The Admiral's Daughter Page 17

  Over a convivial draught the Collector pulled out a chart. “The whole stretch o’ coast here—Mount’s Bay east from Perranuthnoe to the Lizard—is nothing less’n a nest o’ thieving scapegallows. And the worst of ’em you’ll find past Cudden Point here, just on from Stackhouse Cove.

  “Ever hear on the Carters? ‘King of Prussia,’ John calls himself, and he an’ his brother Harry have led us a merry dance this last twenty years. Had a bloody tumble with Druid frigate once, running in a freight at Cawsand even, and leaving men dead.”

  “What’s this was mentioned about y’r castle?” Kydd came in.

  “Acton Castle? That’s John Stackhouse then. The slivey knave knows the Carters well, but claims he’s only a-botanising seaweed. I’d like to know as how your seaweed is such a rare business he can set up a castle on the proceeds. It would be a fine thing t’ catch him out, Mr Kydd,” he added grimly.

  “We’ll be ready. Are y’ sure ye’ll want to stay at Praa Sands?” Kydd asked.

  “I don’t altogether trust our man—chances are he’s told us it’s only a show at Praa while we’re off to Stackhouse Cove, and the truth of it is, Praa Sands is where it’ll be landed. So, with most of us and the King’s ship safely away out of it, they’ll be rolling their tubs ashore there. Thank ye, but we’ll stay—and know ye’ll be doing y’ duty at Stackhouse Cove if it’s to be the other way.”

  There was a warm stillness to the night. They were trying to close with the land in murky darkness. A “smuggler’s moon,” a filmy crescent of light, was just enough to make out shapes and movement without betraying detail. That same stillness was robbing the ship of steerage way just when it was most needed.

  “Sir, I have t’ warn ye—the Greeb.”

  “Aye, thank you, Mr Dowse.” Kydd needed no reminding about the evil scatter of crumbling granite that was Basore Point or the particular menace of the Greeb, a dark lacing of rocks reaching straight out to sea for nearly a quarter of a mile.

  “Away boats.” If the smuggling gang could try conclusions with a frigate then Kydd was taking no chances. As many as he could spare would go with Standish and lie concealed in undergrowth behind the long, lizard-like Cudden Point overlooking Stackhouse Cove. Others, under Prosser, would take up position on the near side at Trevean.

  Teazer left them to it, ghosted back offshore and hove to; it would be impossible to see an approaching vessel until it was upon them—but at the same time they themselves would not be seen. Kydd’s plan was to wait until the landing was in progress, signalled by the shore party, and catch them in the act from seaward.

  An hour passed in absolute quiet, the slap and chuckle of water along their side and the creaking of timbers in the slight swell the only sounds. Then another: it was difficult to keep men mute for so long but Kydd had warned the petty officers of his requirement for silence.

  A shape materialised next to him. “A roborant against the night air, dear fellow,” Renzi whispered, proffering hot negus.

  Kydd accepted gratefully but out of consideration to others slipped below to his cabin to finish it. “It sticks in m’ throat to see Teazer used so,” he growled. “As fine a man-o’-war as swam, set against a gang of shabbaroons—it’s not natural.”

  “You were lecturing me sternly only this morning about the country’s peril from such blackguards.”

  “Aye,” Kydd answered morosely. “The Collector expects forty or so in a vessel, fifty ashore t’ lift cargo, others. Is it right to set our seamen in harm’s way like this?”

  “It is their duty,” Renzi said firmly, “as it is yours. But do you not think the greater villain is he who funds and orders their depredations?”

  “The greater villain’s he who buys their run goods. There’d be no smuggling else.”

  “Just so. It would, however, be a fine thing to examine these creatures at some length,” Renzi mused, “in part for the insights we might gather into the sensibilities they violate in order to resolve a response to the claims of their perceived environment.”

  “Will we discuss th’ philosophy at another time?” Kydd said. “I’ll be returnin’ on deck. Could sight th’ rogues at any time.”

  Midnight approached: still no sign of smugglers, let alone a ship. Wearily Kydd scanned the shore yet again. No lights, no signals. Praa Sands was out of sight behind Cudden Point and therefore there was nothing to indicate whether the landing was going on there, only an inky blackness.

  A rocket soared into the night sky from beyond the point. “Th’ shore party! They’ve seen something. Hands t’ th’ braces—move y’rselves!” bellowed Kydd.

  Another rocket sailed up, this time at a sharp angle out to sea. “God rot it!” Kydd swore, looking over the side at the pitiful speed they were gathering. But with half Teazer ’s number on shore nothing could happen quickly.

  Still no lights, no signals—and no ship. “Anyone sees anything— anything a’tall!” But there was nothing.

  A chance thinning of the clouds lifted the level of illumination enough to show that Stackhouse Cove was empty.

  But two rockets was no accident. Could the landing be taking place on the other side?

  Fervently grateful for the fair south-westerly, Kydd brought Teazer about and hauled for Cudden Point, which they passed as close as he dared—and at once made out a large two-masted lugger lying inshore, motionless.

  “Lay us alongside, Mr Dowse,” Kydd snapped. The information had been false and had successfully lured the two forces away from the true landing-place. But for Kydd’s precautions of having men ashore and Standish wisely keeping lookout on both sides they could have landed their tubs safely out of sight.

  A musket’s flash stabbed the darkness from the lugger, then another, followed by the crack of a four-pounder. Kydd burnt with anger—for such vermin to fire on seamen defending their country!

  A broadside from Teazer could settle the matter on an instant, but that was not the way it must be. Tysoe appeared with his fine fighting sword, which had seen so much honourable action. In the absence of the first lieutenant it would be Kydd leading the boarding. He shook his head. “No, Tysoe, thank ’ee, they’re not worth its bloodying.” He crossed to the arms chest and took up a cutlass.

  “No firing ’less they do,” he roared, and prepared to leap. The firing died away as they neared, and confused shouting came from the shadowy figures in the lugger. “They’re skinning out,” yelled a foremast hand, pointing. A boat was in the water on the other side and men were tumbling into it.

  The two vessels came together in a mighty thump and heavy creaking and Kydd jumped down the foot or so to the deck of the lugger, racing aft towards the wheel, followed by a dozen Teazers. “Secure th’ helm,” he ordered, and strode to the side. The boat was in a tangle of panicking men. “Get out!” Kydd roared.

  “Mr Kydd, they’re in a mill ashore, sir.” Andrews’s voice was cracking with excitement, and as Kydd watched there was a flurry of shots in the shadowy cliffs. “They’re making a fight of it, sir.”

  The smugglers had scores of accomplices on shore to carry away the contraband and Standish might be in real trouble if he chose to make a stand. “Into th’ boat, Teazers!” he bawled.

  In a frenzy they pulled into the small cove and grounded on a tiny patch of sand. A rush of men met them, but it was cutlasses against cudgels and they broke and fled, scrabbling up the steep, scrubby cliff. In the distance hoarse shouts rose and faded. They were alone.

  “Teazers, ahoy!” Kydd bellowed. “Mr Standish!”

  “Sir!” The voice from the spine of the point was accompanied by a crashing of undergrowth and the dishevelled officer appeared, panting but with the white flash of a smile in the darkness. “A good night’s work, I believe, sir.”

  “Be damned t’ that! Where’s their cargo?”

  “Oh—ah, it must still be aboard, sir?”

  The boat was shoved out into the black depths to return to the lugger. Its crew squatted sullenly on deck. “Mr
Purchet, get into th’ hold an’ see if there’s anything in it,” Kydd called to the boatswain.

  “Empty, sir. I already checked.”

  Then it could only be at one place. They would have to move fast for if they missed their chance all evidence would be lost. Quickly Kydd gathered a party of men and took the boat back into the little cove. “After me,” he ordered them, and struck out for the heights.

  In the shadowy dark they slipped and scrambled up the rough path to the slopes above, where a stone building stood in darkness. “You three, wake ’em up an’ stand guard upon my return. Nobody t’ move an inch.”

  Breathing heavily, he headed up towards the massive square bulk of Acton Castle. A single light showed below the central battlements but the rest was in utter blackness.

  “With me,” he ordered, and moved forward quickly, thankful to meet the level grass of a lawn. The party hurried across it and stopped at an oddly narrow front entrance. Kydd hammered on the door with the hilt of his cutlass, his men crowding behind. No movement. He banged again, louder—it produced a querulous cry from inside, but Kydd knew that if he could move quickly enough there was no possibility that they could conceal dozens of bulky tubs in time.

  “In the name o’ the King!” he bawled.

  With a tedious sliding of bolts and grating of keys the door finally swung open to reveal the anxious face of an aged servant. “Mr Stackhouse! Get me Mr Stackhouse this instant, y’ villain!”

  “He—he’s not here,” the man stammered, suddenly catching sight of the men crowding behind Kydd.

  “Then get him!”

  “I—I—”

  Pushing him aside Kydd strode into a hall bedecked with mock-medieval hangings. He looked sharply about, then hailed his party. “Take position at the doorways, all of ye—smartly, now.”

  Kydd pricked his ears: if there was any mad scurrying to hide contraband he would hear it, but the night was still. Then there was movement on the stairs. The light of a candle showed at the top and began to come down.

  It was an elderly man in nightgown and cap, who descended slowly. At the bottom he stopped and stared about him. “Mr Stackhouse?” Kydd challenged brusquely.

  The man’s gaze turned on him incredulously and Kydd became aware of eyes with the unmistakable glint of authority. “You!” he grated. “What the devil do you mean by this, sir?”

  There was something about . . . “Mr Stackhouse, I’ve reason t’ believe—”

  “A pox on it! I’m not John Stackhouse, as well you know, sir!”

  “Er—”

  “Captain Praed, sir!”

  Kydd’s feverish mind supplied the rest. This was none other than Nelson’s senior navigating lieutenant whom he’d last encountered at the battle of the Nile those years ago. He was now a post-captain and, bizarrely, the new owner of the castle.

  The next few minutes were a hard beat to windward for Commander Kydd.

  The stone building above the cove turned out to be a country drinking den. “Bessy’s tavern, an they swears they know nothin’, sir.”

  Did they take him for a fool? “Thank you, Mr Purchet, an’ I’ll keep a tight guard until daybreak, then search properly.” But the smug look on the landlord’s face gave little hope that they would find anything.

  Distant hails proved to be the party from Trevean on the other side, who came up breathlessly, agog for news. Savagely Kydd sent them about their business and returned to Teazer. It had not been a scene of triumph but he was damned if he’d give up now.

  “We carry th’ lugger to Penzance f’r inspection,” he grated. Conceivably the vital evidence was still aboard in a cunning hiding-place—false bulkheads, trick water casks and the rest.

  In the morning they would search the drinking den; he had fif-teen men sealing it off for the rest of the night and nothing would get past them. “Call me at dawn,” he told Tysoe and fell into his cot fully clothed.

  • • •

  He woke in a black mood. Even the beauty of the unfolding daybreak, as the sinister dark crags were transformed by the young sunshine into light-grey and dappled green, failed to move him: with nothing to show for their efforts there would be accusing stares on their return to Penzance.

  The searchers went early to Bessy’s and returned while he was at breakfast—empty-handed. Then an idea struck, one that had its roots in a mess-deck yarn, far away and in another time. “Mr Stirk—Toby—I’ve called ye here in private t’ ask f’r help.”

  Stirk said nothing, sitting bolt upright, his black eyes unblinking.

  “I’m remembering Seaflower cutter in th’ Caribbee, a foul night at moorin’s off Jamaica, I think it was. Y’ had us all agog wi’ a tough yarn about a woman an’ a ghost. Do y’ remember?”

  “No, sir,” Stirk answered stolidly.

  “I do t’ this day, I’ll tell ye. Right scareful,” he added, in as comradely a manner as he could manage. “An’ y’ happened t’ mention then that a long time ago ye may have been among the free traders o’ Mount’s Bay. I was just wonderin’ if that were so.”

  Taking his time, Stirk considered and said slowly, “Y’ has the advantage of me, Mr Kydd, an’ you knows it. But then I has th’ choice as t’ what I says back.”

  He looked away once, and when his gaze returned to Kydd it was direct and uncompromising. “Yer wants me to dish m’ old shipmates an’ that’s not possible—but I c’n tell ye that the catblash about Mount’s Bay was part o’ the dit t’ make it sound good, as is allowed. I hail fr’m Romney Marsh, which is in Kent, an’ it may have been there as I learnt about th’ trade, but th’ only time I was in these parts was in Fox cutter—but north Cornwall, Barnstaple an’ Lundy, so . . .”

  It had been worth a try. “Aye. Thank ’ee, Toby.” He allowed a look of sorrow to steal across his face. “Y’ see, I’m vexed t’ know just where it is ashore they stowed th’ cargo. Seems a hard thing t’ up hook an’ sail away without we have something t’ show for our troubles.”

  There was no answering smile.

  “Such a pity, o’ course. We sail back t’ Penzance, having been truly gulled, an’ there’s the Revenue on th’ quay, waitin’ an’ laughin’ at our Teazer, a squiddy King’s ship as doesn’t know th’ lay . . .”

  Kydd waited, realising he had unconsciously slipped back into fo’c’sle ways of speaking, but there was no response so he rose to his feet. “M’ thanks anyway, Toby—a rummer afore ye go?”

  “It’s not ashore. Give me a boardin’ grapnel an’ the pinnace f’r an hour.”

  It didn’t take long: under the interested gaze of Teazer ’s company the boat’s crew plied the grapnel near where the lugger had been until it snagged. A couple of hands at the line and the first dripping tub broke surface, quickly followed by more, each weighted and roped to the next in a long line.

  With a smuggling lugger, prisoners and four hundred gallons of evidence, a well-satisfied sloop-of-war set her sails and left.

  CHAPTER 8

  “I’LL HAVE T’ LEAVE YE to y’r books, then, Nicholas,” Kydd said, in mock sorrow. His friend was dipping into some musty tomes in the corner of a shop in Vauxhall—or “foxhole” to seamen— Street.

  “Er, ah—yes, this could take some time,” Renzi replied absently. “Shall we meet later?”

  Plymouth was a maritime town, but unlike the noisier Portsmouth, it held itself aloof from the immediacy of a large navy dockyard and fleet, which were safely out of the way in Dock, across the marshes. Instead, it was merchant-ship captains from the vessels in the Cattewater who could be found in the inns on the heights of Old Plymouth—but if any would mingle with the seafarers of a dozen nations, or venture into the rough jollity of their taverns and hide-aways, they could also be found in the rickety antiquity of Cockside and other haunts around the Pool.

  Kydd had no wish to be caught up in their shoreside sprees and made his way up Cat Street and past the Guild Hall to the more spacious reaches of the Old Town, which the great sea-dog Sir Franc
is Drake had called home—he had returned to the Sound triumphant from a voyage round the world loaded with treasure, loosing anchor just a few hundred yards from Kydd’s new residence, his first anxious question: “Doth the Queen still reign?”

  It was pleasant to be part of the thronging crowds, to step out over the cobblestones and past the ancient buildings that gave Plymouth such a distinctive character. He stopped to peer into a shop’s windows at some gaudily coloured political cartoons.

  “Why, Mr Kydd!”

  He straightened and turned. “Miss Lockwood!” He made her an elegant leg, a dainty curtsy his reward.

  “Cynthia, this is Commander Kydd of the Royal Navy, and a friend of mine. Mr Kydd, may I introduce Miss Knopleigh, who is—no, let me work it out—a third cousin on my mother’s side. Isn’t that so, my dear?”

  Kydd bowed again, the use of “friend” not lost on him. “Miss Knopleigh, a pleasure t’ make y’r acquaintance—an’ so good t’ see you again, Miss Lockwood.”

  Miss Knopleigh bobbed demurely to Kydd and said warmly, “Oh, so this is the interesting man you told me about. I’m so gratified to meet you, Mr Kydd.” She stepped back but continued to regard him thoughtfully.

  “We were on our way to Allston’s for chocolate—would it be so very importunate to ask you to join us, Mr Kydd, and perhaps to tell Cynthia a little of your voyages?”

  The chocolate was very good; and the ladies applauded Kydd’s descriptions of Naples and Nelson, the summit of Vesuvius and the inside of a pasha’s seraglio. He felt his confidence grow. She had called him “friend”—and had introduced him to her cousin. Did this mean . . . ?

  “That was most enjoyable, Mr Kydd.” Persephone’s skin was fashionably alabaster, but her hazel eyes were frank, round and uncomfortably disconcerting the longer they lingered on him. Kydd caught a ghosting of perfume as she opened her dainty reticule. “I don’t suppose you will be long in Plymouth this time?” she asked, as she took out a lace handkerchief.

  “Ah, I—we await a new fore-topsail yard, it being wrung in a blow. No more’n a sennight I should have thought, Miss Lockwood.”