The Admiral's Daughter (38 page)

“Go on.”

“I cannot go further, apart from suggesting that your admiral in the strictest confidence consults a Mr Congalton at the Foreign Office as to whether, in fact, it is a good idea that I be taken up as a common smuggler. If I am unsupported, I may of course be instantly taken and cast into prison.”

His confident smile implied there was little danger of that.

“And, dare I mention it, sir, your reputation with your admiral afterwards will be as high as if this were public knowledge.”

To put before Lockwood that not only had he laid hold of the smuggler-in-chief but that he was privy to secrets at the highest level would be sweet indeed. “I'll need y' word on it.”

“You have it, Commander.”

“Then I'll take ye back to Polperro while we check th' details.” Kydd chuckled drily. “I may be wrong in th' particulars, but I have th' feeling that this day I may have destroyed Bloody Jacques, but I've also got rid of a business competitor for ye.”

Renzi sat in the boat next to Kydd. On the other side Job was serene and confident. Renzi had agreed to come to Polperro only because Kydd was in such fine spirits and had begged that he pay his respects to Rosalynd. He did not dislike the girl, it was not her fault that Kydd had been so hopelessly lovestruck: it was simply such a waste and one that, so obviously, Kydd would come later to regret.

They reached the fish quay. Renzi stood back while Kydd helped Job up and sent him on his way.

“Lay off an' wait,” Kydd ordered the boat's crew and, with a broad smile, added, “We won't stay, Nicholas, don't y' worry.”

They stepped off briskly for the Landaviddy path. Instinctively Renzi felt uneasy: it was peculiar that so few people were about. They walked on and even the few seemed to be scurrying off. Did they think Kydd was looking for someone else?

A fisherwoman stopped, a set expression on her lined face.

Then she turned and hurried away. It was deeply unsettling. In a low voice Renzi said, “There's—something afoot. I don't know . . .”

Kydd looked about with a frown. “Where's th' people?”

They were both unarmed: should they return immediately to the boat? Had there been a French landing? It could be anything.

Then there was movement down the path. “Titus—Billy! What's happenin', y' rascal?” called Kydd.

The lad approached unwillingly, his face white and strained. Kydd stiffened. “Something's happened,” he said. “Something bad,” he added, with a catch in his voice and forced the lad to look at him.

“She's gone, Mr Kydd.”

Kydd froze rigid

“We—we buried her yesterday.”

For long seconds Kydd held still. Then he stepped back, his face a distorted mask. “No! No! Tell me . . .”

“I—I'm s-sorry.”

“No! It can't . . .”

He turned this way and that as though trying to escape and an inhuman howl finally erupted.
“No! Noooo! Dear God in heaven, why?”

The sexton was at the church gate. He gestured across the graveyard to the freshly turned earth. Kydd stumbled there blindly and dropped to his knees at the graveside.

“Damnedest thing,” the sexton confided to Renzi in a low voice. “On passage to Plymouth for t' get her weddin' rig—a fine day, an' out of nowhere comes this black squall an' they overset. Over in minutes, it were.”

Renzi did not reply. He was watching Kydd and, as his shoulders began to shake, he knew that the man was as alone in the world as he had been when they had first met, a desperately unhappy pressed man in the old
Duke William.
And now he needed his friend . . .

Without a word he went to him.

A
UTHOR'S
N
OTE

As I began to gather my thoughts for the author's note for this, my eighth book, I could not help but think how lucky I am to have Tom Kydd! Because of him and his wonderful world of the sailing man-o'-war, so many aspects of
my
life have been enhanced.

Becoming an author has meant that I have met people from many walks of life all over the world—certainly in my previous profession as a computer software designer it would have been unlikely for our paths to have crossed: there are far too many new friends and acquaintances directly attributable to Thomas Kydd to acknowledge here, but I know I'm enriched by them all.

Then there is the location research each January for the upcoming book. This has taken me to locales ranging from the Caribbean to Gibraltar and further. I visit each country with the specific goal of stripping away the trappings of modern life and building up a picture of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century—the particular sights, smells, colour, the food, ways of life there in general. Some places still retain much of what Kydd would have seen, in others it is more difficult to peel away the layers—but that is the challenge . . .

To my surprise I realise that this is the first book set in home waters—I hope I've been able to do justice to what I've found to be as wild and exotic a location as any, and with spectacles then such as the incredible complex of the Plymouth naval base and dockyard. Certainly, in those pre-factory times it was the wonder of the age, employing many thousands of men when most industries counted their workers in scores. No one in England lives far from the sea and a strong and abiding relationship with Neptune's Realm is a national characteristic, but it is perhaps in the West Country where the maritime heritage is strongest. Since time immemorial, the sea provided food and transport links between isolated communities, and with hundreds of miles of rocky coastline, and winter storms equal to any, it has also been the graveyard of so many ships.

As usual, I owe a debt of gratitude to the many people I consulted in the process of writing this book. Probably foremost among these is my life's partner Kathy. As well as her professional input at all stages of the books, she functions as a
reality manager,
keeping the trials of everyday life at bay and enabling me to immerse myself in my research and writing.

Space precludes mentioning everyone but I would particularly like to convey special thanks to the people of the picturesque fishing village of Polperro in Cornwall, notably ex-fisherman Bill Cowan, former harbour-master Tony White and historian Jeremy Johns. I was honoured when the trustees opened the Polperro Museum especially so that I could view the wonderfully intricate models of local fishing vessels under sail crafted by shipwright Ron Butters.

My thanks, too, to Richard Fisher, who organised a special tour over Stonehouse Royal Marine Barracks; the Long Room where Kydd attended the ball still stands tall within the complex.

And lastly, as always I must acknowledge the contributions of my literary agent, Carole Blake, marine artist Geoff Hunt RSMA, editorial director Jackie Swift—and all the team at McBooks Press.

Long may Kydd's voyages continue . . .

T
HE
T
HOMAS
K
YDD
S
HIPMATES
N
ETWORK

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