The Admiral's Daughter Page 30

  Kydd had to possess himself in patience for the twenty-four days that remained before they would be finally together and be satisfied with the precious locket. Polperro was left gradually to sink astern.

  Days followed other days; Renzi had retreated into formality and spent time in Kydd’s cabin only on ship’s business. Standish affected a cynical correctness that preyed on Kydd’s nerves, but he hugged to his heart the knowledge that now every day was one closer.

  He took advantage of a mild south-easterly to call on the Collector of Customs at Fowey. As usual, he heard a litany of missed landings, fruitless swoops, the outrageous ease with which operations were co-ordinated, and views on the complete uselessness of the Royal Navy, but nothing to help his quest.

  The gig set off to return to Teazer and Kydd spotted seamen crowding together at the foremast about one man. It wasn’t until he was aboard that he could see Tobias Stirk was at the centre of attention.

  Only Standish knew the real reason for Stirk’s absence and Kydd took savage delight in not asking him to the cabin to listen to any adventures, instead ordering him to take the ship to sea.

  “Good t’ see ye, right fine it is!” Kydd said, in unaffected pleasure. “Th’ best sight I’ve had f’r a sennight, y’ must believe.”

  “An’ it’s right oragious t’ be back, Mr Kydd,” Stirk growled.

  Kydd felt a rush of warmth. “Ye’ll have a rummer for y’r bones,” he said, then found glasses and a bottle.

  He saw Stirk looking up at him with his steely eyes as he poured and, for some reason, felt defensive. “Not as who’s t’ tell, Toby, but it’s been a hard beat for me these last weeks,” he tried to say lightly. “Only t’ say, there’s been a mort o’ trouble over me bein’ spliced t’ the wrong lady and, er, y’ may hear rum things about me,” he finished lamely.

  Stirk watched him levelly as he took a pull at his drink, then set the glass down and said carefully. “Sorry t’ hear of it, sir. ”

  “Aye,” Kydd said. There had been a time when he could have unburdened his soul to this man but that was far in the past and they were separated in any friendship by the widest gulf that could exist in a ship. He topped up Stirk’s glass. “Then I’ll be pleased t’ hear of y’r adventuring now, Mr Stirk.”

  There was a glimmer of a smile. “And ye’ll be interested in these, ” Stirk grunted, as he tugged off his shoes and retrieved some folded papers. “Fr’m Guernsey.”

  Kydd scanned them quickly. One was a form of cargo manifest but in essence showed orders to tranship specified freight to an English ship, openly listed contraband. It was countersigned—by the guarantor.

  “It’s Zephaniah Job o’ Polperro,” Stirk said bluntly. “Runs it all, even sets ’imself up as a bank t’ guarantee to the Mongseers which supplies th’ run goods.”

  Kydd brought to memory the kindly face of the Mr Job he had met: could he really be the same man?

  He looked at another paper; a letter-of-credit with the same beautifully executed and perfectly readable signature with an ornate flourish in the exact centre below it. Zephaniah Job.

  “A very fly gennelman, Mr Job. Has s’ much ridin’ on the cargoes he’s taken over th’ business o’ gettin’ it ashore himself. Organises th’ lot fr’m a master book ’e keeps.”

  So that was how—

  “Now, Mr Kydd, if ye has th’ book an’ matches it there t’ the sailin’ times, even a blind Dutchman ’ll have t’ say as how he must by y’ man.”

  “How—”

  “That’s ’cos I know where ’e keeps th’ book. It’s in his house, f’r I seen him get it quick, like, so it must be there. An’ if ye’d rummage his house, why . . .”

  Kydd sat back in admiration. Then he said, “This letter-o’-credit, it’s worth a bucket o’ guineas an’ I’m thinkin’ th’ owner was vexed t’ lose it. May I know, did, er, y’ come by much trouble in th’ gettin’ of it?”

  Stirk said nothing, fixing Kydd with an expressionless stare.

  “Come now, Mr Stirk, y’ must have a tale or two t’ tell.”

  There was no response and Kydd knew he would never learn what had taken place.

  Stirk stood. “I’ll go now, sir,” he growled.

  “This is a great stroke, an’ there’ll be a reward at th’ back of it. I’ll see y’ square on that, Mr Stirk,” Kydd said warmly.

  “No, Mr Kydd. I doesn’t want any t’ know—ever, if y’ unnerstands me.” Stirk had done what he had for Kydd, but he was not proud to have deceived those who had befriended him and Luke.

  Kydd bounded on deck. The sunshine felt joyful on his face.

  Standish looked at him curiously. “Did the rascal find out anything of use, sir?”

  Kydd smiled. “A rare enough set of adventures, I’ll grant, but nothin’ o’ value.”

  “Ha! I didn’t think it. He’s had a holiday on the King’s account and lines his pocket in following his old ways. That sort don’t know the meaning of honour.”

  Kydd’s smile vanished. “That’s as may be. F’r now we have a pressing task. I’ve had intelligence fr’m the Collector in Fowey that will mean we c’n lay our hands on this smuggler-in-chief.”

  “Why, sir, if that’s so then—”

  “We crack on all sail conformable. I’m not goin’ t’ miss the chance to settle th’ rogue.” He could have alerted Fowey to send a Revenue party to arrest Job but this opportunity was too good to miss. When he succeeded where all others had failed, Lockwood would be furious but would have no alternative but to thank him publicly and release him from this drudgery.

  “Er, where . . . ?”

  “No more’n a league ahead, Mr Standish. Polperro!”

  HMS Teazer rounded to and anchored in four fathoms off the little fishing village. Much too big to enter the tiny harbour, she made a fine picture so close in and Kydd thrilled to think that Rosalynd might be among the curious sightseers come to see why a King’s ship had disturbed their morning.

  But they were there for a stern purpose. “Eight men—Poulden in charge. Cutlasses, two muskets.” He did not expect difficulties but if Job had men of his own it would be prudent to mount a show of force.

  The pinnace stroked for the harbour entrance, eyes turning at the dramatic flare of rocks that was the Peak. Ashore, people hurried to stand along the rugged heights to watch the drama.

  “Th’ fish quay,” Kydd ordered his coxswain. A small boat scrambled to get out of the way and people crowded there when it could be seen where they were headed.

  “Hold water larb’d, give way st’b’d.” The pinnace swung and headed in. “Toss y’r oars!” Looms were smacked on thighs and oars thrown vertical as the boat glided in to the quay. Excited faces peered over the edge and Kydd adopted a suitably grave expression as he climbed up to the top, his men behind him.

  “Form up,” he snapped, clapping his cocked hat firmly in place. “Shoulder y’r arms.” There were gasps from the jostling onlookers as the seamen drew their cutlasses and rested the bare blades on their shoulders.

  The crowd’s noise died as they watched, wide-eyed. There was a jostling movement and suddenly Rosalynd was there—fear and delight in her features. “Thomas!” she called, and flung herself forward.

  “Hey, Miss! Y’ can’t do that!” Poulden said, scandalised. “That’s the captain!”

  “The captain!” she squealed, eyes shining. “But he’s my captain!”

  “Er, hmm,” Kydd said gruffly. “M’ dear, I have m’ duty t’ do, if y’ please.” He was conscious of a growing hubbub as he was recognised under his gold lace, and there were open grins among his men. “If ye’d wait f’r me . . .”

  “I’ll be here for you, my very dearest!” she breathed. A hug turned into a kiss before Kydd, crimson-faced, could march the men off, the crowd surging after them.

  He knew the way: they swung across the little bridge and up the pathway, the nervous agitation of the throng echoing in the narrow lane as they speculated loudly on their des
tination. At the modest cottage he hammered on the door. “Open th’ door! In the King’s name, open!”

  Unrest spread as the people realised what was happening; Job was popular in Polperro. Kydd raised his hand to knock again but the door opened and a bemused Job emerged, blinking in the sun. “Gentlemen? Ah, Mr Kydd, is it not?”

  Kydd felt a wave of misgiving at seeing him again. A powerful smuggling gang-master? If Stirk was wrong . . .

  “Let’s be inside, sir,” he said firmly. There were angry shouts from the crowd, but Poulden and one other entered close behind and shut the door.

  “I’ve reason t’ believe . . .” Kydd began. It sounded so theatrical, and the mild-mannered Job stared at him in alarm. “Right, Poulden. Y’ know what ye’re lookin’ for—go to it.”

  “What? You can’t do that, sir! What are you doing?” Job shrilled, as Poulden went into the room described by Stirk. “There’s the accounts of years in there—they’ll be sent all topsy-turvy. Oh, do stop him, Mr Kydd, I beg.”

  But it was too late. Poulden came back with a great volume and placed it on the table in front of Kydd. “Behind th’ dresser, sir.”

  Neat columns: names, dates, cargoes. Consignees, special instructions, ships, times, places. It was more than enough. “Zephaniah Job. I arrest you f’r—f’r doin’ smugglin’, contrary t’ the law. Ye’ll come with us t’ Fowey—now.”

  Iron handcuffs were produced. Job was now calm, almost serene. “This is my home village, Mr Kydd. It would oblige me extremely should you permit me to go on board your vessel unfettered, sir.”

  “Your word?”

  “My word.”

  There was something disturbing about his imperturbability but Kydd allowed his request and they stepped outside.

  The crowd was restless. Shouts and jeers met them and a stone whistled past Kydd’s head. “Go,” he told Poulden, and the party set off quickly for the quay, seamen with naked blades to each side of him and the prisoner. Catcalls sounded above the tumult; cries of anger and betrayal.

  They reached the quay and the pinnace made ready. Rosalynd stood back, her face pale with shock.

  “Bliddy spy, that’s what y’ came ’ere for!” screamed Mrs Minards, in Kydd’s face.

  “Aye! Not fit f’r a Polperro lass, he ain’t!” spat Puckey, and the mob took it up. Grim-faced, Kydd told Job to get into the boat and turned to face the crowd, seeing Rosalynd tear free and run to him sobbing.

  “I had t’ do my duty,” he said huskily. Fish entrails slapped against his coat, soiling Rosalynd as well.

  She composed herself. “You must always do your duty, my love. Go now, and I’ll be waiting for you.”

  “Sir?” Poulden said anxiously.

  “S-soon,” was all Kydd could trust himself to say to her, before he turned abruptly and went down into the boat. “Give way,” he said, in a low voice, and as they made for the open sea, he twisted round to keep her in view as long as he could.

  He should have considered it more, Kydd thought bitterly. Job was a benefactor to the village, well liked and, most importantly, a regular employer of tub carriers and lookouts. Kydd had angered the folk of Polperro, antagonised the very place that had made him so welcome, and now his world of happiness had contracted to just one person—whom he had unthinkingly made an outcast among her own people.

  “Sir?” Standish entered, unsure. “Ah, Mr Job is asking for a word with you in private, sir. I did tell him it was improper, but . . .”

  “It is. Where is he now?”

  “In irons, sir. I thought it—”

  “In bilboes? A mort hard on a man o’ years, Mr Standish. Bring him t’ me, I’ll hear him out.” For some reason he had an odd regard for the man.

  “I do apologise f’r my lieutenant, Mr Job. He’s zealous in th’ King’s service, y’ must understand. Now, what c’n I do for you?”

  Job settled himself. “You will believe that my course is finished, Commander, but I should like to say to you here that there is a service I can yet do for my fellow man, which it would render me much satisfaction to perform.”

  Kydd kept a noncommittal silence.

  “And it has to be admitted, its doing must stand me in good stead for anything that must follow for me.”

  “Y’r service?”

  “Yes. You will no doubt have heard of that vile privateersman, Bloody Jacques.”

  The hairs on Kydd’s neck pricked. “I have. What can y’ tell me of the villain?”

  “I want you to remove this evil creature from the high seas, sir.”

  “Your jest is in bad taste, Mr Job,” Kydd said.

  “Let me explain,” Job said evenly. “You may have noticed that his knowledge of these coasts is exemplary. This is no coincidence. I can tell you now that I know him well, but as Michael Haws, resident as was of Looe—a species of turn-coat, as it were, in his own interest.

  “In the past I have had occasion to employ him and his lugger in—in trading ventures, but since the resumption of war he has taken the character of a French privateer in order to prey more profitably on our richer trade. In short, a pirate, owing allegiance to none.”

  It was incredible—if true.

  “He wears a dark beard, adopts a rough manner, all this is to hide his identity, of course—and the selecting of victims on the deck of captures to run them through as an example to the rest, why, this is nothing more than disposing of those he knows, and fears might later bear witness against him.”

  “This is fine information, Mr Job, but I—”

  “I will lead you to him. The rest I leave to you.”

  “Well, gentlemen,” Kydd said, with relish, unfolding the chart of St Austell Bay on the table. “Thanks t’ our guest Mr Job we’re at last one jump ahead o’ Mr Bloody Jacques. We have th’ same information that he has—there’s t’ be a landing at Pentewan Sands this next night.” He let the news sink in and went on, “The villain’s goin’ t’ be waitin’ to take th’ smuggler, an’ when he makes his move we want t’ be there to make ours on him. And mark this, if y’ please, I’m not goin’ t’ spare this poxy villain. He’s not y’ usual privateersman, he’s a mad dog an’ must be put down.”

  Standish looked grave, the others remained impassive.

  “He’s not about t’ give up without he takes it out of us. I don’t need t’ say it, but he’ll not be offerin’ quarter an’ therefore I do see it as a fight t’ the finish. I’m sorry t’ see Teazer ’s company put t’ hazard in this way, but I know you’ll see th’ need.

  “Now. I don’t want t’ lose this chance so I’ve given it a lot o’ thought. I’d like y’r comments afterwards.” He glanced at Renzi, sitting at a small table and taking a record, but he realised there would be no discourse in the old way with his friend.

  However Kydd was satisfied he was thinking as Bloody Jacques was. The smuggler would be running fast and direct across the Channel, for with every sail hostile there would be no point in prolonging exposure. Therefore his course would be generally from the south-east, given the easy westerlies that had prevailed these last few days.

  But it would be in the last few miles only that the smuggler’s position would be guaranteed. Where could a privateer lurk unseen? In the almost north-south trend of St Austell Bay to the Dodman, with Pentewan in the middle, one place stood out above all others: Black Head, to the north. This looming mass of granite standing well out could comfortably conceal a dozen vessels within a mile or so of the sands. Not passed from the south-east and with all attention in the smuggling craft on the dangers of the landing, the privateer could close in from behind with deadly ease.

  “So it’s t’ be Black Head. Are we agreed?” A murmur about the table he took to be consensus and went on, “Then I want t’ be in position close in to Charlestown harbour at dusk t’ be ready to drop down on ’em at th’ right time.”

  From seaward, Kydd hoped that HMS Teazer at anchor looked for all the world like a merchant brig waiting out the tide to enter Char
lestown, but aboard her, preparations for the night went on apace.

  It was going to be that hardest of battlefields, the sea at night, with all that it meant for the accuracy of gunfire and distinguishing friend from foe in combat on a strange deck in the pitch dark. With most certainly a larger crew in the privateer, the odds were shortening fast.

  But their duty was plain and there could be no hanging back; there would be many sailors along the Cornish coast who would bless their names before the night was out—or not, should they miss this chance.

  “Sunset, sir,” Standish said, in a low voice.

  “Very well,” Kydd said briskly. “Hands t’ quarters and prove th’ lookouts.” It was not impossible that Bloody Jacques could arrive at Black Head from the north. It was now just a waiting game.

  The run ashore was timed for after dark and before the moon rose. The land in shadows lost its character and faded into gloom. Lights began to wink on ashore. Kydd lost sight of the tip of Black Head; it was time to get under way.

  It seemed so at odds with the lovely scene, it should have been a time of serenity, perhaps a promenade in the warmth of the evening, hand in hand—he thrust away the thoughts.

  Tysoe brought his treasured fighting sword. He acknowledged curtly and fastened it on. “Man th’ capstan—quietly now.”

  The anchor broke ground and they ghosted out into the blackness. The tension began to work on Kydd, but at the back of them was the thought that he so much needed this success, for Rosalynd’s sake. The pirate-privateer captured as well as the smuggling chief: it would secure his standing, no matter what Lockwood could contrive.

  “Still! Absolute silence in th’ ship!” Somewhere out there was the bloodiest foe on the coast—or not. If this was nothing but a wild-goose chase he would have Job back in irons instantly.

  “Sir!” Andrews whispered urgently.

  The midshipman’s more acute hearing had picked up something. Kydd strained—then heard a regular series of tiny wooden squeals, precisely as if the yard on a lugger was being hoisted up the mast. And the sound came from closer in to the land: if this was the privateer he must have superlative knowledge of the coast. They rippled on through the calm water trying hard to catch a betraying clue, knowing Bloody Jacques would be keeping his own silence. But if that was indeed yards being swayed up, the pirate was hoisting sail to make his lunge.