Calloway hurried aft and touched his forehead shyly. “Sir, I saw . . .

over on th’ land in them cottages . . .”

“Yes?”

“It were red, like. Fr’m the windows.” He trailed off, dropping his eyes.

Those nearby looked at each other in amusement, but Kydd knew Calloway from the past. His young eyes were probably the best in the ship. “Tell me, if y’ please,” he said kindly.

“Well, as we was passin’ I saw somebody hold somethin’ red out o’ the window. An’ as I watched, I swear, one b’ one they all has red out o’ their windows.” Doggedly he went on, “An’ then, sir, they all starts shakin’ it, like.”

The amusement was open now, titters starting from the waist-ers who had fallen back to hear. “I swear it, Mr Kydd!” Calloway blurted.

At a loss, Kydd looked about the little group on the quarterdeck. All averted their eyes, except Renzi. “Ah, there is one

conceivable explanation. Supposing our unlettered country-folk were to recognise us as a King’s ship. Equally suppose that they have a guest, an unwelcome one, who holds them in deadly thrall from where he lies at anchor . . .”

“The lugger!”

“. . . how then should they signal their disquiet? A red fl ag of some sort for danger. I can see no other interpretation of such—”

“Helm a-lee!” Kydd bawled to the wheel. “Luff’n’ touch her—Mr Dowse, once we have th’ sea room we wear about an’

return!”

In an instant the atmosphere aboard changed and activity became frenzied. Braces were manned by seamen slipping and sliding in the crazy bucketing as Teazer was sent clawing offshore as close to the wind as she could lie. Only when they were at a suffi cient distance from the dangerous shore could they risk a turn inwards to the land.

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Kydd’s mind raced: a bloody engagement—in these conditions?

It was preposterous but the logic of war demanded it. He was now sure in his own mind that the anonymous-looking fi ne-lined lugger was an enemy—and it was his duty to destroy him.

A dishevelled fi rst lieutenant burst out on deck.

“Mr Standish, I believe we’ve surprised a Frenchy privateer an’

I mean t’ take him. We’ll go t’ quarters only when we have to, but I desire ye to bring th’ ship to readiness now.”

“Aye aye, sir!” There was no mistaking the fi erce gleam in the offi cer’s eye.

Kydd took out his pocket telescope and trained it aft on the lugger, but the wild jerking made it near impossible to focus. Once he caught a dancing image of a vessel quite as big as their own, a long bowsprit, raked mizzen-mast and a line of closed gun ports the whole length of the ship.

He forced his mind to coolness: what were the elements in the equation? He had never seen a northern French privateer lugger, a Breton chasse-marée or others of this breed, but he had heard of their reputation for speed on the wind and the daring impudence of their captains. But no privateer worth his salt would take on a man-o’-war: their business and profi t were in the taking of prizes, not the fi ghting of battles.

Kydd lifted the telescope and tried to steady it against a shroud but the brisk thrumming thwarted his efforts and he lowered it in frustration. But by eye there was some movement aboard; someone must have correctly interpreted Teazer’s move as the precur-sor to a return and most likely they were now busy preparing a hot defence—with all the lugger’s men sent to the guns.

“Haaaands to stations t’ wear ship!” The manoeuvre of tacking was tighter but anything going wrong would result in their being blown rapidly ashore; even so, in wearing ship, the act of deliberately turning their backs to the wind this close inshore had its own dangers.

the Admiral’s daughter 85

Kydd threw a fi nal glance at the lugger. Held by his anchor directly into the wind there was sudden jerky activity at his prow.

They were cutting the cable! Exactly at the moment the vessel swung free, a jib soared up from the long bowsprit and instantly caught the wind, slewing his bow round. Then sail appeared on all three masts together, evidence of a sizeable crew.

It was neatly done. The lugger was now under way close inshore, paralleling the coast—and thereby closing with Teazer. The realisation hit Kydd with a cold shock: they were going to have to fi ght in the open sea and any advantage they had at the guns would be nullifi ed by the wild circumstances. What was the enemy thinking, to try conclusions in these conditions, when any victor would be unable to board and take their prize?

“Belay that!” he roared at the seamen ready at the braces.

“Stand down th’ men, Mr Purchet.” The obvious course for the lugger was to throw over his helm at the right moment to take up on the other tack and, with the advantage of his fore-and-aft rig, slash straight out to where the close-hauled Teazer was striving desperately to get to seaward.

And then what? It was clear when he thought about it: the privateer needed only to bring about some little damage to their rigging and the weather would do the rest. In these winds the square-rigged Teazer would be driven out of control on to the white-lashed crags and be destroyed as utterly as if she had been cannonaded into ruin.

Kydd’s grip on the shroud tightened. It had changed so quickly—

and only one could see them through: Teazer’s captain. He raised his eyes and met Renzi’s; his friend did not speak but gave a half-smile. Standish gazed hungrily at the oncoming lugger while the others about the deck watched silently.

They must hold their course seaward: the only question now was when to send the men to the guns—but with the leeward bulwarks so low and seas swirling aboard, any pretence at serving a gun there 86

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was futile. On their lee side they were essentially defenceless.

The privateer gathered speed, rolling wickedly with the seas abeam but making good progress a half-mile closer inshore. Kydd allowed reluctant admiration for the unknown seaman in command of her: he must possess considerable local knowledge to feel so confi dent close to this grim coast.

Kydd decided that the men would go to the guns precisely when the privateer put down his helm to tack in their direction; he waited tensely for the lugger to fi nd Teazer at the right angle for that sudden slash towards.

Minutes passed, and still the privateer held her course down the coast. “The villain’s making a run f’r it, Nicholas!”

Once again the situation had changed, but Kydd was beginning to appreciate his opponent’s clear thinking: he had declined battle for good, practical reasons and was now using his lugger’s superior rate of sailing to make off, using that local knowledge to stay close inshore, knowing his antagonist dared not do likewise.

“We’re going after th’ rascal.” Teazer eased away three points or so and no longer tight to the wind stretched out in fi ne style, on the same course parallel to the coast but further seaward. Kydd guessed the privateer’s intention was to use his speed to pull far enough ahead to chance going about across their bows, then to escape seaward with no risk of battle damage to cut short his cruise.

It was a shrewd move—but there was one essential not within their control: the winds. Teazer was from the Mediterranean, the home of the savage tramontana, and with just a single reef in her topsails was handling the bluster with ease, her sturdy design well able to take the steeper seas close inshore. The lugger, on the other hand, was making heavy weather of it. With lugsails taut on all three masts, he had not attempted topsails, at the cost of his speed advantage.

The result was that Teazer was more than holding with the privateer and paced the vessel. The long sweep of Mount’s Bay the Admiral’s daughter 87

ahead ended suddenly at Penzance and as long as they could keep sail on, there would be a conclusion before the day was out.

It was an exhilarating charge along the white-streaked waves, rampaging towards the dour coastline, the lugger tapping every resource of knowledge about rock and shoal in keeping so close in with the shore, while Teazer kept tight watch far enough offshore to have warning of any sudden move and in prime position to intercept a break for the open sea.

Dowse pointed out the little settlements as they passed. Poldhu, Chyanvounder, Berepper and then Porthleven. Foreign-sounding, exotic and untouchably remote. A headland loomed, its steep grey crags half hidden in misty spume. Beyond, a beach all of a mile long stretched away with another, larger promontory at its end.

Now, more than half-way to Penzance, was this where the attempt would be made?

As if in direct response to the thought Dowse gave a sudden shout. The aspect of the privateer was altering rapidly—he was making his move and it was to seaward. Kydd’s stomach tightened. To serve a gun in the insane rolling was madness. Yet how else was he going to fi ght?

Then, without warning, every sail on the privateer disappeared and the bare-masted vessel fell back, still bows to sea, until it was just clear of the breakers rolling into the beach.

“Well, I’ll be—He’s thrown out an anchor, sir, an’ hopes t’ ride it out till dark!” Dowse said, in open admiration.

If in fact that was the intention, Kydd mused. He’d already led them on a merry dance. “Mr Dowse, heave to, if y’ please,” he ordered. It would give him time to think, and for a short time preserve his superior position.

Lying awkwardly diagonal across the line of white-caps, Teazer’s motion changed from a deep rolling to a vicious whip as the waves passed at an angle down the pitching hull, making it diffi cult to concentrate. If the privateer—

Muffl ed shouts from forward—an urgent “Man overboard!”

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Kydd saw the fall of a sheet uncoil out to leeward and staggered to the side. At fi rst he saw nothing but foam-streaked waves in vigorous progression towards the shore but then he made out a dark head against the foam and an arm clutching frantically at air, not fi ve yards off.

It must have been a foremast hand caught by the sudden change of motion and pitched overboard. Kydd could not recognise him from the fl ailing shape but he was being carried by the waves’ impetus ever further from his ship.

“Poor beggar!” Standish handed himself along to stand next to Kydd. But his eyes were on the enemy.

Kydd said nothing; his mind furiously reviewing his alternatives.

“Mr Purchet, secure a dan buoy to th’ kedge cable and—”

“Sir! You’re not proposing a rescue?”

“Why, yes, Mr Standish, o’ course I am.”

Face set, Standish confronted Kydd. “Sir, the lugger might take the opportunity to escape.”

“He might.”

“Sir, it is my duty to remind you that we are in the presence of the enemy—that man is as much a casualty of war as if he had fallen from a shot.”

The sailor was now several waves downwind and thrashing about in panic; like most seafarers, he could not swim.

What Standish had said was undeniable, but Kydd’s plan would give the man a chance and still have them in some sort of position to—

More confused shouting came from forward, then a fi gure rose to the bulwarks and toppled into the sea. “Get forrard an’ fi nd out what th’ hell’s goin’ on,” Kydd snarled at Standish: with two in the water his plan was now in disarray—were they to be the fi rst men to die in Teazer?

“Clear away th’ cutter,” he bawled, at the gaping mainmast hands. It was the biggest boat they had and was secured up in its the Admiral’s daughter 89

davits. “Cut th’ gripes away, damnit!” he shouted, as they fumbled with the ropes. This was a desperate throw—he would have the boat streamed off to leeward at the end of a line and hauled back bodily. If it capsized, the men could cling to it.

Standish worked his way aft, his face expressionless. “Sir, I have to report that Midshipman Andrews took it upon him to cast himself in the sea in an attempt to save the man.”

“Four volunteers f’r the boat,” Kydd snapped, “each with a lifeline t’ a thwart.” What was the boy thinking, to take such a risk? It was madness, but a noble act for one so young.

It was a fearsome thing to set the cutter afl oat with the rocket-ing rise and dizzying fall of the seas under their stern but at least this was in Teazer’s lee and temporary protection. The seaman was out of sight downwind, hidden by the driving combers, but the midshipman could occasionally be seen striking out manfully for him in the welter of seas.

“He’s seen our boat,” Standish said coldly, watching the lugger.

A jib was jerking up in the privateer, and when it had taken the wind, other sails were smartly hoisted. Kydd refused to comment, obstinately watching the cutter as line was paid out and it drew near to Andrews.

“Sir! He’s under way and going round our stern. We’ve lost him.”

Kydd glanced once at the lugger as it leant to the hammering south-westerly and made its escape, derisory yells coming faintly over the tumult accompanied by rude gestures from the matelots along the decks.

The privateer was still in sight, driving southwards towards France under all sail possible when the boat was hauled in, half full of water, with a soaked and subdued Andrews. The sailor had not been found.

“Will you follow him, do you think?” Renzi asked softly. Kydd had not seen his friend come up but now Standish had moved 90

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away and was standing apart, trying to catch the fast- disappearing lugger in his glass.

“Not today,” Kydd said quietly. It was over for the poor wretch who had reached out obediently to do his duty and found instead a lonely death. In an hour or so a dark shape would appear in the line of breakers at the sea’s edge, carelessly rolled about by the swash of surf. They would retrieve it and give it a Christian burial in Penzance.

Kydd’s eyes pricked: no matter that he had seen so many lose their lives following their profession of the sea—this had occurred on Teazer’s fi rst commission in home waters and he as captain.

Things could never be the same.

Feeling the need to be alone, he left Standish to lay Teazer to her anchor, went to his cabin, sprawled in his chair and stared moodily out of the stern windows. There was a soft knock at the door and Renzi appeared. “Come in, old friend,” Kydd said.

Renzi made his way cautiously to the other chair, the lively movement becoming more unpredictable as the ship felt her anchor.

“You would think it fatuous of me should I remark that the sea is a hard mistress.”

“Aye, I would.”

“Then—”

“But then, o’ course, it doesn’t stop it bein’ true, Nicholas.” Kydd heaved a sigh and continued softly, “It’s just that—that . . .”

“‘They that go down to the sea in ships . . .’” Renzi intoned softly.

“True as well.”

Renzi broke the moody silence. “Is the Frenchman to be blamed, do you think?” he asked.

“No,” Kydd said decisively. “He has his duty, an’ that he’s doing main well.” He levered himself upright. “What takes m’ interest is that not only does he shine in his nauticals but he knows too damn much of th’ coast.”

He refl ected for a moment, then said quietly, “He’s goin’ t’ be a the Admiral’s daughter 91

right Tartar t’ lay by the tail, m’ friend.” Pensively he watched the shoreline come slowly into view as Teazer snubbed to her anchor, then added, “But we must account him our pigeon right enough.

What will I do, Nicholas?”

There was no reply, and when Kydd turned to look at Renzi he saw his friend with his arms folded, regarding him gravely. “I fi nd I must refuse to answer,” Renzi said fi nally.

“You . . . ?”

“Let me be more explicit. Do you accept the undoubted fact that you have your limitations?”

There was no use in being impatient when Renzi was in logic, Kydd knew, and he answered amiably, “That must be true enough, Nicholas.”

“Then you must hold that this must be true for myself also.”

“Aye.”

“And it follows that since you have advanced so far and so rapidly in the sea profession, you must be gifted far beyond the ordinary to have achieved so.”

Kydd shifted uncomfortably. “If ye mean—”

“For myself, I accept this without rancour, that you are so much my superior in the nautical arts. You have the technical excellence, the daring and—if I may make bold to remark it—the ambition that places you at such an eminence, all of which sets my own small competences to the blush.”

“Nicholas, you—”

“Therefore the corollary is inescapable, and it is that if I were to venture an opinion in such matters then it will have sprung from so shallow a soil that it may not stand against one cultured to so full a bloom. It would be an impertinence to attach weight or signifi cance to it and from this we must accept therefore that it were better not uttered—I shall not be offering a view on how you will conduct your ship, nor praise and still less blame. Your decisions shall be yours to make, and I, like every one of Teazer’s company, will happily abide by them.”

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So there would be no private councils-of-war, for there was no shifting Renzi’s resolve, logically arrived at. But then it dawned on Kydd. Close friends as they were, nothing could be more calculated to drive a wedge between them than the holding of opposite opinions before an action, only one of which would be proved correct to the discomfi ture of the other—whoever that might be.

Renzi was putting their friendship before self, Kydd recognised.

For the future, the decisions would be his own but unconditional warmth of the companionship would always be there at the trifl ing cost of some defi ning limits. “Why, that’s handsomely said, Nicholas,” he replied softly. He paused, then began again in a different tone: “We have t’ put down the rascal, that’s clear, but where t’ fi nd him? That’s the rub.”

Renzi waited.

“An’ I have notion where we might . . .”

“May I know your reasoning?” Renzi said carefully. Evidently discussion was possible but advice and opinions were not.

“I feel it in m’ bones. Our Bloody Jacques is not going home.

He’s lost not a single spar in th’ meeting of us—why should he give it away while he c’n still cruise?” Unspoken was the feeling that, be damned to it, he was going to have a reckoning for his own self-respect.

“So where . . . ?”

“Just as soon as we’re able, we clap on sail to th’ suth’ard—I mean t’ make Wolf Rock b’ sunset.”

“Wolf Rock?” said Renzi, in surprise. The dangerous single out-crop well out into the entrance to the Channel was feared by all seafarers.

“Aye.”

“And, er, why?” Renzi prompted.

“Pray excuse, Nicholas, there’s a mort t’ be done afore we sail.”

There was now just enough time to punish Andrews for breaking ship and hazarding his shipmates, then deal with Standish.

the Admiral’s daughter 93

• • •

With Penzance under their lee they left Mount’s Bay for the south.

Kydd had dealt kindly with Andrews, even as the letter of the law judged him guilty of desertion and, what was worse, that his captain had been presented with a situation not of his intending or control. The crestfallen lad was given the thirty-fourth Article of War to get by heart before claiming his supper.

Standish, however, was a harder matter. Clearly quite sure of his opinion, he had become cold and reserved in his dealings and would need careful handling if this were not to turn into something more charged.

Within the hour they had left the shelter of the bay and headed out into the Channel, fi rst to the south and, the winds proving favourable, further towards the open Atlantic. The seas moderated, and as the afternoon continued the sun made an appearance, setting all in their path a-glitter in a last display before dusk.

“Tide’ll be an hour earlier’n Falmouth hereabouts, sir,” Dowse said laconically.

“Aye.”

“It’s high-water springs, sir,” he added, with more feeling.

“That’ll be so, I believe.”

Kydd didn’t want any discussion about his dash for Wolf Rock, for while his reasons could be explained logically—the rock’s position as a fi ne place of lookout squarely athwart both the east-west and north-south shipping channels—his conviction was based on intuition only. In some way he knew that the privateer captain would head for friendly waters for the night but then turn about and, believing Teazer to be continuing her patrol along the south coast, round the tip of Cornwall to resume his depredations, this time on the north coast. But fi rst he would have to pass within sight of Wolf Rock—and there Teazer would be waiting.

“Sir,” Dowse went on heavily, “Wolf Rock covers at high- water spring tides.”

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Kydd had seen the ugly rock several times from seaward but what Dowse was saying meant that his plan to lie off with it in sight as a means of keeping his position during the dark hours—

and by knowing where it was, guard against coming upon it unawares—was now questionable.

As if mocking him, a pair of seagulls keened overhead while Dowse waited with dour patience. Dusk drew in and somewhere out there just under the surface was a deadly crag—it could be anywhere beneath the innocent waters ahead. Attempts in the past had been made to erect some kind of warning mark but the sea had always swept it away.

They could not continue into such danger. “Ah, it seems—”

Kydd stopped. Away on the weather bow there was a discontinu-ity in the wan light on the sea, a black object that had appeared, vanished, then reappeared in the same place, where it remained.

He stared at it, eyes watering.

Standish made a play of raising his telescope and lowering it again. “Naught but a seal,” he said, with studied boredom, “as we might expect this time of the year. I remember—”

“That will do,” Kydd said with relish. “The beast sits atop th’

rock. Clear away th’ best bower an’ stream anchor an’ we moor for the night.”

“Why, sir, I hardly think—” Dowse seemed lost for words.

“Mr Purchet, be sure an’ buoy th’ cables, we may have t’ slip without a deal of warning.”

“Anchor, sir? Y’ knows that Wolf Rock is steep to. Seabed drops away t’—what? Twenty, thirty fathom?” the boatswain said uneasily.

“He’s right, sir,” Standish interjected. “If we were—”

“Silence!” Kydd roared. “Hold y’ tongues, all o’ you! T’ question me on m’ own quarterdeck—I’m not standin’ f’r it!” He waited until he felt his fury subside, then went on frostily, “Th’

bower cable’s seven hundred ’n’ fi fty feet out to its bitter end, so the Admiral’s daughter 95

with th’ usual allowance f’r three times the depth o’ water we c’n moor an’ with cable t’ spare.” It would be damnably little, but the greater peril lay in blundering about a dangerous shore in the blackness of night.

“By mooring f’r the night we’ll be in position ready in th’ morning, an’ no danger of bein’ cast up on the rock.” He glared round defi antly and left the deck for Standish to carry out his order.

“An hour before dawn, sir, and, er, nothing in sight.”

Kydd struggled to wakefulness at Tysoe’s gentle rousing. He had spent a restless night even though at this distance offshore a spacious and soothing ocean swell had predominated over inshore fretfulness. He dressed hastily and made his way to the dimness of the quarterdeck, where Prosser was on watch. “Brisk mornin’,”

Kydd said, slapping his sides in the cold early- morning breeze.

“Sir,” Prosser said, without emotion, standing with his arms folded next to the empty helm.

“Do ye think we’ll be lucky t’ day?”

“Sir.”

The watch on deck were forward, rehanking falls and squaring away in the grey morning light. Kydd caught the fl ash of glances thrown in his direction—he needed no one to tell him the topic of their conversation.

The light strengthened: it was uncanny to be anchored in the middle of the sea, for while land was in sight from the masthead, in accordance with Kydd’s plan to be both invisible and all- seeing, there was nothing at all from deck level except an unbroken expanse of water and the disfi guring sea-washed black of Wolf Rock away on their beam.

The men were piped to breakfast. An hour later, with nothing on the horizon and Teazer lying to single anchor, hands were turned to for exercise. Kydd paced along the deck.

Time passed, and apart from a small merchantman and a bevy 96

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of morning fi shermen, the coast remained clear. Standish wore a look of pained toleration as he went about the deck, and Renzi kept out of the way below.

“Sail hoooo! In wi’ the land—a big ’un!” There was no mistaking the animation in the mainmast lookout’s voice. Kydd threw his hat to the deck and scrambled up the main-shrouds.

“Where away?” The lookout pointed to the distant dark band of coast, and there indeed was a vessel of size on the bearing—the three pale blobs had to be sail on three masts. Kydd fumbled for his glass. A lugger sprang into view, and with that oddly raked mizzen there could be little doubt.

“Deck hooo!” he yelled in exultation. “Enemy in sight! Buoy an’ slip this instant, d’ ye hear?” He swung out and descended hastily, thinking of what he might say to Standish but nothing clever came to mind, and he contented himself with the brisk orders that sent the men to their stations for rapid transition from quiescence to fl ying chase.

He had been right! His intuition was sound and the privateer had returned to the place Kydd had reasoned he would. At anchor far to seaward and without sails abroad, they were invisible to the unsuspecting Frenchman who had passed Gwennap Head and was therefore now committed to the passage round to the north. He was due an unpleasant surprise.

The buoy with the anchor cable secured to it splashed away to set them free and sail dropped from the yards. As if in sudden eagerness Teazer caught the wind and leant towards their quarry, who must now be in complete astonishment at the man-o’-war that had appeared from nowhere, like a magic spell, and was now hot on his heels.

It would be a tight chase: again, they were well to windward of their prey in a south-westerly and again the privateer could not contemplate putting about to return, for that would require tacking round and right into the path of his pursuer. But this time the Admiral’s daughter 97

Teazer was perfectly positioned and conditions could not have been bettered: the winds were strong and in her best quarter for sailing while the privateer was being forced against the coast as it trended to the north-west to Land’s End, which must fi rst be rounded before they could bear away along the north coast.

In less than an hour the two ships would reach a point of convergence somewhere close to the Longships lighthouse, which stood atop a group of wicked rocks extending out from this fi nal promontory.

How to open the action? There was little need for lengthy planning, however: the lugger would lie under their guns to leeward in a very short time and his gun-captains would know what to do then. Kydd sent for his sword, remembering to speak encouraging words to those for whom this would be a fi rst taste of powder, and in good time HMS Teazer went to quarters.

The tumbling mass of grey rock that was the very tip of England drew closer—so did the lugger, sailing perilously in with the cliffs and rolling uncomfortably from the seas on her beam.

Every detail became clear: the faded black sides, soaring pale lugsails with odd, off-square topsails straining above and no colours of any sort fl ying.

A point of red at her bow had Kydd reaching for his telescope—

under its bold bowsprit was a fi gurehead, a crimson fi ghting cock with spurs extended in ferocious challenge.

“I own I stand rebuked for want of faith, sir,” Standish said quietly. He stood in front of Kydd and bowed awkwardly. “That is Bloody Jacques for a surety—I heard a lot of him in Fowey.”

“Ah, I had th’ feeling,” Kydd said lightly. “We open fi re t’

st’b’d,” he went on, and resumed his hungry stare at the privateer,

“when we’re within pistol-shot.” Teazer’s carronades were deadly at close quarters but not to be relied on for accuracy beyond a few hundred yards.

It would not be a one-sided fi ght, that much was certain. While 98

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Teazer outgunned the similarly sized vessel, her company would be so much less than that of a privateer crowded with prize-crew and she must at all costs remain out of reach of the torrent of boarders. Yet she must close the range—and risk any sudden lunge to grapple.

“I can almost feel pity for the Frenchman.” Renzi’s calm, reassuring voice came from behind him; Kydd had not noticed his clerk take up his station for battle. His half-smile was in place and he wore a plain fi ghting hanger, but in accordance with duty held a regulation notebook to record all signifi cant events.

The privateer lay no more than seventy yards ahead and Kydd could see the small group round the helm clearly: one was certainly the shrewd captain, looking back at Teazer and weighing his chances. The Longships with its lighthouse now lay close ahead, and with rising exhilaration, Kydd began to estimate distances and sea room on what must soon be the fi eld of battle.

They had successfully crowded the lugger against the coastline and now it must shape course towards them to get round the Longships—that would be the time to let the seven starboard guns do their work. Kydd drew his sword and raised it high. “Teazers!”

he roared—then stopped in baffl ement.

The privateer was not altering course: while Teazer was hauling her wind to round the Longships, the big lugger carried on with a full press of sail, heading for the narrow band of open white water between the shoreline and the lighthouse.

“Be damned! Throw up y’r helm, Poulden, an’ follow in his wake!”

“Sir!”

“Where he c’n swim, so can we, Mr Standish.” Kydd tried not to think of Teazer’s keel, cleaving the water a couple of fathoms below them as they bore off into the narrowing space between the lighthouse rocks and the cliffs. What if the lugger had been specially designed with a light draught for just this inshore work?

the Admiral’s daughter 99

Kydd clutched the shroud he was holding as they plunged through—dark shadows of kelp-strewn rock in the sea fl icking past under them, the wind gusted and fl awed so close to the shore.

Another, smaller, outlying group of rocks surged white off to port—and Bloody Jacques opened fi re.

Admittedly they were four-pounder chase guns only but both of Teazer’s were aft for defence and in Kydd’s cabin. The manoeuvre through the channel had brought both vessels into line and now as they bucketed madly along Teazer must suffer the vicious slam of shot across her decks.

With the wind now dead astern they swept through together and on the other side it became clear that in these conditions Teazer had the edge—the lugger was slowly but surely being overhauled.

As soon as they had established an overlap . . .

The move was as unexpected as it was effective. Like a dancer pirouetting, the privateer threw down his helm and came up into the wind as close as he could lie, in the process bringing his entire broadside to bear. The gunsmoke was whipped away quickly downwind but Kydd felt the sickening crunch in the hull where balls had struck—and not a gun could they fi re in return.

The lugger was now away on the wind, the distance increasing by the second. “Follow!” he bellowed directly at the quartermaster, Poulden, who spun the wheel furiously. Teazer moved round more slowly—her square rig needed men at the braces instead of the guns now.

It was lunacy: close-hauled, the privateer was now headed to pass the Longships and reach open sea where presumably Teazer would fi nd sea room to force a conclusion. But was this a desperate attempt to shake off a pursuer or . . . ?

Kydd glanced at Dowse. The master was tense and his white face told Kydd he had knowledge of perils that he was keeping to himself while in contact with the enemy. Renzi was looking up from noting the change of course but everyone else was gazing after the 100

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lugger whose deck seemed crowded with men, the occasional glint of steel among them giving point to their threat.

The privateer captain was wily and kept a fi ne discipline to handle his ship as he had—there had to be a reason for his strange move. And there was: at precisely the right place the lugger’s bow swung, passing through the wind’s eye, took up on the other tack and stood away to the south-east.

It was a master-stroke. The square-rigged Teazer needed room to manoeuvre if she wanted to tack about and must go beyond the Longships. The fore-and-aft-rigged lugger had gone about neatly enough but additionally he had taken advantage of the rocky outlier and was now threading between it and the Longships to return the way he had come, and would be long gone by the time Teazer could follow.

“Sir! No!”

But Kydd had no intention of trying to emulate the corsair. They had to let him go. He let out his breath in a sigh of appreciation at the princely display of seamanship, watching the lugger thrashing southward, and turned to Standish. “A right devil! Should we have—”

“We could do no other, sir, I’m persuaded. And if I might make remark, our motions must have given him pause. He may well decide to prey on less well-defended shores.”

“Why, thank ’ee, Mr Standish, but I’ve a feelin’ we’ll be meetin’

again. I’ll not forget this day.”

The ship’s company of HMS Teazer gathered beside an open grave.

The vicar of the ancient Gulval church had performed this offi ce so many times—the sea giving up its dead from shipwreck, foundering, piracy and war. These at least had a Christian burial. Far more had been removed from human ken and had not returned from a voyage; they had died far from home of disease, a fall from the Admiral’s daughter 101

aloft, any one of the multitude of hazards lying in wait for every seafarer.

The young foretopman shyly added his handful of earth to the rest on the coffi n, conscious of the sombre eyes of his shipmates, packed closely about the grave. He stepped back and raised his eyes to his captain. Kydd understood, and looked at the vicar, who nodded solemnly. “Er, ‘They that go down t’ th’ sea in ships . . .’”

he began, and stopped. He was the captain; his ship had suffered her fi rst loss to the sea and they were looking to him for words of strength. The trouble was that he himself had been affected by the death, more so for its occurring not in the heat of battle but in the course of the seaman’s obedience to his own commands.

He gulped and tried to concentrate. “We all who use th’ sea . . .

the unseen perils . . . must fi nd courage . . . our duty . . . to th’ end.”

The unblinking eyes watching him gave no indication of the seamen’s thoughts. When he clapped on his hat they returned down the little road to Penzance.

Kydd stood for a moment longer by the graveside. Then his eyes met Renzi’s. Wordlessly they turned and followed.

Chapter 5

With six sail-of-the-line at anchor in Cawsand Bay, and Plymouth Sound alive with wartime shipping, it was probably too much to expect any to notice the arrival in port of so modest a vessel as the brig-sloop Teazer, but Commander Kydd didn’t care.

Pacing his own quarterdeck in his best coat and breeches, he was ready for any summons from the admiral after a not uneventful fi rst war cruise.

The challenge fl ag fl uttered up the mast of the signal station at Mount Wise and Teazer’s reply shot up the lee halliards as she eased to larboard to avoid an ungainly Indiaman working her way seaward. Then, within a few hundred yards of the grassy sward of Plymouth Hoe, Teazer’s helm went over for the fi nal mile to the notorious Devil’s Point and the entrance to the Hamoaze—and rest.

Kydd concentrated on the approach. The vicious currents in the narrows had claimed many victims—their bleached timbers could still be seen on the banks.

In the fi ne weather people were thronging the pleasant gardens on the point. “Why, there’s a beauty wants to be noticed!” Standish exclaimed. He had his telescope trained on one particular lady who was waving both arms enthusiastically. Distracted, Kydd turned back to the conn but something about that fi gure . . .

“If y’ please?” he asked, and took a peek. It was Cecilia.

the Admiral’s daughter 103

“Mr Prosser, dip th’ ensign!” Standish looked at Kydd with alarm. “My sister,” he said defensively. Obediently Teazer’s colours lowered six feet and proudly returned.

He had no idea why she was there but her gaiety did not seem to indicate a family crisis. After Teazer had picked up her moorings, he penned a quick note to go ashore with the fi rst boat, inviting her aboard after the fl urry of offi cial business, which always awaited a warship returning from a cruise.

“Boat ahoy!” blared the mate-of-the-watch, at the approaching pinnace—there was really no need, for it plainly bore only an assortment of passengers, but its coxswain Poulden bellowed the required “No, no!” to indicate that no naval offi cer was coming aboard.

Cecilia climbed daintily over the bulwarks, handed across by an attentive Kydd, who tried not to notice the look of admiration she received from Standish. His elaborate bow, however, was lost on her: she threw her arms determinedly round her brother and kissed him soundly, to the delight of the seamen on deck. “Dear Thomas!

I’m so thrilled—you have no idea! Captain of your ship—”

“Why, yes, er, welcome on board HMS Teazer, Cecilia,” Kydd said hastily. “An’ this is . . . ?” He turned to the two other passengers stepping aboard.

“Oh, you must remember Jane! She invited me to stay, and how could I refuse?” The lady dimpled with pleasure at the introduction and shyly held out her hand as Cecilia continued, “In Jamaica, I helped at her wedding to William. And we all had dinner together that time . . . ?”

The thickset man grinned broadly. “I was a lowly ensign o’

Foot.” He chuckled, clearly impressed to know the captain of a King’s ship and apparently not recalling that in Jamaica Kydd had been but the quartermaster’s mate of a tiny cutter.

Cecilia took his arm with determination. “Do take us about your ship, Thomas,” she said, with an impish smile.

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Kydd cleared his throat importantly. “Mr Standish, let me know if ye have any troubles—I’ll be takin’ these people f’r a tour.”

His visitors showed every delight at the sights to be had in a man-o’-war: towering masts with their incomprehensible tracery of rigging; the soaring, naked bowsprit so immensely long at close quarters; the deadly fascination of the line of guns at either side; the compass binnacle and spoked helm, now motionless.

Heads were bumped on the deckhead below but they were able to see for themselves the clean expanse of the mess-deck with its tables triced up and ditty bags against the side. The boatswain affably displayed his store and they witnessed at fi rst hand the proce-dure for the issuing of victuals to the mess-cooks for preparation.

Finally they entered the great cabin of HMS Teazer, and admired the noble appointments accorded the ship’s captain. Cecilia’s eyes shone as she looked up at her brother. While her friends peered hesitantly into Kydd’s sleeping cabin he whispered, “An’ ye’re invited t’ the captain’s table at eight bells tonight, sis.”

It called for sherry all round before Kydd had regretfully to announce that, owing to pressure of work, he must conclude their tour and send them ashore. They returned on deck, blinking in the sunshine, but Cecilia hung back. “Thomas,” she said in a small voice, “we haven’t seen Nicholas.”

“Aye, well, he doesn’t like t’ be disturbed, y’ see,” he said uncomfortably. Renzi’s instructions had been clear.

She met his eyes levelly but said nothing.

“Ah, b’ chance he might be at leisure t’ see you,” he said, and excused himself to his visitors and went below, hearing Cecilia’s footsteps tapping behind him.

The tiny cabin had its curtain pulled across but Kydd cleared his throat and said brightly, “Nicholas—er, here’s someone desirous o’ speaking with ye.”

There was movement and Renzi’s head poked out. He paused when he saw Kydd’s sister, then turned and looked accusingly at the Admiral’s daughter 105

Kydd. Cecilia gave an encouraging smile and said sweetly, “So kind in you, sir, to receive us without notice. Do I fi nd you in health?”

Her eyes were already straying beyond the curtain, and Renzi, with a curious air of dignity yet defi ance, answered, “I do thank you for your politeness but as you may see I cannot in all civility invite you to enter.”

Kydd hastened to say, “Oh, er, you’ll understand, Cec, we don’t have an overplus o’ room aboard, an’ this is how Nicholas wants it.”

Cecilia stooped to see inside, ignoring Renzi’s pained expression. “Why, this is nothing but your monk’s cell,” she said, taking in its Spartan simplicity. “It’s just the right place for you, I vow.

And will we be seeing you tonight, Mr Renzi?”

“I—I’m desolated to fi nd that on this occasion there is ship’s business ashore that has the prior claim upon me, Miss Kydd.”

“Oh? Aye, this c’n be so, Cecilia,” Kydd said hastily. “Y’ remember he acts in th’ character of ship’s clerk an’ always knows his duty, I fi nd.”

“Miss Cecilia, sir.” Tysoe held the door as she entered the great cabin, awed now by the effect of the candlelight’s tawny gold on the naval splendour within.

“Good evening, Thomas—how kind of you to invite me.”

Tysoe accepted her pelisse with the utmost courtesy, his approval of the quality of Kydd’s visitor barely concealed.

“Oh, sis, I don’t think ye’ve made y’r number with Tysoe here.

He’s been m’ personal servant since before Canada an’ gives the greatest satisfaction.”

Tysoe exchanged a pleased inclination of the head for Cecilia’s wary interest. “My brother is in good hands, then,” she said, and allowed herself to be conducted to one of the two easy chairs, set to take full advantage of the view from the stern windows in the gathering dusk. Kydd sat companionably in the other.

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“Our dinner’ll be alongside presently, Cec. The cook’s warned off ye’re aboard. Can I help ye t’ the wine afore we eat?”

“That’s so kind, but I will decline for now, Thomas,” she replied delicately. The incongruity of his younger sister deploying the arts of politeness for his sake touched a chord and he laughed, evoking in her a pleased smile.

“Just think,” she said, with childish warmth, “it was only a few years ago . . .” Her face shone. Then she turned and said eagerly,

“Tell me what it’s like, Tom! The captain of a King’s ship—how does it feel? ”

Kydd affected not to notice the deep glow of the gold lace on his coat. “Why, it’s so fi ne a thing, I fi nd it hard t’ remember when I was aught else—but I c’n tell ye now, ye must believe th’ biggest thing in life was t’ be removed fr’m the fo’c’sle to th’

quarterdeck.”

Cecilia remained silent as he continued. “Y’ see, sis, when ye’re only a foremast jack, y’ peep aft an’ see offi cers who’re calm ’n’

strict, looking down at ye, all the power an’ discipline . . . an’

when I heard I was t’ join ’em I didn’t know what I must expect.

F’r me, the big surprise was t’ fi nd that in th’ wardroom all th’

rank an’ ceremony is left on deck, not an order given except it’s on the quarterdeck, never below.

“It means we’re all equal, y’ see. We share like brothers an’ this means that in battles an’ such we understand an’ trust, one wi’ the other. It’s—it’s . . .”

“But now you’re captain!”

“That’s what I’m tryin’ to say. I’ve been plucked out o’ their comp’ny now, Cec, an’ not a one c’n speak t’ Tom Kydd but he’s addressin’ his captain, an’ we both know it.”

Her eyes grew round. “Then this is why Nicholas is . . .”

“Aye—I own that I’m truly fortunate t’ have his company aboard, even if it’s a mort hard t’ hoist in his meanings at times.”

Tysoe interrupted an introspective silence. “Dinner is served, sir.”

the Admiral’s daughter 107

Cecilia regained her vivacity as the meal progressed. “To think it—do you eat in such ceremony every day, and all alone?”

Reassured on the practicalities, she persisted, with a shy giggle,

“Does it not cross your mind, ever, what your sailors must be feeling as they look at you? I mean, once you were one and you must know what they’re thinking.”

“That’s a question I’ve often asked m’self, sis. An’ the answer is that, yes, I do have a notion what’s in their minds. It was th’ same f’r me, that ye see th’ captain afar off an’ know he’s the one set over us all, an’ there’s no quarrel wi’ that.

“Now respect, there’s another thing. If ye hasn’t their respect then y’ hasn’t their confi dence, an’ that way ye lose battles.”

Looking intently at her wine Cecilia said carefully, “If I might be so bold as to remark it, when you speak of respect I am obliged to mention that while it may be said that you have advanced far in life, do you not fi nd the sailors might resent being commanded by one of your—er, our origins?”

Kydd gave a wolfi sh smile. “Men like t’ have a captain who’s a swell cove, an’ to have a lord is prime—but always they’ll like a fi ghter best.”

He put down his glass. “Y’ know, Cec, there’s not too many in th’ sea service from forrard like me. We call it ‘coming aft through th’ hawse,’ an’ I doubt there’s above a hundred reached th’ quarterdeck that way. There’s some o’ these—right good seamen all—who glory in where they’ve come from and these are y’r

‘tarpaulin offi cers.’

“Now, I’m not, as who might say, ashamed o’ bein’ a foremast hand—I’m proud t’ have been one—but, sis, f’r me, what’s chalked up on my slate is not where I’ve come from but what I c’n look forward to as a gentleman o’ consequence.” Self-consciously he went on, “It was at th’ admiral’s ball, Cec. I was Cap’n Thomas Kydd, honoured guest, an’ I met th’ ladies an’ everyone, an’ they took me as one o’ them. I have t’ tell ye, it was very pleasing t’

me—very agreeable indeed.”

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Cecilia smiled sweetly and Kydd went on, “Except that I had the feelin’ I was a—a visitor, if ye gets m’ meanin’, welcome f’r all that, but a visitor t’ their world just the same. Now, Cec, what I want t’ be is—not a visitor. I want ’em t’ take me as their own, y’

see, just th’ same as when I came aft t’ the wardroom. Is this s’

wrong for such as I?”

“Bless you, Thomas, no, it is not! But—but there are . . .

diffi culties, which I feel obliged to point out.”

“Fire away, then, sis.”

“You will understand that I speak from the kindliest motives, and some years in the employ of Lord Stanhope, where I’ve been privileged to move in the highest levels of society . . .”

“Aye, that I do!”

“Then kindly attend, Thomas,” she said seriously. “The fi rst point I will make is that you ask to enter society as a waif and stray—without you have an establishment, a lodging at the very least, you cannot expect to receive visitors or hold the usual polite assemblies.”

It was a novel thought: “home” had always been his ship, the centre of his world, and failing that, then Guildford where his parents lived. He and Renzi had briefl y shared a residence there, it was true, but they had always known it would be temporary.

Cecilia was now telling him to have life outside his ship—to put down roots for the fi rst time.

“I’ve been staying with Jane and her husband, who is something in a fi nancial way in Plymouth. She will tell us where distinguished sea offi cers might fi nd suitable accommodation.” She regarded Kydd’s splendid full-dress commander’s uniform doubtfully. “In course, you will not often be in uniform on the land, Thomas. You will need to consult a tailor. Coat and breeches simply will not answer any more. Pantaloons and cravat are all the thing.”

“I’ll not be made—”

“Then shall you meet us for an expedition on the strand tomorrow? Or . . . ?”

the Admiral’s daughter 109

“Aye—at eleven,” Kydd muttered.

“Now, pray don’t take it amiss, brother, but I’m bound to observe that your speech is not at all that is to be expected of a high offi cer. It smacks too much of the old ways and simply will not do.

You must try to speak more slowly, to pronounce every word to its full measure, to use circumspection in your language. Surely you don’t want to be mistaken for some kind of sea bumpkin?”

Kydd felt a fl ush rising. “The sea’s a hard enough place. Y’ need plain-speakin’,” he growled.

“But we’re not at sea when we’re on the land,” Cecilia replied fi rmly, “and on shore we do as others do. I will give you a poetry book, and you are to read it aloud every morning to Tysoe, trying very hard to make the words beautiful.”

Utterly lost for something to say, Kydd snorted.

“And, Thomas,” she said primly, “I cannot help but note that you speak to me in too familiar a manner. I may be your sister, but that is no excuse for omitting the usual delicacies of converse. Do, please, try to be a little more polite in your address to me.”

“If this’n pleases y’r ladyship,” Kydd said sarcastically, and instantly regretted it. Cecilia was right: the eighteenth century had gone, and with it, much of the colour and vigour he remembered from his youth. Now, in the year 1803, times were more sombre and careful. Appearance and manner were valued over spirit and dash. “That is t’ say, ye’re in the right of it, o’ course.” The warmth of her smile touched him and he felt ashamed of his obstinacy. “I’ll try, sis,” he said sincerely.

“Well, now, there’s the matter of deportment—but you already cut a fi ne fi gure of a man, Thomas. I think we might accept your qualities in this. But there are other skills of a social order that you’ll fi nd indispensable: ability at cards, the arts of gallantry—”

“Be damned! You’re beginnin’ t’ sound too much like Nicholas.”

Her face shadowed.

“Oh, er, Cec, I didn’t mean to . . .” But there was no going 110

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back. “May I know . . . how is it wi’ Nicholas an’ yourself? Are you . . . ?”

At fi rst she did not answer; she crossed to the windows and stared out into the darkness. Then she spoke. “He is a man like no other, Thomas. I will wait for him, whatever his reasons, but you are never in life to tell him of my—my feelings for him. When he’s ready . . .”

She found a handkerchief and dabbed her eye. “Is he—is he happy, do you think?”

Floundering at the change in subject Kydd gathered his thoughts. “Nicholas? Well, I—but then he’s a fathom an’ a half too deep for me t’ know f’r certain, but I can tell ye—that is t’ say, you—that he’s taken aboard s’ many books and scratches away in his little cabin all th’ hours God gives that it must be givin’ him satisfaction.”

“You’re such a good friend to him, Thomas,” she said softly.

“You’ll both take care, won’t you?”

Kydd saw her eyes had fi lled. Out of his depth in the presence of female emotion, he reached for the brandy. “Cecilia, let’s toast.

T’ the future, sis, as who knows what’s lyin’ in wait for us both!”

“Mm, yes. I do see what you mean, Cecilia, dear.” Mrs Mullins was in no doubt about Kydd’s shortcomings in the way of dress and twirled her parasol in exasperation. “Men are such tiresome creatures to encourage when it comes to matters of appearance.”

“Quite so, dear Jane,” Cecilia said comfortably, on Kydd’s arm for the short walk up Fore Street to the Plymouth diligence stand.

“But Thomas has promised, and he shall bear his lot with patience until his dress may match his station in life—is this not the case, Thomas?”

“Aye, Cec,” he said reluctantly.

“I do beg your pardon, Thomas?”

the Admiral’s daughter 111

“Er, I meant t’ say, that is so, Cec—Cecilia.” Be damned to this wry way of talking—but she was right. Kydd accepted that in some ways his sister had advanced much further into polite society than he, even to familiarity with the ways of the nobility and landed aristocracy. If he was to be fully accepted, there was no alternative but to follow her strictures and conform to the way things were at those levels.

“Jane has very kindly brought a newspaper with her, and after we have fi nished at the tailor we shall consult her concerning a suitable district for your residence.” Cecilia informed him fi rmly,

“We are fortunate, Thomas, that we have a friend living here who is to advise us.”

They climbed into the diligence and set off for Plymouth town.

The ladies happily chattered about sartorial possibilities while Kydd stared out over the Sourpool marshes, scattered pine houses among their melon and cucumber pits. There was no question but that he was going through with whatever it took to enter fully into society. Fortune had brought him this far but he had to fi t himself properly to take advantage of the next big stroke.

He allowed his fancies to soar: as a commander he had the respect of the world, but most probably it would be as far as he could reasonably expect to go in naval service and he should then be content with an honourable retirement as a gentleman. In the navy, the next and fi nal step was to post-captain with an automatic but slow rise by seniority to admiral, but for this he had either to succeed in a particularly spectacular feat of arms—unlikely in a brig-sloop—or benefi t by the workings of interest on his behalf.

Interest: embittered offi cers, envious of others’ rise, blamed a system whereby if it was possible to secure protection from one of lofty rank at the centre of power one’s name would go forward over others of equal merit. Kydd, however, saw that at least it was an open and recognised form of favouritism that carried its own check and balance: the favouring would be clearly seen so no 112

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senior fi gure would allow his name to be associated with that of a fool—and if his protégé went on to glory, he would bear the credit also. This was how a daring young man such as Nelson had been given his chance. A post-captain at twenty!

The rattling, jolting conveyance left the potholes of the open country for the smart clatter of cobblestones as they reached the Frankfort gate and the Old Town. Kydd’s mind, however, sped on. The key to interest was fi rst to come under notice; but even to come within sight of a luminary he should be able to move in social circles that would intersect on the right occasions. And having achieved this, nothing could be more disastrous to his cause than to be seen as an outsider, however characterful.

His course was set, the way ahead clear.

The tailor was most obliging, promising a fi rst fi tting in two days, and Kydd found himself in prospect of showing quite a different face to the world. Gone were the gorgeous colours and lace of before. Mr Brummell had decreed that gentlemen would now be choosing the plain but exquisitely cut over satins and bro-cades; light-coloured pantaloons with cuffed-top boots in place of breeches and buckles.

It would take some getting used to but Kydd persevered. In the end he allowed himself satisfi ed; a dark-green coat that swept back rakishly into tails with not a peep of lace, a buff double-breasted waistcoat cut high and a pair of what felt like indecently close-fi tting cream nankeen pantaloons.

“Sir’ll require some gallowses wi’ his hinexpressibles?” Of course: pantaloons were cut generously at the top for comfort when horse-riding and would need reliable suspending. At the bootmaker, orders were put in train for the latest style of pointed-toe black boots with brown tops, despite Kydd’s objections that they resembled a jockey’s, and at the gentleman’s outfi tter much care was given to the selection of a black beaver hat with a white silk lining. It was odd to feel its round bulk in place of the sensible the Admiral’s daughter 113

navy bicorne, but he could tell it would be much more convenient in the bows and fl ourishes of polite ceremony.

“Now, Thomas, we have time to inspect one or two properties for you. Jane is insistent that offi cers of rank do favour Stonehouse above Plymouth for its salubrious air and genteel neighbourhood.

Will we visit, do you think?”

Commander Kydd, lord of sixteen guns and suzerain of near a hundred men, agreed meekly and followed his sister. They reached Stonehouse and turned south down the main street, which he recognised as leading to the Long Room, but stopped, well before the open fi elds, in Durnford Street, which consisted in the main of substantial terraced mansions.

After a fl ash of glances between herself and Jane, all lost on Kydd, Cecilia announced that number eighteen might repay the visiting, and shortly Kydd found himself before the sturdy pale fa-

çade of a half-mansion three storeys high. Appalled, he turned to Cecilia. “No! It’s too—”

“Nonsense, Thomas! You will need to entertain. Come along.”

The landlord’s agent sized Kydd up and, with a well-practised smile, took them in. The front door opened into a small hallway and a passage with rooms on either side. The ladies sniffed politely in unison—the kitchen and scullery apparently passed muster. At the end of the passage a fi ne staircase mounted invitingly up.

Ushered impatiently, Kydd ascended to the fi rst fl oor—a fl eeting impression of a jolly dining room on one side and a full-length drawing room on the other—then to the second, with a capacious main bedroom and a children’s room.

“Should you desire to view the servant’s quarters?”

“Aye—er, yes,” Kydd said hurriedly. It was the navy way always to ensure that the men were taken care of before consulting one’s own comfort. The fi nal attic fl oor, with its sloping ceilings and two sizeable rooms, would be more than adequate for any level of domestic manning that Kydd could consider.

A last quick look and they were on the street again, with Cecilia 114

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possessively on his arm. “Well, Thomas, I do declare—a fi replace in every room, an entirely splendid drawing room. We shall need to change that odious curtain colour of course, and the fl oor rug is rather disgraceful, but your bedroom is quite the most commodious I have seen.”

It was for Kydd too—he remembered it hazily as nearly the size of Teazer’s quarterdeck. “Now, sis, afore we go much further, this is jus’ too big f’r me. I don’t—”

“Don’t be such a silly,” Cecilia said impatiently. “One drawing room, one dining room, a bedroom for yourself and another—

how can you live with less?”

A glance at the serene expression of her friend seemed to suggest that an understanding of sorts had already been reached and in these matters it were best to follow along. “But, Cec, the cost must be—”

“An arrangement in the short term would be ruinously expensive, I’ll agree,” she said, “But an annual lease will be had for, say, twenty pounds or so?” she added, with suspicious confi dence.

That was a substantial portion of his pay but less than he had feared; and the thought of being master in his own home to do as he pleased, to return invitations, to announce an assembly, have dinners to be talked about for months afterwards . . . “Y’ may be right, Cecilia. I’ll think on it.”

“Nicholas, I’d be greatly obliged if you’d assist me in a small matter.”

Renzi looked up from his book. “By all means, brother.”

The morning light refl ected up from the water was playing pretty patterns on the cabin deckhead but Kydd’s mind was on other things. “Y’ see, I’m thinkin’ on takin’ a lease—in a small way, of course—in a lodgin’ ashore. If you’d be so kind as to step off wi’ me to inspect it . . .”

Courteous and patient, Renzi toured number eighteen with the Admiral’s daughter 115

Kydd, admiring the staircase, commenting on the number of fl oors and forbearing to point out that Kydd’s observation on the felicity of having cooking country on the lowest fl oor and the servants safely aloft in the highest was quite in keeping with general practice.

“Might I know the asking price for this lease?” he murmured.

“Twenty guineas,” Kydd answered stoutly.

“That will be unfurnished, I believe. Shall we say about twenty-three if semi-furnished, which I earnestly recommend?”

“Ah, just so, I’d think,” Kydd replied hastily, and sought to bring himself to a proper state of seriousness. “Nicholas. I have a proposition I’d like ye to consider.” Choosing his words carefully, he went on, “In the matter of y’r own situation—I know how scant y’r means are as a captain’s clerk wi’ no other. As a man o’

learnin’, you’ll need a place to rest your books an’ things. I’m offerin’ such a place for you here—but I have m’ price.”

“I’m fl attered to receive your offer,” Renzi said equally carefully, “but as you may see, I’m fully provided for aboard the fi ne ship Teazer. ”

“Ah, but here you would have an address you can give to people that will stop ’em thinkin’ ye’re a singular cove as lives all his life in a ship . . .”

Renzi paused.

“. . . and y’r grateful assistance at times of m’ social duty such as dinners will be well remarked.”

“I see.” He stroked his chin. “You mentioned a price, as I remember.”

“I did. One shillin’ a month—and I shall see m’ name, Thomas Kydd, printed for all the world to see, in y’r fi rst book.”

Renzi looked away. When he had regained his composure he turned with a smile and said lightly, “Then it seems that, not content with topping it the captain over me, you shall be my landlord as well.” He held out his hand. “And here’s my word on it.”

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• • •

It was amazing, the amount of work that was apparently needed before they could claim their domicile. Drapery of fashionable colour replaced darker hangings at the windows, tastefully painted and varnished sailcloth lay over plain-edged fl oorboards in all but the drawing room, where an only slightly worn green-patterned carpet complemented the restful sage of the walls.

When it came to his bedroom, Kydd refused strenuously to contemplate the larger room, contending that he felt uneasy in any but ship-sized quarters and, besides, Renzi would need all the space he could fi nd for book stowage. Thus it was that his friend could have an imposing writing-desk fi t for the fi nest scholar at the window, leaving the rest for a modest bed and a satisfying expanse of empty shelving.

For himself, he indulged in a mahogany four-poster bed of the latest design, somewhat incongruous with the Spartan furniture already in the room.

When Cecilia arrived to inspect progress, her scrupulously polite suggestions were only sometimes parried by Renzi, albeit with an even greater civility, until decoration and additional furniture had been settled to mutual satisfaction.

While Teazer lay under repair for her slight wounding by the privateer, Chez Kydd neared completion. In the dining room, wall-mounted mirror sconces were fi tted to cast a more cheerful light on proceedings, and a modest amount of silver Sheffi eld plate found its way into the sideboard.

In the drawing room, the marble mantelpiece was decorously ornamented and all proper brass implements mustered and found correct, a silk fi re-screen completing the furnishings.

A turning-point came when it became necessary to engage domestic staff. The indispensable Jane allowed that word had been put out that a position might be open in the house of a bachelor naval captain, which was probably why a diminutive but bright-eyed the Admiral’s daughter 117

sea-widow named Mrs Bargus arrived that day to apply for the position of housekeeper.

Kydd, unsure of the niceties, sent for Tysoe. Imperturbable as always, his man took charge and Mrs Bargus was installed to maintain the residence against Mr Kydd’s return from sea. In the way of things she would oversee a maid-of-all-work, who would share her quarters and, it seemed, undertake to produce a cook and scullerymaid of her acquaintance on a daily basis while Teazer was in port.

With Tysoe as butler and head of staff, Mr Kydd was no longer to be troubled with domestic concerns and number eighteen took on new life. A shy Becky, the new maid, curtsied to Kydd, and mysterious clatters from the lower regions was a sure sign that the cook was taking a measure of her domain.

At last the day came when Tysoe was persuaded to pronounce the house habitable and Kydd rubbed his hands with glee. “Nicholas!

Tonight we shall dine—and who do y’ think we should invite?”

Renzi hid a smile at Kydd’s boyish excitement. “Do you not think it a vexing imposition on our new cook that she must prepare dishes for the multitudes? It were better that we dine in solitary splendour and see what she conjures.”

In the event, the Cornish sole overtopped with fried oysters was entirely tolerable, and by the roast pigeon Kydd was passing content with his portion in life.

With Tysoe hovering solicitously with the wine and a timid Becky anxiously removing dishes under the august eye of the head of the household, a watershed had been reached in Kydd’s life.

“Shall we withdraw, do you think?” he said lazily to Renzi.

“Shall we indeed! A brandy would be a capital thing to me at this time,” Renzi answered, with equal contentment, after a pause to dispose of the last of the custard pudding. “In no way an asper-sion on our inestimable cook aboard Teazer but I rather fancy that at the hands of this one we should no longer fear to invite whom we will.”

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• • •

“It was a splendid party, was it not?” Renzi chuckled, throwing his newspaper on the fl oor and helping himself to the breakfast kippers. “Bazely quite kept the ladies in a roar with his drollery. I suspect he’s not to be deprived of sociable occasions.”

Kydd’s daily visits to Teazer as she lay under repair were not onerous and the success of the party the previous night combined with the warmth of a long friendship to produce a glow of satisfaction. “Aye, that it was, Nicholas,” he mused, with a sigh, remembering these very drawing-room walls resounding to laughter, the soft candlelight on fl ushed cheeks. “Do y’ think we should make th’ next by way of a fancy dress?” If six made a rousing evening they could probably stretch to eight and have a glorious rout.

“An’ Miss Robbins tells me there’s quantities o’ ladies would favour us with a musical evenin’, if begged.”

Renzi pursed his lips. “This is an agreeable prospect, my friend, and I’m desolated to intrude—but have you given thought to the unfeeling demands of Mammon?”

“Y’ mean, Nicholas, where’s the pewter as will pay for it?”

“Have you by chance perused your books lately?”

“Books?”

“Of account. Household books of account as may readily be seen in both the greatest and meanest houses in the land.”

Kydd bristled, but Renzi continued remorselessly, “As will detail to the prudent the ebb and fl ow of income and expenditures so as to give comfort that any projected enterprise will be within—”

“When I have th’ time, Nicholas,” Kydd said curtly.

“As I suspected,” Renzi said, “your lofty duties spare you no time for this necessary chore, and therefore I will make you a return proposition. Should you see fi t to reduce my monthly lodgings to sixpence, I should be happy to assume the character of bookkeeper for you—for us both, as it were.”

“No!” blurted Kydd, appalled.

the Admiral’s daughter 119

“Pray, may I know why not, as I already perform the function in part for your fi ne vessel?”

“But—but you’re a learned gentleman fi t f’r more than—”

“It were folly to despise the importance of keeping one’s accounts, my friend, even for a scholard.”

Kydd smiled reluctantly. “You’re in the right of it, o’ course.

Very well, Nicholas,” he said humbly, “Thank you, an’ I honour ye for it.”

The door squeaked as Becky entered, bobbing to each. “Draw the curtains, sir?” she asked timidly.

“Please do,” Kydd replied, with an absentminded nod, and turned to his friend. “Nicholas, I’ve been wonderin’: would y’ tell me how your work is progressin’ now?”

“Certainly,” Renzi said, with a pleased smile, steepling his fi ngers. “As you know, my study is ethnographical in nature. At its heart I will be trying to extract universals from the differing response around the world to the same challenges, be they grand or petty.

“To this end I will be on quite another tack from your usual philosopher, for I shall look only to the assembling of observations at the fi rst hand to support my truths, my own and others, not the cloistered ratiocinatings of the ivory tower! And for this I have started down two trails: the fi rst, that I must gain a thorough acquaintance of what passes for knowledge in the subject at present, and the second concerns the amassing of my facts. This is a diffi cult and complex task, which I’ve yet to structure satisfacto-rily, but it is clear that in essence it will require two storehouses—

one, truths, which are so because I or another have seen them to be so, and two, suppositions, which are said to be so and which, therefore, I cannot accept until verifi ed.”

He smiled diffi dently. “Your kind service in allowing me a berth in your ship does, of course, mean that many observations will be possible that are unavailable to the landbound, and your other 120

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kindness in affording me a place ashore to lay my head is of increasing value to me for as I acquire correspondents they will need an address. Dear fellow, your name will most certainly be inscribed in the preface as principal benefactor, you may be assured.”

Kydd sat back. This was a far greater project than he had understood; no wonder Renzi had been closeted for hours each day with little to show for it so far. “If there’s anything . . .” he began hesitantly.

“Thank you, no. But on quite another subject, did I not spy a certain invitation arrive this morning?”

Kydd reddened. “Er, yes, y’ did, Nicholas.” How to include his ship’s captain’s clerk in anything with a naval connection was still not settled in his mind. “From Admiral Lockwood’s lady, a picnic t’ be held next week over in Lord Edgcumbe’s estate,” he added, as off-handedly as he could, and handed it over.

“It will be a social event of some signifi cance,” Renzi admitted, after studying the card. “All the notables will be there and yourself—but I fear that this, of course, will be by ulterior design.”

Kydd paused. “Er, design?” he said suspiciously.

“Why, yes! You are fresh blood, a personable young man of good nature who is at present unattached and shows no immediate prospect of being otherwise. Therefore a prime choice to make up numbers as the hostess has a requirement.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Do bear the disappointment with fortitude—it would seem that your prospects for many further invitations will be bright, should you acquit yourself amiably enough on this occasion.”

“Ah, the invitation says, ‘and friend.’ Um, Nicholas, would you—”

“It seems to me that here is your opportunity to impress your sister with your social standing. She would be delighted to venture abroad on a picnic, I shouldn’t wonder.”

• • •

the Admiral’s daughter 121

Cecilia serenely on his arm, Kydd joined the group assembling at the Mutton Cove jetty in some trepidation, conscious of being under eye and, in his new pantaloons and boots, feeling more than a little conspicuous.

There, in the centre, was the admiral’s wife, the formidable Lady Lockwood, and Kydd set course resolutely to approach. “Madam, might I be allowed t’ present m’ sister, Cecilia,” he managed, remembering to remove his beaver hat in an elegant sweep as he bowed.

It appeared to satisfy: conversations stilled as the newcomers were noticed, but the admiral gave an encouraging smile and Lady Lockwood replied imperiously to Cecilia, “So glad you could be here, my dear. I’m sure you will enjoy yourself.” Her eye rested briefl y on Kydd before she moved on to the next arrival.

Kydd glanced about furtively; there was not a soul he recognised but Cecilia steered him subtly to an apprehensive-looking middle-aged woman on the arm of a fl orid gentleman in blue whom she had met recently at a rout. “Do forgive the impertinence, but I cannot help remarking that adorable bonnet,” Cecilia said gaily,

“The ribbons do so suit your complexion.”

The woman started in pleased surprise, and after Kydd was introduced to her husband the two ladies were soon deep in converse. The short trip across the water to Cremyll in the admiral’s barge passed in a blur of impressions. They stepped out to a picture of rural charm: rolling parkland kept in immaculate order, acres of greensward interspersed with pretty groves of English trees and a double avenue of spreading elms that stretched away up the rise to a grand mansion with curious octagonal towers.

“If there are any who feel unequal to the ascent I’m sure we could send for a chair,” Lady Lockwood declared. However, it was pleasant in the bright summer sun, passing slowly under stately chestnut trees to sylvan glades, and Kydd’s fears slowly eased.

A picnic was laid out on the level expanse of lawn before the 122

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great house, servants standing behind hampers with sunshades at the ready, and after the admiral’s party had decorously draped themselves over the spread rugs there was a general move to do likewise.

“You must try to be more entertaining in your talk, Thomas,”

Cecilia whispered sharply, as she smiled politely at the acquaintance who had claimed her attention once more.

Obediently, Kydd turned to the man, one Mr Armitage, a landed relative of the admiral’s wife and from Ireland, and whose conversation seemed to consist chiefl y of ill-natured grunts. Nothing in common was evident, and Kydd’s despairing talk about Pitt’s chances of returning to government, the shocking price of tobacco and a juicy local murder all left the man unmoved and he lapsed into silence.

Cecilia had been taken away by Mrs Armitage to meet a friend, leaving them both alone, and while elegant conversations swirled round him, Kydd refl ected mutely on the trials of a society occasion. Then he sensed movement and looked round.

It was the admiral’s daughter, Persephone, now stooping to offer him a plate. “Mr Kydd, might I press you to try one of these little olive pies? They’re quite the most toothsome.”

Her gay voice, however, had a cool patrician ring that might have been intimidating.

Her dress—a sweeping fi lmy gown in sprigged muslin—did nothing to conceal her willowy fi gure, and a single pink coral necklace complemented a smart beribboned bonnet.

Covered with confusion, Kydd scrambled to his feet. “Miss Lockwood! How g-good to see you again!” His foot caught in the rug and he stumbled, dropping his new hat in his anxiety not to lose the pie he had accepted from her.

She laughed and picked up his hat for him. “This is a smart beaver indeed. It’s not often a naval offi cer displays such good taste.”

There was a disarming warmth in her tone and the laughter had stayed in her eyes.

the Admiral’s daughter 123

“Oh, er, the hat. For that I must own it’s my sister is m’ pilot in matters o’ fashion.” He looked about for Cecilia but she was not in sight. “Y’ should meet her, Miss Lockwood. All the men do think her the prime article.”

“I shall, Mr Kydd,” she said, amused. Her glance strayed to the stolid form of Kydd’s acquaintance and she added loudly, “If this is your fi rst visit here, you’ll be entranced by the views to be had.

Do let’s see.”

Other couples were promenading or talking together and Kydd walked forward stiffl y, trying hard to appear fashionable. He felt sudden pressure on his arm as Persephone, stifl ing a giggle, said softly, “Armitage can be such a bore when he wants to be, and I did feel so sorry for you on your own. Can you bear to forgive me carrying you off?”

“Miss Lockwood! I—I thank you for y’ service to me and I do confi de it would be of some interest t’ me should we sight the Sound.” This was a small distance across the rise to the thin line of trees veiling the view eastwards, but still within plain sight of the picnic gathering.

“Then so we shall.” They walked slowly together until the rise fell away to reveal the wide, glittering expanse of Plymouth Sound past the Hoe to the busy Cattewater and a sweep on out to sea.

“I never tire of this prospect,” Persephone said. “It’s always so animated, so ever-changing. But, then, you must have quite another perspective, I’m sure.”

Not possessed of a witticism worthy of such a lady Kydd fell back on a simple recounting of a mariner’s experience when entering the great port. It seemed to satisfy, for Persephone remained attentive throughout. “Papa tells me you were with Nelson at the Nile,” she said.

“Well, not really, I’m afraid—y’ see, I was in a different ship fr’m his and we fought in the dark. I couldn’t see much o’ the fl agship.”

She looked at him oddly. “And at Acre the same year?”

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Kydd gave a wary smile; this was not really a fi t subject for fi ne ladies. “Yes, but I don’t care f’r y’r land-fi ghtin’. It’s so . . . so disagreeable,” he fi nished lamely.

After a space she said quietly, “Do you know, Mr Kydd? You’re quite unlike anybody else I’ve met—that is to say, for a sea offi -

cer. You may believe that an admiral’s daughter does not lack for men’s company, but you— Anyone else would have delighted in telling me of their victories in the face of such perils, and you . . . are different.”

Kydd found he had to look away from her frank gaze. “I heard Admiral Lockwood went t’ London to attend the court. Did you b’

chance go as well and see, er, their majesties?” he asked tentatively.

Persephone paused and looked at him kindly. “Papa’s brother is Groom of the Stole and one of Prinny’s set. And Mama is remembered as lady-in-waiting to Princess Charlotte—she’s now the queen consort of Frederick of Wurttemberg, of course—so you may be sure it’s quite impossible to stay away,” she said, with a sigh.

“Prinny?” said Kydd, awed.

“The Prince of Wales is such a spendthrift and coxcomb, of course, but I do believe his heart is in the right place.” Suddenly she looked down. “I think we should return now, Mr Kydd. I thank you for your company, and I do wish you well for your next voyage.” Then, with the fl ash of a sweet smile, she walked ahead of him back to the picnic.

Chapter 6

“Did y’ fi nd entertainment enough along shore, Mr Standish?”

Kydd asked the fi gure in glistening black oilskins standing next to him as another slowly drifting rain squall passed over the little sloop.

The fi rst lieutenant shook himself in a shower of droplets and allowed a smile. “I do have my hopes of the young ladies here, sir.”

Kydd kept his eye on the swirling current lapping noisily round the rocks in the narrows of Devil’s Point. On the ebb, and with this mild south-westerly, there should be no diffi culty with the sharp turn before Drake’s Island on their way out to sea.

Standish raised his speaking trumpet and blared at the fore-brace hands as Teazer straightened for the run past the Hoe. “I believe, sir, you now have an address in Stonehouse.”

“I have,” Kydd said, with satisfaction. “Durnford Street. There—

can y’ see the darker roof o’ the third house along? A view o’ the Hamoaze on one side an’ Plymouth Hoe th’ other.” It was an unreal thought that there he had a home of his own making.

“Sir!” The quartermaster’s voice was sharp with alarm as he pointed at the bulk of a large merchantman ahead, emerging from the rain squalls and about to cross their bows on its way to the Mill Bay docks. It was unfortunate: the lookouts had probably assumed that his attention was on the task in hand and had refrained from pointing out the obvious.

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Annoyed with himself, he snapped the orders that took the way off the sloop to pass astern of the ponderous vessel. “It seems we’re in some need of a sea breeze t’ clear our heads. As soon as we’re t’ seaward o’ Jennycliff, let’s see th’ hands lose some sweat.

Both watches t’ exercise then, Mr Standish.”

“Aye aye, sir,” he acknowledged. “Er, and, sir—if you’d excuse the impertinence—I did learn as well that our captain’s clerk is now, er, of the same address?”

“Aye, he is,” Kydd said fi rmly.

“Sir.”

“Then am I t’ understand that he’s easy in his duties—as who’s to say backward in diligence—when assistin’ you?”

“Why, no, sir,” Standish answered hastily. “He is very amiable and obliging.”

“Mr Renzi is a learned gentleman o’ shinin’ qualities as is acceptin’ th’ convenience of this vessel by th’ admiral’s express permission, and who fi nds the value of an, um, pied-à-terre in this place an obligin’ thing.

“If your philosophicals are lofty enough you’ll have th’ chance t’ quiz him as y’ please, for I’ll be invitin’ you an’ Mr Renzi both t’ dinner soon.”

The afternoon brought an improvement in the weather, and with the wind backing to a pleasant westerly, Kydd decided to patrol the eastward half of his area.

There was no need for haste, as who was to say where any trouble might lie? The admiral’s offi ce had received no recent reports of predation and Kydd wondered if he would ever again get the chance to face Bloody Jacques at bay.

Meanwhile his contentment continued to build, with warm thoughts of his progress in society mingling with enjoyment of the tumbling green Devonshire coastline and the clean, sparkling summer seas ahead.

Renzi had received the news of Kydd’s successful fi rst foray into the Admiral’s daughter 127

real society politely and had been cautiously approving when he had heard in some detail of his encounter with an admiral’s daughter. Kydd had no idea how he had done, but the very fact that she had stayed to talk implied that his presence was not altogether uncongenial. She was certainly of a quality far above his, yet she had singled him out—this was surely proof of his acceptability in gentle company. He hugged the conclusion gleefully to himself and turned on his heel to pace the quarterdeck.

The line of coast was beginning to take on meaning and character—Kydd recognised the mouth of the Erme River: it had been there, so long ago, that he had been one of the party that had crept ashore to discover the truth of the great mutiny, learning of the worst in the pretty village of Ivybridge below the moor.

As the coast trended south past the Bolt Tail and Head it peaked with Start Point. One of the major seamarks for the winter-beset battleships of the Channel Fleet fl eeing a ferocious gale, it promised calm and rest at Tor Bay, beyond.

Teazer’s patrol limit was at the other end of the long sweep of Lyme Bay at Portland and nearby Weymouth. There were no sea-ports of consequence in the bay beyond Exmouth and he determined to stretch out for Portland.

“Mr Standish, tomorrow is Sunday an’ we shall have Divisions.

If you’d be s’ kind?” It was a little unfair; the ship was still being squared away after three weeks in dockyard hands, but what better way to pull Teazer into shape than to have a captain’s inspection and bracing divine service? Anyway, it would give him a good idea of the temper of his men. It was the duty of the fi rst lieutenant to prepare the ship and Standish would be held to account for any short-comings; this was the custom of the service and he would be as much on display as the ship.

At four bells Kydd stepped out of his great cabin to the pierc-ing squeal from the boatswain’s call. In full dress uniform he acknowledged the polite report from Standish that His Majesty’s 128

Julian Stockwin

Ship Teazer was now at readiness for his inspection.

He went to the main-hatchway and stood aside for the boatswain to precede him on deck with a single warning peal, the

“still.” Then Kydd emerged gravely on to the upper deck. With fi tting gravity he began in a measured pace to process down the larboard side of the deck, every man still and watching.

Lines from aloft appeared properly belayed and, additionally, the ends were each laid fl at in a careful concentric spiral, a Flemish coil. He moved past the bitts to the shot garlands alongside each squat carronade. The gunner watched Kydd’s progress steadily: Kydd knew it would be astonishing indeed if the balls were not wonderfully chipped and blacked and the carronades gleaming on their slides but appearances must be preserved and he went carefully through the motions.

The foredeck was in the same pristine state as aft; the lines were not pointed as they were on the holy ground of the quarterdeck where the fi nal four inches had been artistically tapered, but in other ways there was pleasing attention to detail. Here he noted that every rope’s end was neatly whipped, in the complex but secure and elegant West Country style, while the canvas grippings of the foreshrouds had been painted instead of tarred.

“A strong showing, Mr Standish,” Kydd allowed. Standish tried to hide his smile of satisfaction.

But professional pride was at stake here; Kydd looked about covertly but there was nothing to which he could take exception.

He would have to try harder. Noting the angle of the breeze across the deck he crossed to a carronade neatly at rest on its slide. At the cost of his dignity Kydd squatted and felt under its training bed forward before the waterway and found what he was looking for: wisps of oakum and twine trimmings, wafted there during the work that morning. He straightened and looked accusingly at Standish. “Ah, sir, I’ll be speaking to the captain of the fo’c’sle,”

the lieutenant said, with a touch of defi ance.

Kydd growled, “But there’s a matter o’ higher importance that the Admiral’s daughter 129

concerns me.” He held Standish’s eyes, provoking in the other man a start of alarm. Kydd went on, “It is, sir, th’ foretop lookout failin’ in his duty!”

They snapped their gaze aloft to catch the interested lookout peering down at events on deck, then hurriedly shifting his attention back out to sea. Kydd had known the man’s curiosity would probably get the better of him and had deliberately refrained from looking up before. “Th’ mate-o’-the-watch t’ inform me how he’s to teach this man his duty,” he barked.

In the respectful hush he turned and went down the fore hatchway to the berth-deck. Men were mustered below, in their respective divisions headed by their offi cers, and stood in patient silence.

The swaying forest of sailors fi lled the space and Kydd picked his way through.

Knowing all attention was on him, he moved slowly, fi xing his eyes to one side then the other, looking for a shifty gaze, resent-ment or sullen rebelliousness but saw only guarded intelligence or a glassy blank stare. He passed along and stopped. “Why has this man no shoes?” he demanded of Prosser. The sailors went bare-foot where they could at sea but mustered by divisions for captain’s inspection only shoes would do.

“He doesn’t have any, sir,” Prosser answered uncertainly.

“Why doesn’t he have any?” Kydd responded heavily. The divi-sional system of the navy was a humane and effective method of attending to the men’s welfare by assigning an offi cer responsible not only for leading his division into combat but as well concerning himself with any personal anxieties his men might have.

Prosser shifted uncomfortably.

“Tell me, why do y’ have no shoes?” Kydd asked the man directly.

“I ain’t got m’ pay ticket,” he mumbled.

“You’re fr’m, er, Foxhound, ” Kydd recalled. “Are you saying that y’r pay due entitlement has still not come t’ Teazer? ”

“Sir.”

Kydd rounded on Prosser. “Inform th’ captain’s clerk that this 130

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matter’s to be brought t’ the attention of Foxhound an’ report to me the instant this man’s account is squared.”

It annoyed him that Prosser, a master’s mate, was holding his men at arm’s length like that. Only by getting to know them and winning their confi dence would he be of value to them—and, more importantly, be in a position to make good decisions when at their head in action. It was no secret that Prosser had been hoping for a bigger, more prestigious rate of ship, but if he was looking for an early recommendation from his captain then this was not the way to gain it.

Aft was where the petty offi cers berthed; their mess was in immaculate order, and on impulse Kydd asked that the rolled canvas that would screen them off from the rest should be unfurled. As he suspected, it was richly painted on the inside with a colourful pastiche of mermaids and mythical sea-beasts.

He lifted his eyes and saw Stirk looking at him across the deck; it had been so many years, but some of Kydd’s happiest times at sea had been spent with Stirk in a mess such as this. He fought to control a grin and contented himself with a satisfi ed nod.

The cook’s domain was spotless, the morning’s salt beef standing by for the coppers. The boatswain’s store was trim and well-stowed, and in the sailmaker’s tiny cuddy Kydd found a miniature hammock slung snugly fore and aft and in it the lazy-eyed ship’s cat, Sprits’l, looking sleek and assured.

Emerging from the cloistered depths of Teazer to the more civilised upper realms, Kydd pronounced himself satisfi ed. As a ship-of-war there was little to complain of and he turned to Standish.

“Rig f’r church, if y’ please,” he ordered, and went to his cabin to allow the bedlam to settle that was the tolling of the ship’s bell for divine service and the clatter of match-tubs and planks being brought up as pews.

“If ye’d rather . . . ?” Kydd offered to Renzi. The absence of a chaplain meant that the offi ce would normally be carried through by the captain or other offi cer but Renzi’s reputation for fi ne the Admiral’s daughter 131

words would ensure him a respectful hearing.

“I think not,” answered his friend. He added warmly, “Your good self is much the closer to a divine in this ship.”

The captain’s clerk would, however, need to appear in front of the men: on report from Standish, two sailors slowly mounted the main-hatchway and appeared on deck. Every man and boy of the ship’s company sat stolidly in a mass facing their captain, who stood by the helm behind an improvised lectern.

Kydd liked what he saw. These were his men, sitting patiently, those who would sail his ship and fi ght at his word, and on whose skills and courage the success of the commission would directly depend.

He was coming to be aware of several, in terms of their character. Some he knew well, their features strong and comforting, but others were still just faces, wary and defensive. All waited quietly for the ceremony that the Lords of the Admiralty in their wisdom had ordained should take place regularly in His Majesty’s ships.

But fi rst Kydd drew himself up and snapped, “Articles of War!”

“Off hats!” roared Standish.

Heads were bared while the captain’s clerk stepped forward and, in a rolling baritone the equal of any to be found on the Shakespearean stage, declaimed the stern phrases to the sea and sky.

“‘Every person in the fl eet, who through cowardice, negligence or disaffection, shall forbear to pursue the chase of the enemy . . . or run away with any of His Majesty’s ordnance, ammunition stores

. . . either on the high seas, or in any port, creek or harbour . . . and being convicted thereof by the sentence of a court-martial, shall suffer death . . .’” Duty done, Renzi stepped back.

The two men were brought forward, on report for being slack in stays—Standish wanted the job done speedily. Kydd could only approve of his zeal and sentenced them both to fourteen days in Purchet’s black book. Cares of the world dealt with, it was time to address the divine.

A respectful silence was followed by a rustle of anticipation.

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Kydd knew he was on trial—some commanders would be eager to play the amateur preacher, others fl ippant and dismissive, but the common run of seamen were a conservative, God-fearing breed, who would be affronted at any kind of trifl ing with their sturdy beliefs.

“Gissing?” The carpenter’s mate stood up with his violin and joined Midshipman Boyd at his German fl ute. When all was ready Kydd announced the hymn, “O God, Our Help in Ages Past,” and the ship’s company sang heartily together, the old words to the well-known tune sounding forth loud and strong. It was the sign of a ship’s company in good heart.

Kydd went to the lectern, notes ignored—these were his men and he knew what they wanted. “Men of Teazer—Teazer’s men,” he began. There was a distinction and it was rooted in the different allegiances between those merely on her books and those who had found their being in and of the ship. “Let me spin ye all a yarn.”

This got their attention. “Years ago, when I was in m’ very fi rst ship we joined action with a Frenchy. And as we closed with th’ enemy I was sore afraid. But my gun-captain was there, who was older an’

much wiser. He was the very best kind o’ deep-sea mariner, and he said to me words o’ great comfort that let me face th’ day like a man.”

His eyes found Stirk’s and he saw the studied blankness of expression that showed he, too, had remembered that day.

“‘Kydd,’ he said. ‘Now, it’s certain ye’ll get yours one day, but ye’ll never know what day this’ll be when y’ wakes up in the morning. If it is, then y’ faces it like a hero. If it wasn’t, then it’s a waste o’ your life to worry on it.’”

Kydd waited for the murmuring to die, then picked up the Bible.

“He’s in the right of it, o’ course—but it was here all th’ time.

Matthew, the sixth chapter an’ the thirty-fourth verse. ‘Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Suffi cient unto the day is the evil thereof.’

the Admiral’s daughter 133

“Men, should y’ need a course t’ steer in any weather then th’

chances are you’ll fi nd it here.”

Portland Bill was the eastern limit of Teazer’s area, but it would do no harm to show the denizens that the navy was here. “T’ take us past the Bill an’ round to, off Weymouth,” he instructed the master.

There was no real need to pass into the next patrol area, especially with the notorious Race extending out to the Shambles, but this was only bad in heavy weather and it was well known that the King took the waters at Weymouth in summer—what more loyal act could there be than to demonstrate to His Majesty that his sea service was dutifully safe-guarding the shores of his realm?

In the bright sunshine the distant wedge of the peninsula seemed too tranquil for its reputation and the irregular rippling over the Shambles was a tame version of the violent tidal overfalls Kydd had heard about. Teazer slipped between them and in an hour or so came to off the town, the hands that had been at their recre-ational make-and-mend, which was customary after divine service, now lining the bulwarks.

More than one telescope was trained shorewards as they slowed and swung with the current but the King was not at home—the squat King Henry fortress showed no colourful royal standard.

“Take us out, if y’ please,” Kydd ordered. It would be harder to return now for the wind was veering more to the west, but if they took Lyme Bay in long boards it would not only give the men more time to enjoy their make-and-mend but enable them to raise Exmouth in the morning.

The next day, as they lay off Exmouth for an hour or two it had clouded over; if there were any urgent sightings or intelligence a cutter would come out to them. After breakfast they clapped on sail for the south and Teignmouth, where they did the same thing, heaving to well clear of the bar at the narrow harbour mouth.

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Kydd felt a sense of unreality creeping in: this was not war, it was a pleasant cruise in a well-found craft with eighty men aboard who had nothing more to their existence but to obey his every whim.

And before him lay only another easy sail south past some of the loveliest coast in England to Start Point, then a leisurely beat back home to Plymouth. When would it pall? When would come the time that Teazer had to justify herself as a man-o’-war? And when would he cross swords with Bloody Jacques?

Sail was spread and Teazer leant to it heartily; Hope’s Nose was their next landfall and beyond it Tor Bay and Brixham. There was just time to go below and do some work, and reluctantly Kydd left the deck.

Renzi was deep in thought at his accustomed place in the stern windows so Kydd left him in peace, settling down with a sigh to an unfi nished report. He worked steadily but his ears pricked at sudden shouts on deck and the rapidly approaching thump of feet.

“Sir!” blurted Andrews at the door. “Mr Standish’s compliments and the fl eet is in sight!”

“A fl eet?” Was this the dreaded invasion?

“Sir! Channel Fleet, fl ag o’ Admiral Cornwallis!”

Kydd threw on his coat and bounded up on deck to fi nd they had rounded Hope’s Nose to the unfolding expanse of Tor Bay and come upon the majestic sight of the battleships of the blockading fl eet entering their fall-back anchorage.

Looking up, Kydd saw their commissioning pennant standing out, long and proud, at precisely a right-angle from the shore.

This meant a dead westerly, so the French in Brest were locked fast into their lair, unable to proceed to sea; the shrewd Cornwallis was taking the opportunity to refi t and resupply—for as long as the wind held. Should it shift more than a point or two all anchors would be weighed in a rush and the fl eet would stand out to sea to resume its watch and guard. Cornwallis was known as the Admiral’s daughter 135

“Billy Blue”: his custom was to leave the Blue Peter fl ying all the time he was at anchor, the navy signal for imminent departure.

Kydd kept Teazer at a respectful distance while the great fl eet came to rest. By the laws of the navy he was duty-bound to call on the admiral to request “permission to proceed,” a polite convention that allowed the senior man the chance to co-opt his vessel tempo-rarily for some task.

“Full fi g, Tysoe.” Their salute banged out while Kydd shifted into his full-dress uniform and, complete with sword and medals, embarked in the pinnace for the mighty and forbidding 112-gun fl agship Ville de Paris.

Tor Bay was a scene of controlled chaos. From nowhere a host of small craft had appeared, summoned by an urgent telegraph signal that the fl eet had been sighted. Hoys, wherries, lighters and a ceaseless stream of boats plied between the ships. This was resupply: a population equivalent to one of the biggest towns in England had appeared magically offshore and demanded months of provisions, putting into motion a formidably complex system that was timed to the hour.

As Kydd journeyed across to the fl agship, constantly at hazard of entangling with the furious passage of the small craft, his boat’s crew marvelled at the scene. On each ship they passed, men were thick in the rigging, sending down worn canvas, re-reeving end for end the halliards and braces that had seen so much service in the ceaseless struggle to keep the seas. Lighters were being towed out from the breweries at Millbrook, laden deep with vast quantities of beer, a healthier alternative to water in the casks after weeks at sea; and hoys struggled with all the onions, cabbages and other greens they could carry. That very morning these had been in the ground and hapless contractors were at twelve hours’ notice to supply many tons of vegetables.

There was much activity ashore on Paignton Sands, too. Snaking lines of horses and cattle were stretched out over the hills heading 136

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towards a series of tents. Around them were piles of barrels and men in frenetic motion. The oxen, driven overland from the depot at Ivybridge, were being slaughtered, salted and headed up there and then in casks on the beach.

It was a telling commentary on the efforts of the nation to provide for its sailors, and a demonstration for all to see of the value placed on keeping this vital battle fl eet at sea.

The monstrous sides of the fl agship towered up and Kydd felt nervous. This was the commander-in-chief, Sir William Cornwallis, whose iron discipline was chiefl y responsible for holding together the fl eet in the fearsome conditions of the Atlantic blockade. His sea service went back to the American war—his brother had surrendered at Yorktown—and he had been with Rodney at the battle of the Saintes and served as a commodore in India against Tippoo Sahib.

Kydd mounted the side-steps carefully and was met at the ornate entry-port with the thrilling squeal of pipes and the bored looks of the receiving-party. A lieutenant politely doffed his hat while Kydd punctiliously saluted fi rst the quarterdeck, then him, before he strode aft and up to the admiral’s cabin.

“Sit y’self down, m’ boy,” the great man muttered, rooting about among his charts, then looking up mildly. “Kind in ye to call.” The fl orid countenance and bluff ways of a country squire hid a sharp mind and ruthless organiser; the seamen called him

“Billy-go-tight” and stood well clear when he was to be seen pac-ing slowly, head down, about the decks.

“Seen much sport?” Cornwallis asked kindly.

“Naught but one privateer who gave me th’ slip, sir,” Kydd said apologetically.

“Never mind, lad, early days yet. Now, if ye’d pay mind t’

me, there’s a service I’d like ye to perform as will spare one of m’

frigates.”

“Aye, sir.”

the Admiral’s daughter 137

A pale-faced lieutenant looked round the door and promptly vanished at Cornwallis’s frown.

The admiral turned back to Kydd. “Do ye fi nd Immortalité

frigate, Cap’n Owen, an’ pass to him a small chest f’r which you’ll take a receipt in due form? For y’r information it contains a sum in gold—f’r which I’ll take your receipt, sir—by which we buy our intelligence.”

“Sir. Er, could I know where she’s t’ be found?”

“Inshore squadron,” Cornwallis answered testily. “Who knows?

In a westerly, could be anywhere off th’ Goulet between the Béniguete an’ Toulinguet.” At Kydd’s hesitation he growled, “Ask Flags, an’ get some half-decent charts while ye’re about it—it’s a graveyard o’ ships there, an’ this has t’ be in the right hands main quickly, sir.”

It made sense of a kind, conceded Kydd, resentfully, as Teazer left the commotion of Tor Bay astern and stretched out for Start Point. A little brig taken from her lawful duty was far less of a drain on precious resources than a full-blooded frigate, but this took no account of the feelings of her commander at being so casually sent on errands.

On the other hand this was for Kydd and Teazer a fi rst time in one of the worst stretches of sea to be found anywhere—rock-strewn and treacherous, the approaches to Brest at the extreme Atlantic north-west of France had claimed the lives of countless English men-o’-war over the centuries. It was a dangerous lee-shore in all but the infrequent easterlies, and no place for the faint of heart.

All too soon the Start was abeam: it might be possible to fetch their objective in one tack but in this cloudy, petulant weather there would be no sightings to fi x their position reliably. And the increasing westerly, with a making tide, would result in a leeward drift of an unknown quantity that would make even 138

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the best estimations questionable.

Despite the need for dispatch the only prudent move would be to make a westing suffi cient to come about again and in the morning raise the guardian of Brest, the outlying island of Ushant.

Then, knowing their position for a certainty, they could work in closer.

It seemed overly cautious, but Kydd was aware of the little wooden chest with the iron padlock that lay well secured in his bedplace. Much might depend on its safe arrival.

Davies, an amiable master’s mate from Ville de Paris, had volunteered to act as guide—Dowse had only limited familiarity with the region so the younger man’s advice would be crucial. Prosser had made much of his time of service on blockade in the 1790s but this was as a midshipman and, given his brash attitude, Kydd was not readily inclined to take suggestions from him. Any experiences of the lower deck made no reference to charts or coasting pilots and were no better than reminiscences.

The dawn brought with it thin, misting rain driving in from the west in tall white curtains that advanced slowly over a sullen swell to soak the sombre group on Teazer’s quarterdeck. As far as could be relied upon, their reckoning placed them some twenty-fi ve miles to weather of Ushant, the traditional fl eet rendezvous, but the sea was empty as the fl eet was in Tor Bay.

“Helm up,” Kydd ordered, “Steer east.” The die was cast: they were now sailing directly downwind towards France. They would sight Ushant and shape course accordingly or, missing it, end em-broiled in the maze of half-tide rocks promised by their chart.

Kydd went over the arithmetic. The higher he was on the ship, the further he could see. Distance to the horizon in miles was 1.17

times the square root of the height-of-eye in feet. As he stood on the quarterdeck, his eye was about ten feet up, which gave a fi gure of some four miles. At its highest, Ushant was no more than a hundred and forty feet odd, which by the same calculation gave about fourteen miles. Therefore, adding the two, he could expect the Admiral’s daughter 139

to make landfall at eighteen miles off and nearer twenty-three for a lookout in the maintop.

“Get up there, lad,” he ordered Andrews. Another pair of eyes in the tops would never be too many with so much riding on it.

But before the lad could swing into the shrouds a sudden cry came from the foretop. “Laaand hooo!” The lookout gestured vigorously to leeward.

In a fever of impatience Kydd waited for the land to come within sight of the deck, an anonymous grey shape fi rming before them. “Take it south-about,” Kydd told the quarter-master. If it was Ushant they needed to be in place for their southward search and if it was not . . .

Davies came and stood next to Kydd, staring intently. “Certainly looks the part, sir,” he said pleasantly, as though unaware of the tension about him. “We’ll discover f’r sure when we see him off t’

the nor’-west. He has a deep bay there, lookin’ all the world like the open claw of a lobster.”

“We used to say ‘nutcracker’ in Diomede, ” Prosser said importantly. He had taken up position on the other side of Kydd, who didn’t reply.

It proved to be Ushant and therefore they had their position exactly—for the moment. The westerly was holding and beginning to kick up a bit of a sea, although this was probably more due to its disputing with the last of the down-Channel ebb. Kydd fretted at the ragged rain squalls that marched across and lasted for long minutes, bringing visibility down to yards; not only did this make sighting Immortalité diffi cult but it hid the dark rocks off to starboard.

“’T’were best we made our southing through the Chenal d’Four,” Davies offered. “We have the slant wi’ this westerly.”

Prosser puffed his cheeks. “In Diomede it was always Chenal d’Helle, on account—”

“Hold y’r noise!” Kydd snapped. “Haven’t ye somethin’ t’ do forrard?”

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Leaving the black mass of Ushant astern, they sailed on uneasily until a low line of darker grey spread across the horizon, hardening into a craggy coastline. “France, sir,” Davies said unnecessarily. Kydd grunted; of more concern to him now was their undeviating approach directly towards it. Detail became clearer as they neared, a wicked, uncompromising cragginess.

The chart had shown an appalling jumble of unconnected reefs and half-tide rocks and had hinted of fi erce tidal currents to be avoided at all costs. To thread a safe route through would be a nightmare without help.

“Are ye sure?”

Davies nodded patiently.

“Tut, tut, an’ this is a rare moil,” exclaimed Dowse, looking askance at the approaching cliffs, now no more than a couple of miles distant. It was a dead lee shore and all his master’s instincts jangled in alarm. His eyes met Kydd’s.

“Nothing t’ worry of,” Davies said cheerfully. “Need to keep inshore o’ L’Pâtresses, is all.”

The helm went over a bare mile short of the grim heights, but as they made their passage south to parallel them Kydd saw why: at this distance there was a noticeable back wind from the nearby sea-cliffs, which went some way to easing the situation.

Away to starboard the misty sea was full of dismal black crags, white-fringed and dreadful, and after they had passed a stern headland at less than a mile it was evident that they were edging nearer, being crowded ever closer to the coast—suddenly there was no longer any space to wear about or even to tack back to where they had come from. “I mislike it, sir—no sea room, we can’t put back,” Dowse said. “What if . . . ?”

They were being funnelled between a substantial seaweed-black islet to starboard and a gaunt, twisted headland to larboard, but as they drew in, there was a fl at thump on the damp air. Kydd heard more and searched feverishly for where the guns were. There must the Admiral’s daughter 141

be a battery somewhere atop the lofty cliffs—which they would pass close beneath.

He turned to Davies, who said calmly, “Pay no mind t’ the Frenchy, sir. He’s got no notion o’ range over water, and in any case, I know a little diversion, this state o’ th’ tide, as’ll take us close in past the Béniguete instead.”

True to his word, Teazer found herself picking her way warily past the frighteningly close kelp-strewn islet while the guns thudded away impotently. Another mile, and they were in open water, the dark coastline fallen away to nothing.

“Clear, sir,” Davies said smugly. “This is y’r Goulet,” he added, gesturing to the tumble of seas stretching away to the left. “And Brest lies no more’n a dozen miles away there t’ the east’d.”

This was all very fi ne; they had won through the worst to the main approaches of the port but where was Immortalité? The little brig-sloop continued across the wide mouth towards the other side but still no trace. And the irritated French might be driven to sending out gunboats.

Picking up on Pointe du Toulinguet on the opposite side, to the anguish of the master watching the ugly scattering of black rocks stretching seaward for miles, they hauled away across the Iroise towards its natural boundary at the Pointe du Raz and the fi fteen miles of reefs and shoals extending straight out to sea.

With a four-thousand-mile fetch, the wind from the open sea had a relentless urge to it that seemed to want to bully Teazer ever closer towards the grim coastline. And it was increasing now, with an ugly lop and white horses here and there. The rain had eased to fl urries but there was low scud above the ragged cloud.

“Mr Davies?” Kydd asked heavily. It was getting uncomfortable, beam on to the racing seas, and while visibility was improv-ing the doubled lookouts were not seeing any sign of sail.

“Why, y’ have to understand, sir, in the inshore squadron we has two jobs to do—tell England when the Mongseers put t’ sea, 142

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and the other is t’ show ourselves anywhere there’s a Frenchman, tells ’em they’re under eye and it’s better for ’em to stay snug in harbour. Immortalité could be . . . well, anywheres.”

“Thank you, Mr Davies.” Kydd looked out to the unfriendly sea and back to the forbidding coast. Naval duty was a hard taskmaster at times—was it expected that he comb the seas interminably until he found his frigate? In these dangerous waters, with thick weather promising?

The rocky barrier out from the Pointe du Raz was approaching; decisions would have to be made. To leeward, out of sight from the deck, the sweep of Douarnenez Bay had no port of interest, except possibly the small haven of Douarnenez itself. He was not about to risk entering the bay—Douarnenez! A tickle of memory came: his fi rst ship and he a lowly ordinary seaman smelling gunpowder for the fi rst time. It was here that Duke William had clashed briefl y with emerging French ships-of-the-line. They must have been taking shelter in an accustomed anchorage—with which the frigate would of course be familiar and might now be reconnoitring.

“We bear up f’r Douarnenez, I believe, Mr Dowse.”

They entered the bay past a prominent foreland towering up to larboard, the bay opening up widely beyond. The further shore would only be in sight from the tops and Kydd gazed up at them impatiently. But—nothing. No sail, no frigate. “G’damn it!” he blazed.

“Sir! Sir!” Andrews piped from his station on the afterdeck, hopping from one foot to the other. He was pointing vigorously astern. Tucked well into the lee of the foreland just past, a ship lay at anchor, her ensign plain for all to see.

“Immortalité,” Davies confi rmed.

However, so far downwind there was nothing for it but to beat back to the big vessel. A gun boomed on her fo’c’sle, drawing attention to the challenge that had shot smartly up her halliards.

the Admiral’s daughter 143

“Private signal,” roared Kydd to Andrews: thank heaven he had had the foresight to claim these from the fl agship before he left and to have the correct signal of the day made up for hoisting every morning.

It soared up briskly: it wouldn’t do to trifl e with a crack frigate of the inshore squadron. Teazer leant to the wind and beat her way over while Kydd decided that he would not stand on ceremony; even a post-captain would not expect him to dress for a visit on this occasion.

As they neared, a twenty-four-pounder crashed out and the sea plumed ahead of their forefoot. At the same time, all along the length of the frigate’s gun deck cannon were run out and Kydd found himself staring down the muzzles of Immortalité’s broadside.

His mind froze. Then he thought to check again with her ensign—if she had been captured, the French could never fi re under false colours—but she still fl ew an ensign of the Royal Navy.

“Mr Purchet!” bellowed Kydd, his voice breaking with effort.

“Loose the fore topsail sheets this instant!” In a frenzied motion they were cast off and the sail banged and fl uttered free. It was the nearest thing to striking topsails, the age-old signal of surrender, that Kydd could think of.

“Clear away the cutter, boat’s crew t’ muster,” he croaked.

Under Poulden’s urgent bidding the men stretched out for the frigate, Kydd sitting bolt upright, his foul-weather gear damp and uncomfortable. As they neared, there was confi rmation that this was a vessel of the Royal Navy—sea-worn she might be, but every detail, from the blacked muzzles of the cannon to the fancy rope-work round the wind-vane, spoke of a proud sea service.

They came alongside and hooked on, the boat jibbing like a lunatic in the seas that swept the sides of the frigate. Kydd waited for the right moment and jumped for the side-steps, his wet-weather gear tangling and whipping as he climbed up and over the bulwarks.

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Two stolid lines of armed marines met him instead of a side-party. A grim-faced post-captain waited ahead and held up his hands for Kydd to stop where he was. “And who the devil are you, sir?” he grated.

“C-commander Kydd, brig-sloop Teazer, at y’r service, sir,”

Kydd said breathlessly.

“Prove it!” snarled the captain.

Kydd smothered a retort when he realised that, but for a be-draggled and threadbare hat, he was in anonymous foul-weather gear—and he had not a scrap of identifi cation on him as a British offi cer.

He wheeled round on Poulden, who stood rigidly behind.

“What’s th’ best public house in Plymouth Town? Quickly, man!”

“Th-the Town? Beggin’ y’r pardon, sir, but we likes best t’ hob-a-nob at th’ Portsmouth Hoys, Fore Street in Dock, as serves the best brown ale, but if y’ means Old Plymouth, why . . .” He tailed off uncertainly under the ferocious glare of the frigate captain.

There was a brief, unreal silence before the captain grunted,

“Very well. Stand down the marines. Secure from quarters.” He marched up to Kydd and halted within inches. “Now, sir, do you account for yourself.”

Affronted, Kydd retorted, “I’m at a loss, sir, why you fi red into me.”

The captain kept his eyes fi xed on Kydd’s and snapped, “So you would not, were you a frigate captain, which I highly doubt will ever be the case? Then, pray, look at it from my point of view.

“A strange and—I observe—foreign-looking sloop sails unconcerned, as though in home waters, straight into Douarnenez Bay, which all good Englishmen do shun. He sees me and, quick as a fl ash, throws out the private signal, just as if he’d got it by him after capturing one of ours. He puts about impudently and takes his chance to close with me, hoping to catch us off-guard and at the Admiral’s daughter 145

anchor, so then he may pour in his treacherous broadsides.

“But he’s forgotten one detail.” He paused, giving a savage smile, then went on in a voice of rising thunder, “If he’s of the Channel Fleet, carries their private signals— then why in Hades is he fl ying the wrong damn ensign? ”

Too late, Kydd remembered. On her temporary side-voyage for Cornwallis, Teazer was fl ying not the blue ensign of Cornwallis’s fl eet but the red of Lockwood’s command.

Chapter 7

“An’ I’m determined on it, Nicholas,” Kydd said, stretching happily in his armchair.

“We have hardly had time to scrape the salt from our eyebrows after our hard weeks on the briny deep, dear brother,” Renzi sighed, “and here you are proposing we should immediately embark on the rigours of—”

“Not a high occasion as would embarrass th’ exchequer, I’ll grant ye, more in the way of an assembly or so,” Kydd said comfortably. Becky came in shyly to draw the curtains and departed with a smile.

“Then might we not consider a rout? No expense of a meal at table, quantities of people arriving and departing when they will, wine and jollity on all sides. And, of course, the decided social advantage of there being the opportunity to accommodate more than the usual number so there will be many more in the way of return invitations.”

“Done!” What was the use of maintaining an establishment if it were not to be gainfully employed? “Who shall be invited? As ye know, Teazer will not be in port s’ long . . .”

While invitations were agreed plans were put in train. “I’m of th’ mind that a woman’s touch might be an advantage,” Kydd the Admiral’s daughter 147

said. “Should I—do y’ think that Cecilia is t’ be invited?”

Renzi looked up from his writing of the invitations—a bold, round copperplate of impeccable execution—and said, in measured tones, “She is your sister. It would be singular indeed if you did not ask her. And if by this you make allusion to any feelings I might have entertained for the lady, pray spare me your delicacies—she is quite free to come and go as she chooses, which is her right as a gentlewoman.” His head bent to the writing.

The evening seemed destined for success: all invitations were taken up and Kydd was kept busy greeting the steady stream of guests who showed every inclination to linger.

Cecilia sparkled as hostess; her orange-fl ower and brandy rout cakes were universally applauded. Becky, under Tysoe’s discreet tutelage, mingled with a tray of cordials and wines and it was not long before number eighteen resounded to scenes of gaiety and warmth.

“Ah, Mrs Mullins!” Kydd said warmly. “Y’r help in acquiring m’ residence is much appreciated. Can ye not feel how it likes t’

see a party?”

“I do that, Mr Kydd,” she replied, hiding a smile.

“Sir, a Miss Robbins.” It was the hired footman at the door.

“Why, Mr Kydd! So good of you to remember us.” There was movement behind her as she went on, “Ah, the invitation did mention ‘a friend,’ did it not?” she cooed.

“O’ course it did, Miss . . .” Her friend emerged from behind her, stopping Kydd mid-sentence. “Oh! Er, th-thank you f’r coming, Miss Lockwood,” he managed, then remembered a polite bow, took the proffered hand and escorted her in.

She was in a cream dress of the latest fashion and had taken some considerable pains with her Grecian hairstyle. “I noticed your ship arrive, Mr Kydd,” she said warmly. “Such a pretty 148

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creature. A brig-sloop, I’d hazard?”

“Aye—that is t’ say, yes, she is. Teazer is her name.”

“How curious,” she said. Her hazel eyes held his for a long moment. “Does she suit you?”

Kydd returned the look coolly but inwardly he exulted. How had she known it was his ship unless it had been pointed out to her—or she had been looking out for it? Either way it proved her interest in him. “Why, Miss Lockwood, there’s been three Teazers in our sea service this age but none s’ sweet a sailer on a bowline as—as my Teazer. ”

“How agreeable for you.” She paused and continued softly, “Tell me this, would you trust your very life to her in a great storm?”

“I would,” Kydd answered immediately. He wondered what lay behind her words, realising that she was using the seafarer’s “she”

for a ship instead of the landlubber’s soulless “it.” “I have afore now, an’ conceive I will again, all th’ time I’m in English seas.”

“Just so,” she said politely, her eyes still on him. Kydd felt a blush rising. “Well, Mr Kydd, if I don’t see you again tonight let me tell you how much I have enjoyed meeting you once more.”

Kydd bowed wordlessly and, claimed by Miss Robbins, Persephone Lockwood entered the throng. Kydd gazed after her, seeing people fall back in deference to her quality and respectful glances fl ashed his way.

He resumed his duties, conscious of rising elation. Time passed, and the fi rst guests made ready to depart, among them Miss Lockwood. Should he strike up a conversation before she left? But before he could act she had caught his eye and moved over to him.

“Mr Kydd, thank you for a lovely evening.”

“M-my pleasure, Miss L-Lockwood,” he stuttered.

“I wonder—no, I have no right to ask it of you,” she said, with a frown, a gloved hand going to her mouth.

“Do, please,” Kydd said gallantly.

“Well, since you are so obliging, it does occur to me that you the Admiral’s daughter 149

could be of some service to me in a small matter that would really mean a lot.”

“Miss Lockwood, if I c’n do anything . . .”

“It’s for my father,” she said apologetically. “I have it in mind to present him with a painting for his birthday, a marine painting.

You see, I’m concerned that it be completely authentic in its sea detail—you’ve no idea how testy Papa gets when he espies errors in the rigging and so forth. If you could assist me to choose wisely I would be most grateful.”

“Er, yes! I mean t’ say, o’ course I will.”

“You’re most kind. Then shall we meet at the print publisher in Old Plymouth? I’ve been told he also has some fi ne sea paintings.

Would Wednesday, at eleven, suit?”

“Wednesday, yes,” Kydd blurted. Two days.

“Oh—and this had better be our little secret,” she concluded, with an impish smile.

“Come.” Kydd looked up from his pile of offi cial letters.

“I’ll be off ashore, then, sir,” his fi rst lieutenant said boyishly.

He looked dashing in his cutaway coat and gush of lace cravat, and held a rakish silk hat as though he was trying to hide it.

“By all means, Mr Standish.” The unwritten custom was that the two offi cers would take turn and turn about to be out of the ship while at short stay in port. “An’ good fortune with the . . .

the entertainments.”

The other fl ashed a broad smile and was gone.

Kydd bent once more to his task. The constant stream of in-voices, dockets, reports and correspondence requiring his sole attention never ceased to amaze him, but any matter skimped or overlooked might rebound at a later time.

“Enter!” he called at a timid knock.

“From ashore, sir,” squeaked Andrews.

It was a simple folded letter from Cecilia.

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Dear Thomas,

Jane has been lately telling me of your dockyard, and how it is the very wonder of the age. She says that if you are known to a person of consequence it is quite the thing to visit at length under escort. You would oblige me extremely if you will indulge my curiosity when convenient.

His dockyard? Kydd smiled. Plymouth, big as it now was, was near dwarfed by the naval dockyard and the vast population of workers that had grown up around it, but he was feeling restless and an excuse to get away and promenade in the sunshine was welcome. “At ten, the North Stairs,” he scribbled on the back of the note. She would know where the offi cers stepped ashore.

She was waiting for him, twirling a parasol and in infectious good spirits. “Such a handsome escort for a lady,” she exclaimed, taking his arm. Since the return of Kydd and Renzi from Terra Australis Cecilia had made a remarkable recovery and was now undeniably in looks, her strong dark features catching eyes on all sides.

“Then shall we spread sail an’ get under way, Cec?”

Seamen touched their hats with a grin and a grave ensign of Foot saluted Kydd’s gold and blue smartly as they moved off round the wall to the Fore Street entrance. The master porter emerged from his little house and recognised Kydd with a wave, the two senti-nels coming to a crashing “present.”

“This is y’r royal dockyard, then, sis. Seventy-one acres an’ three thousand artifi cers, not t’ mention th’ labouring men. I dare t’ say there are more’n half ten thousand men at work before ye now.”

It gave pause, for the largest industrial endeavour in his home town, the Guildford iron foundry, could boast of no more than a few score and none other in Kydd’s acquaintance had more than some small hundreds.

the Admiral’s daughter 151

“What a charming chapel,” Cecilia murmured, looking at a trim little edifi ce just inside the gates.

“Seventeen hundred, sis, William the third.” An avenue of well-tended lime trees stretched away to a lengthy terrace of fi ne houses that might well have graced Bath or London. “An’ those are the quarters of the offi cers o’ the dockyard—there ye’ll fi nd the commissioner, master shipwright, clerk o’ the cheque, all your swell coves. Gardens at th’ back an’ offi ces in the front.”

But her eyes were down the slight hill to the main dock area and the towering complexity of a ship-of-the-line in dry-dock. As they approached, the scale of the sight became more apparent: soaring to the skies, her masts and yards higher by far than the tallest building anywhere, it seemed incredible that this great structure was actually designed to move.

Clutching Kydd’s arm Cecilia peered over the edge of the grav-ing dock, unprepared for the sheer grandeur of the dimensions of what she saw: the huge bulk of the vessel, the muddy fl oor of the dock so far below and the tiny fi gures moving about from under.

“I’ll show ye a sight as you’ll never forget,” Kydd said. “Mind y’r dress.” He found a small fl ight of stone steps with an iron hand-chain that led down into the abyss. “Come on, Cec.”

Frightened, but trusting, she clung to the chain and they descended, down and down. The sunlight faded and a miasma of mud and seaweed wafted up, thick and pungent. On the last step Kydd called a halt. “Look now, sis.”

She turned—and caught her breath. In a giddying domination, the colossal green-streaked bulk of the battleship reared above them blotting out everything. As well, it stretched away down the dock on and on, longer than a town street, and the impression of a monstrous bulking poised only on the central keel-blocks and kept from toppling by spindly-looking shores caused a strange feeling of upside-down vertigo.

Kydd pointed past the fat swell of the hull to the further end.

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“Those are our dock gates, Cec. I have t’ tell ye that the other side o’ that is the sea, and where we’re stood is usually thirty feet under th’ waves.”

“They w-won’t open them while we’re still here, will they?” she added, in a small voice.

“Not till I give ’em the order.” Kydd chuckled, but Cecilia mounted the steps back to the sunshine with almost indecent haste.

At the top Kydd could not resist stepping over to the adjacent dock—even bigger, the seventy-four within seeming quite diminished. “Now this one. It’s the biggest in th’ world, an’ the dockyard has a story about it.

“Y’ see when it was built, it was designed f’r our largest ship, the Queen Charlotte of a hundred guns. But then the Frenchies built one much bigger, th’ Commerce de Marseille of a hundred and twenty guns—nearly three thousan’ tons. So just in time, they enlarged it an’ fi nished it f’r the war in ’ninety-three.”

He paused for effect. “Now, ye’ll recall in that year that Vice-Adm’ral Lord Hood took Toulon an’ much o’ the French fl eet. So this is sayin’ that it’s just as well they made their changes when they did, for the fi rst ship t’ use the dock was the Commerce de Marseille herself!”

Arm in arm they passed the clatter of the joinery workshops, the rich stink of the pitch house, then dock after dock, each with a man-o’-war in various stages of repair and alive with shipwright-ery and riggers.

At a substantial kiln a procession of men were withdrawing steaming planks wrapped in cloths. “The chippies use th’ steam chest t’ bend their strakes round th’ frames an’ fi t ’em by eye—

that’s three curves in one, I’ll have ye know,” Kydd said admiringly, remembering Antigua dockyard in the Caribbean.

“Oh—the poor man!” Cecilia gasped. Peering into a sawpit she had glimpsed the lower individual of a pair who were plying a the Admiral’s daughter 153

mighty whip-saw to slice a bole of oak to planks. The one above the trestle bent to saw and direct the cut while his partner, showered with chips and dust as he worked, took the other end in a dank pit the size of a grave.

“All day, an’ a shillin’ only,” Kydd said, then pointed out the rigging house. “You’d not credit it, but old Tenacious has near twenty miles o’ rope aboard. Goes fr’m your light tricin’ line all the way t’ the anchor cable, which is two feet round, if ye can believe it.”

Cecilia nodded doubtfully, so Kydd went on, “Which is sayin’

that the crew on the capstan are heavin’ in seven tons weight o’

cable alone, straight up an’ down and stand fast the weight of the anchor.”

Seeing her suitably impressed, he changed tack. “An’ above the riggin’ house we have the sail loft. Ye’ll know how important this is when I say that we carried more’n four acres o’ sail, and if y’ stop t’ think that we needs so much spare canvas, an’ ropes wear s’ fast, and multiply this by the hundreds o’ ships we keep at sea . . .”

A broad canal crossed their path, running a quarter of a mile straight into the interior of the dockyard. Fortunately it was spanned by a swivelling footbridge. “This is th’ Camber. Right up there we have th’ boat pond an’ it’s also where Teazer hoisted aboard her fi t of anchors. An’ I think I c’n fi nd ye somethin’ there tolerably divertin’.”

They turned left towards a stone building a good hundred yards square, bristling like a porcupine with multitudes of tall chimneys.

A muffl ed cacophony of clanking, screeches and deep thumping strengthened as they neared the fi tful yellow glare at the glassless windows.

“The smithy,” Cecilia pronounced, seeing an expanse of adjacent open ground covered with hundreds of fi nished anchors, each set upright and painted black against rust.

“Aye, the blacksmith’s shop. But let’s take a peek inside.” It was 154

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a scene from the Inferno: hundreds of men at work on fi fty huge forges in an atrocious clamour, white-hot metal showering sparks into the smoky gloom, the dismal clanking of the bellows chains and pale faces darting about with red-hot objects.

“Shall we see th’ hammer forge, Cec?” Kydd shouted in her ear.

“Hercules, they call it, an’ it takes thirty men to—”

It seemed that his sister would be happy to defer this pleasure to another time, and instead was content to hear that the shop contributed an amazing number of metal objects to be found about a ship-of-war, and that when it was time for anchor-forging the men demanded large quantities of strong ale in place of their usual gallon of small beer, such were the hideous conditions.

The wonders of the dockyard seemed endless. At the mast house Cecilia admired a 120-foot mainmast for a fi rst-rate man-o’-war being shaped from a number of separate pieces to form a single spar ten feet round before it was rolled into the mast pond with a thunderous splash.

At the rope-walk she saw yarns ravelled in the upper storey ready to be laid up together into strands below, and these then twisted mechanically against each other to form the rope. “A sizeable hundred-fathom cable takes three thousand yarns,” Kydd explained, as she watched.

After the acrid pungency of the pitch house, where she was told about the difference between the two tars to be found aboard ship—one was asphaltum from Trinidad used for caulking deck seams and the other, quite different, derived from fragrant pine-tree resin from the Baltic and was used for tarring rope—she confessed, “Dear Thomas, I’m faint with impressions. Do let us fi nd somewhere to sit down and refresh.”

It was a little disappointing—there was the wonderful sea stench to be experienced only in the burning of old barnacled timbers to recover the copper and, of course, the whole south corner where so many noble ships lay building on the stocks. And the Bunker’s the Admiral’s daughter 155

Hill battery, which had a most curious brass gun from Paris . . .

But perhaps it would be better to leave some sights for another time.

They walked slowly back to the gate. Cecilia wore a dazed look, and Kydd asked, “Did you enjoy th’ party at all?”

“I did—very much, thank you, Thomas,” she roused herself to say.

“The guests seemed t’ have a good time,” Kydd said proudly.

“Did ye notice the admiral’s daughter? Persephone’s her name,”

he added casually. “So good in her t’ come.”

“Oh, yes. It was surprising, I suppose.”

“Well, she was invited b’ another lady but, Cec, I think she’s interested in me. She asked about Teazer an’ if she suited me . . .

Well, anyway, I thought she was.”

“Dear brother! Hers is a notable family and she’s certain to have a whole train of admirers of quite another sort to ourselves.”

“But—”

“Thomas, she’s a very nice person, I can tell, but please don’t mistake her politeness for anything else, I beg.”

“Miss Lockwood?” Kydd advanced into the upper room of the premises where he had been told she was waiting.

“Why, Mr Kydd! You’re very prompt, you know—I’d only just arrived.” She wore fl owers in her hair, which complemented her gay morning dress. The only other in the room was an unctuous proprietor, who hovered discreetly. “What do you think?”

Kydd advanced to inspect the oil. It was a robust piece, a fi rst-rate vessel of another age with bellying sails and two sloops on an opposing course. The man scuttled up and said quickly, “Ah, Samuel Scott, A First Rate Shortening Sail— time of the second George.”

He was cast a withering look and retreated.

“Mr Kydd?”

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This was not a time for hasty opinions and Kydd took his time.

“A fi ne painting,” he began, aware from the discreet price tag that the artist was no mere dauber. “It is th’ commander-in-chief, as we c’n see from the union at the main, an’ if I’m not mistaken there is the gentleman himself in the stern gallery with another.”

She peered closer, unavoidably bringing her face close enough to his that he could sense her warmth. “Ha—hm,” he continued, trying to marshal his thoughts. “However, here I fi nd a puzzle.

The name is Shortening Sail but I see th’ sheets are well in, an’ the buntlines o’ the main course are bein’ overhauled. If there are no men on th’ yard takin’ in sail it speaks t’ me more of loosin’ sail, setting ’em abroad.”

“Mr Scott was well known as a marine artist, a friend to Mr Hogarth. Could it be that he’s amiss in his nauticals, do you think?” Persephone asked.

Kydd swallowed. “Miss Lockwood, if ye’ll observe the sea—it has no form, all up an’ down as it were. Real sea t’ this height always has a wind across it an’ you can tell from th’ waves its direction, an’ this must be th’ same as the set o’ the sails.”

She waited for Kydd to continue. “We have here our boats a-swim, which is tellin’ us th’ seas are not s’ great. So why then do we not see t’gallants set in any o’ the ships? And y’r sloops—at sea we do not fl y our union at the fore or th’ ensign at the staff. This is reserved f’r when we take up our moorin’s, and—”

“Bravo!” she applauded. “I was right to ask your assistance, Mr Kydd. We shall have no further dealings with this artist.”

She threw a look at the proprietor, who hurried back. “I can see we have a client of discrimination,” he said, avoiding Kydd’s eye. “Therefore I will allow you to inspect this Pocock,” he said importantly, unlacing a folio. “A watercolour. Le Juste and the Invincible. Should this be more to your taste, do you think?”

He drew it out and gave it to Persephone, who handed it pointedly to Kydd. It was of quite another quality, a spirited interchange between two ships-of-the-line, the leeward Frenchman nearly hidden the Admiral’s daughter 157

in clouds of powder-smoke. The liveliness and colour of the sea, a deep Atlantic green, was faultless. “The Glorious First of June, of course,” the man added smoothly, seeing Kydd’s admiration.

“You were present at that, were you not, Mr Kydd?” Persephone put in, to the proprietor’s evident chagrin.

But Kydd had been a shipwrecked seaman at the time, held in a hulk at Portsmouth. “Er, not at that action,” he answered shortly.

“Neither was Papa,” she replied stoutly. “Yet I do believe you were in another battle besides the Nile.”

“Aye—that was Camperdown,” he said.

“Do you have any oil of Camperdown?” she enquired.

Kydd felt relief: the price of the Pocock was alarming.

“A Whitcombe, perhaps?” the man offered.

Camperdown had been a defi ning moment for Kydd. Soon after the nightmare of the mutiny at the Nore he had found escape in the blood-lust of the battle, the hardest-fought encounter the Royal Navy had met with during the war. It was there that he had won his battlefi eld commission to lieutenant.

His eyes focused again; his battle quarters had been on the gun deck and the fi ght had been an invisible and savage chaos outside, away from his sight and knowledge. However, from what he had heard about the engagement afterwards, it was not hard to piece together the point of view of the painting.

“Yes. In the middle this is Admiral Duncan in Venerable right enough, drubbing the Dutchy de Winter in Fryhide here. Y’ sees th’ signal, number fi ve? It means t’ engage more closely.” It had been such a near-run battle, with men who had been in open mutiny so soon before. Raw memories were coming to life. “There’s Monarch— that’s Rear Admiral Onslow who gave me m’ step. His family is fr’m near Guildford . . .”

Sensing his charged mood Persephone asked softly, “Is this sea to your satisfaction?”

“It’s—it’s a fi ne sea,” Kydd said quietly. “Short ’n’ steep, as ye’d 158

Julian Stockwin

expect in the shallow water they has off the Texel.”

“Then this will be the one. I’ll take it.” The proprietor hurried off with it, leaving them alone.

Persephone turned to him with a warm smile. “So, now I have my painting. That was kind.” She moved to a bench against the opposite wall. “Do let’s rest here for a moment,” she said, sitting down gracefully. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to join her.

“Tell me, Mr Kydd, if you’ll forgive the impertinence, I cannot help but observe that you look the very fi gure of a mariner. Would you tell me, what was it that fi rst called you to the sea?”

Kydd hesitated: any information she would have been able to fi nd about his past would only have covered his service as an offi cer and he was free to say anything he wished. “I was a pressed man.”

She blinked in surprise. “Were you really?”

“Aye. It was only at Camperdown I was given th’ quarterdeck.”

He looked steadily at her, but saw only a dawning understanding.

“Yet you took to the sea—as though you were born to it.”

“The sea is—a different world, way of living. An’—an’ it’s excitin’ in a way th’ land can never be.”

“Exciting?”

“Th’ feel of a deck under y’r feet when the bow meets th’ open sea—always y’r ship curtsies to Neptune an’ then she’s alive an’

never still. You feel, er, um . . .” he fi nished lamely.

“No! Do go on!”

But Kydd kept his silence: he wasn’t about to make a fool of himself before a lady of her quality, and in any event she would discover the full truth of his origins sooner or later.

“Then I must take it that the sea’s mystery is not for the female sex,” she said teasingly, then subsided. “Mr Kydd, do, please, forgive my curiosity, but there are so many experiences denied to a woman and my nature is not one to bear this easily.”

She looked away for a moment, then turned to ask, in level the Admiral’s daughter 159

tones, “If you are a sailor and have a—a tendre for ships, what is your feeling when you fi re off your great cannons into another, which contains sailors like you?”

Was she trying to provoke him? She must know it was his duty as a naval offi cer . . . Or was she trying to reach him in some way?

“Well, in course, we see this as th’ foe who brings an item o’

war forward as we’re obliged t’ remove, like a piece at chess, an’

we fi re at it until it is removed.”

“And when you are looking down a musket-barrel at another human being?” She regarded him gravely.

The proprietor bustled up with the parcelled work. “I have it ready, your ladyship, if you—”

“I shall be down presently,” she said evenly.

They were left alone once more and she looked at him expectantly.

“I fi re on th’ uniform, not th’ man,” Kydd responded.

“Your sword. You stand before a man you would pierce with it.

Does it not cross your mind that—”

“I have killed a man—several. That I’m here today before ye is because I did.” What was this about?

She smiled softly. “I was right. You are different. Is it because you won your place in the world the hard way? Your naval offi -

cer of the usual sort would be telling me of duty and honour, but you see through the superfi cialities to the hard matter without adornment.”

Rising to her feet she straightened her skirt and, in a businesslike voice, went on, “You are an interesting man, Mr Kydd.

Perhaps we may continue this conversation on another occasion.

Do you ride?”

The man from London stood up briskly, strode to the centre of the room and looked about. “Smuggling! If there are any among you who still thinks to puff up smuggling as the stuff of romance, then, 160

Julian Stockwin

sir, I will take the most forceful issue with you. It’s a pernicious and abiding folderol that conceals the most frightful consequences to the nation.”

There was intelligence but also animal ferocity in the man’s de-meanour, and Kydd recalled the respect in the admiral’s manner when he had introduced him as an emissary from Whitehall. Kydd stole a glance at Bazely, who wore an expression of studied blankness; the three other captains present seemed either puzzled or bored.

“I see that I shall require to be more direct with you sea of-fi cers,” the speaker continued. “You, sir!” he said, pointing to Parlby. “How do you conceive this war is being funded? Hey?

Where is the means to be found to bestow plentiful vittles and rightful pay on your fi ne ship? It costs His Majesty some thousands merely to set it afl oat. Pray where, sir, is this treasure to be found?”

Parlby started in surprise. “Why, er, the consolidated funds of the Treasury.”

“Which are entirely derived from?”

“Ah—taxes?”

“Yes?”

Brow furrowed, Parlby hesitated and was instantly rounded on.

“Taxes! And since Mr Pitt’s scheme of tax upon income was lately repealed what others are left to His Majesty’s government?

Naught but a sad collection of imposts on hair-powder, windows, candles, playing-cards—and the dues of Customs and Excise.”

His glare challenged them all. “If this source withers, the very capability of this country to defend itself is in question. Gentlemen, I have to tell you in confi dence that the situation now is of such a grave nature that the prime minister has asked that no pain be spared to control this accursed bleeding of treasure.

“And it is a grievous loss. We fi nd that for every ounce of tobacco faithfully duty-paid, near a pound is smuggled, and three fourths or more of our tea escapes its fair due. When I confi de our best the Admiral’s daughter 161

understanding is that for every cask of contraband intercepted eight get through, what is this but a ruinous deprivation to the country that it cannot sustain?”

“Just so,” Lockwood rumbled, discomfi ted by the man’s intensity. “Now, gentlemen, we are asked to apply our best efforts to the suppression of this vice. My orders will refl ect this request, requiring you to pursue these rogues with the same vigour as you would a privateer or similar.” He fl ourished a handkerchief and trumpeted. “May I remind you that any smuggler taken in the act will suffer seizure of ship and cargo to the interest of the captor . . .”

Chasing smugglers was no way to achieve fame and distinction, but on the other hand, there was a real threat to the nation and the path to duty was clear. “Sir, are there any parts o’ the coast that we should especially watch?” Kydd enquired.

“Devonshire and Cornwall might be accounted as having the worst rascals in the kingdom, sir. They’ve been at the trade since the time of good Queen Bess, and I don’t believe they see reasons now why they should abandon their ways. Polperro and Fowey have been mentioned, and Penzance is far from guiltless, but you will fi nd their kind everywhere you look. Each tiny cove and fi shing village has its ‘free traders’ who, in the twinkling of an eye, can turn back into honest fi shermen.

“But there has lately been a change, a disturbing and possibly fatal turn. Our best information has it that an organising intelligence is at work along the coast, such that where before we could try to contain and subvert the efforts of an individual village there appears now to be one evil genius who can control and direct the smuggling ventures of all. If we descend on one, there will be a speedy diversion elsewhere and we cannot watch every contempt-ible little hamlet. The situation approaches dire calamity.”

Penzance harbour was a shimmering expanse under summer sunshine while Teazer, anchored in the lazy calm, saw to her domestics. Kydd returned aboard, went below, divested himself of his 162

Julian Stockwin

coat, then gratefully accepted a cordial from Tysoe.

“Be damned!” Kydd threw at Renzi, who sat inoffensively with a book at the stern windows. “Not as who should say but th’

Revenue are a hard crew t’ fathom.”

He fl opped into his chair and took out some notes. “D’ ye know, Nicholas, as there’s a rare parcel o’ coves needed t’ keep a Customs post? I give ye tide-waiters, boat-sitters, searchers of salt, ridin’ offi cers an’ quantities of land-waiters—the rest I forget.”

“How entertaining, brother. Did you by chance learn of how they spend their day?”

“Customs an’ Excise? As far as I c’n tell, they’re tasked to see that every merchant vessel from over th’ seas attends at a full-rigged Customs port, an’ there will fi nd the ‘legal quay’ t’ land cargo to be assessed. This is where we fi nd our tide-waiters and land-waiters at work t’ keep a weather eye open that all’s legal an’

above board.”

“Legal quay?”

“Aye. This is y’r defi nition. If freight is landed not at a legal quay then, in course, it’s contraband and we may seize the villain. But all this’n is your Revenue man earning his daily bread.

Where we’ll be of use to ’em is in the Preventive Service—catching the rascals as they come in from seaward to try t’ land th’

contraband.”

“They have their own offi cers, I believe.”

“They do, Nicholas—an’ a sea service as well. If y’ remember, Seafl ower was Revenue cutter built—monstrous sail area, mighty bowsprit an’ the rest. All built f’r speed to catch our smuggler. But they’ve boats as well, galley built as will take twenty oars, some of’em, can go against th’ wind or chase up a hidden creek. And along shore, there’s ridin’ offi cers out on good horses, goin’ up an’

down the coast atop the cliffs t’ spy out what’s to see, with more afoot t’ call on.”

“They will have their successes, then.”

the Admiral’s daughter 163

Kydd looked at him askance. “They’re losin’ th’ battle, is my supposin’—a sizeable venture has too much hangin’ upon it.

They’re desperate men. Now they’re bein’ organised. The Revenue is outnumbered—an’ just consider. Would you with a wife an’ children stand against an armed robber f’r a shillin’ a day?”

“Then what’s to be done?” Renzi said, putting down his book.

“We’re havin’ a council o’ war tomorrow. The Collector has an information as will see us at a landin’, an’ then we shall have an accountin’.”

“I’m pleased to hear it, brother,” Renzi said mildly, and picked up his book again.

“Er, Nicholas, there is another matter, an’ it’ll greatly oblige me if ye’d give me y’r opinion.”

“You shall have it. Please acquaint me with the substance of the arguments.”

“It’s—it’s not y’r regular-goin’ philosophy at all, y’ should know.”

“Clap on sail and stand on, my friend.”

Kydd hesitated, marshalling his thoughts. “What do ye conceive a woman’s meaning is when she calls you ‘an interestin’ man,’

Nicholas?”

“In that case I’d expect she’d mean that in some way you have piqued her curiosity, aroused her feminine sensibilities in matters of character, that sort of thing. Why? Has a wicked jade been making her advances?”

Ignoring his friend’s tone, Kydd persisted: “An’ if she needs t’

know if I ride?”

Renzi paused. “Do you mean—”

“An’ tells me to m’ face that I’m different fr’m others—and what are m’ true feelin’s in a battle?” It seemed so unreal now, the conversation.

“This is Miss Lockwood, is it not?” Renzi said quietly.

“Aye, Nicholas. In th’ print publisher’s.”

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“Then it is altogether a different matter, dear fellow.” He sighed.

Kydd bristled. “How so?”

“Not to put too fi ne a point on it, you should understand at once that there can be no question of it proceeding beyond the civilities.”

“Why?”

Renzi hesitated. “I speak only as a friend—a true friend, you must allow. You must take it from me that the higher orders of polite society do view the—relations of a gentleman and lady in quite another way. It is the object of any union to serve, fi rst, a social purpose, in the ordering of the relationships between great families, the arrangements of property and wealth that will ensue and so forth, and in this the wishes of the couple are seldom consulted.

“Any advances made by your good self will therefore be repelled with the utmost rigour, for a young lady must approach any consideration of nuptials with her reputation of the purest hue. A casual dalliance with—with another will most certainly be terminated with prejudice.”

Kydd’s expression turned to stone. “She will—”

“No, she will not. To be brutally frank, I am taking it that your intentions are perfectly respectable. Therefore I must needs put it to you that a marriage of romantic attachment is available only to the lower sort. This lady will be expected to conform to her parents’ wishes and it is my opinion that it were better you remain agreeable but distant in this instance.”

“She said I was interestin’ and, damnit, I’m man enough t’ spy when a woman’s—when she’s lookin’ at me.”

Renzi’s face was grave. “Thomas, dear friend, it has been known for a well-born lady to play—toy—with men, and while—”

“Y’r opinion is noted, Nicholas, an’ I thank ye for it. I shall take care, but I tell ye now, if my addresses are not disagreeable t’

a lady then I will press m’ suit if I feel so inclined.”

the Admiral’s daughter 165

• • •

The Collector of Customs for Penzance closed the curtains of the Long Room. “I’m sorry to have to ask ye to come at such an hour this night. It’ll become clear why later . . .”

Kydd and Standish sat together in the front row; Kydd ignored a quizzical look from his fi rst lieutenant and waited patiently. The rest of those in attendance were hard-featured and anonymous-looking individuals, who were not introduced.

Proceedings opened quickly: it seemed that mysterious information had been received of a run in two nights’ time. It promised to be the most daring for months and would involve a degree of deception, but there was apparently one great advantage the Revenue possessed.

“I’ll trouble ye for the lights,” the Collector boomed importantly. One by one the candles were snuffed, leaving the room in heavy darkness. There was the sound of grunts and scraping from the end of the hall, then quiet.

“Stay in your seats, if y’ please. I should explain to ye that we have now a gentleman who’s in with the free traders and has the griff concerning their plans, which he’s agreed to let us know for a consideration. Ye’ll understand, o’ course, that he’ll be requiring to keep his face from ye, so I’ll thank ’ee not to ask questions as will put a name to him. Now, anything y’ may wish to ask?”

From the body of the hall a voice called, “Where’s the run, then?”

In the blackness nothing could be made out of the man beyond a vague shape.

“Praa Sands.” The voice was deep and chesty, with little attempt at disguise. “That’s where ye’ll see ’em, two nights’ time.”

“Praa Sands? Why, that’s—”

“I didn’t say that’s where th’ cargo’s run ashore, I said that’s where you’ll see ’em.” He paused. “See, they’ll make a showing an’ while youse come a-thunderin’ along, the tubs are bein’ landed in another place.”

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“Where?”

“Stackhouse Cove. Are ye forgettin’ Acton Castle only a couple o’ hundred yards above? An’ at dead low springs there’s a strip o’

sand will take a boat easy enough.”

Kydd had no idea of the location or its signifi cance but he would fi nd out more later. “Er, do y’ know aught o’ the signals they’ll use?” he threw into the darkness, an odd sensation.

“Two lights together in Bessy’s window ’n’ the coast is clear o’

the Revenue. Leadin’ lights are two sets o’ spout lanterns in th’

fi eld below the castle. Trouble, pistol fl ashes. Anythin’ else?”

“What vessels can we expect t’ see?”

“Ah, well, I can’t help ye with that.”

“Who is it organising, do you think?” Standish demanded loudly.

After a slight pause the man replied, “An’ that neither.”

It was quickly settled. As the smugglers expected the Revenue at Praa Sands, that was where they would be, while Teazer would lurk offshore at Stackhouse Cove.

Over a convivial draught the Collector pulled out a chart. “The whole stretch o’ coast here—Mount’s Bay east from Perranuthnoe to the Lizard—is nothing less’n a nest o’ thieving scapegallows.

And the worst of ’em you’ll fi nd past Cudden Point here, just on from Stackhouse Cove.

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

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

“Acton Castle? That’s John Stackhouse then. The slivey knave knows the Carters well, but claims he’s only a-botanising seaweed. I’d like to know as how your seaweed is such a rare business he can set up a castle on the proceeds. It would be a fi ne the Admiral’s daughter 167

thing t’ catch him out, Mr Kydd,” he added grimly.

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

Kydd asked.

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

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

“Sir, I have t’ warn ye—the Greeb.”

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

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

Teazer left them to it, ghosted back offshore and hove to; it would be impossible to see an approaching vessel until it was upon them—but at the same time they themselves would not be seen.

Kydd’s plan was to wait until the landing was in progress, signalled by the shore party, and catch them in the act from seaward.

An hour passed in absolute quiet, the slap and chuckle of water along their side and the creaking of timbers in the slight swell the 168

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only sounds. Then another: it was diffi cult to keep men mute for so long but Kydd had warned the petty offi cers of his requirement for silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will we discuss th’ philosophy at another time?” Kydd said.

“I’ll be returnin’ on deck. Could sight th’ rogues at any time.”

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

A rocket soared into the night sky from beyond the point. “Th’

shore party! They’ve seen something. Hands t’ th’ braces—move y’rselves!” bellowed Kydd.

the Admiral’s daughter 169

Another rocket sailed up, this time at a sharp angle out to sea.

“God rot it!” Kydd swore, looking over the side at the pitiful speed they were gathering. But with half Teazer’s number on shore nothing could happen quickly.

Still no lights, no signals—and no ship. “Anyone sees anything—

anything a’tall!” But there was nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No fi ring ’less they do,” he roared, and prepared to leap. The fi ring died away as they neared, and confused shouting came from the shadowy fi gures in the lugger. “They’re skinning out,” yelled 170

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a foremast hand, pointing. A boat was in the water on the other side and men were tumbling into it.

The two vessels came together in a mighty thump and heavy creaking and Kydd jumped down the foot or so to the deck of the lugger, racing aft towards the wheel, followed by a dozen Teazers.

“Secure th’ helm,” he ordered, and strode to the side. The boat was in a tangle of panicking men. “Get out!” Kydd roared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Empty, sir. I already checked.”

Then it could only be at one place. They would have to move fast for if they missed their chance all evidence would be lost.

Quickly Kydd gathered a party of men and took the boat back the Admiral’s daughter 171

into the little cove. “After me,” he ordered them, and struck out for the heights.

In the shadowy dark they slipped and scrambled up the rough path to the slopes above, where a stone building stood in darkness. “You three, wake ’em up an’ stand guard upon my return.

Nobody t’ move an inch.”

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