A sudden thickening in the gloom to starboard was Black Head—the lugger was not there. Damn the blackness to hell!
From about a mile ahead Kydd heard a sudden cry of alarm. Then a ragged chorus of shouts carried over the water, followed by a pistol flash or two. Kydd’s heart leapt as he willed Teazer on in an agony of impatience.
He heard more shots and the clamour of edged weapons rising, then falling away. It wasn’t until long minutes later that they could see dark shapes on the water: two, close together. Kydd’s strategy had been simple: he would close on the privateer, fire, and board in the smoke and surprise. The one thing he was relying on in this risky attempt was that half of the enemy would be away subduing the smugglers.
On Teazer ’s deck the boarders were ready with bared steel. Standing next to the wheel Kydd tried to make out the situation— then he saw movement, separation. The larger vessel was detaching from the smaller. There was a cry—they had been seen! A swivel gun banged uselessly at them into the night, then a larger carriage gun was fired.
The vessel’s angular lugsails were sheeting round urgently to the light westerly, but at this point of sailing a lugger’s ability to sail closer to the wind was of no advantage since it was boxed in to the land, and Teazer was no mean sailer on a wind. As they drew nearer, the shape foreshortened as it bore away south for the open sea. The smaller was endeavouring to make sail as well but the smuggler could be dealt with later, if it was still there—after they had put paid to Bloody Jacques.
The wind freshened as they plunged south, all to Teazer ’s favour, exulted Kydd, for they were only a few hundred yards astern. A conclusion was certain if it held or strengthened. A little after midnight the moon rose, its silver light picking out the lugger in pitiless detail. Teazer grew nearer and Kydd realised that, with a reduced crew, his opponent had no scope for fast manoeuvre.
The Dodman stood stern and massive in the moonlight when they forereached on the lugger. If only Rosalynd could be there, Kydd thought—but this was his world, not hers; she would take no pleasure in seeing him about to hazard his life. It cooled his battle-fever: from now on, he realised, he had to consider two, not one. But had not her last words to him been, “You must always do your duty”?
“Stand by, forrard!” he roared. The carronades were loaded with alternate ball and canister, there could be no reloading in this dark.
Teazer ’s bowsprit inched past the lugger’s stern. Beside him Standish was watching, his hand working unconsciously at the hilt of his sword.
“Fire!” A split second later a twenty-four-pounder carronade blasted, its gunflash overbright in the gloom. At thirty yards’ range there was no missing and in the moonlight leaping splinters could be seen as the ball struck home.
“We have him, damme!” Standish yelled in glee.
If they could do their work before the Dodman and the open Atlantic—but then, without warning, it all changed. There were frightened shouts in the lugger and it sheered up into the wind, sails banging and ropes all a-fly. Then the yards began to drop. It made no sense.
Standish looked at him. “Sir, I do believe he wants to yield.”
It was impossible but the lugger had doused all sail and lay submissively to await her conqueror. “Board an’ bring that rogue before me, Mr Standish,” Kydd ordered.
His lieutenant returned quickly. “Sir. I’m so sorry to tell you— but this is the smuggler, the other the privateer.”
Many smuggling craft were lugger-rigged as well and often of sizeable proportions. In the heat of the moment Kydd had forgotten this—and he had lost Bloody Jacques.
“My commiserations on the events of the night,” said Job, smoothly, not at all disobliged to be summoned before his captor at such an hour.
“T’ damnation with that! Do you check y’r book an’ tell me where there’s t’ be another landing. He’ll want t’ satisfy his crew after tonight, I’ll believe.” Kydd handed over the heavy tome.
Job adjusted his spectacles. “Why, there’s a landing tomorrow, at Portloe.”
“Around the Dodman only. So we’ll be there as well,” Kydd said, with satisfaction.
Job looked up with a small smile. “And at the same time another—at Praa Sands.”
It would be impossible to watch two separated locations at the same time. “Seems t’ me you’re in a fine way o’ business, so many cargoes t’ land,” Kydd growled.
“Not so much, Mr Kydd,” Job came back. “These few days of the month are the choicest for running goods. A smuggler’s moon; one that does not rise until the work is done and with a good flood tide to bear it ashore.”
Kydd made up his mind. “Praa Sands is nearly up with Falmouth. I’ll choose y’r Portloe as is now so convenient f’r the scrovy dog.”
Overcast, with the same westerly veering north, it was a perfect night for free trading in Veryan Bay and thus Portloe. But there seemed nothing close to the little port that would serve to conceal a predator, the jagged hump of Gull Rock to the south probably being too rock-girt to lie close to.
They tried their best but their long and stealthy creep from seaward was in vain with not a sight of their prey. Either they had chosen wrongly or, after his recent experience, the privateer was more than usually vigilant and had slunk away.
And, it seemed, there were no more landings in prospect. Their alternatives were now few, the scent run cold. Job was summoned once more; there was just one question Kydd wanted answered. “If Bloody Jacques is not a Frenchy, as y’ say, then tell me this. Where’s he get his ship refitted after a fight? Where’s he get his stores an’ such? An’ what I’m asking is, he must have a base— where is it, then?”
“A fair question,” Job said. “Since Guernsey won’t have him, he’s taken to seizing whatever he wants from small fisher villages. Simply appears at dawn, sends a band of ruffians to affright the people and takes a house while his men do disport aboard.”
“Go on,” Kydd said grimly.
“He chooses carefully—only those villages far from others, with poor roads out so he’s no worry of the alarm being raised quickly, and a sheltered anchorage for his vessel. Stays for only a day or two, then disappears again.”
It was getting to be near impossible to lay the pirate a-lee, but Kydd was resolved to put an end to him. He dismissed Job and sat down to think.
He had now come up with Bloody Jacques twice and had always found him a cool and reasoned opponent. The violence and cruelty in no way prevented him being an able, resolute seaman and enemy. So what the devil would he do now?
Lie low out of the way and wait for Teazer to tire of the chase. Where? Beyond her normal patrol limit—not to the east and the old, well-served and prosperous ports but to the rugged and remote west. Beyond Falmouth and even Penzance—to the very end of all England.
Land’s End, where he had given Kydd the slip so easily before? Or perhaps further beyond? The chart gave few details of the region, for its wild majesty was of no interest to seafarers, who feared the ironbound coast. He peered closer—no ports to speak of; he remembered the precipitous cliffs, the dark menace of subsea rocky ledges and the rolling waters of the Atlantic meeting stern headlands.
Further round was Cape Cornwall with offshore banks and shoals aplenty: but before that a long beach was marked. Surely the fisher-folk had a village somewhere along it?
They had, and it was called Sennen Cove. Round the coast from Land’s End, it was tucked into the end of the beach under high cliffs and guarded from sea intruders on one side by the sprawling Cowloe reef, and on the other an easy escape to the north with these westerlies. The nearest authority of any kind was miles away over scrubland. Ideal, in fact, for such a one as Bloody Jacques.
In some way Kydd was sure that this was the place—he could feel it. And this time there would be no mistake.
He could crowd on sail and bring Teazer round the headland, then fall on the privateer; but what if they were seen by a lookout atop the cliffs and Bloody
Jacques slipped to sea again? It couldn’t be risked.
A night attack? Problematic, and there was the hideous danger of the Cowloe reef in darkness. Boats, swarming round the point? Just one gun in the lugger would cause horrific casualties before they could close, and in any case they would find themselves hopelessly outnumbered.
This needed thought—the kind that was generally sparked when he and Renzi talked together . . . but Renzi was not available. He would have to find a plan on his own.
It was something Job had said: Bloody Jacques’ practice was to go ashore and take a house. That was the answer. Kydd knew he could not simply sail in and send a boat ashore with the lugger crew looking on, but there was another way, and he set Teazer after her quarry.
As long as the weather held. If there was even a slight heave, one of the more common Atlantic swells rolling lazily in, it would be impossible. On this day, mercifully, there wasn’t and mere waves would not worry them.
With Teazer safely at anchor, bare yards south of the extreme tip of Land’s End, her cutter pulled away by the last light of day with as many men as it could hold, those at the oars cramped and swearing, but it was less than a mile they had to pull.
Close in with the rearing crags, gulls rising in screaming clouds at their intrusion, they stroked northward, with wicked rock formations standing out into the sea from the precipitous heights. Kydd’s eyes were scanning urgently: before it got dark he had to find a place on this utterly rockbound coast to land and discover a means of ascending the cliffs. No one but a madman would think to land here.
At the base of the rockface all along the shore there was a narrow ledge of tumbled boulders and sea-rounded stones washed white by the slight seas. They proceeded just off the line of breaking waves, the cliffs prettily red-tinted by the setting sun with occasional deep shadowed caves and natural archways, the pungent smell of rotting seaweed wafting out.
Then he saw it: a deep cleft between two bluffs. “Hold water!” Kydd said, in a low voice. While the boat rocked, he examined it as closely as he could. It was probably eroded by water run-off from above, and therefore a possible way up.
Bringing the cutter about he took it as close as he dared to the shore. With little swell, there was no real danger of the boat rising and falling on to the rocks waiting under it. He splashed over the side into the water and stumbled ashore over the mass of stony boulders towards the cleft. It was in the sunset’s shadow but nearer to it, he could see that even though it was choked in places with loose stones it wound up steeply out of sight and, as far as he could tell, to the top. It would do.
He brought his men ashore and sent the boat back. There was nothing more to do but wait for the dawn.
• • •
Shivering, stiff, and conscious that he had spent a night under the stars on unyielding stones, Kydd awoke. Others stirred nearby. It was calm and with a slight mist. Impatiently Kydd waited for the light to improve so they could make a move. But when they did reach Sennen Cove, would Bloody Jacques be there?
“I’ll be first, Mr Stirk,” Kydd called quietly, looking back over his men as he hurried past. They were not many, but he was relying on the likelihood that only a few would be trusted ashore from the privateer.
If any words were to be said, now was the time; but Kydd could find none in the face of what they were about to do. “Let’s finish th’ job,” he said, and began to climb.
It was hard going, a scramble on loose pebbles and dust, then hard-edged rocky shards. They heaved themselves up like topmen, shifting hand or foot only when the others had good purchase. All the time the light strengthened allowing them to see the appalling drop that was opening beneath them to the sea below.
Then the cleft angled to the left and shallowed. The going was easier, and almost before they knew it, the slope gentled and the ground levelled out.
Kydd moved cautiously. There was every reason for Bloody Jacques to post a lookout here: there was a view both to Land’s End on the one side and the broad sweep of beach on the other.
And there was indeed a sentry. He was sitting on a ledge of rock gazing out to sea, a clay pipe going peacefully—with a musket across his knees. Kydd dropped to the ground.
The man had to be silenced: the musket would sound the alarm. But in a paradoxical way Kydd was comforted. This was proof that he was right. Bloody Jacques was here.
Stirk slithered up next to him. “Mr Kydd,” he whispered hoarsely, gesturing to himself and then to the lookout. Kydd nodded, and Stirk scrambled to his feet. He stood swaying for a moment, his hands clamped piteously to his head as though it were about to burst, then fell to his knees.
There was a shout from the man, but Stirk shook his head and crawled further, then stopped to dry-retch into the dust.
The lookout shouted again, thinking him another of his crew, betwaddled after a riotous night. He put down his musket and came over irritably.
Stirk exploded into life, barrelling into the unfortunate man and, with a snarl, lofting him over his shoulder. The sentry crashed on to the edge of the cliff, his fingers scrabbling hopelessly, and slithered over with a despairing cry.
Now they had only to cross a quarter-mile of barren heathland, then descend into Sennen Cove. They hurried along silently and emerged on to the bluffs overlooking the neat little village and the beach. There, nestling within the flat blackness of the reef, was the three-masted lugger they had sought for so long.
There was no early-morning activity aboard and, indeed, none in the village, from what could be seen. If Bloody Jacques was in a cottage, which one? Was he still aboard his lugger—and preparing to sail?
A track led at an angle to the side, which soon wound into thick, concealing furze. Kydd plunged down.
Surprise was their only advantage: they did not carry muskets, which would have hindered them on the climb, and pistols in the belt could well work loose and drop. They were going into the attack armed only with bare steel.
It seemed impossible that their awkward, skidding haste down the track had not been heard in the huddle of cottages just below, but Kydd could detect no alarm. Should they risk everything on a mad dash to the centre of the village or keep out of sight of the lugger and search the houses one by one?
As they came upon the first dwelling he could see that this was no longer an alternative. There were men untidily asleep on the sand, others no doubt elsewhere. Should he spread out his own men in a search or keep them defensively together?
“Stay with me!” he hissed, and stalked out into the narrow street, sword in hand—his precious fighting blade, which had been at his side on countless occasions of peril, a fierce comfort.
Standing four-square, his men behind him, he bellowed, “Bloody Jacques! I have ye now! Come out an’ yield y’self to me!”
His voice echoed off the silent buildings. “Commander Kydd! In th’ King’s name, surrender y’self!” There were tiny movements at the windows of some cottages.
Shouts rose from the beach. How many were there?
“We have ye surrounded, y’ villain! Come out an’ show y’self!”
“Sir—th’ lugger! She’s gettin’ a boat wi’ men ashore!” They would soon be overwhelmed; Kydd’s men could barely hold their own against those who had come up from the beach.
“Y’ last chance afore I come in an’ tear ye from y’ bed—Mick Haws!”
Behind him a door crashed open and Kydd wheeled round. With an animal roar, a giant of a man in shirt and breeches threw himself towards him, a monster claymore in his fist.
Kydd braced himself, his sword at point. The claymore came down in a mighty sweep, meeting Kydd’s blade with a jarring smash, numbing his arm. But he was not intimidated: such a heavy weapon was unwieldy and slow—the fight would be over soon.
However, it had been a blind—Bloody Jacques held a smaller blade in his other hand, which swept round in a savage thrust to Kydd’s groin. He parried awkwardly, the action bringing them close, and caught the other
man’s rank stench. He became aware that the fighting round him had become general. Clashes of weapons, cries of pain. But he dared not lose concentration. He tried to turn his parry to a tierce, but it was savagely deflected.
More sounds of fighting, blade on blade, pistol shots. Kydd felt his opponent’s desperation but what if the lugger crew reached them before . . . ? However, Calloway had kept a cool head, and when Bloody Jacques had been flushed out he had done his duty. With a sudden hiss and whoosh, Kydd heard their signal rocket soar skyward.
There was a groan of pain, more shrieks. From his men? It was only the fine balance and superbly tempered steel of his weapon that enabled him to withstand the savage battering that followed, the demented onslaught with which Bloody Jacques was trying to overwhelm him.
But suddenly the tide seemed to have turned: cheers and jeering broke out, strengthening as the sounds of battle diminished. Clearly the privateersmen had realised the significance of the rocket—that a King’s ship was in the vicinity. They were throwing down their weapons, which, no doubt, were swiftly snatched up by Kydd’s men.
“If ye’d stand clear, sir.” Kydd could not afford to take his eye from his opponent but he knew what Stirk intended to do. However, a musket ball to the throat was too easy an end for this man.
“Belay that,” he called breathlessly, between blows. “He’s t’ pay . . . at th’end . . . of a rope!”
That goaded Bloody Jacques into a furious, reckless assault that sent Kydd stumbling, then falling full-length backwards. In an instant the man threw himself forward, but Kydd had sensed this coming and thrust out with his foot. Bloody Jacques fell— squarely on to Kydd’s waiting blade. It was all over in seconds. Kydd drew himself to his feet and looked around breathlessly. In the mêlée the men of Teazer had suffered lightly. Bloody Jacques and several of the privateersmen lay still, the others huddled together in meek submission.
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