A three-quarter moon was low in the sky and it was time. The gig was lowered gently. Two seamen, Cobb and Manley, took the oars, Kydd the tiller, and the boat pulled strongly inshore. As soon as they had left the comforting mass of the sloop he became aware of the evening quiet, just the slop and gurgle of water, the distant hiss of waves on shingle—and the enfolding shadows reaching out to claim them.
The boat nudged sand and Kydd stepped out. “We’ll be back directly,” he said to Manley. Cobb followed him up the beach. The land felt inert and lifeless underfoot, adding to Kydd’s unease. He stopped and held up his hand: there was not the slightest sound. He looked about, eyes straining.
The tiny beach ended in a long ledge of rock at the north-western end. They trudged over and behind the rock, in its shadow, found an ordinary oblong wooden case with crude rope handles. Kydd took one end—it was heavy but not impossible for them—and Cobb grabbed the other. Before they lifted it Kydd froze. Was that a tiny scrape, a slither?
With an outraged squawk a large seabird launched itself past them. Kydd cursed and the two manhandled the chest into the boat. Kydd threw his boat-cloak over to conceal it.
“Go!” he hissed at Manley, and they returned hurriedly to Teazer . Standish was leaning over the side in great curiosity. “Strike it down into m’ cabin immediately,” Kydd snapped at the two seamen, and ordered Standish brusquely to get the ship to sea immediately.
He’d done it. As Teazer leaned to the soft night airs Kydd had the satisfaction of knowing that he had successfully performed his first secret order and now could concentrate on proper sailoring.
Hauling their wind for the south they tried to make up the time to the rendezvous, sailing between Guernsey and Jersey, taking care to fetch the treacherous Roches Douvres—“Rock Dovers” to the sailors—in the safety of morning light.
It was a sobering passage. Kydd had made up his mind to learn what he could of the area in which Teazer would be operating for the foreseeable future, a maze of shoals, sub-sea reefs, fierce tidal currents and some of the most desolate and forbidding coasts he had ever seen. Added to which there was the lesson learned of these waters early in the war when Saumarez himself had been chased by five French warships and thrown his heavy frigate through the hideous tangle of rocks in the west of Guernsey to freedom, a tribute to his courage and to his exceptional knowledge of local conditions.
Queripel had been eager to pass on what he knew, and Kydd began to accrue knowledge and wisdom. As he did so his respect for those who daily plied these waters increased; any who could keep the seas off this ironbound coast would be a good seaman— including the French. St Malo, an ancient town deep in the main bay of Brittany, had produced daring corsairs for centuries, some even now prowling as far afield as the Indian Ocean. This cruise would not be a sinecure.
Off the wicked tumble of grey-brown rocks that was the Île de Bréhat he saw a sloop hove-to. Her challenge was smartly run up, but Kydd was ready with the private signal. It was, of course, Carthew in Scorpion but this time there was no doubting the senior vessel, and as custom dictated, Teazer was sent round her stern to respectfully round to for hailing.
“You’ve taken your time, I observe, Mr Kydd,” he blared, through his speaking trumpet. “I’d expected you a day or more ago. What delayed you?”
It took Kydd aback: it was unlikely that Carthew had knowledge of his secret orders and in any case it was not to be discussed in such a public way. “Er, an errand f’r Admiral Saumarez,” he bellowed back. “All concluded now.”
“I should think so,” Carthew said tartly, then added, “No French about as I’ve seen to the westward, quiet in Paimpol and you have Harpy to the east’d for a rendezvous here in six days. Any questions?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well. Good hunting,” he said flatly. His bored tone implied disinterest in Kydd’s prospects, and Scorpion lost no time in bracing round and making off to the north, leaving Teazer in sole possession of the patrol area.
At last! It was a fine morning, the winds were fair, and there was the best part of a week to traverse the hundred and fifty odd miles westward to Ushant and back. With no ports of significance to speak of—Roscoff was the largest, but not a naval port, and the rest were mere rockbound tidal havens—it was an unpromising prospect.
But with the autumn roads now impassable by ox-cart, which could carry several score sacks of grain, it would have to be pack-horses, each managing at best only four. Every beast would itself require feeding and tending by a man, he in turn having needs, and this would be multiplied by the five or six days it would take to cross northern Brittany. How many would it take to keep the fleet in Brest, with its thirty thousand hungry seamen, supplied? A humble hoy could bring eighty tons along the coast in a day and go back for more. Dozens of these vessels must now be threading their way westward, trying to keep out of sight from seaward among the craggy islets and offshore sandbars, all helpless prey to a determined man-o’-war.
Kydd gave a passing thought to these inoffensive craft, manned by seamen whose daily fight was with the sea and this dire coast— how hard it must be to have their voyage cut short, their ship and livelihood snatched from them. Then he turned abruptly to the master: “T’ th’ west, Mr Dowse.” In the fortunes of war, the merchant vessels had to take their chances as did every other seafarer. Even Teazer might suddenly be set upon. There was no room for sentiment.
The coast lay to larboard, its rocks caught in the morning sun with a soft pink tinge and lying in dense scatters or peeping coyly from the waves in a flurry of white. Islands sprawled in groups or out to sea as lonely outposts. This coast had a terrible beauty all of its own.
Teazer sailed on westward, past tortuous inlets leading to huddled settlements: Ploumanac’h and Skeiviec, ancient names from the beginning of time—here was quite another France to the pomp and fashion of Paris. They skirted the ugly jumble of Les Héaux de Bréhat well out to sea, giving best to the small fry cowering up the long river at Tréguier.
“I’d like t’ cast a glance at Sept Îles,” Kydd murmured. These were sizeable islands lying offshore, of which the master would be aiming to keep Teazer to seaward, but frightened coasters might be skulking among them. They angled towards but from somewhere in their midst the smoke and tiny spat of a small cannon erupted.
“Closer,” Kydd ordered. An antique fort in the centre island was ineffectually disputing their progress; it did, however, serve to draw attention to the channel that lay between it and the mainland. “An’ south about,” he added.
The sloop eased into the passage, with a rose-coloured granite shoreline on either beam and, in the sea overside, an unsettling forest of kelp from the dark depths streaming away with the current. Ahead lay only the odd-shaped high islands of the Triagoz plateau, but the coast had now turned abruptly southwards.
A scream came from the masthead lookout: “Deck hoooo! Two sail under a press o’ canvas, standing away!”
From the deck it was clear what was happening. Their decision to take the inshore channel had spooked the two into abandoning their hiding-place in the Triagoz for a hasty dash to the safety of Roscoff, only a couple of hours’ sailing across the bay.
“I want ’em!” Kydd grated, levelling his telescope. Across the deck grins appeared. “Mr Queripel, depth o’ water ’tween here ’n’ Roscoff?”
“There’s a channel fr’m the nor’-east . . .” he began uncomfortably.
“Aye?”
“As will serve—but, sir, I have t’ tell ye, it’s perilous waters hereabouts. Can we not—”
“Nor’-east.” Kydd sniffed the wind. “It’ll do. Bow-lines t’ th’ bridle an’ don’t spare th’ cordage.”
Teazer seemed to sense the drama and leaped ahead. Every eye aboard followed the motions of the quarry whose terror even at a distance could almost be felt. The knowledgeable made lordly judgements as to the probable prize value, but Kydd was aware that things could change in a trice—a friga
te disturbed in Roscoff, a sudden change in wind forcing them on to a dead lee shore.
“We’re t’ shift course here, sir,” Queripel said awkwardly. “We must be clear o’ th’ plateau, else we—”
“They’re not concerned t’ weather it,” Kydd said pointedly. The fleeing vessels were taking a direct course to Roscoff, no more than ten or fifteen miles more.
“I—I say we must, sir! Th’—th’ tide is on th’ ebb an’ we—”
“They come fr’m hereabouts, they should know—”
“It’s th’ state of tide, sir! I mislike we ignore th’ overfalls o’ the plateau. I’ve seen—”
“Very well. Ease t’ larb’d,” Kydd said heavily.
They angled farther southwards while their prey flew directly towards the distant smudge of their sanctuary, masts leaning at a precarious angle in their quest for speed. There were groans about Teazer’s deck and sour comments about luck.
And then it happened. The leading vessel struck, slewing round in an instant; she was brought to a complete stop, her foremast toppling like a tree at the shock of impact. The other ship, following close astern, shied to one side but raced on desperately.
“Leave him,” Kydd said, eyeing the wreck. He looked at Queripel. “Can we . . . ?”
“He took a reef rock o’ th’ Plateau de la Méloine. We have t’ keep to the suth’ard or finish th’ same—but this one”—he nodded at the fleeing ship—“he’s going t’ be a mort more cautious now. We has a chance.”
Teazer was in the deeper channel and forging ahead but the other vessel was picking its way fearfully through the weed-covered menaces—with only five or so miles to go they most definitely had a chance.
Queripel stepped aside and Kydd saw that Renzi had appeared on deck, wearing the wistful, absent expression that showed he had been happily immersed in his books until very recently. “Ah. Do I see the cause of so much commotion ahead of us?”
“Aye, y’ do,” Kydd said. “Supposin’ we c’n catch him before Roscoff.”
“That’s Roscoff?” Renzi said, with interest. “As you’d know, a port of much antiquity. Here it was that Mary Queen of Scots stepped ashore to be married to the Dauphin of France—in the 1540s it must have been.”
“We’re goin’ t’ be in gunshot in just a quarter-hour, Nicholas. Do y’ think I should hold fire, f’r fear I might hurt our prize?”
“Of course, she was only five years old at the time,” Renzi went on thoughtfully. “A barbaric practice, such a union.”
“And a fine coaster should fetch a handsome sum, as’ll be right welcome at this time,” Kydd added.
“Yet many would remember first that it was here as well that the Young Pretender, Charles Edward Stuart, came after the calamitous battle of Culloden—spirited hence by a Malouin privateer, I believe, to his final exile.”
But Kydd had his glass up, his attention on the low sea wall coming into view. He stiffened. “The bloody dogs,” he growled. “Gunboats!” A gaggle had emerged and were converging on the fleeing vessel. Even if they overhauled it now they could never heave-to and take possession.
“We’ve lost him,” he said, lowering his telescope. He swivelled round and focused on the wreck of the first. It was fast settling— but if they managed to come up on it through the same hazards that had claimed it they could only ingloriously fish out sodden oddments of cargo.
“Carry on t’ the west, Mr Dowse.” They had done well on their first encounter; there would be others.
It seemed, however, word had spread that a new and aggressive English man-o’-war was abroad and the few sail they sighted scuttled away rapidly. After an uneventful conclusion to the cruise, during which Kydd had taken pains to discover more of the sea conditions in this forbidding but often strangely beautiful seascape, Guernsey lifted into view.
With his new-won local knowledge he conned Teazer himself past Jerbourg Point and into the Great Road. “A shame we haven’t a prize at our tail,” Standish remarked.
“We shall,” Kydd said firmly. The more he knew of these seas, the better able he would be to find their skulking places.
There was no admiral’s flag in Cerberus but it flew from his headquarters ashore, and their gun salute cracked out in proper style.
Calloway’s quarterdeck brace was an exact imitation of his captain’s. Kydd had been impressed by how he had handled the promotion; now in a position of authority over his former shipmates he pitched his orders in such a way that none could take offence at the tone or doubt his intent to be obeyed. “Boat putting off, sir,” he reported smartly.
“Very well,” Kydd answered.
“Two boats, I think,” Standish said, lowering his glass.
It was odd: the first clearly contained an officer and a number of seamen but the other taking position astern of it seemed to carry soldiers. Kydd was ready in his dress uniform for going ashore to report; the boats, however, were heading purposefully towards Teazer so he waited.
When they neared, the second with the soldiers slowed and stood off, the seamen laying to their oars while the first made for the sidesteps. Kydd felt the first stirrings of unease as the boat disappeared under the line of the bulwarks and shortly afterwards, with the wail of a boatswain’s call, the stern face of an elderly post-captain came into view.
Kydd took off his hat and approached with a welcoming smile, which was not returned. The officer briskly drew out a paper and intoned, “Commander Thomas Paine Kydd? Provost Captain William Fellowes. By these presents I am instructed by the commander-in-chief to make search of your vessel.” He held out the paper—and, unmistakably at the bottom, there was the signature of Admiral Saumarez.
“Er, you . . . ?” Kydd was thunderstruck. Around him the deck came to a standstill, men gaping.
“Commander?” The officer held himself with heavy patience.
“May I know what’s the meanin’ o’ this, sir?” Kydd said tightly, as he recovered himself. “T’ be rummaged like a country trader? This is a King’s ship, sir, an’ I’m her captain. I’ll have good reason fr’m you, sir, afore I allow such a freedom.”
“Are you disputing the direct order of the admiral, sir?” Fellowes said acidly, holding up the paper.
“I’m asking f’r a right an’ proper explanation of y’r actions, sir,” Kydd blazed.
“Come, come, sir. You have nothing to fear if you have nothing to hide.” There was no pity in the man’s eyes.
The situation was absurd but also in deadly earnest. “Very well, sir. Do ye require t’ begin for’ard? I’ll have th’ men take up over the hold as soon as we secure fr’m sea.”
Fellowes wheeled round and beckoned to the boat’s party, who lost no time in coming aboard. “Leave the matter to us, Commander,” he said harshly. The men clambering over the bulwarks were hard-looking, practised in their movements, and assembled in a tight group before the captain.
“You know what to do.” The men trotted off—not forward, but aft, disappearing down the hatchway.
“Sir! I’ve a right t’ know! What is it—” But Fellowes had turned his back on him and was gazing out to the dark bulk of Sark, tapping the paper impatiently against his thigh.
Suspiciously quickly, there was movement again at the hatchway. To Kydd’s horror, the men were hauling up the confidential chest he had recovered with such pains and protected with so much secrecy. “Belay that, you men!” he roared in anger.
They took no notice and Kydd turned hotly on the provost captain. “Sir! Have y’ men stop. That’s a chest o’ secrets f’r the admiral. Th’ greatest confidentiality t’ be observed—”
The petty officer in charge touched his hat to the provost captain, ignoring Kydd. “In th’ commander’s bedplace, sir, under th’ cot,” he reported.
Kydd struggled for words. “That—that’s—”
“A blackamoor tried t’ stop us an’ we had t’ skelp him on th’ calabash,” the petty officer added impassively.
“Tysoe! Y’ p
oxy villains! I’ll—”
“That’s enough, Commander,” Fellowes rapped. “I have now to ask you to accompany me ashore, if you please.”
Kydd hesitated, but only for a moment. The sooner the business was sorted out the better. The box was still unopened and its secrets safe. Perhaps this was, after all, a long-winded way to get it ashore.
“Very well. An’ the chest remains secured, th’ contents not t’ be seen.”
“Of course.” There was nothing for it but to board the boat, leaving an open-mouthed Standish to complete the moor, then begin harbour routine and storing for the next voyage.
There was no conversation on the passage back; the other boat fell in astern and Kydd realised that the soldiers were there to enforce a predetermined course of action and his unease turned to alarm. This was no simple mistake.
They headed for Smith Street and the headquarters ashore, the seamen bearing the chest following closely behind. Saumarez’s flag still flew and Kydd’s anxieties began to subside. Soon he would know what it was about.
They entered a small room and Kydd was shown to a single chair on one side while Fellowes sat behind a table. The chest had been delivered intact and lay in the centre. Two marines stood guard over it.
Saumarez strode in. “Ah, sir!” said Kydd in relief, scrambling to his feet. “There’s been a—a misunderstanding o’ sorts.”
Saumarez ignored him. “Is this what you found?” he asked Fellowes.
“It is, sir.”
Kydd blinked. “This is th’ secret chest. Your chest, sir,” he blurted.
“My chest?” Saumarez said in amazement. “You think to make it mine, sir?” His voice thickened in anger. “Open it!”
“But—but, sir, we can’t do that.”
“Pray why not?”
Kydd’s mind reeled. “Because, sir, this is the confidential chest y’ ordered me t’ recover, wi’ secret, um, things as can’t be shown t’ the ordinary sort!”
Saumarez looked at Kydd in disbelief. “I gave orders? You’re attempting to say that I gave orders? No, sir, this will not do! It will not do at all!”
The Privateer's Revenge Page 11
