The Admiral's Daughter Read online

  A strange writhing in the surf caught his eye: an unravelled bolt of some workaday cloth. The ship was breaking up and the cargo was coming ashore with other flotsam. The silent groups of watchers came to life and began wading about after it—this was what they had come for, thought Kydd, with a surge of loathing.

  His heart went out to the black figures in the shrouds of the doomed ship, giving their very lives for this cargo—and as he watched, one plummeted into the sea without resisting, the last pitiful remnant of his strength spent in exhaustion and cold.

  Kydd closed his eyes in grief. A fellow sailor had now given every thing to the sea, perhaps an individual whose laughter at the mess-table had lifted the hearts of his shipmates, whose skills had carried the ship across endless sea miles . . .

  A jumble of casks appeared at the water’s edge and were immediately fallen upon, but evening was approaching and the light failing. Another figure dropped. Kydd turned away. When he looked again, the mainmast had given way and now many more lives were reaching their final moments. His eyes stung.

  There were only three left in the mizzen shrouds when the first corpses arrived. Untidy bundles drifting aimlessly in the shallows, the ragged remains of humanity that had been so recently warm and alive.

  As soon as the first body had grounded an onlooker was upon it, standing astride and bending to riffle through its clothes, checking the fingers for rings. It was too much—Kydd fell on the looter shouting hoarsely, until his men ran over and pulled him off.

  When he had come to his senses, the mizzen was empty.

  “Thank ’ee, you men,” he said, gulping. “I don’t think we c’n do any more here.”

  Not a word was spoken as they trudged up the wind-blown slopes, not a glance back. After Wiggle the hill descended the other side into the fisher village of Cawsand. And out in the bay was HMS Teazer. The lump in his throat returned as Kydd took in her sturdy lines, her trim neatness.

  They made their way to the little quay and signalled. Even this far round the Rame the swell was considerable; there were still combers leaving white trails in their wake, but here the sting had been taken from the storm and the boat stroked strongly towards them.

  Renzi was there to greet him as Kydd climbed aboard. When he saw Kydd’s expression, he offered, “A wet of brandy may answer—”

  But Kydd brushed him aside. “Mr Standish, I want a double tot f’r these hands. Now.”

  He stopped at another thought; but there was no need. In rough camaraderie their shipmates would certainly ensure that each one would be found a dry rig. But one thing at least was in his power: “An’ they’re t’ stand down sea watches until tomorrow forenoon.” An “all-night-in” was a precious thing at sea but if any deserved it . . .

  He climbed wearily into his cot and slumped back, closing his eyes and hoping for sleep. It was not as if the evening’s drama was unusual—it was said that the wild West Country had taken more than a thousand wrecks and would claim many more. Why should this one touch him so?

  It was not hard to fathom. Head in the clouds with his recent good fortune and new prospects for high society, he had lost touch with the sterner realities of his sea world. The fates had warned him of what might befall his command should he fail to give the sea the attention it demanded.

  A fitful sleep took him, troubling images flitting past. Could he be joined to Persephone in marriage and stay faithful to a puissant, jealous sea? Would she understand if—

  He awoke and sat bolt upright, his senses quivering. In the darkness he felt the hairs on his neck rise in supernatural dread. Something was very wrong.

  He tumbled out of the cot and stood motionless, listening acutely. Then it happened. The entire framework of his world was thrown into madness. Teazer ’s deep, regular sway and heave had stopped. For seconds at a time the deck was frozen at a canted angle, his body unconsciously adapting to the slope, the deckhead compass gimbals quite still.

  Then, with an overloud creaking, the sea motion resumed as though nothing had happened. Dumbfounded, Kydd threw a coat over his nightgown and ran for the deck. It was teeming with rain, solid, blinding sheets in the darkness of the night. He heard shouts and running feet.

  It happened again, this time preceded by a sickening thump and long-drawn-out groan of racked timbers. In horror Kydd stared into the night, trying desperately to make out the vessel that had driven foul of theirs, but saw and heard nothing. Men came boiling up from below, eyes white and staring as they tried to make sense of what was happening.

  Dowse came on deck, also in night attire and hurried over. “Sir, we’re in dire peril. This is a ground sea, sir!”

  When the height of a wave exceeded twice the depth of water, a vessel in its trough could actually touch the seabed. In the gale such a swell had developed, and now, with an ebbing tide, they were being dumped bodily against the bottom of the sea. No ship could take such punishment for long before it was racked to pieces.

  “Turn up th’ hands!” roared Kydd. “All hands on deck!”

  He looked at Dowse. “T’ sail her out, or warp?” But he knew before the words were out that warping or kedging off without boats that could live in white water was not possible. They had to get sail on, and very quickly.

  The men began to assemble at their parts-of-ship, the petty officers loudly taking charge. Standish and then Purchet came to Kydd, their faces white and strained. “Sir?”

  “Get the carpenter t’ stand by the wells an’ sound ’em every ten minutes. He’s t’ send word instantly there’s sign of a breach.”

  He snatched a glance into the dark rigging: Teazer had already snugged down for the blow, rolling tackles reeved and double gaskets passed round the courses. This meant that seamen had to move up into the pitch-dark rigging and out along the yards in the driving rain to cut away the gaskets by feel alone, a desperately dangerous thing where a misplaced handhold on an invisible rain-slick spar would mean a sudden fall. And all the time their whole world would be jerking and swaying in crazy motion across the sky.

  It was Kydd’s duty to order the men aloft. There was no alternative: too many lives depended on it. He did not hesitate. “Mr Standish, the carpenter t’ take his axe an’ stand by the cable. I’d be obliged should you take charge in th’ foretop while I’ll take th’ main. Mr Dowse will remain on deck an’ give orders f’r a cast t’ larb’d and out.”

  He demanded of a dumbfounded seaman his belt and knife, then filled his lungs and roared, “All hands—lay out an’ loose!”

  Lunging at the main shrouds he swung himself up and began to climb into the blackness and rain. Shaking in the ropes told him he had been followed. Now mainly by feel he found first the catharpings then the futtock shrouds. Calling on skills that had lain dormant for years he swung himself up and into the maintop, then stopped for breath.

  Not far behind him others came, crowding up with him into the top. It was madness—he had no call to risk his life up here with the topmen—but it was one way to deal with his feelings.

  “Topsails!” he bawled, and reached for the weather topmast shrouds but stopped to peer at the figure first taking the leeward. It was too familiar. It couldn’t be—but it was . . . “Nicholas! You—why are ye—”

  “Should we not mount the vaunting shrouds?” Renzi yelled, his face streaming with rain. “The barky will not wait, I fear!”

  Overcome, Kydd ducked round and began the climb to the remote topmast tops. Far above the unseen deck below, he fumbled for the footrope that must lie below the yard and inched his way out on the thin rope, elbows over the sodden bulk of bunched canvas atop the yard. More men came and jostled next to him, the footrope jerking over empty space as he worked free his knife.

  The gaskets on the main topsail were plaited and he sawed at them awkwardly while the angle of the wind gradually changed— below they must be bracing the yard round as they worked. Those on deck would be seeing only jerking shadows and would have to judge as best they could the right
moment to set the sails.

  A harsh judder nearly toppled them from the yardarm. If they could not get away they would be beaten to pieces very shortly and themselves be taken by the sea. “Off th’ yard!” he screamed, for he had noticed the halliards shake; if the new-freed sails took the wind it would be sudden and uncontrollable.

  They scrambled for the shrouds and Kydd made his way thankfully to the deck as Teazer leant to the blast, then miraculously got under way for the outer Sound.

  “Mr Kydd, sir.” The carpenter anxiously touched his forehead. “An’ I have t’ say, we’re makin’ water bad—more’n two foot in th’ well.”

  It was too much after all they had endured and done that day. “Thank ye,” he said mechanically, and tried to reason against the cold and tiredness. Without doubt it would be due to seams opening under the crushing punishment of the mass weight of the ship bearing down on the curve of the hull—or worse: whole strakes giving way and the sea rushing unchecked into Teazer ’s bowels.

  To founder out in the Sound in the anonymous night—it couldn’t happen! But with no idea where the leaks were and no way to find out in the pitch dark of a flooding hold . . . “Mr Purchet,” he croaked, “we’ll fother.” This would involve passing sails under the hull in the hope that it would staunch the inflow. “The whole length o’ the ship.”

  He turned to Dowse. “We’re not t’ make harbour, I believe. Is there any cove, any landing-place—anywhere in th’ Sound as we c’n find . . . ?”

  The master’s face was pinched. “Er, no, sir. Entirely rock-bound t’ the Cattewater.” He hesitated, then said, “But there is . . . if we stays this side a mite . . .”

  Taking in water all the time Teazer staggered along before the gale. At a little after four in the morning she rounded to and flung a rope ashore to waiting soldiers, then slewed about close to the little quay of humble Fort Picklecombe.

  As if tiring of the fight she gently took the ground and, creaking mightily, settled into a final stillness.

  CHAPTER 12

  RENZI HELD UP his Plymouth & Dock Telegraph with an enigmatic smile. “Dear fellow, there’s an item here that’s of some interest, bearing as it does on . . .” Kydd began to read what looked suspiciously like a gossip column.

  Our doughty spy, LOOKOUT, once again mounts to the crow’s nest in his tireless quest for items of value to pique our readers’ interest. He raises his powerful glass and begins his search and it is not long before he spies a particularly gratifying sight. It is none other than that of our beautiful and accomplished Miss Persephone L—, the cynosure of every gentlemanly eye, the acknowledged catch of the season and the adornment of every gathering of the quality, who is seen to be promenading yet again with the same fortunate gentleman. LOOKOUT strains to make out his appearance but is unable to distinguish at such a distance beyond noting that he is in the character of a naval person and has an unmistakable air of Command about him. Can this be indeed the notorious Captain Kidd boarded and taken a prize? Knowing his duty, LOOKOUT instantly sends a messenger post-haste to the Telegraph offices advising that space be immediately held over, for it seems the society columns will soon be echoing to the sound of wedding bells. He does however beg the dear Reader to consider now the plight of the legion of the disappointed—

  He threw down the newspaper. “What catblash is this?” he growled, secretly delighted that he and Persephone were now so publicly linked. “They even have m’ name wrong, the swabs.”

  After Teazer had been towed to the dockyard for repairs he had called on Persephone and found that she and Lady Lockwood had gone to Bath to take the waters. The admiral had advised him gruffly that it would not serve his case to go in pursuit and that in the meantime Kydd must bide his time patiently. The difficulty now was to find some occupation that did not bear too heavily on the purse in the coming weeks; on Persephone’s return there would, no doubt, be a considerable strain on his means.

  As if sensing his dilemma, Renzi got up and stretched. “If you are of a mind, dear fellow, there is some small diversion in prospect that might serve us both.” He went to the table and picked up a letter. “I have had the singular good fortune to meet a personable young man named Jonathan Couch, who seems to be somewhat enamoured of our piscatorial cousins. He’s shown a gratifying degree of interest in my study and advises that to the enquiring mind there is no need to travel to the cannibal isles to observe man in nature. This may all be got in a wild and picturesque setting not so very far from here.

  “In short, he suggests that I base myself there and make my observations at leisure in the countryside round about. He promised to speak to a local squire he knows in the matter of our lodgings and by this letter I find a most generous and open invitation for us both to stay at Polwithick Manor.”

  It seemed an agreeable enough plan—Kydd could relax in the quiet and leisurely country surroundings and from time to time assist in whatever ethnical studies Renzi had in mind. “Er, where is this wild place?”

  “Oh, did I not mention it? It is Polperro.”

  Polperro? Kydd gave a wry smile at the thought of staying in a smugglers’ den . . .

  Polwithick was set half-way between Crumplehorn and Landaviddy, with a fine view far down into the steep valley and compact huddle that was Polperro.

  “Elizabethan, do you think?” Renzi mused, as they dismounted from their horses; their baggage would follow by packhorse over the rutted tracks that went for roads in this Cornish interior.

  The charming manor did seem of an age: a stout jumble of ancient mullioned windows and grey moorstone from the time of the first George, set among ancient yews and hawthorns, blossoms from the neat kitchen garden softening its bluff squareness.

  “Come in! Come in, come in—ye’re both most welcome, gentlemen!” Squire Morthwen was jolly and red-faced.

  “Nicholas Renzi, sir, and this is my friend and colleague, Mr Kydd.”

  “A pleasure t’ have ye here! It was, er, something in the philosophical line ye wish to study in these parts, was it not, sir?”

  “Indeed. And I’m sure you’ll prove of sovereign worth in directing me to where—but this can wait until later, sir. We’re under no rush of time.”

  They were ushered into a small drawing room where the whole family was drawn up in a line. “This is m’ brood, gentlemen, who’re very curious t’ see what kind o’ visitors come all the way t’ Polwithick.

  “Now this is Edmund, the eldest.” A tall young man with a studied look of boredom bowed stiffly. “M’ daughter Rosalynd.” A delicate pale maiden with downcast eyes curtsied, but when she rose it was with a startlingly frank gaze. “And Titus, th’ youngest.” A tousled youth grinned at them.

  “I know town folk take y’ vittles late, but in the country we like t’ have ours while there’s still light t’ appreciate ’em. Shall we?”

  The meal in the dark-timbered dining parlour was unlike any Kydd had experienced before. It wasn’t just the massive oaken furniture or the rabbit in cider or even the still country wines, but the warmth and jollity in place of the cool manners and polite converse he had grown used to.

  The squire, it seemed, was a widower but the table was kept with decorum; the visitors were spared close interrogation and afterwards the gentlemen repaired to a study for port and conversation.

  “Well, Mr Renzi, y’ mentioned in your letter about ethnical studies in th’ West Country. I don’t think I can help thee personally with that but you’ll find some rare fine curiosities hereabouts.”

  Renzi was able in some measure to indicate his requirements but was interrupted by a wide-eyed face peeking round the door. “Oh, Papa, do let us stay!” Titus pleaded.

  The squire frowned. “Church mice!” he roared. “Not a squeak, mind!” With three solemn faces hanging on every word, Renzi continued.

  It transpired that they were well placed to make comparative study between the way of life of the fisher-folk and that of the country yeomen and, indeed, if Renzi were
not of a squeamish tendency, the tin miners along the coast would afford much to reflect upon.

  Renzi beamed. “My thanks indeed, sir! This will provide me with precisely the kind of factual grist I shall need—do you not think so, brother Kydd?”

  “Er, yes, o’ course, Mr Renzi. An ethnical harvest o’ some size, I’d believe.”

  Plans were put in train at once: there were horses in the stables for their convenience, and the squire allowed he was modestly proud of an orangery, which, being south-facing, was eminently suited to a learned gentleman’s retiring with his books.

  Friendly goodnights were exchanged and Kydd and Renzi took possession of their bedrooms; in each a pretty four-poster waited ready, warmed with a pan. It was going to be a fine respite from their recent trials.

  After a hearty breakfast, Renzi drew Kydd aside. “There is a matter . . . that is causing me increasing unease. In fact it concerns yourself, my good friend. It . . . I lay awake last night and could find no other alternative, even as I fear you may feel slighted—and, indeed, cheated.”

  Puzzled, Kydd said nothing as Renzi continued. “You came with me to this place to contribute to the sum of human knowledge in an ethnical examination. It is the first such I have undertaken else I should have realised this before, but in actually contemplating my approach to the persons under study it seems that while I might, over time, be considered a harmless savant, the two of us together could well be accounted a threat of sorts.”

  Looking decidedly uncomfortable, Renzi went on, “Therefore if I am to observe their natural behaviour it rather seems that . . . it were better you remain behind.”

  Kydd snorted. “M’ dear fellow, if you feel able t’ manage this all by y’rself, then I must find m’ own amusements.”