larb’d and out.”

He demanded of a dumbfounded seaman his belt and knife, then fi lled his lungs and roared, “All hands—lay out an’ loose!”

262

Julian Stockwin

Lunging at the main shrouds he swung himself up and began to climb into the blackness and rain. Shaking in the ropes told him he had been followed. Now mainly by feel he found fi rst the catharpings then the futtock shrouds. Calling on skills that had lain dormant for years he swung himself up and into the maintop, then stopped for breath.

Not far behind him others came, crowding up with him into the top. It was madness—he had no call to risk his life up here with the topmen—but it was one way to deal with his feelings.

“Topsails!” he bawled, and reached for the weather topmast shrouds but stopped to peer at the fi gure fi rst taking the leeward.

It was too familiar. It couldn’t be—but it was . . . “Nicholas!

You—why are ye—”

“Should we not mount the vaunting shrouds?” Renzi yelled, his face streaming with rain. “The barky will not wait, I fear!”

Overcome, Kydd ducked round and began the climb to the remote topmast tops. Far above the unseen deck below, he fumbled for the footrope that must lie below the yard and inched his way out on the thin rope, elbows over the sodden bulk of bunched canvas atop the yard. More men came and jostled next to him, the footrope jerking over empty space as he worked free his knife.

The gaskets on the main topsail were plaited and he sawed at them awkwardly while the angle of the wind gradually changed—

below they must be bracing the yard round as they worked. Those on deck would be seeing only jerking shadows and would have to judge as best they could the right moment to set the sails.

A harsh judder nearly toppled them from the yardarm. If they could not get away they would be beaten to pieces very shortly and themselves be taken by the sea. “Off th’ yard!” he screamed, for he had noticed the halliards shake; if the new-freed sails took the wind it would be sudden and uncontrollable.

They scrambled for the shrouds and Kydd made his way the Admiral’s daughter 263

thankfully to the deck as Teazer leant to the blast, then miraculously got under way for the outer Sound.

“Mr Kydd, sir.” The carpenter anxiously touched his forehead.

“An’ I have t’ say, we’re makin’ water bad—more’n two foot in th’ well.”

It was too much after all they had endured and done that day.

“Thank ye,” he said mechanically, and tried to reason against the cold and tiredness. Without doubt it would be due to seams opening under the crushing punishment of the mass weight of the ship bearing down on the curve of the hull—or worse: whole strakes giving way and the sea rushing unchecked into Teazer’s bowels.

To founder out in the Sound in the anonymous night—it couldn’t happen! But with no idea where the leaks were and no way to fi nd out in the pitch dark of a fl ooding hold . . . “Mr Purchet,” he croaked, “we’ll fother.” This would involve passing sails under the hull in the hope that it would staunch the infl ow. “The whole length o’ the ship.”

He turned to Dowse. “We’re not t’ make harbour, I believe. Is there any cove, any landing-place—anywhere in th’ Sound as we c’n fi nd . . . ?”

The master’s face was pinched. “Er, no, sir. Entirely rock-bound t’ the Cattewater.” He hesitated, then said, “But there is . . . if we stays this side a mite . . .”

Taking in water all the time Teazer staggered along before the gale. At a little after four in the morning she rounded to and fl ung a rope ashore to waiting soldiers, then slewed about close to the little quay of humble Fort Picklecombe.

As if tiring of the fi ght she gently took the ground and, creaking mightily, settled into a fi nal stillness.

Chapter 12

Renzi held up his Plymouth & Dock Telegraph with an enig-matic smile. “Dear fellow, there’s an item here that’s of some interest, bearing as it does on . . .” Kydd began to read what looked suspiciously like a gossip column.

Our doughty spy, LOOKOUT, once again mounts to the crow’s nest in his tireless quest for items of value to pique our readers’ interest. He raises his powerful glass and begins his search and it is not long before he spies a particularly gratifying sight. It is none other than that of our beautiful and accomplished Miss Persephone L—, the cy-nosure of every gentlemanly eye, the acknowledged catch of the season and the adornment of every gathering of the quality, who is seen to be promenading yet again with the same fortunate gentleman. LOOKOUT strains to make out his appearance but is unable to distinguish at such a distance beyond noting that he is in the character of a naval person and has an unmistakable air of Command about him. Can this be indeed the notorious Captain Kidd boarded and taken a prize?

Knowing his duty, LOOKOUT instantly sends a the Admiral’s daughter 265

messenger post-haste to the Telegraph offi ces advising that space be immediately held over, for it seems the society columns will soon be echoing to the sound of wedding bells. He does however beg the dear Reader to consider now the plight of the legion of the disappointed—

He threw down the newspaper. “What catblash is this?” he growled, secretly delighted that he and Persephone were now so publicly linked. “They even have m’ name wrong, the swabs.”

After Teazer had been towed to the dockyard for repairs he had called on Persephone and found that she and Lady Lockwood had gone to Bath to take the waters. The admiral had advised him gruffl y that it would not serve his case to go in pursuit and that in the meantime Kydd must bide his time patiently. The diffi culty now was to fi nd some occupation that did not bear too heavily on the purse in the coming weeks; on Persephone’s return there would, no doubt, be a considerable strain on his means.

As if sensing his dilemma, Renzi got up and stretched. “If you are of a mind, dear fellow, there is some small diversion in prospect that might serve us both.” He went to the table and picked up a letter. “I have had the singular good fortune to meet a personable young man named Jonathan Couch, who seems to be somewhat enamoured of our piscatorial cousins. He’s shown a gratifying degree of interest in my study and advises that to the enquiring mind there is no need to travel to the cannibal isles to observe man in nature. This may all be got in a wild and picturesque setting not so very far from here.

“In short, he suggests that I base myself there and make my observations at leisure in the countryside round about. He promised to speak to a local squire he knows in the matter of our lodgings and by this letter I fi nd a most generous and open invitation for us both to stay at Polwithick Manor.”

It seemed an agreeable enough plan—Kydd could relax in the 266

Julian Stockwin

quiet and leisurely country surroundings and from time to time assist in whatever ethnical studies Renzi had in mind. “Er, where is this wild place?”

“Oh, did I not mention it? It is Polperro.”

Polperro? Kydd gave a wry smile at the thought of staying in a smugglers’ den . . .

Polwithick was set half-way between Crumplehorn and Landaviddy, with a fi ne view far down into the steep valley and compact huddle that was Polperro.

“Elizabethan, do you think?” Renzi mused, as they dismounted from their horses; their baggage would follow by packhorse over the rutted tracks that went for roads in this Cornish interior.

The charming manor did seem of an age: a stout jumble of ancient mullioned windows and grey moorstone from the time of the fi rst George, set among ancient yews and hawthorns, blossoms from the neat kitchen garden softening its bluff squareness.

“Come in! Come in, come in—ye’re both most welcome, gentlemen!” Squire Morthwen was jolly and red-faced.

“Nicholas Renzi, sir, and this is my friend and colleague, Mr Kydd.”

“A pleasure t’ have ye here! It was, er, something in the philosophical line ye wish to study in these parts, was it not, sir?”

“Indeed. And I’m sure you’ll prove of sovereign worth in direct-ing me to where—but this can wait until later, sir. We’re under no rush of time.”

They were ushered into a small drawing room where the whole family was drawn up in a line. “This is m’ brood, gentlemen, who’re very curious t’ see what kind o’ visitors come all the way t’ Polwithick.

“Now this is Edmund, the eldest.” A tall young man with a studied look of boredom bowed stiffl y. “M’ daughter Rosalynd.”

A delicate pale maiden with downcast eyes curtsied, but when she the Admiral’s daughter 267

rose it was with a startlingly frank gaze. “And Titus, th’ youngest.”

A tousled youth grinned at them.

“I know town folk take y’ vittles late, but in the country we like t’ have ours while there’s still light t’ appreciate ’em. Shall we?”

The meal in the dark-timbered dining parlour was unlike any Kydd had experienced before. It wasn’t just the massive oaken furniture or the rabbit in cider or even the still country wines, but the warmth and jollity in place of the cool manners and polite converse he had grown used to.

The squire, it seemed, was a widower but the table was kept with decorum; the visitors were spared close interrogation and afterwards the gentlemen repaired to a study for port and conversation.

“Well, Mr Renzi, y’ mentioned in your letter about ethnical studies in th’ West Country. I don’t think I can help thee personally with that but you’ll fi nd some rare fi ne curiosities hereabouts.”

Renzi was able in some measure to indicate his requirements but was interrupted by a wide-eyed face peeking round the door.

“Oh, Papa, do let us stay!” Titus pleaded.

The squire frowned. “Church mice!” he roared. “Not a squeak, mind!” With three solemn faces hanging on every word, Renzi continued.

It transpired that they were well placed to make comparative study between the way of life of the fi sher-folk and that of the country yeomen and, indeed, if Renzi were not of a squeamish tendency, the tin miners along the coast would afford much to re-fl ect upon.

Renzi beamed. “My thanks indeed, sir! This will provide me with precisely the kind of factual grist I shall need—do you not think so, brother Kydd?”

“Er, yes, o’ course, Mr Renzi. An ethnical harvest o’ some size, I’d believe.”

Plans were put in train at once: there were horses in the stables 268

Julian Stockwin

for their convenience, and the squire allowed he was modestly proud of an orangery, which, being south-facing, was eminently suited to a learned gentleman’s retiring with his books.

Friendly goodnights were exchanged and Kydd and Renzi took possession of their bedrooms; in each a pretty four-poster waited ready, warmed with a pan. It was going to be a fi ne respite from their recent trials.

After a hearty breakfast, Renzi drew Kydd aside. “There is a matter

. . . that is causing me increasing unease. In fact it concerns yourself, my good friend. It . . . I lay awake last night and could fi nd no other alternative, even as I fear you may feel slighted—and, indeed, cheated.”

Puzzled, Kydd said nothing as Renzi continued. “You came with me to this place to contribute to the sum of human knowledge in an ethnical examination. It is the fi rst such I have undertaken else I should have realised this before, but in actually contemplating my approach to the persons under study it seems that while I might, over time, be considered a harmless savant, the two of us together could well be accounted a threat of sorts.”

Looking decidedly uncomfortable, Renzi went on, “Therefore if I am to observe their natural behaviour it rather seems that . . .

it were better you remain behind.”

Kydd snorted. “M’ dear fellow, if you feel able t’ manage this all by y’rself, then I must fi nd m’ own amusements.”

Renzi’s face fell, but then Kydd chuckled. “Pay no mind t’ me, Nicholas. If I’m t’ be truthful, I’d say that there’s nothin’ in the world more congenial t’ me right now than settlin’ t’ both anchors in as quiet a place as this.”

It was particularly pleasant to sit in the orangery, a small table to hand with a jug of lemon shrub, and let the beaming sunshine lay its benefi cent warmth upon him. He had brought with him Chesterfi eld’s Advice to His Son and The Polite Philosopher, the Admiral’s daughter 269

which was, in its turgid phrases, agreeably closing his eyes in mortal repose.

The peace and warmth did its work and the memories of the recent past began to fade. Outside, birds hopped from branch to branch of the orchard trees, their song so different from the sound of the sea’s rage.

His mind drifted to a more agreeable plane. What would Persephone be doing in Bath? Did taking the waters imply a communal bath somewhere or would someone of her quality be granted private quarters? No doubt Lady Lockwood would come round to things eventually, particularly with Persephone there to explain things. Meanwhile . . .

“Oh! I didn’t mean to disturb you, Mr Kydd!” a timid voice called from the door. Kydd opened his eyes and rose.

“No, no, please, don’t get up. I only thought you’d like tea and—and I see you already have something.” Her voice was shy but appealing in its childlike innocence, although Rosalynd was plainly a young woman.

“That’s kind in ye, Miss Rosalynd,” Kydd said, with fi nality, hoping she would go away—he was enjoying the tranquillity and those pale blue eyes had an other-worldly quality that unnerved him. But she remained quietly, watching him. “Y’ see, I’m in deep study with m’ book,” he explained stiffl y.

She approached shyly and Kydd became uncomfortably aware that she had a startling natural beauty, of which she seemed unconscious. “I’m so curious, Mr Kydd—I’ve never met a learned gentleman before. Do forgive me, but I’ve always wondered what they think on when their mind is not in a struggle with some great problem.”

Those eyes. “Er, I’m really no scholard, Miss. F’r that you need t’ ask Mr Renzi. I’m only his—his assistant.” He fi ddled with his book.

“Oh, well, if there’s any service I can do for you gentlemen . . .”

270

Julian Stockwin

“Thank you, we’d most certainly call on ye.”

She hesitated. Then, with a smile and a curtsy, she left.

It was no good. She had ruined his rest so he took up Chesterfi eld.

The Latin tags annoyed him and the convoluted prose of half a century before was tedious. Yet if he was to hold his place in the highest society he should know the rules by heart, and soon. He sighed and ploughed on.

Renzi returned in high spirits. “Such richness of material—it’s striking to see the variation in responses. And the philology—it would give you pause should you see what I’ve gleaned from their rustic speech. A splendid day, and tomorrow I’m promised an old man of a hundred and fi ve years who can remember Queen Anne’s day . . .”

At the evening meal Kydd left it to Renzi to defl ect the polite enquiries concerning where they had come from. It would probably cause alarm and consternation if ever it reached down to the nest of smugglers below them that an active commander, Royal Navy, was taking his ease so close. And, of course, he did not want to hazard the trust Renzi had established with the local folk.

In the morning Renzi was off early, leaving Kydd to his orangery once more. Just as he had settled in his easy chair there was a shy knock and Rosalynd entered, then stood before him. “Mr Kydd, I don’t believe you’re a learned gentleman at all.”

Kydd blinked and she went on, “I saw you last night when Mr Renzi was telling about his word fossils and I could swear you had no notion at all of what he was saying.”

“Ah, well, y’ see, I’m a friend of Mr Renzi’s who assists when called upon,” Kydd said weakly.

She laughed prettily. “You see? I knew you weren’t. You’re much too—too, er . . . May I be told who it is you are, sir?”

It was unsettling, but her innocence was disarming and he could not help a smile. “No one of signifi cance, you’ll understand. I’m the Admiral’s daughter 271

just a gentleman o’ leisure, is all, Miss Rosalynd.”

Looking doubtfully at him she said, “I do believe you’re teasing me, sir. You have the air of—of someone of consequence, whom it would be folly to trifl e with. You’re a soldier, Mr Kydd, a colonel of some high regiment!”

Kydd winced. “Not really,” he muttered.

“But you’re strong, your look is direct, you stand so square—it must be the sea. You’re a sailor, an offi cer on a ship.”

He could not fi nd it in him to lie and answered, with a sigh,

“Miss Rosalynd, you are right in th’ particulars, but I beg, do not let this be known. I’ve just endured a great storm an’ desire to be left to rest.”

“Of course, Mr Kydd. Your secret shall be ours alone,” she said softly. In quite another voice she continued, “I really came to tell you that the fi rst Friday of the month is the fair and market in Polperro. If you like, I’d be happy to take you. Of course, Billy will come with us,” she added quickly, dropping her eyes.

“Billy?”

“That’s what Titus wants us to call him. He hates his name.”

A country fair! It had been long years since he had been to one—but Chesterfi eld beckoned. “Sadly, Miss Rosalynd, I have m’

duty by my books an’ must decline.”

“That is a great pity, Mr Kydd, for your friend left before I could inform him of it, and now there is no one to tell him about what he might have seen.”

Kydd weakened. “Mr Renzi—you’re right, o’ course, it would be a sad thing should there be no one t’ report on it. I shall come.”

“Wonderful,” she said, with a squeal. “We’ll leave after I put on my bonnet—will that be convenient to you, Mr Kydd?”

They set off for Polperro on foot. “I hope you don’t mind the walking—we should take a donkey shay but I do so pity the beasts on this steep hill.” The Landaviddy pathway was a sharp slope 272

Julian Stockwin

down, and Kydd thought of their return with unease.

“It’s so lovely in Polperro at this time of the year,” Rosalynd said wistfully. She went to the side of the path and cupped her hand. “Just look at these yellow fl owers. It is the biting stonecrop come to bloom. And your yellow toadfl ax over here will try to outdo them. We call it ‘butter and eggs,’” she added shyly.

Titus hopped from one foot to the other in his impatience to get to the fair. They descended further, the rooftops below now in plainer view.

“I do love Polperro—there’s so much of nature’s beauty on every hand.” A rustle of wings sounded on the left and a small bird soared into the sky. “A swift—we must make our farewells to him soon. Do you adore nature too, Mr Kydd?” The wide blue eyes looked up into his.

“Er, at sea it’s all fi shes an’ whales, really, Miss Rosalynd,” Kydd said awkwardly, wishing they were closer to their destination.

She stopped and gazed at him in open admiration. “Of course!

You will have been all round the world and seen—you’ll have seen so much! I do envy you, Mr Kydd.”

He dropped his eyes and muttered something, turning away from her to resume walking. He had no wish to be badgered by this slip of a girl when his thoughts were so occupied with the challenges of high society.

Well before they reached the village Kydd’s nose wrinkled at the unmistakable stench of fi sh workings, but Rosalynd seemed not to notice. The muffl ed sound of a band mingled with excited voices fl oated up to them and when they reached level ground a glorious fair burst into view.

There were stalls with toys and sweetmeats, penny peep-shows, the usual story-tellers holding audiences agog with lurid tales.

Despite himself Kydd felt a boyish thrill at the gaudy scenes, the village lads decorated with greenery and the lasses in their gay ribbons and gowns.

the Admiral’s daughter 273

Then, preceded by terrifi ed children, a bear lurched down the street, and round the corner a dragon breathing real fi re progressed, opposed by brave boys baying at it with fi shermen’s fog-horns. Titus ran forward. “The gaberlunzie man!” he shouted.

The cloaked performer was executing risky tricks with sulphur matches while a tumbler and juggler tried to distract him.

“To the green!” urged Rosalynd, touching Kydd’s arm. “There’s always a play!” The village was a dense network of narrow streets and they emerged suddenly on to a tiny open area nearly overwhelmed by close-packed buildings. There, on an improvised stage, a seedy band of players declaimed to a rapt audience.

On the way back, Kydd paid twopence to a fi ddler for a gay twosome reel danced by a masked youth and maiden, while the three each ate a fi lling Cornish pasty to keep hunger at bay. A quick visit by the Goosey Dancers ended the day and they wended their way back up the steep pathway.

They walked slowly, Titus going ahead. “It’s been so good to have visitors,” Rosalynd said quietly. “We don’t get many, you’ll understand.”

Kydd murmured something and she gave him a quick glance.

“You may think us simple folk here, Mr Kydd, but we are blessed with many things.” She bent and picked a fl ower. “Here—so many pass by this. It is the bridewort and is provided by nature to give us an infallible remedy against the headache.” She pressed it on him, her fi ngers cool. He lifted it, feeling her eyes on him as he smelt it. “Mr Kydd, it’s been such a lovely day—I do thank you.”

Renzi seemed strangely unmoved at the news of what he had missed. His notebook was clearly of compelling interest and Kydd left him to his aggregations. For himself, he could feel the sunshine and placidity working on him, and the trials of the recent past were fading. But something was unsettling him—the girl. Rosalynd was at odds with any other he had met and he was at a loss to know 274

Julian Stockwin

how to deal with her other-worldliness, her communing with nature, the innocence born of the seclusion of this place from the outer world . . . and her ethereal loveliness.

What about her was so different: an only daughter in a household of men? Her detachment from the usual cares and preoccupations of the world? He checked himself: this was no fi t subject of concern for one about to be wed.

He declined her invitation to explore the village and buried himself in a book, then found, to his surprise, that he felt put out when she accepted his refusal without comment. On the next day when Titus came to extend her hesitant offer to accompany them on their visit to the fi sher-folk he accepted instantly.

She was wearing a plain linen morning dress and bonnet, and carried a basket. “This is so kind, Mr Kydd. I’m going to visit Mrs Minards. You see, we lost a boat in the big gale and her husband was not found, the poor soul.”

Kydd winced. If Teazer could fi nd herself between life and death, then what of the little fi shing-boats?

“They have such a hard life, Mr Kydd, you have no idea. Hurry, please, Billy, Mr Kydd is waiting.”

It was the Landaviddy path again, but this time they stepped out purposefully. “When something like this happens it’s so diffi -

cult to know what to do.”

“That there’s somebody in the world who knows an’ understands will be comfort enough,” Kydd said warmly. She fl ashed him a look of gratitude.

It was a pretty village. The small harbour was central with its piers and little fi shing-boats in rows on the mud. However, the nearer the fi sh quay they went, the meaner the cottages.

At the edge Rosalynd stopped to fasten on pattens, over-shoes that would protect her own from the fi sh-slime.

“Good mornin’, Miss Rosalynd,” a buxom lady with a fi shing basket hailed, looking curiously at Kydd.

the Admiral’s daughter 275

“And a good morning to you, Mrs Rowett,” she called back gaily, with a wave.

They reached the open space in front of the Three Pilchards, and squeezed down a passage to the rickety cottages behind. A dull-eyed woman came to the door of one, then broke slowly into a tired smile. “Why, Rosalynd, m’ deary, there’s no need to—”

“Nonsense, Mrs Minards. I’m only come to make sure there’s enough to go round.” A child wandered in, lost and bewildered.

Kydd felt an intruder: the thin cobb walls, two rooms and pitiful furnishings spoke of a poverty he had never been witness to.

The calm acceptance by this new widow of the sea’s pitilessness and her future of charity shocked him.

After they left, Kydd asked Rosalynd, “What will she do now, d’ye think?”

He was startled to hear a sob before she answered. “To—to know your love will not ever return to you in life is the cruellest thing, Mr Kydd.”

They walked out to the brightness of the day and she said, with an effort, “I suppose she will go wool-washing at Crumplehorn. It pays quite well although the work is dirty.”

At a loss, Kydd kept pace with her. She stopped suddenly and turned to him with a smile. “Mr Kydd, I’m going to show you my most favourite place in Polperro. Come along!”

She hurried to the corner of the row of cottages and found a neat but narrow path winding up high in the rocks.

“Oh, do we have to?” Billy said.

“Yes, we do! Now, get along up there, if you please.”

Kydd, however, found sixpence for him to spend afterwards as he liked, which won him a fi rm friend.

When they had toiled up a short slope and reached a spur of rock they were rewarded with a dramatic view: the length of the harbour with its impossibly narrow entrance, the two mighty formations of rock, like a gigantic lizard’s spine, and stretching in 276

Julian Stockwin

a vast, glittering expanse to the distant horizon, the sea.

“There!” she breathed. “All the rest of the world is out there.

The elephants of India, the palace of the King, even that horrid Napoleon. All you have to do is get on a ship and you can go there—anywhere.”

Kydd was touched; for him the far horizon was a familiar sea highway to every adventure and experience of signifi cance in his life so far, and he had perhaps taken for granted the freedoms it gave.

She pressed him: what was life like for one who sailed away over that horizon? What changes in character, what deep feelings were involved? Kydd hesitated at fi rst but he was soon opening to her parts of himself that had remained closed to everyone else, including, it had to be faced, Persephone. Rosalynd was reaching him in a unique way.

Renzi arrived back late and somewhat rumpled. “Gurry butts and arrish mows.” He sighed. “Such a richness in diversity to the same urgent imperatives. You’ll recall the islands of the Great South Seas—the savages there . . . Please know that this is proving a most satisfactory fi rst expedition.”

“As I c’n see, Nicholas,” Kydd answered, over his port, “an’ I wish you well of it all.”

Renzi looked at him fondly. “I am aware, dear fellow, that this is hardly an enthralling adventure for your good self and it is on my conscience that—”

“No, no, Nicholas! I am fi ndin’ th’ peace an’ tranquillity a fi ne solace,” he said. “And th’ family is, er, takin’ good care of me.”

Renzi would probably not understand if he mentioned his pleasant walks with Rosalynd.

“You should ask them to show you about Polperro,” Renzi said encouragingly. “I passed by yesterday, a most curious place.” He accepted a restorative drink and continued: “Some might fi nd its the Admiral’s daughter 277

fragrance less of sanctity and more of fi sh, but I was amused to read a most apposite inscription above the door of one such pallace: dulcis lucri odor, or “‘This be the sweet smell of lucre.’”

Kydd grinned. “Your Ovid, then.”

“Perhaps not. The wit who placed it there was probably thinking of Vespasian, that most earthy of emperors who actually said, pecunia non olet, ‘Money does not reek,’ a most practical view, in my opinion.”

The next day Kydd and Rosalynd visited Jan Puckey’s fi sh pallace; it was diverting to see the speed and skill with which the women balked the pilchards. They were placed in an earthenware

“bussa,” tails in and heads out in an endless spiral of salted layers, two thousand for the Puckeys’ winter consumption alone, with the oil pressed from them fetching a good price.

Afterwards they took a picnic atop the medieval ruins of Chapel Hill. Rosalynd spread a cloth and took out country goodies from her basket. “I do hope you’ll have these—I don’t know, really, what you like,” she added shyly.

With mutton pies and saffron cake happily tucked away, Kydd lay back contentedly on the grass and closed his eyes in the warm sun, waiting for yet another question about the wider world but none came. She sat close to him but seemed quiet and affected, staring away over the sea.

At last she broke silence. “When will you leave, Mr Kydd?” she asked, in a small voice.

“Oh, er, I suppose that’ll be when Nicholas has had his fi ll o’

things t’ see,” he said off-handedly.

“Oh.”

An awkward silence grew; Kydd got to his feet. “We’d better be back,” he said, dusting himself down.

“Oh—not straight away, please,” she cried. “Do you see there?”

she said pointing to the cliff edge. “It’s a path that follows all the 278

Julian Stockwin

way to Fowey and there are enchanting prospects to be had.”

“Well, where’s Billy? Absent fr’m place of duty—we’ll keelhaul him!”

But she had already moved away. He hurried after her, across the grass and on to the narrow track that found its way along the ragged edge of the coast, the sea beating against the rocks a precipitate hundred and fi fty feet below.

“Rosalynd?” he called. She did not stop until she had reached a fold in the cliffs.

He caught up and said, “Miss Rosalynd, you should—”

She turned slowly and Kydd was astonished to see the glitter of tears. “M-Mr Kydd,” she choked, “I b-beg you—please don’t forget me.”

“Wha—?”

“I d-do assure you, I will never forget you. ”

Kydd was unable to think of anything to say.

“You—you’ve changed me,” she said, choked. “I can’t be the same person any more.”

“I—I—”

“It’s not your fault, Mr Kydd. I’ve been living here quietly and thinking it’s the whole world and then . . .” Her hands twisted together. “You see . . . it’s nothing you’ve done—it’s all my fault—

b-but I’ve found I care for you more than is proper and now you’ll get in your ship and sail away from me and . . .” She buried her face in her hands and wept.

Struck to the heart his hands went out to her. She reached for him with a tearing sob and clutched him fi ercely, weeping into his chest.

Appalled, but deeply touched, he stroked her hair, fi nding himself whispering meaningless phrases while the storm of emotion spent itself. Then she wrenched away from him and sought his eyes. “I love you, Mr Kydd—I love you so much it hurts me. There!

It’s said!” Her fi ngers dug painfully into his arms until the moment the Admiral’s daughter 279

passed. She kept his gaze, then added, with a shaky laugh, “And I don’t even know your name.”

Kydd stepped back in dismay, caught up in his own chaos of feeling. He turned away, and saw Billy standing, staring.

They made their way back in an uncomfortable silence; at the manor Squire Morthwen was waiting for them and, seeing his daughter’s condition, demanded an explanation. He listened stonily as she declared she had been upset at Billy’s absence, thinking he had taken a tumble over the rocks and been swept away. The squire looked sharply at Kydd.

Rosalynd excused herself from dinner; Kydd endured until he could get away to the privacy of his bedroom, then fl opped on to the bed, his thoughts running wild.

By morning he knew what he had to do. No decent man could stand to see such sweet innocence betrayed; he had been blind and stupid not to realise that what had been to him a pleasant time in the company of an enchanting young woman might mean rather more to her. It had to end. “Nicholas, I do think I should go back an’ see how Teazer is at the dockyard.”

Renzi’s face fell.

“That is t’ say it will only be me, o’ course. You should stay an’

take aboard a full cargo o’ your ethnical facts afore returning.”

“You are bored and vexed by idleness while I garner my harvest of particulars,” Renzi said suspiciously.

“No! No, Nicholas, it’s just m’ duty, is all.”

There was no prospect that Teazer would be away to sea in the near future. A survey had found started strakes and displaced frame timbers, nothing that could not be put right but the dry-docks were occupied by important units of the fl eet and Teazer would have to take her turn.

Kydd returned to number eighteen, sending Mrs Bargus and 280

Julian Stockwin

Becky into a fl uster, but found it the worst of places to be. He sat alone in the drawing room, staring into the fi re with nothing to divert him from his brooding thoughts.

It was unfair: Rosalynd had invaded his consciousness and threatened his ordered life, but now her image seldom left him.

The wide innocence of those dreamy blue eyes, her beauty, her direct, even intimate, way of talking—he was tormented by her. And he had to do something about it.

Time was not the answer: after several days, her presence was as real as ever. Why could he not put her from his mind?

It was not his way to shy from a diffi culty: the only way to deal with the situation was to confront it. He would ride out to Polperro and dispose of it once and for all by the simple device of seeing her again; then he would surely realise she was a pretty slip of a country girl, whom he had found it agreeable to pass the time on a leisure visit, nothing more. That would fi nally lay to rest his unreal images of a girl who never was.

His knock at the door was answered by the pleasant maid-servant.

No, the squire was out; at this time every day he visited his tenants. Mr Renzi? He was chasing his ethnicals again.

“I’ll wait f’r the squire,” Kydd said, and was ushered into the snug drawing room where he had fi rst set eyes on Rosalynd. He pulled himself together and settled in a chair to await the squire’s return as in all politeness he was bound to do.

The door squeaked and Rosalynd hurried in, incredulous. “Mr Kydd!” she cried, her face lighting with joy. “You came back! You came back for me!”

She fl ew across the room and embraced him. “My dear man, my dearest sweet man . . .”

Kydd looked into her brimming eyes and his arms went round her to hold her close, his hands caressing, cherishing. His eyes pricked and a lump formed in his throat, for now it was plain that he was facing the greatest trial of his life.

the Admiral’s daughter 281

• • •

“So you’ve done well by y’r particulars in Polperro, I see,” said Kydd, eyeing Renzi’s careful piles of notes.

“Indeed—and enough to keep me in thought for a long time to come. Such variance! I would never have conceived it that—”

“Nicholas—um, might we talk for a spell?”

“Talk? Oh, yes, fi re away, old fellow.” He left his notes reluctantly and came to sit with Kydd.

“Nicholas. There is—er, that is to say, I have a problem an’ I was hoping you’d give me a course t’ steer.”

“Oh? Please tell.”

“Well, it’s all shoal-water navigation f’r me, but y’ see, Nicholas, um . . .”

“Dear fellow, do clap on more sail or we’ll not make port by dinner.”

“Er, you see, Nicholas, I—I fi nd my affections have, er, been engaged by Miss Rosalynd.”

Renzi sat bolt upright as though his hearing was in question.

“Do I understand you correctly? You have formed some species of taking after Squire Morthwen’s daughter? A—a lusting for her?”

Kydd reddened. “I can’t keep her out of m’ mind, no matter what I do.”

“Then you had better fi nd a way, my good friend.”

“This is my problem, Nicholas. Is it right t’ wed a lady while thinking of another?”

“Are you telling me in all seriousness that you are allowing a casual obsession of the moment to interfere with your marriage to one of the most eligible scions of society? This is nothing but rank idiocy!”

“And if it’s more than— a passing fancy, what then?”

“Good God, man!” Renzi spluttered. “I do believe you’ve taken leave of your wits!” He quietened with an effort. “Be advised, my friend, that if you still hanker after the woman, in higher society these matters can be arranged discreetly enough. Your Prince of 282

Julian Stockwin

Wales enjoys the attentions of his paramour where he will and—”

Kydd’s face tightened. “Damn it, Nicholas! You’re so high on morality an’ conduct, where’s your advice t’ me now?”

Renzi’s expression hardened. “You’re forgetting yourself. A gentle man by defi nition is concerned with graces and appearances—politeness and urbanity above all. If it’s the case that you’re unable to control your coarser spirits then the least you can do is conduct yourself with discretion.”

Kydd fought back anger. “An’ I’ll remind you we’re talkin’ of a fi ne lady here—what of her?”

“She will accept it, in course—as one of breeding she will be fi rst concerned with the respectability of her family and heirs. You will not fi nd a diffi culty there, I believe.”

“You—for th’ sake of appearances you’d take a wife an’ lie with another?” Kydd choked. “Then I pity my poor sister.”

Renzi went white. “Let me remind you, sir,” he said dangerously, “it is you who are discontented with your lot. I do strongly advise you consider your position carefully and put an end to this ridiculous posturing.”

“Thomas, my dear, so good to see you again. How are you?”

Cecilia poured the tea and regarded her brother with undisguised affection. “The talk in town is all about your brave deeds in the storm. You really should take more care—it’s so very dangerous in a gale.”

“Yes, sis,” Kydd said, accepting his cup.

“And how’s Nicholas? You’ve both been gone for so long on your expeditions.”

“He’s well, Cec, but why I’m here is, er, I need y’r advice.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it! A wedding is really the concern of the womenfolk. They’ll see everything is right on the day.”

“No! It’s—it’s not that. Y’ see, um, something’s happened.”

Cecilia saw his set face and sat up. “Then you’d better tell me about it, Thomas,” she said quietly.

the Admiral’s daughter 283

In the bare telling it sounded so thin and illogical. When he had fi nished Cecilia said nothing, staring at him, troubled.

“Now, let me be clear about this, Thomas. In just a week or so you have discovered deep feelings for this Rosalynd that cannot be denied.”

“Aye,” Kydd said miserably. “It happened so quick, Cec, an’ it’s knocked m’ feelings askew.”

“This is very serious, Thomas.”

“I know,” he whispered. “Can I ask it, sis—is it right to marry one while thinkin’ on another?”

Cecilia looked at him sharply, then melted, leaning to clasp his hands in hers. “You dear sweet boy, you know the answer to that.”

She drew out her handkerchief and wiped a tear, then continued in a practical tone: “So, now there are decisions to be made.

And these are, it seems to me, one of three: cast Rosalynd out of your mind and marry Persephone; continue with the wedding to Persephone and make other arrangements for Rosalynd; and the last is to cast out Persephone and be wed to Rosalynd.”

Kydd said nothing, gazing at her as if mesmerised.

“You might consider delaying in the hope that your feelings change?”

“I—I feel it worse every day.”

“I see. Then we must fi nd a resolution, and for this, I believe, I must ask you some hard questions.”

Kydd nodded and braced himself.

“Do you love Miss Lockwood?”

“She’s the most handsome and intelligent woman I’ve ever met, an’ that’s the truth.”

“Do you love her?”

Wretchedly, Kydd tried to escape Cecilia’s accusing eyes.

“Look, Cec, it’s not that, it’s—it’s that when I see Rosalynd she’s such a tender innocent an’ I want to love her an’ protect her, but Persephone, she—she doesn’t need me t’ protect her. She’s strong 284

Julian Stockwin

an’ knows things and . . .” The lump in his throat made it diffi cult to carry on. “And Rosalynd is carefree an’ loves simple things—I don’t feel I have t’ be polite an’ play a part all th’ time.” Tears pricked. “She talks t’ me and I c’n feel her words inside me . . .”

Sobs choked him.

“Thomas! Listen to me! There’s a terrible fl ood coming and you must save one and lose the other. Only one—who is it to be?”

Kydd shook his head in anguish.

“You must answer!” she demanded forcefully. “Soon one will vanish from your life for ever—for ever! Which one will you miss the most? ”

The tears were blinding but Cecilia spared him nothing.

“Which one?”

“Rosalynd!” he shouted hoarsely. “It’s Rosalynd I can’t bear to leave.” He stood in agony, tears coursing down his cheeks. “I can’t help it! God help me, Cecilia, I can’t help it.”

She held him while the storm passed, saying nothing but rock-ing him slowly.

When it was over he stood away from her, his fi sts bunching helplessly as he fought to regain his composure. “I—I’m sorry, Cec,” he gulped. “We—we men are a lubberly crew when it comes t’ this sort o’ thing.”

“Dear sweet brother, please don’t say you’re sorry. This is all because you’re such a good man—you see?” She sighed and looked at him lovingly. “You’ve answered your own question and, to be frank, it’s not altogether a surprise to me.”

Kydd swallowed.

“Yes—do you mind if I say something very cruel to you, Thomas?”

“If y’ must, Cec.”

“I do believe that you’ve been infatuated not with Persephone Lockwood but with what she is, the world she comes from, all that pomp and fi nery. And the pity of it is that, of a certainty, she loves you.”

the Admiral’s daughter 285

There was nothing he could fi nd to say.

She went on gently: “This is why you must tell her yourself, Thomas—she’s a fi ne woman and at the least deserves this.”

“I will,” he agreed.

“So, now we must consider the future.” She got up and began to pace up and down the room. “I gather you have not spoken to her father yet?”

“No,” he said huskily.

“Have you an understanding with Persephone?”

“I was t’ ask for her hand when she returned from Bath.”

“Very well. Then there is no question of a breach of engagement but the world will believe there is an understanding—your attachment was much talked about.”

She stopped. “Do you intend to marry your Rosalynd?”

Kydd gave a shy smile. “If she will have me, Cec.” The idea broke on him like thunder and he felt nothing but a soaring exhilaration.

His elation seemed to vex Cecilia. “I don’t believe you can conceive what an upset this will cause, Thomas,” she said, with the utmost seriousness. “It will be gossip in the salons for ages to come.

Can you not see? The daughter of a family of the fi rst quality and known at court, an acknowledged beauty, and turned down by a penniless commander for a simple country girl?”

Kydd still stood in an attitude of the greatest happiness, while Cecilia continued grimly, “Her family will be mortifi ed—they will seek to destroy you in society. They will have you damned at every polite gathering in the land. No one will dare invite you for fear of offending—you’ll be an outcast just as you’re about to enter at the highest level. And your sea career—you cause mortal offence to your admiral and he will take his revenge, I’d believe.”

It stopped Kydd, but only for a moment. “He can’t turn me out of my ship, sis. I’ve now got someone t’ care about, and I’m going to do m’ copper-bottomed best t’ see she’s proud o’ me—and be damned to any who’ll stand athwart m’ hawse. An’ in the mean-while, Cec, I’ll be with my Rosalynd, an’ raising our family.”

286

Julian Stockwin

• • •

The hoofbeats of his horse thundered in Kydd’s ears as he tried to grapple with the enormity of what he had just done.

Immediately on her return from Bath he had requested an interview alone with Persephone. Shocked by the reversal of what she had expected, she had nevertheless remained calm and controlled, standing nobly to hear what Kydd had to say.

He had spoken woodenly, forcing himself to look at her while he delivered his words, and then had been nearly undone by her calm reply: as she had before answered his own challenge truthfully, she now simply wished to know if another had secured his affections.

His face was streaked with tears at the memory of her parting words, to the effect that she understood and was grateful for his frankness, for she could never have given her heart to one who could not promise his own.

He had fl ed.

It was now a completed act. With dread and joy he was riding across the hills to Polperro—to Rosalynd. Out of one world and into another. He had propped a note to Renzi on the mantelpiece and had left the storm to break without him.

A straight stretch of road opened ahead and instinctively Kydd whipped his mount into a frenzied gallop, needing the wild motion to work on his emotions. Whatever else in the world happened, he was now riding to lay his heart before Rosalynd Morthwen and seek her hand in marriage.

In a fl ood of feeling he brought the exhausted horse to a crashing stop before the manor, and slid to the ground. At the old windows faces began to appear but Kydd would not have been stopped by the devil himself and strode forward.

“Mr Kydd?” The squire himself answered the door and eyed Kydd’s dusty, wild appearance apprehensively. A manservant and the Admiral’s daughter 287

stable-hand hovered protectively behind him.

Kydd made a short bow. “Sir, my business is brief. I beg th’ favour of some small time with y’r daughter—alone.”

As the import of his request penetrated, a disbelieving smile appeared. Then, by degrees, it spread until the squire’s face grew red with heartfelt pleasure. “By all means, m’ boy!” he chortled. “Do wait a moment, if y’ please.”

Inside, excited shouts were urgently shushed and there were sounds of running feet. Then the squire appeared again at the door. “Do come in, sir.”

Kydd entered and stopped; she was standing rigid in the centre of the little drawing room, her eyes never leaving his.

“Miss Rosalynd,” he said, in a voice charged with emotion, “I come to speak with y’r father on a matter of the highest importance. Y’ see, I’ve come to see that, um m’ feelings for you are, er . . .” He was reddening and the words he had prepared fl ed at the reality of the impossibly lovely creature before him. There was nothing for it. He fl ung himself on to one knee and choked out,

“Rosalynd—will ye wed me?”

“It’s an ox-roast! I’ll stand for nothing less!” The squire’s roar cut across the excited babble. With Rosalynd sitting shyly beside him, his hand securely over hers, Kydd’s heart was full to burst-ing. Tears only a whisker away he endured the friendly jests of her brothers and dared to steal another look at her. It was beyond mortal belief that this sweet creature and he would go forward as one for the rest of their lives.

Rosalynd suggested they take a walk together. However, it seemed that the proprieties were still to be observed and Titus was called to accompany them. In the event, the embarrassed lad went on ahead until he was all but out of sight. They walked slowly together in silence, Kydd anxious that the magic spell might be broken and Rosalynd by his side, with a soft, dreaming look.

288

Julian Stockwin

“I—I believe we must make some plans,” he said fi nally, in a low voice.

“Yes, my—my dearest,” she whispered. “If it does not inconvenience you, I would wish to be married as soon we may. Banns will be called for three Sundays at the parish church and it—it would make me very happy if we could be wed on the fourth.”

She bestowed on him a look of such love that it quite unmanned him. He crushed her to him. “We shall,” he croaked.

In a daze of happiness he walked on, the world in a blur, reality at his side. Their steps had taken them down to the village—to Polperro, which to Kydd now was more dear than anywhere on earth.

“Why, Miss Rosalynd!” Mrs Puckey’s dour face was now wreathed in smiles. “I never did! We’m all been wonderin’ who ye’d end with!” She looked with keen interest at Kydd.

“This is my intended, Mrs Puckey. He’s Mr Kydd,” she said proudly. News must have spread in the village at breakneck speed.

Others arrived to share in the moment. “Bejabers, Mr Kydd, but ye be one of us now, then.”

“Mr Bunt, please! He only asked me this morning!” laughed Rosalynd. “And I did so accept him,” she said softly, with a side-ways glance at Kydd.

They moved on, noting the makings of a huge driftwood fi re even now enthusiastically under way on the foreshore of the harbour before the Three Pilchards, and continued through the streets.

A small shop caught Kydd’s attention: it offered the services of a shade-maker. “My dearest, if you would indulge me, I have a yen . . .” he said.

Each in turn sat in a darkened room beside a paper screen and candle while the artist went laboriously round the shadow with a pencil. Afterwards a dextrous fl ourish with the pantograph saw their silhouettes reduced magically to black miniatures, then charmingly encapsulated in two gilt-edged lockets.

the Admiral’s daughter 289

Kydd slipped his into the inner recesses of his waistcoat where it settled in a glow of warmth.

“My love—do let me show you Talland Bay. It’s so enchanting!” Rosalynd urged.

Then as they passed a modest cottage on the hill she propelled him towards it. “This is someone I’d like to meet you—a man who’s been so good to the village. He came as a schoolteacher, and since he’s been here he’s prospered in business, but he’s always helped people in trouble, taken care of those on hard times and—oh, do come!”

The kindly old gentleman blinked with pleasure at meeting Rosalynd’s chosen and pronounced words of benevolence upon them. “It’s good t’ meet ye, Mr Job,” Kydd said sincerely.

They left the village by the Warren and followed a girdling cliff path far above the sea and right down into the next bay. “There,”

she said, as their shoes crunched in the sand.

Kydd couldn’t help but note it was a very secluded beach, ideal for landing contraband. “In the navy, Polperro bears a reputation for smuggling as hard as any,” he murmured.

“I know, dearest, but please believe me, the fi sher-folk and vil-lagers are not your smugglers. They only fetch and carry for small coin, and who can blame them when the fi shing is so uncertain?

No—the villains are those who put down fi fty pounds to invest in a cargo from France and pay others to face the danger.”

Kydd said nothing, thinking of Stirk somewhere at sea in a smuggling lugger on his dangerous mission to fi nd evidence.

“See here,” Rosalynd said, stooping to a pile of misty dove-grey and violet pebbles. She lifted one up to show him. “Aren’t they lovely?”

“Not as fair as you, my dear Rosalynd,” he said, and kissed her tenderly.

Talland Church was a little further on, up a remarkably steep hill, which left them both panting at the top. “This is where we’ll be married,” she breathed, holding both of his hands. “And the 290

Julian Stockwin

fi shermen’s choir will sing for me and the bells will ring so loudly . . .”

It was a striking church with a wondrous view of the bay.

Mellow with age, it nestled into the Cornish hill as though it had grown from it, the bell-tower set apart from the main edifi ce but linked with a coach-roof. And there they would be joined together for ever.

As they returned Kydd found it hard to deal with the forces pulling on his soul. Here was his future—there lay his past. A gathering black cloud of social ruin was waiting, and this simple sweet soul knew nothing but her new-found happiness.

She stopped at the sea’s edge and turned to him with a smile.

“When will you take me to visit your ship? I’ll be so proud. Will the captain allow me, do you think?” she added anxiously.

“He will, I promise,” Kydd said softly. Then the dark clouds returned to edge about his happiness. Who knew what lurked in wait for him?

“Er, th’ ship’s in dock for repair after th’ storm. We’ll have time later.” But there was a larger issue that had to be faced. She had the right to know what he—they—were headed into: the unjust social retribution that would be visited on her innocence, the friendless, harsh new world after Polperro.

“Rosalynd, my very dearest. I have t’ tell you something as will touch on our future.” He swallowed and continued: “Before I met you, there was a lady called Persephone, an’ she and I . . .”

Chapter 13

Kydd could not throw off his sense of foreboding as the coach drew closer to Plymouth. Rattling along the last mile it curved round to stop on the foreshore, which had once been a favourite sight, with the long spread of the dockyard on the opposite shore, and sail on the river. Now, as he waited for the Torpoint ferry, it seemed hostile and foreign.

He gazed over the half-fi nished vessels and the ships in for repair. To his astonishment he saw Teazer, with just her lower masts but to all intents and purposes out of dock and in completion.

Hailing a returning wherry he hurried out to his ship. Standish was there, impassively at the salute, but with few others about the decks.

“How is th’ ship?” Kydd asked him.

Standish doffed his hat formally and said coolly, “Wanting masts and stores only, sir.” The implied rebuke was barely concealed.

Kydd turned abruptly and went to his cabin. “Ah, Nicholas!

We’re afl oat again. Have you your suffi ciency of ethnicals, do y’

think?”

Renzi rose from the table, his manner cold and detached. “Here are the returns for stores demands. You should be aware that in your absence eleven men have deserted. And we have received an instruction from Admiral Lockwood that the instant you returned aboard you were to present yourself at his offi ce immediately.”

292

Julian Stockwin

“Thank you,” Kydd said, with as much dignity as he could muster. “I will go now, o’ course.”

“Get out!” Lockwood roared at a frightened clerk, when Kydd had been announced. “You too,” he savagely snapped at the fl ag- lieutenant. Lockwood strode across and slammed the offi ce door. “How dare you, sir? How dare you show your villainous face in public after your unpardonable behaviour towards my daughter?”

“Sir,” Kydd said stiffl y, “there was no engagement.”

“But there was an understanding!” Lockwood shouted, his face white with fury. “As well you knew, sir! You have been dishonourable in your intentions. She is upset—quite undone—and I will not let it pass. As God is my witness I will not let this go.”

Kydd swayed under the blast.

Suddenly Lockwood turned and stamped over to his desk.

He waved a copy of the Telegraph at Kydd. “Have you any con-ception of the ruination you have caused my family? The distress this has caused my beloved wife? No? Then read this, sir! Read it!”

Kydd took the newspaper.

Our intrepid spy, LOOKOUT, climbs aloft to the crow’s nest in his unceasing quest for those furtive proceedings of the world most likely to surprise and concern the public. He trains his powerful telescope and before long a most lugu-brious sight catches his eye. Readers of a delicate disposition should now avert their eyes for what must follow is a heartrending tale of desolation and woe. A comely maiden stands weeping, and to LOOKOUT’s astonishment and anguish he sees that it is none other than our fair Miss Persephone L—, who when she last graced this column was expecting the joyful sound of wedding bells. What the Admiral’s daughter 293

is this? he asks, bewildered, and turns his glass around and about. Aha! Can this be the reason?

The dashing and notorious Captain Kidd has vilely abandoned her and is now making wicked advances to another. And who is it for whom he has spurned our lady of quality Miss L—? None other than a simple country girl with no prospects but a saucy fi gure. Can it be believed? We can only beg our Readers to contemplate the feelings . . .

Kydd reddened. “Sir, this is no—”

“You’ve shamed us to the whole world, sir!” bellowed Lockwood.

“And cast my dear wife to her bed with mortifi cation. And I can assure you I’ll see you in Hades before I let it rest.”

Kydd stood rigid as he continued. “And when I’m fi nished there won’t be a soul in the land who’ll think to let you pass their door!

And as for your sea service, I promise you, my report to their lordships concerning your fi tness for command will spare not a single detail. None, sir!”

“Sir, this is monstrous unjust,” Kydd said thickly.

“Your ship has been at moorings these last two days awaiting her commander. This is intolerable and demonstrates to me a complete and utter contempt for your position as a commanding offi -

cer. Permission to sleep out of your ship is therefore revoked—you understand me, sir?”

“Yes,” Kydd ground out.

“What was that?”

“I understand, sir,” Kydd said, suppressing his anger savagely.

“Then, if you fi nd the time, perhaps you might bring your command to sea readiness. I have a special service in mind.”

The midshipman of the boat quailed under his captain’s fury, and as they returned to Teazer Boyd gave his orders to the crew in a hushed voice.

294

Julian Stockwin

Kydd had come to a cold, hard understanding of how things now were. He had chosen his path—and it had cost him dearly.

The dream-like past, with its promise of elevation to the heights of gentility and aristocratic privilege, was now but a memory. All he had to look forward to was the remainder of his commission in Teazer before the admiral’s malicious actions took effect at the Admiralty, then gentle penury for the rest of his life.

But it would be with Rosalynd. He clung to the radiance of her laughing image, his eyes misting. Be damned, it was worth it—a hundred times worth it!

“Um, sir—we’re alongside,” the midshipman said uncomfortably.

“I c’n see that, blast you,” he said, and clambered inboard over the bulwark. “Send f’r the sheer hulk, we’re taking in masts,” he snapped at Standish. “Now, sir!”

He plunged below and sat in his chair, breathing heavily.

“Tysoe!” he roared. “Brandy!”

Renzi glanced up from his quill, face blank.

Kydd glowered at him. “As y’ said! An’ I’ll thank ye not t’

preach it!”

Renzi looked at him for a moment, then said coldly, “I’m sorry to hear it.”

“I don’t think you are,” Kydd said venomously. “You’re satisfi ed t’ see me on a lee shore, now I’ve made m’ choice.”

“I take no pleasure from your predicament.”

“Then why the wry looks?”

“Since you ask it, I believe you have done yourself a grievous harm—no, hear me out for I shall say this once only.”

Kydd’s expression tightened as Renzi went on remorselessly,

“It has been too rapid, too precipitate. It is my fi rm belief that taken, as you no doubt are, by one of nature’s children, you have progressed too far in your acquisition and appreciation of the higher arts of civilised conduct, and later you will fi nd yourself quite unsatisfi ed and morose with your lot, shackled to one the Admiral’s daughter 295

for whom the graces will mean so little.

“And why you have seen fi t to throw over without thought a gentlewoman of such incomparable quality as Miss Lockwood, with all it means for your hopes of entry into society, I simply cannot conceive.”

Kydd glared at Renzi. “Have y’ fi nished?”

“That is all I wish to say.”

“Then hear me now, f’r I’ll say this only th’ once.” He tossed back his brandy in one. “I don’t expect ye to reckon on it, but when I came up wi’ Rosalynd, all m’ world has gone like—like a dream, a wonderful dream.” He saw Renzi wince at the return of his old ways of speech but didn’t care.

“I—I love th’ girl.” He gulped, “I didn’t know love would be like this’n. It’s wonderful—an’ so terrible!” He grabbed the bottle and splashed more into his glass. “An’ this I’ll tell ye today, it’s Rosalynd an’ no other, so help me!”

Renzi spoke in an icily neutral tone: “Then there seems no point in continuing this conversation. You are besotted of the moment and will take no advice from anyone. We are of different minds on the issue and I, for my part, can see no reason to change my view of your unfortunate situation.”

He took a long breath. “Therefore I offer the termination of my services aboard Teazer. If you so desire, I shall shift my berth out of this vessel tonight.”

Kydd felt stifl ed by the ship. He knew the signs, the sly looks, seamen listless in their duties, the lack of respect in their eyes—his men had taken against him.

It could be anything: there would be lofty criticising on the mess-deck, arguments. But counting heavily against him from the point of view of the seamen before the mast was Teazer’s conspicuous lack of victories in battle. Was he unlucky? A Jonah?

But the real reason, he knew, was deeper. He had had the 296

Julian Stockwin

chance of marrying into the world of the aristocracy, with all the prestige it would have given the ship, and had somehow botched it, settling for a simple country lass. It brought into question his judgement as a man—and, by implication, as their commander.

Two more had gone over the side as they were getting in the masts, knowing that no one could be spared to chase after them.

Teazer would be putting to sea in the next few days and she was falling apart. Standish was cool and aloof, and the master had retreated into monosyllables. Even Tysoe was reproachful and distant, clearly put out because his hopes of a prestigious situation in the future had been dashed.

It had cost Kydd dignity and patience to beg Renzi to remain, and there was no guarantee that it would last. But with Renzi set against him he had now not a single friend or confi dant to whom he could turn.

He burnt with the injustice of it all, but he was helpless.

Forbidden to sleep ashore, there was, however, nothing to stop him setting foot on land for a little while so he ordered his boat.

At the hard he saw two lieutenants in conversation. On seeing Kydd they stopped, then deliberately turned their backs to continue their exchange. It would demean him to take them to task, and he passed them, wounded. Were the offi cers of the fl eet now taking sides?

A casual naval acquaintance, in plain clothes, stopped and looked at him with frank curiosity, and a pair of ladies in Durnford Street passed him primly enough but then broke into excited chatter.

Number eighteen was no longer a snug haven. His estrange-ment from Renzi cast a pall over their lodging, and when Mrs Bargus came in to fi nd whether to set the fi re it was with a disapproving air.

But there was one who would understand, Kydd hoped. His spirits returned as he summoned the housekeeper. “Here, Mrs Bargus, the Admiral’s daughter 297

fi nd a boy an’ tell him t’ deliver a note this hour.” A reply came back by return:

Dear brother,

I have to get this off, so please do forgive if I’m short.

I’m so truly sorry to hear of your trouble, but right at this time I don’t think I can be seen with you, Mrs Mullins taking on so. You will understand, won’t you?

And I don’t think I want to go on board your ship and see Mr Renzi there until things are settled. Do keep well, and next time I see you I hope it will be with Rosalynd.

Kydd felt the world closing in on him. The only thing now in his universe that had any meaning was Rosalynd. Her softness, the clear sweetness of her voice—only she mattered. He sat back and let warm thoughts of her take him away.

It was getting towards dusk, and as he readied himself to return to the ship there was a hesitant tap at the door below and voices as Mrs Bargus answered.

“I, um, was passing.”

“Bazely! S’ kind in ye! Please draw up a chair—brandy?”

“Not now, thank ’ee,” he said, without his usual breeziness. “I can’t stop for long. Fenella puts out on the morning tide. To the east’d,” he added.

“Well, now . . .” Kydd tried to think of talk, but Bazely cut him short. “I came, er, to see if there’s anything I can do for ye,” he said uncomfortably.

“Do for me?”

“Now you’ve come up against things, an’ all. You’ll know what I mean.”

Kydd was touched beyond measure. Bazely had risked the admiral’s displeasure and his career by visiting him. “That’s so good 298

Julian Stockwin

of ye, Bazely. It seems there’s not s’ many wish t’ stand as my friend. I’m sorry we didn’t fi nd time ever f’r a ran-tan ashore.”

“One of us has to keep the seas while the other sports it in harbour, m’ old cock. It’s the way of it. I recall y’ took a hammering off Whitsand while we was snug at two anchors in Tor Bay.”

“Aye. Well, it’s right good of ye t’ call. I might yet have a need.”

A soft look spread on Kydd’s face as he added, “An’ I’ll have ye know, wherever Rosalynd and I fetch up, you’ll be fi rst across th’

threshold, m’ friend.”

HMS Teazer’s orders were waiting for her captain when he returned aboard. A single page, delivered by a lieutenant under signature. It was far from elaborate; the “special service” was nothing more than the instruction to resume smuggler-hunting, to remain on station without leaving, at his peril.

It was a cynical move: by one easy stroke, and appearing to be in earnest about a serious problem, Lockwood had ensured that Kydd would fi nd neither glory nor notice; it was a sentence of sea toil and drudgery, fl ogging up and down the coast after fast and elusive smugglers, who seemed to have second sight.

When Teazer fi nally put to sea it was with a scratch company, the Impress Service fi nding seven resentfuls, a new gunner’s mate, with Stirk presumed lost, and discontent rippling out from the quarterdeck after their fate was revealed.

How things had changed. Teazer, his fi ne ship of which he had been so proud, was now the focus of his troubles; and she was not the lovely creature she had been. He had not been able to fi nd the funds to smooth away the raw marks of damage and repair with expensive varnish and had had to accept the utilitarian dull black of the dockyard which disfi gured and besmirched her bright-sided hull.

They rounded the Rame westwards past Whitsand Bay; they were the same places as before but now they seemed indifferent, the Admiral’s daughter 299

going about their unseen everyday business while Teazer sailed endlessly offshore.

But one held special meaning: almost hidden from seaward the snug village of Polperro came up under their lee—he would have given almost anything to land there, but even the most compelling reason would be misinterpreted. And as he could not travel from Plymouth and return in a day, and was unable to sleep out of his ship, it would be impossible to visit Rosalynd.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kydd felt a rush of warmth. “Ye’ll have a rummer for y’r bones,”

he said, then found glasses and a bottle.

300

Julian Stockwin

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

spliced t’ the wrong lady and, er, y’ may hear rum things about me,” he fi nished lamely.

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

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

hear of y’r adventuring now, Mr Stirk.”

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

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

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

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

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

“A very fl y gennelman, Mr Job. Has s’ much ridin’ on the cargoes he’s taken over th’ business o’ gettin’ it ashore himself.

Organises th’ lot fr’m a master book ’e keeps.”

So that was how—

“Now, Mr Kydd, if ye has th’ book an’ matches it there t’ the the Admiral’s daughter 301

sailin’ times, even a blind Dutchman ’ll have t’ say as how he must by y’ man.”

“How—”

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

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

Stirk said nothing, fi xing Kydd with an expressionless stare.

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

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

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

“This is a great stroke, an’ there’ll be a reward at th’ back of it.

I’ll see y’ square on that, Mr Stirk,” Kydd said warmly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why, sir, if that’s so then—”

302

Julian Stockwin

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

“Er, where . . . ?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Form up,” he snapped, clapping his cocked hat fi rmly in place.

“Shoulder y’r arms.” There were gasps from the jostling onlookers as the seamen drew their cutlasses and rested the bare blades on their shoulders.

the Admiral’s daughter 303

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unrest spread as the people realised what was happening; Job was popular in Polperro. Kydd raised his hand to knock again but the door opened and a bemused Job emerged, blinking in the sun.

“Gentlemen? Ah, Mr Kydd, is it not?”

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

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

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

“What? You can’t do that, sir! What are you doing?” Job shrilled, 304

Julian Stockwin

as Poulden went into the room described by Stirk. “There’s the accounts of years in there—they’ll be sent all topsy-turvy. Oh, do stop him, Mr Kydd, I beg.”

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

Neat columns: names, dates, cargoes. Consignees, special instructions, ships, times, places. It was more than enough.

“Zephaniah Job. I arrest you f’r—f’r doin’ smugglin’, contrary t’

the law. Ye’ll come with us t’ Fowey—now.”

Iron handcuffs were produced. Job was now calm, almost serene.

“This is my home village, Mr Kydd. It would oblige me extremely should you permit me to go on board your vessel unfettered, sir.”

“Your word?”

“My word.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She composed herself. “You must always do your duty, my love.

Go now, and I’ll be waiting for you.”

“Sir?” Poulden said anxiously.

the Admiral’s daughter 305

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

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

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

“It is. Where is he now?”

“In irons, sir. I thought it—”

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

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

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

Kydd kept a noncommittal silence.

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

“Y’r service?”

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

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

306

Julian Stockwin

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

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

“Let me explain,” Job said evenly. “You may have noticed that his knowledge of these coasts is exemplary. This is no coincidence.

I can tell you now that I know him well, but as Michael Haws, resident as was of Looe—a species of turn-coat, as it were, in his own interest.

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

It was incredible—if true.

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

“This is fi ne information, Mr Job, but I—”

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

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

usual privateersman, he’s a mad dog an’ must be put down.”

Standish looked grave, the others remained impassive.

“He’s not about t’ give up without he takes it out of us. I don’t need t’ say it, but he’ll not be offerin’ quarter an’ therefore I do the Admiral’s daughter 307

see it as a fi ght t’ the fi nish. I’m sorry t’ see Teazer’s company put t’ hazard in this way, but I know you’ll see th’ need.

“Now. I don’t want t’ lose this chance so I’ve given it a lot o’

thought. I’d like y’r comments afterwards.” He glanced at Renzi, sitting at a small table and taking a record, but he realised there would be no discourse in the old way with his friend.

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

But it would be in the last few miles only that the smuggler’s position would be guaranteed. Where could a privateer lurk unseen?

In the almost north-south trend of St Austell Bay to the Dodman, with Pentewan in the middle, one place stood out above all others: Black Head, to the north. This looming mass of granite standing well out could comfortably conceal a dozen vessels within a mile or so of the sands. Not passed from the south-east and with all attention in the smuggling craft on the dangers of the landing, the privateer could close in from behind with deadly ease.

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

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

It was going to be that hardest of battlefi elds, the sea at night, with all that it meant for the accuracy of gunfi re and distinguish-ing friend from foe in combat on a strange deck in the pitch dark.

308

Julian Stockwin

With most certainly a larger crew in the privateer, the odds were shortening fast.

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

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

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

The run ashore was timed for after dark and before the moon rose. The land in shadows lost its character and faded into gloom.

Lights began to wink on ashore. Kydd lost sight of the tip of Black Head; it was time to get under way.

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

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

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

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

“Sir!” Andrews whispered urgently.

The midshipman’s more acute hearing had picked up something. Kydd strained—then heard a regular series of tiny wooden squeals, precisely as if the yard on a lugger was being hoisted up the Admiral’s daughter 309

the mast. And the sound came from closer in to the land: if this was the privateer he must have superlative knowledge of the coast.

They rippled on through the calm water trying hard to catch a betraying clue, knowing Bloody Jacques would be keeping his own silence. But if that was indeed yards being swayed up, the pirate was hoisting sail to make his lunge.

A sudden thickening in the gloom to starboard was Black Head—the lugger was not there. Damn the blackness to hell!

From about a mile ahead Kydd heard a sudden cry of alarm.

Then a ragged chorus of shouts carried over the water, followed by a pistol fl ash or two. Kydd’s heart leapt as he willed Teazer on in an agony of impatience.

He heard more shots and the clamour of edged weapons rising, then falling away. It wasn’t until long minutes later that they could see dark shapes on the water: two, close together. Kydd’s strategy had been simple: he would close on the privateer, fi re, and board in the smoke and surprise. The one thing he was relying on in this risky attempt was that half of the enemy would be away subduing the smugglers.

On Teazer’s deck the boarders were ready with bared steel.

Standing next to the wheel Kydd tried to make out the situation—

then he saw movement, separation. The larger vessel was detach-ing from the smaller. There was a cry—they had been seen! A swivel gun banged uselessly at them into the night, then a larger carriage gun was fi red.

The vessel’s angular lugsails were sheeting round urgently to the light westerly, but at this point of sailing a lugger’s ability to sail closer to the wind was of no advantage since it was boxed in to the land, and Teazer was no mean sailer on a wind. As they drew nearer, the shape foreshortened as it bore away south for the open sea. The smaller was endeavouring to make sail as well but the smuggler could be dealt with later, if it was still there—after they had put paid to Bloody Jacques.

310

Julian Stockwin

The wind freshened as they plunged south, all to Teazer’s favour, exulted Kydd, for they were only a few hundred yards astern.

A conclusion was certain if it held or strengthened. A little after midnight the moon rose, its silver light picking out the lugger in pitiless detail. Teazer grew nearer and Kydd realised that, with a reduced crew, his opponent had no scope for fast manoeuvre.

The Dodman stood stern and massive in the moonlight when they forereached on the lugger. If only Rosalynd could be there, Kydd thought—but this was his world, not hers; she would take no pleasure in seeing him about to hazard his life. It cooled his battle-fever: from now on, he realised, he had to consider two, not one. But had not her last words to him been, “You must always do your duty”?

“Stand by, forrard!” he roared. The carronades were loaded with alternate ball and canister, there could be no reloading in this dark.

Teazer’s bowsprit inched past the lugger’s stern. Beside him Standish was watching, his hand working unconsciously at the hilt of his sword.

“Fire!” A split second later a twenty-four-pounder carronade blasted, its gunfl ash overbright in the gloom. At thirty yards’ range there was no missing and in the moonlight leaping splinters could be seen as the ball struck home.

“We have him, damme!” Standish yelled in glee.

If they could do their work before the Dodman and the open Atlantic—but then, without warning, it all changed. There were frightened shouts in the lugger and it sheered up into the wind, sails banging and ropes all a-fl y. Then the yards began to drop. It made no sense.

Standish looked at him. “Sir, I do believe he wants to yield.”

It was impossible but the lugger had doused all sail and lay sub-missively to await her conqueror. “Board an’ bring that rogue before me, Mr Standish,” Kydd ordered.

His lieutenant returned quickly. “Sir. I’m so sorry to tell you—

the Admiral’s daughter 311

but this is the smuggler, the other the privateer.”

Many smuggling craft were lugger-rigged as well and often of sizeable proportions. In the heat of the moment Kydd had forgotten this—and he had lost Bloody Jacques.

“My commiserations on the events of the night,” said Job, smoothly, not at all disobliged to be summoned before his captor at such an hour.

“T’ damnation with that! Do you check y’r book an’ tell me where there’s t’ be another landing. He’ll want t’ satisfy his crew after tonight, I’ll believe.” Kydd handed over the heavy tome.

Job adjusted his spectacles. “Why, there’s a landing tomorrow, at Portloe.”

“Around the Dodman only. So we’ll be there as well,” Kydd said, with satisfaction.

Job looked up with a small smile. “And at the same time another—at Praa Sands.”

It would be impossible to watch two separated locations at the same time. “Seems t’ me you’re in a fi ne way o’ business, so many cargoes t’ land,” Kydd growled.

“Not so much, Mr Kydd,” Job came back. “These few days of the month are the choicest for running goods. A smuggler’s moon; one that does not rise until the work is done and with a good fl ood tide to bear it ashore.”

Kydd made up his mind. “Praa Sands is nearly up with Falmouth. I’ll choose y’r Portloe as is now so convenient f’r the scrovy dog.”

Overcast, with the same westerly veering north, it was a perfect night for free trading in Veryan Bay and thus Portloe. But there seemed nothing close to the little port that would serve to conceal a predator, the jagged hump of Gull Rock to the south probably being too rock-girt to lie close to.

They tried their best but their long and stealthy creep from 312

Julian Stockwin

seaward was in vain with not a sight of their prey. Either they had chosen wrongly or, after his recent experience, the privateer was more than usually vigilant and had slunk away.

And, it seemed, there were no more landings in prospect. Their alternatives were now few, the scent run cold. Job was summoned once more; there was just one question Kydd wanted answered.

“If Bloody Jacques is not a Frenchy, as y’ say, then tell me this.

Where’s he get his ship refi tted after a fi ght? Where’s he get his stores an’ such? An’ what I’m asking is, he must have a base—

where is it, then?”

“A fair question,” Job said. “Since Guernsey won’t have him, he’s taken to seizing whatever he wants from small fi sher villages.

Simply appears at dawn, sends a band of ruffi ans to affright the people and takes a house while his men do disport aboard.”

“Go on,” Kydd said grimly.

“He chooses carefully—only those villages far from others, with poor roads out so he’s no worry of the alarm being raised quickly, and a sheltered anchorage for his vessel. Stays for only a day or two, then disappears again.”

It was getting to be near impossible to lay the pirate a-lee, but Kydd was resolved to put an end to him. He dismissed Job and sat down to think.

He had now come up with Bloody Jacques twice and had always found him a cool and reasoned opponent. The violence and cruelty in no way prevented him being an able, resolute seaman and enemy. So what the devil would he do now?

Lie low out of the way and wait for Teazer to tire of the chase.

Where? Beyond her normal patrol limit—not to the east and the old, well-served and prosperous ports but to the rugged and remote west. Beyond Falmouth and even Penzance—to the very end of all England.

Land’s End, where he had given Kydd the slip so easily before?

Or perhaps further beyond? The chart gave few details of the region, for its wild majesty was of no interest to seafarers, who the Admiral’s daughter 313

feared the ironbound coast. He peered closer—no ports to speak of; he remembered the precipitous cliffs, the dark menace of sub-sea rocky ledges and the rolling waters of the Atlantic meeting stern headlands.

Further round was Cape Cornwall with offshore banks and shoals aplenty: but before that a long beach was marked. Surely the fi sher-folk had a village somewhere along it?

They had, and it was called Sennen Cove. Round the coast from Land’s End, it was tucked into the end of the beach under high cliffs and guarded from sea intruders on one side by the sprawling Cowloe reef, and on the other an easy escape to the north with these westerlies. The nearest authority of any kind was miles away over scrubland. Ideal, in fact, for such a one as Bloody Jacques.

In some way Kydd was sure that this was the place—he could feel it. And this time there would be no mistake.

He could crowd on sail and bring Teazer round the headland, then fall on the privateer; but what if they were seen by a lookout atop the cliffs and Bloody Jacques slipped to sea again? It couldn’t be risked.

A night attack? Problematic, and there was the hideous danger of the Cowloe reef in darkness. Boats, swarming round the point?

Just one gun in the lugger would cause horrifi c casualties before they could close, and in any case they would fi nd themselves hopelessly outnumbered.

This needed thought—the kind that was generally sparked when he and Renzi talked together . . . but Renzi was not available. He would have to fi nd a plan on his own.

It was something Job had said: Bloody Jacques’ practice was to go ashore and take a house. That was the answer. Kydd knew he could not simply sail in and send a boat ashore with the lugger crew looking on, but there was another way, and he set Teazer after her quarry.

As long as the weather held. If there was even a slight heave, one 314

Julian Stockwin

of the more common Atlantic swells rolling lazily in, it would be impossible. On this day, mercifully, there wasn’t and mere waves would not worry them.

With Teazer safely at anchor, bare yards south of the extreme tip of Land’s End, her cutter pulled away by the last light of day with as many men as it could hold, those at the oars cramped and swearing, but it was less than a mile they had to pull.

Close in with the rearing crags, gulls rising in screaming clouds at their intrusion, they stroked northward, with wicked rock formations standing out into the sea from the precipitous heights.

Kydd’s eyes were scanning urgently: before it got dark he had to fi nd a place on this utterly rockbound coast to land and discover a means of ascending the cliffs. No one but a madman would think to land here.

At the base of the rockface all along the shore there was a narrow ledge of tumbled boulders and sea-rounded stones washed white by the slight seas. They proceeded just off the line of breaking waves, the cliffs prettily red-tinted by the setting sun with occasional deep shadowed caves and natural archways, the pungent smell of rotting seaweed wafting out.

Then he saw it: a deep cleft between two bluffs. “Hold water!”

Kydd said, in a low voice. While the boat rocked, he examined it as closely as he could. It was probably eroded by water run-off from above, and therefore a possible way up.

Bringing the cutter about he took it as close as he dared to the shore. With little swell, there was no real danger of the boat rising and falling on to the rocks waiting under it. He splashed over the side into the water and stumbled ashore over the mass of stony boulders towards the cleft. It was in the sunset’s shadow but nearer to it, he could see that even though it was choked in places with loose stones it wound up steeply out of sight and, as far as he could tell, to the top. It would do.

He brought his men ashore and sent the boat back. There was nothing more to do but wait for the dawn.

the Admiral’s daughter 315

• • •

Shivering, stiff, and conscious that he had spent a night under the stars on unyielding stones, Kydd awoke. Others stirred nearby. It was calm and with a slight mist. Impatiently Kydd waited for the light to improve so they could make a move. But when they did reach Sennen Cove, would Bloody Jacques be there?

“I’ll be fi rst, Mr Stirk,” Kydd called quietly, looking back over his men as he hurried past. They were not many, but he was relying on the likelihood that only a few would be trusted ashore from the privateer.

If any words were to be said, now was the time; but Kydd could fi nd none in the face of what they were about to do. “Let’s fi nish th’ job,” he said, and began to climb.

It was hard going, a scramble on loose pebbles and dust, then hard-edged rocky shards. They heaved themselves up like topmen, shifting hand or foot only when the others had good purchase. All the time the light strengthened allowing them to see the appalling drop that was opening beneath them to the sea below.

Then the cleft angled to the left and shallowed. The going was easier, and almost before they knew it, the slope gentled and the ground levelled out.

Kydd moved cautiously. There was every reason for Bloody Jacques to post a lookout here: there was a view both to Land’s End on the one side and the broad sweep of beach on the other.

And there was indeed a sentry. He was sitting on a ledge of rock gazing out to sea, a clay pipe going peacefully—with a musket across his knees. Kydd dropped to the ground.

The man had to be silenced: the musket would sound the alarm.

But in a paradoxical way Kydd was comforted. This was proof that he was right. Bloody Jacques was here.

Stirk slithered up next to him. “Mr Kydd,” he whispered hoarsely, gesturing to himself and then to the lookout. Kydd nodded, and Stirk scrambled to his feet. He stood swaying for a moment, his hands clamped piteously to his head as though it 316

Julian Stockwin

were about to burst, then fell to his knees.

There was a shout from the man, but Stirk shook his head and crawled further, then stopped to dry-retch into the dust.

The lookout shouted again, thinking him another of his crew, betwaddled after a riotous night. He put down his musket and came over irritably.

Stirk exploded into life, barrelling into the unfortunate man and, with a snarl, lofting him over his shoulder. The sentry crashed on to the edge of the cliff, his fi ngers scrabbling hopelessly, and slithered over with a despairing cry.

Now they had only to cross a quarter-mile of barren heathland, then descend into Sennen Cove. They hurried along silently and emerged on to the bluffs overlooking the neat little village and the beach. There, nestling within the fl at blackness of the reef, was the three-masted lugger they had sought for so long.

There was no early-morning activity aboard and, indeed, none in the village, from what could be seen. If Bloody Jacques was in a cottage, which one? Was he still aboard his lugger—and preparing to sail?

A track led at an angle to the side, which soon wound into thick, concealing furze. Kydd plunged down.

Surprise was their only advantage: they did not carry muskets, which would have hindered them on the climb, and pistols in the belt could well work loose and drop. They were going into the attack armed only with bare steel.

It seemed impossible that their awkward, skidding haste down the track had not been heard in the huddle of cottages just below, but Kydd could detect no alarm. Should they risk everything on a mad dash to the centre of the village or keep out of sight of the lugger and search the houses one by one?

As they came upon the fi rst dwelling he could see that this was no longer an alternative. There were men untidily asleep on the sand, others no doubt elsewhere. Should he spread out his own the Admiral’s daughter 317

men in a search or keep them defensively together?

“Stay with me!” he hissed, and stalked out into the narrow street, sword in hand—his precious fi ghting blade, which had been at his side on countless occasions of peril, a fi erce comfort.

Standing four-square, his men behind him, he bellowed, “Bloody Jacques! I have ye now! Come out an’ yield y’self to me!”

His voice echoed off the silent buildings. “Commander Kydd!

In th’ King’s name, surrender y’self!” There were tiny movements at the windows of some cottages.

Shouts rose from the beach. How many were there?

“We have ye surrounded, y’ villain! Come out an’ show y’self!”

“Sir—th’ lugger! She’s gettin’ a boat wi’ men ashore!” They would soon be overwhelmed; Kydd’s men could barely hold their own against those who had come up from the beach.

“Y’ last chance afore I come in an’ tear ye from y’ bed—Mick Haws!”

Behind him a door crashed open and Kydd wheeled round.

With an animal roar, a giant of a man in shirt and breeches threw himself towards him, a monster claymore in his fi st.

Kydd braced himself, his sword at point. The claymore came down in a mighty sweep, meeting Kydd’s blade with a jarring smash, numbing his arm. But he was not intimidated: such a heavy weapon was unwieldy and slow—the fi ght would be over soon.

However, it had been a blind—Bloody Jacques held a smaller blade in his other hand, which swept round in a savage thrust to Kydd’s groin. He parried awkwardly, the action bringing them close, and caught the other man’s rank stench. He became aware that the fi ghting round him had become general. Clashes of weapons, cries of pain. But he dared not lose concentration. He tried to turn his parry to a tierce, but it was savagely defl ected.

More sounds of fi ghting, blade on blade, pistol shots. Kydd felt his opponent’s desperation but what if the lugger crew reached 318

Julian Stockwin

them before . . . ? However, Calloway had kept a cool head, and when Bloody Jacques had been fl ushed out he had done his duty.

With a sudden hiss and whoosh, Kydd heard their signal rocket soar skyward.

There was a groan of pain, more shrieks. From his men? It was only the fi ne balance and superbly tempered steel of his weapon that enabled him to withstand the savage battering that followed, the demented onslaught with which Bloody Jacques was trying to overwhelm him.

But suddenly the tide seemed to have turned: cheers and jeer-ing broke out, strengthening as the sounds of battle diminished.

Clearly the privateersmen had realised the signifi cance of the rocket—that a King’s ship was in the vicinity. They were throwing down their weapons, which, no doubt, were swiftly snatched up by Kydd’s men.

“If ye’d stand clear, sir.” Kydd could not afford to take his eye from his opponent but he knew what Stirk intended to do.

However, a musket ball to the throat was too easy an end for this man.

“Belay that,” he called breathlessly, between blows. “He’s t’

pay . . . at th’end . . . of a rope!”

That goaded Bloody Jacques into a furious, reckless assault that sent Kydd stumbling, then falling full-length backwards. In an instant the man threw himself forward, but Kydd had sensed this coming and thrust out with his foot. Bloody Jacques fell—

squarely on to Kydd’s waiting blade. It was all over in seconds.

Kydd drew himself to his feet and looked around breathlessly. In the mêlée the men of Teazer had suffered lightly. Bloody Jacques and several of the privateersmen lay still, the others huddled together in meek submission.

“Well, Mr Job, and as you’ve been of such rousin’ assistance to us, I’m sure that—”

the Admiral’s daughter 319

“Ah, Mr Kydd. I’ve been meaning to talk with you about this. You see—and please forgive if I’m brief in the article of explanations—there may be reasons why it should be more expedient for you to set me at liberty, as it were.”

Kydd slumped back, amazed at the man’s effrontery. “Pray why should I do that?” he said.

“I’m sure this will go no further, Mr Kydd? Then I should inform you that my business interests are near—and far.”

“If you’re thinkin’ t’ offer me—”

“Sir, I shall speak more clearly. In my trading ventures—”

“Smugglin’!”

Job allowed a pained expression to appear. “—in which it is plain I have made my mark and thereby gained the respect and trust of many disparate parties, which necessarily includes the French authorities, it would appear that His Majesty’s government has found me of some utility in actions of a clandestine nature. These might include the passing of agents and others into and out of France in the character of smuggling crew—do not, I beg, press me for details.”

“Go on.”

“I cannot go further, apart from suggesting that your admiral in the strictest confi dence consults a Mr Congalton at the Foreign Offi ce as to whether, in fact, it is a good idea that I be taken up as a common smuggler. If I am unsupported, I may of course be instantly taken and cast into prison.”

His confi dent smile implied there was little danger of that.

“And, dare I mention it, sir, your reputation with your admiral afterwards will be as high as if this were public knowledge.”

To put before Lockwood that not only had he laid hold of the smuggler-in-chief but that he was privy to secrets at the highest level would be sweet indeed. “I’ll need y’ word on it.”

“You have it, Commander.”

“Then I’ll take ye back to Polperro while we check th’ details.”

320

Julian Stockwin

Kydd chuckled drily. “I may be wrong in th’ particulars, but I have th’ feeling that this day I may have destroyed Bloody Jacques, but I’ve also got rid of a business competitor for ye.”

Renzi sat in the boat next to Kydd. On the other side Job was serene and confi dent. Renzi had agreed to come to Polperro only because Kydd was in such fi ne spirits and had begged that he pay his respects to Rosalynd. He did not dislike the girl, it was not her fault that Kydd had been so hopelessly lovestruck: it was simply such a waste and one that, so obviously, Kydd would come later to regret.

They reached the fi sh quay. Renzi stood back while Kydd helped Job up and sent him on his way.

“Lay off an’ wait,” Kydd ordered the boat’s crew and, with a broad smile, added, “We won’t stay, Nicholas, don’t y’ worry.”

They stepped off briskly for the Landaviddy path. Instinctively Renzi felt uneasy: it was peculiar that so few people were about.

They walked on and even the few seemed to be scurrying off. Did they think Kydd was looking for someone else?

A fi sherwoman stopped, a set expression on her lined face.

Then she turned and hurried away. It was deeply unsettling.

In a low voice Renzi said, “There’s—something afoot. I don’t know . . .”

Kydd looked about with a frown. “Where’s th’ people?”

They were both unarmed: should they return immediately to the boat? Had there been a French landing? It could be anything.

Then there was movement down the path. “Titus—Billy! What’s happenin’, y’ rascal?” called Kydd.

The lad approached unwillingly, his face white and strained.

Kydd stiffened. “Something’s happened,” he said. “Something bad,” he added, with a catch in his voice and forced the lad to look at him.

“She’s gone, Mr Kydd.”

the Admiral’s daughter 321

Kydd froze rigid.

“We—we buried her yesterday.”

For long seconds Kydd held still. Then he stepped back, his face a distorted mask. “No! No! Tell me . . .”

“I—I’m s-sorry.”

“No! It can’t . . .”

He turned this way and that as though trying to escape and an inhuman howl fi nally erupted. “No! Noooo! Dear God in heaven, why?”

The sexton was at the church gate. He gestured across the graveyard to the freshly turned earth. Kydd stumbled there blindly and dropped to his knees at the graveside.

“Damnedest thing,” the sexton confi ded to Renzi in a low voice.

“On passage to Plymouth for t’ get her weddin’ rig—a fi ne day, an’

out of nowhere comes this black squall an’ they overset. Over in minutes, it were.”

Renzi did not reply. He was watching Kydd and, as his shoulders began to shake, he knew that the man was as alone in the world as he had been when they had fi rst met, a desperately unhappy pressed man in the old Duke William. And now he needed his friend . . .

Without a word he went to him.

Author’s Note

As I began to gather my thoughts for the author’s note for this, my eighth book, I could not help but think how lucky I am to have Tom Kydd! Because of him and his wonderful world of the sailing man-o’-war, so many aspects of my life have been enhanced.

Becoming an author has meant that I have met people from many walks of life all over the world—certainly in my previous profession as a computer software designer it would have been unlikely for our paths to have crossed: there are far too many new friends and acquaintances directly attributable to Thomas Kydd to acknowledge here, but I know I’m enriched by them all.

Then there is the location research each January for the upcom-ing book. This has taken me to locales ranging from the Caribbean to Gibraltar and further. I visit each country with the specifi c goal of stripping away the trappings of modern life and building up a picture of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century—the particular sights, smells, colour, the food, ways of life there in general. Some places still retain much of what Kydd would have seen, in others it is more diffi cult to peel away the layers—but that is the challenge . . .

To my surprise I realise that this is the fi rst book set in home waters—I hope I’ve been able to do justice to what I’ve found to be as 324

Julian Stockwin

wild and exotic a location as any, and with spectacles then such as the incredible complex of the Plymouth naval base and dockyard.

Certainly, in those pre-factory times it was the wonder of the age, employing many thousands of men when most industries counted their workers in scores. No one in England lives far from the sea and a strong and abiding relationship with Neptune’s Realm is a national characteristic, but it is perhaps in the West Country where the maritime heritage is strongest. Since time immemorial, the sea provided food and transport links between isolated communities, and with hundreds of miles of rocky coastline, and winter storms equal to any, it has also been the graveyard of so many ships.

As usual, I owe a debt of gratitude to the many people I consulted in the process of writing this book. Probably foremost among these is my life’s partner Kathy. As well as her professional input at all stages of the books, she functions as a reality manager, keeping the trials of everyday life at bay and enabling me to immerse myself in my research and writing.

Space precludes mentioning everyone but I would particularly like to convey special thanks to the people of the picturesque fi shing village of Polperro in Cornwall, notably ex-fi sherman Bill Cowan, former harbour-master Tony White and historian Jeremy Johns. I was honoured when the trustees opened the Polperro Museum especially so that I could view the wonderfully intricate models of local fi shing vessels under sail crafted by shipwright Ron Butters.

My thanks, too, to Richard Fisher, who organised a special tour over Stonehouse Royal Marine Barracks; the Long Room where Kydd attended the ball still stands tall within the complex.

And lastly, as always I must acknowledge the contributions of my literary agent, Carole Blake, marine artist Geoff Hunt RSMA, edi-torial director Jackie Swift—and all the team at McBooks Press.

Long may Kydd’s voyages continue . . .

The Thomas Kydd Shipmates Network

If you enjoy the Kydd Sea Adventures, why not join the Shipmates Network and keep in touch with Julian Stockwin and his hero, Thomas Kydd, on a regular basis?

Each month you’ll receive the free email newsletter Bosun’s Chronicle, packed with information about the Great Age of Sail, details on author events, advance notice of new publications, news about Shipmates around the world, and contests for signed editions of the Kydd books and other great prizes.

There’s also an opportunity to have your own questions about the sea and ships answered in the “Ask Julian” column.

It’s easy to join the network.

Just register via the website-www.julianstockwin.com

A th

$24.00

A

e

Praise for The Kydd Series

A Kydd Sea Adventure

dm

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

i

Ju

J lian Sto

ulian St ckwi

win

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

As captain of HMS Teazer, Th

omas Kydd

r

ing. He writes evocatively of shipboard routine, the Ky

a

must enforce the king’s laws against his

a

panic and confusion of combat, and the terrifying d

l

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

’

S

s

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

e

the

gation and love before he loses every-a Ad

da

thing he’s gained?

u

ve

g

Admiral’ls

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

n

h

In this eighth book of the series,

thanks to retired Royal Navy author Stockwin.”

tu t

r

e

daughter

Kydd is back in command of his beloved

—Kirkus Reviews

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

r

fourteen to ts Indefatigable , a tough sea-

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

to the French coast. Later, in home

J

at fi fteen, transferred to the Australian ulian St

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

—The Guardian

growing attachment to the admiral’s

a teacher and an educational psychologist.

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

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

Naval Reserve and was awarded the mbe.

ing life at sea.”

—The Historical Novels Review

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

www.julianstockwin.com.

his friendship with Renzi—and of his c

naval career.

kw

in

McBooks Press, Inc.

ISBN: 978-1-59013-143-5

Ithaca, New York

52400

Mc

www.mcbooks.com

Pr B

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

ess ook

s

9 781590 131435

A th

$24.00

A

e

Praise for The Kydd Series

A Kydd Sea Adventure

dm

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

i

Ju

J lian Sto

ulian St ckwi

win

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

As captain of HMS Teazer, Th

omas Kydd

r

ing. He writes evocatively of shipboard routine, the Ky

a

must enforce the king’s laws against his

a

panic and confusion of combat, and the terrifying d

l

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

’

S

s

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

e

the

gation and love before he loses every-a Ad

da

thing he’s gained?

u

ve

g

Admiral’ls

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

n

h

In this eighth book of the series,

thanks to retired Royal Navy author Stockwin.”

tu t

r

e

daughter

Kydd is back in command of his beloved

—Kirkus Reviews

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

r

fourteen to ts Indefatigable , a tough sea-

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

to the French coast. Later, in home

J

at fi fteen, transferred to the Australian ulian St

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

—The Guardian

growing attachment to the admiral’s

a teacher and an educational psychologist.

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

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

Naval Reserve and was awarded the mbe.

ing life at sea.”

—The Historical Novels Review

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

www.julianstockwin.com.

his friendship with Renzi—and of his c

naval career.

kw

in

McBooks Press, Inc.

ISBN: 978-1-59013-143-5

Ithaca, New York

52400

Mc

www.mcbooks.com

Pr B

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

ess ook

s

9 781590 131435

A th

$24.00

A

e

Praise for The Kydd Series

A Kydd Sea Adventure

dm

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

i

Ju

J lian Sto

ulian St ckwi

win

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

As captain of HMS Teazer, Th

omas Kydd

r

ing. He writes evocatively of shipboard routine, the Ky

a

must enforce the king’s laws against his

a

panic and confusion of combat, and the terrifying d

l

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

’

S

s

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

e

the

gation and love before he loses every-a Ad

da

thing he’s gained?

u

ve

g

Admiral’ls

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

n

h

In this eighth book of the series,

thanks to retired Royal Navy author Stockwin.”

tu t

r

e

daughter

Kydd is back in command of his beloved

—Kirkus Reviews

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

r

fourteen to ts Indefatigable , a tough sea-

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

to the French coast. Later, in home

J

at fi fteen, transferred to the Australian ulian St

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

—The Guardian

growing attachment to the admiral’s

a teacher and an educational psychologist.

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

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

Naval Reserve and was awarded the mbe.

ing life at sea.”

—The Historical Novels Review

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

www.julianstockwin.com.

his friendship with Renzi—and of his c

naval career.

kw

in

McBooks Press, Inc.

ISBN: 978-1-59013-143-5

Ithaca, New York

52400

Mc

www.mcbooks.com

Pr B

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

ess ook

s

9 781590 131435