It would be a near thing; Kydd shied at the mental image of Hodgson and his seamen watching hopelessly as they left but he needed to concentrate on the sea surface ahead for any betraying cross-current and tried not to notice the renewed activity of the cannon. The fall of most shot could not be seen but several balls came close enough to bring on a fresh chorus of shrieks; he bellowed orders that the decks be cleared, all passengers driven below. It would give them no real protection but at least they would be out of sight of the gunfire—and Teazer ’s commander.
Poulden took several sailors and urged the passengers down the main-hatchway; a lazy dark stippling in the sea to larboard forced Kydd to order the helm up to pay off to leeward and skirt the unknown danger. Suddenly there was an avalanche of crumps from the far shore; they were losing patience with the little brig that was evidently winning through to freedom. But would the artillery officer in charge of this remote coastal battery be experienced enough to direct the aim with deadly effectiveness?
More sinister rippling appeared ahead; Teazer bore away a few points further to leeward. More guns sounded.
The last of the people were being shooed below, and in an unreal tableau, as though it happened at half the speed, Kydd saw a well-dressed lady take the rope at the hatchway and her arm disappear. She stared at the stump in bewilderment. Then the blood came, splashing on her dress and down the hatchway ladder. She crumpled to the deck.
Chaos broke out: some tried to force passage down the hatch-way as others sought to escape the madness below. The fop tore himself free and beseeched Kydd to surrender; the man with the strong features snarled at him. It may have been just a lucky shot but who were these folk to appreciate that? Kydd reflected grimly.
Others joined in a relentless assault on his attention and his concentration slipped. With a discordant bumping Teazer took the ground and slewed to a stop. Sail was instantly brailed up but, with a sick feeling, Kydd knew his alternatives were few.
As far as he could tell they had gone aground on the southern edge of the Gambe d’Amfard tidal bank. The critical question was, what was the state of the tide? Would they float off on the flow or end hard and fast on the ebb?
He looked about helplessly. Virtually every vessel in the estuary had vanished at the sound of guns, the last scuttling away upriver as he watched. The battery rumbled another salvo and he felt the wind of at least one ball. It was now only a matter of time. Was there anything at all? And had he the right to risk civilian lives in the saving of a ship-of-war? Did his duty to his country extend to this? If only Renzi was by his side—but he was on his own.
“T’ me! All Teazers lay aft at once, d’ ye hear?” he roared against the bedlam. Frightened seamen obeyed hurriedly, probably expecting an abandon-ship order.
Kydd became aware that the strong-featured man had joined him. “Captain Massey,” he said simply. “How can I help ye?”
After just a moment’s pause, Kydd said, “That’s right good in ye, sir. I’ve lost m’ only l’tenant and if you’d . . .” It was breath taking gall but in the next instant HMS Teazer had a full post- captain as her new temporary first lieutenant, in token of which Kydd gave him his own cocked hat as a symbol of authority. Together they turned to face the seamen as Kydd gave out his orders, ones that only he with his intimate knowledge of Teazer was able to give, and ones that were her only chance of breaking out to the open sea.
In any other circumstance the usual course would be to lighten ship, jettison guns and water, anything that would reduce their draught, even by inches. But Teazer had not yet taken in her guns and stores and was as light as she would get. The next move would normally be to lay out a kedge anchor and warp off into deep water but he had neither the men nor the considerable time it would take for that.
And time was the critical factor. As if to underline the urgency another ripple of sullen thuds sounded from across the water, and seconds later balls skipped past, ever closer. “Long bowls,” Massey grunted, slitting his eyes to make out the distant forts. A weak sun had appeared with the lessening airs and there was glare on the water.
The last element of their predicament, however, was the hardest: the winds that had carried them on to the bank were necessarily foul for a reverse course—they could not sail off against the wind. And Kydd had noticed the ominous appearance of a number of small vessels from inside the port of Le Havre. These could only be one thing—inshore gunboats. A ship the size of Teazer should have no reason to fear them but with empty gun ports, hard and fast . . .
What Kydd had in mind was a common enough exercise in the Mediterranean, but would it work here?
From below, seamen hurried up with sweeps, special oars a full thirty feet long with squared-off loom and angled copper-tipped blades. At the same time the sweep ports, nine tiny square openings along each of the bulwarks, closed off with a discreet buckler, were made ready. The sweeps would be plied across the deck, their great leverage used to try to move Teazer off the sandbank.
“Clear th’ decks!” Kydd roared, at those still milling about in fear. Through the clatter he called to Massey, “If ye’d take the lar-board, sir . . .” Then he bellowed, “Every man t’ an oar! Yes, sir, even you!” he bawled at the fop, who was dragged, bewildered, to his place. Three rowers to each sweep, an experienced seaman the furthest inboard, the other two any who could clutch an oar.
“Hey, now—that lad, ahoy!” Kydd called, to a frightened youngster. “Down t’ the galley, y’ scamp, an’ find the biggest pot an’ spoon ye can.”
Kydd, at an oar himself, urged them on. The ungainly sweeps built up a slow rhythm against the unyielding water. Then, with a grumbling slither from beneath, it seemed that a miracle had happened and the brig was easing back into her element—in the teeth of the wind.
To the dissonant accompaniment of a cannon bombardment and the urgent, ting-ting-ting clang of a galley pot, His Majesty’s Brig-sloop Teazer slid from the bank and gathered way sternwards and into open water. The sweeps were pulled in, the playful breeze obliged and Teazer slewed round to take the wind on her cheeks. With sails braced up sharp she made for the blessed sanctuary of the open sea.
After this, it seemed all the more unfair when Kydd saw the three gunboats squarely across their path, a fourth and fifth on their way to join them. Clearly someone had been puzzled by the lack of spirited response from Teazer and had spotted the empty gun ports. One or two gunboats she could handle but no more, not a group sufficient to surround and, from their bow cannon, slowly smash her into surrender.
It was senseless to go on: they could close the range at will and deliver accurate, aimed fire at the defenceless vessel with only one possible outcome. This could not be asked of innocent civilians and, sick at heart, Kydd went to the signal halliards and prepared to lower their colours.
“I’d belay that if I were you, Mr Kydd,” Massey said, and pointed to the bluff headland of Cap de la Hève. Kydd blinked in disbelief: there, like an avenging angel, an English man-o’-war had appeared, no doubt attracted by the sound of gunfire. He punched the air in exhilaration.
CHAPTER 3
“AYE, IT WAS AS WHO MIGHT SAY a tight-run thing,” Kydd said, acknowledging with a raised glass the others round him in the King’s Arms. He flashed a private grin at Captain Massey, who lifted his eyebrows drolly—their present coming together in sociable recognition of their deliverance was due to his generosity.
“I own, it’s very heaven to be quit of that odious country. And poor Mrs Lewis—is there any hope for her at all?” a lady of mature years enquired.
“She is in the best of hands,” Massey said, and added that she was at Stonehouse, the naval hospital.
Kydd looked out of the mullioned windows down into Sutton Pool, the main port area of old Plymouth. It was packed with vessels of all description, fled from the sea at the outbreak of war and now settling on the tidal mud; it took little imagination to conceive of the economic and human distress that all those idle ships would me
an.
However, it was most agreeable to sit in the jolly atmosphere of the inn and let calm English voices and easy laughter work on his spirits. The immediate perils were over: Teazer now lay in the Hamoaze, awaiting her turn for the dry-dock after her encounter with the sandbank. Her grateful passengers were soon to take coach for their homes in all parts of the kingdom, there, no doubt, to relate their fearsome tales.
A couple from an adjoining table came across. “We must leave now, Captain,” the elderly gentleman said. “You will know you have our eternal thanks—and we trust that your every endeavour in this new war will meet with the success it deserves.”
Others joined them. Pink-faced, Kydd accepted their effusions as he saw them to the door. In a chorus of farewells they were gone, leaving him alone with Massey. Kydd turned to him. “I have t’ thank ye, sir, for y’r kind assistance when—”
“Don’t mention it, m’boy. What kind of shab would stand back and let you tackle such a shambles on your own!”
“But even so—”
“His Majesty will need every sea officer of merit at this time, Mr Kydd. I rather fancy it will be a much different war. The last was to contain the madness of a revolution. This is a naked snatching at empire. Bonaparte will not stop until he rules the world—and only us to stand in his way.”
Kydd nodded gravely. The dogs of war had been unleashed; destruction on all sides, misery and hunger would be the lot of many in the near future—but it was this self-same conflict that gave meaning to his professional existence, his ambitions and future. No other circumstance would see his country set him on the quarterdeck of his own ship, in a fine uniform to the undoubted admiration of the ladies.
“I shall notify their lordships of my presence in due course,” Massey said affably, “and you will no doubt be joining the select band of the Channel Gropers.”
“ Teazer was fitting out when we put t’ sea,” Kydd responded. “I’m t’ receive m’ orders after we complete.” This was probably a deployment with Cornwallis’s Channel Squadron off Brest.
“Yes,” Massey said slowly. “But hold yourself ready for service anywhere in these waters. Our islands lie under as grave a threat as any in the last half a thousand years. No more Mediterranean sun for you, sir!”
At Kydd’s awkward smile he added, “And for prizes the Western Approaches can’t be beat! All France’s trade may be met in the chops of the Channel and on her coasts you shall have sport aplenty.” A look suspiciously like envy passed across his face before he continued. “But of course you shall earn it—it’s not for nothing that the English coast is accounted a graveyard of ships.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And a different kind of seamanship, navigation.”
“Sir.”
“You’ll take care of yourself, then, Mr Kydd. Who knows when we’ll see each other again?” He rose and held out his hand. “Fare y’ well, sir.”
Kydd resumed his seat and let the thoughts crowd in.
“Admiral Lockwood will see you now, sir.” The flag-lieutenant withdrew noiselessly, leaving Kydd standing gravely.
“Ah.” Lockwood rose from his desk and bustled round to greet him warmly. “Glad you could find the time, Kydd—I know how busy you must be, fitting for sea, but I like to know something of the officers under my command.”
Any kind of invitation from the port admiral was a summons but what had caught Kydd’s attention was the “my.” So it was not to be the Channel Fleet and a humble part of the close blockade, rather some sort of detached command of his own. “My honour, sir,” Kydd said carefully.
“Do sit,” Lockwood said, and returned to his desk.
Kydd took a chair quietly, sunlight from the tall windows warming him, the muted rumble of George Street traffic reaching him through the creeper-clad walls.
“ Teazer did not suffer overmuch?” Lockwood said, as he hunted through his papers.
“But three days in dock only, Sir Reginald,” Kydd answered, aware that in any other circumstance he would be before a court of inquiry for touching ground in a King’s ship. “Two seamen hurt, an’ a lady, I’m grieved t’ say, has lost an arm.”
“Tut tut! It’s always a damnably distressing matter when your civilian is caught up in our warring.”
“Aye, sir. Er, do ye have news o’ my L’tenant Hodgson?”
Lockwood found what he was looking for and raised his head. “No, but you should be aware that a Lieutenant Standish is anxious to take his place—asking for you by name, Mr Kydd. Do you have any objection to his appointment in lieu?”
“None, sir.” So Hodgson and the four seamen were still missing; the lieutenant would probably end up exchanged, but the unfortunate sailors would certainly spend the rest of the war incarcerated. As for his new lieutenant, he had never heard of him and could not guess at the reason for his request.
“Very well. So, let us assume your sloop will be ready for sea in the near future.” The admiral leant back and regarded Kydd. “I’ll tell you now, your locus of operations will be the Channel Approaches—specifically the coast from Weymouth to the Isles of Scilly, occasionally the Bristol Channel, and you shall have Plymouth as your base. Which, in course, means that you might wish to make arrangements for your family ashore here—you may sleep out of your ship while in Plymouth, Commander.”
“No family, sir,” Kydd said briefly.
The admiral nodded, then continued sternly, “Now, you’ll be interested in your war tasks. You should be disabused, sir, of the notion that you will be part of a great battle fleet ranging the seas. There will be no bloody Nile battles, no treasure convoys, and it will be others who will look to the Frenchy invasion flotillas.”
He paused, then eased his tone. “There will be employment enough for your ship, Mr Kydd. The entrance to the Channel where our shipping converges for its final run is a magnet for every privateer that dares think to prey on our shipping. And in this part of the world the wild country and filthy state of our roads means that four-fifths of our trade must go by sea— defenceless little ships, tiding it out in some tiny harbour and hoping to get their hard-won cargo up-Channel to market. Not to mention our homeward-bound overseas trade worth uncounted millions. Should this suffer depredation then England stands in peril of starvation and bankruptcy.”
“I understand, sir,” Kydd said.
“Therefore your prime task is patrol. Clear the Soundings of any enemy privateers or warships, safeguard our sea lanes. Other matters must give best to this, Mr Kydd.”
“Other?”
“Come now, sir, I’m talking of dispatches, worthy passengers, uncommon freight—and the Revenue, of course.”
“Sir?”
Lockwood looked sharply at Kydd. “Sir, I’m aware your service has been for the most part overseas—” He stopped, then continued evenly: “His Majesty’s Customs and Excise has every right to call upon us to bear assistance upon these coasts should they feel over-borne by a band of armed smugglers or similar. Understood?”
“Sir.”
“Now, I say again that I would not have you lose sight of your main task for one moment, Mr Kydd.”
“Security o’ the seas, sir.”
“Quite so. For this task you are appointed to a command that puts you out of the sight of your seniors, to make your own decisions as to deployment, engagements and so forth. This is a privilege, sir, that carries with it responsibilities. Should you show yourself unworthy of it by your conduct then I shall have no hesitation in removing you. Do you understand me, sir?”
“I do, sir.”
“Very well. No doubt you will be acquainting yourself with navigation and its hazards in these home waters. I suggest you do the same soon for the other matters that must concern you.”
“I will, sir.”
The admiral leant back and smiled. “But then, of course, you will have a splendid opportunity in the near future.”
“Sir?”
“I shall be holding a ball next month, w
hich the officers of my command will be expected to attend. There will be every chance then for you to meet your fellow captains and conceivably learn much to your advantage.”
He rose. “This I’ll have you know, sir. Your contribution to the defence of these islands at this time stands in no way inferior to that of the Channel Fleet itself. If HMS Teazer and you, Mr Kydd, do your duty in a like manner to the other vessels under my flag I’ve no doubt about the final outcome of this present unpleasantness. Have you any questions?”
“None, sir.” Then he ventured, “That is t’ say, but one. Do ye have any objection to my shipping Mr Renzi as captain’s clerk? He’s as well—”
“You may ship Mother Giles if it gets you to sea the earlier,” Lockwood said, with a grim smile. “Your orders will be with you soon. Good luck, Mr Kydd.”
So this was to be Teazer ’s future: to face alone the predators that threatened, the storms and other hazards on this hard and rugged coast, relying only on himself, his ship’s company, and the fine ship he had come to love—not in the forefront of a great battle fleet but with an equally vital mission.
Poulden brought the jolly-boat smartly alongside. The bowman hooked on and stood respectfully for Kydd to make his way forward and over Teazer ’s bulwark as Purchet’s silver call pealed importantly.
Kydd doffed his hat to the mate-of-the-watch. The etiquette of the Royal Navy was important to him, not so much for its colour and dignity, or even its flattering deference to himself as a captain, but more for its outward display of the calm and unshakeable self-confidence, rooted in centuries of victory, that lay at the centre of the navy’s pride.
Purchet came across to Kydd. “I’ll need more hands t’ tackle th’ gammoning, sir, but she’s all a-taunto, I believe.”
Kydd hesitated before he headed below; the view from where Teazer was moored, opposite the dockyard in the spacious length of the Tamar River, was tranquil, a garden landscape of England that matched his contentment.
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