The Admiral's Daughter (16 page)

A respectful silence was followed by a rustle of anticipation. Kydd knew he was on trial—some commanders would be eager to play the amateur preacher, others flippant and dismissive, but the common run of seamen were a conservative, God-fearing breed, who would be affronted at any kind of trifling with their sturdy beliefs.

“Gissing?” The carpenter's mate stood up with his violin and joined Midshipman Boyd at his German flute. When all was ready Kydd announced the hymn, “O God, Our Help in Ages Past,” and the ship's company sang heartily together, the old words to the well-known tune sounding forth loud and strong. It was the sign of a ship's company in good heart.

Kydd went to the lectern, notes ignored—these were
his
men and he knew what they wanted. “Men of
Teazer—Teazer
's men,” he began. There was a distinction and it was rooted in the different allegiances between those merely on her books and those who had found their being in and of the ship. “Let me spin ye all a yarn.” This got their attention. “Years ago, when I was in m' very first ship we joined action with a Frenchy. And as we closed with th' enemy I was sore afraid. But my gun-captain was there, who was older an' much wiser. He was the very best kind o' deep-sea mariner, and he said to me words o' great comfort that let me face th' day like a man.”

His eyes found Stirk's and he saw the studied blankness of expression that showed he, too, had remembered that day.

“‘Kydd,' he said. ‘Now, it's certain ye'll get yours one day, but ye'll never know what day this'll be when y' wakes up in the morning. If it
is,
then y' faces it like a hero. If it
wasn't,
then it's a waste o' your life to worry on it.'”

Kydd waited for the murmuring to die, then picked up the Bible. “He's in the right of it, o' course—but it was here all th' time. Matthew, the sixth chapter an' the thirty-fourth verse. ‘Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.'

“Men, should y' need a course t' steer in any weather then th' chances are you'll find it here.”

Portland Bill was the eastern limit of
Teazer
's area, but it would do no harm to show the denizens that the navy was here. “T' take us past the Bill an' round to, off Weymouth,” he instructed the master.

There was no real need to pass into the next patrol area, especially with the notorious Race extending out to the Shambles, but this was only bad in heavy weather and it was well known that the King took the waters at Weymouth in summer—what more loyal act could there be than to demonstrate to His Majesty that his sea service was dutifully safe-guarding the shores of his realm?

In the bright sunshine the distant wedge of the peninsula seemed too tranquil for its reputation and the irregular rippling over the Shambles was a tame version of the violent tidal overfalls Kydd had heard about.
Teazer
slipped between them and in an hour or so came to off the town, the hands that had been at their recreational make-and-mend, which was customary after divine service, now lining the bulwarks.

More than one telescope was trained shorewards as they slowed and swung with the current but the King was not at home—the squat King Henry fortress showed no colourful royal standard.

“Take us out, if y' please,” Kydd ordered. It would be harder to return now for the wind was veering more to the west, but if they took Lyme Bay in long boards it would not only give the men more time to enjoy their make-and-mend but enable them to raise Exmouth in the morning.

The next day, as they lay off Exmouth for an hour or two it had clouded over; if there were any urgent sightings or intelligence a cutter would come out to them. After breakfast they clapped on sail for the south and Teignmouth, where they did the same thing, heaving to well clear of the bar at the narrow harbour mouth.

Kydd felt a sense of unreality creeping in: this was not war, it was a pleasant cruise in a well-found craft with eighty men aboard who had nothing more to their existence but to obey his every whim. And before him lay only another easy sail south past some of the loveliest coast in England to Start Point, then a leisurely beat back home to Plymouth. When would it pall? When would come the time that
Teazer
had to justify herself as a man-o'-war? And when would he cross swords with Bloody Jacques?

Sail was spread and
Teazer
leant to it heartily; Hope's Nose was their next landfall and beyond it Tor Bay and Brixham. There was just time to go below and do some work, and reluctantly Kydd left the deck.

Renzi was deep in thought at his accustomed place in the stern windows so Kydd left him in peace, settling down with a sigh to an unfinished report. He worked steadily but his ears pricked at sudden shouts on deck and the rapidly approaching thump of feet.

“Sir!” blurted Andrews at the door. “Mr Standish's compliments and the fleet is in sight!”

“A fleet?” Was this the dreaded invasion?

“Sir! Channel Fleet, flag o' Admiral Cornwallis!”

Kydd threw on his coat and bounded up on deck to find they had rounded Hope's Nose to the unfolding expanse of Tor Bay and come upon the majestic sight of the battleships of the blockading fleet entering their fall-back anchorage.

Looking up, Kydd saw their commissioning pennant standing out, long and proud, at precisely a right-angle from the shore. This meant a dead westerly, so the French in Brest were locked fast into their lair, unable to proceed to sea; the shrewd Cornwallis was taking the opportunity to refit and resupply—for as long as the wind held. Should it shift more than a point or two all anchors would be weighed in a rush and the fleet would stand out to sea to resume its watch and guard. Cornwallis was known as “Billy Blue”: his custom was to leave the Blue Peter flying all the time he was at anchor, the navy signal for imminent departure.

Kydd kept
Teazer
at a respectful distance while the great fleet came to rest. By the laws of the navy he was duty-bound to call on the admiral to request “permission to proceed,” a polite convention that allowed the senior man the chance to co-opt his vessel temporarily for some task.

“Full fig, Tysoe.” Their salute banged out while Kydd shifted into his full-dress uniform and, complete with sword and medals, embarked in the pinnace for the mighty and forbidding 112-gun flagship
Ville de Paris.

Tor Bay was a scene of controlled chaos. From nowhere a host of small craft had appeared, summoned by an urgent telegraph signal that the fleet had been sighted. Hoys, wherries, lighters and a ceaseless stream of boats plied between the ships. This was resupply: a population equivalent to one of the biggest towns in England had appeared magically offshore and demanded months of provisions, putting into motion a formidably complex system that was timed to the hour.

As Kydd journeyed across to the flagship, constantly at hazard of entangling with the furious passage of the small craft, his boat's crew marvelled at the scene. On each ship they passed, men were thick in the rigging, sending down worn canvas, re-reeving end for end the halliards and braces that had seen so much service in the ceaseless struggle to keep the seas. Lighters were being towed out from the breweries at Millbrook, laden deep with vast quantities of beer, a healthier alternative to water in the casks after weeks at sea; and hoys struggled with all the onions, cabbages and other greens they could carry. That very morning these had been in the ground and hapless contractors were at twelve hours' notice to supply many tons of vegetables.

There was much activity ashore on Paignton Sands, too. Snaking lines of horses and cattle were stretched out over the hills heading towards a series of tents. Around them were piles of barrels and men in frenetic motion. The oxen, driven overland from the depot at Ivybridge, were being slaughtered, salted and headed up there and then in casks on the beach.

It was a telling commentary on the efforts of the nation to provide for its sailors, and a demonstration for all to see of the value placed on keeping this vital battle fleet at sea.

The monstrous sides of the flagship towered up and Kydd felt nervous. This was the commander-in-chief, Sir William Cornwallis, whose iron discipline was chiefly responsible for holding together the fleet in the fearsome conditions of the Atlantic blockade. His sea service went back to the American war—his brother had surrendered at Yorktown—and he had been with Rodney at the battle of the Saintes and served as a commodore in India against Tippoo Sahib.

Kydd mounted the side-steps carefully and was met at the ornate entry-port with the thrilling squeal of pipes and the bored looks of the receiving-party. A lieutenant politely doffed his hat while Kydd punctiliously saluted first the quarterdeck, then him, before he strode aft and up to the admiral's cabin.

“Sit y'self down, m' boy,” the great man muttered, rooting about among his charts, then looking up mildly. “Kind in ye to call.” The florid countenance and bluff ways of a country squire hid a sharp mind and ruthless organiser; the seamen called him “Billy-go-tight” and stood well clear when he was to be seen pacing slowly, head down, about the decks.

“Seen much sport?” Cornwallis asked kindly.

“Naught but one privateer who gave me th' slip, sir,” Kydd said apologetically.

“Never mind, lad, early days yet. Now, if ye'd pay mind t' me, there's a service I'd like ye to perform as will spare one of m' frigates.”

“Aye, sir.”

A pale-faced lieutenant looked round the door and promptly vanished at Cornwallis's frown.

The admiral turned back to Kydd. “Do ye find
Immortalité
frigate, Cap'n Owen, an' pass to him a small chest f'r which you'll take a receipt in due form? For y'r information it contains a sum in gold—f'r which I'll take
your
receipt, sir—by which we buy our intelligence.”

“Sir. Er, could I know where she's t' be found?”

“Inshore squadron,” Cornwallis answered testily. “Who knows? In a westerly, could be anywhere off th' Goulet between the Béniguete an' Toulinguet.” At Kydd's hesitation he growled, “Ask Flags, an' get some half-decent charts while ye're about it—it's a graveyard o' ships there, an' this has t' be in the right hands main quickly, sir.”

It made sense of a kind, conceded Kydd, resentfully, as
Teazer
left the commotion of Tor Bay astern and stretched out for Start Point. A little brig taken from her lawful duty was far less of a drain on precious resources than a full-blooded frigate, but this took no account of the feelings of her commander at being so casually sent on errands.

On the other hand this was for Kydd and
Teazer
a first time in one of the worst stretches of sea to be found anywhere—rock-strewn and treacherous, the approaches to Brest at the extreme Atlantic north-west of France had claimed the lives of countless English men-o'-war over the centuries. It was a dangerous lee-shore in all but the infrequent easterlies, and no place for the faint of heart.

All too soon the Start was abeam: it might be possible to fetch their objective in one tack but in this cloudy, petulant weather there would be no sightings to fix their position reliably. And the increasing westerly, with a making tide, would result in a leeward drift of an unknown quantity that would make even the best estimations questionable.

Despite the need for dispatch the only prudent move would be to make a westing sufficient to come about again and in the morning raise the guardian of Brest, the outlying island of Ushant. Then, knowing their position for a certainty, they could work in closer.

It seemed overly cautious, but Kydd was aware of the little wooden chest with the iron padlock that lay well secured in his bedplace. Much might depend on its safe arrival.

Davies, an amiable master's mate from
Ville de Paris,
had volunteered to act as guide—Dowse had only limited familiarity with the region so the younger man's advice would be crucial. Prosser had made much of his time of service on blockade in the 1790s but this was as a midshipman and, given his brash attitude, Kydd was not readily inclined to take suggestions from him. Any experiences of the lower deck made no reference to charts or coasting pilots and were no better than reminiscences.

The dawn brought with it thin, misting rain driving in from the west in tall white curtains that advanced slowly over a sullen swell to soak the sombre group on
Teazer
's quarterdeck. As far as could be relied upon, their reckoning placed them some twenty-five miles to weather of Ushant, the traditional fleet rendezvous, but the sea was empty as the fleet was in Tor Bay.

“Helm up,” Kydd ordered, “Steer east.” The die was cast: they were now sailing directly downwind towards France. They would sight Ushant and shape course accordingly or, missing it, end embroiled in the maze of half-tide rocks promised by their chart.

Kydd went over the arithmetic. The higher he was on the ship, the further he could see. Distance to the horizon in miles was 1.17 times the square root of the height-of-eye in feet. As he stood on the quarterdeck, his eye was about ten feet up, which gave a figure of some four miles. At its highest, Ushant was no more than a hundred and forty feet odd, which by the same calculation gave about fourteen miles. Therefore, adding the two, he could expect to make landfall at eighteen miles off and nearer twenty-three for a lookout in the maintop.