“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.”
“I never doubted it,” Kydd replied, nettled at Renzi’s easy observation. Then he realised that the words were intended as a friendly contribution to the burden of decision-making and added, “Aye, the greater risk is t’ go on.”
He took a few paces forward. “Mr Dowse, way off the ship. Mr Purchet, hands t’ mooring ship. We’ll wait it out.”
Their bower anchor splashed noisily into the calm and the wind died to a whisper. Dowse had previously recorded careful bearings of the shore and had now himself taken a cast of the lead and was inspecting the gravel and broken shells at its base.
A sepulchral dong from close astern was answered by their own bell, struck enthusiastically by a ship’s boy. There was an occasional muffled crack of a swivel gun from a nervous vessel. Other sounds, near and distant, came flatly from all round them.
The mist swirled gently past as Kydd peered over the bulwarks. He could see the water was sliding along on its way aft equally on both sides; the tide was on the make and at her anchor Teazer was headed into it and therefore would be facing into the currents surging round the Dodman. They were as safe as it was possible to be in the circumstance and could only wait for the sun to burn off the mist.
It was little more than an hour later that the forms of vessels could be made out once more and the sun burst through. Kydd scanned about anxiously and his heart lurched as he saw that of the dense mass of ships that had followed him to sea there were only ten or fifteen left. Had they failed to notice him anchor? Had they drifted ashore? Been taken by a corsair in the fog?
“Such a practical race of sailors,” Renzi murmured.
“What?” Kydd said sharply.
“Why, I’m sure you’ve made notice that these vessels remaining are your deep-sea species only. The small fry, being local, have navigated clear and, inspired by your actions, have for a surety pressed on to Falmouth.”
His friend was right, of course, Kydd acknowledged grudgingly, then smiled. In brilliant sunshine and a strengthening breeze, what remained of the convoy won its anchors and rounded the Dodman. They took little more than an hour in the fine south-easterly to lay the dramatic Gull Rock to starboard, and by early afternoon they made Falmouth Bay.
Kydd, however, had no intention of going ashore at Falmouth and possibly having to make explanation, so he rounded to well off the entrance. His charges passed into the harbour, some with a jaunty hail of thanks. The cutter tacked about smartly and disappeared without ceremony.
It had been an experience but Teazer was accounting herself well in this, her first war cruise. “Mr Standish, course south, an’ all sail abroad. I mean t’ clear the Manacles before dusk an’ then we snug down f’r the night.”
“Aye aye, sir,” the first lieutenant confirmed. His orders were chalked on the watch-keeper’s slate and Teazer shaped her course.
“Er—an’ pipe hands t’ supper with a double tot f’r all,” Kydd added. There was no reason by way of service custom for the generosity but he felt his little ship and her company had reached a milestone.
Dawn arrived overcast; the ship had stood off and on in the lee of the Lizard throughout the night and was now closing with the coast once more—the massive iron-grey granite of Black Head loomed.
There was nothing around but fishing craft and, in the distance, a shabby coastal ketch. Kydd decided to send the men to breakfast, then put about to press on westward. This would mean a closer acquaintance of that most evocative of all the sea marks of the south-west: the Lizard, the exact southerly tip of Great Britain and for most deep-ocean voyages the last of England the men saw on their way to war or adventure, fortune or death. It was, as well, the longed-for landfall for every returning ship running down the latitude of 49º20' finally to raise the fabled headland and the waters of home.
Kydd had seen the Lizard several times, and each experience had been different—watching it emerge leaden and stolid from curtains of rain, or seeing it dappled dark and grey in the sunshine and sighted twenty miles away—but always with feeling and significance.
“Do ye lay us in with th’ coast, Mr Dowse,” Kydd ordered. Curiosity was driving him to take a close-in sight of this famed place. “Oh—younker,” he called to a rapt midshipman, “my compliments t’ Mr Renzi an’ I’d be happy t’ see him on deck.” He would never be forgiven if it were missed.
The master pursed his lips. “Aye, sir. A board to the suth’ard will give us an offing of somethin’ less’n a mile.”
“Thank ye,” Kydd said gravely. With the south-westerly strengthening it was a dead lee shore around the point and asking a lot of the master to approach. They stood away to the south until the last eastern headland was reached; beyond, the Atlantic swell crowding past the Lizard was resulting in ugly, tumbling seas that put Teazer into violent motion, the wind now with real strength in it, producing long white streaks downwind from the crests.
The land receded as the offing was made, then approached again after they went about on the other tack, the seas almost directly abeam causing the brig to roll deeply. “Call down th’ lookouts,” Kydd snapped. Even at forty feet, with the motion magnified by height, the situation for the men in the foreto
p would be dangerous and near unendurable.
Dowse pointed inshore where the sea met the land in a continuous band of explosions of white. “Man-o’-war reef, the Quadrant yonder.” He indicated a cluster of dark rocks standing out to sea and in furious altercation with the waves. “An’ Lizard Point.”
There it was: the southernmost point of England and the place Kydd had always sighted before from the sanctity and safety of the quarterdeck of a ship-of-the-line. He clung to a weather shroud and took it all in, the abrupt thump of waves against the bow and a second later the stinging whip of spray leaving the taste of salt on his tongue.
They eased round to the north-west and into the sweeping curve of Mount’s Bay, the last before the end of England. The scene was as dramatic as any Kydd had met at sea: completely open to the hardening south-westerly and long Atlantic swell piling in, the rugged coastline was a smother of white.
Kydd said nothing when he noticed the quartermaster was edging imperceptibly to seaward from the dead lee shore, but turned to the master. “I think we’ll give best t’ this sou’-westerly, Mr Dowse. Is there any haven short o’ Penzance to th’ west’d?”
“None as we c’n use, sir—this is a hard piece o’ coast.” He gazed thoughtfully at the busy seas hurrying shoreward. “Porthleven? Opens t’ the sou’-west. Nought else really, Mr Kydd.”
“Then Penzance it’ll have t’ be. Mr Boyd? Compliments t’ Mr Standish an’ I believe we’ll send th’ hands t’ dinner after we moor there.” Most would prefer the comfort of a hot meal later than a scratch one now. The midshipman looked uncomfortable. “Come, come, Mr Boyd, lively now!”
Reluctantly the lad released his grip and lurched to another handhold. Kydd realised that his order sending the boy below would probably condemn him to the seasickness he had so far manfully avoided. As Teazer leant closer to the wind to clear a small island Boyd slid down the canted deck to finish well soused in the scuppers.
The islet passed under their lee; a tiny scatter of houses huddled together under dark, precipitous cliffs at the head of a small patch of discoloured sand. Who lived in this impossibly remote place?
“Mullion Cove, sir—an’ there?” Dowse had noticed a big, three-masted lugger at anchor riding out the blow in the lee of the island, the only vessel they had sighted since the Lizard. No doubt all smaller local craft had scuttled off prudently to find a harbour.
“A wise man,” Kydd replied, but something niggled.
They plunged on. An indistinct hail came from forward, then Calloway hurried aft and touched his forehead shyly. “Sir, I saw . . . over on th’ land in them cottages . . .”
“Yes?”
“It were red, like. Fr’m the windows.” He trailed off, dropping his eyes.
Those nearby looked at each other in amusement, but Kydd knew Calloway from the past. His young eyes were probably the best in the ship. “Tell me, if y’ please,” he said kindly.
“Well, as we was passin’ I saw somebody hold somethin’ red out o’ the window. An’ as I watched, I swear, one b’ one they all has red out o’ their windows.” Doggedly he went on, “An’ then, sir, they all starts shakin’ it, like.”
The amusement was open now, titters starting from the waist-ers who had fallen back to hear. “I swear it, Mr Kydd!” Calloway blurted.
At a loss, Kydd looked about the little group on the quarter-deck. All averted their eyes, except Renzi. “Ah, there is one conceivable explanation. Supposing our unlettered country-folk were to recognise us as a King’s ship. Equally suppose that they have a guest, an unwelcome one, who holds them in deadly thrall from where he lies at anchor . . .”
“The lugger!”
“. . . how then should they signal their disquiet? A red flag of some sort for danger. I can see no other interpretation of such—”
“Helm a-lee!” Kydd bawled to the wheel. “Luff’n’ touch her—Mr Dowse, once we have th’ sea room we wear about an’ return!”
In an instant the atmosphere aboard changed and activity became frenzied. Braces were manned by seamen slipping and sliding in the crazy bucketing as Teazer was sent clawing offshore as close to the wind as she could lie. Only when they were at a sufficient distance from the dangerous shore could they risk a turn inwards to the land.
Kydd’s mind raced: a bloody engagement—in these conditions? It was preposterous but the logic of war demanded it. He was now sure in his own mind that the anonymous-looking fine-lined lugger was an enemy—and it was his duty to destroy him.
A dishevelled first lieutenant burst out on deck.
“Mr Standish, I believe we’ve surprised a Frenchy privateer an’ I mean t’ take him. We’ll go t’ quarters only when we have to, but I desire ye to bring th’ ship to readiness now.”
“Aye aye, sir!” There was no mistaking the fierce gleam in the officer’s eye.
Kydd took out his pocket telescope and trained it aft on the lugger, but the wild jerking made it near impossible to focus. Once he caught a dancing image of a vessel quite as big as their own, a long bowsprit, raked mizzen-mast and a line of closed gun ports the whole length of the ship.
He forced his mind to coolness: what were the elements in the equation? He had never seen a northern French privateer lugger, a Breton chasse-marée or others of this breed, but he had heard of their reputation for speed on the wind and the daring impudence of their captains. But no privateer worth his salt would take on a man-o’-war: their business and profit were in the taking of prizes, not the fighting of battles.
Kydd lifted the telescope and tried to steady it against a shroud but the brisk thrumming thwarted his efforts and he lowered it in frustration. But by eye there was some movement aboard; someone must have correctly interpreted Teazer ’s move as the precursor to a return and most likely they were now busy preparing a hot defence—with all the lugger’s men sent to the guns.
“ Haaaands to stations t’ wear ship!” The manoeuvre of tacking was tighter but anything going wrong would result in their being blown rapidly ashore; even so, in wearing ship, the act of deliberately turning their backs to the wind this close inshore had its own dangers.
Kydd threw a final glance at the lugger. Held by his anchor directly into the wind there was sudden jerky activity at his prow. They were cutting the cable! Exactly at the moment the vessel swung free, a jib soared up from the long bowsprit and instantly caught the wind, slewing his bow round. Then sail appeared on all three masts together, evidence of a sizeable crew.
It was neatly done. The lugger was now under way close in-shore, paralleling the coast—and thereby closing with Teazer. The realisation hit Kydd with a cold shock: they were going to have to fight in the open sea and any advantage they had at the guns would be nullified by the wild circumstances. What was the enemy thinking, to try conclusions in these conditions, when any victor would be unable to board and take their prize?
“Belay that!” he roared at the seamen ready at the braces. “Stand down th’ men, Mr Purchet.” The obvious course for the lugger was to throw over his helm at the right moment to take up on the other tack and, with the advantage of his fore-and-aft rig, slash straight out to where the close-hauled Teazer was striving desperately to get to seaward.
And then what? It was clear when he thought about it: the privateer needed only to bring about some little damage to their rigging and the weather would do the rest. In these winds the square-rigged Teazer would be driven out of control on to the white-lashed crags and be destroyed as utterly as if she had been cannonaded into ruin.
Kydd’s grip on the shroud tightened. It had changed so quickly— and only one could see them through: Teazer ’s captain. He raised his eyes and met Renzi’s; his friend did not speak but gave a half-smile. Standish gazed hungrily at the oncoming lugger while the others about the deck watched silently.
They must hold their course seaward: the only question now was when to send the men to the guns—but with the leeward bulwarks so low and seas swirling aboard, any pretence
at serving a gun there was futile. On their lee side they were essentially defenceless.
The privateer gathered speed, rolling wickedly with the seas abeam but making good progress a half-mile closer inshore. Kydd allowed reluctant admiration for the unknown seaman in command of her: he must possess considerable local knowledge to feel so confident close to this grim coast.
Kydd decided that the men would go to the guns precisely when the privateer put down his helm to tack in their direction; he waited tensely for the lugger to find Teazer at the right angle for that sudden slash towards.
Minutes passed, and still the privateer held her course down the coast. “The villain’s making a run f’r it, Nicholas!”
Once again the situation had changed, but Kydd was beginning to appreciate his opponent’s clear thinking: he had declined battle for good, practical reasons and was now using his lugger’s superior rate of sailing to make off, using that local knowledge to stay close inshore, knowing his antagonist dared not do likewise.
“We’re going after th’ rascal.” Teazer eased away three points or so and no longer tight to the wind stretched out in fine style, on the same course parallel to the coast but further seaward. Kydd guessed the privateer’s intention was to use his speed to pull far enough ahead to chance going about across their bows, then to escape seaward with no risk of battle damage to cut short his cruise.
It was a shrewd move—but there was one essential not within their control: the winds. Teazer was from the Mediterranean, the home of the savage tramontana, and with just a single reef in her topsails was handling the bluster with ease, her sturdy design well able to take the steeper seas close inshore. The lugger, on the other hand, was making heavy weather of it. With lugsails taut on all three masts, he had not attempted topsails, at the cost of his speed advantage.
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