They kept in with the coast past the Greeb, and discovered that in its regular north-eastward trend the inshore mile or two under the rocky heights was providing a measure of relief and Teazer made good progress. Kydd’s thoughts wandered to a way of life that was so utterly different from this one, where the greatest danger was the social solecism, the highest skill to turn a bon mot at table, and never in life to know a wet shirt or hard tack.
He crushed the rebellious feelings. There would be time enough to rationalise it all after he had settled into his new existence and had the solace of a soul-mate.
A series of whipping squalls chasing round the compass off the Dodman had Teazer fighting hard to keep from being swamped by the swash kicked up over the shoaling Bellows but she won through nobly to resume her more sheltered passage northward.
The Gwineas Rocks and Mevagissey: on the outward voyage they had seen these in calm seas and balmy sunshine. Now they were dark grey and sombre green, edged with surf from the ceaseless march of white-streaked waves. They left Par Sands well to leeward; there was most definitely no refuge for a privateer worth the name beyond tiny Polkerris—they would round Gribbin Head for Fowey.
Easing out to seaward their shelter diminished: Gribbin Head itself was near hidden in spume, driven up by the combers smashing into its rocky forefoot, and Teazer rolled wickedly as she passed by.
But was this the right decision? Should they continue? As with so many havens in Cornwall Fowey was south-westerly facing, which was perfect for entry but dead foul for leaving. It would be nothing less than a token of surrender to the elements should Kydd cause Teazer to run for shelter unnecessarily.
He sent word for the master. “Mr Dowse, what’s your opinion o’ this blashy weather? Will it blow over, do y’ think?”
Dowse pursed his lips and studied the racing clouds. There was a line of pearlescence along the horizon to the south in dramatic contrast to the dour greys and blacks above. “Glass’s been steady these two watches,” he said carefully, “an’ it’s been an uncommon long blow f’r this time o’ the year . . .”
“We go on, then,” Kydd decided.
“. . . but, mark you, the glass hasn’t risen worth a spit, an’ the wind’s still in the sou’-west. Could be it gets worse afore it gets better.”
“So y’ think it’ll stay like this, Mr Dowse?”
“M’ advice t’ ye, sir—an’ it not bein’ my place t’ say so—is to bide a while in Fowey an’ see what happens t’morrow.”
To continue would be to set out on a long stretch of coast exposed to the full force of the gale and a dead lee shore before reaching Rame Head. But if they did, they could round the headland and enter the security of the enfolding reaches of Plymouth Sound itself and, with its capaciousness, be able to tack out and resume their voyage whenever they chose.
Yet if they set out for the Rame and the elements closed in, there was no port of consequence before the Sound to which they could resort and there would be no turning back to beat against the gale to Fowey.
It all hinged on the weather.
“Thank you, Mr Dowse, but I believe we’ll crack on t’ the east’d. I’ll be obliged for another reef, if y’please.” Kydd turned to go below; this stretch would be the most extreme and he wanted to face it in a fresh set of dry clothes.
As he passed down the hatchway he heard the quarter-master above comment wryly, “Always was a foul-weather jack, our Tom Cutlass.”
His unseen mate answered savagely, “Yeah, but it sticks in me gullet that we has t’ go a-floggin’ up the coast in this howler jus’ so he c’n be with his flash dolly.”
Kydd stopped in shock. It wasn’t the resurrection of his old nickname, or that his romantic hopes were common knowledge, but the wounding assumption that he would have another motive for doing his duty. He hesitated, then slipped below.
By Pencarrow Head the force of the seas was noticeably stronger, but Kydd put it down to their more exposed position and pressed on. It was unlikely in the extreme that the privateer would choose this open stretch of coast to lie low but he had his duty and with life-lines rigged along the decks and several anchors bent on they took the seas resolutely on their quarter and struck out for Rame Head.
It seemed that the weather was not about to improve—indeed, within the hour the master was reporting that the glass was falling once more and the wind took on a savage spite, spindrift being torn from wavecrests and Teazer reverting to a staggering lurch.
It was getting serious: the rapidity with which the change had occurred was ominous for the immediate future and extreme measures for their survival could not be ruled out. “Stand us off a league,” Kydd shouted to Dowse, above the dismal moan of the wind and the crashing of their passage. It was the one advantage they had, that essentially they were driving before the wind, with all that it meant for staying a course.
They laid Looe Island to leeward, nearly invisible in the flying murk and began the last perilous transit of Whitsand Bay, which was in the worst possible orientation for the weather, completely open to the rampaging gales direct from the Atlantic and virtually broadside on to the driving surf.
But, blessedly, the grey bulk of Rame Head was emerging from the clamping mist of spray ahead—and directly beyond was Plymouth Sound. At this rate they would make the security of the Sound well before dark. Teazer was taking the pounding well, and under close-reefed topsails was making good progress. They could always goosewing the fore and hand what remained of the main topsail—they were going to make it safely to port.
A confused shouting sounded from forward: it was a lookout, now on the foredeck and pointing out to leeward. Kydd saw a lonely sail, deep into the sweep of Whitsand Bay. He pulled out his pocket telescope and trained it on the vessel.
If it was the privateer he could see no way in which he could join action—the seas alone would prevent the bulwark gun ports opening, and on this horrific lee shore—but the snatches of image he caught were sufficient to tell him it was not.
As close-hauled as possible, the vessel was nearly up with the first parallel line of breakers. “He’s taking a risk, by glory,” Standish said.
Dowse came up and shook his head. “Seen it before,” he said sadly. “The Rame mistook f’r Bolt Head, an’ now embayed, all the time th’ wind’s in the sou’-west.”
The ship had realised its mistake too late, put about into the wind—and found that it was too deep into the bay. Square-rigged and unable to keep closer to the wind than six points off, the master had no alternative other than to claw along on one tack as close to the wind as he could get the vessel to lie, inching her seaward, and when the end of the semi-circular bay was reached, be forced to stay about and on another reach do the same until the opposite end was reached. Then the process would be repeated yet again.
As Kydd watched, the drama intensified. By the cruellest stroke, the south-westerly was exactly at right-angles to the bay and leeway made by the forced putting about at each end was remorse-lessly matching the small amount of sea room gained on each tack. The vessel was trapped: they were doing the only thing possible and it was not enough; but if they did nothing they would quickly be driven downwind on to the pitiless shore.
With a stab of compassion Kydd realised that this cruel state of balance had probably begun at first light when their situation had become clear, and therefore they had been at this relentless toil all day—they must be close to exhaustion, knowing that if they fumbled just one going about, their deaths would follow very soon.
“Th’ poor bastards!” breathed Dowse, staring downwind at the endless parallel lines of combers marching into the last broad band of surf.
Standish seemed equally affected. “Sir, can we not . . .” He trailed off at the futility of his words. It was plain to everyone watching that Teazer could do nothing, for if they turned and went in, they themselves would be embayed, and any boats they sent would be blown broadside and overset, oars no match for the savage winds.
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br /> Kydd’s heart went out to the unknown sailors: they must have been in fear of their lives for hours. How they must have prayed for the mercy of a wind change—only a point or two would have been enough to escape the deadly trap.
He turned on the master. “Lie us to, Mr Dowse,” he snapped. This would see them hold Teazer ’s head a-try with balanced canvas and going ahead only slowly, keeping her position. The poor devils in the other ship would see this and at the very least know that there were human beings in their universe who empathised with their fate.
The afternoon wore on; the wind stayed unwavering in the same direction and the desperate clawing of the other ship continued. It could not last: some time during the night its crew’s strength must fail and the sea would claim them. It was so unfair. Two ships separated only by distance; one to sail on to safety and rest, life and future, but the other condemned to death in the breakers.
“She’s struck!” someone called.
Kydd whipped up his glass and caught flashing glimpses of an old merchantman no longer rising with the waves or her seadarkened canvas taut to the wind. Now she was in the lines of breakers, slewed at an angle and ominously still. The foremast had gone by the board, its rigging trailing blackly in the sea, and as he watched, the vessel settled, taking the merciless seas broadside in explosions of white.
Whitsand Bay was shallow; the seas therefore were breaking a long way from shore. The figures that could be seen now crowding up the masts to take last refuge were as doomed as if a cannon was aimed at them.
Pity wrung Kydd’s heart: more ships were lost to the sea than to the enemy, but here it was playing out before their eyes. It was hard to bear. But if—“Mr Standish! I’m goin’ t’ have a try. Pass the word f’r any who’s willin’ to volunteer.”
His lieutenant looked at him in astonishment. “Sir, how—”
“Mr Dowse. Lay us in the lee of th’ Rame. Close in with th’ land an’ anchor.”
The master did not speak for a moment, his face closed and unreadable. “Aye aye, sir,” he said finally.
Close to, Rame Head was a colossal, near conical monolith, its weather side a seething violence of white seas, but miraculously, as soon as they rounded the headland, the winds were cut off as with a knife.
“Here, Mr Dowse?”
“A rocky bottom, sir,” the master said impassively.
“Then we’ll heave to. Mr Purchet, away boat’s crew o’ volunteers an’ we’ll have the pinnace in the water directly.”
Dowse came up and said quietly, “I know why ye’re doing this, Mr Kydd, but we’re hazardin’ th’ ship . . .” As if to add point to his words, Teazer swung fretfully under wild gusts volleying over the heights, they were only yards from the line of wind-torn seas coming round the point.
“I’m aware o’ that, Mr Dowse,” Kydd said briefly.
Standish approached: he had found a young seaman native to the area. “Sawley says there’s a scrap o’ sand inshore where you may land the boat.”
Kydd nodded. “We’re going t’ try to get a line out to the poor beggars. I’ll need as much one-inch line as the boatswain c’n find.” His plan was to cross the Rame peninsula on foot to the other side, Whitsand Bay, and by any means—boat, manhauling, swimming—get a line out to the wreck. The one-inch was necessarily a light line for they faced carrying it the mile or two to the beach over precipitous inclines.
“After we’re landed, recover the boat and moor the ship in Cawsand Bay. We’ll be back that way.” This was the next bay round with good holding and a common resort for men-o’-war in a south-westerly.
“Aye aye, sir,” Standish said uncomfortably.
Once more Kydd blessed the recent invention of davits, making it so much easier to hoist and lower boats than the yard-arm stay tackles of older ships. In the water the pinnace jibbed and gyrated like a wild animal, the men boarding falling over each other, oars getting tangled and water shipping over the gunwale. Gear was tossed down and when the men had settled Kydd boarded by shinning down a fall.
They cast off and Kydd called to Sawley. The young seaman surrendered his oar and made his way to Kydd.
The boat rose and fell violently in the seas, and at the sight of the steep sides of the Rame plunging precipitately into the sea it seemed utter madness to attempt a landing.
“Where’s th’ sand?” Kydd wanted to know.
“I’ll go forrard, sir, an’ signal to ye.” At Kydd’s nod, Sawley scrambled down the centreline and wedged himself into the bow. He glanced aft once then made a positive pointing to starboard.
“Follow th’ lad’s motions,” Kydd growled. Bucketing madly, the boat approached the dark, seaweed-covered granite, the surge of swells an urgent swash and hiss over the wicked menace of unseen rocks. The hand went out again and Kydd saw where they were headed: an indentation so slight that it was unlikely that the boat’s oars could deploy, but there was a strip of sand at its centre.
A small kedge anchor was tossed out and the boat went in, grounding hard. It floated free and banged even harder. “Go, y’ lubbers!” The men tumbled over the side and crowded on to a tiny strip of bare sand. Kydd dropped into the shallows and followed.
“Sir, how we’s a-goin’ t’ get up there?” one man croaked, gesturing at the near-vertical slopes covered with thick, dripping furze. Kydd had counted on at least sheep tracks through the impenetrable thickets.
“Sawley, can we get round this?” he called, but the lad was already disappearing into the brush. Kydd waited impatiently; then he suddenly emerged and beckoned Kydd over. Sawley fished about in the undergrowth and came up with the knotted end of an old rope. “The smugglers, sir—they’d parbuckle the tubs up to th’ top wi’ this’n,” he said, with glee.
“You first, younker, show us how t’ do it.”
Sawley tested it with jerks then began to climb, clearing the rope of vegetation as he went. If it was for parbuckling there must be another near; Kydd found it and followed, the wind, with cruel cold, finding his wet clothes. The men came along behind.
It was hard going, the furze prickling and gouging, and his upper body having to remember long-ago skills of rope-climbing. Eventually he reached a rounding in the hill, a saddle between the continuing slopes inland and the higher conical mass of Rame Head, dramatically set off in the stormy weather with a ruined chapel on its summit.
He mustered his men together; far below Teazer was moving away to the safety of the next bay. Out to sea there was nothing but a white-lashed wilderness.
“Gets better now, Mr Kydd,” Sawley said brightly.
Eight men: would it make a difference? They would damn well try! Kydd set off, following a faintly defined track up the slope, pressing on as fast as he could, the ground strangely hard and unmoving after the wildly heaving decks.
They reached the summit of the hill and were met with the renewal of the wind’s blast in their teeth and the grand, unforget-table sight of Whitsand Bay curving away into the misty distance, with parallel lines of pristine white surf. The grounded merchant-man was still out in the bay, her foremast gone, sails in hopeless tatters, her men unmoving black dots in the rigging.
Scanning the horizon Kydd could see no other sail. They were on their own. He humped his part of the long fake of rope and moved off again, their way along the long summit now clear. He bent against the pummelling wind, trying not to think of the stricken vessel below as they reached a fold in the hills that hid the scene.
“We’re goin’ t’ Wiggle, sir,” Sawley panted.
“Wha— ?”
“Aye, sir. It’s a place above th’ hard sand.”
They came from behind the hill and looked directly down on the scene. Numbers of people were on the beach watching the plight of the hapless merchant vessel. Would they help—or were the lurid tales of Cornish wreckers true?
Reaching the beach and shuddering with cold, Kydd tried to think. It was heart-wrenching to see how near yet how far the vessel was. At this angle only
ragged black spars were visible above the raging combers, perhaps a dozen men clutching at the shrouds.
The wreck was bare hundreds of yards off but in at least ten feet of water, enough to drown in. Every sailor knew that, if run ashore, their end would not be so merciful—the rampaging waves would snatch them and batter them to a choking death as they rolled them shoreward, their only hope a quick end by a crushed skull.
The onlookers stood still, looking out to sea dispassionately. Kydd pulled one round to face him. “Aren’t ye goin’ to do something?”
The man looked at him. “They’m dead men,” he said dully. “What’s to do?”
Kydd swung on his men standing behind. He quickly worked a bowline on a bight at the end of the line. “You!” he said, pointing to the tallest and heaviest. “With me!”
He lunged into the water, feeling the strength in the surge of the next wave hissing over the beach. He splashed on until another foamed in, its impact sending him staggering. Recovering, he thrust deeper into the waves, feeling them curiously warmer out of the wind’s chill. The rope jerked at him. He turned and saw that all eight of his men were floundering behind him, bracing when one was knocked off his feet, then stumbling on.
A lump grew in his throat. With these men he could . . .
A foaming giant of a wave took him full in the chest and sent him down in a choking flurry, handling him roughly until he brought up on the rope and finally found the hard sand under him. When he heaved himself up he saw that only two of his men were still standing, the rest a kicking tangle of legs and bodies.
Flailing forward Kydd tried again, feeling the spiteful urge of the sea as it pressed past him. At the next wave he gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand firm while the force of the water bullied past him unmercifully. As it receded he saw another beyond, even bigger.
The breaker tumbled him down and when he rose his forearm bore a long smear of blood. Trembling with cold and emotion, he had to accept that he and his men were utterly helpless.
He turned and staggered back to the shore, teeth chattering. Along the beach some fishermen had launched a boat, but as Kydd watched it reared violently over the first line of surf, the oars catching by some heroic means. By the third line, though, it had been smashed broadside and rolled over and over in a splintered wreck.
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