Kydd #08 - The Admiral's Daughter Julian Stockwin

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A th

$24.00

Praise for The Kydd Series

A Kydd Sea Adventure

“Stockwin’s richly detailed . . . portrait of life on ship

J lian Sto

ulian St ckwi

win

and shore in Britain’s oceanic empire is engross-A

As captain of HMS Teazer, Th

omas Kydd

ing. He writes evocatively of shipboard routine, the Ky

must enforce the king’s laws against his

panic and confusion of combat, and the terrifying d

own countrymen, but can he learn to approach of a storm at sea, and he knows how to d

’

sail the dangerous waters of social obli-stage enthralling action scenes.” —Publishers Weekly

the

gation and love before he loses every-a Ad

thing he’s gained?

Admiral’ls

“Likable Tom and his shipmates make a snug fit in that page-turning Forester and O’Brian tradition—

In this eighth book of the series,

thanks to retired Royal Navy author Stockwin.”

tu t

daughter

Kydd is back in command of his beloved

—Kirkus Reviews

Julian Stockwin was sent at the age of Teazer, but he has just begun outfi tting e

fourteen to ts Indefatigable , a tough sea-

“The vantage point of the common sailor gives the her when he is sent on an urgent mission training school. He joined the British Navy nautical novel a fresh twist. In Stockwin’s hands . . .

to the French coast. Later, in home

at fi fteen, transferred to the Australian ulian St

the sea story will continue to entrance readers across waters, he must take on smugglers, pri-Navy when his family emigrated there, and vateers and treacherous seas, while a saw active service in Vietnam. He became the world.”

—The Guardian

growing attachment to the admiral’s

a teacher and an educational psychologist.

daughter promises to bring him all the Later he was commissioned into the Royal

“This writer knows his stuff when it comes to describ-power and social standing he desires.

Naval Reserve and was awarded the mbe.

ing life at sea.”

—The Historical Novels Review

But the course of love does not run true; Retired from the rnr with the rank of ultimately, Kydd must make a diffi cult Lieutenant Commander, he now lives in choice, one which may mean the end of Devon, England. Visit him on the web at o

www.julianstockwin.com.

his friendship with Renzi—and of his c

naval career.

McBooks Press, Inc.

ISBN: 978-1-59013-143-5

Ithaca, New York

52400

www.mcbooks.com

Pr B

Cover painting by Geoff Hunt. Cover design by Panda Musgrove.

ess ook

9 781590 131435

A th

$24.00

Praise for The Kydd Series

A Kydd Sea Adventure

“Stockwin’s richly detailed . . . portrait of life on ship

J lian Sto

ulian St ckwi

win

and shore in Britain’s oceanic empire is engross-A

As captain of HMS Teazer, Th

omas Kydd

ing. He writes evocatively of shipboard routine, the Ky

must enforce the king’s laws against his

panic and confusion of combat, and the terrifying d

own countrymen, but can he learn to approach of a storm at sea, and he knows how to d

’

sail the dangerous waters of social obli-stage enthralling action scenes.” —Publishers Weekly

the

gation and love before he loses every-a Ad

thing he’s gained?

Admiral’ls

“Likable Tom and his shipmates make a snug fit in that page-turning Forester and O’Brian tradition—

In this eighth book of the series,

thanks to retired Royal Navy author Stockwin.”

tu t

daughter

Kydd is back in command of his beloved

—Kirkus Reviews

Julian Stockwin was sent at the age of Teazer, but he has just begun outfi tting e

fourteen to ts Indefatigable , a tough sea-

to the French coast. Later, in home

at fi fteen, transferred to the Australian ulian St

—The Guardian

growing attachment to the admiral’s

a teacher and an educational psychologist.

daughter promises to bring him all the Later he was commissioned into the Royal

“This writer knows his stuff when it comes to describ-power and social standing he desires.

Naval Reserve and was awarded the mbe.

ing life at sea.”

—The Historical Novels Review

www.julianstockwin.com.

his friendship with Renzi—and of his c

naval career.

McBooks Press, Inc.

ISBN: 978-1-59013-143-5

Ithaca, New York

52400

www.mcbooks.com

Pr B

Cover painting by Geoff Hunt. Cover design by Panda Musgrove.

ess ook

9 781590 131435

the

dmiral’s

daughter

The Kydd Sea Adventures, by Julian Stockwin Kydd

Artemis

Seaflower

Mutiny

Quarterdeck

Tenacious

Command

The Admiral’s Daughter

The Privateer’s Revenge

Julian Stockwin

the

dmir al’s

daughter

A Kydd Sea Adventure

McBooks Press, Inc.

Ithaca, New York

www.mcbooks.com

Published by McBooks Press 2007

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher. Requests for such permissions should be addressed to McBooks Press, Inc., ID Booth Building, 520 North Meadow St., Ithaca, NY 14850.

Cover painting by Geoff Hunt

Dust jacket and interior design by Panda Musgrove The hardcover edition of this book was cataloged by the Library of Congress as: Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Stockwin, Julian.

The admiral’s daughter : a Kydd sea adventure / by Julian Stockwin.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-59013-143-5 (alk. paper)

1. Kydd, Thomas (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Great Britain—History, Naval—18th century—Fiction. 3. Seafaring life—Fiction. 4. Sailors—Fiction.

I. Title.

PR6119.T66A36 2007

823’.92—dc22

2007013183

Visit the McBooks Press website at www.mcbooks.com.

Printed in the United States of America 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Ye gentlemen of England that live at home at ease, Ah! Little do you think upon the dangers of the seas.

—Martyn Parker ca. 1635

the

dmiral’s

daughter

Chapter 1

Nicholas Renzi nodded to the man sharing with him the warmth of the log fi re at the Angel posting-house and regarding his deep tan with suspicion. It was not an attribute often seen in England after a hard winter. Renzi was newly returned from tumultuous experiences on the other side of the world that had left him questioning his reason. He had sailed to New South Wales as a free settler, determined to forge a new life there, but it was not to be. And now, in just a little while, he would see Cecilia . . .

The ship that had brought him home had docked three days ago and, having signed off on the voyage, he and Thomas Kydd had made for Guildford. It had been cowardly of him, Renzi acknowledged, to have asked his friend to arrive fi rst to prepare his sister for their sudden reappearance. Cecilia had nursed him through a deadly fever and touched his heart, but such was his respect for her that he had vowed to achieve something in the world before he made his feelings known to her, and had left without a word.

He had laboured long and hard to try to create an Arcadia of his small landholding for Cecilia, in that raw land. Eventually Kydd had rescued him: he had suggested that Renzi make use of his education by devoting himself to the elucidation of natural philosophy from a new standpoint. Where Rousseau and his peers had pontifi cated from the comforts of rarefi ed academia, Renzi’s 10

Julian Stockwin

studies would be rooted in the harsh reality of the wider world, which he had encountered at fi rst hand in places as varied as the Caribbean and the vast South Seas, the sylvan quiet of Wiltshire and the alien starkness of Terra Australis.

He would distil his observations and experiences into a series of volumes on the extraordinary variety of human response to the imperatives of hunger and aggression, religion and security—all the threats and challenges that were the lot of man on earth . . . That would be an achievement indeed to lay before Cecilia and, it must be confessed, it was a prospect most congenial to himself.

This he would owe to Kydd, who had said he would employ his friend as secretary aboard whichever ship Kydd might captain.

For Renzi, performing this role—more of a clerk than anything—

was a small price to pay for the freedom it bestowed on him; he had learned the tricks in Spanish Town long ago and knew that his duties would not be onerous. He had never set store by the petty vanities of rank and was glad to withdraw discreetly from the hurly-burly of tasking and discipline to be found on deck. Above all, he and Kydd, old friends, would continue to adventure together . . .

A boy brought the other man’s pot of fl ip, beer spiked with rum, and looked doubtfully at Renzi, who shook his head and stared into the fi re. It was all very well to have found for himself an agreeable position but the wider world was now fi lled with menace: the recently concluded hostilities had ended with the worst possible consequences. Prime Minister William Pitt had been replaced by Henry Addington, whose panicked response to the spiralling cost of the Revolutionary War was to trade away all of England’s hard-won conquests round the world for peace at any price. And Napoleon Bonaparte, now squarely atop the pyra mid of power in France, was energetically accruing the means to succeed in his greater goal: world dominance.

The King had recently delivered an unprecedented personal message to Parliament. In tones of bleak urgency, he had pointed to the First Consul’s naked aggression since the peace—his occupation the Admiral’s daughter 11

of Switzerland, his annexation of Savoy and more: there was little doubt now that Addington’s gamble of appeasement had failed, and that England must brace herself to renew the struggle against the most powerful military force the world had ever seen.

Kydd, an experienced and distinguished naval offi cer, would not languish in unemployment for long and Renzi felt a stab of concern: might his friend be prevented from keeping his word on their arrangement?

He glanced at his pocket watch, his thoughts now on his imminent meeting. Cecilia’s image had gone with him in his mind’s eye on his long journey and stayed with him to be burnished and cherished: soon he would face its reality. He drew a long breath.

Kydd’s mother handled the capacious muff of kangaroo skin du-biously; its warm, fox-red fur divided pleasingly to an underlying soft dark grey—but might not other ladies disdain it as an inferior substitute for fi ne pine marten?

“T’ catch ’em boundin’ along, Ma, it’s so divertin’ t’ see! They hop—like this!” To the consternation of the house-maid, Kydd performed a creditable imitation of a kangaroo’s leap.

“Do behave y’self, son,” his mother scolded, but today Kydd could do little wrong. “Have y’ not given thought, dear,” she continued, in quite another tone, “that now you’ve achieved so much an’ all it might be a prime time t’ think about settlin’ down? Take a pretty wife an’ sport wi’ y’r little ones—I saw some fi ne cottages on the Godalming road as might suit . . .” But her son was clearly not in the mood to listen.

The commotion of his arrival began to subside a little as the rest of the knick-knacks expected from a voyage of ten thousand miles were distributed. His father, now completely blind, felt the lustrous polish of a Cape walking-stick fashioned from walrus bone and exotic wood as Kydd presented Cecilia with a little box, which contained a single rock. “That, sis, y’ may not buy, even in London f’r a thousan’ guineas!” he said impressively.

Julian Stockwin

Cecilia examined it quietly.

“It’s fr’m the very furthest part o’ the world. Any further an’

there’s jus’ empty sea to th’ South Pole—th’ very end of everythin’.” He had pocketed the cool blue-grey shard when Renzi and he had gone ashore for a fi nal time in the unspeakably remote Van Diemen’s Land.

“It’s—it’s very nice,” Cecilia said, in a small voice, her eyes averted. “You did promise me something of your strange land in the letter, Thomas,” she said. “I do hope the voyage wasn’t too . . .

vexing for you.”

Kydd knew she was referring to his captaincy of a convict ship and murmured an appropriate reply, but he was alarmed by her manner. This was not the spirited sister he had known and loved since childhood: there was a subdued grief in her taut, pale face that disturbed him. “Cec—”

“Thomas, do come and see the school. It’s doing so well now,”

she said, sounding brittle, and retrieved the key from behind the door. Without another word they left the room and crossed the tiny quadrangle to enter a classroom.

For a space she faced away from him, and Kydd’s stomach tightened.

“T-Thomas,” she began, then lifted her head and held his eyes.

“Dear Thomas . . . I—I want you to know that I—I’m so very sorry that I failed you . . .” Her hands worked nervously. Her head drooped. “You—you trusted me, with your d-dearest friend.

And I let him wander out and be lost . . .”

“Wha—? Cec, you mean Nicholas?”

“Dear brother, whatever you say, I—failed you. It’s no use.” She buried her face in her hands and struggled for control. “I—I was so tired . . .”

Kydd reeled. He had sworn secrecy about Renzi’s feelings for his sister and the logic that had impelled his friend to sever connection with her. They had prepared a story together to cover the Admiral’s daughter 13

Renzi’s disappearance: it had better be believable. He took his sister’s hands and looked into her stricken face. “Cecilia, I have t’

tell ye—Nicholas lives.”

She froze, searching his eyes, her fi ngers digging painfully into his own.

“He’s not lost, he—he straggled away, intellect all ahoo, y’ see.”

It seemed such a paltry tale and he cursed yet again the foolish logic that had denied her the solace of just one letter from Renzi.

“He was, er, taken in an’ attended f’r a long time, an’ is now much recovered,” he ended awkwardly.

“You know this?”

Kydd swallowed. “I heard about Nicholas in Deptford an’ hurried to him. Cec, you’ll be seein’ him soon. He’s on his way!”

“May I know who took him in?” she continued, in the same level voice.

This was not going to plan. “Oh, er, a parcel o’ nuns or such,”

he said uncomfortably. “They said as how they didn’t want thanks.

Th’ savin’ o’ souls was reward enough.”

“So he’s now recovered, yet was never, in all that time, able to pen a letter to me?”

Kydd mumbled something, but she cut in, “He tells you— he confi des in his friend—but not me?” A shadow passed across her features. She stiffened and drew back. “Pray don’t hold my feelings to account, Thomas. If you are sworn to discretion then who am I to strain your loyalties?”

“Cec, it’s not as ye’re sayin’—”

“Do you think me a fool?” she said icily. “If he’s taken up with some doxy the least he can do is to oblige me with a polite note.”

“Cec!”

“No! I’m strong enough! I can bear it! It’s just that—I’m disappointed in Nicholas. Such base behaviour, only to be expected of—of—”

Her composure was crumbling and Kydd was in a turmoil.

Julian Stockwin

Where did his loyalties lie? The words fell out of him. “Th’ truth, then, sis, an’ ye may not like it.”

Now there was no going back. She waited, rigid.

“Ye have t’ understand, Cec, that Nicholas is not like y’ common sort o’ cove. He has a rare enough headpiece.”

“Go on.”

“An’ at times it leads him into strange notions.” She did not stir.

“Er, very strange.” There was no help for it: she would have to know everything. “He—he cares f’r you, sis,” Kydd said. “He told me so himself, ‘I own before ye this day that Cecilia is dearer t’ me than I c’n say.’ This he said t’ me in Van Diemen’s Land.”

She stared at him, eyes wide, hands at her mouth. “He was there with you? Then what . . . ?”

“Y’ see, Cec, while he was abed wi’ the fever he was thinkin’.

Of you, sis. An’ he feels as it would be improper for him t’ make it known t’ ye without he has achieved somethin’ in th’ world, somethin’ he c’n lay before ye an’ be worthy of y’r attention. So he ships out f’r New South Wales as a settler, thinkin’ t’ set up an estate in th’ bush by his own hands. But I reckon he’s no taut hand at y’r diggin’ an’ ploughin’, an’ he lost his fortune and reason toilin’

away at his turnips.”

Kydd took a deep breath. “I offered him passage home. Now he’ll come t’ sea wi’ me an’ work on an ethnical book. It’s all a mort too deep f’r me, but when it’s published, I’ll wager ye’ll hear from him then.”

Cecilia swayed, only a slight tremor betraying her feelings.

Kydd went on anxiously, “He made me swear not t’ tell a soul—

an’ it would go ill wi’ me, y’ understand, Cec, should he feel I’d betrayed his trust.”

“Nicholas—the dear, dear man!” she breathed.

“We conjured up th’ story, sis, as would see ye satisfi ed in th’

particulars, but . . .” He tailed off uncertainly.

“Thomas! I do understand! It’s more than I could ever . . .” A shuddering sigh escaped her and she threw her arms round him.

the Admiral’s daughter 15

“Dear brother, you were so right to tell me. He shall keep his secret, and only when he’s ready . . .”

“Why, it’s Mr Renzi. Just as y’ said, Thomas!” Mrs Kydd was clearly much pleased by Renzi’s reappearance and ushered him into the room. His eyes found Cecilia’s, then dropped.

“Why, Nicholas, you are so thin,” Cecilia said teasingly. “And your complexion—anyone might think you one of Thomas’s island savages.” She crossed to him and kissed him quickly on both cheeks.

Renzi stood rigid, then pecked her in return, his face set. She drew away but held his eyes, asking sweetly, “I’m so grateful to the nuns who ministered to you. What was their order? I believe we should thank them properly for their mercies to our dear brother restored to us.”

“Oh, er, that won’t be necessary,” Renzi said stiffl y. “You may be assured that every expression of gratitude has been extended, dear sister.”

“Then a small gift, a token—I will sew it myself,” she insisted.

Kydd coughed meaningfully, then grunted, “Leave him be, Cec.

Tell us your news, if y’ please.”

She tossed her head. “Why, nothing that might stand with your exciting adventures.” She sighed. “Only last week—”

“Oh dear!”

“What is it, Mama?”

“I’ve jus’ this minute remembered.” Mrs Kydd rose and went to the sewing cupboard. “I have it here somewhere—now, where did I put it?”

“Put what, pray?”

“Oh, a letter f’r Thomas. From London, th’ navy, I think.” She rummaged away, oblivious to Kydd’s keen attention. “I thought I’d better put it away safely until—ah, yes, here it is.”

Kydd took it quickly. From the fouled anchor cipher on its face it was from the Admiralty. He fl ashed a look of triumph at Renzi 16

Julian Stockwin

and hastened to open it, his eyes devouring the words.

“The King . . . orders-in-council . . . you are required and directed . . .” Too excited to take in details, he raced to the end where, sure enough, he saw the hurried but unmistakable signature of the First Lord of the Admiralty—but no mention of a ship, a command.

Renzi stood by the mantelpiece, watching Kydd with a half-smile. “Nicholas, what do ye make o’ this?” Kydd handed him the letter. “I should go t’ Plymouth, not London?”

Renzi studied it coolly. “By this you may know that your days of unalloyed leisure on half-pay are now summarily concluded and you are, once again, to be an active sea offi cer. If I catch the implication correctly, Lord St Vincent has knowledge of your far voyaging and therefore is not sanguine as to your immediate availability for service. He directs you, however, to repair at once to Plymouth where, no doubt, the admiral will be pleased to employ you as he sees fi t.” He frowned. “Yet within there is no mention of the nature of your employment. I rather fancy you should be prepared for whatever the Good Lord—or the admiral—provides.”

“Then we should clap on all sail an’ set course f’r Plymouth, I believe!” exclaimed Kydd.

“Just so,” said Renzi, quietly.

Cecilia’s face set. “Nicholas, you’re sadly indisposed. You need not go with Thomas.”

With infi nite gentleness Renzi turned to her. “Dear sister, but I do.”

“Come!” The voice from inside the admiral’s offi ce was deep and authoritative.

Kydd entered cautiously as the fl ag-lieutenant intoned, “Commander Kydd, sir,” then left, closing the door soundlessly after him.

Admiral Lockwood looked up from his papers, appraised Kydd the Admiral’s daughter 17

for some seconds, then rose from his desk. He was a big man and, in his gold lace, powerfully intimidating. “Mr Kydd, I had been expecting you before now, sir. You’re aware we’ll be at war with Mr Bonaparte shortly?”

“Aye, sir,” Kydd replied respectfully. It was not the navy way to offer excuses, whatever their merit.

“Hmm. The Admiralty seems to think well enough of you.

Desires me to give you early employment.” The gaze continued, considering, thoughtful.

“Now I can give you an immediate command”—Kydd’s heart leapt—“in the Sea Fencibles. The whole coast from Exmouth to the Needles. Eighty miles, two hundred men. Immediate command!

What do you say, sir?”

Kydd had no wish to take a passive role ashore with a body of enthusiastic amateurs and fi shermen watching and waiting on the coast. He clung stubbornly to his hopes. “Er, that’s very generous in ye, sir, but I had hoped f’r a—f’r a command at sea, sir.”

“At sea!” Lockwood sighed. “As we all do, Mr Kydd.” He came round the desk and stood before Kydd, legs braced as though on a quarterdeck. “You’ve come at it rather late for that. For weeks now I’ve had all the harum-scarum young bloods to satisfy and you as commander and not a lieutenant . . .”

It had come back to haunt Kydd yet again: as a lieutenant he could be put instantly in any one of the large number of cutters, brigs, armed schooners and the like, but as a commander only a sloop as befi tting his rank would do. “Ah—I have it. Command?

How do you feel about taking Brunswick, seventy-four, to the Leeward Islands, hey?”

A two-decker ship-of-the-line to the Caribbean? Kydd was dumbstruck. Was the admiral jesting? Where was the joke? Then he realised: the only way he could captain a seventy-four was if she was going to sail en fl ûte— all her guns removed to make room for troops and stores, a glorifi ed transport, which would 18

Julian Stockwin

effectively remove him from the scene of action. “Sir, if y’ please, I’d rather—”

“Yes, yes, I know you would, but almost everything that swims is in commission now. Don’t suppose Volcano, fi re-ship, appeals?

No? Oh—I nearly forgot. Eaglet! Fine ship-sloop, in dock for repair. Confi dentially, I rather fancy that, after the court meets, her present commander may fi nd himself removed for hazarding his vessel and then we’ll have to fi nd somebody, hey?”

Kydd realised he had probably reached the end of the admiral’s patience and, in any case, a ship-rigged sloop was an attractive proposition. “That would suit me main well, sir, I thank—”

“But then again . . .” Lockwood seemed to have warmed to him. His brow furrowed and he faced Kydd directly now. “It’s only proper to tell you, Eaglet will be long in repair. There is one other in my gift—but again, to be fair, no one seems keen to take her. That’s probably because she’s a trifl e odd in her particulars, foreign-built, Malta, I think. Now if you’d be—”

“Sir, her name’s not— Teazer? ”

“As it happens, yes. Do you know her?”

“Sir— I’ll take her! ”

Chapter 2

Kydd’s face was sore from the spray whipping in with the dirty weather disputing every foot of Teazer’s progress, but it bore an ecstatic smile as he braced against the convulsive movements of his ship.

It would be some time before they could be sure of clearing the Cherbourg peninsula in this veering sou’-sou’-easterly, but it would be an easier beat as they bore up for Le Havre. Kydd couldn’t help but refl ect that it was passing strange to be navigating to raise the enemy coast directly where he had every intention of anchoring and making contact with the shore.

Earlier, he had eagerly claimed his ship and set about preparing her for sea. Then, in the midst of the work, urgent orders had been hurried over from the admiral’s offi ce: it was His Majesty’s intention to respond to the repeated provocations of Napoleon Bonaparte by “granting general reprisals against the ships, goods and subjects of the French Republic” within days. It would be the end of the fragile peace.

England planned to steal a march on Napoleon by declaring war fi rst and any vessels, like Teazer, that could be spared were dispatched urgently to the north coast of France to take off British subjects fl eeing the country before the gates slammed shut.

Teazer had put to sea within hours, terribly short-handed and 20

Julian Stockwin

with few provisions, little in the way of charts and aids to navigation, and neither guns nor powder. In the race against time she had left behind her boatswain, master and others, including Renzi, who was ashore acquiring some arcane book.

Still, miraculously, Kydd was at sea, in his own ship—and it was Teazer, bound for war. What more could he ask of life?

Warmly, he recalled the welcome from the standing offi cers who had remained with the vessel all the time he had been far voyaging; Purchet the boatswain, Duckitt the gunner, Hurst the carpenter.

And, in a time of the hottest press seen that age, the imperturbable quartermaster Poulden had appeared on the dockside, followed some hours later by the unmistakable bulk of Tobias Stirk, who was accompanied by another, younger seaman.

“Thought as how Teazer might need us, Mr Kydd,” Stirk had said, with a wicked grin, and pushed forward the young man. “An’

has ye need of a fi ne topman as c’n hand, reef ’n’ steer, fi t t’ ship aboard the barky?”

Kydd had grunted and sized the man up; in his early twenties he had the build and direct gaze of a prime deep-water sailor. Of course he would take him—but why was the man wearing a grin from ear to ear that just wouldn’t go away? Then it dawned on him. “Ah! Do I see young Luke, b’ chance?” The ship’s boy of long ago in the Caribbean had grown and matured almost unrecognisa-bly and was now Able Seaman Luke Calloway.

But as Stirk and Calloway were trusted men, Kydd had allowed them to go ashore and they were somewhere in the dockyard when he had sailed.

“Sir!” Teazer’s only other offi cer, Kydd’s fi rst lieutenant, Hodgson, pointed astern. Twisting in his streaming oilskins Kydd saw the dark outlines of questing scouting frigates emerge through the blurred grey horizon and then, behind them, lines of great ships stretching away into the distance.

He caught his breath: this was Cornwallis and the Channel Fleet—ships-of-the-line on their way to clamp a blockade on the the Admiral’s daughter 21

great port of Brest and thereby deny Napoleon the advantage of having his major men-o’-war at sea on the outbreak of hostilities.

The grey silhouettes fi rmed; the stately seventy-fours passed by one after another, only two reefs in their topsails to Teazer’s own close-reefed sail and disdaining to notice the little brig-sloop.

The grand vision disappeared slowly to leeward across their stern. Kydd felt a humbling sense of the responsibility they held, the devotion to duty that would keep them at sea in foul conditions until the war had been won or lost.

“We’ve made our offi ng, I believe,” Kydd threw at Hodgson.

“Stations t’ stay ship.” Now was the time to put about to clear Start Point for the claw eastwards.

Kydd was grateful that a brig was more handy in stays than any ship-rigged vessel but he had to make the best of the situation caused by their hasty departure. “You’ll be boatswain, Mr Hodgson, an’ I’ll be the master.” As well as the absence of these vital two warrant offi cers, he had a raw and short-handed ship’s company.

They wore round effectively, though, and set to for the thrash up-Channel. With no shortage of wind, they would be in position to seaward off Le Havre at dawn the next day.

However, Kydd was uncomfortably aware that nearly all his sea service had been in foreign waters; the boisterous and often ferocious conditions of these northerly islands were unfamiliar to him.

The morning would tax his sea sense to the limit: all he had of the approaches was the small-scale private chart of Havre de Gr’ce of some forty years before, published by Jeffreys, with barely suffi -

cient detail to warn of the hazards from shifting sandbanks in the estuary.

Daybreak brought relief as well as anxiety: they were off the French coast but where? Small craft scuttled past on their last voyages unthreatened by marauders and paid no attention to the brig offshore under easy sail. Kydd had ensured that no colours 22

Julian Stockwin

were aloft to provoke the French and assumed that if any of the vessels about him were English they would be doing the same.

He steadied his glass: rounded dark hills with cliffs here and there, the coast trending away sharply. From the pencilled notes on the old chart he realised that these were to the south of Le Havre and Teazer duly shaped course past them to the north. They would be up with their objective in hours.

His instructions were brief and plain. He was to make the clos-est approach conformable with safe navigation to Honfl eur further up the river, then send a boat ashore to make contact with an agent whose name was not disclosed but whose challenge and reply were specifi ed. It would mean the utmost caution and he would need to have men with a hand-lead in the chains as they entered the ten-mile-wide maze of channels and banks in the estuary.

They closed slowly with the land; the wind was now moderat-ing and considerably more in the west. Then he spotted a sudden dropping away and receding of the coastline—it was the sign he had been looking for: this was where a great river met the sea, the mouth of the Seine. Paris, the centre for the storm that was sweeping the world into a climactic war, was just a hundred miles or so to the south-east.

In the forechains the leadsman began to intone his endless chant of the fathoms and deeps below: the Baie de Seine was a treacherous landscape of silted shallows and other hazards that could transform them into a shattered wreck, but that was not Kydd’s greatest worry. As Teazer busily laid her course into the narrowing waters, who was to say that the peace had not ended while they were on passage, that behind the torpid quiet of the just visible fortifi cations ahead soldiers were not casting loose their guns and waiting for the little brig to glide past?

The fi rming heights of Cap de la Hève loomed on the north bank of the estuary; the chart noted the position closer in of the Fort de Sainte-Adresse, which lay squat atop the summit of its own mount, but their entry provoked no sudden warlike activity. The huddle the Admiral’s daughter 23

and sprawl of a large town at its foot would be the main port of Havre de Gr’ce; their duty was to pass on, to lie off the ancient village of Honfl eur on the opposite bank and make contact with the shore.

Uneasily Kydd conned the ship in. His chart was at pains to point out the menace of the Gambe d’Amfard, a sprawling, miles-long bank that dried at low water into hard-packed sand, lying squarely across the entrance. He glanced over the side: the turbid waters of the Seine slid past, murky and impenetrable.

He straightened and caught Hodgson looking at him gravely, others round the deck were still and watching. If the venture ended in failure there was no one to blame but the captain.

Kydd began to look for little rills and fl urries in the pattern of wavelets out of synchrony with their neighbours, the betraying indications of shoaling waters. A deep-laden cargo vessel was making its way upriver and Kydd fell in to follow, carefully noting its track. A passing half-decked chaloupe came close to their stern and the man at the tiller hailed them incomprehensibly; but his friendly wave reassured Kydd as they passed the batteries into the confi nes of the river mouth.

Honfl eur was fi ve miles inside the entrance, a drab cluster of dwellings round a point of land. Kydd sniffed the wind: it was still unsettled, veering further, but if it went too far into the west they stood to be embayed or worse. “Stand by, forrard!” he snapped.

He turned to the set-faced Hodgson. “Take th’ jolly-boat an’

four men. There’ll be one in th’ character of an agent looking f’r us somewhere in th’ town.” He moved closer, out of earshot of the others, and muttered, “Challenge is ‘peur,’ reply ‘dégoût,’ Mr Hodgson.”

“S-sir? Purr and day-goo? ” the lieutenant asked hesitantly.

“That’s fear an’ loathin’ in the Frenchy tongue,” Kydd said impatiently.

“Ah, I see, sir. Fear and loathing—yes, sir.”

“Peur and dégoût, if y’ please!”

Julian Stockwin

“Purr and day-goo. Aye aye, sir!”

Kydd smothered his irritability: it had not been so long ago that he was equally ignorant of French, and if the agent was wise, allowances would be made for uncultured Englishmen.

“And, sir,” Hodgson held himself with pathetic dignity, “perhaps it were best that I shift out of uniform while ashore?”

Kydd hesitated. “Er, I think not. How will th’ agent sight ye as a naval offi cer else?” He refrained from mentioning that in uniform it was less likely Hodgson would be mistaken for a spy.

It was unsettling to order another into danger, particularly the harmless and well-meaning Hodgson, who had been almost fawning in his gratitude to be aboard—he had spent the last fi ve years on the beach—but there was no other with the authority. “Send th’

boat back wi’ the agent. We’ll keep the rest o’ the boats manned ready to ship th’ refugees as y’ sends ’em.” Kydd stood back while Hodgson called for volunteers. There were none: Teazer had yet to acquire that sturdy interdependence within her ship’s company that would develop into a battlefi eld trust, and even the most ignorant could see the danger. Kydd picked the only names he could remember, “Harman, Joseph,” then pointed at a nearby pair, “an’

you two.” Later the rest would fi nd themselves manning the other boats.

In deference to the unknown tide condition the anchor went down a quarter-mile offshore and Teazer swung immediately to face upriver, a disquieting measure of the strength of current. “Ye may leave now, Mr Hodgson,” Kydd said encouragingly. “Red weft at th’ main is y’r recall.”

The little boat leant jauntily under a single spritsail, bobbing through the hurrying waves in a series of thumps of spray. It disappeared round the headland to the small port beyond, leaving Kydd under a pall of apprehension, now the rush and excitement had settled to danger and worry.

It seemed an age before the jolly-boat hove into view; the busy the Admiral’s daughter 25

river still had no apparent interest in the anchored brig with no colours and the boat wove tightly through the other vessels.

Hodgson was not in it but a dark-featured man with an intense expression boarded quickly and hurried to Kydd.

“M’sieur le capitaine?” he said in a low, nervous voice. “Nous devons nous déplacer rapidement!” Then, glancing about, he exclaimed, “C’est guerre! Le tyran a choisi de se déplacer contre l’Angleterre!”

Kydd went cold, and the agent continued. Napoleon had suddenly declared war himself on the pretext that Britain had not ceded Malta under the terms of the 1801 treaty. The news was not yet public but dispatches were being sent even now all over France—and the worst was that, contrary to the rules of war and common humanity, the First Consul had ordered the instant arrest on the same day of every citizen of Britain, including civilians, on French soil.

It could be days, hours or the next minute that the orders came, and when the origin of the unknown brig off Honfl eur was revealed the guns would open fi re. They were inside the ring of forts and in full view: the time to leave was now. But ashore there were desperate people who had made a frantic dash to the coast. Their only hope was Teazer. Kydd could not just depart.

“Every boat in th’ water. We’re not leavin’ ’em to Boney,” he yelled, and challenged the seamen with his eyes. “Do ye wish t’ see the ladies taken b’ the French soldiers? An’ th’ gentlemen cast in chokey?” There were growls of unease, but they came forward.

“Well done, y’ sons o’ Neptune,” Kydd said heartily. “There’s those who’ll fi n’ reason t’ bless ye tonight.”

The fi rst boat returned. The sight of the packed mass of forlorn, wind-whipped creatures brought mutterings of sympathy from those still aboard who helped them over the side, but Kydd did not want to waste time in introductions and waited apart.

Poulden dealt manfully with a tearful hysteric while the gunner 26

Julian Stockwin

took the brunt of a tirade from a foppish young blade. An animated babble replaced Teazer’s disciplined quiet until the fi rst passengers were shooed below at the sight of the cutter coming with others. More arrived, including a tearful woman who had been separated from her husband, and an older man with a strong countenance who looked about watchfully as he boarded.

How much more time would they be granted? A muffl ed crump sounded ominously from across the estuary, answered almost immediately from the Ficfl eur battery further up the river. A horrifi ed lull in the chatter on deck was followed by excited speculation, then alarm as another thud was heard. This time the ball could be seen, the distant plume of its fi rst touch followed by an increasing series of smaller ones as it reached out towards them.

“Send up th’ signal weft,” Kydd ordered. There was no longer any doubt about French intentions: the news had got through and they must now know of Teazer’s origins. “Be damned to it!” he said hotly. “Hoist th’ ensign, if y’ please.” They would go out under their true colours. “Hands t’ unmoor ship.” There was every prospect of the situation turning into a shambles; so many were away in the boats still, yet he needed men to bring in the anchor, others to loose sail.

“Silence on deck!” he roared at the milling crowd, as more boatloads arrived in a rush.

Where was the damned jolly-boat? Was Hodgson having diffi -

culties disengaging from the other frantic refugees who, no doubt, had arrived? His mind shied away from the memory of a similar plight in Guadeloupe and he tried to focus on the present. One more thud, then another—shots from cannon ranging on them.

Distances over sea were deceptive for land-based gunners but sooner or later they would fi nd the range and then the whole battery would open up on them.

He needed time to think: most forts faced the wrong way to be a serious menace at this stage but that didn’t mean Teazer was safe.

the Admiral’s daughter 27

Any warship hearing gunfi re and coming to investigate would end their escape before it began.

A ball skipped and bounced not more than a hundred yards away to screams of fright from those who had never been under fi re before. Kydd knew they had to go—but should he wait for Hodgson? Send someone back for him? There was still no sign of the jolly-boat but to put to sea now would condemn both the of-fi cer and the four seamen with him to capture and incarceration—

or worse. Could he bear to have this on his conscience?

In a whirl of feeling and duty he made the decision to leave.

He lifted his face to sniff the wind again; it would dictate how Teazer should unmoor and win the open sea. Then he realised that while he had worried over other things the wind had shifted westwards and diminished—the arc of navigability for a square-rigged vessel was closing. Already their entry track was barred to them; more mid-channel and tightly close-hauled on the larboard tack was the only way out—and be damned to the half-tide banks.

He sent a hand forward to set axe to cable as others loosed sail on the fore alone. Tide-rode and therefore facing upstream, Teazer rapidly began to make sternway, and under the pressure of full sails on the fore, and a naked mainmast together with opposite helm, she wore neatly around until able to set loose at the fore, take up close-hauled—and proceed seaward.

A ripple grew under her forefoot: they were making way at two or three knots, and with the current from the great river this was increasing to a respectable speed. They had a chance. Kydd trained his glass on the fortifi cations. They seemed to have been caught unready by Teazer’s smart pirouette and were silent, but the penalty for making mid-stream was that they were opening the bearing of the closer Villerville guns—and shortening the range for those on the opposite bank.

It would be a near thing; Kydd shied at the mental image of Hodgson and his seamen watching hopelessly as they left but he 28

Julian Stockwin

needed to concentrate on the sea surface ahead for any betraying cross-current and tried not to notice the renewed activity of the cannon. The fall of most shot could not be seen but several balls came close enough to bring on a fresh chorus of shrieks; he bellowed orders that the decks be cleared, all passengers driven below. It would give them no real protection but at least they would be out of sight of the gunfi re—and Teazer’s commander.

Poulden took several sailors and urged the passengers down the main-hatchway; a lazy dark stippling in the sea to larboard forced Kydd to order the helm up to pay off to leeward and skirt the unknown danger. Suddenly there was an avalanche of crumps from the far shore; they were losing patience with the little brig that was evidently winning through to freedom. But would the artil-lery offi cer in charge of this remote coastal battery be experienced enough to direct the aim with deadly effectiveness?

More sinister rippling appeared ahead; Teazer bore away a few points further to leeward. More guns sounded.

The last of the people were being shooed below, and in an unreal tableau, as though it happened at half the speed, Kydd saw a well-dressed lady take the rope at the hatchway and her arm disappear. She stared at the stump in bewilderment. Then the blood came, splashing on her dress and down the hatchway ladder. She crumpled to the deck.

Chaos broke out: some tried to force passage down the hatchway as others sought to escape the madness below. The fop tore himself free and beseeched Kydd to surrender; the man with the strong features snarled at him. It may have been just a lucky shot but who were these folk to appreciate that? Kydd refl ected grimly.

Others joined in a relentless assault on his attention and his concentration slipped. With a discordant bumping Teazer took the ground and slewed to a stop. Sail was instantly brailed up but, with a sick feeling, Kydd knew his alternatives were few.

the Admiral’s daughter 29

As far as he could tell they had gone aground on the southern edge of the Gambe d’Amfard tidal bank. The critical question was, what was the state of the tide? Would they fl oat off on the fl ow or end hard and fast on the ebb?

He looked about helplessly. Virtually every vessel in the estuary had vanished at the sound of guns, the last scuttling away upriver as he watched. The battery rumbled another salvo and he felt the wind of at least one ball. It was now only a matter of time. Was there anything at all? And had he the right to risk civilian lives in the saving of a ship-of-war? Did his duty to his country extend to this? If only Renzi was by his side—but he was on his own.

“T’ me! All Teazers lay aft at once, d’ ye hear?” he roared against the bedlam. Frightened seamen obeyed hurriedly, probably expecting an abandon-ship order.

Kydd became aware that the strong-featured man had joined him. “Captain Massey,” he said simply. “How can I help ye?”

After just a moment’s pause, Kydd said, “That’s right good in ye, sir. I’ve lost m’ only l’tenant and if you’d . . .” It was breath taking gall but in the next instant HMS Teazer had a full post- captain as her new temporary fi rst lieutenant, in token of which Kydd gave him his own cocked hat as a symbol of authority. Together they turned to face the seamen as Kydd gave out his orders, ones that only he with his intimate knowledge of Teazer was able to give, and ones that were her only chance of breaking out to the open sea.

In any other circumstance the usual course would be to lighten ship, jettison guns and water, anything that would reduce their draught, even by inches. But Teazer had not yet taken in her guns and stores and was as light as she would get. The next move would normally be to lay out a kedge anchor and warp off into deep water but he had neither the men nor the considerable time it would take for that.

And time was the critical factor. As if to underline the urgency 30

Julian Stockwin

another ripple of sullen thuds sounded from across the water, and seconds later balls skipped past, ever closer. “Long bowls,”

Massey grunted, slitting his eyes to make out the distant forts. A weak sun had appeared with the lessening airs and there was glare on the water.

The last element of their predicament, however, was the hardest: the winds that had carried them on to the bank were necessarily foul for a reverse course—they could not sail off against the wind. And Kydd had noticed the ominous appearance of a number of small vessels from inside the port of Le Havre. These could only be one thing—inshore gunboats. A ship the size of Teazer should have no reason to fear them but with empty gun ports, hard and fast . . .

What Kydd had in mind was a common enough exercise in the Mediterranean, but would it work here?

From below, seamen hurried up with sweeps, special oars a full thirty feet long with squared-off loom and angled copper-tipped blades. At the same time the sweep ports, nine tiny square open-ings along each of the bulwarks, closed off with a discreet buckler, were made ready. The sweeps would be plied across the deck, their great leverage used to try to move Teazer off the sandbank.

“Clear th’ decks!” Kydd roared, at those still milling about in fear. Through the clatter he called to Massey, “If ye’d take the larboard, sir . . .” Then he bellowed, “Every man t’ an oar! Yes, sir, even you!” he bawled at the fop, who was dragged, bewildered, to his place. Three rowers to each sweep, an experienced seaman the furthest inboard, the other two any who could clutch an oar.

“Hey, now—that lad, ahoy!” Kydd called, to a frightened youngster. “Down t’ the galley, y’ scamp, an’ fi nd the biggest pot an’ spoon ye can.”

Kydd, at an oar himself, urged them on. The ungainly sweeps built up a slow rhythm against the unyielding water. Then, with a grumbling slither from beneath, it seemed that a miracle had the Admiral’s daughter 31

happened and the brig was easing back into her element—in the teeth of the wind.

To the dissonant accompaniment of a cannon bombardment and the urgent, ting-ting-ting clang of a galley pot, His Majesty’s Brig-sloop Teazer slid from the bank and gathered way sternwards and into open water. The sweeps were pulled in, the playful breeze obliged and Teazer slewed round to take the wind on her cheeks.

With sails braced up sharp she made for the blessed sanctuary of the open sea.

After this, it seemed all the more unfair when Kydd saw the three gunboats squarely across their path, a fourth and fi fth on their way to join them. Clearly someone had been puzzled by the lack of spirited response from Teazer and had spotted the empty gun ports. One or two gunboats she could handle but no more, not a group suffi cient to surround and, from their bow cannon, slowly smash her into surrender.

It was senseless to go on: they could close the range at will and deliver accurate, aimed fi re at the defenceless vessel with only one possible outcome. This could not be asked of innocent civilians and, sick at heart, Kydd went to the signal halliards and prepared to lower their colours.

“I’d belay that if I were you, Mr Kydd,” Massey said, and pointed to the bluff headland of Cap de la Hève. Kydd blinked in disbelief: there, like an avenging angel, an English man-o’-war had appeared, no doubt attracted by the sound of gunfi re. He punched the air in exhilaration.

Chapter 3

“Aye, it was as who might say a tight-run thing,” Kydd said, acknowledging with a raised glass the others round him in the King’s Arms. He fl ashed a private grin at Captain Massey, who lifted his eyebrows drolly—their present coming together in sociable recognition of their deliverance was due to his generosity.

“I own, it’s very heaven to be quit of that odious country. And poor Mrs Lewis—is there any hope for her at all?” a lady of mature years enquired.

“She is in the best of hands,” Massey said, and added that she was at Stonehouse, the naval hospital.

Kydd looked out of the mullioned windows down into Sutton Pool, the main port area of old Plymouth. It was packed with vessels of all description, fl ed from the sea at the outbreak of war and now settling on the tidal mud; it took little imagination to conceive of the economic and human distress that all those idle ships would mean.

However, it was most agreeable to sit in the jolly atmosphere of the inn and let calm English voices and easy laughter work on his spirits. The immediate perils were over: Teazer now lay in the Hamoaze, awaiting her turn for the dry-dock after her encounter with the sandbank. Her grateful passengers were soon to take coach for their homes in all parts of the kingdom, there, no doubt, to relate their fearsome tales.

the Admiral’s daughter 33

A couple from an adjoining table came across. “We must leave now, Captain,” the elderly gentleman said. “You will know you have our eternal thanks—and we trust that your every endeavour in this new war will meet with the success it deserves.”

Others joined them. Pink-faced, Kydd accepted their effusions as he saw them to the door. In a chorus of farewells they were gone, leaving him alone with Massey. Kydd turned to him. “I have t’ thank ye, sir, for y’r kind assistance when—”

“Don’t mention it, m’boy. What kind of shab would stand back and let you tackle such a shambles on your own!”

“But even so—”

“His Majesty will need every sea offi cer of merit at this time, Mr Kydd. I rather fancy it will be a much different war. The last was to contain the madness of a revolution. This is a naked snatching at empire. Bonaparte will not stop until he rules the world—and only us to stand in his way.”

Kydd nodded gravely. The dogs of war had been unleashed; destruction on all sides, misery and hunger would be the lot of many in the near future—but it was this self-same confl ict that gave meaning to his professional existence, his ambitions and future. No other circumstance would see his country set him on the quarterdeck of his own ship, in a fi ne uniform to the undoubted admiration of the ladies.

“I shall notify their lordships of my presence in due course,”

Massey said affably, “and you will no doubt be joining the select band of the Channel Gropers.”

“Teazer was fi tting out when we put t’ sea,” Kydd responded.

“I’m t’ receive m’ orders after we complete.” This was probably a deployment with Cornwallis’s Channel Squadron off Brest.

“Yes,” Massey said slowly. “But hold yourself ready for service anywhere in these waters. Our islands lie under as grave a threat as any in the last half a thousand years. No more Mediterranean sun for you, sir!”

At Kydd’s awkward smile he added, “And for prizes the Western 34

Julian Stockwin

Approaches can’t be beat! All France’s trade may be met in the chops of the Channel and on her coasts you shall have sport aplenty.” A look suspiciously like envy passed across his face before he continued. “But of course you shall earn it—it’s not for nothing that the English coast is accounted a graveyard of ships.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And a different kind of seamanship, navigation.”

“Sir.”

“You’ll take care of yourself, then, Mr Kydd. Who knows when we’ll see each other again?” He rose and held out his hand. “Fare y’ well, sir.”

Kydd resumed his seat and let the thoughts crowd in.

“Admiral Lockwood will see you now, sir.” The fl ag-lieutenant withdrew noiselessly, leaving Kydd standing gravely.

“Ah.” Lockwood rose from his desk and bustled round to greet him warmly. “Glad you could fi nd the time, Kydd—I know how busy you must be, fi tting for sea, but I like to know something of the offi cers under my command.”

Any kind of invitation from the port admiral was a summons but what had caught Kydd’s attention was the “my.” So it was not to be the Channel Fleet and a humble part of the close blockade, rather some sort of detached command of his own. “My honour, sir,” Kydd said carefully.

“Do sit,” Lockwood said, and returned to his desk.

Kydd took a chair quietly, sunlight from the tall windows warming him, the muted rumble of George Street traffi c reaching him through the creeper-clad walls.

“Teazer did not suffer overmuch?” Lockwood said, as he hunted through his papers.

“But three days in dock only, Sir Reginald,” Kydd answered, aware that in any other circumstance he would be before a court of inquiry for touching ground in a King’s ship. “Two seamen the Admiral’s daughter 35

hurt, an’ a lady, I’m grieved t’ say, has lost an arm.”

“Tut tut! It’s always a damnably distressing matter when your civilian is caught up in our warring.”

“Aye, sir. Er, do ye have news o’ my L’tenant Hodgson?”

Lockwood found what he was looking for and raised his head.

“No, but you should be aware that a Lieutenant Standish is anxious to take his place—asking for you by name, Mr Kydd. Do you have any objection to his appointment in lieu?”

“None, sir.” So Hodgson and the four seamen were still missing; the lieutenant would probably end up exchanged, but the unfortunate sailors would certainly spend the rest of the war incarcerated.

As for his new lieutenant, he had never heard of him and could not guess at the reason for his request.

“Very well. So, let us assume your sloop will be ready for sea in the near future.” The admiral leant back and regarded Kydd.

“I’ll tell you now, your locus of operations will be the Channel Approaches—specifi cally the coast from Weymouth to the Isles of Scilly, occasionally the Bristol Channel, and you shall have Plymouth as your base. Which, in course, means that you might wish to make arrangements for your family ashore here—you may sleep out of your ship while in Plymouth, Commander.”

“No family, sir,” Kydd said briefl y.

The admiral nodded, then continued sternly, “Now, you’ll be interested in your war tasks. You should be disabused, sir, of the notion that you will be part of a great battle fl eet ranging the seas.

There will be no bloody Nile battles, no treasure convoys, and it will be others who will look to the Frenchy invasion fl otillas.”

He paused, then eased his tone. “There will be employment enough for your ship, Mr Kydd. The entrance to the Channel where our shipping converges for its fi nal run is a magnet for every privateer that dares think to prey on our shipping. And in this part of the world the wild country and fi lthy state of our roads means that four-fi fths of our trade must go by sea— defenceless 36

Julian Stockwin

little ships, tiding it out in some tiny harbour and hoping to get their hard-won cargo up-Channel to market. Not to mention our homeward-bound overseas trade worth uncounted millions. Should this suffer depredation then England stands in peril of starvation and bankruptcy.”

“I understand, sir,” Kydd said.

“Therefore your prime task is patrol. Clear the Soundings of any enemy privateers or warships, safeguard our sea lanes. Other matters must give best to this, Mr Kydd.”

“Other?”

“Come now, sir, I’m talking of dispatches, worthy passengers, uncommon freight—and the Revenue, of course.”

“Sir?”

Lockwood looked sharply at Kydd. “Sir, I’m aware your service has been for the most part overseas—” He stopped, then continued evenly: “His Majesty’s Customs and Excise has every right to call upon us to bear assistance upon these coasts should they feel over-borne by a band of armed smugglers or similar. Understood?”

“Sir.”

“Now, I say again that I would not have you lose sight of your main task for one moment, Mr Kydd.”

“Security o’ the seas, sir.”

“Quite so. For this task you are appointed to a command that puts you out of the sight of your seniors, to make your own decisions as to deployment, engagements and so forth. This is a privilege, sir, that carries with it responsibilities. Should you show yourself unworthy of it by your conduct then I shall have no hesitation in removing you. Do you understand me, sir?”

“I do, sir.”

“Very well. No doubt you will be acquainting yourself with navigation and its hazards in these home waters. I suggest you do the same soon for the other matters that must concern you.”

“I will, sir.”

The admiral leant back and smiled. “But then, of course, you the Admiral’s daughter 37

will have a splendid opportunity in the near future.”

“Sir?”

“I shall be holding a ball next month, which the offi cers of my command will be expected to attend. There will be every chance then for you to meet your fellow captains and conceivably learn much to your advantage.”

He rose. “This I’ll have you know, sir. Your contribution to the defence of these islands at this time stands in no way inferior to that of the Channel Fleet itself. If HMS Teazer and you, Mr Kydd, do your duty in a like manner to the other vessels under my fl ag I’ve no doubt about the fi nal outcome of this present unpleasant-ness. Have you any questions?”

“None, sir.” Then he ventured, “That is t’ say, but one. Do ye have any objection to my shipping Mr Renzi as captain’s clerk?

He’s as well—”

“You may ship Mother Giles if it gets you to sea the earlier,”

Lockwood said, with a grim smile. “Your orders will be with you soon. Good luck, Mr Kydd.”

So this was to be Teazer’s future: to face alone the predators that threatened, the storms and other hazards on this hard and rugged coast, relying only on himself, his ship’s company, and the fi ne ship he had come to love—not in the forefront of a great battle fl eet but with an equally vital mission.

Poulden brought the jolly-boat smartly alongside. The bow-man hooked on and stood respectfully for Kydd to make his way forward and over Teazer’s bulwark as Purchet’s silver call pealed importantly.

Kydd doffed his hat to the mate-of-the-watch. The etiquette of the Royal Navy was important to him, not so much for its colour and dignity, or even its fl attering deference to himself as a captain, but more for its outward display of the calm and unshakeable self-confi dence, rooted in centuries of victory, that lay at the centre of the navy’s pride.

Julian Stockwin

Purchet came across to Kydd. “I’ll need more hands t’ tackle th’

gammoning, sir, but she’s all a-taunto, I believe.”

Kydd hesitated before he headed below; the view from where Teazer was moored, opposite the dockyard in the spacious length of the Tamar River, was tranquil, a garden landscape of England that matched his contentment.

He turned abruptly, but paused at the foot of the companion-way. “Mr Dowse,” he called.

“Aye, sir?” The master was tall, and had to stoop as he swung out of his cabin.

“Might I see ye f’r a moment?” They passed into the great cabin and Kydd removed a bundle of papers from his other easy chair, then offered it. “Have ye had service in this part o’ the world, Mr Dowse?”

“I have that, sir. Not as you’d say recent, ye’d understand, but I know most o’ the coastline hereabouts an’ west t’ the Longships.

Can be tricky navigation, an’ needs a lot o’ respect.”

“That’s as may be. Our orders will keep us here f’r the future, an’ I mean t’ know this coast well, Mr Dowse. Do ye fi nd the best charts an’ rutters, then let me know when ye’re satisfi ed an’ we’ll go over ’em together.”

“I’ve sent out f’r the new Nories an’ I has Hamilton Moore ready set by. F’r a Channel pilot he can’t be beat.”

More discussion followed; Dowse was new to Kydd, but was of an age and had experience. His wisdom would be vital in a small ship like Teazer. “Thank ye, we’ll talk again before we sail.”

With a sigh, Kydd turned to his paperwork. Fielding, the purser, had carefully prepared his accounts for signature. Tysoe entered silently with coffee, his urbane manner in keeping with his station as the captain’s servant and valet: Kydd congratulated himself yet again on having sent Stirk ashore to fi nd his servant of Teazer’s last commission, whom he had necessarily had to let go when he had lost his ship with the brief peace of the Treaty of Amiens.

the Admiral’s daughter 39

Tysoe had raised no objections to quitting his situation with a local merchant and had slipped back easily into his old post.

Kydd completed a small number of papers but found he was restless. All over the ship men were working steadily on the age-old tasks of completing for sea and all he could fi nd to do was address his interminable load of reports. There was one matter, however, far more agreeable to attend to.

He got up quickly, passed through the wardroom and emerged on to the broad mess-deck. There were surprised looks from the seamen but his hat was fi rmly under his arm, signifying an unof-fi cial visit, and he crossed quickly to the tiny cabin adjoining the surgeon’s that extended into a corner of the mess space.

It was new, the thin panels still with the fragrance of pine and with a green curtain for a door. It had cost him much debate with the dockyard but Teazer now had a cabin for her captain’s clerk, an unheard-of luxury for one so humble. Kydd tapped politely.

After some movement the curtain was drawn aside and a dishevelled head appeared.

“Nicholas, is this at all to y’r liking or . . .” Renzi pulled back inside and Kydd could see into the tiny compartment. The forward bulkhead was lined with books from top to bottom as was the opposite side, with each row laced securely; in the middle a very small desk stood complete with a gimballed lamp, and a cot was being triced up out of the way. It was defi nitely a one-person abode but if the sea-chest could be made to suffer duty as a chair, and movements were considered and deliberate, there were possibilities.

Renzi gave a rueful smile, grateful that his years of sea service had prepared him for the motion here. “Should we meet with a seaway of spirit, it may require our stout boatswain to exercise his skills in the lashing of myself to my chair, but here I have my sanctum, thank you.”

The contrast with Kydd’s own appointments could not have 40

Julian Stockwin

been greater, but this was all that Renzi had asked for.

“Er, should ye be squared away b’ evening, m’ friend, might we sup together?”

“Nicholas, dear friend, it does m’ heart good t’ see ye aboard.” The cabin was bathed in the cosy glow of twin candles on the table.

“Your chair, Nicholas,” Kydd said pointedly, pulling forward one of an identical pair of easy chairs.

Renzi gave a half-smile but said nothing.

“Who would’ve thought it?” Kydd went on. “As ye’d remember, come aft through th’ hawse an’ all.”

Renzi murmured something and reclined, watching Kydd steadily.

Tysoe fi lled the glasses and left noiselessly. “And now we’re shipmates again,” Kydd concluded lamely.

Renzi unbent a little. “This is true and I’m—gratifi ed that it should be so, you must believe, brother.”

Kydd smiled broadly and handed him a glass. “Then I give ye joy of our friendship, Nicholas!” He laughed. “If it’s t’ be half o’

what it was when we were afore the mast, then . . .”

“Yes, dear fellow. Here’s a toast to those days and to that which lies ahead,” Renzi answered softly.

But Kydd realised in his heart that there was no going back. In the years since they had been foremast hands together too much had happened: his elevation to the majesty of command, Renzi’s near-mortal fever and subsequent striving for signifi cance in life—

and all that had passed which had seen them both pitched into bloody combat and fear of their lives. They were both very different men. “Aye, the old days.”

“More wine?” Renzi said politely. “I can only applaud your taste in whites. This Portuguee is the gayest vinho verde this age.”

“Yes—that villain in town can’t stand against Tysoe,” Kydd said shortly. “Nicholas, may I know if ye’ve set course ready for y’r studies?”

the Admiral’s daughter 41

“There may be no studies,” Renzi said, his face taut.

Kydd’s stomach tightened. “No studies?” Did Renzi see the great gulf in their situations as a sick reversal of the relationship that had gone before?

“We gull ourselves, brother,” Renzi said evenly, “if we believe that the world will abide by our little conceit.” He shifted in his chair to face Kydd squarely. “Consider: you are captain and therefore lord over all, and may direct every soul in this ship as you desire. But that is not the same as the unthinking obeisance of your redcoat or the sullen obedience of the serf in the fi eld. Our Jack Tar famously has an independence of thought.”

He smiled thinly. “You might set me at an eminence and sup with me. I may pace the quarterdeck in your company and be seen to step ashore with you. This is all within your gift—you are the captain. Yet what will our honest mariner perceive of it? And your new lieutenant—”

“T’ arrive t’morrow.”

“—what construction will he place on our easy confi dences, our privy conversations? Am I to be in the character of the captain’s spy?”

Renzi was right, of course. The practicality of such a relationship was now in serious question: any interpretation might be placed on their conduct, from the bawdy to the felonious. Kydd’s position was fast becoming untenable and it would seem he risked his ship for the sake of an innocent friendship.

“Nicholas.” To have the prospect of resolution to the loneliness of command snatched away was too much. “Answer me true, m’ friend. Are ye still resolved on y’r achievin’ in the academic line? For the sake o’ Cecilia?” he added carefully.

“Were it possible.”

“Then it shall be so, an’ I’m settled on it,” Kydd said fi rmly.

“It is th’ world’s perceivin’ only,” he added, “an’ the world must know how it is.”

He paused, framing his words with care. “The truth is always 42

Julian Stockwin

th’ safest. In society you shall be introduced as a learned gentleman, guest o’ the captain, who is undertaking interestin’ voyages f’r the sake of his studies, an’ who f’r the sake of appearances in the navy takes on himself th’ character of clerk—secretary—to th’

captain.”

This should prove the easiest task: it would be assumed in the time-honoured way that Renzi would not, of course, be expected to sully his hands with the actual clerking, which would be handled by a lowly writer.

“In the navy, we take another tack, which is just as truthful.

Here we have th’ captain takin’ pity on an old sea-friend, recoverin’ from a mortal fever and takin’ the sea cure, who spends his hours wi’ books an’ worthy writin’.” He paused for effect. “I spoke with th’ admiral,” he continued innocently, “who told me directly that he sees no objection to Mr Renzi shippin’ as clerk in Teazer. ”

“You discussed my health?” Renzi said acidly.

“Not in s’many details,” Kydd replied, and hurriedly made much of Tysoe’s reappearance signalling dinner. “Rattlin’ fi ne kidneys,”

he offered, but Renzi ate in silence. Even a well-basted trout failed to elicit more than grunts and Kydd was troubled again. Was Renzi fi nding it impossible to accept their new relationship, or was he appalled by the difference in their living accommodation?

Kydd tried to brighten. “Why, here we lie at anchor in Devonshire, th’ foremost in the kingdom in the article of lamb. Our noble cook fails in his duty, th’ rogue, if he cannot conjure some such meat.”

The cutlets were indeed moist and succulent and at last Renzi spoke. “I can conceive of above a dozen matters that may yet prove insuperable rocks and shoals to our objectives.”

Kydd waited impatiently for the cloth to be drawn, allowing the appearance of a salver of marzipan fruits. “Crafted y’r Chretien pear an’ Monaco fi g damn well, don’t y’ think!”

the Admiral’s daughter 43

“Just so,” Renzi said, not to be distracted. “You will want to be apprised of these preclusions, I believe.”

“If y’ please, Nicholas.”

“The fi rst is yourself, of course.”

Kydd held silent: there was no point in impatient prodding, for Renzi would logically tease out a problem until a solution emerged—or proved there was none.

“Very well. Some matters are readily evident, the chief of which is that this scheme requires I be placed in a condition of subjection to you, which the rule and custom of the sea demands shall be absolute. You shall be the highest, I . . . shall be the lowliest.”

“Nicholas! No! Not at all! I—I would not . . .” Kydd trailed off as the truth of his friend’s words sank in.

“Exactly.” Renzi steepled his fi ngers. “I journey on your fi ne bark as a member of her crew—if this were not so there would be no place for me. Therefore we must say that the Articles of War bear on me as scrupulously as upon the meanest of your ordinary seamen and with all the same force of law.”

Kydd made to interrupt but Renzi went on remorselessly: “As captain you cannot make exception. It therefore necessarily demands that I should be obliged to make my obedience to you in all things.” There was a fi nality in his tone.

“Does this mean—”

“It does. But, my dear fellow, it is the most logical and conse-quently most amenable to sweet reason of all our diffi culties.” A smile stole across his features. “To leave issues unsaid, to be tacit and therefore at the mercy of a misapprehension is pusillanimous, thus I shall now be explicit.

“I do not see fi t to vary my behaviour by one whit in this vessel.

I see no reason why I should be obliged to. Do you?”

At a loss for words, Kydd merely mumbled something.

“I’m glad you agree, brother. Therefore from this time forth I shall render to the captain of HMS Teazer every mark of respect 44

Julian Stockwin

to his position in quite the same way as I allowed the captain of Tenacious, Seafl ower, Artemis . . . ”

“Aye, Nicholas,” said Kydd, meekly.

“Splendid! In the same vein I shall, of course, discharge the duty of captain’s clerk in the fullest sense—any less would be an abroga-tion of the moral obligation that allows me victualling and passage in Teazer, as you must surely understand.”

“Y’r scruples do ye honour, m’ friend—but this at least can be remedied. Cap’n’s attendance take precedence: ye shall have a sidesman o’ sorts, a writer, fr’m out of our company.” Even before he had fi nished the sentence he knew who. Luke Calloway, who had learnt his letters from Kydd himself in the Caribbean would be completely trustworthy and on occasion would not object too strenuously to exchanging the holy-stone for the quill.

“But then we must attend to more stern questions.” These had to wait as the table was cleared and the brandy left, and the captain and his visitor had resumed their easy chairs.

“Stern questions?”

“Some might say of the fi rst martial importance. You wish to be assured of the conduct of every member of your company in the event of a rencontre with the enemy, including that of myself. This is your right to ask, and I will answer similarly as before. As a member of Teazer’s crew I have my duties in time of battle as has everyone aboard.”

“As a clerk? This is—”

“As a clerk, my quarters are strictly specifi ed, and these are to attend upon my captain on the quarterdeck for the period of the engagement. I shall be there—this you may believe,” he said softly.

Kydd looked away, overcome.

“And if Teazer faces an assault upon her decks from without, I shall not feel constrained in defending myself and my ship. This also you may believe.” He paused. “But in any affair that calls for the Admiral’s daughter 45

noble leadership, the drawn sword at the head of a band of war-riors—there you will see that, by our own devising, we are denied.

I am a clerk, not even a petty offi cer, and no man can thus be made to follow me. As bidden, I might carry a pike or haul on a rope but otherwise . . .”

Renzi was laying down terms for his continued existence in Teazer, or more properly defi ning limitations that tidied things logically for his fi ne mind. Kydd hoped fervently that there would be no situation in the future that tested the logic too far.

He found the brandy and refreshed their glasses. “Ye spoke of—preclusions, m’ friend. Here is one!” Renzi regarded Kydd steadily. “How can it be right f’r a man o’ letters, sensible of th’

fi ner points, t’ be battened below like a . . . like a common foremast jack?”

It was said.

To Kydd’s relief Renzi eased his expression. “Do you not remember my time of exile in the company of Neptune’s gentlemen?

It was my comfort then to remark it, that the conditions were to be borne as a necessary consequence of such a sentence.

“I now take notice that there is a similarity: in like manner to your monk or hermit scratching away in his cell in his sublime pursuit of truth and beauty, there are conditions contingent on the situation that may have to be endured as price for the fi nal object.

Should I not have the felicity of voyaging in Teazer then I fear my purse would not withstand an alternative course, and therefore I humbly accept what is so agreeably at hand.

“Fear not, dear fellow, I have years at sea that will inure me and, besides, this time I have a sanctum sancti where at any time I may take refuge to allow my thoughts to run unchecked—I need not point out to you that the keeping of sea watches now, mercifully, will be a memory for me.”

“That’s well said, Nicholas—but you, er, will need t’ talk out y’r ideas, try out some words or so . . .”

Julian Stockwin

“Indeed I will. We shall promenade the decks in deep discussion—as the disposition of the ship allows, of course—and should you be at leisure of an evening it would gratify me beyond words to dispute with you on the eternal verities. Yet . . .” Kydd’s soaring hopes hung suspended “. . . we both have calls upon our time.

It were more apt to the situation should we both inhabit our different worlds for the normal rush of events and perhaps rely otherwise on the well-tried rules of politeness—which places so much value on invitation, rather than crass assumptions as to the liberty of the individual to receive.”

Kydd smiled inwardly. This was no more than Renzi securing to himself the ability to disappear into his “sanctum” when he desired to. “By all means, Nicholas. Er, might I know y’r station f’r messin’ . . . ?”

It was a delicate point. The need for a captain to keep his cabin and table clear for ship’s business was unspoken, and therefore a standing arrangement for dining à deux was not in question.

This had now been dealt with, but where Renzi took his victuals had considerable social signifi cance. A lowly clerk in a brig-sloop could usually expect the open mess-decks; it was only in weightier vessels that the captain’s clerk would rank as a cockpit offi cer and berth in the gunroom.

“I have been led to believe that steerage will be open to me.”

This was the open area below bounded on both sides by cabins and aft by the captain’s quarters. It would be where the fi rst lieutenant would hold court over the lesser offi cers—the master, surgeon and purser. The gunner, boatswain and carpenter had their own cabins forward.

“Why, this does seem a fi ne thing we’ve achieved this night,”

Kydd enthused, raising his glass. “Here’s t’ our success!”

Renzi gave an odd smile. “As it will rise or fall by the caprice of your own ship’s company,” he murmured.

“Aye. We’ll fi nd a way, Nicholas, never fear. So, let’s drink.”

the Admiral’s daughter 47

An apologetic knock on the door sounded clear. “Come!” Kydd called.

It was the mate-of-the-watch. “Sir, we have Lieutenant Standish here come t’ join.” Behind him a fi gure loomed. Both streamed water; rain must have swept in unnoticed on the anchorage as they dined.

“L’tenant Standish? I hadn’t thought ye’d join afore—”

“Sir. M’ apologies and duty but I’ve been afi re to be aboard since I heard I’m to be appointed.” His fi gure was large but indistinct in the darker steerage. “Ah, I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know you’d got company.”

“Oh—that’s no matter, Mr Standish. I’d like ye t’ meet Mr Renzi. He’s a learned gentleman who’s takin’ berth with us th’

better to further his ethnical studies. In th’ character of captain’s clerk, as it were.”

Standish looked mystifi ed from one to the other, but Renzi got quickly to his feet. He inclined his head to the newcomer, then turned to Kydd and said civilly, “I do thank you for your politeness and entertainment, sir, but must now return below. Good night.”

“Y’ see, sir?” Duckitt held out a horny palm. In it was a tiny pyra-mid of harsh dark grey particles, the early-morning light picking out in curious detail the little grains, smaller than any pepper-corn. “This is y’ new cylinder powder—throws a ball jus’ the same range wi’ a third less charge,” he said.

“Or a third further if y’ charge is th’ same,” Kydd retorted, but his curiosity was piqued. It was seldom he came across the naked powder: guns were served with it sewn safely inside cartridges of serge or fl annel to be rammed home out of sight, and priming powder had a different grain size.

“Ah, well, as t’ that, sir, ye must know that it’s an Admiralty order as we takes aboard twenty per centum fewer barrels.” A sceptical 48

Julian Stockwin

look appeared on the hovering boatswain’s face, which disappeared at Kydd’s sharp glance. “And, o’ course, ye’d be aware we gets less anyways, bein’ Channel duties only.”

“Are ye sayin’, Mr Duckitt,” Kydd snapped, “that we must land the powder we now has aboard?”

“Not all of it, sir. We keeps a mort o’ White LG for close-in work an’ salutin’. For th’ rest it’s all Red LG powder, best corned an’ glazed, charge a third y’r shot weight and a half f’r carronades, one fourth for double-shottin’. It’s all there in m’ orders jus’

received.”

It would take time to discharge from their magazine, cramped into the after end of the hold. Then there was the swaying inboard of the lethal copper-banded barrels from the low red-fl agged powder-barges, no doubt only now beginning their slow creep down from the magazines further upstream. “Very well. I’d have wished t’ know of this afore now,” Kydd growled.

Purchet turned anxiously. “Shall I rouse out th’ larbowlines below now, sir?”

“No, no, Mr Purchet, th’ forenoon will do. Let ’em lie.” The thought of breakfast was cheering.

As he turned to go below he saw Standish emerge on deck, ready dressed for the day against Kydd’s shirt and breeches.

“Sir—a very good morning to you!”

“Oh—er, thank ’ee.” He had asked that his new fi rst lieutenant present himself in the morning. Clearly the man had taken him literally and was prepared for the morning watch, which started at four. “I had expected ye later. Has all y’ dunnage been brought aboard?”

“It has, sir—all stowed and put to rights. Cabin stores coming aboard this afternoon.” He glanced up into Teazer’s bare masts.

“If we’re to get to sea this age it were better I begin my duties directly,” he said briskly.

Kydd paused. Was this an implied slight at Teazer’s untidy state the Admiral’s daughter 49

or the sign of a zealous offi cer? “It does ye credit, Mr Standish, but there’s time enough f’r that. Shall we take breakfast together at all?” he added fi rmly. There was no reason why he should be cheated of his own repast and it would give him proper sight of the man for the fi rst time.

“Why, thank you, sir.” Standish seemed genuinely fl attered and followed Kydd respectfully to the great cabin.

“Another f’r breakfast, Tysoe,” Kydd warned. His own meal was ready laid at one end of the polished table—wiggs, dainty breakfast pastries, and sweet jelly, quiddany of plums, in a plain jar, the coffee pot steaming gently. “Well, Mr Standish, the sun’s not yet over the foreyard but I’m t’ welcome ye into Teazer, I believe.”

Tysoe brought napery and cutlery and set another place.

“Pleased indeed to be aboard, sir. You’ll understand that to be idle when your country stands in peril sits ill with me.” Standish was well built, his strong features darkly handsome, hair tied back neatly in a queue, like Kydd’s, but with a studied carelessness to the curly locks in front.

Kydd helped himself to one of the wiggs, added a curl of butter and a liberal spread of the conserve, then asked casually, “Tell me, sir, may I know why y’ asked f’r Teazer especially?”

Standish seemed abashed. “Oh, well, sir . . .” He put down his knife and paused, turning to face Kydd. “Do you mind if I’m frank, sir?”

“Do fi ll an’ stand on.” The man held himself well and Kydd was warming to his evident willingness.

“You’ll be aware that you, sir, are not unknown in the service,”

he began respectfully. “Your boat action at the Nile has often been remarked and, dare I say it, your courage at Acre has yet to see its reward.”

“That’s kind in ye to say so.”

“I will be candid, sir. My last post was a ship-o’-the-line, and 50

Julian Stockwin

while a fi ne enough vessel, she was to join Cornwallis before Brest.” He went on earnestly, “For an offi cer of aspiration this is, er, a slow route. A frigate berth is too much sought after to be in prospect—then I heard of L’tenant Hodgson’s misfortune.”

Kydd nodded for him to continue.

“Sir, my reason for requesting Teazer— you’ll pardon the direct speaking—is that I believe you to be an active and enterprising captain who will see his chance and seize it. In fi ne, sir, prospects of a distinguished action for all will be better served in Teazer than another.”

It was true that the only sure path to glory and promotion was distinction on the fi eld of battle and subsequent recognition above one’s peers. Standish had heard something of Kydd’s history and had made a cool calculation that this captain would not hold back in the event of an engagement, so his chances were better for a bloody victory in Teazer than in a battleship on blockade duty.

“Thank ye f’r your frankness, Mr Standish. But it may be that within a short time th’ Channel Fleet will meet the French an’ their invasion fl eet. Glory enough f’r all, I would say. Coffee?” The offi -

cer looked sincere and was clearly eager to be an active member of Teazer’s company. “Tell, me, Mr Standish, have ye been fortunate in th’ matter of actions?”

“I was at Copenhagen, sir, third o’ the Monarch, ” he said modestly, “and was fourth in Minotaur when we cut out the Prima galley.”

This was experience enough. In Nelson’s squadron during the bloody affair against the Danes, and before, in the fi ne exploit off Genoa that saw the diffi cult capture of the heavily manned vessel.

“Were ye in the boats?”

“I had the honour to command our pinnace on that occasion, yes, sir.”

This was no stripling learning his trade in a small vessel.

Standish was going to be a distinct asset—if his other qualities the Admiral’s daughter 51

were as creditable. “Well, I hope Teazer c’n afford ye some entertainment in the future.”

“Thank you, sir. May I ask it—do we have our orders yet?”

“None yet, but Admiral Lockwood assures me we’ll have ’em presently. Do help y’self to more wiggs.”

“If I might be allowed to make my excuses, sir, I feel I should make an early acquaintance with our watch and station bill.”

Kydd noted the “our” with satisfaction. “If there is fault to be found I’m anxious it shall not be mine,” Standish added. He rose to leave, then hesitated. “Did I hear aright, sir, that your friend, our learned gentleman—”

“Mr Renzi?”

“—is he not also in the nature of a—a clerk?”

Kydd allowed his expression to grow stern. “In HMS Teazer he is captain’s clerk, Mr Standish. He is b’ way of being a retired sea offi cer and brings a deal of experience t’ the post. You will fi nd him of much value when he assists ye, as he will.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Standish uncertainly.

It was while the powder boy was alongside, and the ship in a state of suspended terror at the sight of the deadly barrels swaying through the air, that Teazer’s two midshipmen arrived. Awed by the tension they sensed in the manoeuvres around them, they stood bareheaded and nervous before a distracted Kydd.

“Andrews, sir,” squeaked the younger. His wispy appearance was not going to impress the seamen, Kydd refl ected.

“Boyd, sir,” the other said stolidly.

“Ye’re welcome aboard, gentlemen, but f’r now, clew up wi’

Mr Prosser. That’s him by th’ forebitts. Say ye’re to take station on him an’ I’ll attend to y’ both later.” Prosser was Teazer’s only master’s mate.

The lads trotted off and Kydd turned back to events. Purchet was in charge: his style was to give few orders and those quietly, 52

Julian Stockwin

forcing the party of men to a strained quiet in case they were missed, the boatswain’s mate standing by meaningfully.

The morning wore on, and with the last of the powder aboard and securely in the magazine, the atmosphere eased. “Carry on, if y’ please, Mr Prosser,” Kydd said, and turned to go below.

At the bottom of the steps he nearly bumped into Standish.

“Ah, sir, do you have a few moments?” He was carrying a sheaf of papers, and in the subdued light of belowdecks Kydd saw Renzi standing politely a few paces back.

He hesitated, caught between courtesy to his friend and a captain acknowledging a mere clerk in front of an offi cer, and compromised with a civil nod. The two offi cers went together to Kydd’s cabin, leaving Renzi alone.

Standish spread out his papers: it was the watch and station bill and he had, no doubt with discreet hinting from Renzi, made sizeable inroads into the task. “Two watches, I think you requested, sir,” he said, with businesslike vigour, smoothing out a larger paper made of two sheets pasted together. “With a complement of eighty-two men in a brig this size I see no diffi culty here, sir. I will stand watch opposite Mr Prosser and we will apportion the men to divisions in like wise.”

It was a good plan: both would see the same men every watch they would lead in detached service or for which they would take domestic responsibility.

Standish added, “As to petty offi cers o’ the tops and similar, as you have been to sea once with them I respectfully seek your opinion.” He handed over his list of stations for each seaman in the various manoeuvres that Teazer must perform; mooring ship, taking in sail, heaving up the anchors.

This showed a reassuring technical confi dence. Discussion continued; mess numbers had been assigned and Standish had a useful suggestion about hammock markings and location.

It was always a tricky thing to fi nd a man at night in the press of the Admiral’s daughter 53

off-watch humanity below, and men did not take kindly to being clumsily awakened as the carpenter’s crew or others were found and roused out.

“We stand eighteen short o’ complement,” Kydd said—it was a nagging worry as they had to be fully prepared for war. “I’m trusting t’ snag some local men,” he added doubtfully. It was unlikely but not impossible: there must be a fair number of sailors thrown ashore from the crowds of coastal shipping he had seen lie idle on the mud in Plymouth. They might be glad of the security of a King’s ship known to be on service only in home waters.

Standish left as the purser came for more signatures. Suddenly, from the deck above there was a bull roar. “That pickerooning rascal in the foretop, ahoy! If you think to take your ease, sir, we can accommodate you—Mr Purchet?” It seemed Teazer’s new fi rst lieutenant was losing no time in making his presence felt.

Teazer’s orders arrived; and Kydd sought the solitude of his cabin to open them. There were no surprises: the whole coastline between Portland Bill and the Isles of Scilly would be his responsibility “. . . to cruise for the protection of trade of His Majesty’s Subjects, particularly of the coasters passing that way, from any attempts of the Enemy’s Cruisers, using your best endeavours to take and destroy all ships and vessels belonging to France which you may discover or be informed of . . .”

He was to call regularly at Falmouth, Fowey and other ports to acquire “Intelligence, Orders or Letters,” and further it seemed he should neglect no opportunity to procure men for His Majesty’s Fleet who should then be borne on the Supernumerary List for victuals until conveyed to the nearest regulating captain.

There was, however, no mention of Customs and Excise but if any trade or convoy in the Downs bound to the westward should eventuate he was to “see them safely as far as their way may be with yours.”

Julian Stockwin

All in all, it was eminently suited to Teazer’s qualities and vital to the country’s survival. And it left full scope for a bold action against any enemy daring to cross her bows.

Kydd grunted in satisfaction, gathered up the papers and reviewed what had to be done now in the way of charts, victualling, manning. A small folded paper that he had over-looked slipped out. It was watermarked and of high quality and he opened it carefully. “Admiral Sir Reginald and Lady Lockwood request the pleasure of the company of Commander Thomas Kydd at a June Ball . . . at the Long Room, Stonehouse . . .”

Kydd caught his breath. There was no escape, he must go, and if Standish were invited separately he must make sure he accepted as well. It would be his fi rst formal occasion in home waters as captain of a ship and because of his long overseas service it was, as well, his fi rst entry into proper English society on his own terms—

the Guildford assemblies paled into insignifi cance beside this.

This was something for Renzi. He knew all the fi ner points, the way through the social quicksands and the subtleties of conversa-tional byplay, the rules for bowing and scraping. Kydd’s grasp of the fundamentals of politeness was adequate for the usual run of social events but if at this level he were to bring disgrace on Teazer with an unfortunate gaucherie . . .

Kydd stood up and was on the very point of passing the word for Mr Renzi when he stopped. How in the name of friendship could he summon Renzi to appear before him simply when it suited? It would risk alienating him and fundamentally affect their delicate arrangement; it was important for the future that Kydd fi nd a way to achieve the same object in a manner that did not offend sensibilities.

Of course! In Renzi’s very words—the rules of politeness, the value of invitation: “Tysoe, do inform Mr Renzi that I request th’

pleasure of his company when he is at liberty to do so . . .” As it was done in the best circles.

the Admiral’s daughter 55

• • •

“M’ friend, I’d take it kindly if ye’d give me a course t’ steer in this matter.” Kydd handed over the invitation.

Annoyingly, Renzi did not display any particular admiration or surprise. He merely looked up and asked calmly, “An invitation to a ball—is there an exceptional service you therefore wish of me?”

“I’m concerned t’ put on a brave face f’r Teazer’s sake—that is, not t’ appear th’ drumble as it were. Y’ understand, Nicholas?”

Kydd said warily.

“I think I do,” Renzi said evenly. “This ball. It is given by our admiral and to it will come all the offi cers under his command in order that he might make their social acquaintance and allow the same to discover each other’s wit and shining parts.”

“Aye—this is what vexes me. Shall I be found wantin’ in polite company? I’ve not attended a regular-goin’ society ball in England.

What is y’r advice, Nicholas? What c’n ye tell me of how to conduct m’self? What have I t’ learn?”

“Dear fellow! You have the graces—polite conduct is the same in Nova Scotia, Malta and Plymouth. If you acquit yourself creditably there, then a mere ball . . . And be assured that as the captain of a ship you will not lack for admirers among the ladies and will command respect and attention from the gentlemen. I would not fear an ordeal.”

“That’s kind in ye to say so, m’ friend. So they’ll take me f’r who I am?”

“You may be quite certain they will not,” Renzi said immediately. “This is England and they will take you as they see you—an uncultured boor or salty son of Neptune. Your character will be fi xed only as they perceive it.”

“But—”

“I will be clear. If the prescripts are not observed then, quite rightly, they will conclude that you are not of their ilk, their social 56

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persuasion, and would therefore not be comfortable in their company. In fi ne you would in mercy be excluded from their inner circle.”

Kydd remained stubbornly silent, but listened as Renzi continued, “You would no doubt wish to exhibit the accomplishments of a gentleman in order not to frighten the ladies. Among these that you lack at the moment I might list dancing, cards and gallantry.”

“I’m said t’ be light on m’ feet and—”

Renzi looked at him kindly. “On the matter of dancing, I dare say that you may well have been considered of the fi rst rank, but I have to confi de to you that those wretches the dancing masters, to secure their continued employment, are always inventing quantities of new dances. These you must surely hoist aboard, as unaccountably your female of the species sets inordinate store on their confi dent display. I would suggest some lessons without delay.”

“Cards? Ye know I’m no friend t’ gamblin’.”

“Cards. Do you propose to spend the entire evening stepping it out with the ladies? This would surely be remarked upon. It would be much more the thing from time to time to sit at a table with your brother offi cers being amiable to the ladies at loo, vingt-et-un or some such. To hazard a shilling a hand would not be noticed.”

“Then m’ gallantry . . .”

“Ah—gallantry. This is not so easily won and may be said to have as its main objective the reluctance of the lady to quit your enchanting company. The science you will fi nd in the worthy tomes such as your Baldwin, and the art—the art you must discover for yourself at the fi rst hand.”

“Baldwin?”

“My constant companion in youth, The Polite Academy, or, School of Behaviour for Gentlemen, which will repay you well in the studying. Now, if there is nothing else you desire of me I should return to my new acquaintance the Abbé Morelly, whose views on the Admiral’s daughter 57

the origin of social ills is quite startling and—and interesting.”

“Please do, Nicholas!” Kydd said warmly, then caught himself and added, “I fi nd that ye’re not t’ be invited, m’ friend. You should know this is not as I’d wish it . . .” He trailed off, embarrassed.

“No matter, brother,” Renzi said quietly. “You have earned your right to enter in upon society—I seek quite another felicity.”

There was a warm softness on the evening air, a delightful early-summer exhilaration that added to Kydd’s heightened senses. He tried to maintain a sombre countenance before Standish, who sat next to him in the hired diligence as they clipped along Durnford Street, but it was diffi cult; this was the night when he would discover if he had it within him to claim a place in high society.

They passed the last elegant houses and across an open space to approach the curiously solitary single edifi ce of the Long Room: it was ablaze with light in every window, and the sight brought on in Kydd a fresh surge of excitement. They drew up before the stately entrance—fl ights of steps ascending each side of what was plainly the ballroom.

Handed down by a blank-faced driver, Kydd clapped on his hat and fumbled hastily for silver, aware of the gawping crowd standing about to see who was arriving in their fi nery. He turned and saw a young lieutenant in full-dress ceremonials approaching.

“Good evening, sir, and welcome to the ball. Might I . . . ?”

“Kydd. Commander Thomas Kydd, captain of Teazer sloop-o’-

war.” He would not yet be known by sight, of course.

“If you would accompany me, sir, the admiral is receiving now.”

There was a guilty thrill in being aware of the respect he was accorded by this fl ag-lieutenant and Kydd followed with his head held high. As a lesser mortal, Standish would have to wait.

His boat-cloak and hat were taken deftly in the small ante-room and after a nervous twitch at his cravat he stepped from the small foyer into noise, light and colour.

Julian Stockwin

“Thank you, Flags. Ah, Kydd. Glad to see you, sir.” The admiral was in jovial mood, standing in the splendour of full-dress uniform, an intimidating fi gure. He turned to the two ladies who fl anked him. “My dear, Persephone, might I present Commander Kydd, now captain in one of my ships here? He’s much talked about in the Mediterranean, you must believe.”

Kydd turned to the admiral’s lady and bowed as elegantly as he could and was duly rewarded with a civil inclination of the head.

“I do hope you will enjoy this evening, Commander. I did have my fears of the weather,” she said loftily.

“An’ I’m sure it will back westerly before sun-up, ma’am,”

Kydd replied graciously. He was uncomfortably aware of straight-backed dignity and hard, appraising eyes. He tried to smile con-vincingly when he turned to the daughter.

There was a quick impression of a willowy fi gure in a fi lmy white high-waisted gown that bobbed decorously in response to his bow; when she rose, Kydd’s eyes were met by amused hazel ones in a fashionably pale, patrician face. A neat gloved hand was extended elegantly.

“Miss L-Lockwood,” Kydd said, taking the hand. Renzi’s polite words, learnt so laboriously, fl ed from his mind at the girl’s cool beauty. “M-my honour, er, is mine,” he stuttered.

“I do trust that you don’t fi nd England too dull after the Mediterranean, Mr Kydd—they do say that Naples is quite the most wicked city in the world.” The well-bred voice had an underlying gaiety that Kydd could not help responding to with a grin.

“Aye, there’s sights in Naples would set ye—” Something warned him of Lady Lockwood’s frosty stare and the admiral’s frown and he concluded hastily “—that is t’ say, we have Pompeii an’ Herculano both rattlin’ good places t’ be.”

“Why, I shall certainly remember, should I ever have the good fortune to visit,” the daughter said demurely, but the laughter was still in her eyes. After a brief hesitation she withdrew her hand gently from Kydd’s fi ngers.

the Admiral’s daughter 59

• • •

The orchestra’s subdued airs went almost unnoticed among the hubbub. While he waited for Standish to be received Kydd looked about him. The room was fi lled with laughter and noise, the occasional splash of military scarlet, and to Kydd the much more satisfying splendour of the blue, white and gold of the Royal Navy. Tiered chandeliers hung low from the lofty ceiling, shining brightly to set eyes and jewellery a-sparkle and lightly touching every lady with soft gold. He looked back: there were still some to be received but Standish was not among them—he had disappeared into the throng.

Kydd was alone. Glances were thrown in his direction but no one ventured to approach: he knew why—he had not been introduced to any other than the admiral’s party and he was unknown.

Purposefully, he strode into the room, neatly avoiding knots of people in just the same way as he would on the mess-deck in a seaway, clutching to his heart Renzi’s strictures about politeness and genteel behaviour.

Then he found what he was searching for: a jolly-looking commander who was holding forth to a fellow offi cer and his shy-looking lady while controlling a champagne glass with practised ease. Kydd hovered until the reminiscence was concluded but before he could step forward the man turned to him. “What cheer, m’ lad? Are you here for the dancing or . . . ?”

“Oh, er, dancing would be capital fun,” Kydd said stiffl y, then added, with a courtly bow, “Commander Thomas Kydd o’ Teazer sloop.”

“Well, Commander Thomas Kydd, fi rst we must see ye squared away wi’ a glass.” He signalled to a footman discreetly. “Bazely, sir, Edmund Bazely out o’ Fenella brig-sloop, and this unhappy mortal be Parlby o’ the Wyvern. ” The handshake was crisp, the glance keen. “Are ye to be a Channel Groper, b’ chance?”

Kydd loosened; the champagne was cool and heady and his trepidation was changing by degrees into an irresistible surge of 60

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excitement. “Aye, so it seems, f’r my sins.”

“An’ new to our charming Devonshire?”

“Too new, Mr Bazely. All m’ service has been foreign since—

since I was a younker, an’ I’m amazed at how I’m t’ take aboard enough t’ keep Teazer fr’m ornamentin’ a rock one day.”

“All foreign? Ye’re t’ be reckoned lucky, Kydd. As a midshipman I can recollect mooning about in a seventy-four at Spithead and with no more sea service than a convoy to the Downs for all o’ two years.” He mused for a moment, then recollected himself.

“But we have a whole evening looming ahead. If ye’ll excuse us, Mrs Parlby, I want to introduce m’ foreign friend here to some others.” As they moved slowly towards the side of the room he chuckled. “No lady in tow—I take it from this ye have no ties, Kydd?”

“None.”

“Then where better to make your acquaintance wi’ the female sex than tonight?” They reached a group of young ladies with fans fl uttering, deep in excited gossip. They turned as one and fell silent as the two offi cers approached, fans stilled.

“Miss Robbins, Miss Amelia Wishart, Miss Emily Wishart, Miss Townley, might I present Commander Kydd?” Bazely said breezily. “And be ye advised that he is captain o’ the good ship Teazer, now lying in Plymouth shortly to sail against the enemy!

“Miss Townley is visiting from Falmouth,” he added amiably.

Kydd bowed to each, feeling their eyes on him as they bobbed in return; one bold, another shy, the others appraising. His mind scrambled to fi nd something witty to say but he fell back on a feeble “Y’r servant, ladies.”

“Mr Kydd, are you from these parts?” the bold-eyed Miss Robbins asked sweetly.

“Why, no, Miss Robbins, but I do hope t’ make y’r closer acquaintance,” Kydd replied, but was taken aback when the young ladies fell into a sudden fi t of smothered giggles.

Bazely laughed. “If ye’d excuse me, m’ dears, I have to return.

the Admiral’s daughter 61

Do see my friend is tolerably entertained.”

Kydd took in their waiting faces and tried to think of conversation. “Er, fi ne country is Devon,” he ventured. “I’ve once been t’

Falmouth, as pretty a place as ever I’ve seen.”

“But, Mr Kydd, Falmouth is in Cornwall,” Miss Robbins laughed.

“No, it is not,” Kydd said fi rmly.

They subsided, looking at him uncertainly. “Not at all—

Falmouth is in Antigua—the Caribbean,” he added, at their blank looks.

“Mr Kydd, you have the advantage over we stay-at-homes.

Pray tell, have you seen the sugar grow? Is it in lumps ready for the picking or must we dig it up?”

It was not so diffi cult, the ladies showing such an interest, and so pleasantly was time passing that he nearly forgot his duty. “Miss Amelia,” he enquired graciously, of the shyest and therefore presumably safest, “c’n you fi nd it in y’r heart t’ reserve th’ cotillion for m’self?”

Gratifi ed, he watched alarm, then pleasure chase across her features. “Why, sir, this is an honour,” she said, with a wide smile.

A pity she was so diminutive—not like the admiral’s daughter, who, he had noted, was nearly of a height with himself—but Miss Amelia had a charmingly cherubic face and he could not help swelling with pride at the image of the couple they must present.

A disturbance on the fl oor resolved into the master of ceremonies clearing a space about him and the hum of conversation grew to a noisy crescendo, then died away. “M’ lords, ladies ’n’ gentlemen, pray take your partners—for a minuet.”

Kydd offered his arm: it had seemed so awkward practising in the great cabin of HMS Teazer with Renzi but now it felt natural.

It was to be expected that a stately minuet would open the ball, but the dance’s elaborate graces and moves were too intimidating to consider until his confi dence strengthened, and they stood together on one side as the lines formed. He nodded amiably to the 62

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one or two couples that had seemed to notice him and glanced down at his young lady: she smiled back sweetly and Kydd’s spirits soared.

It seemed that the admiral’s formidable wife was being led out by his fl ag-lieutenant to open the dancing, and Kydd, conscious of Miss Amelia’s arm on his, sought conversation. “A fi ne sight, y’r grand ball, is it not? Do ye have chance f’r many?”

Her eyes grew wide. “Oh, sir, I have come out only this season,” she said, in a small voice that had Kydd bending to hear.

“That’s as may be—but I’ll wager ye’ll not want f’r admirers in the future, Miss Amelia.”

The cotillion was announced: Kydd led her out with pride and they joined the eightsome opposite a star-struck maiden and her attentive beau, a young lieutenant who bowed respectfully to Kydd. He inclined his head civilly and the music began.

Miss Amelia danced winsomely, her eyes always on him, the more vigorous measures bringing a fl ush to her cheeks. Kydd was sincerely regretful when it ended and he escorted her gallantly back to her friends.

Somehow he found himself in the position of requesting that Miss Robbins grant him the pleasure of the next dance, which luckily turned out to be “Gathering Peascods,” a fashionable country dance that he had only recently acquired.

Between the changes Miss Robbins learnt that he was widely trav-elled, had been moderately fortunate in the matter of prize-money and was unmarried. Kydd was made aware that Miss Robbins was from a local family, much spoken of in banking, and lived in Buckfastleigh with her two younger sisters, single like herself.

There was no question but that this was the world he might now call his own. He was a gentleman and all now knew it!

At the fi nal chords he punctiliously accorded Miss Robbins the honours of the dance, then with her on his arm wended his way back to her chair.

the Admiral’s daughter 63

Happy chatter swelled on all sides; he was conscious of the agreeable glitter of candlelight on his gold lace and epaulettes, the well-tailored sweep of his coat, and knew he must cut a fi gure of some distinction—it was time to widen his social connections.

He threaded his way through the crowded ballroom and headed for the upper fl oor, where there would be entertainment of a different sort—cards and conversation. At a glance he saw the tables with card-players and others politely attendant on them but also couples promenading, sociable groups and forlorn wallfl owers.

“Mr Kydd, ahoy!” A remembered voice sounded effortlessly behind him and he wheeled round.

“Mr Bazely,” he acknowledged, and went over to the table.

Curious eyes looked up as he approached.

“Mrs Watkins, Miss Susanna, this is Commander Kydd, come to see how prodigious well the ladies play in Devon. Do take a chair, sir,” he said, rising to his feet.

“May I know how the pot goes?” Kydd asked courteously, remaining standing.

“Why, four guineas, Mr Kydd,” one of the ladies simpered.

Sensing that Bazely would not be averse to respite, he replied sadly, “Ah, a mort too deep f’r me, madam.” Turning to Bazely, he bowed and asked, “But if you, sir, are at liberty t’ speak with me of the country for a space, I’d be obliged.”

Bazely made his excuses and they sauntered off in search of the punch table. “Your Mrs Watkins is a hard beat t’ windward, Kydd,” he sighed gustily, “Mr Watkins being a fi end for dancing and always absentin’ himself,” he added, with a glimmer of a smile.

“Tell me,” Kydd asked, “how do ye fi nd service in these waters, if I might ask ye?”

With a shrewd glance Bazely said, “For the learning of seamanship an’ hard navigation it can’t be beat. The coast to the sou’ west is poor, remote, devilishly rock-bound and a terror in a fresh blow.”

Julian Stockwin

He pondered for a moment. “The folk live on fi shing mostly, some coastal trading—and free tradin’, if they gets a chance.” Kydd knew this was a local euphemism for smuggling.

“So what sport’s t’ be had?”

“As it dares,” Bazely grunted. Now at the punch table he found glasses and poured liberally. “Getting bold and saucy, y’r Johnny Crapaud. Sees his best chance is not b’ comin’ up agin Nelson an’

his battleships but going after our trade. If he can choke it off, he has us beat. No trade, no gold t’ pay for our war, no allies’ll trust us. We’d be fi nished.”

The punch was refi ned and had none of the gaiety Kydd remembered from the Caribbean. “But ye asked me how I fi nd the service.” Bazely smiled. “Aye, it has to be said I like it. No voyage too long, home vittles waiting at the end, entertainments t’ be had, detached service so no big-fl eet ways with a fl agship always hanging out signals for ye—and doing a job as is saving the country.”

“True enough,” Kydd agreed.

“Come, now, Mr Fire-eater, should Boney make a sally you’ll have all the diversion ye’d wish.”

“Why here you are, Mr Kydd,” a silvery voice cooed. “For shame! Neglecting the company to talk sea things. I’m persuaded a gentleman should not so easily abandon the ladies.”

“Miss Lockwood! I stan’ guilty as charged!” Kydd said, and offered his arm, his heart leaping with exultation. The admiral’s daughter!

Chapter 4

“Help y’self to the Bath cakes, Nicholas—I did s’ well last evenin’ at supper.” Kydd stretched out in his chair. The morning bustle of a man-o’-war sounded from on deck but, gloriously, this was the concern of others.

“Then your appearance in Plymouthian society may be accounted a success?” Renzi asked. “I did have my concerns for you in the article of gallantry, it being a science of no mean accomplishing.”

“All f’r nothing, m’ friend. The ladies were most amiable an’

I’m sanguine there’s one or two would not hesitate t’ throw out th’

right signal t’ come alongside should I haul into sight.”

Kydd’s broad smile had Renzi smothering one of his own. “Do I take it from this you fi nd the experience . . . congenial?”

“Aye, ye do. It’s—it’s another world t’ me, new discovered, an’

I’m minded t’ explore.”

“But for the time being you will be taking your good ship to war, I believe.”

Kydd fl ushed. “M’ duty is not in question, Nicholas. We sail wi’

the tide after midday. What I’m sayin’ only is that if this is t’ be m’

future then I fi nd it agreeable enough. We’re t’ expect some hands fr’m the Impress Service afore we sail,” he added briskly. “This’ll please Kit Standish.”

Their eighteen men shortfall translated to a one-in-four void in every watch and station; he was uncomfortably aware that the 66

Julian Stockwin

fi rst lieutenant had found it necessary to spread the crew of two forward guns round the others to provide full gun crews. The Impress Service would try its best, but after the hullabaloo of the hot press on the eve of the outbreak of war every true seaman still ashore would have long gone to ground.

Kydd fi nished his coffee—in hours Teazer would be making for the open sea. Out there the cold reality of war meant that the enemy was waiting to fall upon him and his ship without mercy, the extinction of them both a bounden duty. Was Teazer ready?

Was he?

He nodded to Renzi. “I think I’ll take a turn about th’ deck—

pray do fi nish y’r breakfast.”

At two in the afternoon the signalling station at Mount Wise noted the departure of the brig-sloop Teazer as she passed Devil’s Point outward bound through Plymouth Sound on her way to war. What they did not record was the hurry and confusion about her decks.

“M’ compliments, an’ ask Mr Standish t’ come aft,” Kydd snapped at the midshipman messenger beside him. Battling Teazer’s exuberant motion Andrews staggered forward to the fi rst lieutenant who was spluttering up at the foretopmen.

“Mr Standish, this will not do!” growled Kydd. Their fi rst fi ght could well take place within hours and their sail-handling was pitiful. “I see y’r captain o’ the foretop does not seem t’ know how t’ handle his men. We’ll do it again, an’ tell him he’s to give up his post t’ another unless he can pull ’em together—an’ that directly.”

“Sir.”

“Only one bell f’r grog an’ supper, then we go t’ quarters to exercise gun crews until dusk.” He lowered his tone and continued grimly, “We’re not s’ big we can wait until we’re strong. Do ye bear down on ’em, if y’ please.”

the Admiral’s daughter 67

While they were exercising on a straight course south and safely out to sea, they were away from the coast and not performing their assigned task. Kydd kept the deck all afternoon. He knew that the sailors, so recently in the grog-shops and other entertainments of the port, would be cursing his name as they laboured. The occasional fl ash of sullen eyes showed from the pressed men—there had been only nine men and a boy sent out to Teazer before she sailed, all of questionable worth. There were so few of her company he knew and trusted.

When eight bells sounded at the beginning of the fi rst dog-watch sail was shortened, and after a quick supper it was to the guns until the long summer evening came to a close, Teazer’s bow still to seaward. Kydd would not rest: one by one the seniors of the ship were summoned to the great cabin and, over a glass of claret, he queried them concerning the performance of their men, their strengths and prospects. It was not to be hurried, the intricate process of turning a collection of strangers into a strong team that would stand together through the worst that tempests and the enemy could bring. Kydd knew that any weaknesses would become apparent all too quickly under stress of weather or battle.

The following day broke with blue skies and a clear horizon; both watches went to exercise and at the noon grog issue Kydd saw the signs he was looking for—the previously wary, defensive responses were giving way to confi dent chatter and easy laughter that spoke of a shared, challenging existence. This would fi rm later into a comradely trust and reliance.

Already, characters were emerging; the loud and over-bearing, the quiet and effi cient, 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.

Julian Stockwin

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 fi rmed 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 confl ict from those he had experienced so far.

There was no specifi c 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 blaz-ing fi ght 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 fl urries and downdraughts from the cliffs and appearing unconcerned at the hazards sternly advised in the chart and coast- pilot.

No doubt they were local fi shermen 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 the Admiral’s daughter 69

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 benefi cent; 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 fi rst 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 lan-niards 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 fi rst 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.

Julian Stockwin

“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’ fi nd 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 the Admiral’s daughter 71

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 fl oated 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 fi sh 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 offi ce 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 fi gure appeared, carrying 72

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a guttering candle. Before Kydd could say anything the man said gruffl y, “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 grunt.

“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 offi ng 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 fi nest quality and quickly spread a delicious fi re. “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 confi dence 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 gruffl y, “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, fi ve hunnerd the Admiral’s daughter 73

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 insur-ance—in time o’ war it’s ruinous expensive and they can’t afford it. So they’re done for, sir, quite fi nished. 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 fi ght, sir,” Kydd said stoutly. But a hundred and fi fty 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 74

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his assistance to existing convoys chancing through his area.

Convoys were formed solely by fl ag-offi cers 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 fi nancial 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 fi ne 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 the Admiral’s daughter 75

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 specifi ed 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 fi rst hour after dawn. Kydd’s plan was to make the safety of Falmouth harbour before dark but a daz-zling glitter from an expanse of calm waters met him to seaward.

The light airs were fl uky 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 fi lled 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 fl utter of colour had appeared.

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

Julian Stockwin

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 reassur-ance. 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 fl ag 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 the Admiral’s daughter 77

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 insignifi cant 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 fi ne sloop had set the argosy on its way.

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

Dowse’s signifi cant 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.”

“Very well, Mr Dowse.” The band of haze had broadened but, charged as it was with the new sun’s splendour, Kydd had paid it little attention. But if this was a sea-fog it was unlike any he had seen—the dank, close ones of the Grand Banks, the cool, welcome mists of the Mediterranean. Surely this summer haze should give no problem?

“Hoist ‘keep better station,’” Kydd called to the pair at the signal halliards. Sparrow seemed to have recovered some of the sea breeze but was crossing about behind their fl ock to no apparent purpose. After a few minutes she drew back to the centre of the rear but it was clear they were going to get no reply: either the humble cutter did not possess a full set of signal bunting or her captain did not see why he should play big-fl eet manoeuvres at Kydd’s whim.

“Sir.” Dowse nodded meaningfully at the haze. It was broader and the luminous quality at its mid-part now had an unmistakable core, soft and virginal white.

Julian Stockwin

Kydd glanced at the Dodman—St Austell Bay had swept round again to culminate in this historic point ahead, one of the major sea marks for generations of mariners over the centuries. It was now far closer: the menace of Gwineas Rocks to starboard showed stark and ugly—and the band of misty haze was wide enough now to touch the lower limb of the sun.

“Early summer, sir. In a southerly ye sometimes fi nd as after it passes over th’ cool seas it’ll whip up a thick mist quick as ye’d like, specially if’n the wind veers more t’ the west.”

The sun was now reduced to a pearlescent halo, the foot of the advancing mist clearly defi ned. Things had suddenly changed for the worse. Kydd glanced at the looming precipitous bluff. It was so unfair: another mile and they would have weathered the point but they would be overtaken by the rolling mist just as they reached the hazards to the south of the Dodman, the heavy tidal overfalls of the Bellows, stretching out for a mile or more into the Channel.

To fall back from where they had come with his unwieldy armada in an impenetrable fog and a lee shore was impossible and a dash north for Mevagissey or one of the other tiny harbours marked on the chart was out of the question for a complete convoy.

Kydd bit his lip. He could not return; neither could he go on and chance that unseen currents and an onshore wind would draw Teazer and the convoy on to the deadly Bellows. Should he anchor and wait it out? That would risk his charges, who, expecting him to press on, might blunder about hopelessly looking for him.

The fi rst cool wisps of the mist brushed his cheek. The world changed to a calm, enveloping, uniform white that left tiny dew-drops on his coat, and rendered nearby vessels diaphanous ghosts that disappeared. Kydd took a deep breath and made his decision.

He was about to give the orders when he saw a still form standing back. “Why, Mr Renzi, I didn’t notice ye on deck before,” he said, distracted.

“You will anchor, I believe.”

“I never doubted it,” Kydd replied, nettled at Renzi’s easy the Admiral’s daughter 79

observation. Then he realised that the words were intended as a friendly contribution to the burden of decision-making and added,

“Aye, the greater risk is t’ go on.”

He took a few paces forward. “Mr Dowse, way off the ship. Mr Purchet, hands t’ mooring ship. We’ll wait it out.”

Their bower anchor splashed noisily into the calm and the wind died to a whisper. Dowse had previously recorded careful bearings of the shore and had now himself taken a cast of the lead and was inspecting the gravel and broken shells at its base.

A sepulchral dong from close astern was answered by their own bell, struck enthusiastically by a ship’s boy. There was an occasional muffl ed crack of a swivel gun from a nervous vessel. Other sounds, near and distant, came fl atly from all round them.

The mist swirled gently past as Kydd peered over the bulwarks.

He could see the water was sliding along on its way aft equally on both sides; the tide was on the make and at her anchor Teazer was headed into it and therefore would be facing into the currents surging round the Dodman. They were as safe as it was possible to be in the circumstance and could only wait for the sun to burn off the mist.

It was little more than an hour later that the forms of vessels could be made out once more and the sun burst through. Kydd scanned about anxiously and his heart lurched as he saw that of the dense mass of ships that had followed him to sea there were only ten or fi fteen left. Had they failed to notice him anchor? Had they drifted ashore? Been taken by a corsair in the fog?

“Such a practical race of sailors,” Renzi murmured.

“What?” Kydd said sharply.

“Why, I’m sure you’ve made notice that these vessels remaining are your deep-sea species only. The small fry, being local, have navigated clear and, inspired by your actions, have for a surety pressed on to Falmouth.”

His friend was right, of course, Kydd acknowledged grudgingly, then smiled. In brilliant sunshine and a strengthening breeze, what 80

Julian Stockwin

remained of the convoy won its anchors and rounded the Dodman.

They took little more than an hour in the fi ne south-easterly to lay the dramatic Gull Rock to starboard, and by early afternoon they made Falmouth Bay.

Kydd, however, had no intention of going ashore at Falmouth and possibly having to make explanation, so he rounded to well off the entrance. His charges passed into the harbour, some with a jaunty hail of thanks. The cutter tacked about smartly and disappeared without ceremony.

It had been an experience but Teazer was accounting herself well in this, her fi rst war cruise. “Mr Standish, course south, an’

all sail abroad. I mean t’ clear the Manacles before dusk an’ then we snug down f’r the night.”

“Aye aye, sir,” the fi rst lieutenant confi rmed. His orders were chalked on the watch-keeper’s slate and Teazer shaped her course.

“Er—an’ pipe hands t’ supper with a double tot f’r all,” Kydd added. There was no reason by way of service custom for the generosity but he felt his little ship and her company had reached a milestone.

Dawn arrived overcast; the ship had stood off and on in the lee of the Lizard throughout the night and was now closing with the coast once more—the massive iron-grey granite of Black Head loomed.

There was nothing around but fi shing craft and, in the distance, a shabby coastal ketch. Kydd decided to send the men to breakfast, then put about to press on westward. This would mean a closer acquaintance of that most evocative of all the sea marks of the south-west: the Lizard, the exact southerly tip of Great Britain and for most deep-ocean voyages the last of England the men saw on their way to war or adventure, fortune or death. It was, as well, the longed-for landfall for every returning ship running down the lati-tude of 49º20' fi nally to raise the fabled headland and the waters of home.

Kydd had seen the Lizard several times, and each experience the Admiral’s daughter 81

had been different—watching it emerge leaden and stolid from curtains of rain, or seeing it dappled dark and grey in the sunshine and sighted twenty miles away—but always with feeling and signifi cance.

“Do ye lay us in with th’ coast, Mr Dowse,” Kydd ordered.

Curiosity was driving him to take a close-in sight of this famed place. “Oh—younker,” he called to a rapt midshipman, “my compliments t’ Mr Renzi an’ I’d be happy t’ see him on deck.” He would never be forgiven if it were missed.

The master pursed his lips. “Aye, sir. A board to the suth’ard will give us an offi ng of somethin’ less’n a mile.”

“Thank ye,” Kydd said gravely. With the south-westerly strengthening it was a dead lee shore around the point and asking a lot of the master to approach. They stood away to the south until the last eastern headland was reached; beyond, the Atlantic swell crowding past the Lizard was resulting in ugly, tumbling seas that put Teazer into violent motion, the wind now with real strength in it, produc-ing long white streaks downwind from the crests.

The land receded as the offi ng was made, then approached again after they went about on the other tack, the seas almost directly abeam causing the brig to roll deeply. “Call down th’ lookouts,”

Kydd snapped. Even at forty feet, with the motion magnifi ed by height, the situation for the men in the foretop would be dangerous and near unendurable.

Dowse pointed inshore where the sea met the land in a continu-ous band of explosions of white. “Man-o’-war reef, the Quadrant yonder.” He indicated a cluster of dark rocks standing out to sea and in furious altercation with the waves. “An’ Lizard Point.”

There it was: the southernmost point of England and the place Kydd had always sighted before from the sanctity and safety of the quarterdeck of a ship-of-the-line. He clung to a weather shroud and took it all in, the abrupt thump of waves against the bow and a second later the stinging whip of spray leaving the taste of salt on his tongue.

Julian Stockwin

They eased round to the north-west and into the sweeping curve of Mount’s Bay, the last before the end of England. The scene was as dramatic as any Kydd had met at sea: completely open to the hardening south-westerly and long Atlantic swell piling in, the rugged coastline was a smother of white.

Kydd said nothing when he noticed the quartermaster was edging imperceptibly to seaward from the dead lee shore, but turned to the master. “I think we’ll give best t’ this sou’-westerly, Mr Dowse. Is there any haven short o’ Penzance to th’ west’d?”

“None as we c’n use, sir—this is a hard piece o’ coast.” He gazed thoughtfully at the busy seas hurrying shoreward. “Porthleven?

Opens t’ the sou’-west. Nought else really, Mr Kydd.”

“Then Penzance it’ll have t’ be. Mr Boyd? Compliments t’ Mr Standish an’ I believe we’ll send th’ hands t’ dinner after we moor there.” Most would prefer the comfort of a hot meal later than a scratch one now. The midshipman looked uncomfortable. “Come, come, Mr Boyd, lively now!”

Reluctantly the lad released his grip and lurched to another handhold. Kydd realised that his order sending the boy below would probably condemn him to the seasickness he had so far manfully avoided. As Teazer leant closer to the wind to clear a small island Boyd slid down the canted deck to fi nish well soused in the scuppers.

The islet passed under their lee; a tiny scatter of houses huddled together under dark, precipitous cliffs at the head of a small patch of discoloured sand. Who lived in this impossibly remote place?

“Mullion Cove, sir—an’ there?” Dowse had noticed a big, three-masted lugger at anchor riding out the blow in the lee of the island, the only vessel they had sighted since the Lizard. No doubt all smaller local craft had scuttled off prudently to fi nd a harbour.

“A wise man,” Kydd replied, but something niggled.

They plunged on. An indistinct hail came from forward, then the Admiral’s daughter 83

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