The Admiral's Daughter (29 page)

Thankfully,
Teazer
was now able to bear away round Bishop Rock for her return and, wallowing uncomfortably, she passed close to the deadly scatter of Crim Rocks. The sight of the dark gashes in the seething white caused Kydd to shiver.

To weather of the Isles of Scilly, they could now look into the few possible hiding-places. Most likely were Crow Sound and Saint Mary's Road near the settlements. If the privateer was riding things out there they were perfectly placed to pounce—but a fresh gale was threatening and the master had said that with a sandy bottom both vessels were unsafe in heavy seas and the bird might well have flown.

They had their duty, however, and despite boldering weather strengthening from the westward Kydd looked into every possible anchorage, wary of the baffling complexity of the offshore tidal streams, which, if the master was to be believed, varied by the hour as they wound through tortuous channels and shallows.

When the fat mass of Round Island was reached it was time to return: with winds abaft, a straightforward run to Land's End and the shelter of Penzance. But the bluster from the south-west was undeniably stronger and the swell lengthening, causing a wrenching wallow as the seas angled in from the quarter.

By the time Land's End had been reached few aboard did not relish the thought of a quiet night in harbour, a cessation of the endless bruising motion. “Penzance, sir?” the master enquired, gripping tightly a line from aloft.

Kydd thought for a moment, then answered, “No, Mr Dowse. I'll ask you t' mark the wind's direction. If it backs more into th' south we'll be held to a muzzler if we sight that Frenchman. No— we press on t' the Lizard and anchor f'r the night in its lee.”

His task was to return back up the coast, continuing on past Plymouth into the eastern half of his patrol area, no doubt passing Bazely as they criss-crossed up and down to the limit of their sea endurance. Bloody Jacques had proved himself and could not be underestimated; keeping the seas was their first priority.

Thus, prudently maintaining a good offing,
Teazer
spent the last few hours of the day crossing Mount's Bay, passing the imposing monolith of St Michael's Mount sheeted in misty spray, and shaping course for the Lizard. The seas were now combers, ragged white-streaked waves that smashed beam-on in thunderous bursts of spray and made life miserable for the watch on deck.

At last, Lizard Point won, they slipped past and fell into its lee; the worst of the wind moderated and they anchored under steep, forbidding cliffs.
Teazer
slewed about the moment sail was off her and, bow to waves, eased thankfully to her cable.

Kydd waited until the watch on deck had been relieved, then went below. There was no hope of any hot food, and as Tysoe exchanged his sodden clothes, he chewed hard tack and cheese, pondering what constituted sea endurance: the ship's state for sea or the men's willingness to endure such punishing conditions. In this fresh gale a stately ship-of-the-line would snort and jib a little, but would essentially move much more ponderously and predictably; a small brig's endless jerky rearing and falling, however, taxed the muscles cruelly. It was physically exhausting to maintain for long and he hoped the gale would blow itself out overnight.

The morning brought no relief: the gale still hammered, with ragged waves trailing foam-streaks in their wake, but
Teazer
had her duty and the anchor was weighed at first light.

“Falmouth, sir?” the master asked. Kydd knew that the men at the conn were listening to every word. It was tempting: Falmouth was but several hours away only and offered spacious shelter in Carrick Roads.

However, in these seas no boat could live, and for
Teazer
to enter the harbour, with its single south-facing entrance, would be to risk finding themselves bailed up. With foul weather clearing the seas of prey the privateer was probably waiting it out in some snug lair, which, if Kydd came across it, would find him helpless. It was worth cracking on.

“We sail on, Mr Dowse. This is a hard man we're after but he's a prime seaman. He won't think aught o' this blow.” At his bleak expression Kydd added, “An' then, o' course, we can always run in t' Fowey.”

The master said nothing but turned on his heel and went forward. Kydd gave orders that saw them bucketing northwards past the lethal sprawl of the Manacles and into the relative shelter of Falmouth Bay.

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.

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.