The Admiral's Daughter (8 page)

“Are ye the harbour commissioner, sir?” Kydd asked.

“Port o' Fowey t' Lostwithiel an' all outports—Bibby by name,
Mr
Bibby to you, Cap'n.” The spirit was poured in liberal measure.

“Might I know why ye've been waitin' for me?” Kydd said carefully.

Bibby snorted and settled further into a leather armchair. “Ye were sighted in the offing afore y' bore up for Fowey—stands t' reason ye'll want to make y' number with me.” He gulped at his brandy. “So, in course, I'm a-waiting here for ye.”

Kydd sipped—it was of the finest quality and quickly spread a delicious fire. “I don't understand. Why—”

Bibby slammed down his glass. “Then clap y' peepers on those! Y' see there?” he spluttered, gesturing out of the window into the dusk at the lights from the multitude of ships at anchor. “We're all a-waiting! For you, Mr damn Kydd!”

Kydd coloured. “I don't see—”

“War's been on wi' Boney for weeks now an' never a sight of a ship o' force as will give 'em the confidence t' put to sea! Where's the navy, Mr Kydd?”

“At sea, where it belongs. An' if I c'n remark it, where's the spirit as keeps a ship bailed up in harbour f'r fear of what's at sea?” Kydd came back.

Bibby paused, then went on gruffly, “Ye're new on the coast. Let me give ye somethin' t' ponder. Here's a merchant captain, and he has a modest kind o' vessel, say no more'n four, five hunnerd tons. Like all, he's concerned to see his cargo safe t' port, as it says in his papers, but in this part o' the world he's not doin' it for a big tradin' company—no, sir, for in his hold is bulk an' goods from every little farm an' village around and about. Brought down b' pack-mule, ox-wagon and a man's back t' load aboard in the trust it'll get to the Cattewater, Falmouth, the big tradin' ports up-Channel.

“He sails wi' the tide—an' gets took right away by a privateer. That's bad, but what's worse is that these folk o' the humble sort have put all their means into the cargo and now it's lost. No insurance—in time o' war it's ruinous expensive and they can't afford it. So they're done for, sir, quite finished. It may be the whole village is ruined. And the sailors from these parts, their loved 'uns 'll now be without a penny an' on the parish. The ship? She'll be on shares from the same parts, now all lost.

“So you're going down now t' the quay an' tellin' our merchant captain to his face as he's a cowardly knave for preservin' his ship when he knows as there's at least three o' the beasts out there?”

Kydd kept his tone even. “There's three Frenchy privateers been sighted in these waters? Where was this'n exactly?”

“Well, three ships taken these last two days, stands t' reason. Anyways, one we know, we call the bugger Bloody Jacques on account he doesn't hesitate to murther sailors if'n he's vexed.”

“Then it's one privateer f'r certain only. And I've yet t' see a corsair stand against a man-o'-war in a fair fight, sir,” Kydd said stoutly. But a hundred and fifty miles of coastline defended by himself alone?

However, there was something he could do. He took a deep breath and said, “An' so we'll have a convoy. I'm t' sail f'r Falmouth presently an' any who wishes may come—er, that is, only deep-water vessels desirous o' protection before joining their reg'lar Atlantic convoy there.”

This was going far beyond his orders, which called only for his assistance to existing convoys chancing through his area. Convoys were formed solely by flag-officers and were complex and troublesome to administer, with their printed instructions to masters, special signals and all the implications of claims of legal responsibility upon the Admiralty once a vessel was under the direction of an escort. By taking it on himself to declare a convoy he had thereby assumed personal responsibility for any vessel that suffered capture and in that case would most surely face the destruction of his career and financial ruin.

“I shall speak with th' masters in the morning, if ye'd be s' good as to pass the word,” Kydd said.

“Nicholas. I've declared a convoy,” Kydd mumbled, through his toast.

“Have you indeed, dear fellow?” Renzi replied, adding more cream to his coffee. “Er, are you sure this is within the competence of your sloop commander, however eminent?”

Despite his anxiety Kydd felt suddenly joyful. At last! The decision might have been his but never more would he have to face one alone. “Perhaps not, but can y' think of aught else as will stir 'em t' sea?”

“
Teazer
is a fine ship, but one escort?”

“I saw a cutter at moorings upriver off Bodinnick—she'll have only a l'tenant-in-command and thusly my junior. Shortly he'll hear that he's now t' sail under my orders.” She would help considerably but it would be little enough escort for the dozen or so deep-water vessels he could see at anchor. If they could get away to sea quickly, though, word of them would not reach the jackals on the other side of the Channel in time.

“So, would ye rouse out every hand aboard c'n drive a quill? I've some instructions f'r the convoy t' be copied, an' I mean to have 'em given out after I talk.” Kydd pushed back his plate and began jotting down his main points: a simple private identifying signal, instructions to be followed if attacked, elementary distress indicators. Vanes, wefts and other arcane features of a proper convoy were an impossibility, but should he consider the customary large numbers painted on each ship's quarter?

HMS
Teazer
led a streaming gaggle of vessels, all endeavouring eagerly to keep with her in the light winds, past the ruins of Polruan Castle and the ugly scatter of the Punch Cross rocks.

In the open sea, and with the rounded green-grey headland of the Gribbin to starboard, she hove to, allowing the convoy to assemble. Kydd's instructions had specified that
Teazer
would be in the van, with
Sparrow,
the cutter, taking the rear. Her elderly lieutenant had been indignant when prised from his comfortable berth and had pleaded lack of stores and water, but Kydd was having none of it and the little craft was now shepherding those at the rear out to sea.

The wind was light in this first hour after dawn. Kydd's plan was to make the safety of Falmouth harbour before dark but a dazzling glitter from an expanse of calm waters met him to seaward.

The light airs were fluky about Gribbin Head and Kydd shook out enough sail to ease away slightly. He looked back to check on
Sparrow
but she was still out of sight, and the narrow entrance was crowded with vessels issuing forth in an unholy scramble to be included in the convoy.

The little bay would soon be filled with jockeying ships, which in the slight breeze would have little steerage way, and before long there would be collisions. There was nothing for it but to set sail without delay.
Teazer
bore away in noble style as if conscious of her grand position as convoy leader.

An excited Andrews pointed high up to the rounded summit of Gribbin Head where an unmistakable flutter of colour had appeared.

“Signal station, sir,” said Standish, smartly bringing up his glass.

Kydd's eyes, however, were on the ships crowding into the bay—there were scores. He swivelled round and squinted against the glare of the open sea. Now would be a sovereign opportunity for Bloody Jacques to fall upon the unformed herd and take his pick. It was fast turning into a nightmare.

“Can't seem to make 'em out,” Standish muttered, bracing his telescope tightly. They must have been perplexed to see the port suddenly empty of shipping and were probably wanting reassurance. A small thud and a lazy puff of gunsmoke drew attention to the hoist. But it hung limp and unreadable in the warm still airs.

“Hell's bloody bells!” Kydd snarled. There was no way he could conduct a conversation by crude flag signals at this juncture.

“God rot th' pratting lubbers for a—” He checked himself. “We didn't see 'em, did we?” he bit off. “Tell Prosser t' douse his ‘acknowledge'—keep it at th' dip.”

Standish gave a conspiratorial grin. “Aye aye, sir!”

It was perfect weather for those ashore enjoying the splendid view of so many ships outward bound. The mists of the morning softened every colour; where sea met sky the green of the water graded imperceptibly into the higher blue through a broad band of haze, an intense paleness suffused by the sunlight.

“Take station astern, y' mumpin' lunatic!” Kydd roared, at an eager West Country lugger trying to pass them to the wider sea. His instruction to the convoy had been elementary: essentially a “follow me” that even the most stupid could understand. He took off his hat and mopped his brow, aware that he was making a spectacle of himself, but not caring. The milling throng began to string out slowly and at last, in the rear, Kydd saw
Sparrow
but she was not making much way in the calm air and was ineffectual in her task of whipping in the stragglers.

Indeed,
Teazer
found herself throwing out more and more sail; the zephyr that had seen them out of harbour was barely enough to keep up a walking pace. However, with Gribbin Head now past, and the wider expanse of St Austell Bay opening up abeam, they had but to weather Dodman Point and would then have a straight run to St Anthony's Head and Falmouth.

Apart from the insignificant inshore craft, the sea was mercifully clear of sail, but who could know, with the bright haze veiling the horizon? Looking back astern again Kydd saw a dismaying number of ships strung out faithfully following in his wake. By turns he was appalled and proud: the undisciplined rabble was as unlike a real convoy as it was possible to be but on the other hand he and his fine sloop had set the argosy on its way.

“How d'ye believe we're proceedin', Mr Dowse?” Kydd said.

Dowse's significant glance at the feathered dog-vane lifting languidly in the main-shrouds, followed by a measured stare at the even slope of the Dodman, was eloquent enough. “I mislike that mist in the sun's eye, I do, sir. I'd like t' lay the Dodman at th' least two mile under our lee.”

“Very well, Mr Dowse.” The band of haze had broadened but, charged as it was with the new sun's splendour, Kydd had paid it little attention. But if this was a sea-fog it was unlike any he had seen—the dank, close ones of the Grand Banks, the cool, welcome mists of the Mediterranean. Surely this summer haze should give no problem?

“Hoist ‘keep better station,'” Kydd called to the pair at the signal halliards.
Sparrow
seemed to have recovered some of the sea breeze but was crossing about behind their flock to no apparent purpose. After a few minutes she drew back to the centre of the rear but it was clear they were going to get no reply: either the humble cutter did not possess a full set of signal bunting or her captain did not see why he should play big-fleet manoeuvres at Kydd's whim.

“Sir.” Dowse nodded meaningfully at the haze. It was broader and the luminous quality at its mid-part now had an unmistakable core, soft and virginal white.

Kydd glanced at the Dodman—St Austell Bay had swept round again to culminate in this historic point ahead, one of the major sea marks for generations of mariners over the centuries. It was now far closer: the menace of Gwineas Rocks to starboard showed stark and ugly—and the band of misty haze was wide enough now to touch the lower limb of the sun.

“Early summer, sir. In a southerly ye sometimes find as after it passes over th' cool seas it'll whip up a thick mist quick as ye'd like, specially if'n the wind veers more t' the west.”

The sun was now reduced to a pearlescent halo, the foot of the advancing mist clearly defined. Things had suddenly changed for the worse. Kydd glanced at the looming precipitous bluff. It was so unfair: another mile and they would have weathered the point but they would be overtaken by the rolling mist just as they reached the hazards to the south of the Dodman, the heavy tidal overfalls of the Bellows, stretching out for a mile or more into the Channel. To fall back from where they had come with his unwieldy armada in an impenetrable fog and a lee shore was impossible and a dash north for Mevagissey or one of the other tiny harbours marked on the chart was out of the question for a complete convoy.

Kydd bit his lip. He could not return; neither could he go on and chance that unseen currents and an onshore wind would draw
Teazer
and the convoy on to the deadly Bellows. Should he anchor and wait it out? That would risk his charges, who, expecting him to press on, might blunder about hopelessly looking for him.

The first cool wisps of the mist brushed his cheek. The world changed to a calm, enveloping, uniform white that left tiny dewdrops on his coat, and rendered nearby vessels diaphanous ghosts that disappeared. Kydd took a deep breath and made his decision. He was about to give the orders when he saw a still form standing back. “Why, Mr Renzi, I didn't notice ye on deck before,” he said, distracted.

“You will anchor, I believe.”