Lady Lockwood could only curtsy mutely.
“Tell me, Renzi, where are you at present?”
“Mr Kydd has had the infinite goodness to afford me lodging at his own residence, sir.”
“Fine fellow, an ornament to his service,” the marquess agreed, then called across to the foreign secretary, “I say, Grenville, this is Renzi. Do you remember him? Hatchards in Piccadilly and the occasion need not trouble this gathering.”
“Why, yes indeed. Good day to you, Renzi. Have I by chance yet won you to a proper appreciation of the Grecian ode?”
“Perhaps, sir.” Renzi chuckled, and the three laughed at remembrances of former times and past perils, while Kydd had eyes only for the soft and very special look thrown to him by Miss Persephone Lockwood.
CHAPTER 11
IN BARN POOL, not half a mile south from the pleasant walk round Devil’s Point, at precisely ten in the forenoon, HMS Teazer went to stations for unmooring. On her pristine quarterdeck Commander Kydd took position, legs braced astride, trying not to notice the promenaders gathered to watch a King’s ship outward bound to war.
Everything about the morning was perfection; the deep colours of sky and sea, the verdancy of the countryside in the languid sunshine, the easy south-westerly breeze, the fine seamanlike appearance of the ship he commanded. And the incredible knowledge, which he hugged to himself, about Persephone.
“Take her out, L’tenant,” he ordered. “You have th’ ship.” Even with the small craft lazily at their moorings in Barn Pool and ships passing to and from the Hamoaze, it would not be an onerous task to win the open sea.
“Aye aye, sir,” Standish said smartly, and stepped forward. “Lay out ’n’ loose!” Topmen manned the rigging and climbed out along the yards, sail blossomed and caught. Teazer swayed prettily as she got under way, leaving Devil’s Point to larboard, but Kydd knew he could not snatch a look for she was watching. Possibly even now his image was being scrutinised through a powerful naval telescope.
Rounding Drake’s Island Teazer heeled to the sea breeze and made splendid sailing south to the wider sea. This time there would be no sordid grubbing about after smugglers—that could wait for now. Today it was a more serious matter: Kydd was to go after the privateer Bloody Jacques, who had appeared off the coast again and slaughtered more innocent men in his predations.
Teazer was under orders to look into every bay and tiny cove, even the lee of islands, from Rame Head westwards—everywhere that the privateer with his uncanny local knowledge might conceivably hide himself. Kydd vowed that when they came upon the rogue he would make sure his career was ended then and there.
But it would be without their gunner’s mate. Stirk had not yet returned from his mission to Polperro. Just before they sailed Luke Calloway had straggled back with a painfully written note:
Dere Mr Kydd. Agreable to yr order, I hav enquyered of the wun you seek and fownd him owt and now I sayle to fynd the hevidance I may be gon won or 2 weaks yr obed
Tobias Stirk
Did this mean he had uncovered something? Kydd felt misgivings at the thought of the open and straight-steering shipmate from his days on the fo’c’sle trying to act the spy in the company of a villainous and ruthless gang. But if any had the brute courage and strength of mind to see it through, it was Stirk.
“Course, sir?” Standish asked.
“Oh—er, to weather the Rame,” he replied. Coastwise navigation did not require elaborate compass courses and it would exercise Standish to judge just when to put about to fetch the headland in one board.
Orders passed, Standish returned to stand by Kydd. “Um, might it be accounted true, sir, what they are saying—please forgive the impertinence if it were not—that, er, you have made conquest of the admiral’s daughter?”
Kydd looked at him sharply, but saw only open admiration. “Miss Lockwood has been handsome enough t’ visit,” he said, regretting his pompous tone but finding it hard to conceal his feeling otherwise. “In company with her parents, o’ course.”
“And if my sources are correct—and they’re all talking about it—also the highest in the land.”
Now it was to be hero worship. “That is t’ say I knew the marquess before as Lord Stanhope, but his particular friend the foreign secretary Lord Grenville . . .” This was only making it worse. Kydd glanced aloft. “Is that an Irish pennant I see at the fore-top-sail yard, Mr Standish?” he growled, and while it was being attended to, he made his escape below.
“Nicholas.” He sighed as he sat to stare moodily through the stern windows at the dissipating wake. “It seems th’ whole world knows. What will I do?”
Renzi put down his papers with a half-smile. “It is what I shall do that preoccupies my thoughts, dear fellow. In a short space you will be joined to a family of consequence, be in receipt of a fair dowry that will, in the nature of things, have your lady casting about for an estate of worth.”
Kydd beamed. The thought of himself as one half of two was new and wonderful.
“I rather fear,” Renzi continued, “my arcadia in urbes at number eighteen will be a lonely one, even supposing I am able to find the means to—”
“Nicholas,” Kydd interrupted warmly, “y’ will always find a place with us, never fear.”
“I thank you, brother, but I am obliged to observe that when the head of the house proposes it is always the lady who disposes . . .”
They sat in companionable stillness, until Renzi asked, “May I be informed of the progress of your attachment? Have you made her a proposition?”
Kydd eased into a deep smile. “There will be time enough f’r that after we return, Nicholas—an’ I’ll be glad of y’r advice in the detail, if y’ please.”
“It will be my pleasure. You will follow the polite conventions, of course—first to seek a private interview with your intended to secure her acceptance, followed by a formal approach to her father requesting approval of the match. There will be some . . . negotiations, at which various matters relating to your post- nuptial circumstances will be—”
Suddenly Kydd felt restless with all this talk. He could contain himself no longer and got to his feet. “Belay all that, m’ friend. I have a cruise t’ command. Where’s that poxy boatswain?”
That night, under easy sail from the south-west, Kydd crawled into his cot and composed himself for sleep. He tried to shut out the crowding thoughts but they kept coming in different guises, different urgencies.
It was now clear he would wed soon—Persephone had made plain that her father had always approved of him and Lady Lockwood would come round to it, given time. Therefore in the next few months his life would change to that of a married man with a defined and highly visible place in polite society.
Cecilia would be so proud of him. And when he visited his parents in Guildford it would be in a carriage with footmen and a bride of such character and quality—it was such a dizzying prospect that his mind could hardly grasp it.
But what about Persephone? Would he match up to her expectations, be a proper husband with all the trappings of dignity and wisdom, refined tastes, ease of manner in high society? Damn it, was he good enough for her?
It had happened so quickly. Was he ready to exchange self-reliance and the freedom to choose a course of action that had been his way of life until now for the settled certainties of an ordered, prescribed daily round?
Would living graciously and the delicacies of polite discourse begin to pall and he to harbour a secret longing for the plain-speaking and direct pleasures of his old way of life? Would Persephone understand? Or would she be wounded by the betrayal?
He slept restlessly.
Their task was clear and unequivocal: find and destroy the privateer. It would involve a slow cruise westwards, searching thoroughly as they went, while Bazely in Fenella sailed in the other direction, east from Plymouth.
Staying close in with the land would be tricky work: each night they would remain resolutely in the offing and
resume in the morning. There would be no crossing of bays headland to headland, only a long tracking round, keeping as close inshore as prudence would allow.
With Rame Head left astern, there was now the sweeping curve of Whitsand Bay under their lee and with all plain sail they set to work. They passed the occasional huddles of dwellings whose names Kydd now knew well, Trewinnow, Tregantle, Portwrinkle: all would have their sturdy fisher-folk, their reckless smugglers and local characters who, one day, would be worthy of Renzi’s ethnical study.
Towards the afternoon they had raised Looe; Kydd toyed with the idea of going alongside in the harbour overnight so that Renzi could see the medieval sights there but decided to keep to sea for freedom of manoeuvre; besides which the Admiralty frowned on captains incurring unnecessary harbour dues.
Checking on Looe Island just offshore, he shaped course to continue along the coast: the Hore Stone, Asop’s Bed, Talland Bay—a wearisome progress with the ship cleared and half the company at the guns at all times.
Polperro, Udder Rock, round the questing Pencarrow Head and to anchor in Lantic Bay. It was going to be a long haul. In the early morning they weighed and proceeded once more; Kydd sent Standish in to Fowey for news, but there was none.
St Austell Bay saw them in a slow tacking south to the Dodman; Mevagissey, Gwineas Rocks—all had such meaning now. Mile after mile of rugged coastline, lonely coves, rock-bound islets. Inshore coasters, luggers and yawls wended their way between tiny ports, each vessel a potential enemy until proved innocent. Occasional flecks of sail out to sea could be any kind of craft, from a deep-sea merchantman inward-bound to a man-o’-war on her way to a rendezvous off the enemy coast.
At Falmouth Kydd went ashore to see if there was word, but again it seemed that Bloody Jacques had an uncanny knowledge of suitable bolt-holes and had simply vanished between pillagings.
Wearily he put back to sea, down in long tacks towards the famous Lizard. He decided to wait out the night in its lee for if there was one place more likely than any other for a privateer to lurk it would be at the end of England, where shipping bound up-Channel diverged from that making for the Irish Sea and Liverpool.
The next day, however, the summer sunshine had left them for a grey day and whiffling, fluky winds backing south, and a dropping barometer—sure signs of a change in the weather. After rounding the Lizard, Kydd was troubled to find the seas far more lively and on the back of an uneasy westerly swell; he had no wish to make close search of Wolf Rock and the outlying Isles of Scilly in thickening weather.
Penzance knew of the privateer but could contribute little to the search. Kydd had half expected Parlby in Wyvern to be there for he had been sent to the northern coast and might well have put into Penzance. Kydd had his duty, however, and pressed on instead of waiting, dutifully heading for Wolf Rock, Teazer taking the seas on her bow in bursts of white and an awkward motion.
In the gathering misery of greying skies Teazer found the lonely black menace set amid seething white, cautiously felt her way past and onward into the wastes of the Atlantic. Kydd was determined to clear the Isles of Scilly before the blow really set in.
It was getting more serious by the hour; the wind was foul for rounding the Isles of Scilly from the south, which had the sloop staying about twice a watch in the difficult conditions, but this was not the worst of it. They could not set a straight intercepting course for the islands and because of the resulting wide zigzags against the wind they lost sight of them for most of the time with the danger of an unfortunate conjunction on the next board.
Seamanship of the highest order was now required. Usually a mariner’s first concern was to keep well clear of the deadly rocks, but Kydd knew their voyage would be in vain unless they not only made a sighting of the Isles of Scilly but searched closely. This would involve the careful reckoning of each tack such that the last leg would place them precisely and safely to westward of the scattered islands.
The weather was sullen but still clear; however, this could change in minutes. It was now not navigation by the science of sextant and chronometer but the far more difficult art of dead-reckoning, leeway resulting from the wind’s blast, the mass movement of the ocean under tidal impetus, contrary currents from the north. The master stood grave and silent, his eyes passing ceaselessly over the white-tipped rollers marching in from the open Atlantic.
Rain arrived in fits and blusters, settling to drenching sheets that sometimes thinned and passed on, leaving the seas a hissing expanse of stippled white that curiously took the savage energy from the waves and left them subdued, rounded hillocks rather than ravenous breakers.
Then the first islets formed, alarmingly close, out of the hanging rain-mist. It was vital to make landfall with precision, and there was only wind direction to orient them. The master told Kydd, “This is y’r Pol Bank, sir, an’ Bishop Rock somewhere there.” There was no disguising the relief in his voice.
The western extremity of the Isles of Scilly. The low, anonymous grey rain-slick ugliness was probably the worst sea hazard in this part of the world. Here, less than a century before, an admiral of the Royal Navy and near two thousand men had died when the Association and most of a victorious returning fleet had made final encounter with these isles.
“Nor’-nor’-east t’ Crim Rocks, sir,” the master murmured. By now Kydd’s dream-like memories of beauty and gracious living were fast fading. The present reality was this wasteland of sea perils and cold runnels of rainwater inside his whipping oilskins.
Thankfully, Teazer was now able to bear away round Bishop Rock for her return and, wallowing uncomfortably, she passed close to the deadly scatter of Crim Rocks. The sight of the dark gashes in the seething white caused Kydd to shiver.
To weather of the Isles of Scilly, they could now look into the few possible hiding-places. Most likely were Crow Sound and Saint Mary’s Road near the settlements. If the privateer was riding things out there they were perfectly placed to pounce—but a fresh gale was threatening and the master had said that with a sandy bottom both vessels were unsafe in heavy seas and the bird might well have flown.
They had their duty, however, and despite boldering weather strengthening from the westward Kydd looked into every possible anchorage, wary of the baffling complexity of the offshore tidal streams, which, if the master was to be believed, varied by the hour as they wound through tortuous channels and shallows.
When the fat mass of Round Island was reached it was time to return: with winds abaft, a straightforward run to Land’s End and the shelter of Penzance. But the bluster from the south-west was undeniably stronger and the swell lengthening, causing a wrenching wallow as the seas angled in from the quarter.
By the time Land’s End had been reached few aboard did not relish the thought of a quiet night in harbour, a cessation of the endless bruising motion. “Penzance, sir?” the master enquired, gripping tightly a line from aloft.
Kydd thought for a moment, then answered, “No, Mr Dowse. I’ll ask you t’ mark the wind’s direction. If it backs more into th’ south we’ll be held to a muzzler if we sight that Frenchman. No— we press on t’ the Lizard and anchor f’r the night in its lee.”
His task was to return back up the coast, continuing on past Plymouth into the eastern half of his patrol area, no doubt passing Bazely as they criss-crossed up and down to the limit of their sea endurance. Bloody Jacques had proved himself and could not be underestimated; keeping the seas was their first priority.
Thus, prudently maintaining a good offing, Teazer spent the last few hours of the day crossing Mount’s Bay, passing the imposing monolith of St Michael’s Mount sheeted in misty spray, and shaping course for the Lizard. The seas were now combers, ragged white-streaked waves that smashed beam-on in thunderous bursts of spray and made life miserable for the watch on deck.
At last, Lizard Point won, they slipped past and fell into its lee; the worst of the wind moderated and they anchored under steep, forbidding cliffs. Teazer slewed
about the moment sail was off her and, bow to waves, eased thankfully to her cable.
Kydd waited until the watch on deck had been relieved, then went below. There was no hope of any hot food, and as Tysoe exchanged his sodden clothes, he chewed hard tack and cheese, pondering what constituted sea endurance: the ship’s state for sea or the men’s willingness to endure such punishing conditions. In this fresh gale a stately ship-of-the-line would snort and jib a little, but would essentially move much more ponderously and predictably; a small brig’s endless jerky rearing and falling, however, taxed the muscles cruelly. It was physically exhausting to maintain for long and he hoped the gale would blow itself out overnight.
The morning brought no relief: the gale still hammered, with ragged waves trailing foam-streaks in their wake, but Teazer had her duty and the anchor was weighed at first light.
“Falmouth, sir?” the master asked. Kydd knew that the men at the conn were listening to every word. It was tempting: Falmouth was but several hours away only and offered spacious shelter in Carrick Roads.
However, in these seas no boat could live, and for Teazer to enter the harbour, with its single south-facing entrance, would be to risk finding themselves bailed up. With foul weather clearing the seas of prey the privateer was probably waiting it out in some snug lair, which, if Kydd came across it, would find him helpless. It was worth cracking on.
“We sail on, Mr Dowse. This is a hard man we’re after but he’s a prime seaman. He won’t think aught o’ this blow.” At his bleak expression Kydd added, “An’ then, o’ course, we can always run in t’ Fowey.”
The master said nothing but turned on his heel and went forward. Kydd gave orders that saw them bucketing northwards past the lethal sprawl of the Manacles and into the relative shelter of Falmouth Bay.
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