“With me,” he ordered, and moved forward quickly, thankful to meet the level grass of a lawn. The party hurried across it and stopped at an oddly narrow front entrance. Kydd hammered on the door with the hilt of his cutlass, his men crowding behind. No movement. He banged again, louder—it produced a querulous cry from inside, but Kydd knew that if he could move quickly enough there was no possibility that they could conceal dozens of bulky tubs in time.

“In the name o’ the King!” he bawled.

With a tedious sliding of bolts and grating of keys the door fi -

nally swung open to reveal the anxious face of an aged servant.

“Mr Stackhouse! Get me Mr Stackhouse this instant, y’ villain!”

“He—he’s not here,” the man stammered, suddenly catching sight of the men crowding behind Kydd.

“Then get him!”

“I—I—”

Pushing him aside Kydd strode into a hall bedecked with mock-medieval hangings. He looked sharply about, then hailed his party.

“Take position at the doorways, all of ye—smartly, now.”

Kydd pricked his ears: if there was any mad scurrying to hide contraband he would hear it, but the night was still. Then there was movement on the stairs. The light of a candle showed at the top and began to come down.

It was an elderly man in nightgown and cap, who descended 172

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slowly. At the bottom he stopped and stared about him. “Mr Stackhouse?” Kydd challenged brusquely.

The man’s gaze turned on him incredulously and Kydd became aware of eyes with the unmistakable glint of authority. “You!” he grated. “What the devil do you mean by this, sir?”

There was something about . . . “Mr Stackhouse, I’ve reason t’

believe—”

“A pox on it! I’m not John Stackhouse, as well you know, sir!”

“Er—”

“Captain Praed, sir!”

Kydd’s feverish mind supplied the rest. This was none other than Nelson’s senior navigating lieutenant whom he’d last encountered at the battle of the Nile those years ago. He was now a post-captain and, bizarrely, the new owner of the castle.

The next few minutes were a hard beat to windward for Commander Kydd.

The stone building above the cove turned out to be a country drinking den. “Bessy’s tavern, an they swears they know nothin’, sir.”

Did they take him for a fool? “Thank you, Mr Purchet, an’ I’ll keep a tight guard until daybreak, then search properly.” But the smug look on the landlord’s face gave little hope that they would fi nd anything.

Distant hails proved to be the party from Trevean on the other side, who came up breathlessly, agog for news. Savagely Kydd sent them about their business and returned to Teazer. It had not been a scene of triumph but he was damned if he’d give up now.

“We carry th’ lugger to Penzance f’r inspection,” he grated.

Conceivably the vital evidence was still aboard in a cunning hiding-place—false bulkheads, trick water casks and the rest.

In the morning they would search the drinking den; he had fi fteen men sealing it off for the rest of the night and nothing would get past them. “Call me at dawn,” he told Tysoe and fell into his cot fully clothed.

the Admiral’s daughter 173

• • •

He woke in a black mood. Even the beauty of the unfolding daybreak, as the sinister dark crags were transformed by the young sunshine into light-grey and dappled green, failed to move him: with nothing to show for their efforts there would be accusing stares on their return to Penzance.

The searchers went early to Bessy’s and returned while he was at breakfast—empty-handed. Then an idea struck, one that had its roots in a mess-deck yarn, far away and in another time. “Mr Stirk—Toby—I’ve called ye here in private t’ ask f’r help.”

Stirk said nothing, sitting bolt upright, his black eyes unblinking.

“I’m remembering Seafl ower cutter in th’ Caribbee, a foul night at moorin’s off Jamaica, I think it was. Y’ had us all agog wi’ a tough yarn about a woman an’ a ghost. Do y’ remember?”

“No, sir,” Stirk answered stolidly.

“I do t’ this day, I’ll tell ye. Right scareful,” he added, in as comradely a manner as he could manage. “An’ y’ happened t’ mention then that a long time ago ye may have been among the free traders o’ Mount’s Bay. I was just wonderin’ if that were so.”

Taking his time, Stirk considered and said slowly, “Y’ has the advantage of me, Mr Kydd, an’ you knows it. But then I has th’

choice as t’ what I says back.”

He looked away once, and when his gaze returned to Kydd it was direct and uncompromising. “Yer wants me to dish m’ old shipmates an’ that’s not possible—but I c’n tell ye that the catblash about Mount’s Bay was part o’ the dit t’ make it sound good, as is allowed. I hail fr’m Romney Marsh, which is in Kent, an’ it may have been there as I learnt about th’ trade, but th’ only time I was in these parts was in Fox cutter—but north Cornwall, Barnstaple an’ Lundy, so . . .”

It had been worth a try. “Aye. Thank ’ee, Toby.” He allowed a look of sorrow to steal across his face. “Y’ see, I’m vexed t’ know just where it is ashore they stowed th’ cargo. Seems a hard thing 174

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t’ up hook an’ sail away without we have something t’ show for our troubles.”

There was no answering smile.

“Such a pity, o’ course. We sail back t’ Penzance, having been truly gulled, an’ there’s the Revenue on th’ quay, waitin’ an’

laughin’ at our Teazer, a squiddy King’s ship as doesn’t know th’

lay . . .”

Kydd waited, realising he had unconsciously slipped back into fo’c’sle ways of speaking, but there was no response so he rose to his feet. “M’ thanks anyway, Toby—a rummer afore ye go?”

“It’s not ashore. Give me a boardin’ grapnel an’ the pinnace f’r an hour.”

It didn’t take long: under the interested gaze of Teazer’s company the boat’s crew plied the grapnel near where the lugger had been until it snagged. A couple of hands at the line and the fi rst dripping tub broke surface, quickly followed by more, each weighted and roped to the next in a long line.

With a smuggling lugger, prisoners and four hundred gallons of evidence, a well-satisfi ed sloop-of-war set her sails and left.

Chapter 8

“I’ll have t’ leave ye to y’r books, then, Nicholas,” Kydd said, in mock sorrow. His friend was dipping into some musty tomes in the corner of a shop in Vauxhall—or “foxhole” to seamen—

Street.

“Er, ah—yes, this could take some time,” Renzi replied absently.

“Shall we meet later?”

Plymouth was a maritime town, but unlike the noisier Portsmouth, it held itself aloof from the immediacy of a large navy dockyard and fl eet, which were safely out of the way in Dock, across the marshes. Instead, it was merchant-ship captains from the vessels in the Cattewater who could be found in the inns on the heights of Old Plymouth—but if any would mingle with the seafarers of a dozen nations, or venture into the rough jollity of their taverns and hide-aways, they could also be found in the rickety antiquity of Cockside and other haunts around the Pool.

Kydd had no wish to be caught up in their shoreside sprees and made his way up Cat Street and past the Guild Hall to the more spacious reaches of the Old Town, which the great sea-dog Sir Francis Drake had called home—he had returned to the Sound triumphant from a voyage round the world loaded with treasure, loosing anchor just a few hundred yards from Kydd’s new residence, his fi rst 176

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anxious question: “Doth the Queen still reign?”

It was pleasant to be part of the thronging crowds, to step out over the cobblestones and past the ancient buildings that gave Plymouth such a distinctive character. He stopped to peer into a shop’s windows at some gaudily coloured political cartoons.

“Why, Mr Kydd!”

He straightened and turned. “Miss Lockwood!” He made her an elegant leg, a dainty curtsy his reward.

“Cynthia, this is Commander Kydd of the Royal Navy, and a friend of mine. Mr Kydd, may I introduce Miss Knopleigh, who is—no, let me work it out—a third cousin on my mother’s side.

Isn’t that so, my dear?”

Kydd bowed again, the use of “friend” not lost on him. “Miss Knopleigh, a pleasure t’ make y’r acquaintance—an’ so good t’ see you again, Miss Lockwood.”

Miss Knopleigh bobbed demurely to Kydd and said warmly,

“Oh, so this is the interesting man you told me about. I’m so gratifi ed to meet you, Mr Kydd.” She stepped back but continued to regard him thoughtfully.

“We were on our way to Allston’s for chocolate—would it be so very importunate to ask you to join us, Mr Kydd, and perhaps to tell Cynthia a little of your voyages?”

The chocolate was very good; and the ladies applauded Kydd’s descriptions of Naples and Nelson, the summit of Vesuvius and the inside of a pasha’s seraglio. He felt his confi dence grow. She had called him “friend”—and had introduced him to her cousin.

Did this mean . . . ?

“That was most enjoyable, Mr Kydd.” Persephone’s skin was fashionably alabaster, but her hazel eyes were frank, round and uncomfortably disconcerting the longer they lingered on him.

Kydd caught a ghosting of perfume as she opened her dainty reti-cule. “I don’t suppose you will be long in Plymouth this time?” she asked, as she took out a lace handkerchief.

the Admiral’s daughter 177

“Ah, I—we await a new fore-topsail yard, it being wrung in a blow.

No more’n a sennight I should have thought, Miss Lockwood.”

“Oh, it’s so disagreeable when that sort of thing happens.” Then she smiled. “Well, we must go. Goodbye, Mr Kydd, and thank you for your company.”

Renzi’s quill scratching away in the quietness of his cabin intruded into Kydd’s thoughts. Was he imagining it or had Persephone meant something special when she spoke of him as “interesting”? He had detected no furtive glances, no betraying fl ush of that other kind of interest—but here he was at a disadvantage, for every woman he had known was of quite another quality. The loose rules of engagement with them did not apply here and if he was to press his attentions—

But did he want to? Yes! She was the most attractive and accomplished woman he had ever known or spoken to, and she did seem . . .

The cabin felt small and stifl ing. “Er, I think I’ll take a turn about th’ decks, Nicholas,” he said. Renzi murmured acknowledgement and continued to scribble.

The deck was nearly deserted. Standish and most of the men were ashore and Kydd was left alone to pace slowly. Should he make his interest in Miss Lockwood plain? What if he was completely mistaken and she had no interest of that sort in him? Would she be furious at an unforgivable impertinence from a low-born—

or, worse, laugh him to scorn?

It was galling to be in such ignorance but he knew he was being swept into regions of desire and ambition that made resolution imperative.

A muffl ed roar of good humour came from the mess-deck below. Jack Tar would have no qualms about action in the situation: cease from backing and fi lling—clap on all sail and fearlessly lay alongside.

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He bit his lip. Renzi would be of no help: he had made his position clear. But there was one who might . . .

“Then what is it, Thomas, that’s so pressing I must make my apologies to Mrs Mullins at such short notice?” Cecilia said crossly, once they were safely in the intimacy of the drawing room.

“I’m sincerely sorry, Cec, t’ intrude on y’r social situation,”

Kydd said moodily, staring into the empty fi replace. “Y’ see, I’ve some thinkin’ t’ do an’ it needs sortin’ out of a kind . . .”

She looked at him keenly. “Of a personal nature, I’d suspect.”

“Aye, sis, private, ye might say. That is—not t’ you, o’ course.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Can y’ tell me true, Cec, th’ answers to some questions, you bein’ a woman and all?”

“A lady, the last time I looked,” she said tartly. “What are your questions, then, Thomas?”

Kydd mumbled, “If y’ aren’t goin’ t’ help me, then—”

“Don’t be a silly, of course I will. Although why you don’t go to Nicholas with your man problems I really don’t know.”

“He’s—he’s set in his views, is all,” he said, embarrassed. “This is somethin’ I—I need t’ ask you, Cec.”

“Very well. Go on.”

“Ah—y’ see, I—I met Miss Persephone Lockwood on th’ street with her cousin an’ she—”

“You’re taken with her and, against all my advice, you wish to press your amours!”

“Cec! Don’t say it like that. I’m—she’s, er—”

“I see. Well, do not, I pray, ask me . . .” She stopped at Kydd’s expression and her manner softened. “Dear brother, it’s just that I’d loathe to see you brought low by an uncaring world. Tell me, do you feel for her that much?”

“Cec, I’m thinkin’ of her all th’ time! She’s like no one I’ve ever met—or even seen afore. She’s—”

“How do you conceive her feelings are for you? ”

the Admiral’s daughter 179

“That’s what I need ye to advise me on.”

“To tell you what she feels towards you? This is a hard thing, Thomas. One woman’s way of showing her inside feelings will be very different from another’s and, besides, Miss Lockwood will have been brought up to control her passions strictly. Let me ask you, was your meeting on the street by way of an accident, do you think?”

“Aye, it must have been, for—”

“Then she takes you directly to a public chocolate-house—

mmm. How did she introduce you to this cousin?”

“Cec, she called me her friend an’ the cousin said she was pleased t’ meet Persephone’s interestin’ man, an’ looked at me—

you know—that way.”

“I really don’t understand what you mean by that, Thomas, but it does seem she is talking about you to her friends and this is a good start. Tell me also, does she look at you—do her eyes . . .

linger?

“This is gettin’ a mort too deep f’r me, Cec, but th’ last thing she asked was how long the ship was t’ be in Plymouth.”

“The ship?”

Kydd’s brow furrowed. “Well, yes, it was how long I would be.”

“Ah,” Cecilia said fondly. “Then I do pronounce that indeed, brother, she is interested in you.”

Reddening, Kydd gave a pleased grin. “What d’ you think of her, Cec?”

“I’ve not yet had the chance to get to know her—and neither, it must be said, have you.”

“Thank ’ee, Cec, now I know what’s m’ course,” Kydd said happily.

“Thomas, I’ve said it before, and I won’t again, but after your fi rst task, to win her heart, you must then start all over again to impress her family and friends—become part of her world.”

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Kydd nodded wryly, but Cecilia pressed on inexorably. “We shall suppose you do win her. What is your intent for her? To debase her breeding so that she comes down to your level of politeness, or should it be your duty to strive to attain her level of gentility?

That she must make apology for your boorishness to her friends, or be proud of your accomplishments?”

“Aye, sis, I c’n see all that—”

“Then fi rst you must attend to your speech, Thomas. It is sadly neglected, after all I told you, and is not at all fi t for gentle company. Now, this is what you really must do . . .”

Kydd lay back in his new four-poster and stared up into the darkness. His talk with his sister had been hard and lacerating. It was all very well to be proud and contented with an outstanding sea career, but women, it seemed, were on the one hand concerned to discover the man that lay beneath, and on the other taken up with foolish notions of what others might think, whether it be in the matter of incomes or appearances of dress and manner.

He had no reason to disbelieve her—she had gone out of her way to express her love and support—but her constant insistence on the niceties of polite behaviour was trying.

Yet Cecilia’s words about whether Persephone should make excuses for him or be proud of him were unanswerable. He would have to try his damnedest to wipe away all betraying traces of his past.

Then doubts crowded in—the fi rst of which was the loudest.

Was all this vanity? What proof did he have that she felt something for him? There were signs that had been pronounced positive but . . .

Just supposing she had indeed been drawn to him, her feelings grew—and then a passionate declaration! Her heart would tell her which was of a truer value, and it would not be trivial details of speech and behaviour or even a humble background. In fact, she the Admiral’s daughter 181

knew of his past and it had not in the slightest affected her addresses towards him.

It was possible! If she really wanted him, nothing would be allowed to stand in the way. Her parents—the brother of a vis-count and the sister of an earl—would have to be reconciled or be estranged. So for appearance’s sake a discreet settlement would be made that would see them setting up a small estate somewhere in the country, a carriage or two and ample servants . . . and, above all, he could appear among the highest in the land with Persephone, Mrs Thomas Kydd, on his arm—even at court, where everyone she knew would be agog to see whom she had married.

Damn it! It was all very possible.

Some perversity stopped Kydd telling Renzi when the invitation came; he knew his friend would feel impelled to lecture him on deportment, the graces of the table and interminable other points, for this invitation to a reception in honour of some foreign gran-dee was a prize indeed—but it was to him alone.

Although at short notice, and thereby again implying Kydd’s role as useful bachelor, it was to Saltram House, the seat of Lord Boringdon and unquestionably the fi nest estate in the area.

Whatever the reason behind the invitation, he had reached the rarefi ed heights of society. Thomas Kydd—common seaman that was—moving in such circles . . .

The rest was up to him: he had been given his chance, and if he performed creditably, acquitted himself with elegance and wit, polish and urbanity, he would be noticed. Other invitations would come and . . . But for now there was much to take on board.

The coach ground on interminably past the Cattewater to the Plym. He had decided on full dress uniform; it was expected in this age of war but also it had the inestimable advantage that he would not have to concern himself with the imperatives of high 182

Julian Stockwin

fashion, or the cost—he felt a twinge of guilt when he remembered how he had wheedled Renzi that real bullion gold lace was crucial for a naval captain’s full-dress uniform. His friend had glanced at him once, then gone without a word to their common stock of funds. Still, the effect of so much blue, white and deep gold was profoundly satisfying and would stand against anything the haut ton could parade.

They crossed the Plym and began the ascent up the fi nal hill to Saltram. Kydd’s heart beat faster; he had devoured Chesterfi eld’s Guide to Men and Manners, then consulted Debrett and others in the matter of forms of address and details on European nobility.

As always, the Gentleman’s Magazine had provided plenty of material for small-talk and he had gone to some trouble to acquaint himself with current Plymouth gossip, to Mrs Bargus’s surprise and delighted assistance. In the privacy of his bedplace he had as-siduously practised his vowels and constructs until Renzi’s expression at breakfast told him that progress had been made. He was as ready as he could be.

The spare, classical stateliness of Saltram was ablaze with lights in the summer dusk and a frisson of excitement seized Kydd as a footman lowered the side-step and stood to attention as he alighted. In a few moments he would be entering a milieu to which he had never aspired until now and so much would hang on how he comported himself.

“Commander Thomas Kydd,” he announced to the head footman, attending at the door. It was the largest entrance hall he had ever seen, complete with Doric entablature and a Roman bust set about with panels and carving. The area was rapidly fi lling with guests of splendour and importance; the candlelight and brilliance an exhilarating backdrop to the scene.

It had begun. He took a deep breath and turned to the distinguished gentleman in the plum-coloured frock coat to whom he had just been introduced. Soon there was movement, a general the Admiral’s daughter 183

drift inside. “The Velvet Drawing Room,” drawled his acquaintance. “Have you been here before?”

“Not to Saltram,” Kydd replied languidly. “I hail from Surrey originally,” he added, inspecting his cuffs in a lordly way.

“Oh, really?” the man said, interested. “Then you’d know Clandon?”

The room was impressive: red-velvet-hung walls decorated in the Italian way with giltwood and stucco, and an ornately carved marble fi replace. The babble of conversations rose and fell, the rich foetor of candlesmoke, perfume and warm humanity an intoxicat-ing assault on his senses. He accepted a tall glass from a gold-frogged footman. Furtively he glanced about for familiar faces in the crowded room. “Ah, yes, Clandon. Splendid place, a credit to the Onslows,” he said casually, and sipped his champagne.

Suddenly the arched double doors at the far end were opened ceremoniously to reveal an even bigger room beyond; a hush descended as a well-built major-domo took position. “His Grace the Landgraf Karl Zähringen of Baden-Durlach.”

There was a surge forward but Kydd held back while the more lofty dignitaries went in, and made polite conversation while he waited and observed. It quickly became apparent that an equerry was discreetly approaching individuals to be introduced and conducting them forward when the time came.

Then Kydd spied her. Nearly hidden in the throng he saw Admiral Lockwood and his lady before he caught sight of Persephone on her father’s arm—a vision in lemon silk and a tracery of cream lace, talking gaily as though it were quite the most ordinary evening. Of course she would be here, he admonished himself. Was this not her world by right?

They were led forward and Kydd saw Lady Lockwood held at a fawning curtsy by a genial gentleman in a splendid hussar’s uniform.

Others made their way in, and then the time came for Kydd. He 184

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strode into the great room, holding himself proud and ignoring the magnifi cent pale blue silk-damask walls, the perfection of the Italianate painted ceiling and the blaze of light from the tortoise-shell and ormolu candelabra.

The equerry brought him to a discreet distance but the previous couple had not yet concluded, the man holding forth in fl orid German.

Eventually they retired backwards, the man giving three short bows, and the equerry murmured, “Sir, Commander Kydd, His Britannic Majesty’s Navy. Commander, the Landgraf Zähringen.”

Kydd swept down in a leg of extreme elegance, practised in his cabin until his muscles ached. “Your Grace—or, since the happy elevation of your father the Margrave to Elector, should this not be Hoheit, sir?”

He straightened to meet raised eyebrows. “‘Your Grace’” vill do, Kapitan, und may I say ’ow rare it is to meet an English who know th’ happening in our little kingdom?” His benign features creased with pleasure.

“Thank you, Your Grace. And might I desire you a happy stay in England, the weather being uncommon pleasant this time of the year,” he dared.

“Vy, thank you. May the fortunes of war be kind to you, Kapitan. ”

Kydd backed from his presence, remembering to bow three times before he turned away in relief and growing exultation.

He was succeeding—and on his own merits! With earnest attention but wandering thoughts he held himself quietly while he heard of the grave consequences of the fl uctuations in corn prices in the north country and their probable effect on ’Change.

He looked about him discreetly, and saw Persephone listening politely to a voluble colonel with forbidding whiskers.

Then her head turned—and she gazed directly at him. Before he could look away there was a sudden wide smile and a nod of acknowledgement.

the Admiral’s daughter 185

Covered with confusion, he bowed his head stiffl y and forced his eyes away from her, but his thoughts raced: if he had had any doubt before that he was merely a name to her, it was gone now.

In another existence he would have boldly gone across and taken things further, but now he was unaccountably hesitant.

The evening proceeded. A light supper was brought in and everyone found a seat; Kydd practised his small-talk on a ponderous gentleman and simpering middle-aged lady, adorned with ostrich feathers, and covertly noted that Persephone had resumed dutiful attendance on her parents.

“Your Grace, my lords!” Lord Boringdon clapped his hands for attention. “Pray do indulge me for a moment. The good Landgraf has expressed a keen desire to hear our English entertainments and what better, I thought, than to beg Miss Sophie Manners to oblige?”

The good-natured applause was redoubled when a shy young lady rose and made her way to the pianoforte. There was a scraping of chairs as all manoeuvred to face her. “A little piece by Mr Purcell,” she announced nervously.

Her voice was pure and sweet but the prolonged tinkling of the melody was not altogether to Kydd’s taste. He brightened when a tall soldier in scarlet regimentals joined her to sing a duet, which, in its pleasant intertwining of voices, proved most charming. After rapturous acclaim they sang another. The soldier grinned broadly.

“Most kind in you,” he acknowledged, when the clapping died, and bowed to both sides, then looked directly at Kydd. “Could I persuade the navy to stand up for us?” he called jovially.

Kydd froze, but a storm of encouragement broke—the Royal Navy was popular in these parts. He cringed, but there was no escape.

He stood, to be greeted with thunderous applause, but was rooted to the spot, speechless at the sight of so many lords and ladies staring at him with expressions ranging from boredom to avidity.

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Then he felt a light touch on his arm. It was Persephone. “Don’t be anxious, Mr Kydd—we’re all your friends here, you’ll see,” she said softly, and then more loudly, “Mr Kydd will now perform—

and I will accompany on the pianoforte.”

She took his arm with a winning smile, and drew him fi rmly towards the front to a very tempest of support. She sat at the instrument and stretched her fi ngers, but Kydd stammered in a low voice, “I d-don’t know anything, Miss L-Lockwood.”

“Nonsense!” she whispered back. “This pretty piece of Mozart’s perfect for you. You’re a baritone?” Her fi ngers caressed the keys in an expert introductory fl ourish and the room fell quiet. “You shall turn the page for me, Mr Kydd, will you?”

At his stricken face she added softly, “Don’t worry, I’ll manage.

Just follow the words—they’re below the stave.”

He stared down, transfi xed. “It—I can’t—!” She looked up at him with sympathy and unconcealed disappointment.

Kydd pulled himself together. “Thank you, Miss Lockwood, but I’ve just remembered one—and this I’ll sing on my own. That is to say, a solo.”

He stepped forward and faced the august room, the serried ranks of painted faces, the formidable lords and gentlemen, the Landgraf—then fi lled his chest and sang. It was one of the only pieces he knew well, songs that held meaning and memories but that he had kept suppressed for many years on the quarterdeck.

It came out with deep feeling, the parting of an outward-bound sailor from his true love:

Turn to thy love and take a kiss This gold about thy wrist I’ll tie And always when thou look’st on this Think on thy love and cry . . .

The simple melody was received in absolute quiet, Kydd’s powerful voice echoing about the room, and soon a soft improvisation from the Admiral’s daughter 187

the pianoforte tentatively accompanied it, strengthening and growing in invention as the chorus repeated.

The song fi nished; there was an astonished silence, and then the room broke into rapturous applause. Kydd dared a glance at Persephone—she returned it with one of delight, her eyes sparkling. “I rather think an encore is expected,” she said fondly. “Shall you?”

Kydd obliged with a fo’c’sle favourite, and then his lordship and a bemused Landgraf heard a salty rendition of “Spanish Ladies,”

Persephone coming in almost immediately with a daring fl ourish and a laugh.

Now let every man take up his full bumper, Let every man take up his full bowl; For we will be jolly, and drown melancholy With a health to each jovial and true-hearted soul!

While he sang out the old words heartily he saw reactions about the room ranging from delight and amazement to hostility. He dared a glance at Admiral Lockwood and saw him pounding out the rhythm on his knee with a broad smile; his lady, however, impaled him with a look of venom.

Kydd fi nished the fi ne sea song to thunderous acclaim and, Persephone at his side, bowed this way and that. “Well done, Mr Kydd!” she whispered, her eyes shining. “You were . . .

wonderful.”

Kydd’s heart melted.

Renzi was sitting by a single candle at his desk when Kydd returned.

He glanced up and, seeing Kydd’s expression, remarked drily, “So, the evening might be accounted a success, then, brother?”

“Aye—that is to say, it passed off right splendidly, Nicholas.”

He peeled off his coat and fl opped into his chair, wearing a broad smile that would not go away.

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“And—dare I hazard the observation?—you there saw Miss Persephone Lockwood.”

“I did,” Kydd said sheepishly, and gave a graphic account of events. “And y’ should have been there t’ hear the thumpin’ applause they gave us at th’ end,” he said, with huge satisfaction.

Renzi heard him out, then shook his head in wonder. “So by this we can see you have achieved your object. You have indeed attained an eminence in society,” he declared, “and, it must be admitted that at one and the same time you have been able to attract notice, it seems. Though what a young lady of breeding will make of a gentleman who eschews Mozart for ‘Spanish Ladies’ I cannot begin to think.”

“Then can I point out t’ you, Nicholas, that it was this same who came an’ played for me in the fi rst place, an’ it was she who said I should do an encore?” Kydd retorted acidly.

Renzi stretched and gave a tired smile. “In any event, dear fellow, you are now known and talked about. For good or ill, the society world knows you exist and have made conquest of Miss Lockwood.”

The fore-topsail yard, now promised for Wednesday, would be fi tted and squared on Thursday, and Friday, of course, being not a day for sailing to any right-thinking sailor, Kydd would begin to store Teazer for a Saturday departure. He called Purchet to his cabin to set it in train.

Only a few days more. Guiltily he was fi nding himself reluctant to put to sea and he told himself sternly to buckle down to work. Renzi was dealing swiftly with a pile of ship’s papers, his pen fl ying across the pages, no doubt eager to dip into the parcel of books that had recently arrived at number eighteen.

There was now the diffi cult task of how or indeed whether he should open some form of address to Persephone. Was she expecting an overture from him? Should he ask Cecilia? Or was advice the Admiral’s daughter 189

on the best way to woo another woman not quite what one might ask a sister? A knock interrupted his thoughts as a letter for the captain was handed to him respectfully.

Kydd recognised Cecilia’s bold hand and smiled at the coincidence, tearing open the seal. Another letter fell out with unfamiliar handwriting. Cecilia went quickly to the subject to his growing astonishment and delight. “. . . and she is wondering if you would wish to accompany us. I really think you should, Thomas—it would get you out of your ship and seeing something of the moors, which are accounted to be some of the most dramatic country in the kingdom . . .”

A ride on the high moor—the wilds of Dartmoor. With Persephone.

The other letter was from Persephone, in a fi ne round hand, and addressed to Cecilia, whom she had met at the picnic. Kydd’s eyes lingered on the writing: it was perfectly executed penman-ship with few ornaments, bold and confi dent. The content was warm but practical—a rendezvous at the Goodameavy stables a few miles north on the Tavistock road, well-phrased advice concerning clothing for ladies and then, in a fi nal sentence, the after-thought that if Commander Kydd found himself at leisure that day, did Cecilia think he might be persuaded to join them?

Cecilia said little on the journey out of town and gazed from the window as they wound into the uplands. It suited Kydd: his thoughts could jostle on unchecked. Would it be a substantial party? The lonely moor was probably a place of footpads and robbers so he wore a sword, a discreet borrowed hanger rather than his heavy fi ghting weapon. He hoped his plain riding outfi t of cutaway dark-brown frock coat and cuff-top boots would pass muster with someone accustomed to the latest in fashionable wear.

Above the trees beyond he could see the rearing bulk of the bare hills that formed the edge of the moor and his pulse quickened.

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Presently they swung into a lane and stopped in the spacious courtyard of a considerably sized riding stable.

The concentrated odour of horses was heavy on the air as they were handed down, Cecilia fi nding coins for the coachman. There was no party waiting and he felt a stab of anxiety—his fob watch told him they were on time.

A groom led out a fi ne Arab that snorted and pawed the ground with impatience. Persephone, arrayed in a brown riding habit, walked beside it. Her hair was pulled back severely, a few chestnut wisps escaping from her masculine-looking black hat. “Why, Mr Kydd, I do adore your taste in colour!” she said teasingly, glancing at his coat.

Kydd bowed deeply, aware of Cecilia’s respectful curtsy next to him.

“Miss Kydd, it is a pleasure to see you again,” Persephone went on, in the friendliest tone. “It is tiresome, but the men are so dis-inclined to make the journey to the moor to ride and I do so love the freedom here. Do you ride much?”

“Not as much as I’d like, Miss Lockwood,” Cecilia said carefully, eyeing Persephone’s spirited beast. “I do fi nd, however, that a morning canter does set the pulse to beating, don’t you?” Her mount was a pretty dappled mare of more docile habit than the Arab, and the groom adjusted the robust side-saddle with a slipper stirrup for her.

Kydd’s horse was brought out: a powerful-looking mahogany bay, which he approached with caution. Its eye followed his every motion and when he swung up it skittered and snorted, tossing its head, feeling the bit.

“Oh, that’s Sultan—do you take no nonsense from him, Mr Kydd. Sometimes he can be quite a rascal if he gets it into his head.”

Kydd strove to let the horse feel his will and, after some ill-tempered gyrations, it seemed to settle and he brought it next to the Admiral’s daughter 191

Cecilia. He stole a glance at Persephone: she looked breathtaking, her handsome straight-backed posture set off by the fall of her habit. “There will be a hamper and champagne for us at Hele Tor, should we deserve it,” she said. “Shall we?”

They clopped across the cobblestones of the courtyard then turned in single fi le up a leafy lane, Kydd happy to allow Cecilia to follow Persephone cautiously while he rode behind on his fractious steed. The groom with the pannier of necessities brought up the rear. It was now clear that no one else was to join them, and he glowed to think that they must have been specially invited.

The lane stopped at a gate, which Kydd opened and held for the ladies. It led to the open moor, the vast swell of heathland roman-tically bleak and far-reaching, with only the occasional dark clusters of rocks, the mysterious tors, to intrude on the prospect.

“At last!” laughed Persephone, and urged her horse straight into the wild openness. Kydd’s horse whinnied as the others went ahead and he had no diffi culty in spurring it on, feeling its great muscles bunch under him.

He passed Cecilia, who was concentrating on fi nding her rhythm, and quickly came up on Persephone who threw him a surprised but pleased glance, her eyes sparkling. “Have no concern, Mr Kydd. The footing here is excellent.”

Kydd was having some diffi culty reining in his horse and Persephone increased pace to keep with him. She swayed effortlessly in her saddle round rambling patches of furze and laughed into the wind, her cheeks pink with exertion.

Kydd glanced round and saw that Cecilia was trailing, but the groom had stayed with her so he turned back to the reins.

As they cantered further into the moorland Kydd was struck by its wild immensity—not a tree, hedgerow, or building in sight.

It was an awesome loneliness—not unlike the sea in a way. The rhythmic thudding of hoofs on the turf came together in a blood-rousing thrill of motion.

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A sudden fl utter of wings made Kydd’s horse rear, its hoofs fl ailing, the whites of its eyes showing in terror. He fought to stay aboard, dropping the reins and seizing the animal’s mane with both hands as it teetered, then crashed down to leap forward in a demented gallop. Kydd hung on in grim desperation as the horse’s panicked fl ight stretched out to a mile or more. He tried to claw forward to retrieve the fl ying reins but in vain. Instead he lay along the beast’s neck, hoping its pace would slow as its energy gave out.

Eventually Sultan’s frenzy lessened and Kydd dared to loose one hand to snatch at the fl ying reins, then transferred the other, his thighs gripping his mount’s sides as he did so. He saw a water-course of sorts disappearing into a wooded fold and coerced the animal to head for it, hoping the thicker going would slow it.

The fi rst bushes whipped past, then more substantial trees, and the horse slowed. The gallop fell to a canter and then to a trot. With a sigh of relief Kydd straightened, only to be summarily ejected from the saddle as the horse bucked unexpectedly. Kydd whirled through the air and landed in a tangle of boots and undergrowth.

He lay on his back, staring up and panting. A breathless, concerned Persephone came into focus. “Oh, my poor Mr Kydd!” she said and knelt down, her gloved hand on his. “Are you hurt? May I help you up?”

“Miss Lockwood,” Kydd managed, and hauled himself to his elbows. “That damned mutinous beast!” he gasped. “Which is to say that I should clap him in irons as would teach him his manners to an offi cer.”

He pulled himself to a sitting position. “Your pardon while I recover my senses,” he said, pulling greenery from his hair and feeling his leg cautiously.

“Of course.” She sat demurely next to him. “The groom will take care of Miss Kydd and I see Sultan is not to be troubled.” The the Admiral’s daughter 193

horse was browsing contentedly nearby, on the lush verdancy by the edge of a stream.

Persephone turned to face him. “You know I am glad to have met you, Mr Kydd. We are both . . .” She dropped her head and toyed with a leaf.

When she looked up, Kydd’s eyes held hers for a long moment.

As he helped her to her feet they found themselves together in a kiss, which took them by surprise. She froze, then said, with just the faintest quiver in her voice, “We must fi nd the others now.”

Chapter 9

“Get y’r head down, y’ ninny!” hissed Stirk. Luke Calloway crouched lower in the hedgerow as a horse and rider clopped down the narrow lane in the darkness. “Mr Stirk, an’ we’re safe now, isn’t we?” Calloway said, aggrieved.

Stirk listened for any others who might be coming, then stood up and stretched. “Shut y’ trap, younker, an’ do as I says.” Even though they had made it this far, just a mile from the tiny fi shing village, they were not safe yet.

Stirk hefted his bundle and they resumed their journey. It got steeper. The village glimmering below was nestled in a coombe, a deep valley with precipitous sides, and seemed shoehorned into a tiny level area.

The lane had become not much more than a path when they fi nally reached the fi rst houses by a little stream. “Bless me, Mr Stirk, but th’ place stinks,” Calloway protested. A strong, insistent reek of fi sh was thick in the night air. Stirk stopped and listened again: strangers would be viewed suspiciously in this small community as possible spies for the Revenue, and all it needed was for some frightened widow to raise an alarm . . . but there was no sign that the inhabitants were in a mind to roam abroad in the dark.

“Where d’ we kip, Mr Stirk?”

“First we fi nds th’ kiddleywink,” Stirk snapped.

the Admiral’s daughter 195

“Th’ what?”

“What the Janners call a pothouse, lad,” he said, looking around.

Even a village this size should have two or three. They headed towards the snug harbour and on the far side near the fi sh-quay buildings the Three Pilchards was a noisy beacon of jollity. Stirk checked about carefully, then he and Calloway passed by a blacksmith’s shuttered forge and hastened into the tavern.

It was small but snug, and dark with the patina of age. The aroma of spilt liquor eddied up from the sawdust on the fl oor and the heady reek of strong cider competed with the smell of rank fi sh from outside.

The tavern fell silent. Half a dozen weathered faces turned to them, distrust and hostility in their expressions. The tapster approached them, wiping his hands. “Where youse come frum, then?” he demanded.

“As is none o’ y’r business,” Stirk said mildly, and crossed to a corner table from which he could survey the whole room, “but a shant o’ gatter ’d be right welcome,” he said, sitting and gesturing to Calloway to join him.

The tapster hesitated, then went back to pull the ale. One of the men sitting at a nearby table fi xed unblinking eyes on Stirk and threw at him, “’E axed yez a question, frien’.”

Stirk waited until the ale came in a well-used blackjack, a tarred leather tankard. “Why, now, an’ isn’t this a right fi ne welcome f’r a pair o’ strangers?” He took a long pull, then set it down quietly. He felt in his pocket and slapped down a small pile of coins.

“This’n for any who c’n fi nd us somewheres t’ rest. Maybe two, three days, nice an’ quiet like, an’ then we’ll be on our way.” He clinked the coins patiently. After a few mutters with his companion the man came back loudly, “I knows what thee are—ye’re navy deserters, b’ glory.”

Stirk bit his lip and then said warily, “S’ what’s it t’ you, mate?

Thinkin’ on sellin’ us out?”

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The man cackled delightedly. “Knew ’oo ye was, soon as I clapped peepers on yez.” He turned to the other and said something that raised a laugh.

“Ah, but ye’ll be stayin’ more’n a coupla days, I reckon,” the other added. He had a milky-blue blind eye. “Else theys goin’ t’

cotch ye.”

Stirk said nothing.

“What they call yez, then?” the fi rst asked.

“Jem’ll do, an’ this skiddy cock is m’ shipmate Harry.”

“Oh, aye—but if y’ wants t’ stop here, Mr Jem, we can’t have useless bodies a-takin’ up room. Thee looks likely lads—done any fi shin’?”

“Mackerel, fl ounder—some hake.” Stirk’s boyhood had been the hard life of an inshore fi sherman at Hythe in Kent.

It seemed to satisfy. “Davey Bunt,” the fi rst said.

“Jan Puckey,” the other came in. “An’ t’night I’ll see y’ sleepin’

in a palace, I promise ye.”

They slept in one right enough: in coarse canvas on a bed of nets reeking of fi sh, in what the Cornish called the “fi sh pallace,” the lower room of dwellings turned over to keeping the family fi shing gear and storing pilchards pressed into tubs.

Stirk rolled over, vainly seeking a more comfortable position and ruefully recalling that nights at sea in a small fi shing-boat were far worse. Had this been a bad mistake, a decision made on the spur of the moment that he would come to regret? And had he been right to involve Luke? The young man knew so little of the wider world.

Stirk was under no illusions of the risk: they were not yet trusted and could be disowned on the spot until they had proved themselves, and in the future . . .

It was all because of what he had done at Stackhouse cove that night several weeks ago. Mr Kydd had remembered his smuggling the Admiral’s daughter 197

reminiscences and seen his knowledge at fi rst hand. Now he had allowed himself and Luke to be landed ashore and, under the pretence that they were deserting seamen, they had made their way to the smugglers’ haunt of Polperro to see if they could win confi dence and discover something of the unknown genius who controlled the trade.

In the darkness he heard Calloway grunt and turn over; he must be missing his comfortable hammock, Stirk thought wryly.

For Luke it had been the adventure that appealed, but the only reason Stirk had volunteered was the deep respect and, indeed, lopsided friendship he felt for his captain, whom he had seen grow from raw landman to fi rst-class seaman, then achieve the quarterdeck, and now the command of his fi rst ship. It was unlikely that in trim little Teazer they would achieve anything like lasting fame in their duties in the Plymouth command; Stirk was well aware that, without it, the best that could be expected for Kydd was a quiet retirement amid the fading glory of once having commanded a King’s ship. He would try his copper-bottomed best to give Kydd a triumph to bear back.

“Thank ’ee, Mrs Puckey,” Stirk said gratefully, to the close-mouthed woman after she had handed him a piece of coarse bread to go with his gurty milk—thin seed gruel.

She said nothing, her dark eyes following his every move.

“Th’ fi rst time I’ve bin fi shin’, Mr Puckey,” Calloway said respectfully. “I aim t’ learn, sir.”

He grunted. “You will, son,” he said signifi cantly, and his glance fl icked to Stirk. “Mackerel, y’ said.”

“Aye.”

“We’ll be out handlinin’ tonight—Boy Cowan says he’s a-willin’

t’ have youse along.”

“Owns th’ boat?”

“An’ we all has shares in th’ catch,” Puckey said fi rmly.

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Stirk fi nished his bread. “No business o’ mine, cully, but we sometimes hears as Polperro’s not a place t’ beat fer free tradin’.

Why, then—”

There was a sudden tension in the room. Puckey laid down his spoon very deliberately and glared at Stirk. “We doesn’t talk about such here, cuffi n. Ye understan’ me?”

“O’ course. Me bein’ in the trade as a kitlin’ an’ all,” Stirk added quietly, meeting his eyes. There was no response and he bent to his meal again.

A ragged child came up and stood gazing at the strangers.

“Good day, y’ young scamp,” Stirk said.

The boy continued to stare at him, then suddenly broke into a chant:

Mother at the cookpot, Father with his brew Waitin’ for the gennelmen who’ll dish the Revenoo!

Mrs Puckey clapped her hands and scolded him. He disappeared.

It was bright outside as the three men made their way to the quay, the early-morning sun drying the effects of the overnight rain and setting off the little village to gleaming perfection. Gulls wheeled and keened about the fi sh quay in front of the Three Pilchards while boats bobbed and snubbed at their lines in the harbour.

On each side, the land sloped up steeply with, occasionally, cottages perched at seemingly impossible angles. It was as individual a place as could be imagined, every house set to suit its tiny plot of rock and thin soil, the dwellings of all hues, owing more than a little to shipwreck timbers.

Along the seafront fi shermen were taking advantage of the clear morning light to mend nets and work on tackle. Past the tavern was a jumble of rocks and a fi nal jagged cliff soared at the narrow but picturesque harbour entrance. A short pier beyond the Three the Admiral’s daughter 199

Pilchards gave shelter to the inner harbour.

“Well, now, an’ here’s Boy hisself,” said Puckey, as they reached the level area of the fi sh quay. “Mornin’, Mr Cowan.”

Cowan was well into his sixties and white-haired, but had a genial manner that gave him a serenity beyond any cares. “Jan, are these th’ noo hands ye told me of?”

“Aye. Jem here, an’ that’s Harry.”

“Ye’ve whiffl ed f’r mackerel, Jan tells me.”

“I did.”

“An’ can ye tell me what yarn y’ used fer y’ snoods?” Cowan asked casually.

“Cobbler’s thread, mebbe gut,” Stirk answered, in the same tone, “an’ a long shanked hook if we’s expectin’ hake.”

Cowan eased into a smile. “We likes horse-hair in Polperro, Jem. Like t’ bear a hand on th’ nossil cock, you an’ young Harry both?” This was a simple wooden device that twisted together yarns for greater strength into a snood—the fi nal length carrying the hook that stood out from the main hand-line.

Calloway was set to pulling an endless cord passing over a series of whirligigs that were set into a frame to spin hooks with the yarns beneath. Stirk, with a piece of soft leather, took the strands and evened out the twists, lead weights giving it all a momentum.

Finally the nossil was detached, and a hook whipped to the line with a mackerel feather. “There we is, mate,” said Stirk, looking with satisfaction at his fi nished snood. “Where’s the backin’

line?”

Forty fathoms of line looked an overwhelming amount lying in a heap, but Stirk faked it out in six-foot coils and patiently began the task of working a fi gure-of-eight knot every half a foot, needing to heave the whole length of line through for every knot. These would be where the snoods would attach and it would see him occupied for hours.

Calloway was sent away to help with the barking—dipping nets 200

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and sails into the boiling cutch, a nauseating mix of Burma bark and tallow.

“Can’t we not fi n’ ’em some breeks, darlin’?” Puckey said, when his wife came with the noon tea. “They’ll be haulin’ fi sh b’

evenin’.”

From somewhere she found smocks, knit-frocks and canvas trousers reeking with old fi sh-slime, and two seamen were translated on the spot into fi shermen. Later, the most important article appeared: sea boots, the like of which Calloway had never seen—

huge and thigh-length, they were of hard leather encrusted on the soles with hobnails.

Boy Cowan cocked an eye skyward and, with a seraphic smile, pronounced, “Mackerel or herring, they a-goin’ t’ be about t’night.

Bait up, boys.”

His work fi nished until evening, Stirk decided to wander round the narrow lanes to the Consona rocks where the boat-yard was seeing the last touches to a repair on the skipper’s boat. “Which

’un is Mr Cowan’s?” he called, to an aproned shipwright working on a vessel propped up in the mud.

The man looked up briefl y. “This ’un,” he said, and went back to his planing. Polperro Fancy was lettered on her square transom, and she was a beamy half-decker, well used by the sea and in pristine order. But so small!

“Sprit main?” Stirk guessed, noting the snotter. Without sails it was diffi cult to make out her rig beyond the single mast and long bowsprit, which, no doubt, would sport at least two jibs for balance and speed.

The shipwright straightened slowly, squinting up at Stirk against the sun. “An’ who’s askin’?”

“I’ll be goin’ out wi’ Mr Cowan t’night.”

“Hope they’re bitin’ for ye,” the man said, wiping his forehead, apparently unwilling to pursue why a complete stranger would be going out to the hard work of the fi shing grounds with his client.

the Admiral’s daughter 201

“Yes, ye’re in th’ right of it, we call ’em ‘spreeties.’ Y’ only fi n’ luggers at Looe.”

Stirk nodded. Looe, three or four miles away, would have different local conditions, different traditions of boat-building handed down. This fore-and-aft rig was almost certainly to keep as close by the wind as possible when passing through the narrows at the harbour mouth.

He looked again. There was only a tiny cuddy forward and two compartments amidships before the open afterdeck, probably a fi sh hold and net stowage, and was certainly not suited to the running and concealment of contraband.

“How is she, Mr Butters?” Cowan hailed respectfully from the end of the pier opposite. “Ready for ye an hour afore sundown,”

the shipwright shouted back.

At the appointed time, and replete after a meal of scrowled pilchards and back-garden potatoes, Stirk and Calloway trudged over to their boat. Their hobnailed sea boots crashed on the cobbles but caused not the slightest interest as others made their way down to the harbour, a busy and amiable throng.

The gathering sunset was gilding the hilltops and shadows were lengthening among the tightly huddled dwellings of the village as they reached their craft, now afl oat and nudging the quay playfully.

“Ye’re a Puckey then, I see,” one said to Stirk, as they jostled down the narrow lane.

Stirk blinked and Cowan chuckled. “As ye’re wearin’ a Puckey knit-frock an’ all. The women knit ’em in th’ family pattern fer their men. If we’re misfortunate, makes identifyin’ the bodies easier.”

They clambered aboard the Fancy and were joined by Bunt and Puckey, who seemed to know instinctively what to do as Cowan mustered his fi shing gear and set the rigging to rights. The two 202

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seamen tried to keep out of their way. Evening drew in, and it was time to join the many boats heading out to the grounds.

Cowan had a last look round, then took the tiller, gave the orders to loose sail and called, “Let her go then, Davey.” The bowline dropped, and the Fancy caught the wind and slewed before crowding with the others through the rock-girded Polperro harbour entrance.

Most fi shing-boats stood out to sea towards the setting sun but Cowan, with an inscrutable smile, put down the tiller and, taking the wind astern, the Polperro Fancy set her bowsprit for up the coast.

Stirk tried not to show his interest: from seaward, Polperro and its snug harbour was almost completely hidden. So close to the rugged shore he could easily distinguish where run cargoes could land—the sandy coves, small beaches in obscuring twists of shoreline, suggestive caves. No wonder the Revenue was so hard-pressed to cover the coast.

“Here’s yourn,” Bunt said to Stirk, handing him a small frame,

“an’ I’d get y’ line on th’ cater here ready, mate.”

The beamy boat was lively even in the slight seas that evening but Stirk knew that its response to every wave meant it would remain dry. He wound the line, ready baited, round the cater frame and waited.

“Mr Cowan, how does y’ know where the fi sh are?” Calloway asked, noting that several of the other boats had turned about and were now following them.

At fi rst Cowan did not speak, his face turned into the wind to sniff gently, his grip on the tiller fi rm. Then, as they sailed on, there came quietly the distilled wisdom of the Cornish fi shery: talk of sea marks to fi x favourite sub-sea rocks; the arcane habits of mackerel and ling, conger and pilchard, spur dog and dab; herring shoals square miles in size rising stealthily to the surface at dusk that could be detected by bubbles fi zzing upward from below the Admiral’s daughter 203

and the faint smell of oil on the surface of the sea, the whole to sink down again at dawn’s light. The dexterity of the long-liners and the seiners, the willow withies of the crabbers, the ever-vital pilchard fi shing, all were testament to the multitude of hard-won skills of the fi shermen.

As the red orb of the sun met the horizon two lanthorns were lit and sails were lowered with a small island barely in sight in the soft dusk. Cowan glanced over the side once and waited for the boat to drift further, the only sound the chuckling of water and creak of gear. He scanned the shoreline for some sea mark, then said quietly, “This’ll do, Jan.”

Obediently Puckey took up his cater and began to lower.

Stirk made to do the same but Cowan stopped him with a gesture.

After an interval Puckey grunted, “Fish is slight, Mr Cowan.”

Small sail was shown to the wind and they ghosted inshore a little way and the sail was doused. Puckey repeated his work, and after a longer time he showed satisfaction. “Now will do,” Cowan said, and in the increasing darkness their lines went down.

Stirk felt the fi sh strike, the tugs connecting him with the unseen world far beneath, which must now be a swirl of glinting silver in the blackness as the shoal orbited the unlucky ones jerking on his line, just as they had in those all-but-forgotten days of his youth.

Bunt was fi rst to haul in with a full line; over the gunwale hand over hand, grunting with effort until the fi rst fi sh jerked into view, fl ipping frantically. There was a craning to see but Cowan peered over and announced, “Mackerel, lads, sure ’nough.”

Puckey soon followed, and then an excited Calloway, and before long the midships was a welter of hooks, line and slippery striped fi sh. Then the work started.

Two hours later the shoal had left and, aching in every bone, Stirk and Calloway were allowed fi rst rest in the stinking confi nes of the cuddy, only to be woken not long after when the shoal was rediscovered further eastwards.

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With eyes strained and sore from the effort of baiting hooks by the faint gleam of a lanthorn, the lines went out again—and again came the toil of heaving in and the messy work of gutting afterwards. All the while they fought a clamping weariness. A lull followed as the mackerel sounded deep again, and then there was blessed rest, but with the suspicion of luminance to the east the mackerel returned and it was to the lines again until the sun’s orb rose and the fi sh sank down once more.

“Brave bit o’ fi sh, Jan!” Bunt said, with tired glee, as the hold showed near full.

“It is that,” Puckey replied, and glanced at Cowan.

“Aye, I’ll grant ye,” Cowan said cautiously. “Shares all roun’—

what do thee men say t’ these two gettin’ a whack?”

The cover was placed on the hold and Polperro Fancy made for home. Stirk lay back exhausted; this was a job like no other.

However, their readiness to bear a hand must have been noted and their acceptance into this small village would be that much the closer.

Around fi fteen boats converged with them in the fi nal entry to harbour on the fl ooding tide; sails were brailed and they lay to a scull at the transom waiting for room at the fi sh quay.

They found a place and Stirk bent his back once more in the task of keeping the baskets fi lled to sway up and disgorge on to the noisy quay where an auction was taking place. For some reason the others in the boat were downcast and when they had fi nished and taken the Fancy to her moorings Stirk asked Cowan why.

“Chancy thing, mackerel fi shin’—some days y’ fi nds nothin’, other days . . .” He was without his smile as he went on, “Well, t’day every soul in Polperro—save us—has good luck.” They stopped at the edge of the fi sh quay and he pointed out a strapping woman with a basket on her back and voluminous pockets fi lled with salt. “That’s a fi sh jowter, sellin’ our fi sh all over th’ parish.

She’s sittin’ pretty ’cos with everyone lucky the market’s fl ooded and prices go t’ the devil.”

the Admiral’s daughter 205

He gave a theatrical sigh and added, “Will we be seein’ ye again, Mr Jem?”

After crumpling into their bed of nets Stirk and Calloway slept until midday, at which point hunger drove them to re-enter the world. Mrs Puckey had seen the boats arrive and land their catch, and her lips were thin.

“What’s fer vittles, darlin’? I’m gut-foundered,” Puckey said, sprawling wearily in his chair.

“Teddies ’n’ point—what else c’n thee expect?” she muttered, bringing over a pot.

“Th’—the what, Mrs Puckey?” Calloway asked hesitantly.

Puckey grinned, without humour. “Taties as we grows at the back, an’ she’ll point out th’ meat fer thee in case y’ misses it.”

After the thin meal Stirk made his excuses and the two shipmates wandered down to the harbour and the outer pier where they sat leaning companionably against a pile of nets. At fi rst Stirk said nothing, letting the keening of the gulls wheeling over the fi sh quay form a backdrop to his thoughts. He lay back and closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his aching limbs.

He heard Calloway stir. “What d’ we do next, Mr Stirk?”

He grunted. “Fer now, cully, I’ll allow it’s ‘Toby’ till we’re back aboard.” But were they getting any closer to uncovering anything to do with smuggling? It was odd, but here the fi sher-folk were clearly dirt-poor and hard-working, not as would be expected if they were living high on the proceeds of smuggling.

“Aye aye, Toby,” Calloway replied, and went on more soberly,

“I don’t want t’ go back t’ Mr Kydd wi’ nothing, y’ know.”

“As we both don’t, mate,” Stirk muttered.

“What d’ ye think he’d do if’n he was here, Toby?”

“I don’t know what Mr Kydd would do if’n he was here, younker,” Stirk said sarcastically. But of a surety in his place Kydd could be relied on to fi nd some cunning way through. If there was one thing Kydd had, it was a right sound headpiece that had set 206

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him apart from the start, that and the sand to stand up for himself when it was needed.

He didn’t want to let the man down: what must it have cost Kydd to claw his way to the quarterdeck and now be captain of his own ship? In a way Stirk took personal pride in this, one of his own gun crew of the past reaching for the stars and getting there.

And besides which, Kydd was a right true seaman, not like some he could put a name to. No, he had to do something. “Luke, step down t’ Mr Butters an’ help him. See if y’ can hear aught o’ this smugglin’—but steer small, cuffi n. They’s a short way wi’ them as runs athwart their hawse.”

He stood up stiffl y. There was nothing to be gained from sitting about and waiting. He would take a stroll, see something of the place, keep a weather eye open.

Polperro was as distinctive a fi shing village as it could be. Its focus was the small harbour, of course, and the steepest sides of the coombe were bare of dwellings but as he walked he could see that this separated the settlement into a working western side with the fi sh quay and humble homes, and the eastern area, with more substantial residences.

A charming rivulet ran down to the sea, along which ageless buildings crowded together in a communal huddle. Stirk walked the narrow streets, passing the chapel by the tiny green and one or two humble shops. Nothing in any wise betrayed the presence of smuggling.

Folk looked at him curiously but he could detect no suspicion or hostility. Either Polperro’s reputation was undeserved or the Revenue was getting the better of the problem, both of which con-tradicted what Mr Kydd had been told. It was a conundrum and Stirk knew he would have to try harder to resolve it.

Puckey was outside his house, mending nets. He gave a friendly nod and Stirk went inside for his bundle. Then he had an idea.

Carefully he cleared the fi shing gear and clutter away from the the Admiral’s daughter 207

far corner, exposing the dusty earth fl oor. He found a stick and brought it fi rmly across, feeling as he went. Nothing. Then again, a few inches further—and the stick caught. He smoothed the surface and looked closely until he found what he was looking for: a faint line in the dust.

He slipped out his seaman’s knife, prodded and twisted until he had the disguised trapdoor free, then swung it up to reveal a cav-ernous space below. A candle stub in a pottery dish stood nearby.

He took a sniff. This hiding-place had been used recently.

He replaced everything and left quickly. Outside, Puckey looked up. “If thee has th’ time, m’ wife would thank ye well fer a hand at th’ taties.”

She was half-way up the hill, scraping a furrow in the thin soil of a little plot and was grateful for Stirk’s help. He didn’t mind: without this to sustain them in bleak times they would starve and, besides, it gave him time to think.

They worked on silently until Mrs Puckey stopped suddenly and listened; from afar off there was a faint cry—it was repeated with an urgency that set Stirk’s hair on end. “It’s th’ huer,” she breathed. “God be praised!”

“Th’ huer?” Stirk asked, in astonishment, as the cry was taken up from windows and rooftops along the steep hillsides and round the harbour. People hurried from their houses and fi elds and began to scramble for the lower parts, the cry now plain. “Hevva!

Hevva! Hevva! ”

“Wha—”

“See?” She pointed down to the rocks that guarded the entrance to the harbour. On the highest Stirk could see a fi gure capering about, clutching what looked like a tin trumpet through which he kept up his cry.

“The huer! Hue ’n’ cry! Get down wi’ ye,” she shouted, and pushed past him. “The pilchards’re here!”

Stirk looked out to sea; below circling and plummeting gannets 208

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he saw a peculiar long stain of red-purple and silver in the water extending for a mile or more. With the rest he scrambled and slid until he reached the path and joined the throng converging on the harbour.

A sharp-faced man with an open notebook sized him up in an instant. “Pull an oar?” he snapped.

“Aye.”

“Volyer,” he ordered, and gestured impatiently at a curious low and broad open boat being readied.

Sitting at his oar Stirk grinned to himself: a gunner’s mate brought to this pass! But if he didn’t show willing to lend a fi st with the rest, his chances of getting near to them would fade.

A net was manoeuvred into the boat and as they pulled out of the harbour the plan was explained to him: the other boat had the main “stop” net to encircle as much of the pilchard shoal as they could, at which point their boat would close the gap and assist to bring ashore the captives. A third boat, the lurker, would bear the master seiner who would direct the operation.

Stirk knew there would be hard, skilled work before the fi sh could be landed. They made a wide sweep, carefully approached the shoal from seaward and slowed to a stop. The man on the oar opposite nudged him: the huer on the high rocks had stopped his cries and was now holding a coloured cloth in each outstretched hand which he wig-wagged in a series of signals, watched attentively by the master seiner.

“Give way, y’ bastards,” he bawled, throwing the tiller over.

Their own boat followed obediently, and Stirk saw they were essentially being directed by the watcher high on the rocks to where the fi sh were, and the master seiner was deploying accordingly.

At just the right moment and place, the quarter-mile-long stop seine began shooting into the sea along its length in a curve right in the path of the shoal and when it was out the toil of joining the ends together in a vast circle started.

the Admiral’s daughter 209

It was back-breaking work, bringing the inert mass of seine net and the weight of uncountable thousands of fi sh into a vast circle, but that was nothing compared to the unending travail that followed of towing the entire mass to the nearest sandy bottom, Lantivet Bay, where the fi sh would fi nally come ashore.

The secluded beach, no more than a couple of miles from Polperro, was crowded with excited people; the boats came closer and just when the mottled black and pale of the seabed glimmered up through the clear water, the master seiner called a halt.

Resting on their oars, the men of the stop seine boat watched as Stirk’s companions readied their own tuck net, whose purpose soon became plain. Smaller than the stop seine, it was shot within the larger, then brought tightly together, gathering the catch to the surface in an appalling agitation of threshing fi sh, screaming gulls and the frantic plunging of stones on ropes to deter escape at the rapidly diminishing opening.

“Lade ’im!” yelled the master seiner, pounding the gunwale of his boat with excitement.

Everyone aboard the volyer threw themselves at the fi sh. With tuck baskets, broad fl askets and bare hands they scooped them as fast as they could into the boat.

Ashore, children screamed and frolicked, women clustered with baskets and called to their men in exhilaration, and when the boat was fi nally heaved into the shallows they, too, joined in the glorious mayhem.

The sheer quantity of fi sh caught was colossal: tons in weight, hundreds of thousands of silver shapes swirling in the stop net, but the master seiner, eyeing the haul, stopped the tuck and declared, “That’ll do fer now, boys.” The rest could safely be left to mill about in the net for later.

“Well, Jem, how d’ ye like our fi shin’? Sport enough, heh?” The Three Pilchards was in a roaring good mood, fi shermen with their 210

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immediate futures now secure drinking to their good fortune.

Stirk lifted his pot. “Decent taut, this’n,” he growled. “Ye’ll have another, Davey, mate?”

“A glass o’ bright cider is jus’ what I needs,” Bunt answered ex-pansively. “Fishin’ gives thee such a thirst an’ all.”

Signalling to the harried pot-boy, Stirk said, “S’ now ye has a right good haul then.”

Bunt leant forward and said earnestly, “Pilchards mean a brave lot t’ us, Jem. As we do say in these parts: Here’s a health t’ the Pope, an’ may he repent And lengthen six months th’ term of his Lent; F’r it’s always declared, betwixt th’ two poles There’s nothin’ like pilchards f’r the saving of souls . . .

Puckey came across and sat with them. “This is Long Tom Shar, Jem. Thee should know, as fer hake an’ conger there ain’t a fi ner hand.”

Solemnly Stirk allowed himself to be acquainted as well with Zeb Minards and Sam Coad, the bushy-browed blacksmith. It was happening—his work in the boats was paying off.

He saw Calloway in one corner in close conversation with a shy fi sher-girl still in her pinafore. Stirk winked when he caught his eye and turned back to hear about the hazards and rewards of drift-netting.

Suddenly the happy noise subsided. Two men had entered: these were no fi sher-folk and they looked about guardedly. One by one the fi shermen turned their backs, the tavern taking on a pointed silence.

“Who’re them, mates?” Stirk asked.

Puckey leant over and, in a hoarse whisper, said, “Bad cess—

they’s Revenooers, Jem, wished on us t’ watch th’ harbour.

Nobody’ll take ’em in, so theys forced t’ sleep in a boat.”

the Admiral’s daughter 211

One looked at Stirk. Their eyes met and Stirk froze. He knew the man! It was Joe Corrie, in his watch on deck in the old Duke William and a miserable shipmate into the bargain. If he was recognised it would be disastrous.

Stirk moved quickly. Dropping his head he croaked, “Feelin’

qualmish, mates—have t’ be outside sharp, like,” and slipped away through the back door.

As he hurried away from the tavern he noticed that he was being followed. He plunged down one of the opeways, dark, narrow passages between the old buildings along the rivulet. Unfortunately one of the dwellings had swelled with age and he found himself wedged, unable to continue. Shamefaced, he had to back out and his pursuer was waiting. It was the blacksmith Coad. “Don’t y’

worry o’ th’ Revenooers, frien’, they’s up an’ gone. But there’s someone wants t’ see ye. Do y’ mind?”

They returned to the Three Pilchards but this time to a back room where a well-dressed man with dark, sensitive features waited. “This’n is Simon Johns. His ol’ man died last year ’n’ now he’s lookin’ after the business.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Johns said, and gestured to Stirk to take a chair. “To be brief, I was there in the Pilchards when the Preventives came. Your subsequent actions tell me that you are no friend to the Revenue, no rough-knot sent here to spy among us. And did not our mutual friend Jan Puckey tell me that you’re no stranger to free trade yourself?”

Stirk’s face was impassive but inside he exulted. “I may’ve been,” he said cautiously, looking intently from one to the other.

“May we know in what capacity?”

“Frenchy run wi’ tobaccy an’ brandy, smacksman on the Marsh, creepin’ fer tubs, that kind o’ thing.”

“I don’t think it wise at this point for you to risk the sea, but we have need still of stout men on shore. Would you be interested?”

“T’ nobble a patter-roller?” he said doubtfully. Waylaying an 212

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inquisitive Revenue riding offi cer was not what he had come here for. “Not as who should say . . .”

“I didn’t mean that. We have more than a suffi ciency of men to take care of such unpleasantries. No, what would make best use of your seamanlike capabilities would be more the spout lantern . . .”

Stirk grunted. This was more like it—at the landing lights for the cargoes to be run ashore in the right place. “Aye, I can do it.

Pay?”

“Half a guinea on the lantern for the night, another half if there’s trouble.”

“Done. Does m’ matey Harry fi nd a berth?”

“Mmm. We can fi nd him something. A skinker, perhaps?”

It was just as it had ever been: the familiar tensions and short tempers, suspicion and fi ngering of concealed weapons. Far out to sea there would be telescopes trained, waiting for the signal that it was this night they were running in the cargo. In the kiddleywink a dozen hard-featured men sat with pots before them also waiting for the word to move.

Stirk had been passed his instructions by Coad only an hour or two before: to make his way with an innocent-looking pair of farmhands driving pigs over the steep hill eastwards to Talland Bay and there wait in the tavern for sunset.

It needed brains and organisation to bring the run to a successful conclusion; even with the consignment of goods assured in Guernsey or elsewhere there was the hazardous journey across the Channel before the landing and then the need to co-ordinate scores of men for the unloading and rapid carrying-off of the contraband.

The little tap-house was remote and near the small beach; a stranger might wonder why so many along the coast were situated so suspiciously but Stirk knew that in the hard life of a fi sherman the ready availability of a cheering pot in close proximity to a the Admiral’s daughter 213

place to draw up a boat would be appreciated.

Outside, a seaweed-cutter poked lazily about the foreshore, but in his barrow under the pile of kelp two spout lanterns were ready for use, and the several men mowing at the edge of the fi eld were doing so to prepare a signal bonfi re.

The sun lowered and Stirk went outside. In the waning day-light he had quickly identifi ed the best approach from seaward in the winds prevailing at the time, past the inshore rocks to the small sandy strip of beach, and made contact with the other lights-man. Together they would set up leading lights, each some hundred yards above the other that the skipper of the smuggling vessel would keep in exact line to ensure a safe approach. The lanterns they would use were enclosed, a long spout fi tted to each, however, that would hide the gleam from all but those on whom it was trained.

At last there was action. A body of men arrived in a boat; one had a muffl ed face and gave brisk orders to the others. Stirk had no diffi culty in recognising Johns’s cultivated voice. A young farmhand on a white horse was summoned. “Off you go, lad,” he was told and, to subdued cheers from the men, he dismounted and set off for the coast path, leading it self-consciously by the bridle. It was the signal that the coast was clear of the Revenue.

In the gathering gloom the landing party took shape. Stirk and the other man retrieved and lit their spout lanterns, then took up their positions on the hillside. A gruff man claiming to be Stirk’s

“assistant” stood next to him—he was being watched. Shouts in the twilight directed a stream of new arrivals; a loose chain of men was being formed that stretched down from the woods that lay in a fold in the hills behind the tavern.

Packhorses wound down from the hilltop, and a troop of donkeys gathered on the beach. Then gangs of men with blackened faces set off to either side hefting clubs, and the occasional steel of a weapon could be seen. Heaven help the Revenue or Excise man 214

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who stumbled upon them: Stirk calculated there must be more than a hundred and therefore the high stakes of a valuable cargo.

So far he had recognised only Johns. Could he be the leader?

Probably locally, but not the evil genius he had been told about who was co-ordinating the whole coast. Doubts crept in. This was a far larger and more detailed operation than he was used to: without asking betraying questions, how would he get to the central fi gure?

He glanced at the tavern. It was locked and barred; the landlord and tapster would later be able to claim truthfully on oath that they had seen nothing suspicious that night. What was “Harry”

doing? If—

“Lights! Get those lights going, damn it!”

Lifting the clumsy lantern he trained the thing out to sea, making sure it lined up with the two sticks he had placed in front of himself now that the approaches were in darkness. The unknown master of the vessel would cast back and forth until he could see the lights, then begin his run into the unknown, being sure to keep the two lights precisely vertical.

Darkness was now nearly complete, the moon not due to rise before midnight, and it was impossible to make out anything to seaward. Stirk kept up his vigil but if they were surprised by tipped off Preventives aided by dragoons he would be taken up with the others and no mercy shown.

His shoulder hurt where the lantern rested but he persevered, keeping the light carefully trained; then a subtle thickening of the darkness ahead became evident. By degrees its form resolved into a large lugger ghosting in. The cargo had arrived.

A rising hubbub was cut short by bellowed orders as the receiving party made ready. Men splashed into the shallows while others drew the packhorses closer. The black shape grew in detail, then slowed and elongated—a kedge had been dropped and the vessel rotated until it lay head to sea.

the Admiral’s daughter 215

Stirk lowered his lantern and grinned into the darkness. A successful arrival! It was the feeling he had experienced all those years ago. Now for the landing—a large ship’s boat was in the water, loading in minutes, and what looked suspiciously like his volyer had emerged from behind the westward point on its way alongside.

It was matchless organisation; the fi rst boat stroked vigorously ashore and grounded, to be instantly set upon. With not a single light the waiting men were each roped up with a half-anker tub suspended from front and back and sent waddling up the hill in a line. Larger casks were rolled over to the packhorses and heaved into place while the donkeys took two ankers apiece.

The pace quickened. With the tide on the ebb and the moon due to make its appearance there was no time to be lost. Packages—

probably tea and silks—were transferred to the saddle panniers of a horse and sent off into the night. Still the casks came ashore.

Hundreds were taken steadily into the darkness to some hiding-place in the woods, nearby farms, homes—even church crypts.

Holland gin, rum, the fi nest wines and certainly “Cousin Jack”—

the best Cognac.

It was on a breathtaking scale. By now the casks alone would number considerably more than a thousand and the line of human carriers still patiently trudged on. By morning there would be the best part of ten thousand gallons of the fi nest spirit safely inland for distribution later and not a penny of duty paid.

The stream lessened; by rise of moon the job was safely complete, the line of men dissipating, the lugger slipping out to sea.

Shouts of drunken hilarity pierced the night, and Stirk knew that some carriers had broached a cask and were probably at that moment sucking raw spirit through straws.

It was time to be off. With nothing whatsoever gained for Mr Kydd. He knew now how it was done, much the same as it was in Kent, but the times, places—they would change. The fi gure behind it—well . . .

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Down by the beach he could see Johns paying off the volyer crew and he strode down, waiting for the right moment. “Er, Mr Johns. A word wi’ ye. This is no work f’r a seaman! I feels ready t’

sign f’r a workin’ voyage. Can y’ arrange it, like?”

“Aren’t you concerned you may be seen by a King’s ship?”

“Well, sir, a smugglin’ voyage is always goin’ to be inconspict-able an’, b’sides, it’s the only trade I knows, Mr Johns.”

“I understand. I cannot promise a berth, that is not within my gift, but there may be . . .”

Later the following evening Johns took Stirk up Talland Hill to a modest cottage where a single light showed at a window. Inside they were met by a kindly-looking gentleman, who studied Stirk with keen attention.

“The man Jem, sir,” Johns said respectfully, and waited for the inspection to fi nish.

“Very well,” the gentleman said, and returned to sit at his desk.

It was scrupulously tidy, papers arranged squarely and a stand of red and black ink with quills set neatly before him. “You are a mariner, I can see that—but have you run cargoes ’cross Channel?”

His voice was oddly soft.

“Aye, sir. Roscoff in brandy an’ silks afore the last war—I knows th’ lay, bless ye, sir.”

“And on extended absence from the King’s service.”

“I’m free t’ ship out with ye now, sir.”

“If you’ll recall, sir,” Johns said, “Privaulx of the Flyer is still in Exeter prison.”

“Yes, I know. But I mean to make trial of Master Jem here fi rst.” He stood up. “My name is Zephaniah Job, you may believe my business interests are . . . many, and I’m sure we can make use of you. Pray wait a moment.”

He left the room and returned shortly with a massive ledger. He opened it and ran his fi nger down the columns. “Umm—I see we the Admiral’s daughter 217

have Two Brothers entered for a Guernsey run in spirits not four days hence. You have no objection to shipping as an able seaman?

On good report I can promise an advance later.”

“It’ll answer f’r now.”

“By the way, Simon,” Job said quietly, looking at an entry, “it seems Mevagissey is down for the next moon. Fowey Revenue are getting uppity and I shall want more men in the shore party. See to it, if you please.”

He closed the book and looked mildly at Stirk. “We shall discover how you well you can act, Mr Jem. You’ll join Two Brothers in Looe two nights hence. Her skipper will have my instructions before then.”

Chapter 10

“Is this the man I saw standing with bloody sword at the gates of Acre? Steals into the enemy’s midst in Minorca? Who, for the sake of a romantic tryst, dared the wrath of Gibraltar’s town major?”

Renzi challenged. “For shame, Mr Kydd! In the space of less than a day we shall have returned to Plymouth and come under notice, and the object of your admiration will then be wondering whether your ardour yet burns undimmed in her absence. As ladies set such store on these matters you must therefore indicate in some wise that your interest in her is unabated with some—token of your esteem.”

Kydd continued to stare up at the deckhead from his easy chair.

It had been an uneventful cruise. Stirk was still away in Polperro and there had been no sign of any privateer, leaving him time to re-fl ect on events ashore. Things had come to pass on Dartmoor that had no explanation other than that Miss Persephone Lockwood had formed an interest in him, which was now personal.

“Nicholas, I—I’m out o’ soundings on these matters. Y’ see, I’m concerned that if I . . . press my attentions and you’re on th’

right tack about y’r ladies playin’ with . . . Well, what I’m trying t’ say is—”

“Fear not! If the lady wished to toy with you, then what better than before the large and distinguished audience at the princely reception? No, dear fellow, you must try to accept that for reasons the Admiral’s daughter 219

which must escape mere men, you have caught Miss Lockwood’s fancy.”

“But—but if I . . . pursue her, and . . . it doesn’t fadge, then it’ll be so . . .”

Renzi snorted. “Dear chap, do you really believe that you’ll be the fi rst to suffer a reverse in the pursuit of an amour? If so, then shall I remind you that faint heart never won fair lady?” He gave a half-smile. “Besides, I believe that on this occasion you will fi nd the logic unassailable. On the one hand if you hold back for fear of rebuff then, of course, you cannot succeed to win her hand. For the other, if you are active in your addresses and are repelled then you may fail—but equally so you may be gladly received and go on to a blissful conclusion. Therefore only one course is reasonable . . .”

Kydd gulped and pulled the doorbell. He had never been to the admiral’s house before and its severe classical frontage seemed to frown at his audacity in visiting simply on a social matter.

“Mr Kydd calling upon Lady Lockwood,” he said, as fi rmly as he could, to the footman, handing over his visiting card—his name in blue copperplate with an acanthus-leaf border, much recommended by Renzi—and waited nervously.

By the rules of society he could not call upon Miss Lockwood directly: that would never do for a gentleman. He had fi rst to navigate past her mother and he dreaded facing the formidable matri-arch. Perhaps the footman would return to announce that Lady Lockwood was not at home to him.

He heard footsteps and braced himself. The door was opened, but by the admiral in comfortable morning clothes. He appeared bemused. “Mr Kydd, this is a pleasure of course, but may I enquire—Lady Lockwood . . . ?”

“S-sir,” Kydd stuttered. It was not going according to the script that Renzi had patiently laid out for him. The footman should have admitted him to the drawing room where the ladies would 220

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be sitting demurely sewing. There would be polite conversation before tea was proffered. He would not stay less than fi fteen minutes or longer than half an hour and could not look to seeing Miss Lockwood alone at any time.

“T’ be more truthful sir, it was . . . Well, I was hoping to call upon Miss Lockwood to express personally my thanks for the reception.”

The admiral’s expression eased with the glimmer of a smile.

Heartened, Kydd went on, “An’ to be bold enough to ask her advice in a matter of music.”

“My profound regrets, Mr Kydd, but I have to tell you Lady Lockwood is at the moment somewhat discommoded.” He paused, but then said lightly, “However, I shall enquire if Persephone is able to receive you. Will you not come in?”

There was no one in the spacious drawing room. Lockwood turned and spoke to the footman while Kydd’s eyes were drawn to the fi ne seamanlike painting in pride of place above the mantelpiece. “You like it, Mr Kydd? Persephone presented it to me recently—, damn fi ne taste for a woman, I thought. See here—not many artists remember to slack the lee shrouds in anything of a blow and, well, you were present at the action as I remember. A good likeness?”

“Master’s mate only, sir—but this is a rattlin’ fi ne piece o’ work, t’ be sure,” Kydd agreed warmly, peering more closely at it.

Then the door opened behind him. “Why, Mr Kydd! How kind in you to call!” Her voice was charged with such unmistakable delight that he gave a boyish smile before he remembered his polite bow.

“Miss Lockwood!” Her hair was in fetching curls that framed her face and he found himself looking away while he composed himself. “Er, I called to express personally my sense of gratitude at your handsome conduct towards me at the reception.”

Another bow could not go amiss and Persephone returned it with the Admiral’s daughter 221

a curtsy of acknowledgement. “And—an’ if ye’d be so kind . . .”

“Yes, Mr Kydd?” She looked impossibly winsome.

“Um, that I can ask your advice in the article of polite music, which you consider I might with profi t, er—er—take aboard.”

Lockwood had wandered to the other end of the drawing room and was absently looking out of a window.

“Music? Why, of course, Mr Kydd, I should be glad to assist.”

She beamed and crossed to the pianoforte, lifted the lid of the stool and pulled out a thick wad of music. “You have a fi ne voice, Mr Kydd, I’m sure we can fi nd something . . . Ah, this will always be well received. A favourite of the Prince of Wales.”

She set it on the pianoforte. “Do come and sit beside me, Mr Kydd. You’ll not see the music from there.”

Kydd hesitated. Lockwood had turned to watch but stayed near the window so he moved over to the instrument and discovered that the stool was designed to accommodate two.

“‘Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill,’” she said, in a businesslike tone.

“It’s in two-four time and begins like this.” Sweeping her hands gracefully over the keys, she picked out the tune and sang. “There!

Shall you sing for me now?”

Sitting so close and singing to her, Kydd felt terror mingle with delight.

. . . and wanton thro’ the grove, Oh! whisper to my charming fair,

“I die for her I love.”

O may her choice be fi x’d on me, Mine’s fi x’d on her alone!

I’d crowns resign to call thee mine . . .

There was the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps and the door was thrown open. Lady Lockwood hurried in, her hair hastily pinned up and face with the barest dab of powder. Persephone’s 222

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playing faltered and stopped; they both got to their feet.

“Oh! Mr Kydd—it’s kind in you to call,” Lady Lockwood said icily. Kydd bowed as deeply as he could, returned with the slightest possible bob.

The admiral moved over swiftly. “My love, Commander Kydd has called to tell Persephone of his appreciation for the way in which she rescued him at the reception, if you remember. Oh, and if she might have any suggestion as to any music he might hoist in, as it were . . .”

In any other circumstance it would have been diverting for Kydd to witness the look of scorn that words from his admiral received.

“Can that be so?” she snapped. “And with me lying in bed so ill, and wondering all the time what the commotion was about. Really, Reginald!” Without waiting for a reply she turned to Persephone, who stood with her head hung in contrition. “Your drawing master will be here at three. You will now allow Mr Kydd to go about his business, Persephone.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“He will no doubt have a list of your suggestions and be satisfi ed with them. Good day, Mr Kydd!”

Kydd bowed wordlessly and turned to go. Impulsively, Persephone went to him clutching the music and gave it to him. “Do practise this—for me, Mr Kydd?”

He swallowed. “That I will, Miss Lockwood.” She curtsied deeply and, ignoring Lady Lockwood’s furious look, Kydd left, his heart singing.

“Nicholas! Your note—a matter of urgency concerning Thomas’s future, you said,” Cecilia said breathlessly, ignoring Kydd, who was rising in surprise from his favourite armchair next to the fi replace.

“Miss Cecilia, allow me to take your pelisse,” Renzi said smoothly, and handed it to Tysoe, waiting behind her. “Yes, indeed I did, and I rather fear it might require some action on our part.”

the Admiral’s daughter 223

“Nicholas? What’s this y’ say?” Kydd said, putting down his newspaper.

“Has he—does this concern Miss Persephone Lockwood, do I hazard, Nicholas?” Cecilia asked.

“It does,” Renzi said solemnly.

“Oh! He hasn’t—”

Kydd coughed signifi cantly, “Cec, this is all—”

“He has paid a call on the lady at her home and been received warmly.”

Cecilia’s eyes sparkled. “Did she—has he hopes of a further—”

“That is the matter under discussion for which I fear I have sadly inconvenienced you in the coming here.”

“Oh, Nicholas, of course I’d come! What must we do?”

Kydd blinked in confusion. “Do y’ mean t’ talk about—”

“Dear sister, pray let’s be seated. There’s much we need to consider.”

They sat in the only two armchairs by the fi replace, leaving Kydd to hover. “If you’re about t’ discuss—”

“Please be quiet, Thomas,” Cecilia said crossly. “This is important, you know.”

It was indeed: the principal diffi culty lay in the decorous bringing together of the couple in such a manner that would place Kydd to best advantage with respect to other admirers more talented in the social graces than he, so to speak, not to mention the additional diffi culties a protective mother might be expected to present.

There was much discussion of Miss Lockwood’s probable tastes and proclivities, and the delicacies of conduct that would ensue before a course of action could be decided. Eventually one such presented itself.

“Do you pay particular attention to what I say, Thomas. You will be invited to tea by Jane and her husband, and quite by chance Persephone Lockwood will be present as well. When you see her you will be suitably taken aback, and . . .”

• • •

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“Why, Miss Lockwood! How surprising to fi nd you here!” Kydd said graciously, fi ghting down his glee. A warning fl ash came from Cecilia and he turned to her companion and added quickly, “And it’s always my particular pleasure to meet Miss Robbins. How do you do?”

The parlour was not large and when the ladies had been seated it proved a most companionable gathering. “I’ve heard that the moor in July is quite a delightful sight,” Jane opened, with a winning smile at Persephone.

“I would imagine so, Mrs Mullins, yet I would not wish to be without a hat and parasol out in all that open,” Persephone said politely, with a glance at Kydd.

“Perhaps we should venture out upon it at some time,” Mr Mullins said stiffl y, clearly awed by Persephone’s presence.

“Oh, no!” his wife said in alarm. “Think of all the wild horses and escaped convicts—it would be far too hazardous, my dear, for a lady of breeding.”

Cecilia turned to Kydd. “Thomas, would you now please pour the tea?”

“It’s my own mixture of pekoe and gunpowder,” Mrs Mullins said proudly. “Mr Mullins always brings back a pound or two from Twining’s in the Strand when he goes up to London.”

Kydd went to the elaborate brass and silver tea urn and did his duty with the spigot. “Mrs Mullins?” Hard-won lessons on precedence were coming to the fore: Persephone was clearly of the higher quality but Jane was a married lady.

Persephone accepted her cup with properly downcast eyes and Kydd resumed his strategically chosen seat opposite and let the prattle ebb and fl ow while he covertly took his fi ll of her.

A lull in the conversation had Cecilia throwing a warning look at Kydd, who cleared his throat. “Capital weather we’re having, don’t you think?” he said brightly.

Persephone lowered her cup. “If we see this nor-easterly veering more to the west, Mr Kydd, I rather fancy we will soon be the Admiral’s daughter 225

reaching for our umbrellas. Do not you mariners so rightly declare,

‘When the wind shifts ’gainst the sun, trust it not, for back ’twill run’?” she asked sweetly.

Kydd took refuge in his tea.

Mrs Mullins and Cecilia exchanged a quick look. “Pay no mind to we ladies, Mr Kydd, we do like our gossip,” Jane said, in a determined voice. “Er, why don’t you show Miss Lockwood the new bougainvillaea in our greenhouse, you having been in the Caribbean yourself, of course?”

In the expectant hush Kydd stood, heart bumping, but was so long in choosing his words that Persephone rose and offered, “I’d be very interested, should you be able to tell me more of such tropi-cal blooms, Mr Kydd.”

They entered the small garden together and Kydd steered his way through the vegetables and ancient fruit trees into the greenhouse and said in as light a voice as he could manage, “This is your bougainvillaea, Miss Lockwood, an’ I well remember seeing it in Jamaica, and Barbados as well and . . .”

But something was distracting her and she was facing away, not hearing his words. Kydd made a play of looking closer at the plant, then offered his arm to escort her back. Had he done something to offend?

Then she turned towards him and asked, “Did Mrs Mullins marry in the Caribbean?”

“Er, yes, Miss Lockwood, and my sister was at the wedding.”

He cast about for something else to say but no words came and she went on ahead. They wandered a few more steps, Kydd following helplessly, before she stopped and said quite casually, “Your perceptions of society might lead you to suppose that I should marry as bade, but I can assure you, Mr Kydd, I shall only wed one I care for and I cherish. An odd notion, don’t you think?”

Was she saying . . . ?

“I—I admire you for it, Miss Lockwood,” Kydd replied hoarsely, as she lifted her eyes to his, her expression softening unbearably.

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He took a deep breath and said, in a voice that came out harsher than he had intended, “If you married a—a man who followed the sea by profession, would ye—would you expect him t’ leave it? Th’ sea, I mean.”

She waited until his eyes held hers. “No, Mr Kydd, I would not.”

The silence thundered in his ears until she turned and walked slowly to a little grotto of sea-shells set in the shady side of the wall. She looked back at him once and stooped to pick up a shell, which she admired in her cupped hands. “I believe I will take this to remind me of you, Mr Kydd.”

Renzi scrambled to his feet when Kydd returned, eyes shining, an unmistakable air of excitement about him.

“Nicholas! Ye’d never smoke it! She was there an’—we walked together an’ talked, and I’d lay out a sack o’ guineas t’ say before ye that she—she has a takin’ for me!” He was touched that his friend was so evidently sharing the same soaring elevation of spirit.

“Felicitations, then, brother, but I trust you will hope to remember your speech in her presence—I am obliged to remark that at the moment it sorely betrays a lack of delicacy.”

Kydd grinned. “She was wearing such a fi ne dress, Nicholas.

Was it just f’r me? An’ her hair, she had—”

Renzi’s voice was odd—somewhat charged with emotion.

“Dear fellow, do you know what I have here?” He held up a grubby piece of paper covered with crabbed handwriting.

“Er, no, Nicholas. Pray, do tell me.”

“This,” Renzi said, “this, dear friend, is the fi rst—the very fi rst evidence from the world that my humble conjectures in ethnical philosophies might indeed possess some degree of merit.

This, brother, is a communication from Count Rumford himself!

Praises me for a new insight and encourages me to go further.”

He sat down suddenly and blinked rapidly. “And—and wishes that when in London I might consider attending with him at the the Admiral’s daughter 227

Royal Institution in Albemarle Street.”

To Kydd the name reminded him more of fi replaces but there was no doubting the effect it was having on Renzi. “Why, that’s thumpin’ good news indeed, m’ friend. Count Rumford himself!”

There was just suffi cient Cognac to steady them both, then Renzi was able to say to Kydd, “I am forgetting myself, brother.

Do tell me more of your happy situation.”

“Well, I’ve been givin’ it a deal of thought. I’m t’ call on Miss Lockwood, I believe—I have t’ return her music, y’ see,” he said smugly. “But not afore I ask Mrs Mullins if she’d help me learn it.

I saw a pianoforte while I was there,” he added.

Kydd pulled the doorbell ceremoniously and waited. He was in his most elegant attire: a dark-green morning coat over buff waistcoat and cream breeches, with a painstakingly tied cravat. And the sheet of music tied with a ribbon.

“Sir?” It was the same footman, but he gave no sign of recognition.

“Mr Kydd, to call on Lady Lockwood.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said, with a bow, and went back inside, closing the door gently in Kydd’s face. His heart bumping, he heard the footsteps die away. It seemed an age before the footman returned. “Lady Lockwood is not at home, sir,” he announced, fi xing a glassy stare over Kydd’s shoulder.

Kydd had seen the carriage in the mews and knew that she had not left the house. “Then—then Miss Lockwood?” he asked.

“Miss Lockwood is not at home, either, sir.”

“Er, then please to give this to Miss Lockwood,” Kydd said, handing over the music, realising too late that he had just lost his best excuse for calling in the future. He turned on his heel and walked off, thoughts churning furiously.

Cecilia dismissed his fears. “This is Lady Lockwood being protective, I do believe, Thomas. We shall have to fi nd another way.

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Now, let me see . . . Jane is being so obliging I think we can ask her to invite Miss Robbins and ‘friend’ once again—this time to a cards evening. She has some tolerably high-placed acquaintances who are martyrs to the whist table.”

It cost Kydd a notable effort to ingest the fi ner points of whist: the mysteries of the trick, the trump suit and the potential for delicious interplay between the partners, but he was determined to reach the point at which he would not disgrace Persephone.

Time dragged, but eventually the appointed evening arrived and Kydd found himself making inane conversation with a young army lieutenant while the guests arrived. At last he heard Miss Robbins’s silvery laugh in the doorway and forced himself not to look round.

“Ah, Miss Robbins,” came Jane’s loyal cry. Kydd could bear it no longer and casually manoeuvred round until he could see her.

She was with her “friend”—a diminutive soul with an irrepress-ible giggle. Not Persephone.

A little later Miss Robbins slipped him a note and whispered archly, “I rather think you’ll want to see this.” The rubber went on interminably but at its conclusion he was able to excuse himself.

He feverishly took out the note—it was to Miss Robbins, thank-ing her for the invitation to a card evening, but saying “. . . my engagements at present are such that I fi nd I am unable to accept any invitation for some time to come . . .”

Cecilia’s frown as she scanned the words was telling, but Kydd chuckled. “It’s naught but someone tryin’ t’ fl am me, is all. See?

This is not Persephone’s handwritin’!”

Her expression did not lift. “That is not the point, Thomas. It’s almost certainly from her mother and it tells me that she has set her face against you, for whatever reason.” She bit her lip. “It will require some thought. I believe I will need to consult Mr Renzi. Is he at liberty to return to land, do you know?”

Kydd thought guiltily of Renzi in Teazer, not at his precious the Admiral’s daughter 229

studies but loyally accounting for stores come aboard and other ship’s business. As captain, Kydd had a perfect right in port to allow the ship’s routine to continue in his absence but his appearances on board were now minimal. He knew, however, that Renzi would send for him if there were diffi culties.

“He’s t’ come for dinner tonight, Cec. Do y’ not think—”

“No, Thomas, we three will discuss this together.”

It was sobering to fi nd Renzi in so solid agreement with Cecilia on the gravity of the situation. “Her mother, undoubtedly. In matters of this kind her wishes will prevail, of course. It will be diffi cult indeed to formulate any plan that might mollify, evoke a contrary tenderness.”

Cecilia asked, troubled, “Shall he withdraw his attentions for a space, do you think? Allow time for Lady Lockwood to come to an—an appreciation of his qualities?”

“In the absence of any communication between them, there will be nothing at work that will tend to ameliorate her position, I fear.

At the moment, dear sister, I am without inspiration . . .”

Kydd got up and paced angrily up and down. “Belay that wry way o’ talkin’! She told me to m’ face as how she would not marry as she’s bid, only t’ one she cares for! Let her lay course where she will an’ be damned!”

Renzi steepled his fi ngers. “Brother, if she goes against her mother’s desires in the matter of matrimony then without question she will lose her portion—her dowry—and your expectations for your position in society will, er, necessarily require revision.”

“And think this, Thomas, can you conceive that with her breeding she will be content to live the life of a—a sailor’s wife?” Cecilia said softly.

Kydd stopped and looked at her. “Yes, I do, sis!” He paused, then said forcefully, “An’ I will show you. I’m going to—to invite her here and then th’ world will see.”

Renzi’s face softened and he said gently, “Dear fellow, do you think this wise? Her mother will—”

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“It’s t’ be a musical evening an’ there’ll be—there’ll be grand coves attendin’ who it’ll be unfortunate t’ ignore. I’ll be askin’

Miss Lockwood if she’d assist me with the musical entertainments f’r these important guests. Even her mother c’n see she’ll have to come.”

“Grand coves?” asked Renzi. “And a lavish, therefore expensive, evening?”

There was no dissuading him, however, and Kydd would only hear those whose contributions were in some wise positive; towards midnight the main elements had been hammered out, and on the next day Cecilia began the delicate task of sounding out possible luminaries.

It was not to be a naval occasion—at his rank Kydd could not command the presence of fl ag-offi cers—but at the same time there were those in the wider community who would be fl attered to attend a fi fth anniversary dinner of Nelson’s battle of the Nile hosted by one who had been present.

Well before noon Cecilia was back with the satisfying information that should he be favoured with an invitation the worshipful Lord Mayor of Plymouth himself was in a position graciously to accept, as were the colonel and the adjutant of the mighty Citadel that guarded the entrance to Old Plymouth.

It was time to set in train the events of the evening but not before the most important detail of all: Cecilia had demanded the right of wording the invitations, which she insisted must be properly printed on stiff card, albeit at a ruinous price.

They were sent out promptly and Kydd tried to contain his impatience. This would be a most splendid occasion and one that even the most suave and accomplished of the ton would not be in a position to mount. He swelled with happiness: as host it was the pinnacle of his achieving in society and to think that . . . she would be here to witness it.

The military acceptances were prompt and offi cer-like, the Lord Mayor’s not far behind. But one seemed to have been delayed.

the Admiral’s daughter 231

Kydd reasoned that Persephone regularly attended such functions as his, and must have many in hand to balance. He waited as patiently as he could.

As the day neared with no word from her he began to fret and to take to his ship as a familiar refuge. It was not until the day before the event that the mate-of-the-watch handed him a sealed message. The handwriting he recognised instantly. For some unaccountable reason he was reluctant to open it on board his ship. He slipped the precious missive into his pocket and ordered a boat.

In the privacy of his drawing room he dismissed the fl ustered Becky, sat in his armchair and opened it. As if by dictation, the words repeated what he had seen once before, but now undeniably in Persephone’s own strong hand—that she was not able to attend and, further, that she was unable to accept any invitation for some time to come.

He folded the paper mechanically and placed it in the centre of the mantelpiece. There was no evident compulsion, no form of words that left any room for hope—and no trace whatsoever of the feelings he had seen in her the last time they had met.

There was something at the bottom of it all, he was sure—but what? Had she changed her mind, reconsidered what it would mean to live in greatly reduced circumstances? Had an unknown suitor cunningly turned her against him with evil words? Was there something in the Byzantine society code that he had infringed and thereby earned her contempt?

He would hear it from her own lips—by confronting her when next she rode on the moor. Shameless bribery of the stable-hands would ensure the time and place.

Kydd heard her arrive. Skulking at the end of the line of horse-boxes he listened to her cool voice greet the groom and dismiss her carriage. Her fi rm steps on the cobblestones approached and Kydd stepped out.

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and looked at him in shock. Recovering quickly, she said politely,

“Mr Kydd, what a surprise! You—I hadn’t thought to see you here.”

“Why, Miss Lockwood, I did so enjoy our ride together before—

do you mind if I join you?”

“I—I do not believe you should, sir.”

Kydd felt the warmth of a fl ush rising to his face and said huskily, “Then I should ride alone?”

“As you will, sir. It can be no concern of mine.” She took the reins and prepared to mount.

“P-Persephone!” Kydd blurted. “W-Why?”

She paused, then looked away suddenly. Then, turning to the groom, she ordered, “Garvey, I shall walk on ahead for a space.

Do you follow on discreetly, if you please.”

Without waiting for Kydd she began to walk rapidly out towards the moor. Kydd hurried until they were side by side, not daring to speak.

“You will have received my regrets for your interesting evening.”

She did not look at him.

“I understand, Miss Lockwood.”

It won him a glance. They walked on in silence, the pace not slowing. “I do hope it goes well for you, Mr Kydd,” she said eventually, in a neutral manner.

“I—we shall fi n’ someone else t’ entertain us, I’m sure,” he said stiffl y, his hands in his pockets so she would not see that the fi sts were clenched.

She said nothing but, after a few moments, slowed. “Mr Kydd,”

she said, turning to him, “I don’t think I ever mentioned my friend to you.”

Confused, Kydd muttered something and let her continue.

“She’s quite like me in a way,” she said lightly, stooping to pick a furze fl ower. “The same age, as it were.”

“Oh?” he managed.

the Admiral’s daughter 233

“But at the moment she has a problem,” she said, in a light tone.

“Which she seems to have resolved, I believe.”

Kydd said nothing, guessing where this was leading and dread-ing the outcome. “You see, she met an amiable enough gentleman who might have been considered as a possible—consort. However, her condition of life is such that her family felt he did not answer their expectations, his connections being decidedly beneath her own.”

She fl icked at an errant stalk of furze with her ivory whip and went on, “She foolishly allowed her feelings to lead her to behave in an unseemly manner and was taken to task by her mother, who forbade her to continue the association.”

“Then you—she—”

“She loves her mama and would not go against her, Mr Kydd.

That you must believe,” she said, looking at him seriously.

His gut tightened. “Can y’ say to me—is there another man payin’

his addresses to—t’ your friend?”

She replied instantly; “There is none of any consequence who may stand against him.”

Kydd swallowed. “Then you’ll let me say, Miss Lockwood, that I think your friend is—is a shab indeed, if she had said t’ him afore that she’d not be wed t’ any except she cares for him!”

She stopped, her face white, and rounded on him. “Mr Kydd, you cannot know what you are saying. Do not speak so.”

“An’ if she puts the comforts o’ life before her heart’s—”

“Be silent, sir! I will not have it said—”

“Persephone, I—”

She took a deep breath and held it for a long moment, then continued sadly, “Mr Kydd. She—she loves her mother and would not grieve her, but this is not the issue.” She turned away from his gaze and went on softly, “Mama is right, but not in the way she intends. Shall we suppose they marry, even that her parents are reconciled? Can you conceive what it must cost as she divides her social 234

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acquaintances between her own—when she will be constantly in need of explanation for the lack of his own connections at the highest level—and his, where daily he must fi nd excuse for her airs, her manner? She could not bear to see him put upon so.”

“Oh! Nicholas, it’s you. I—I expected Thomas. Er, is he out?”

Cecilia, however, unlaced her bonnet and gave every indication of wanting to stay, though that was contrary to the rules of polite society, which frowned on unmarried young ladies attending on gentlemen unaccompanied.

“Good evening, Miss Kydd,” Renzi said quietly, rising but remaining by his chair.

“I see. Then you have my sincere regrets, sir, should any now think you to be so far in want of conduct as to entertain the female sex alone . . .” But it brought no returning smile and Cecilia paused, concerned.

“May I sit, Mr Renzi?” she asked formally.

“If it is your brother you are intending to visit, then I have to tell you that he has not set foot ashore for the last three days, and the vessel due to sail on Monday.”

“He—”

“Is in a state of despondency.”

“Poor Thomas.” Cecilia sighed, twisting a ribbon. “It did seem so possible, did it not?”

Renzi resumed his chair and blinked. “I rather think now it was not a deed of kindness to encourage him to believe there could be any favourable conclusion to the affair. His lack of connections damns him in her mother’s eyes—an ambitious creature, I believe.”

“Persephone Lockwood is much attached to him,” Cecilia said thoughtfully. “They would make a fi ne pair together—if only . . .”

She stood up and paced about the room. “She will not go against her mother’s wishes, that much is sure. Therefore this is the problem we must address.”

the Admiral’s daughter 235

“I can only agree in the heartiest manner with your observations on such a match but it is not to be. Do you not consider that, perhaps with some reluctance, you should cease from match-making in his case?”

“Why, Mr Renzi, I do believe you have no romantic inclinations whatsoever.”

Renzi held still, his eyes opaque.

“I shall certainly do what is needful to assist Thomas to a blissful destiny—if I can think of any such,” Cecilia said, with spirit, and picked up her bonnet, settling it thoughtfully. Then she stopped.

“There is . . . but this will require that the gods of chance do favour us in the timing and that, when asked, a certain person will grant us a particular kindness . . .” She frowned prettily, and left.

A footman entered noiselessly with a note on a silver tray. The admiral at breakfast was often irascible, and the man spoke diffi -

dently. “For your immediate attention, sir.”

“What? Oh, give it here, then, damnit!”

Lady Lockwood sighed and continued her criticism of her daughter’s needlework but at her husband’s snort of interest she looked up. “What is it, dear?”

“Well, now, and you’ll clear your engagements for tonight, m’

love! It seems the Marquess of Bloomsbury is giving me the favour of an At Home. Didn’t know he was in Plymouth. You remember?

I managed an introduction for you at court a year or so back.”

“Oh!” Lady Lockwood said, in sudden understanding. “The Marquess of Bloomsbury—this is interesting, Reginald. Isn’t he high in the diplomatic line, as I recall?”

“Yes, indeed. Discreet sort of cove, gets all about the world but likes to do his work in the strictest confi dence. Now, I happen to know he has the ear of Billy Pitt himself—and I don’t have to tell you, my love, that if I’m to get a sea command he’s the kind of man I need to keep well in with.”

“Yes, you must, Reginald. Wasn’t he married to the Earl of 236

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Arundel’s eldest? Charlotte? I must look it up.”

Well satisfi ed, she turned to her daughter. “Now, Persephone, the marquess is very important. You will come and be introduced, and remember, my dear, the men will be making high talk and we should never speak unless addressed directly.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Your tamboured cream muslin will do, and do try to bring those curls more into control—you’ll be under eye tonight.”

The Lockwood carriage rumbled grittily to a stop, the footmen hastening to hand down the party. “Not grand at all—but so in keeping with the man,” chuckled the full-dress admiral, as he took his wife’s arm. “Consults his privacy always. I know he’s only passing through—I wonder who’s his host? May need to make his acquaintance after he’s gone.”

They were greeted at the door by a distinguished butler. “You are expected, sir,” he was told, and they were taken up the stairs to a small but discreet drawing room.

Outside Lady Lockwood did a last-minute primping of her ostrich plumes and surveyed Persephone once more before they entered. “Remember, child, a warm smile and special attentions to the host and hostess. We’re ready now, Reginald.”

“Admiral Sir Reginald Lockwood, Lady Lockwood and Miss Lockwood,” the butler announced. Wearing her most gracious smile Lady Lockwood advanced to be introduced.

“Sir, may I have th’ honour t’ introduce Sir Reginald an’ Lady Lockwood, and their daughter Persephone,” their host intoned.

“Sir,” he said, turning to the gaping admiral and wife, “please meet th’ most honourable the Marquess of Bloomsbury and his wife, th’

Marchioness.”

The marquess bestowed a smile. “And perhaps I should introduce you all to my friend,” he indicated the genial man standing to one side, “who is the Baron Grenville, foreign secretary of Great the Admiral’s daughter 237

Britain—if that will be allowable, William?”

“Why, thank ’ee, Frederick. I think it unlikely that Addington’s shambles of an administration will survive the winter, and when Pitt takes power again . . . well, I stand ready to take up the burden once more, hey?”

Lady Lockwood rose from her deep curtsy, struck dumb with the effort of trying to come to terms with what she was seeing, while the charming young hostess took the arm of the marchio-ness and drew her aside. “Lady Charlotte, I can never thank you enough! You and—” she stammered.

“Nonsense, Cecilia, dear. So good to see you again and, of course, we’re delighted to offer Cupid a helping hand. That Grenville happened along was the merest chance, of course.” She gave a fond smile and continued, “But, then, with Frederick having succeeded his father it seems they have plans in mind for him in the new year. And that will mean . . . I do hope you will not refuse another engagement with us, my dear?”

Cecilia blushed to be so honoured by one whom, as lady’s companion, she had always known as Lady Stanhope. “It will be my pleasure and duty.”

Finally Lady Lockwood came to herself and hissed at the host,

“Mr Kydd! Why on earth—what are you doing here?”

“Lady Lockwood, this is my house and I believe I may entertain whom I will.” It was worth every minute of his recent torments to see her resulting expression.

“A fi ne part of the country,” the admiral said respectfully, to the foreign secretary.

“No doubt, Admiral—but later. I’m with child to fi nd out from Mr Kydd himself if it’s true that he once told Frederick in a boat to pull on a rope or be keel-hauled. Come, sir, tell me the story.” He accepted a glass of Constantia and took Kydd to one side to hear of stirring events long ago in the Caribbean.

A bemused admiral turned then to the marquess. “Sir, may we 238

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know if this is your fi rst visit to the West Country?”

But the marquess had turned to greet an exquisitely turned-out gentleman who had just descended hesitantly from the stairs.

“Why, it’s Mr Renzi! Well met, sir! I’ve heard that your thoughts on the ethnicals of the cannibal islands have met with some success.”

“You’ve heard? Well, yes, sir, I have been fortunate enough to secure the approbation of Count Rumford of the Royal Institution, who seems to consider my small musings of some value.”

The marquess turned confi dingly to Lady Lockwood. “Mr Renzi, a very learned soul. Mark well what he has to say, madam, for his wisdom in matters academical is only matched by his experiences in the wider reaches of the planet.”

Lady Lockwood could only curtsy mutely.

“Tell me, Renzi, where are you at present?”

“Mr Kydd has had the infi nite goodness to afford me lodging at his own residence, sir.”

“Fine fellow, an ornament to his service,” the marquess agreed, then called across to the foreign secretary, “I say, Grenville, this is Renzi. Do you remember him? Hatchards in Piccadilly and the occasion need not trouble this gathering.”

“Why, yes indeed. Good day to you, Renzi. Have I by chance yet won you to a proper appreciation of the Grecian ode?”

“Perhaps, sir.” Renzi chuckled, and the three laughed at re-membrances of former times and past perils, while Kydd had eyes only for the soft and very special look thrown to him by Miss Persephone Lockwood.

Chapter 11

In Barn Pool, not half a mile south from the pleasant walk round Devil’s Point, at precisely ten in the forenoon, HMS Teazer went to stations for unmooring. On her pristine quarterdeck Commander Kydd took position, legs braced astride, trying not to notice the promenaders gathered to watch a King’s ship outward bound to war.

Everything about the morning was perfection; the deep colours of sky and sea, the verdancy of the countryside in the languid sunshine, the easy south-westerly breeze, the fi ne seamanlike appearance of the ship he commanded. And the incredible knowledge, which he hugged to himself, about Persephone.

“Take her out, L’tenant,” he ordered. “You have th’ ship.” Even with the small craft lazily at their moorings in Barn Pool and ships passing to and from the Hamoaze, it would not be an onerous task to win the open sea.

“Aye aye, sir,” Standish said smartly, and stepped forward.

“Lay out ’n’ loose!” Topmen manned the rigging and climbed out along the yards, sail blossomed and caught. Teazer swayed prettily as she got under way, leaving Devil’s Point to larboard, but Kydd knew he could not snatch a look for she was watching. Possibly even now his image was being scrutinised through a powerful naval telescope.

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Rounding Drake’s Island Teazer heeled to the sea breeze and made splendid sailing south to the wider sea. This time there would be no sordid grubbing about after smugglers—that could wait for now. Today it was a more serious matter: Kydd was to go after the privateer Bloody Jacques, who had appeared off the coast again and slaughtered more innocent men in his predations.

Teazer was under orders to look into every bay and tiny cove, even the lee of islands, from Rame Head westwards—everywhere that the privateer with his uncanny local knowledge might conceivably hide himself. Kydd vowed that when they came upon the rogue he would make sure his career was ended then and there.

But it would be without their gunner’s mate. Stirk had not yet returned from his mission to Polperro. Just before they sailed Luke Calloway had straggled back with a painfully written note: Dere Mr Kydd. Agreable to yr order, I hav enquyered of the wun you seek and fownd him owt and now I sayle to fynd the hevidance I may be gon won or 2

weaks yr obed

Tobias Stirk

Did this mean he had uncovered something? Kydd felt misgivings at the thought of the open and straight-steering shipmate from his days on the fo’c’sle trying to act the spy in the company of a villainous and ruthless gang. But if any had the brute courage and strength of mind to see it through, it was Stirk.

“Course, sir?” Standish asked.

“Oh—er, to weather the Rame,” he replied. Coastwise navigation did not require elaborate compass courses and it would exercise Standish to judge just when to put about to fetch the headland in one board.

Orders passed, Standish returned to stand by Kydd. “Um, might the Admiral’s daughter 241

it be accounted true, sir, what they are saying—please forgive the impertinence if it were not—that, er, you have made conquest of the admiral’s daughter?”

Kydd looked at him sharply, but saw only open admiration.

“Miss Lockwood has been handsome enough t’ visit,” he said, regretting his pompous tone but fi nding it hard to conceal his feeling otherwise. “In company with her parents, o’ course.”

“And if my sources are correct—and they’re all talking about it—also the highest in the land.”

Now it was to be hero worship. “That is t’ say I knew the marquess before as Lord Stanhope, but his particular friend the foreign secretary Lord Grenville . . .” This was only making it worse.

Kydd glanced aloft. “Is that an Irish pennant I see at the fore-topsail yard, Mr Standish?” he growled, and while it was being attended to, he made his escape below.

“Nicholas.” He sighed as he sat to stare moodily through the stern windows at the dissipating wake. “It seems th’ whole world knows. What will I do?”

Renzi put down his papers with a half-smile. “It is what I shall do that preoccupies my thoughts, dear fellow. In a short space you will be joined to a family of consequence, be in receipt of a fair dowry that will, in the nature of things, have your lady casting about for an estate of worth.”

Kydd beamed. The thought of himself as one half of two was new and wonderful.

“I rather fear,” Renzi continued, “my arcadia in urbes at number eighteen will be a lonely one, even supposing I am able to fi nd the means to—”

“Nicholas,” Kydd interrupted warmly, “y’ will always fi nd a place with us, never fear.”

“I thank you, brother, but I am obliged to observe that when the head of the house proposes it is always the lady who disposes . . .”

They sat in companionable stillness, until Renzi asked, “May I 242

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be informed of the progress of your attachment? Have you made her a proposition?”

Kydd eased into a deep smile. “There will be time enough f’r that after we return, Nicholas—an’ I’ll be glad of y’r advice in the detail, if y’ please.”

“It will be my pleasure. You will follow the polite conventions, of course—fi rst to seek a private interview with your intended to secure her acceptance, followed by a formal approach to her father requesting approval of the match. There will be some . . .

negotiations, at which various matters relating to your post- nuptial circumstances will be—”

Suddenly Kydd felt restless with all this talk. He could contain himself no longer and got to his feet. “Belay all that, m’ friend. I have a cruise t’ command. Where’s that poxy boatswain?”

That night, under easy sail from the south-west, Kydd crawled into his cot and composed himself for sleep. He tried to shut out the crowding thoughts but they kept coming in different guises, different urgencies.

It was now clear he would wed soon—Persephone had made plain that her father had always approved of him and Lady Lockwood would come round to it, given time. Therefore in the next few months his life would change to that of a married man with a defi ned and highly visible place in polite society.

Cecilia would be so proud of him. And when he visited his parents in Guildford it would be in a carriage with footmen and a bride of such character and quality—it was such a dizzying prospect that his mind could hardly grasp it.

But what about Persephone? Would he match up to her expectations, be a proper husband with all the trappings of dignity and wisdom, refi ned tastes, ease of manner in high society? Damn it, was he good enough for her?

It had happened so quickly. Was he ready to exchange self-reliance and the freedom to choose a course of action that had the Admiral’s daughter 243

been his way of life until now for the settled certainties of an ordered, prescribed daily round?

Would living graciously and the delicacies of polite discourse begin to pall and he to harbour a secret longing for the plain-speaking and direct pleasures of his old way of life? Would Persephone understand? Or would she be wounded by the betrayal?

He slept restlessly.

Their task was clear and unequivocal: fi nd and destroy the privateer. It would involve a slow cruise westwards, searching thoroughly as they went, while Bazely in Fenella sailed in the other direction, east from Plymouth.

Staying close in with the land would be tricky work: each night they would remain resolutely in the offi ng and resume in the morning. There would be no crossing of bays headland to headland, only a long tracking round, keeping as close inshore as prudence would allow.

With Rame Head left astern, there was now the sweeping curve of Whitsand Bay under their lee and with all plain sail they set to work. They passed the occasional huddles of dwellings whose names Kydd now knew well, Trewinnow, Tregantle, Portwrinkle: all would have their sturdy fi sher-folk, their reckless smugglers and local characters who, one day, would be worthy of Renzi’s ethnical study.

Towards the afternoon they had raised Looe; Kydd toyed with the idea of going alongside in the harbour overnight so that Renzi could see the medieval sights there but decided to keep to sea for freedom of manoeuvre; besides which the Admiralty frowned on captains incurring unnecessary harbour dues.

Checking on Looe Island just offshore, he shaped course to continue along the coast: the Hore Stone, Asop’s Bed, Talland Bay—a wearisome progress with the ship cleared and half the company at the guns at all times.

Polperro, Udder Rock, round the questing Pencarrow Head and 244

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to anchor in Lantic Bay. It was going to be a long haul. In the early morning they weighed and proceeded once more; Kydd sent Standish in to Fowey for news, but there was none.

St Austell Bay saw them in a slow tacking south to the Dodman; Mevagissey, Gwineas Rocks—all had such meaning now. Mile after mile of rugged coastline, lonely coves, rock-bound islets. Inshore coasters, luggers and yawls wended their way between tiny ports, each vessel a potential enemy until proved innocent. Occasional fl ecks of sail out to sea could be any kind of craft, from a deep-sea merchantman inward-bound to a man-o’-war on her way to a rendezvous off the enemy coast.

At Falmouth Kydd went ashore to see if there was word, but again it seemed that Bloody Jacques had an uncanny knowledge of suitable bolt-holes and had simply vanished between pillagings.

Wearily he put back to sea, down in long tacks towards the famous Lizard. He decided to wait out the night in its lee for if there was one place more likely than any other for a privateer to lurk it would be at the end of England, where shipping bound up-Channel diverged from that making for the Irish Sea and Liverpool.

The next day, however, the summer sunshine had left them for a grey day and whiffl ing, fl uky winds backing south, and a dropping barometer—sure signs of a change in the weather. After rounding the Lizard, Kydd was troubled to fi nd the seas far more lively and on the back of an uneasy westerly swell; he had no wish to make close search of Wolf Rock and the outlying Isles of Scilly in thickening weather.

Penzance knew of the privateer but could contribute little to the search. Kydd had half expected Parlby in Wyvern to be there for he had been sent to the northern coast and might well have put into Penzance. Kydd had his duty, however, and pressed on instead of waiting, dutifully heading for Wolf Rock, Teazer taking the seas on her bow in bursts of white and an awkward motion.

In the gathering misery of greying skies Teazer found the lonely the Admiral’s daughter 245

black menace set amid seething white, cautiously felt her way past and onward into the wastes of the Atlantic. Kydd was determined to clear the Isles of Scilly before the blow really set in.

It was getting more serious by the hour; the wind was foul for rounding the Isles of Scilly from the south, which had the sloop staying about twice a watch in the diffi cult conditions, but this was not the worst of it. They could not set a straight intercepting course for the islands and because of the resulting wide zigzags against the wind they lost sight of them for most of the time with the danger of an unfortunate conjunction on the next board.

Seamanship of the highest order was now required. Usually a mariner’s fi rst concern was to keep well clear of the deadly rocks, but Kydd knew their voyage would be in vain unless they not only made a sighting of the Isles of Scilly but searched closely. This would involve the careful reckoning of each tack such that the last leg would place them precisely and safely to westward of the scattered islands.

The weather was sullen but still clear; however, this could change in minutes. It was now not navigation by the science of sextant and chronometer but the far more diffi cult art of dead-reckoning, leeway resulting from the wind’s blast, the mass movement of the ocean under tidal impetus, contrary currents from the north. The master stood grave and silent, his eyes passing ceaselessly over the white-tipped rollers marching in from the open Atlantic.

Rain arrived in fi ts and blusters, settling to drenching sheets that sometimes thinned and passed on, leaving the seas a hissing expanse of stippled white that curiously took the savage energy from the waves and left them subdued, rounded hillocks rather than ravenous breakers.

Then the fi rst islets formed, alarmingly close, out of the hanging rain-mist. It was vital to make landfall with precision, and there was only wind direction to orient them. The master told Kydd,

“This is y’r Pol Bank, sir, an’ Bishop Rock somewhere there.”

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There was no disguising the relief in his voice.

The western extremity of the Isles of Scilly. The low, anonymous grey rain-slick ugliness was probably the worst sea hazard in this part of the world. Here, less than a century before, an admiral of the Royal Navy and near two thousand men had died when the Association and most of a victorious returning fl eet had made fi nal encounter with these isles.

“Nor’-nor’-east t’ Crim Rocks, sir,” the master murmured. By now Kydd’s dream-like memories of beauty and gracious living were fast fading. The present reality was this wasteland of sea perils and cold runnels of rainwater inside his whipping oilskins.

Thankfully, Teazer was now able to bear away round Bishop Rock for her return and, wallowing uncomfortably, she passed close to the deadly scatter of Crim Rocks. The sight of the dark gashes in the seething white caused Kydd to shiver.

To weather of the Isles of Scilly, they could now look into the few possible hiding-places. Most likely were Crow Sound and Saint Mary’s Road near the settlements. If the privateer was riding things out there they were perfectly placed to pounce—but a fresh gale was threatening and the master had said that with a sandy bottom both vessels were unsafe in heavy seas and the bird might well have fl own.

They had their duty, however, and despite boldering weather strengthening from the westward Kydd looked into every possible anchorage, wary of the baffl ing complexity of the offshore tidal streams, which, if the master was to be believed, varied by the hour as they wound through tortuous channels and shallows.

When the fat mass of Round Island was reached it was time to return: with winds abaft, a straightforward run to Land’s End and the shelter of Penzance. But the bluster from the south-west was undeniably stronger and the swell lengthening, causing a wrenching wallow as the seas angled in from the quarter.

By the time Land’s End had been reached few aboard did not the Admiral’s daughter 247

relish the thought of a quiet night in harbour, a cessation of the endless bruising motion. “Penzance, sir?” the master enquired, gripping tightly a line from aloft.

Kydd thought for a moment, then answered, “No, Mr Dowse.

I’ll ask you t’ mark the wind’s direction. If it backs more into th’

south we’ll be held to a muzzler if we sight that Frenchman. No—

we press on t’ the Lizard and anchor f’r the night in its lee.”

His task was to return back up the coast, continuing on past Plymouth into the eastern half of his patrol area, no doubt passing Bazely as they criss-crossed up and down to the limit of their sea endurance. Bloody Jacques had proved himself and could not be underestimated; keeping the seas was their fi rst priority.

Thus, prudently maintaining a good offi ng, Teazer spent the last few hours of the day crossing Mount’s Bay, passing the imposing monolith of St Michael’s Mount sheeted in misty spray, and shap-ing course for the Lizard. The seas were now combers, ragged white-streaked waves that smashed beam-on in thunderous bursts of spray and made life miserable for the watch on deck.

At last, Lizard Point won, they slipped past and fell into its lee; the worst of the wind moderated and they anchored under steep, forbidding cliffs. Teazer slewed about the moment sail was off her and, bow to waves, eased thankfully to her cable.

Kydd waited until the watch on deck had been relieved, then went below. There was no hope of any hot food, and as Tysoe exchanged his sodden clothes, he chewed hard tack and cheese, pondering what constituted sea endurance: the ship’s state for sea or the men’s willingness to endure such punishing conditions. In this fresh gale a stately ship-of-the-line would snort and jib a little, but would essentially move much more ponderously and predictably; a small brig’s endless jerky rearing and falling, however, taxed the muscles cruelly. It was physically exhausting to maintain for long and he hoped the gale would blow itself out overnight.

The morning brought no relief: the gale still hammered, with 248

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ragged waves trailing foam-streaks in their wake, but Teazer had her duty and the anchor was weighed at fi rst light.

“Falmouth, sir?” the master asked. Kydd knew that the men at the conn were listening to every word. It was tempting: Falmouth was but several hours away only and offered spacious shelter in Carrick Roads.

However, in these seas no boat could live, and for Teazer to enter the harbour, with its single south-facing entrance, would be to risk fi nding themselves bailed up. With foul weather clearing the seas of prey the privateer was probably waiting it out in some snug lair, which, if Kydd came across it, would fi nd him helpless. It was worth cracking on.

“We sail on, Mr Dowse. This is a hard man we’re after but he’s a prime seaman. He won’t think aught o’ this blow.” At his bleak expression Kydd added, “An’ then, o’ course, we can always run in t’ Fowey.”

The master said nothing but turned on his heel and went forward. Kydd gave orders that saw them bucketing northwards past the lethal sprawl of the Manacles and into the relative shelter of Falmouth Bay.

They kept in with the coast past the Greeb, and discovered that in its regular north-eastward trend the inshore mile or two under the rocky heights was providing a measure of relief and Teazer made good progress. Kydd’s thoughts wandered to a way of life that was so utterly different from this one, where the greatest danger was the social solecism, the highest skill to turn a bon mot at table, and never in life to know a wet shirt or hard tack.

He crushed the rebellious feelings. There would be time enough to rationalise it all after he had settled into his new existence and had the solace of a soul-mate.

A series of whipping squalls chasing round the compass off the Dodman had Teazer fi ghting hard to keep from being swamped by the swash kicked up over the shoaling Bellows but she won through the Admiral’s daughter 249

nobly to resume her more sheltered passage northward.

The Gwineas Rocks and Mevagissey: on the outward voyage they had seen these in calm seas and balmy sunshine. Now they were dark grey and sombre green, edged with surf from the ceaseless march of white-streaked waves. They left Par Sands well to leeward; there was most defi nitely no refuge for a privateer worth the name beyond tiny Polkerris—they would round Gribbin Head for Fowey.

Easing out to seaward their shelter diminished: Gribbin Head itself was near hidden in spume, driven up by the combers smashing into its rocky forefoot, and Teazer rolled wickedly as she passed by.

But was this the right decision? Should they continue? As with so many havens in Cornwall Fowey was south-westerly facing, which was perfect for entry but dead foul for leaving. It would be nothing less than a token of surrender to the elements should Kydd cause Teazer to run for shelter unnecessarily.

He sent word for the master. “Mr Dowse, what’s your opinion o’ this blashy weather? Will it blow over, do y’ think?”

Dowse pursed his lips and studied the racing clouds. There was a line of pearlescence along the horizon to the south in dramatic contrast to the dour greys and blacks above. “Glass’s been steady these two watches,” he said carefully, “an’ it’s been an uncommon long blow f’r this time o’ the year . . .”

“We go on, then,” Kydd decided.

“. . . but, mark you, the glass hasn’t risen worth a spit, an’ the wind’s still in the sou’-west. Could be it gets worse afore it gets better.”

“So y’ think it’ll stay like this, Mr Dowse?”

“M’ advice t’ ye, sir—an’ it not bein’ my place t’ say so—is to bide a while in Fowey an’ see what happens t’morrow.”

To continue would be to set out on a long stretch of coast exposed to the full force of the gale and a dead lee shore before reaching Rame Head. But if they did, they could round the headland and 250

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enter the security of the enfolding reaches of Plymouth Sound itself and, with its capaciousness, be able to tack out and resume their voyage whenever they chose.

Yet if they set out for the Rame and the elements closed in, there was no port of consequence before the Sound to which they could resort and there would be no turning back to beat against the gale to Fowey.

It all hinged on the weather.

“Thank you, Mr Dowse, but I believe we’ll crack on t’ the east’d. I’ll be obliged for another reef, if y’please.” Kydd turned to go below; this stretch would be the most extreme and he wanted to face it in a fresh set of dry clothes.

As he passed down the hatchway he heard the quarter-master above comment wryly, “Always was a foul-weather jack, our Tom Cutlass.”

His unseen mate answered savagely, “Yeah, but it sticks in me gullet that we has t’ go a-fl oggin’ up the coast in this howler jus’

so he c’n be with his fl ash dolly.”

Kydd stopped in shock. It wasn’t the resurrection of his old nickname, or that his romantic hopes were common knowledge, but the wounding assumption that he would have another motive for doing his duty. He hesitated, then slipped below.

By Pencarrow Head the force of the seas was noticeably stronger, but Kydd put it down to their more exposed position and pressed on. It was unlikely in the extreme that the privateer would choose this open stretch of coast to lie low but he had his duty and with life-lines rigged along the decks and several anchors bent on they took the seas resolutely on their quarter and struck out for Rame Head.

It seemed that the weather was not about to improve—indeed, within the hour the master was reporting that the glass was falling once more and the wind took on a savage spite, spindrift being torn from wavecrests and Teazer reverting to a staggering lurch.

the Admiral’s daughter 251

It was getting serious: the rapidity with which the change had occurred was ominous for the immediate future and extreme measures for their survival could not be ruled out. “Stand us off a league,” Kydd shouted to Dowse, above the dismal moan of the wind and the crashing of their passage. It was the one advantage they had, that essentially they were driving before the wind, with all that it meant for staying a course.

They laid Looe Island to leeward, nearly invisible in the fl ying murk and began the last perilous transit of Whitsand Bay, which was in the worst possible orientation for the weather, completely open to the rampaging gales direct from the Atlantic and virtually broadside on to the driving surf.

But, blessedly, the grey bulk of Rame Head was emerging from the clamping mist of spray ahead—and directly beyond was Plymouth Sound. At this rate they would make the security of the Sound well before dark. Teazer was taking the pounding well, and under close-reefed topsails was making good progress. They could always goosewing the fore and hand what remained of the main topsail—they were going to make it safely to port.

A confused shouting sounded from forward: it was a lookout, now on the foredeck and pointing out to leeward. Kydd saw a lonely sail, deep into the sweep of Whitsand Bay. He pulled out his pocket telescope and trained it on the vessel.

If it was the privateer he could see no way in which he could join action—the seas alone would prevent the bulwark gun ports opening, and on this horrifi c lee shore—but the snatches of image he caught were suffi cient to tell him it was not.

As close-hauled as possible, the vessel was nearly up with the fi rst parallel line of breakers. “He’s taking a risk, by glory,”

Standish said.

Dowse came up and shook his head. “Seen it before,” he said sadly. “The Rame mistook f’r Bolt Head, an’ now embayed, all the time th’ wind’s in the sou’-west.”

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The ship had realised its mistake too late, put about into the wind—and found that it was too deep into the bay. Square-rigged and unable to keep closer to the wind than six points off, the master had no alternative other than to claw along on one tack as close to the wind as he could get the vessel to lie, inching her seaward, and when the end of the semi-circular bay was reached, be forced to stay about and on another reach do the same until the opposite end was reached. Then the process would be repeated yet again.

As Kydd watched, the drama intensifi ed. By the cruellest stroke, the south-westerly was exactly at right-angles to the bay and leeway made by the forced putting about at each end was remorselessly matching the small amount of sea room gained on each tack.

The vessel was trapped: they were doing the only thing possible and it was not enough; but if they did nothing they would quickly be driven downwind on to the pitiless shore.

With a stab of compassion Kydd realised that this cruel state of balance had probably begun at fi rst light when their situation had become clear, and therefore they had been at this relentless toil all day—they must be close to exhaustion, knowing that if they fumbled just one going about, their deaths would follow very soon.

“Th’ poor bastards!” breathed Dowse, staring downwind at the endless parallel lines of combers marching into the last broad band of surf.

Standish seemed equally affected. “Sir, can we not . . .” He trailed off at the futility of his words. It was plain to everyone watching that Teazer could do nothing, for if they turned and went in, they themselves would be embayed, and any boats they sent would be blown broadside and overset, oars no match for the savage winds.

Kydd’s heart went out to the unknown sailors: they must have been in fear of their lives for hours. How they must have prayed for the mercy of a wind change—only a point or two would have been enough to escape the deadly trap.

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He turned on the master. “Lie us to, Mr Dowse,” he snapped.

This would see them hold Teazer’s head a-try with balanced canvas and going ahead only slowly, keeping her position. The poor devils in the other ship would see this and at the very least know that there were human beings in their universe who empathised with their fate.

The afternoon wore on; the wind stayed unwavering in the same direction and the desperate clawing of the other ship continued. It could not last: some time during the night its crew’s strength must fail and the sea would claim them. It was so unfair. Two ships separated only by distance; one to sail on to safety and rest, life and future, but the other condemned to death in the breakers.

“She’s struck!” someone called.

Kydd whipped up his glass and caught fl ashing glimpses of an old merchantman no longer rising with the waves or her sea-darkened canvas taut to the wind. Now she was in the lines of breakers, slewed at an angle and ominously still. The foremast had gone by the board, its rigging trailing blackly in the sea, and as he watched, the vessel settled, taking the merciless seas broadside in explosions of white.

Whitsand Bay was shallow; the seas therefore were breaking a long way from shore. The fi gures that could be seen now crowding up the masts to take last refuge were as doomed as if a cannon was aimed at them.

Pity wrung Kydd’s heart: more ships were lost to the sea than to the enemy, but here it was playing out before their eyes. It was hard to bear. But if—“Mr Standish! I’m goin’ t’ have a try. Pass the word f’r any who’s willin’ to volunteer.”

His lieutenant looked at him in astonishment. “Sir, how—”

“Mr Dowse. Lay us in the lee of th’ Rame. Close in with th’

land an’ anchor.”

The master did not speak for a moment, his face closed and unreadable. “Aye aye, sir,” he said fi nally.

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Close to, Rame Head was a colossal, near conical monolith, its weather side a seething violence of white seas, but miraculously, as soon as they rounded the headland, the winds were cut off as with a knife.

“Here, Mr Dowse?”

“A rocky bottom, sir,” the master said impassively.

“Then we’ll heave to. Mr Purchet, away boat’s crew o’ volunteers an’ we’ll have the pinnace in the water directly.”

Dowse came up and said quietly, “I know why ye’re doing this, Mr Kydd, but we’re hazardin’ th’ ship . . .” As if to add point to his words, Teazer swung fretfully under wild gusts volleying over the heights, they were only yards from the line of wind-torn seas coming round the point.

“I’m aware o’ that, Mr Dowse,” Kydd said briefl y.

Standish approached: he had found a young seaman native to the area. “Sawley says there’s a scrap o’ sand inshore where you may land the boat.”

Kydd nodded. “We’re going t’ try to get a line out to the poor beggars. I’ll need as much one-inch line as the boatswain c’n fi nd.” His plan was to cross the Rame peninsula on foot to the other side, Whitsand Bay, and by any means—boat, manhauling, swimming—get a line out to the wreck. The one-inch was necessarily a light line for they faced carrying it the mile or two to the beach over precipitous inclines.

“After we’re landed, recover the boat and moor the ship in Cawsand Bay. We’ll be back that way.” This was the next bay round with good holding and a common resort for men-o’-war in a south-westerly.

“Aye aye, sir,” Standish said uncomfortably.

Once more Kydd blessed the recent invention of davits, making it so much easier to hoist and lower boats than the yard-arm stay tackles of older ships. In the water the pinnace jibbed and gyrated like a wild animal, the men boarding falling over each other, oars getting tangled and water shipping over the gunwale. Gear was the Admiral’s daughter 255

tossed down and when the men had settled Kydd boarded by shin-ning down a fall.

They cast off and Kydd called to Sawley. The young seaman surrendered his oar and made his way to Kydd.

The boat rose and fell violently in the seas, and at the sight of the steep sides of the Rame plunging precipitately into the sea it seemed utter madness to attempt a landing.

“Where’s th’ sand?” Kydd wanted to know.

“I’ll go forrard, sir, an’ signal to ye.” At Kydd’s nod, Sawley scrambled down the centreline and wedged himself into the bow.

He glanced aft once then made a positive pointing to starboard.

“Follow th’ lad’s motions,” Kydd growled. Bucketing madly, the boat approached the dark, seaweed-covered granite, the surge of swells an urgent swash and hiss over the wicked menace of unseen rocks. The hand went out again and Kydd saw where they were headed: an indentation so slight that it was unlikely that the boat’s oars could deploy, but there was a strip of sand at its centre.

A small kedge anchor was tossed out and the boat went in, grounding hard. It fl oated free and banged even harder. “Go, y’

lubbers!” The men tumbled over the side and crowded on to a tiny strip of bare sand. Kydd dropped into the shallows and followed.

“Sir, how we’s a-goin’ t’ get up there?” one man croaked, gesturing at the near-vertical slopes covered with thick, dripping furze. Kydd had counted on at least sheep tracks through the impenetrable thickets.

“Sawley, can we get round this?” he called, but the lad was already disappearing into the brush. Kydd waited impatiently; then he suddenly emerged and beckoned Kydd over. Sawley fi shed about in the undergrowth and came up with the knotted end of an old rope. “The smugglers, sir—they’d parbuckle the tubs up to th’

top wi’ this’n,” he said, with glee.

“You fi rst, younker, show us how t’ do it.”

Sawley tested it with jerks then began to climb, clearing the 256

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rope of vegetation as he went. If it was for parbuckling there must be another near; Kydd found it and followed, the wind, with cruel cold, fi nding his wet clothes. The men came along behind.

It was hard going, the furze prickling and gouging, and his upper body having to remember long-ago skills of rope-climbing.

Eventually he reached a rounding in the hill, a saddle between the continuing slopes inland and the higher conical mass of Rame Head, dramatically set off in the stormy weather with a ruined chapel on its summit.

He mustered his men together; far below Teazer was moving away to the safety of the next bay. Out to sea there was nothing but a white-lashed wilderness.

“Gets better now, Mr Kydd,” Sawley said brightly.

Eight men: would it make a difference? They would damn well try! Kydd set off, following a faintly defi ned track up the slope, pressing on as fast as he could, the ground strangely hard and unmoving after the wildly heaving decks.

They reached the summit of the hill and were met with the renewal of the wind’s blast in their teeth and the grand, unforget-table sight of Whitsand Bay curving away into the misty distance, with parallel lines of pristine white surf. The grounded merchantman was still out in the bay, her foremast gone, sails in hopeless tatters, her men unmoving black dots in the rigging.

Scanning the horizon Kydd could see no other sail. They were on their own. He humped his part of the long fake of rope and moved off again, their way along the long summit now clear.

He bent against the pummelling wind, trying not to think of the stricken vessel below as they reached a fold in the hills that hid the scene.

“We’re goin’ t’ Wiggle, sir,” Sawley panted.

“Wha— ?”

“Aye, sir. It’s a place above th’ hard sand.”

They came from behind the hill and looked directly down on the Admiral’s daughter 257

the scene. Numbers of people were on the beach watching the plight of the hapless merchant vessel. Would they help—or were the lurid tales of Cornish wreckers true?

Reaching the beach and shuddering with cold, Kydd tried to think. It was heart-wrenching to see how near yet how far the vessel was. At this angle only ragged black spars were visible above the raging combers, perhaps a dozen men clutching at the shrouds.

The wreck was bare hundreds of yards off but in at least ten feet of water, enough to drown in. Every sailor knew that, if run ashore, their end would not be so merciful—the rampaging waves would snatch them and batter them to a choking death as they rolled them shoreward, their only hope a quick end by a crushed skull.

The onlookers stood still, looking out to sea dispassionately. Kydd pulled one round to face him. “Aren’t ye goin’ to do something?”

The man looked at him. “They’m dead men,” he said dully.

“What’s to do?”

Kydd swung on his men standing behind. He quickly worked a bowline on a bight at the end of the line. “You!” he said, pointing to the tallest and heaviest. “With me!”

He lunged into the water, feeling the strength in the surge of the next wave hissing over the beach. He splashed on until another foamed in, its impact sending him staggering. Recovering, he thrust deeper into the waves, feeling them curiously warmer out of the wind’s chill. The rope jerked at him. He turned and saw that all eight of his men were fl oundering behind him, bracing when one was knocked off his feet, then stumbling on.

A lump grew in his throat. With these men he could . . .

A foaming giant of a wave took him full in the chest and sent him down in a choking fl urry, handling him roughly until he brought up on the rope and fi nally found the hard sand under him. When 258

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he heaved himself up he saw that only two of his men were still standing, the rest a kicking tangle of legs and bodies.

Flailing forward Kydd tried again, feeling the spiteful urge of the sea as it pressed past him. At the next wave he gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand fi rm while the force of the water bullied past him unmercifully. As it receded he saw another beyond, even bigger.

The breaker tumbled him down and when he rose his forearm bore a long smear of blood. Trembling with cold and emotion, he had to accept that he and his men were utterly helpless.

He turned and staggered back to the shore, teeth chattering.

Along the beach some fi shermen had launched a boat, but as Kydd watched it reared violently over the fi rst line of surf, the oars catching by some heroic means. By the third line, though, it had been smashed broadside and rolled over and over in a splintered wreck.

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

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

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

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

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

As soon as the fi rst body had grounded an onlooker was upon it, standing astride and bending to riffl e through its clothes, check-ing the fi ngers for rings. It was too much—Kydd fell on the looter shouting hoarsely, until his men ran over and pulled him off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He climbed wearily into his cot and slumped back, closing his eyes and hoping for sleep. It was not as if the evening’s drama was 260

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unusual—it was said that the wild West Country had taken more than a thousand wrecks and would claim many more. Why should this one touch him so?

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

A fi tful sleep took him, troubling images fl itting past. Could he be joined to Persephone in marriage and stay faithful to a puis-sant, jealous sea? Would she understand if—

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

Something was very wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was Kydd’s duty to order the men aloft. There was no alternative: too many lives depended on it. He did not hesitate. “Mr Standish, the carpenter t’ take his axe an’ stand by the cable. I’d be obliged should you take charge in th’ foretop while I’ll take th’

main. Mr Dowse will remain on deck an’ give orders f’r a cast t’