The Admiral's Daughter (17 page)

“Get up there, lad,” he ordered Andrews. Another pair of eyes in the tops would never be too many with so much riding on it. But before the lad could swing into the shrouds a sudden cry came from the foretop.
“Laaand hooo!”
The lookout gestured vigorously to leeward.

In a fever of impatience Kydd waited for the land to come within sight of the deck, an anonymous grey shape firming before them. “Take it south-about,” Kydd told the quarter-master. If it was Ushant they needed to be in place for their southward search and if it was not . . .

Davies came and stood next to Kydd, staring intently. “Certainly looks the part, sir,” he said pleasantly, as though unaware of the tension about him. “We'll discover f'r sure when we see him off t' the nor'-west. He has a deep bay there, lookin' all the world like the open claw of a lobster.”

“We used to say ‘nutcracker' in
Diomede,
” Prosser said importantly. He had taken up position on the other side of Kydd, who didn't reply.

It proved to be Ushant and therefore they had their position exactly—for the moment. The westerly was holding and beginning to kick up a bit of a sea, although this was probably more due to its disputing with the last of the down-Channel ebb. Kydd fretted at the ragged rain squalls that marched across and lasted for long minutes, bringing visibility down to yards; not only did this make sighting
Immortalité
difficult but it hid the dark rocks off to starboard.

“'T'were best we made our southing through the Chenal d'Four,” Davies offered. “We have the slant wi' this westerly.”

Prosser puffed his cheeks. “In
Diomede
it was always Chenal d'Helle, on account—”

“Hold y'r noise!” Kydd snapped. “Haven't ye somethin' t' do forrard?”

Leaving the black mass of Ushant astern, they sailed on uneasily until a low line of darker grey spread across the horizon, hardening into a craggy coastline. “France, sir,” Davies said unnecessarily. Kydd grunted; of more concern to him now was their undeviating approach directly towards it. Detail became clearer as they neared, a wicked, uncompromising cragginess.

The chart had shown an appalling jumble of unconnected reefs and half-tide rocks and had hinted of fierce tidal currents to be avoided at all costs. To thread a safe route through would be a nightmare without help.

“Are ye sure?”

Davies nodded patiently.

“Tut, tut, an' this is a rare moil,” exclaimed Dowse, looking askance at the approaching cliffs, now no more than a couple of miles distant. It was a dead lee shore and all his master's instincts jangled in alarm. His eyes met Kydd's.

“Nothing t' worry of,” Davies said cheerfully. “Need to keep inshore o' L'Pâtresses, is all.”

The helm went over a bare mile short of the grim heights, but as they made their passage south to parallel them Kydd saw why: at this distance there was a noticeable back wind from the nearby sea-cliffs, which went some way to easing the situation.

Away to starboard the misty sea was full of dismal black crags, white-fringed and dreadful, and after they had passed a stern headland at less than a mile it was evident that they were edging nearer, being crowded ever closer to the coast—suddenly there was no longer any space to wear about or even to tack back to where they had come from. “I mislike it, sir—no sea room, we can't put back,” Dowse said. “What if . . . ?”

They were being funnelled between a substantial seaweed-black islet to starboard and a gaunt, twisted headland to larboard, but as they drew in, there was a flat
thump
on the damp air. Kydd heard more and searched feverishly for where the guns were. There must be a battery somewhere atop the lofty cliffs—which they would pass close beneath.

He turned to Davies, who said calmly, “Pay no mind t' the Frenchy, sir. He's got no notion o' range over water, and in any case, I know a little diversion, this state o' th' tide, as'll take us close in past the Béniguete instead.”

True to his word,
Teazer
found herself picking her way warily past the frighteningly close kelp-strewn islet while the guns thudded away impotently. Another mile, and they were in open water, the dark coastline fallen away to nothing.

“Clear, sir,” Davies said smugly. “This is y'r Goulet,” he added, gesturing to the tumble of seas stretching away to the left. “And Brest lies no more'n a dozen miles away there t' the east'd.”

This was all very fine; they had won through the worst to the main approaches of the port but where was
Immortalité?
The little brig-sloop continued across the wide mouth towards the other side but still no trace. And the irritated French might be driven to sending out gunboats.

Picking up on Pointe du Toulinguet on the opposite side, to the anguish of the master watching the ugly scattering of black rocks stretching seaward for miles, they hauled away across the Iroise towards its natural boundary at the Pointe du Raz and the fifteen miles of reefs and shoals extending straight out to sea.

With a four-thousand-mile fetch, the wind from the open sea had a relentless urge to it that seemed to want to bully
Teazer
ever closer towards the grim coastline. And it was increasing now, with an ugly lop and white horses here and there. The rain had eased to flurries but there was low scud above the ragged cloud.

“Mr Davies?” Kydd asked heavily. It was getting uncomfortable, beam on to the racing seas, and while visibility was improving the doubled lookouts were not seeing any sign of sail.

“Why, y' have to understand, sir, in the inshore squadron we has two jobs to do—tell England when the Mongseers put t' sea, and the other is t' show ourselves anywhere there's a Frenchman, tells 'em they're under eye and it's better for 'em to stay snug in harbour.
Immortalité
could be . . . well, anywheres.”

“Thank you, Mr Davies.” Kydd looked out to the unfriendly sea and back to the forbidding coast. Naval duty was a hard taskmaster at times—was it expected that he comb the seas interminably until he found his frigate? In these dangerous waters, with thick weather promising?

The rocky barrier out from the Pointe du Raz was approaching; decisions would have to be made. To leeward, out of sight from the deck, the sweep of Douarnenez Bay had no port of interest, except possibly the small haven of Douarnenez itself. He was not about to risk entering the bay—Douarnenez! A tickle of memory came: his first ship and he a lowly ordinary seaman smelling gunpowder for the first time. It was here that
Duke William
had clashed briefly with emerging French ships-ofthe-line. They must have been taking shelter in an accustomed anchorage—with which the frigate would of course be familiar and might now be reconnoitring.

“We bear up f'r Douarnenez, I believe, Mr Dowse.”

They entered the bay past a prominent foreland towering up to larboard, the bay opening up widely beyond. The further shore would only be in sight from the tops and Kydd gazed up at them impatiently. But—nothing. No sail, no frigate. “G'damn it!” he blazed.

“Sir! Sir!” Andrews piped from his station on the afterdeck, hopping from one foot to the other. He was pointing vigorously astern. Tucked well into the lee of the foreland just past, a ship lay at anchor, her ensign plain for all to see.

“Immortalité,”
Davies confirmed.

However, so far downwind there was nothing for it but to beat back to the big vessel. A gun boomed on her fo'c'sle, drawing attention to the challenge that had shot smartly up her halliards. “Private signal,” roared Kydd to Andrews: thank heaven he had had the foresight to claim these from the flagship before he left and to have the correct signal of the day made up for hoisting every morning.

It soared up briskly: it wouldn't do to trifle with a crack frigate of the inshore squadron.
Teazer
leant to the wind and beat her way over while Kydd decided that he would not stand on ceremony; even a post-captain would not expect him to dress for a visit on this occasion.

As they neared, a twenty-four-pounder crashed out and the sea plumed ahead of their forefoot. At the same time, all along the length of the frigate's gun deck cannon were run out and Kydd found himself staring down the muzzles of
Immortalité
's broadside.

His mind froze. Then he thought to check again with her ensign—if she had been captured, the French could never fire under false colours—but she still flew an ensign of the Royal Navy.

“Mr Purchet!” bellowed Kydd, his voice breaking with effort. “Loose the fore topsail sheets this instant!” In a frenzied motion they were cast off and the sail banged and fluttered free. It was the nearest thing to striking topsails, the age-old signal of surrender, that Kydd could think of.

“Clear away the cutter, boat's crew t' muster,” he croaked.

Under Poulden's urgent bidding the men stretched out for the frigate, Kydd sitting bolt upright, his foul-weather gear damp and uncomfortable. As they neared, there was confirmation that this was a vessel of the Royal Navy—sea-worn she might be, but every detail, from the blacked muzzles of the cannon to the fancy rope-work round the wind-vane, spoke of a proud sea service.

They came alongside and hooked on, the boat jibbing like a lunatic in the seas that swept the sides of the frigate. Kydd waited for the right moment and jumped for the side-steps, his wet-weather gear tangling and whipping as he climbed up and over the bulwarks.

Two stolid lines of armed marines met him instead of a side-party. A grim-faced post-captain waited ahead and held up his hands for Kydd to stop where he was. “And who the devil are you, sir?” he grated.

“C-commander Kydd, brig-sloop
Teazer,
at y'r service, sir,” Kydd said breathlessly.

“Prove it!” snarled the captain.

Kydd smothered a retort when he realised that, but for a bedraggled and threadbare hat, he was in anonymous foul-weather gear—and he had not a scrap of identification on him as a British officer.

He wheeled round on Poulden, who stood rigidly behind. “What's th' best public house in Plymouth Town? Quickly, man!”

“Th-the Town? Beggin' y'r pardon, sir, but we likes best t' hoba-nob at th' Portsmouth Hoys, Fore Street in Dock, as serves the best brown ale, but if y' means Old Plymouth, why . . .” He tailed off uncertainly under the ferocious glare of the frigate captain.

There was a brief, unreal silence before the captain grunted, “Very well. Stand down the marines. Secure from quarters.” He marched up to Kydd and halted within inches. “Now, sir, do you account for yourself.”

Affronted, Kydd retorted, “I'm at a loss, sir, why you fired into me.”

The captain kept his eyes fixed on Kydd's and snapped, “So
you
would not, were you a frigate captain, which I highly doubt will ever be the case? Then, pray, look at it from my point of view.

“A strange and—I observe—foreign-looking sloop sails unconcerned, as though in home waters, straight into Douarnenez Bay, which all good Englishmen do shun. He sees me and, quick as a flash, throws out the private signal, just as if he'd got it by him after capturing one of ours. He puts about impudently and takes his chance to close with me, hoping to catch us off-guard and at anchor, so then he may pour in his treacherous broadsides.

“But he's forgotten one detail.” He paused, giving a savage smile, then went on in a voice of rising thunder, “If he's of the Channel Fleet, carries their private signals—
then why in Hades is he flying the wrong damn ensign?
”

Too late, Kydd remembered. On her temporary side-voyage for Cornwallis,
Teazer
was flying not the blue ensign of Cornwallis's fleet but the red of Lockwood's command.

C
HAPTER 7

“A
N'
I
'M DETERMINED ON IT
,
Nicholas,” Kydd said, stretching happily in his armchair.

“We have hardly had time to scrape the salt from our eyebrows after our hard weeks on the briny deep, dear brother,” Renzi sighed, “and here you are proposing we should immediately embark on the rigours of—”

“Not a high occasion as would embarrass th' exchequer, I'll grant ye, more in the way of an assembly or so,” Kydd said comfortably. Becky came in shyly to draw the curtains and departed with a smile.

“Then might we not consider a rout? No expense of a meal at table, quantities of people arriving and departing when they will, wine and jollity on all sides. And, of course, the decided social advantage of there being the opportunity to accommodate more than the usual number so there will be many more in the way of return invitations.”

“Done!” What was the use of maintaining an establishment if it were not to be gainfully employed? “Who shall be invited? As ye know,
Teazer
will not be in port s' long . . .”

While invitations were agreed plans were put in train. “I'm of th' mind that a woman's touch might be an advantage,” Kydd said. “Should I—do y' think that Cecilia is t' be invited?”

Renzi looked up from his writing of the invitations—a bold, round copperplate of impeccable execution—and said, in measured tones, “She is your sister. It would be singular indeed if you did not ask her. And if by this you make allusion to any feelings I might have entertained for the lady, pray spare me your delicacies—she is quite free to come and go as she chooses, which is her right as a gentlewoman.” His head bent to the writing.

The evening seemed destined for success: all invitations were taken up and Kydd was kept busy greeting the steady stream of guests who showed every inclination to linger.

Cecilia sparkled as hostess; her orange-flower and brandy rout cakes were universally applauded. Becky, under Tysoe's discreet tutelage, mingled with a tray of cordials and wines and it was not long before number eighteen resounded to scenes of gaiety and warmth.

“Ah, Mrs Mullins!” Kydd said warmly. “Y'r help in acquiring m' residence is much appreciated. Can ye not feel how it likes t' see a party?”

“I do that, Mr Kydd,” she replied, hiding a smile.

“Sir, a Miss Robbins.” It was the hired footman at the door.

“Why, Mr Kydd! So good of you to remember us.” There was movement behind her as she went on, “Ah, the invitation did mention ‘a friend,' did it not?” she cooed.

“O' course it did, Miss . . .” Her friend emerged from behind her, stopping Kydd mid-sentence. “Oh! Er, th-thank you f'r coming, Miss Lockwood,” he managed, then remembered a polite bow, took the proffered hand and escorted her in.

She was in a cream dress of the latest fashion and had taken some considerable pains with her Grecian hairstyle. “I noticed your ship arrive, Mr Kydd,” she said warmly. “Such a pretty creature. A brig-sloop, I'd hazard?”

“Aye—that is t' say, yes, she is.
Teazer
is her name.”

“How curious,” she said. Her hazel eyes held his for a long moment. “Does she suit you?”

Kydd returned the look coolly but inwardly he exulted. How had she known it was his ship unless it had been pointed out to her—or she had been looking out for it? Either way it proved her interest in him. “Why, Miss Lockwood, there's been three Teazers in our sea service this age but none s' sweet a sailer on a bowline as—as my
Teazer.
”

“How agreeable for you.” She paused and continued softly, “Tell me this, would you trust your very life to her in a great storm?”

“I would,” Kydd answered immediately. He wondered what lay behind her words, realising that she was using the seafarer's “she” for a ship instead of the landlubber's soulless “it.” “I have afore now, an' conceive I will again, all th' time I'm in English seas.”

“Just so,” she said politely, her eyes still on him. Kydd felt a blush rising. “Well, Mr Kydd, if I don't see you again tonight let me tell you how much I have enjoyed meeting you once more.”

Kydd bowed wordlessly and, claimed by Miss Robbins, Persephone Lockwood entered the throng. Kydd gazed after her, seeing people fall back in deference to her quality and respectful glances flashed his way.

He resumed his duties, conscious of rising elation. Time passed, and the first guests made ready to depart, among them Miss Lockwood. Should he strike up a conversation before she left? But before he could act she had caught his eye and moved over to him. “Mr Kydd, thank you for a lovely evening.”

“M-my pleasure, Miss L-Lockwood,” he stuttered.

“I wonder—no, I have no right to ask it of you,” she said, with a frown, a gloved hand going to her mouth.

“Do, please,” Kydd said gallantly.

“Well, since you are so obliging, it does occur to me that you could be of some service to me in a small matter that would really mean a lot.”

“Miss Lockwood, if I c'n do anything . . .”

“It's for my father,” she said apologetically. “I have it in mind to present him with a painting for his birthday, a marine painting. You see, I'm concerned that it be completely authentic in its sea detail—you've no idea how testy Papa gets when he espies errors in the rigging and so forth. If you could assist me to choose wisely I would be most grateful.”

“Er, yes! I mean t' say, o' course I will.”

“You're most kind. Then shall we meet at the print publisher in Old Plymouth? I've been told he also has some fine sea paintings. Would Wednesday, at eleven, suit?”

“Wednesday, yes,” Kydd blurted. Two days.

“Oh—and this had better be our little secret,” she concluded, with an impish smile.

“Come.” Kydd looked up from his pile of official letters.

“I'll be off ashore, then, sir,” his first lieutenant said boyishly. He looked dashing in his cutaway coat and gush of lace cravat, and held a rakish silk hat as though he was trying to hide it.

“By all means, Mr Standish.” The unwritten custom was that the two officers would take turn and turn about to be out of the ship while at short stay in port. “An' good fortune with the . . . the entertainments.”

The other flashed a broad smile and was gone.

Kydd bent once more to his task. The constant stream of invoices, dockets, reports and correspondence requiring his sole attention never ceased to amaze him, but any matter skimped or overlooked might rebound at a later time.

“Enter!” he called at a timid knock.

“From ashore, sir,” squeaked Andrews.

It was a simple folded letter from Cecilia.

Dear Thomas,
Jane has been lately telling me of your dockyard, and how it is the very wonder of the age. She says that if you are known to a person of consequence it is quite the thing to visit at length under escort. You would oblige me extremely if you will indulge my curiosity when convenient.

His
dockyard? Kydd smiled. Plymouth, big as it now was, was near dwarfed by the naval dockyard and the vast population of workers that had grown up around it, but he was feeling restless and an excuse to get away and promenade in the sunshine was welcome. “At ten, the North Stairs,” he scribbled on the back of the note. She would know where the officers stepped ashore.

She was waiting for him, twirling a parasol and in infectious good spirits. “Such a handsome escort for a lady,” she exclaimed, taking his arm. Since the return of Kydd and Renzi from Terra Australis Cecilia had made a remarkable recovery and was now undeniably in looks, her strong dark features catching eyes on all sides.

“Then shall we spread sail an' get under way, Cec?”

Seamen touched their hats with a grin and a grave ensign of Foot saluted Kydd's gold and blue smartly as they moved off round the wall to the Fore Street entrance. The master porter emerged from his little house and recognised Kydd with a wave, the two sentinels coming to a crashing “present.”

“This is y'r royal dockyard, then, sis. Seventy-one acres an' three thousand artificers, not t' mention th' labouring men. I dare t' say there are more'n half ten thousand men at work before ye now.”

It gave pause, for the largest industrial endeavour in his home town, the Guildford iron foundry, could boast of no more than a few score and none other in Kydd's acquaintance had more than some small hundreds.

“What a charming chapel,” Cecilia murmured, looking at a trim little edifice just inside the gates.

“Seventeen hundred, sis, William the third.” An avenue of well-tended lime trees stretched away to a lengthy terrace of fine houses that might well have graced Bath or London. “An' those are the quarters of the officers o' the dockyard—there ye'll find the commissioner, master shipwright, clerk o' the cheque, all your swell coves. Gardens at th' back an' offices in the front.”

But her eyes were down the slight hill to the main dock area and the towering complexity of a ship-of-the-line in dry-dock. As they approached, the scale of the sight became more apparent: soaring to the skies, her masts and yards higher by far than the tallest building anywhere, it seemed incredible that this great structure was actually designed to move.

Clutching Kydd's arm Cecilia peered over the edge of the graving dock, unprepared for the sheer grandeur of the dimensions of what she saw: the huge bulk of the vessel, the muddy floor of the dock so far below and the tiny figures moving about from under.

“I'll show ye a sight as you'll never forget,” Kydd said. “Mind y'r dress.” He found a small flight of stone steps with an iron hand-chain that led down into the abyss. “Come on, Cec.”

Frightened, but trusting, she clung to the chain and they descended, down and down. The sunlight faded and a miasma of mud and seaweed wafted up, thick and pungent. On the last step Kydd called a halt. “Look now, sis.”

She turned—and caught her breath. In a giddying domination, the colossal green-streaked bulk of the battleship reared above them blotting out everything. As well, it stretched away down the dock on and on, longer than a town street, and the impression of a monstrous bulking poised only on the central keel-blocks and kept from toppling by spindly-looking shores caused a strange feeling of upside-down vertigo.

Kydd pointed past the fat swell of the hull to the further end. “Those are our dock gates, Cec. I have t' tell ye that the other side o' that is the sea, and where we're stood is usually thirty feet under th' waves.”

“They w-won't open them while we're still here, will they?” she added, in a small voice.

“Not till I give 'em the order.” Kydd chuckled, but Cecilia mounted the steps back to the sunshine with almost indecent haste.

At the top Kydd could not resist stepping over to the adjacent dock—even bigger, the seventy-four within seeming quite diminished. “Now this one. It's the biggest in th' world, an' the dockyard has a story about it.

“Y' see when it was built, it was designed f'r our largest ship, the
Queen Charlotte
of a hundred guns. But then the Frenchies built one much bigger, th'
Commerce de Marseille
of a hundred and twenty guns—nearly three thousan' tons. So just in time, they enlarged it an' finished it f'r the war in 'ninety-three.”

He paused for effect. “Now, ye'll recall in that year that Vice-Adm'ral Lord Hood took Toulon an' much o' the French fleet. So this is sayin' that it's just as well they made their changes when they did, for the first ship t' use the dock was the
Commerce de Marseille
herself!”

Arm in arm they passed the clatter of the joinery workshops, the rich stink of the pitch house, then dock after dock, each with a man-o'-war in various stages of repair and alive with shipwrightery and riggers.

At a substantial kiln a procession of men were withdrawing steaming planks wrapped in cloths. “The chippies use th' steam chest t' bend their strakes round th' frames an' fit 'em by eye— that's three curves in one, I'll have ye know,” Kydd said admiringly, remembering Antigua dockyard in the Caribbean.

“Oh—the poor man!” Cecilia gasped. Peering into a sawpit she had glimpsed the lower individual of a pair who were plying a mighty whip-saw to slice a bole of oak to planks. The one above the trestle bent to saw and direct the cut while his partner, showered with chips and dust as he worked, took the other end in a dank pit the size of a grave.

“All day, an' a shillin' only,” Kydd said, then pointed out the rigging house. “You'd not credit it, but old
Tenacious
has near twenty miles o' rope aboard. Goes fr'm your light tricin' line all the way t' the anchor cable, which is two feet round, if ye can believe it.”

Cecilia nodded doubtfully, so Kydd went on, “Which is sayin' that the crew on the capstan are heavin' in seven tons weight o' cable alone, straight up an' down and stand fast the weight of the anchor.”