The Admiral's Daughter Page 7

  Already, characters were emerging; the loud and over-bearing, the quiet and efficient, those who hung back leaving others to take the lead, the ones who made a noisy show with little effect, the eager, the apprehensive, the brash. His seniors would be picking up on them all and he in turn would be taking their measure—it was the age-old way of the sea, where the actions of an individual could directly affect them all.

  In the early afternoon they wore about to reverse course back to Plymouth but Kydd was determined that his ship should take up her station without the smallest delay. When the misty, rolling Devon coast firmed again, there was only one decision to be made—with his home port at the mid-point of his patrol area, should he go up-Channel or down?

  The weather was fair, seas slight with a useful breeze from the Atlantic. “Mr Dowse to set us t’ the westward, if y’ please,” he ordered.

  Ready or no, Teazer was going to war. For him, it would be a much different conflict from those he had experienced so far. There was no specific objective to be won, no foreign shores with exotic craft and unknown threats: it would be a challenge of sea-keeping and endurance that might explode at any time into a blazing fight that must be faced alone.

  Kydd recognised the massive triangular rockface of the Great Mewstone, the eastern sea mark of Plymouth Sound. That and the sprawling heights of Rame Head on the other side he knew from before, but then he had been a distracted captain about to set forth on his urgent mission to France.

  Now his duty was to close with the land, to go against all the instincts of his years at sea and keep in with this hard, fractured coastline. There were other sail, some taking advantage of the flurries and downdraughts from the cliffs and appearing unconcerned at the hazards sternly advised in the chart and coast- pilot. No doubt they were local fishermen who had lived there all their lives.

  Once past Penlee and Rame Head, the ten-mile sweep of Whitsand Bay opened up. Dowse moved closer. “If’n we wants t’ clear all dangers between here ’n’ Looe, we keep th’ Mewstone open o’ Rame Head.”

  Kydd noted the tone of careful advice: it would be easy for the master to slip into condescension or reserve and he needed this man’s sea wisdom in these waters. “Aye, then that’s what we’ll do, Mr Dowse,” he responded, and glancing astern he watched as the far-off dark rock slid obediently into alignment with the bluff face of Rame Head. With Teazer a good three miles offshore, this left a prudent distance to leeward in the brisk winds. Kydd relaxed a little: he and his sailing master would likely get along.

  The early-summer sun was warm and beneficent; it set the green seas a-glitter and took the edge off the cool Atlantic winds. With Teazer eagerly taking the waves on her bow and held to a taut bowline, Kydd could not think of anywhere he would rather be. He gazed along the decks: his first lieutenant was standing forward, one foot on a carronade slide as he observed the topmen at work aloft; the watch on deck were busy tying off the lee lanniards as new rigging took up the strain. Purchet had a party of hands amidships sending up a fresh main topmast staysail, and Kydd knew that below the purser was issuing slops to the pressed men, with Renzi and young Calloway preparing the recast quarters bill.

  Somewhere under their lee were the first tiny ports of Cornwall—Portwrinkle and Looe, then the remote smuggling nest of Polperro. This was quite different country from the softer hills of Devon and he was curious to set foot in it.

  The afternoon wore on. The big bay curved outwards again and ended in precipitous headlands and steep rocky slopes. With a little more south in the wind Whitsand Bay could well be a trap— embayed, a square-rigged ship would not be able to beat out and would end impaled on those same rocks.

  “Makin’ good time, Mr Kydd—that’s Fowey ahead, beyond th’ inner point.” The visibility was excellent and Kydd lifted his telescope: presumably the port lay between the far headland, and the near landmass. He picked out the dark red of the oak-bark-tanned sails of inshore craft—but nowhere the pale sails of deeper-water vessels.

  “Fowey? Then I believe we’ll pay a visit, Mr Dowse.” Fowey— Dowse had pronounced it “Foy”—was one of the Customs ports and well situated at the half-way point between Plymouth and the ocean-facing port of Falmouth. No doubt they would welcome a call from the navy and it was his duty to make himself known and check for orders.

  “Mr Standish, we’ll moor f’r the night—no liberty t’ the hands, o’ course.” There was no point in sending the men, so soon to sail, into temptation. “I shall make m’ call on th’ authorities, an’ I require ye to keep the ship at readiness t’ sail.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Standish said crisply.

  “An’ find me a boat’s crew o’ trusties, if y’ please.”

  The busy rush of the waves of the open sea calmed as they passed within the lee of Gribbin Head, the looming far headland. “Leavin’ Punch Cross a cable’s length berth—that’s th’ rocks yonder—until we c’n see the castle,” Dowse told him. Kydd gratefully tucked away all such morsels of information at the back of his mind.

  They glided through the narrow entrance and into the tranquillity of the inner harbour in the evening light and let go the anchor into the wide stretch of water that had opened up. A twinkle of lights began to appear in the small town opposite through the myriad masts of scores of ships.

  “Nicholas, do ye wish t’ step ashore or are books more to y’r taste?” said Kydd, as he changed from his comfortable but worn sea rig.

  Renzi looked up. He had taken to reading in the easy chair by the light of the cabin window when Kydd was not at ship’s business. This was more than agreeable to Kydd as now his cabin had lost its austere and lonely atmosphere and taken on the character of a friendly retreat, exactly as he had dared to imagine.

  “When the Romans invaded these islands, brother, the native Britons who did not succumb to the blandishments of civilisation were driven to the remote fastnesses of Cornwall and Wales, there to rusticate in barbarian impunity. Thus we might account the natives here foreigners—or are we? I have a yen to discover the truth of the matter.”

  “And add this t’ your bag o’ ethnical curiosities, I’d wager.”

  “Just so,” Renzi agreed.

  “Then I’d be obliged if ye’d keep sight o’ the boat once we land— I’ve no notion how long I’ll be.”

  It was Stirk at the jolly-boat’s tiller, Poulden at stroke, with Calloway opposite, and a midshipman at each of the two forward oars. Kydd gave the order to put off.

  Andrews struggled with his big oar and tried his best to follow Poulden while the larger Boyd handled his strongly but with little sense of timing. Poulden leant into the strokes theatrically giving the youngsters every chance to keep with him as they made their way across the placid waters towards the town quay.

  “Stay within hail, if y’ please,” Kydd called down, from the long stone wharf after he had disembarked. This left it up to Stirk to allow a small measure of freedom ashore for his crew but as Kydd and Renzi moved away he saw the boat shove off once again and savage growls floated back over the water. The trip back would be more seemly than the coming had been.

  Nestled against steep hills, the town was compact and narrow. The main quay had substantial stone buildings, some medieval, to Renzi’s delight, and all along the seafront a jumbled maze of small boat-builders, reeking fish quays and pokey alleyways met the eye. They were greeted with curious stares along the evening bustle of Fore Street—word would be going out already in the Fowey taverns that a King’s ship had arrived.

  The harbour commissioner’s office was at the end of the quays, before the narrow road curved away up a steep slope. Inside, a single light showed. Renzi made his farewell and Kydd went up to the undistinguished door and knocked. A figure appeared, carrying a guttering candle. Before Kydd could say anything the man said gruffly, “The brig-sloop—come to show y’self. Right?”

  “Aye, sir. Commander Thomas Kydd, sloop Teazer, at y’ service.” His bow was returned with an ill-natured grun
t.

  “As I’ve been waiting for ye!” he grumbled, beckoning Kydd into what appeared to be a musty waiting room illuminated by a pair of candles only. “Brandy?”

  “Are ye the harbour commissioner, sir?” Kydd asked.

  “Port o’ Fowey t’ Lostwithiel an’ all outports—Bibby by name, Mr Bibby to you, Cap’n.” The spirit was poured in liberal measure.

  “Might I know why ye’ve been waitin’ for me?” Kydd said carefully.

  Bibby snorted and settled further into a leather armchair. “Ye were sighted in the offing afore y’ bore up for Fowey—stands t’ reason ye’ll want to make y’ number with me.” He gulped at his brandy. “So, in course, I’m a-waiting here for ye.”

  Kydd sipped—it was of the finest quality and quickly spread a delicious fire. “I don’t understand. Why—”

  Bibby slammed down his glass. “Then clap y’ peepers on those! Y’ see there?” he spluttered, gesturing out of the window into the dusk at the lights from the multitude of ships at anchor. “We’re all a-waiting! For you, Mr damn Kydd!”

  Kydd coloured. “I don’t see—”

  “War’s been on wi’ Boney for weeks now an’ never a sight of a ship o’ force as will give ’em the confidence t’ put to sea! Where’s the navy, Mr Kydd?”

  “At sea, where it belongs. An’ if I c’n remark it, where’s the spirit as keeps a ship bailed up in harbour f’r fear of what’s at sea?” Kydd came back.

  Bibby paused, then went on gruffly, “Ye’re new on the coast. Let me give ye somethin’ t’ ponder. Here’s a merchant captain, and he has a modest kind o’ vessel, say no more’n four, five hunnerd tons. Like all, he’s concerned to see his cargo safe t’ port, as it says in his papers, but in this part o’ the world he’s not doin’ it for a big tradin’ company—no, sir, for in his hold is bulk an’ goods from every little farm an’ village around and about. Brought down b’ pack-mule, ox-wagon and a man’s back t’ load aboard in the trust it’ll get to the Cattewater, Falmouth, the big tradin’ ports up-Channel.

  “He sails wi’ the tide—an’ gets took right away by a privateer. That’s bad, but what’s worse is that these folk o’ the humble sort have put all their means into the cargo and now it’s lost. No insurance—in time o’ war it’s ruinous expensive and they can’t afford it. So they’re done for, sir, quite finished. It may be the whole village is ruined. And the sailors from these parts, their loved ’uns ’ll now be without a penny an’ on the parish. The ship? She’ll be on shares from the same parts, now all lost.

  “So you’re going down now t’ the quay an’ tellin’ our merchant captain to his face as he’s a cowardly knave for preservin’ his ship when he knows as there’s at least three o’ the beasts out there?”

  Kydd kept his tone even. “There’s three Frenchy privateers been sighted in these waters? Where was this’n exactly?”

  “Well, three ships taken these last two days, stands t’ reason. Anyways, one we know, we call the bugger Bloody Jacques on account he doesn’t hesitate to murther sailors if’n he’s vexed.”

  “Then it’s one privateer f’r certain only. And I’ve yet t’ see a corsair stand against a man-o’-war in a fair fight, sir,” Kydd said stoutly. But a hundred and fifty miles of coastline defended by himself alone?

  However, there was something he could do. He took a deep breath and said, “An’ so we’ll have a convoy. I’m t’ sail f’r Falmouth presently an’ any who wishes may come—er, that is, only deep-water vessels desirous o’ protection before joining their reg’lar Atlantic convoy there.”

  This was going far beyond his orders, which called only for his assistance to existing convoys chancing through his area. Convoys were formed solely by flag-officers and were complex and troublesome to administer, with their printed instructions to masters, special signals and all the implications of claims of legal responsibility upon the Admiralty once a vessel was under the direction of an escort. By taking it on himself to declare a convoy he had thereby assumed personal responsibility for any vessel that suffered capture and in that case would most surely face the destruction of his career and financial ruin.

  “I shall speak with th’ masters in the morning, if ye’d be s’ good as to pass the word,” Kydd said.

  “Nicholas. I’ve declared a convoy,” Kydd mumbled, through his toast.

  “Have you indeed, dear fellow?” Renzi replied, adding more cream to his coffee. “Er, are you sure this is within the competence of your sloop commander, however eminent?”

  Despite his anxiety Kydd felt suddenly joyful. At last! The decision might have been his but never more would he have to face one alone. “Perhaps not, but can y’ think of aught else as will stir ’em t’ sea?”

  “ Teazer is a fine ship, but one escort?”

  “I saw a cutter at moorings upriver off Bodinnick—she’ll have only a l’tenant-in-command and thusly my junior. Shortly he’ll hear that he’s now t’ sail under my orders.” She would help considerably but it would be little enough escort for the dozen or so deep-water vessels he could see at anchor. If they could get away to sea quickly, though, word of them would not reach the jackals on the other side of the Channel in time.

  “So, would ye rouse out every hand aboard c’n drive a quill? I’ve some instructions f’r the convoy t’ be copied, an’ I mean to have ’em given out after I talk.” Kydd pushed back his plate and began jotting down his main points: a simple private identifying signal, instructions to be followed if attacked, elementary distress indicators. Vanes, wefts and other arcane features of a proper convoy were an impossibility, but should he consider the customary large numbers painted on each ship’s quarter?

  HMS Teazer led a streaming gaggle of vessels, all endeavouring eagerly to keep with her in the light winds, past the ruins of Polruan Castle and the ugly scatter of the Punch Cross rocks.

  In the open sea, and with the rounded green-grey headland of the Gribbin to starboard, she hove to, allowing the convoy to assemble. Kydd’s instructions had specified that Teazer would be in the van, with Sparrow, the cutter, taking the rear. Her elderly lieutenant had been indignant when prised from his comfortable berth and had pleaded lack of stores and water, but Kydd was having none of it and the little craft was now shepherding those at the rear out to sea.

  The wind was light in this first hour after dawn. Kydd’s plan was to make the safety of Falmouth harbour before dark but a dazzling glitter from an expanse of calm waters met him to seaward.

  The light airs were fluky about Gribbin Head and Kydd shook out enough sail to ease away slightly. He looked back to check on Sparrow but she was still out of sight, and the narrow entrance was crowded with vessels issuing forth in an unholy scramble to be included in the convoy.

  The little bay would soon be filled with jockeying ships, which in the slight breeze would have little steerage way, and before long there would be collisions. There was nothing for it but to set sail without delay. Teazer bore away in noble style as if conscious of her grand position as convoy leader.

  An excited Andrews pointed high up to the rounded summit of Gribbin Head where an unmistakable flutter of colour had appeared.

  “Signal station, sir,” said Standish, smartly bringing up his glass.

  Kydd’s eyes, however, were on the ships crowding into the bay—there were scores. He swivelled round and squinted against the glare of the open sea. Now would be a sovereign opportunity for Bloody Jacques to fall upon the unformed herd and take his pick. It was fast turning into a nightmare.

  “Can’t seem to make ’em out,” Standish muttered, bracing his telescope tightly. They must have been perplexed to see the port suddenly empty of shipping and were probably wanting reassurance. A small thud and a lazy puff of gunsmoke drew attention to the hoist. But it hung limp and unreadable in the warm still airs.

  “Hell’s bloody bells!” Kydd snarled. There was no way he could conduct a conversation by crude flag signals at this juncture.

  “God rot th�
� pratting lubbers for a—” He checked himself. “We didn’t see ’em, did we?” he bit off. “Tell Prosser t’ douse his ‘acknowledge’—keep it at th’ dip.”

  Standish gave a conspiratorial grin. “Aye aye, sir!”

  It was perfect weather for those ashore enjoying the splendid view of so many ships outward bound. The mists of the morning softened every colour; where sea met sky the green of the water graded imperceptibly into the higher blue through a broad band of haze, an intense paleness suffused by the sunlight.

  “Take station astern, y’ mumpin’ lunatic!” Kydd roared, at an eager West Country lugger trying to pass them to the wider sea. His instruction to the convoy had been elementary: essentially a “follow me” that even the most stupid could understand. He took off his hat and mopped his brow, aware that he was making a spectacle of himself, but not caring. The milling throng began to string out slowly and at last, in the rear, Kydd saw Sparrow but she was not making much way in the calm air and was ineffectual in her task of whipping in the stragglers.

  Indeed, Teazer found herself throwing out more and more sail; the zephyr that had seen them out of harbour was barely enough to keep up a walking pace. However, with Gribbin Head now past, and the wider expanse of St Austell Bay opening up abeam, they had but to weather Dodman Point and would then have a straight run to St Anthony’s Head and Falmouth.

  Apart from the insignificant inshore craft, the sea was mercifully clear of sail, but who could know, with the bright haze veiling the horizon? Looking back astern again Kydd saw a dismaying number of ships strung out faithfully following in his wake. By turns he was appalled and proud: the undisciplined rabble was as unlike a real convoy as it was possible to be but on the other hand he and his fine sloop had set the argosy on its way.

  “How d’ye believe we’re proceedin’, Mr Dowse?” Kydd said.

  Dowse’s significant glance at the feathered dog-vane lifting languidly in the main-shrouds, followed by a measured stare at the even slope of the Dodman, was eloquent enough. “I mislike that mist in the sun’s eye, I do, sir. I’d like t’ lay the Dodman at th’ least two mile under our lee.”