The Admiral's Daughter

by Julian Stockwin

  The result was that Teazer was more than holding with the privateer and paced the vessel. The long sweep of Mount’s Bay ahead ended suddenly at Penzance and as long as they could keep sail on, there would be a conclusion before the day was out.

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

  Dowse pointed out the little settlements as they passed. Poldhu, Chyanvounder, Berepper and then Porthleven. Foreign-sounding, exotic and untouchably remote. A headland loomed, its steep grey crags half hidden in misty spume. Beyond, a beach all of a mile long stretched away with another, larger promontory at its end. Now, more than half-way to Penzance, was this where the attempt would be made?

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

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

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

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

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

  Muffled shouts from forward—an urgent “Man overboard!” Kydd saw the fall of a sheet uncoil out to leeward and staggered to the side. At first he saw nothing but foam-streaked waves in vigorous progression towards the shore but then he made out a dark head against the foam and an arm clutching frantically at air, not five yards off.

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

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

  Kydd said nothing; his mind furiously reviewing his alternatives. “Mr Purchet, secure a dan buoy to th’ kedge cable and—”

  “Sir! You’re not proposing a rescue?”

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

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

  “He might.”

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

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

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

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

  “Clear away th’ cutter,” he bawled, at the gaping mainmast hands. It was the biggest boat they had and was secured up in its davits. “Cut th’ gripes away, damnit!” he shouted, as they fumbled with the ropes. This was a desperate throw—he would have the boat streamed off to leeward at the end of a line and hauled back bodily. If it capsized, the men could cling to it.

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

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

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

  “He’s seen our boat,” Standish said coldly, watching the lugger. A jib was jerking up in the privateer, and when it had taken the wind, other sails were smartly hoisted. Kydd refused to comment, obstinately watching the cutter as line was paid out and it drew near to Andrews.

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

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

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

  “Will you follow him, do you think?” Renzi asked softly. Kydd had not seen his friend come up but now Standish had moved away and was standing apart, trying to catch the fast- disappearing lugger in his glass.

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

  Kydd’s eyes pricked: no matter that he had seen so many lose their lives following their profession of the sea—this had occurred on Teazer ’s first commission in home waters and he as captain. Things could never be the same.

  Feeling the need to be alone, he left Standish to lay Teazer to her anchor, went to his cabin, sprawled in his chair and stared moodily out of the stern windows. There was a soft knock at the door and Renzi appeared. “Come in, old friend,” Kydd said. Renzi made his way cautiously to the other chair, the lively movement becoming more unpredictable as the ship felt her anchor.

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

  “Aye, I would.”

  “Then—”

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

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

  “True as well.”

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

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

  He reflected for a moment, then said quietly, “He’s goin’ t’ be a right Tartar t’ lay by the tail, m’ friend.” Pensively he watched the shoreline come slowly into view as Teazer snubbed to her anchor, then added, “But we must account him our pigeon right enough. What will I do, Nicholas?”

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

  “You . . . ?”

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

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

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

  “Aye.”

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

  Kydd shifted uncomfortably. “If ye mean—”

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

  “Nicholas, you—”

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

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

  Renzi was putting their friendship before self, Kydd recognised. For the future, the decisions would be his own but unconditional warmth of the companionship would always be there at the trifling cost of some defining limits. “Why, that’s handsomely said, Nicholas,” he replied softly. He paused, then began again in a different tone: “We have t’ put down the rascal, that’s clear, but where t’ find him? That’s the rub.”

  Renzi waited.

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

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

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

  “So where . . . ?”

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

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

  “Aye.”

  “And, er, why?” Renzi prompted.

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

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

  • • •

  With Penzance under their lee they left Mount’s Bay for the south. Kydd had dealt kindly with Andrews, even as the letter of the law judged him guilty of desertion and, what was worse, that his captain had been presented with a situation not of his intending or control. The crestfallen lad was given the thirty-fourth Article of War to get by heart before claiming his supper.

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

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

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

  “Aye.”

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

  “That’ll be so, I believe.”

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

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

  Kydd had seen the ugly rock several times from seaward but what Dowse was saying meant that his plan to lie off with it in sight as a means of keeping his position during the dark hours— and by knowing where it was, guard against coming upon it unawares—was now questionable.

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

  They could not continue into such danger. “Ah, it seems—” Kydd stopped. Away on the weather bow there was a discontinuity in the wan light on the sea, a black object that had appeared, vanished, then reappeared in the same place, where it remained. He stared at it, eyes watering.

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

  “That will do,” Kydd said with relish. “The beast sits atop th’ rock. Clear away th’ best bower an’ stream anchor an’ we moor for the night.”

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

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

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

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

  “Silence!” Kydd roared. “Hold y’ tongues, all o’ you! T’ question me on m’ own quarterdeck—I’m not standin’ f’r it!” He waited until he felt his fury subside, then went on frostily, “Th’ bower cable’s seven hundred ’n’ fifty feet out to its bitter end, so with th’ usual allowance f’r three times the depth o’ water we c’n moor an’ with cable t’ spare.” It would be damnably little, but the greater peril lay in blundering about a dangerous shore in the blackness of night.

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

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

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

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

  “Do ye think we’ll be lucky t’ day?”

  “Sir.”

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

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

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

  Time passed, and apart from a small merchantman and a bevy of morning fishermen, the coast remained clear. Standish wore a look of pained toleration as he went about the deck, and Renzi kept out of the way below.

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

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

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

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

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