Suddenly, from the harbour mouth came a succession of gunboats—one by one in an endless stream—a growing array until a full twenty-two of the ugly craft were in view.
“Attend at th’ entrance!” roared Kydd aft to the signal crew. All possible forces were needed, even if it stripped bare the bomb-vessel defences. “An’ give ’em a gun!” As the red-flag signal whipped up, a gun cracked out forward to lend urgency.
The other two sloops hauled their wind for the entrance, but before they arrived the gunboats were roping themselves together in a double line facing outward. “Be damned t’ it!” Standish spluttered. “They’re defending the harbour as they think we mean to cut ’em out!”
It was telling evidence of the respect and awe in which the Royal Navy was held by her enemies. Nevertheless, the battering the French were receiving was murderous and unceasing. Surely they would attempt some kind of retaliation.
In the light morning airs, powder smoke hung about the ships in slowly roiling masses as the mortars thudded again and yet again, the dun clouds spreading gradually far and wide. There was little response from the forts, sited to overlook the port; the French were paying dearly for having ignored the possibility of an artillery strike from the sea.
Dowse pointed over the side. “Mr Kydd, ye can see—we’re makin’ foul water.” The tide now fast on the ebb, their keel was stirring up seabed mud.
The bomb-vessels concluded their work and their windlasses heaved in their ground tackle, but it was this moment that held the greatest danger: Would the enemy see the fleet in retreat and throw caution to the winds to seek revenge?
Cerberus lingered until the last possible moment to cover the withdrawal before bracing round for the run out to sea, her admiral’s flag proudly aloft. Still the enemy remained out of sight. But it was time to leave: Teazer jockeyed round to take position astern of the flagship, the last to leave the field of battle.
Then, suddenly, the frigate slewed sharply to starboard and slowed to a crawl before stopping altogether. Her sails were let fly, then doused, the big man-o’-war now motionless. “She’s gone aground,” hissed Kydd. “We close an’ take th’ admiral off.”
Things had changed catastrophically: the powerful ship was now helpless. Hard and fast with the ebb far from spent, without the means to manoeuvre, she lay easy prey.
“Sir, we stand ready t’ take you off,” bellowed Kydd, through the speaking trumpet to Cerberus’s quarterdeck. Saumarez could be seen in serious consultation with Selby. Hard decisions must be made: to abandon ship now, in good order and no loss of life, or be forced later to a humiliating scramble over the side in the face of hostile gunfire.
Disdaining an offered hailer, Saumarez cupped his hands and roared back, “I shall stand by the ship, Mr Kydd. Do as you see fit for the defending of the bombs—their preservation is of great importance.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Kydd acknowledged.
The bomb-vessels even now were making a slow but steady retreat to the north-west—but if any of the small squadron was detached, would the remainder be enough to discourage a determined attack on the stranded frigate? On the other hand all could be retained and deployed to prevent the enemy leaving Granville, the only threat of any consequence. But if, once out of sight, the bombs were set upon . . .
“Tell Harpy t’ come within hail,” Kydd called. It was a moot point whether his temporary command of a squadron defending the bombs could be said still to exist in their absence but he had his orders from the admiral. Harpy was dispatched with the schooner Eling to chase after and stay with the bombs.
“Scorpion t’ come within hail.” The bigger ship-sloop affected not to notice the signal but, at Teazer’s gun, went about and came up, pointedly rounding to windward off her quarter. Kydd ignored the calculated slight: the custom of service was for the senior to lieto while the junior went round her stern to leeward and Carthew, no doubt, was making a point.
“I’d be obliged should you stay wi’ the frigate,” Kydd hailed. “Teazer an’ Carteret will lie off th’ harbour.” There was an unintelligible acknowledgement from Carthew and the three-master curved away, leaving just one brig-sloop and one tiny cutter to meet whatever challenge would emerge from between those stone piers.
The day wore on; it was clear that Cerberus had lost the race against the tide—she was now visibly at an angle and unnaturally still. And the significance would not be lost on the French. With such a prize within reach, there for the taking, it could now be only a matter of time.
Another hour. Now the frigate lay heeled over at a crazy angle, her guns either in the water or impotently skyward, her green-streaked copper bulking indecently, her men moving hand over hand along the decks, the ship a picture of helplessness.
When the attack did come it was cunningly mounted and rapidly carried out. Without warning a stream of other gunboats under oars issued out, one after another. In the light winds Teazer and Carteret were too late in closing with them, and with their carronades’ short range could only blaze away in futile desperation as the shallow-draught gunboats swiftly made away against the wind for the north of the Videcocq rocks, where no British ship could follow.
It was a master-stroke. The gunboats were positioned such that their weapons could bear on the helpless frigate—only one long gun each, but these were full-size eighteen- or twenty-four-pounders. Together they would have the same weight of metal as the broadside of a frigate of equal size. And Cerberus could do nothing but endure until the inevitable capitulation.
The guns opened with slow and deliberate fire. The first shot sent up a plume of water just short, others joining to surround the frigate with a forest of splashes—and then, aim improving, dark holes appeared in the naked hull.
Renzi watched in alarm; Kydd’s squadron had failed. In just a short while the admiral’s flag must be lowered in abject surrender. Then, suddenly, his friend seemed to lose his reason. He wheeled his sloop about and sent her pell-mell at the harbour itself.
In the smoke and confusion of combat a miracle happened. The gunboats abandoned their prey and retreated inside the walls of the harbour, and when the tide returned Cerberus was duly refloated and was able to make off to safety.
But Kydd was not of a mind to communicate his motives to anyone . . .
CHAPTER 6
IT WAS GALLING IN THE EXTREME. Because of the gravity of the situation Renzi had overcome his scruples and resolved to warn Kydd of the ugly mood that was building, the savage opinions he had overheard and in charity forewarning him of worse to come. He had to make one last try to get through to Kydd. He entered the cabin after a polite knock and waited.
It was difficult to broach after Kydd’s wild triumph, and Renzi controlled himself with effort. “If you only knew what coming to you like this is costing me in violation of my sensibilities—”
“Then you’re free t’ go. An’ why you should come an’ waste my time with y’r mess-deck catblash I can’t think,” Kydd threw over his shoulder, then resumed scratching away with his quill.
“May I know at least why we’re at anchor here instead of Guernsey?”
The other vessels had retreated to the security of St Peter Port while they were again moored off Chausey Rocks, with a tired and fractious crew.
Kydd looked up, expressionless. “Since y’ ask, I’m t’ keep a distant watch on Granville f’r a few days t’ see what they’ll do.” His features had aged so: no sign of animation, none of the interest in things round him, only this dull, blinkered obsession with duty.
“Do you not think it wise to apprise your ship’s company of this? They’ve been sorely tested recently, I believe, and now to be robbed of their rest . . .” The heartless dismissal of the old lady’s death as the fortune of war had upset many, and the ferocious solo altercation at the harbour mouth had others questioning Kydd’s sanity.
“They’ll do their duty,” Kydd said shortly, and picked up his pen again.
Renzi drew breath sharply and b
lurted, “Good God above! The ship is falling apart around you and still you won’t see! The men need leadership—someone they can trust, that they may look up to, believe in, not a grief-stricken machine who spouts nothing but duty and—”
Kydd’s fist crashed on the table. “Rot you f’r a prating dog!” He shot to his feet. “Who are you t’ tell me about leading men?” he said. “As we c’n all see, you’ve left th’ world t’ others an’ taken refuge in y’r precious books.”
Cold with fury, Renzi bit out, “Then, as it’s clear you no longer value my services or my friendship, I shall be leaving the ship in Guernsey. Good day to you, sir!” He stormed out, pushing past the boatswain who had been about to knock. Kydd stood, breathing rapidly and gazing after the vanished Renzi.
“Um, sir?” Purchet said uncertainly. “It’s b’ way of bein’ urgent, like.”
“What is it, then?” he said.
Purchet stepped inside, closing the door. “M’ duty t’ tell ye, sir,” he mumbled, then stopped as if recollecting himself.
“Tell me what, Mr Purchet?” Kydd snapped.
The boatswain took a deep breath. “In m’ best opinion, sir, the men are no longer reliable.”
Kydd tensed. “Are ye telling me they’re in mutiny, Mr Purchet?” Everything from this point forward, even an opinion or words spoken in haste, might well be next pronounced in the hostile confines of a court-martial.
“I cannot say that, sir.”
“Then what?”
“They’s a-whisperin’, thinkin’ as I can’t hear ’em,” he said gravely. The boatswain’s cabin in the small sloop was as thin-walled as Renzi’s. “I don’t take mind on it, usually, but as it’s s’ bad . . .”
“Tell me, if y’ please,” Kydd prodded.
“Er, I have t’ say it how I hears it,” Purchet said.
“Go on.”
“Well, one o’ the hands has it as how you’re out o’ your wits wi’ grievin’ an’ says as any doctor worth th’ name would have ye out o’ the ship. An’ they thinks as how this makes ye not responsible, an’ therefore it’s not right fer them t’ take y’r orders.”
“An’ the others?”
“Sir, they say how as t’ prove it, they seen ye change, like, fr’m their cap’n in Plymouth t’ a hard-horse Tartar who doesn’t hear ’em any more—them sayin’ it, o’ course,” he added hastily. “They seen ye at Granville, th’ last fight, an’ say that if ye’re careless o’ your own life, what’s theirs worth?”
Kydd waited, his face stony. “Anything else?”
“Why, sir, this afternoon, when young Jacko said them things y’ heard, most would say he’d had his grog an’ was talkin’ wry, like, no need t’ seize ’im in irons like that. An’ they’re a-feared what ye’ll do when he comes up afore ye tomorrow.”
“And this’s y’r mutiny?”
“There’s a gallows deal more, sir, as it’s not fit f’r ye t’ hear.” He looked at Kydd defiantly. “I bin in a mutiny once, an’ knows the signs. All it wants is f’r one chuckle-headed ninny t’ set ’em off wi’ hot words, an’ then—”
“Thank ’ee, Mr Purchet. Y’ did th’ right thing,” Kydd said formally.
The boatswain shifted awkwardly and mumbled, “Jus’ wanted t’ warn ye, like.”
As had Renzi.
“I’ll—I’ll think on it,” was all Kydd could manage.
“Then I’ll be away for’ard,” Purchet said, with quiet dignity.
Kydd sat down slowly, cold with shock. Since he had first won command those few years ago in Malta, he had taken satisfaction that his origins before the mast gave him a particular insight into the thinking of his men, but now—a mutiny?
Deep down he knew the reason and it was the one he feared most.
To be brutally honest with himself, he would have to admit that he was confronting personal failure. His seizing on duty as the answer to his pain, a sure and trustworthy lifeline out of the pit of despair that he had grasped so eagerly; this had secured its object, the continuance of his professional functioning, but at grievous cost. By degrees it had changed him, become the master of his soul and now ruled his every action, turning him into a hard-hearted, blinkered automaton.
He balled his fists. It had been too easy—a way of keeping the world and its hurts at bay, but also an excuse not to think. And, above all, not to face things. He paced fretfully about the cabin: If it was not the answer, then what was?
The decanters were in the sideboard. He hesitated, then took out the rum. Its fire steadied him but this was no remedy. That could only be to face up to his pain, the grief . . . memories.
Since that terrible day he had instinctively shied from their immediacy. Was he ready to deal with them yet? A feeling of inevitability crept over him. He was not blessedly logical, as Renzi was, but something drew him irresistibly to focus on just one thing: the slight but constant pressure at his breast, always so warm against his skin. The locket.
He had worn it next to his heart since the day when Rosalynd’s silhouette had been fashioned into a miniature—and he had never dared look upon it since he had lost her. He drew it out slowly, tenderly. For a brief moment he held it tight in his hand, fighting the flood of images, then snapped it open.
Her likeness: Rosalynd. In black crêpe paper, now a little crinkled. He held the trinket reverently, trying to relive the time when it had been new. The cheap gilt finish had now worn through to the bright steel at the edges and in places there were specks of rust, but no matter. What he held in his hands was Rosalynd, his sweetheart.
He gulped as his eyes misted, but another thought intruded, growing in strength and insistence. This was not Rosalynd. It was merely her likeness. It was tarnishing and fading and would eventually disintegrate. It was not her: she no longer existed in this world—except in his memory, and there she would never fade.
He knew then what he had to do. He crossed to the stern windows, opened the centre one and swung it wide. Outside there was impenetrable blackness but with it the clean tang of salt, seaweed and waves soughing mournfully against Teazer’s counter. With only a brief hesitation he hurled the locket into the night.
It was done. With the act came a feeling of release; lovers separated by distance would eventually meet again, but when separated by time they would not. Rosalynd was of the past. There was now no need for any elaborate personal defences: she was safely preserved in his memory, and he had his duties to his present existence. Renzi had been right but it had taken the threat of mutiny to bring him to—
Mutiny! The reality flooded in and his mind snapped to full alertness. He did not fear a bloody uprising so much as the certainty that the moment an order was disobeyed, a scornful or threatening word uttered, nothing short of a court-martial and a noose at the yardarm would satisfy an Admiralty sensitive to the slightest evidence of disaffection or rebellion in the fleet. Long after the corpses were cut down Teazer would bear the stain of dishonour—and it would be entirely the fault of her captain.
It demanded action—and quickly. What should he do? Order the marines to stand to, heading off any moves now under way? Wake Standish and have him, with the warrant officers, armed and aft? This would stop any mutiny in its tracks but would immediately throw the ship into two camps set implacably against each other.
He couldn’t do it. He would lose any regard that still remained in his men and that was too great a price to pay. Then what? Do nothing? That was not possible. Instead he would appeal directly to them. On a personal level, but not as a supplicant: as their captain. And not on the quarterdeck in the usual way . . .
His servant Tysoe had taken to keeping out of the way so Kydd went to his sleeping cabin and there found his full dress coat with its Nile medals and pulled it on. Clapping on his gold-laced cocked hat he made his way in the darkness to the hatchway.
As he descended he could hear the usual babble of talk and guffaws issuing from the mess-deck; it was a strong custom of the Service that the captain wou
ld never intrude on the men in their own territory in their own time, still less do so without warning— but this was no idle visit.
His appearance at the foot of the ladder was met with an astonished silence, men twisting at their tables and the nearest scrabbling to distance themselves. The stench of so many bodies in the confined space, with the reek of rush dips guttering in their dishes, caught Kydd at the back of the throat: it had been long since he had endured these conditions, inescapable as they were for sailors in a small ship-of-war.
Standing legs a-brace, he placed his hat firmly under his arm and faced them. He said nothing, his hard gaze holding first one, then another. The dim light picked up the gold lacing of his uniform, and when he spoke, he had their entire attention.
“Teazers!” he began. “I won’t keep you f’r long. Now, one of y’r number came aft t’ see me, thought fit t’ lay an information afore me as was necessary f’r me t’ know.”
Furtive glances were thrown and there were awkward shuffles: was there a spy in their midst, bearing tales to the quarterdeck?
“He was right t’ do so. F’r what he said was concernin’ y’r own captain. He said t’ me that there’s those who’d believe I’m not sailin’ square wi’ ye since I had m’ sad loss—that I’m toppin’ it th’ tyrant t’ no account.” He paused: apart from the lazy creaking of a ship at anchor there was utter stillness.
“This I’ll say to ye. I took aboard all that was said, an’ have considered it well. An’ my conclusion is, if there’s anything that stands athwart Teazer’s bows in bein’ the finest fightin’ ship in the Navy then, s’ help me, I won’t rest until I’ve done something about it. I’ll not see m’ men discontented, an’ I won’t, y’ have m’ word on’t.”
In the flickering light of ’tween decks it was difficult to make out expressions but the silence told its own story. “I give ye this promise: at th’ end o’ the month, any man wants t’ ship out o’ Teazer c’n shift his berth to another. An’ that same day, needs o’ the Service permittin’. Thank ’ee—an’ good night.”
The Privateer's Revenge Page 9
