The Admiral's Daughter Page 14

  Kydd mounted the side-steps carefully and was met at the ornate entry-port with the thrilling squeal of pipes and the bored looks of the receiving-party. A lieutenant politely doffed his hat while Kydd punctiliously saluted first the quarterdeck, then him, before he strode aft and up to the admiral’s cabin.

  “Sit y’self down, m’ boy,” the great man muttered, rooting about among his charts, then looking up mildly. “Kind in ye to call.” The florid countenance and bluff ways of a country squire hid a sharp mind and ruthless organiser; the seamen called him “Billy-go-tight” and stood well clear when he was to be seen pacing slowly, head down, about the decks.

  “Seen much sport?” Cornwallis asked kindly.

  “Naught but one privateer who gave me th’ slip, sir,” Kydd said apologetically.

  “Never mind, lad, early days yet. Now, if ye’d pay mind t’ me, there’s a service I’d like ye to perform as will spare one of m’ frigates.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  A pale-faced lieutenant looked round the door and promptly vanished at Cornwallis’s frown.

  The admiral turned back to Kydd. “Do ye find Immortalité frigate, Cap’n Owen, an’ pass to him a small chest f’r which you’ll take a receipt in due form? For y’r information it contains a sum in gold—f’r which I’ll take your receipt, sir—by which we buy our intelligence.”

  “Sir. Er, could I know where she’s t’ be found?”

  “Inshore squadron,” Cornwallis answered testily. “Who knows? In a westerly, could be anywhere off th’ Goulet between the Béniguete an’ Toulinguet.” At Kydd’s hesitation he growled, “Ask Flags, an’ get some half-decent charts while ye’re about it—it’s a graveyard o’ ships there, an’ this has t’ be in the right hands main quickly, sir.”

  It made sense of a kind, conceded Kydd, resentfully, as Teazer left the commotion of Tor Bay astern and stretched out for Start Point. A little brig taken from her lawful duty was far less of a drain on precious resources than a full-blooded frigate, but this took no account of the feelings of her commander at being so casually sent on errands.

  On the other hand this was for Kydd and Teazer a first time in one of the worst stretches of sea to be found anywhere—rock-strewn and treacherous, the approaches to Brest at the extreme Atlantic north-west of France had claimed the lives of countless English men-o’-war over the centuries. It was a dangerous lee-shore in all but the infrequent easterlies, and no place for the faint of heart.

  All too soon the Start was abeam: it might be possible to fetch their objective in one tack but in this cloudy, petulant weather there would be no sightings to fix their position reliably. And the increasing westerly, with a making tide, would result in a leeward drift of an unknown quantity that would make even the best estimations questionable.

  Despite the need for dispatch the only prudent move would be to make a westing sufficient to come about again and in the morning raise the guardian of Brest, the outlying island of Ushant. Then, knowing their position for a certainty, they could work in closer.

  It seemed overly cautious, but Kydd was aware of the little wooden chest with the iron padlock that lay well secured in his bedplace. Much might depend on its safe arrival.

  Davies, an amiable master’s mate from Ville de Paris, had volunteered to act as guide—Dowse had only limited familiarity with the region so the younger man’s advice would be crucial. Prosser had made much of his time of service on blockade in the 1790s but this was as a midshipman and, given his brash attitude, Kydd was not readily inclined to take suggestions from him. Any experiences of the lower deck made no reference to charts or coasting pilots and were no better than reminiscences.

  The dawn brought with it thin, misting rain driving in from the west in tall white curtains that advanced slowly over a sullen swell to soak the sombre group on Teazer ’s quarterdeck. As far as could be relied upon, their reckoning placed them some twenty-five miles to weather of Ushant, the traditional fleet rendezvous, but the sea was empty as the fleet was in Tor Bay.

  “Helm up,” Kydd ordered, “Steer east.” The die was cast: they were now sailing directly downwind towards France. They would sight Ushant and shape course accordingly or, missing it, end embroiled in the maze of half-tide rocks promised by their chart.

  Kydd went over the arithmetic. The higher he was on the ship, the further he could see. Distance to the horizon in miles was 1.17 times the square root of the height-of-eye in feet. As he stood on the quarterdeck, his eye was about ten feet up, which gave a figure of some four miles. At its highest, Ushant was no more than a hundred and forty feet odd, which by the same calculation gave about fourteen miles. Therefore, adding the two, he could expect to make landfall at eighteen miles off and nearer twenty-three for a lookout in the maintop.

  “Get up there, lad,” he ordered Andrews. Another pair of eyes in the tops would never be too many with so much riding on it. But before the lad could swing into the shrouds a sudden cry came from the foretop. “Laaand hooo!” The lookout gestured vigorously to leeward.

  In a fever of impatience Kydd waited for the land to come within sight of the deck, an anonymous grey shape firming before them. “Take it south-about,” Kydd told the quarter-master. If it was Ushant they needed to be in place for their southward search and if it was not . . .

  Davies came and stood next to Kydd, staring intently. “Certainly looks the part, sir,” he said pleasantly, as though unaware of the tension about him. “We’ll discover f’r sure when we see him off t’ the nor’-west. He has a deep bay there, lookin’ all the world like the open claw of a lobster.”

  “We used to say ‘nutcracker’ in Diomede, ” Prosser said importantly. He had taken up position on the other side of Kydd, who didn’t reply.

  It proved to be Ushant and therefore they had their position exactly—for the moment. The westerly was holding and beginning to kick up a bit of a sea, although this was probably more due to its disputing with the last of the down-Channel ebb. Kydd fretted at the ragged rain squalls that marched across and lasted for long minutes, bringing visibility down to yards; not only did this make sighting Immortalité difficult but it hid the dark rocks off to starboard.

  “’T’were best we made our southing through the Chenal d’Four,” Davies offered. “We have the slant wi’ this westerly.”

  Prosser puffed his cheeks. “In Diomede it was always Chenal d’Helle, on account—”

  “Hold y’r noise!” Kydd snapped. “Haven’t ye somethin’ t’ do forrard?”

  Leaving the black mass of Ushant astern, they sailed on uneasily until a low line of darker grey spread across the horizon, hardening into a craggy coastline. “France, sir,” Davies said unnecessarily. Kydd grunted; of more concern to him now was their undeviating approach directly towards it. Detail became clearer as they neared, a wicked, uncompromising cragginess.

  The chart had shown an appalling jumble of unconnected reefs and half-tide rocks and had hinted of fierce tidal currents to be avoided at all costs. To thread a safe route through would be a nightmare without help.

  “Are ye sure?”

  Davies nodded patiently.

  “Tut, tut, an’ this is a rare moil,” exclaimed Dowse, looking askance at the approaching cliffs, now no more than a couple of miles distant. It was a dead lee shore and all his master’s instincts jangled in alarm. His eyes met Kydd’s.

  “Nothing t’ worry of,” Davies said cheerfully. “Need to keep inshore o’ L’Pâtresses, is all.”

  The helm went over a bare mile short of the grim heights, but as they made their passage south to parallel them Kydd saw why: at this distance there was a noticeable back wind from the nearby sea-cliffs, which went some way to easing the situation.

  Away to starboard the misty sea was full of dismal black crags, white-fringed and dreadful, and after they had passed a stern headland at less than a mile it was evident that they were edging nearer, being crowded ever closer to the coast—suddenly there was no longer any space to wear abo
ut or even to tack back to where they had come from. “I mislike it, sir—no sea room, we can’t put back,” Dowse said. “What if . . . ?”

  They were being funnelled between a substantial seaweed-black islet to starboard and a gaunt, twisted headland to larboard, but as they drew in, there was a flat thump on the damp air. Kydd heard more and searched feverishly for where the guns were. There must be a battery somewhere atop the lofty cliffs—which they would pass close beneath.

  He turned to Davies, who said calmly, “Pay no mind t’ the Frenchy, sir. He’s got no notion o’ range over water, and in any case, I know a little diversion, this state o’ th’ tide, as’ll take us close in past the Béniguete instead.”

  True to his word, Teazer found herself picking her way warily past the frighteningly close kelp-strewn islet while the guns thudded away impotently. Another mile, and they were in open water, the dark coastline fallen away to nothing.

  “Clear, sir,” Davies said smugly. “This is y’r Goulet,” he added, gesturing to the tumble of seas stretching away to the left. “And Brest lies no more’n a dozen miles away there t’ the east’d.”

  This was all very fine; they had won through the worst to the main approaches of the port but where was Immortalité? The little brig-sloop continued across the wide mouth towards the other side but still no trace. And the irritated French might be driven to sending out gunboats.

  Picking up on Pointe du Toulinguet on the opposite side, to the anguish of the master watching the ugly scattering of black rocks stretching seaward for miles, they hauled away across the Iroise towards its natural boundary at the Pointe du Raz and the fifteen miles of reefs and shoals extending straight out to sea.

  With a four-thousand-mile fetch, the wind from the open sea had a relentless urge to it that seemed to want to bully Teazer ever closer towards the grim coastline. And it was increasing now, with an ugly lop and white horses here and there. The rain had eased to flurries but there was low scud above the ragged cloud.

  “Mr Davies?” Kydd asked heavily. It was getting uncomfortable, beam on to the racing seas, and while visibility was improving the doubled lookouts were not seeing any sign of sail.

  “Why, y’ have to understand, sir, in the inshore squadron we has two jobs to do—tell England when the Mongseers put t’ sea, and the other is t’ show ourselves anywhere there’s a Frenchman, tells ’em they’re under eye and it’s better for ’em to stay snug in harbour. Immortalité could be . . . well, anywheres.”

  “Thank you, Mr Davies.” Kydd looked out to the unfriendly sea and back to the forbidding coast. Naval duty was a hard taskmaster at times—was it expected that he comb the seas interminably until he found his frigate? In these dangerous waters, with thick weather promising?

  The rocky barrier out from the Pointe du Raz was approaching; decisions would have to be made. To leeward, out of sight from the deck, the sweep of Douarnenez Bay had no port of interest, except possibly the small haven of Douarnenez itself. He was not about to risk entering the bay—Douarnenez! A tickle of memory came: his first ship and he a lowly ordinary seaman smelling gunpowder for the first time. It was here that Duke William had clashed briefly with emerging French ships-ofthe-line. They must have been taking shelter in an accustomed anchorage—with which the frigate would of course be familiar and might now be reconnoitring.

  “We bear up f’r Douarnenez, I believe, Mr Dowse.”

  They entered the bay past a prominent foreland towering up to larboard, the bay opening up widely beyond. The further shore would only be in sight from the tops and Kydd gazed up at them impatiently. But—nothing. No sail, no frigate. “G’damn it!” he blazed.

  “Sir! Sir!” Andrews piped from his station on the afterdeck, hopping from one foot to the other. He was pointing vigorously astern. Tucked well into the lee of the foreland just past, a ship lay at anchor, her ensign plain for all to see.

  “Immortalité,” Davies confirmed.

  However, so far downwind there was nothing for it but to beat back to the big vessel. A gun boomed on her fo’c’sle, drawing attention to the challenge that had shot smartly up her halliards. “Private signal,” roared Kydd to Andrews: thank heaven he had had the foresight to claim these from the flagship before he left and to have the correct signal of the day made up for hoisting every morning.

  It soared up briskly: it wouldn’t do to trifle with a crack frigate of the inshore squadron. Teazer leant to the wind and beat her way over while Kydd decided that he would not stand on ceremony; even a post-captain would not expect him to dress for a visit on this occasion.

  As they neared, a twenty-four-pounder crashed out and the sea plumed ahead of their forefoot. At the same time, all along the length of the frigate’s gun deck cannon were run out and Kydd found himself staring down the muzzles of Immortalité ’s broadside.

  His mind froze. Then he thought to check again with her ensign—if she had been captured, the French could never fire under false colours—but she still flew an ensign of the Royal Navy.

  “Mr Purchet!” bellowed Kydd, his voice breaking with effort. “Loose the fore topsail sheets this instant!” In a frenzied motion they were cast off and the sail banged and fluttered free. It was the nearest thing to striking topsails, the age-old signal of surrender, that Kydd could think of.

  “Clear away the cutter, boat’s crew t’ muster,” he croaked.

  Under Poulden’s urgent bidding the men stretched out for the frigate, Kydd sitting bolt upright, his foul-weather gear damp and uncomfortable. As they neared, there was confirmation that this was a vessel of the Royal Navy—sea-worn she might be, but every detail, from the blacked muzzles of the cannon to the fancy rope-work round the wind-vane, spoke of a proud sea service.

  They came alongside and hooked on, the boat jibbing like a lunatic in the seas that swept the sides of the frigate. Kydd waited for the right moment and jumped for the side-steps, his wet-weather gear tangling and whipping as he climbed up and over the bulwarks.

  Two stolid lines of armed marines met him instead of a side-party. A grim-faced post-captain waited ahead and held up his hands for Kydd to stop where he was. “And who the devil are you, sir?” he grated.

  “C-commander Kydd, brig-sloop Teazer, at y’r service, sir,” Kydd said breathlessly.

  “Prove it!” snarled the captain.

  Kydd smothered a retort when he realised that, but for a bedraggled and threadbare hat, he was in anonymous foul-weather gear—and he had not a scrap of identification on him as a British officer.

  He wheeled round on Poulden, who stood rigidly behind. “What’s th’ best public house in Plymouth Town? Quickly, man!”

  “Th-the Town? Beggin’ y’r pardon, sir, but we likes best t’ hoba-nob at th’ Portsmouth Hoys, Fore Street in Dock, as serves the best brown ale, but if y’ means Old Plymouth, why . . .” He tailed off uncertainly under the ferocious glare of the frigate captain.

  There was a brief, unreal silence before the captain grunted, “Very well. Stand down the marines. Secure from quarters.” He marched up to Kydd and halted within inches. “Now, sir, do you account for yourself.”

  Affronted, Kydd retorted, “I’m at a loss, sir, why you fired into me.”

  The captain kept his eyes fixed on Kydd’s and snapped, “So you would not, were you a frigate captain, which I highly doubt will ever be the case? Then, pray, look at it from my point of view.

  “A strange and—I observe—foreign-looking sloop sails unconcerned, as though in home waters, straight into Douarnenez Bay, which all good Englishmen do shun. He sees me and, quick as a flash, throws out the private signal, just as if he’d got it by him after capturing one of ours. He puts about impudently and takes his chance to close with me, hoping to catch us off-guard and at anchor, so then he may pour in his treacherous broadsides.

  “But he’s forgotten one detail.” He paused, giving a savage smile, then went on in a voice of rising thunder, “If he’s of the Channel Fleet, carries their private signals�
�� then why in Hades is he flying the wrong damn ensign? ”

  Too late, Kydd remembered. On her temporary side-voyage for Cornwallis, Teazer was flying not the blue ensign of Cornwallis’s fleet but the red of Lockwood’s command.

  CHAPTER 7

  “AN’ I’M DETERMINED ON IT, Nicholas,” Kydd said, stretching happily in his armchair.

  “We have hardly had time to scrape the salt from our eyebrows after our hard weeks on the briny deep, dear brother,” Renzi sighed, “and here you are proposing we should immediately embark on the rigours of—”

  “Not a high occasion as would embarrass th’ exchequer, I’ll grant ye, more in the way of an assembly or so,” Kydd said comfortably. Becky came in shyly to draw the curtains and departed with a smile.

  “Then might we not consider a rout? No expense of a meal at table, quantities of people arriving and departing when they will, wine and jollity on all sides. And, of course, the decided social advantage of there being the opportunity to accommodate more than the usual number so there will be many more in the way of return invitations.”

  “Done!” What was the use of maintaining an establishment if it were not to be gainfully employed? “Who shall be invited? As ye know, Teazer will not be in port s’ long . . .”

  While invitations were agreed plans were put in train. “I’m of th’ mind that a woman’s touch might be an advantage,” Kydd said. “Should I—do y’ think that Cecilia is t’ be invited?”

  Renzi looked up from his writing of the invitations—a bold, round copperplate of impeccable execution—and said, in measured tones, “She is your sister. It would be singular indeed if you did not ask her. And if by this you make allusion to any feelings I might have entertained for the lady, pray spare me your delicacies—she is quite free to come and go as she chooses, which is her right as a gentlewoman.” His head bent to the writing.