“Aye,” Kydd acknowledged dully. “Th’ gig t’ be alongside in fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you, Flags. I’ll ring when you’re needed.” Saumarez turned to Kydd, “Do sit, sir,” he said formally. He picked up a paper from his desk and regarded Kydd gravely. “There are two matters that I wish to discuss, the first of which is causing me some distress. I think it fair to inform you that I have received a most unusual, that is to say disturbing, communication from the port admiral at Plymouth.” He regarded Kydd steadily. “In it Admiral Lockwood has seen fit to disclose to me his views on your moral worth while serving in his command, which are not necessarily to your credit.”
“Sir? This is—”
“The wording need not concern you, but it should be understood that I myself hold personal probity and the strictures of honour among gentlemen at the highest possible value, especially so in any of my commanding officers whose moral example will naturally be followed by those serving aboard his ship.
“Now, Mr Kydd, please know that I propose to decide for myself your fitness of character for the dignity of captain of your vessel, as is only right and proper. However, the nature of these views implies a moral transgression of some weight and I therefore do beg you to acquaint me now with the substance of—”
“I have naught t’ regret,” Kydd whispered, his face pale.
“Why, surely Admiral Lockwood did not—”
“He—There’s nothing I’ve done f’r which I need be ashamed. Nothing!”
“It’s very odd, then, that—”
“I swear!”
Saumarez leaned back, plainly mystified. He seemed to come to a conclusion and sat forward. “Er, very well, sir. Then I’m minded to take your word on it.” He put down the paper firmly. “And therefore, unless I learn of something to the contrary, you shall hear no more of it.
“Now, may I know if you’ve been able to find a measure of companionship at the Mermaid’s Club?”
“Thank you, sir, I have,” Kydd said stiffly.
“Again, you do have my sincere condolences, Mr Kydd, and my wife wishes you to know that she perfectly understands your—”
“Sir.”
“Yes, well, perhaps we shall move on to matters more of the moment.” He reached across and rang the desk bell. “Ah, Flags. If we could have the Gulf of Avranches charts.”
He turned to Kydd with a sombre expression. “You’re no doubt aware of the preparations the Corsican tyrant is undertaking for his enterprise against England. I have this day received more news of these evil works, which must not be suffered to continue with impunity.” Saumarez selected the large-scale chart and laid it on his desk. “I have not forgotten my pledge to make your command an active one, Mr Kydd, and now I have a mission for you.”
He moved the chart round to face Kydd, tapping his finger at a point on the coast of Normandy, a bare forty leagues from England. “I wish you to look into Granville to discover a count of invasion craft and similar assembling there. Should your report warrant, I shall have no alternative but to contemplate action against them.”
Granville was one of the few harbours of that iron-bound coast, lying to the south-east beyond the vast reef plateaus and vicious half-tide rocks and could only be approached at particular states of the tide. The harbour was in the lee of a long peninsula, an ancient town atop its length and long, enfolding stone piers providing capacious shelter below.
“I understand, sir.”
“It will not be an easy task—the waters in approach are shallow and treacherous and the tidal streams prodigious. I believe that spring equinoctial ranges exceeding forty feet are often experienced there,” he added, with a thin smile. “And you will discover Granville to be so situated that only the closest approach will answer.”
“I’ll do m’ duty, sir.”
“I’m sure you will, Mr Kydd.” Saumarez said. “There may be others who may feel that their greater familiarity with these waters entitles them to this important task. I’m confident, however, that you will secure the intelligence without overly hazarding your ship or taking unnecessary risks, and it only remains for me to wish you good fortune.”
“Where’s Queripel?” Kydd demanded.
Standish, startled by Kydd’s sudden appearance on deck in the midst of the upheaval necessary in a rush to sea, turned to Prosser. “Pass the word for Mr Queripel.”
“My cabin!” Kydd said irritably, and left.
The lieutenant scowled. “Where the devil’s Quez?” he said to Prosser. “I don’t know what all the fuss is about, this is only a reconnaissance—action to be avoided at all costs. Where is the rogue, dammit?”
The little man puffed up, buttoning his waistcoat. “As I was amustering m’ charts,” he said, with dignity.
“Captain wants your company,” Standish grunted.
Kydd looked up as Queripel entered the great cabin. “What do ye know of Granville?”
“Granville! Not y’ harbour of notice—dries at low water, miles o’ reefs and sandbanks afore you come up with it. C’n get a nasty lop over the shallows if’n the wind’s in the sou’-west on the ebb and—”
“I mean t’ look into it directly,” Kydd said flatly. “How . . . ?”
Queripel hesitated, then said defensively, “An’ if it please ye, ’twould oblige me should Mr Dowse be heard an’ all.” Queripel was clearly conscious that his position aboard was local and irregular: a hired pilot would in the nature of things assume responsibility for the ship, but his position was ill-defined and he did not want difficulties with the sailing-master later.
Dowse was summoned and Kydd gestured him to one side as a chart was spread. “I’ll hear your opinions afterwards. Get on with it, then, Mr Queripel.”
“From the suth’ard, Mr Kydd,” Dowse came in, before Queripel could speak, pointing to the long peninsula set out to the southwest from the north-south-trending coast. To see directly into the port it did seem obvious they would have to make their approach more from the south.
“Won’t be possible, Mr Dowse,” Queripel said firmly, “what with Banc de Tombelaine an’ the shoalest water of all t’ the sou’-sou’-west. We has t’ come at it by the same course as all do take, from the west, an’ lay Le Videcocq rocks no more’n a couple o’ cables distant.”
“From th’ west?” Kydd said sourly. “An’ under eye the whole time?”
“Can’t be helped, sir,” said Queripel.
• • •
Teazer had lain uneasily to anchor overnight to the east of Îles Chausey, a six-mile desolation of countless rocks and reefs that were a bare ten miles from the Normandy coast and Granville. At dawn the winds were fair, the day bright and no sail in sight. But the sloop remained stubbornly at anchor: there would be no sudden descent on the port, for Queripel had been insistent. The tides had to be right.
It was not until after nine that Teazer got under weigh. The tide-set had been quite apparent while they were moored; the ship had soon swung into the ebb and the rapid current had gurgled urgently along her hull until in the early hours it had lessened. After the vessel had veered right about, the busy swirling had begun again in the opposite direction.
On a strengthening flood tide Teazer, with doubled lookouts, raised the coast, an uneven ripple of blue-grey firming quickly to a sweep of craggy coastline interspersed with sandhills and beaches. The pale blobs of sail close inshore changed aspect one after another as the far-off craft, recognising an approaching man-o’-war, fled for their lives.
The Granville peninsula, Cape Lihou, lay dead ahead. Ending in a prominent lofty headland, it angled across and half concealed the harbour. The sheltering stone piers of the port sweeping the vessels into its embrace were dozens of feet high, in deference to the vast tidal range. And they hid the harbour completely, with everything it contained.
“They enters b’ keeping in wi’ the land from the south,” Queripel murmured. This lie of the piers would give the best protection from harsh westerlies, bu
t meant that their one and only chance to see past the high stone walls was to close right in with the land, then make a hard turn to the left until they could peer inside the two pier-heads.
“Take us in, Mr Dowse,” Kydd ordered, lifting his telescope to scrutinise the panorama. The distant last sail was even now disappearing within the enfolding piers as they approached, leaving the whole coast in both directions clear and somnolent in the autumn sunshine.
The headland gained clarity, but as they neared and shaped course to its southward there was a gust of white on the bluff tip and, seconds later, a double thump. Cannon balls plumed and skit-tered towards them.
“Ranging fire only,” murmured Standish, coming up to stand next to Kydd. “The villains’ll have to do better’n that.”
Kydd didn’t reply. Another rumble, and a shot passed the length of the ship before meeting spectacularly with a wave crest to send spray sheeting and rattling over the quarterdeck. “Stand on, Mr Dowse,” he said, with a cold grin. “We’ll tack about opposite the harbour entrance as quick as y’ please an’ out again.”
Teazer edged away to make sea-room, but Queripel said anxiously, “An’ nothing t’ starb’d.” At the same time a distant avalanche of thuds sounded and the sea was alive with rising plumes. Boxed in as they were by sand-shoals to the south and the peninsula to the north, their approach track left precious little space for manoeuvre—and of a certainty the gunners in the old fort were well aware of it. No inquisitive British warship was to be allowed sight of the harbour.
A ball slapped through the fore topsail, leaving a ragged hole, another parted a backstay with a musical twang, and they were not yet within a mile or so of the harbour. Dowse whispered to Standish, “Action t’ be avoided, did ye say, sir?”
“Hold y’ course!” snarled Kydd, as the helmsman allowed the ship to fall off the wind.
Standish whipped up his glass. “Sir—I see . . . two, no, three and more craft under sail and leaving.”
Kydd raised his own telescope, then lowered it. “Gunboats,” he said heavily.
It altered everything. Small lug-rigged open craft they each mounted a cannon in their bows. One, two—possibly four or five— Teazer could take on but, well-handled, a swarm together could bring the broadside of a frigate to bear. It was time to retreat.
Renzi entered the cabin noiselessly to see Kydd at his desk, head in his hands. He stood by the stern windows for a moment, then turned. “An unfortunate situation,” he said softly. His friend did not look up. “As would vex the saintliest,” he added.
Kydd raised his head and mumbled something, but Renzi was shocked by the red-rimmed, puffy eyes. Kydd gestured wearily at a chair and Renzi sat quietly.
“I’ll not quit,” Kydd croaked.
“It would seem we have little choice,” Renzi said.
“Standish wants t’ land a party an’ scale th’ heights t’ look down the other side into th’ harbour.”
“With the old town all along the top and roused by our presence? I think not.”
“A boat in th’ night? But they’d never see anything.”
Renzi pursed his lips. No course of action suggested itself and in going on he was only humouring Kydd. “Then possibly some sort of . . . spy, agent who, when landed, will mingle unnoticed and . . .”
Kydd’s head lifted. “You?” he said, and smiled.
Renzi treasured the look for the memory of shared times now past, but said wryly, “The character of a Norman townsman might well be beyond my powers, I fear.”
The light died in Kydd’s eyes more and he slumped back. “I shall think on it,” he said finally. “Tell Mr Queripel t’ present himself with his charts, if y’ would.”
Shortly, HMS Teazer got under way from where she had been lying hove-to and made away to the west, yet another frustrated English man-o’-war thwarted in her mission to uncover Bonaparte’s secrets. No doubt there were those in Granville seeing her fade away over the horizon who were blessing the port’s odd topography for repelling the foe so easily.
But among the islands of Chausey Teazer ceased her retreat and rounded to in a channel east of the larger. Renzi and Standish waited at the conn, the rich stink of seaweed drifting out from the scatter of rocky islets. A desolate cluster of sod huts was the only sign of life.
“It sounds a right madness,” Standish said sullenly. Renzi fore-bore to reply, for Kydd had been curt and unfeeling: he alone would carry out the plan. Any other conversation was stilled by Kydd’s arrival on deck.
“Sir, you’ve given thought to what this means for the customary usages of war?”
“Yes.” Kydd was apparently in no mood to discuss matters. “Ye have y’r orders, Mr Standish. Mind you fail me not, sir,” he added grimly. “You have th’ ship.”
The lieutenant stepped forward. “Aye aye, sir.”
The yards came round and, taking the pleasant wind on her quarter, Teazer’s forefoot chuckled contentedly as she began to circle the forlorn group of rocks. Before long she found what she was looking for.
“It’ll do,” Kydd said shortly. “Mr Andrews, go below an’ find a notebook,” he told the young midshipman. “I’ll be telling ye what to write.”
The white-faced lad hesitated. What Kydd contemplated was causing consternation round the ship. Renzi motioned the lad to one side. “I do believe, sir, that any clerkly duty belongs rightfully to me,” he said to Kydd. “And, as it happens, my notebook is ready by me.”
The little fishing-boat bobbed disconsolately under Teazer’s guns while the pinnace pulled out to it. By common consent in wartime the fisher-folk were left alone to go about their business but now Kydd had seen fit to capture one. If it resulted in reprisals and the sea fisheries of Britain suffered . . .
The three-man crew had little choice: they were relieved of their rank-smelling fishing smocks and headgear and sent back to Teazer while Stirk and Renzi set about acquainting themselves with the rigging of the little two-master that reeked so of eel and shellfish.
It was a simple but effective lugsail rig, the Breton chasse-marée , a “tide-chaser” that was fast and agile in these shallow waters, but Renzi had a considerable sense of foreboding. Trespassing in French waters out of uniform they could be taken up as spies—and the French would stop at nothing to prevent information about their invasion preparations getting out.
And the only way their stratagem would work was if they sailed right up to the entrance, ignoring the heavy cannon of the fort and the gunboats at readiness inside. He swallowed and glanced at Stirk, who sat impassively forward next to the foremast stepped so close to the stem. There were distinct advantages to those not cursed with a vivid imagination, he thought ruefully.
The frayed brown sails fluttered then tautened and the boat leaned willingly into the wind, heading back to Granville and its home while Renzi wedged himself against the gunwale. All depended on things having settled down after the English ship had been seen to give up. But was Kydd to be trusted in his judgements? It was so troubling, his obsession with duty. Did his headstrong daring mask carelessness with others’ lives?
Cape Lihou loomed ahead; sail were dotted here and there, issuing out from between the pier-heads, free to continue their coastal voyages. Renzi was aware that locally their little craft would be well known, and with strangers seen aboard, to answer a friendly hail might result in alarm and disaster.
They were close enough now to make out the embrasures of the fort at the tip of the peninsula, the long, defensive walls along the old town and the high stone piers extending well out, a perfect concealment.
Faint shouts came from over to starboard—another chassemarée , waving for attention. Instinctively Renzi ducked and began to throw odd bits of gear to Stirk, who quickly caught on, busying himself industriously at nothing. Kydd remained stolidly at his steering oar, concentrating on the approach.
The ruse of being too occupied to talk seemed to satisfy: with several final derisory yells, the fishing vessel p
assed across their stern and away. The afternoon light was mellowing to early evening, but if they made it to the entrance soon, they would have no difficulty in seeing into the port. A coaster emerged and, loosing topsails, made off to the south; they were now less than a mile from the entrance. Under his fishing smock Renzi readied his notebook and pencil—they would have minutes only. He dared a glance at Kydd. His concentration was intense.
Angry voices came from astern: a French advice boat making importantly for the entrance as well. Kydd fell away from the main track to let it by. Renzi busied himself once more and caught glimpses of faces, some bored, others staring down the worthless fishermen as they overtook to make the sharp turn to pass within the piers.
“On m’ mark,” Kydd whispered savagely. Their lives depended on what happened in the next few minutes. The twin pier-heads, each with the figure of a sentry atop, were now barely hundreds of yards distant, the nearer one drawing back with their advance. In seconds they would know everything.
The pier-heads drew apart and there within was what they had risked so much for—Renzi had time only for a quick impression of an inner harbour all of a quarter-mile in size and crammed with small craft before Kydd leaned on the steering oar and the boat turned sharply towards the entrance.
“Now!” Kydd rapped. Renzi was holding a bucket on a rope over the side as though scooping water but at the command let it go. Under its drag the boat lurched to a snail’s pace and Kydd began his count.
“I see six—no, a full dozen o’ chaloupes canonnières ,” he hissed urgently, “No—make it a score. An’ more’n I can count o’ bateaux canonnières —say twenty, thirty?” The piers were approaching slowly and steadily, and if they allowed themselves to be swept inside they would be trapped.
“There’s six gun-brigs, an’ more building on th’ inner strand,” Kydd went on remorselessly.
Something in the muddy water caught Renzi’s eye; a subliminal flick of paleness and mottled black. It must be desperately shallow here and—
The Privateer's Revenge Page 6