The Admiral's Daughter

by Julian Stockwin

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

  Kydd obliged with a fo’c’sle favourite, and then his lordship and a bemused Landgraf heard a salty rendition of “Spanish Ladies,” Persephone coming in almost immediately with a daring flourish and a laugh.

  Now let every man take up his full bumper,

  Let every man take up his full bowl;

  For we will be jolly, and drown melancholy

  With a health to each jovial and true-hearted soul!

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

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

  Kydd’s heart melted.

  Renzi was sitting by a single candle at his desk when Kydd returned. He glanced up and, seeing Kydd’s expression, remarked drily, “So, the evening might be accounted a success, then, brother?”

  “Aye—that is to say, it passed off right splendidly, Nicholas.” He peeled off his coat and flopped into his chair, wearing a broad smile that would not go away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  There was now the difficult task of how or indeed whether he should open some form of address to Persephone. Was she expecting an overture from him? Should he ask Cecilia? Or was advice on the best way to woo another woman not quite what one might ask a sister? A knock interrupted his thoughts as a letter for the captain was handed to him respectfully.

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

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

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

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

  Above the trees beyond he could see the rearing bulk of the bare hills that formed the edge of the moor and his pulse quickened. Presently they swung into a lane and stopped in the spacious courtyard of a considerably sized riding stable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Kydd strove to let the horse feel his will and, after some ill-tempered gyrations, it seemed to settle and he brought it next to Cecilia. He stole a glance at Persephone: she looked breathtaking, her handsome straight-backed posture set off by the fall of her habit. “There will be a hamper and champagne for us at Hele Tor, should we deserve it,” she said. “Shall we?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  As they cantered further into the moorland Kydd was struck by its wild immensity—not a tree, hedgerow, or building in sight. It was an awesome loneliness—not unlike the sea in a way. The rhythmic thudding of hoofs on the turf came together in a blood-rousing thrill of motion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Of course.” She sat demurely next to him. “The groom will take care of Miss Kydd and I see Sultan is not to be troubled.” The horse was browsing contentedly nearby, on the lush verdancy by the edge of a stream.

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

  When she looked up, Kydd’s eyes held hers for a long moment. As he helped her to her feet they found themselves together in a kiss, which took them by surprise. She froze, then said, with just the faintest quiver in her voice, “We must find the others now.”

  CHAPTER 9

  “GET Y’R HEAD DOWN, Y’ NINNY!” hissed Stirk. Luke Calloway crouched lower in the hedgerow as a horse and rider clopped down the narrow lane in the darkness. “Mr Stirk, an’ we’re safe now, isn’t we?” Calloway said, aggrieved.

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

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

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

  “Where d’ we kip, Mr Stirk?”

  “First we finds th’ kiddleywink,” Stirk snapped.

  “Th’ what?”

  “What the Janners call a pothouse, lad,” he said, looking around. Even a village this size should have two or three. They headed towards the snug harbour and on the far side near the fish-quay buildings the Three Pilchards was a noisy beacon of jollity. Stirk checked about carefully, then he and Calloway passed by a blacksmith’s shuttered forge and hastened into the tavern.

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

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

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

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

  Stirk waited until the ale came in a well-used blackjack, a tarred leather tankard. “Why, now, an’ isn’t this a right fine welcome f’r a pair o’ strangers?” He took a long pull, then set it down quietly. He felt in his pocket and slapped down a small pile of coins. “This’n for any who c’n find us somewheres t’ rest. Maybe two, three days, nice an’ quiet like, an’ then we’ll be on our way.” He clinked the coins patiently. After a few mutters with his companion the man came back loudly, “I knows what thee are—ye’re navy deserters, b’ glory.”

  Stirk bit his lip and then said warily, “S’ what’s it t’ you, mate? Thinkin’ on sellin’ us out?”

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

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

  Stirk said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  It was all because of what he had done at Stackhouse cove that night several weeks ago. Mr Kydd had remembered his smuggling reminiscences and seen his knowledge
at first hand. Now he had allowed himself and Luke to be landed ashore and, under the pretence that they were deserting seamen, they had made their way to the smugglers’ haunt of Polperro to see if they could win confidence and discover something of the unknown genius who controlled the trade.

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

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

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

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

  “Th’ first time I’ve bin fishin’, Mr Puckey,” Calloway said respectfully. “I aim t’ learn, sir.”

  He grunted. “You will, son,” he said significantly, and his glance flicked to Stirk. “Mackerel, y’ said.”

  “Aye.”

  “We’ll be out handlinin’ tonight—Boy Cowan says he’s a-willin’ t’ have youse along.”

  “Owns th’ boat?”

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

  Stirk finished his bread. “No business o’ mine, cully, but we sometimes hears as Polperro’s not a place t’ beat fer free tradin’. Why, then—”