everything. Kydd dutifully went down with his old friend into the boat, leaving a puzzled lieutenant watching.

  It was a wet trip, the boat’s sail under a close reef, and they surfed forward on the backs of the rolling seas until they grounded with a solid crash on the shingle. Kydd leaped nimbly overside before the recoiling wave could return and waited while the boat was brought up.

  “I, er, don’t know how long m’ business will take, Poulden. Do ye wait for me here.”

  Expressionless, his coxswain acknowledged, and Kydd set out with Stirk for Dolphin Street. It did not boast the lofty residences and courts of Middle Street, but a dark maze of interconnecting alleyways between the tap-houses, chandleries and shanties of the boatmen and artisans of the King’s Naval Yard.

  The rich stink of marine stores, stale beer and fish hung heavily as they moved urgently along. The taverns were full of local sea-folk waiting out the foul weather—and they would be best placed to notice strangers coming and going. Rain squalls added to the wind’s bluster and Kydd drew his old grego closer as he waited patiently at the door while Stirk entered the Farrier. He wasn’t long inside. “Some reckons they’ve clapped peepers on ’em but can’t say where they’s at. We’re on th’ right course, cuffin.”

  Without Stirk to allay suspicions, there wouldn’t have been a chance of laying hands on Calloway, who, as a child, had been a barefoot waif in London and knew all the tricks. They hurried on. The wind was rising and Kydd tasted the salt sea spume on the air.

  The Brewer’s Arms brought news: a fuddled man in the blue jersey of a boatman disclosed gleefully that not only was Calloway known but that he had taken up with the daught
er of Jack Cribben, a hoveller who, it seemed, was none too happy about the situation. The obliging boatman was at pains to point out that Cribben could be found in one of the little homes towards the seafront.

  “Spread more sail, Toby. We’ll have ’im back in a trice.”

  The windows of the house were barred, shuttered and wet with the constant spray. Kydd hammered at the door. There was a muffled shout from within and he realised he was being told to go to the back where it was sheltered.

  The door was answered by a diminutive, furtive woman, who immediately called Cribben, a powerfully built older man. “Yer business?” he said abruptly, noting Stirk’s thick-set figure.

  “We need t’ talk to Luke Calloway, if y’ would.”

  Cribben stiffened. “Who says—”

  “We know where he’s at, mate,” Kydd bit off. “Take us.”

  “Hold hard, there, cully! An’ who’s askin’? Are yez a king’s man?”

  “We’re—shipmates o’ the lad who wants him back aboard afore he runs afoul o’ the captain,” Kydd said quickly. “Y’ see, we know you’re not, as who should say, glad t’ see him and y’ daughter . . .”

  “My Sally’s not marryin’ into th’ Navy! She’s a sweet lass as needs a steady hand on th’ tiller an’ one who comes home reg’lar each night. No sailin’ away t’ them foreign parts, havin’ a whale of a time, an’ her left wi’ the little bantlings an’ all.”

  “Then we’ll take ’im off y’ hands, sir,” Kydd said briskly. “Just ask him t’ step outside, if ye would.”

  Standing legs a-brace, Cribben shook his head and folded his arms defiantly.

  “No?” Kydd spluttered. “An’ why not?”

  “’Cos I’ll never be the shabbaroon as cravenly delivers up a body t’ the Navy fer anyone, begob.”

  A flurry of light rain came with the wind’s growing bluster. “Then we’ll have t’ get ’im f’r ourselves, cock,” Kydd said.

  The man did not move. “Y’ won’t find ’im here.”

  “S’ where is he?” Kydd demanded.

  There was no response.

  Stirk’s fists slowly bunched. “If ’n y’ don’t give us th’ griff, cully, an’ that right smartly—”

  Kydd caught his eye. “No, drop it, Toby. Sea’s gettin’ up. We’d best be on our way.” Calloway would be tipped off about a Navy visit and would hide deeper.

  As they turned to go a small boy raced around the corner, and burst out excitedly in front of Cribben, “Old Bob Fosh seen a packet in trouble off the North Goodwins.”

  Cribben’s eyes glinted, then the light died. “I thank ’ee, y’ little rascal, even as it’s t’ no account.” He found a coin for the child, who darted off.

  At Kydd’s puzzled expression he said, “All of ’em hereabouts is out after th’ Princess draggin’ anchor off the Bunt, seein’ as how she’ll pay over the odds, bein’ an Indiaman. That’s going t’ leave me wi’ no crew to go a-hovelling,” he said bitterly. “Not as ye’d care.”

  He turned to go back inside but Kydd stopped him. “No hands? I’ll work ye a bargain, Mr. Cribben. We crew f’r you an’ ye’re going t’ tell us where t’ find our Luke. Agreed?”

  “Ye’ll want shares in the hovel.”

  “No shares, should y’ keep this t’ yourself.”

  Cribben hesitated for a moment. “Wait,” he ordered, and snatched an oilskin from behind the door, then plunged off down the beach frontage. Kydd followed.

  “Ye’re breaking ship y’self, then,” Stirk said, with relish, as he caught up.

  The lively seas were rolling in, with white-capped breakers here and there, the wind flat and hard from the east. If they left now they would make it out to Teazer, a wet and uncomfortable trip, but if they delayed . . .

  Kydd chuckled. “Well, we bein’ held up ashore, th’ ship’s boat won’t take seas like this, will it now? S’ what we do while we waits for th’ weather t’ ease is no one’s business . . .” They laughed together, like youngsters out on a prank.

  Cribben disappeared inside a hut further along and came out with a weathered individual. “Dick Redsull,” he threw over his shoulder. “We needs another.” The man was clearly of some years and cackled a greeting at them, but Kydd recognised the wiry build of a seaman.

  Cribben hurried along to another boat-hut, but without success. “Long Jabber Neame?” Redsull suggested reedily.

  “If ’n he ain’t betwaddled wi’ ale,” muttered Cribben, but entered a small cottage and emerged with a large, bewildered man carrying sea-boots and trying to pull on foul-weather gear.

  “Jack Neame, lads,” he said apologetically. His red-rimmed eyes probably owed more to grog than salt-spray but he steered a straight enough course.

  “Get some foulies f’r ye,” Cribben said, and briefly ducked into his house, finding Kydd and Stirk sea-boots, jerseys and oilskins. They were well used, with the smell of tar, linseed oil and humanity.

  Leaving the grateful pair to haul them on, Cribben went away to get further word on the ship. He returned with a satisfied grin. “A three-master t’ seaward o’ the Knoll,” he said, to understanding nods from the hovellers. “We’ll go ’im I think. Oh—what does we call ye, then?”

  “Ah, Tom’s m’ tally an’ this here is Toby.”

  Cribben nodded, then explained that the ship was probably a foreigner without a pilot, too much in dread of a notorious reputation to attempt the narrow channels through the treacherous sandbanks to the shelter of the Downs on the other side. And, with the easterly wind strengthening, so would be their anxieties over the anchor and cable that were holding them.

  Daisy May was lying stem seaward with deck-covers whipping and hammering in the gusts, but already a large beach party was milling about in expectation of employment. Cribben waved cheerily at several men as he tramped over to the field past the King’s Naval Yard.

  Dozens of anchors of all shapes, weights and vintages recovered from the sands were laid out there; Cribben took his time and picked a stout piece nearly twice his height. “This ’un,” he declared. It needed twenty men and a sledge to bring the awkward monster to the water’s edge, the seas breaking heavily about it in a seething hiss.

  The crowd held back respectfully while Cribben heaved himself up into the lugger and carefully checked the gear. “Jack?” he called, and Neame joined him. The long fore and mizzen yards with sails already bent on were handed into the boat, clapped on to their masts and quickly rigged.

  A steady stream of men laid square timbers down the shingle. “Come on, let’s be havin ye!” Cribben urged. Kydd heaved himself up over the high bulwarks and stumbled over a dismaying tangle of ropes and spars lying about in the capacious hull.

  Fortunately a dipping-lug rig was the simplest of all, and by the time impatient shouts were going up from those outside, he had taken it in: two masts, a yard for each, tacks and sheets. Under the wet snarl of rigging, all around the bottom-boards, there were regular coils of substantial rope, with the left-hand lay of anchor cable.

  “You, Tom, go take th’ fore wi’ Jack. Toby, aft wi’ me.” Kydd did as he was told and glanced to seaward. It was a scene he had seen many times before—but from the deck of a well-found man-o’-war, not an open boat hardly bigger than a frigate’s launch.

  Under the hammering easterly the white-caps were increasing and now marched in on the backs of grey-green waves, setting the many ships in the Downs jibbing energetically to their anchors. But what drew Kydd’s attention was an indistinct white line developing on the grey horizon: wild seas piling up on the hovellers’ destination, the Goodwin Sands.

  The tide was low, making it nearly a hundred feet down steep shingle to pull the craft to its native element. The beach party crowded round, every inch of the boat manned, and a double rope led out forward with willing hands tailing on.

  Kydd looked down on scores of backs bent ready.

  “Alaaaawww!” At the hoarse cry every man buckled to.

  They were l
aunching into the teeth of a dead muzzler, and Kydd knew they had to win their way against wind and the surging combers.

  “Alaaaawww!” the cry went up again. It was answered immediately by a regular chant, and the heaving began. “Alaw boat, haul, alaw boat, haul, haul, haul, haaauuul! ” At first the straining saw no result, but then the boat shuddered and inched forward over the timbers.

  “Alaaaawww!” The ton deadweight of the Daisy May picked up speed and slithered down the ways until she met the seas in thumps of spray—and they were afloat, the wet black iron of the big anchor left forlorn on the beach.

  “Jack, damn ye!” But Neame had already leaned over the bluff bow and taken the dripping rope handed up to him, straightening and passing it rapidly to the waiting Redsull. Then Kydd understood: this was a haul-off warp, and he bent to help get it over the stout windlass so that they could heave their boat bodily out to sea past the line of breakers.

  Daisy May reared and shied at the considerable seas now rampaging in, but with three men at the windlass they hauled out steadily in the teeth of the wind to the warping buoy and quickly tied off. Then the hard work began: lines had been taken to their beached anchor and secured around its peak, where the shank met the flukes, in order to drag it out without it digging in.

  It was back-breaking work in chill bursts of spray and on an unsteady footing: six-foot handspikes were thudded into square sockets in the horizontal windlass drum, then came a heroic backwards straining pull, the rhythm kept up by having the holes offset from each other so each man could re-socket at different times.

  Unaccustomed to the toil, Kydd’s muscles burned, but there could be no slacking—he had seen Stirk’s devilish grin. All four laboured until, when the anchor was near, Cribben called a halt. Then it was more work at tackles to align Daisy May before the last task—lifting the anchor bodily from under them until it hung suspended close beneath. Cribben ordered the jigger tackles secured and their tethering to the warp buoy singled up, then raised an arm.

  Kydd had to concede it masterly seamanship, performed in the wildest conditions.

  “Get on wi’ ye,” Neame said good-naturedly. The long yard needed to be hooked to the foremast and hoisted. Kydd aligned the spar to the direction of the wind, seized the halliard and looked aft with concern.