Kydd settled into the boatswain’s chair and nodded to the awed purser’s steward, tasked with the honours of the evening in Tysoe’s absence. A light claret was forthcoming, glasses charged, and the two friends toasted their new situation with feeling.
“Nicholas, you must have something in your philosophies as should prepare a man for fortune’s sport,” Kydd remarked.
Renzi shook his head with a smile. “As to that, dear fellow, who can say? Let us seize the hour and reck not the reasons. The workings of Fate are not to be comprehended by mortals, I’m persuaded.”
Renzi looked gaunt, his eyes deep-set and lines in his face adding years to his age. Kydd regarded him with concern. At their lowest ebb, Renzi had travelled to Jersey and found menial employment with a titled foreign émigré. “You’ve suffered, m’ friend. That rogue y’ prince has worked ye near to death! I’ve a mind to say—”
“Let it rest, brother,” Renzi said firmly. “I’ve a notion that the certainties of the daily round in dear old Teazer will set me up in prime kelter before long. What piques my curiosity at this time is whether my good friend Tom Kydd will be changed at all by wealth.”
Kydd laughed. “Aye, it’s a grand thing not to worry at laying out for a new coat, or an evening with the ladies. But you should know as while I have m’ prospects, that scrovy prize-agent has his fee an’ then there’s y’r pettifoggers who feel free to take their fill o’ guineas afore ever I see ’em. I’m t’ settle a fair sum on my parents, I’ve decided, but the rest I’m putting away. Not in a bank as might fail, but the Funds. Consols at three per cent.”
“You’ll want to prettify Teazer handsomely, I believe,” Renzi murmured.
“The ship’ll have her gingerbread, it’s true, and m’ quarters are to be congenial. Topping it the swell at sea is t’ no account, though—’twould soon turn me soft as a milkmaid. No, Nicholas, your friend’ll not be changed by his circumstances.”
“I’m gratified to hear it, brother.”
Kydd grew thoughtful. “There is a one more matter—one o’ delicacy.”
“Oh?”
“I’d surely want to see my dear friend right in th’ article o’ pewter as—”
“Thank you, but my needs are few and my modest income sufficient unto the day,” Renzi said, with finality. “Your riches were honestly gained and by your own hand. Do rejoice in them. If—if I should come by some misfortune, you can be assured that I shall indeed remember you.”
A cautious knock sounded on the door. “Come!” Kydd called.
It was Hallum with some papers. He took in of their dinner setting and made to leave, but Kydd motioned for him to join them at the “table.” “Pray don’t stand on ceremony, Mr. Hallum. Here, where is y’r glass, sir? Oh—I’m forgetting my manners. This is Mr. Renzi, a philosophical gentleman takin’ passage with us, for the sake of his studies. He’s obliging enough to act as our ship’s clerk while aboard.”
Hallum was mature with a hint of grey about him and an air of deliberation. “From Diomede, I believe?” Kydd prodded. It would have been something of a shock for him to be told with just hours’ notice to move from the tranquil backwater of the old flagship to a prime fighting vessel like Teazer .
“I am, sir. I’ll have my baggage aboard tomorrow and then be ready for duty.”
“Have ye had experience in a sloop?”
“As a midshipman before the war, yes, sir.”
“An’ where was that?”
“In Leith,” he said uncomfortably. “Scotland.”
“Any interesting service?” Kydd asked encouragingly.
The man appeared to be considering what to say. “A frigate, Pegasus, for two years in the North Sea in ’ninety-eight.” He looked at Kydd as though seeking approval for his disclosure.
“North Sea Squadron?”
“Er, no, sir. Timber convoys from the Baltic, mostly.”
Kydd nodded pleasantly, privately reflecting that if this was the extent of his “interesting service” then his time in Teazer was no doubt set to prove an eye-opening experience.
Several steaming dishes arrived. “Do tell, Mr. Hallum—from what part of the kingdom do you hail?” Renzi asked politely.
By the first remove it was discovered that Hallum’s family was noted in Suffolk for its sea connections and that he himself had made several trading voyages to Norway as a youngster. Over the port Kydd had a measure of his lieutenant: solidly reliable but with little ambition and less imagination. “Then let’s raise a glass to Teazer an’ her company,” he said warmly. “I’ve a fancy we’re in for exciting times. The admiral says as how he wants to put us to the test right quickly.”
CHAPTER 2
KYDD SIGHED DEEPLY as he took in the understated splendour of his great cabin—its dark polished bulkhead across at the forward end and the brightness of whitened sides and deck-head, which seemed to increase the apparent area to a gratifying size. With a black-and-white chequered floor covering and a deeply polished table in the centre, it was almost intimidating, and Tysoe moved about with a lordly air in his silent ministrations.
On deck the whole sweep of the interior of the bulwarks was now a rousing scarlet with black and gold finishings about the scroll-work. The yards were a deep black against the varnished masts and Kydd had willingly parted with the necessary funds to ensure that the band of yellow between the gunports was shown at its best by a liberal mixing of white pigment in the paint. The carronade tompions had been picked out in crimson and green, and from the sweet intricacies of the miniature stern gallery aft to the dainty white figurehead forward, with flecks of blue and gold, Teazer had never looked so bewitching.
Kydd was keen to see his ship, now in all respects ready for action, back where she belonged—at sea. In the weeks since he had been restored to his post Carthew had not reappeared and therefore preparations for a court-martial could not begin. Prosser had been allowed to resign his commission and leave, in return for making full deposition of his evidence.
It was, however, not in the interests of the service to keep a fine ship at idleness and Teazer’s orders duly came. They were short and to the point: a cruise eastwards from Alderney along the north coast of the Contentin peninsula, past the port of Cherbourg and as far as its natural conclusion at Pointe de Barfleur.
All the east–west coastal traffic from northern France must proceed that way and a Royal Navy presence athwart its passage would effectively bring it to a halt. Kydd would be sharing the task with lesser fry—a gun-brig and a cutter.
It was gratifying to have the master, Dowse, and their local pilot, Queripel, back in earnest conclave as they deliberated over their mission. Saumarez insisted that all non-native naval vessels in his command carry a permanent local pilot, as well as the usual ship’s master. Given the treacherous nature of the waters of the area, Kydd had quickly seen the wisdom in this requirement.
“Mr. Queripel,” he said, “y’r opinion of this coast, sir.”
“Not easy, sir, not a-tall,” the man replied carefully. “Th’ charts, they doesn’t tell the half of it.”
“How so?”
“All along this seaboard,” he said, indicating the whole north-facing coast, “steep-to an’ bold mostly, but deceitful, sir, very deceitful. See here, Cap Lévi. Coast trends away t’ the nor’-east an’ you’d think to weather the cape a cable or two clear, but that would be to y’r error, sir. Straight to th’ north, a good two mile out—a wicked long rocky shoal below the waves a-waiting for ye.”
Queripel continued, “An’ that’s not all. Should the tidal stream meet wi’ a contrary wind, why, then ye gets the Raz du Cap Lévi, a dangerous race as can set any good ship t’ hazard.”
“Aye, y’ tides,” Kydd murmured.
“Tides? Why, y’ same Cap Lévi at spring tides sees a east-going stream o’ eight hours but a west-going f’r four hours only at a fierce rate o’ knots. An’ with y’ Saint-Pierre shell bank roilin’ an’ shiftin’ down where no man’s eye c’n see, an’ you
r Basse de Happetout, why it’ll—”
“Thank ’ee, Mr. Queripel,” Kydd said. “It’s my intention to stay as close with the land as will make it a sore puzzle f’r the Frenchies to think to pass us by,” he added firmly. The whole coastline, though, seemed to be wilfully arranged as a snare and trap for English sailors. “Your best charts, Mr. Dowse—an’ don’t spare the expense in their getting.” The illicit French productions to which he was referring could be purchased ashore—at a price.
The next morning when Teazer weighed for the north an air of expectancy was abroad. It was a hard life in a small ship on such a coast but there would be much satisfaction in action against the enemy—and the chance of prizes.
Laying Guernsey abeam, Teazer shaped course to clear the Casquets to starboard where the helm went over and they eased to the south-westerly for the long coastwise patrol to the east. The forbidding rocks, with their characteristic three-part lighthouse, were left astern, and the bare green of Alderney, the most northerly of the Channel Islands, came into view.
With a fair wind on her quarter Teazer showed her breeding. One of the myriad uninhabited islands was coming up, distinctive with its generous frosting of bird droppings. Kydd drew out his watch and calculated their progress. A cast of the log confirmed it—eleven knots and a half.
Past Alderney there was clear water for the eight miles to the north-west tip of France but almost immediately Kydd felt Teazer dip and sway as the notorious Alderney Race surging from the south took her full on the beam, the waves tumbling on themselves in their hurry to emerge into the Channel proper.
The dark mass of land ahead was France. Kydd’s duty was clear: to take, burn, sink or destroy by any means the forces that so threatened England; no consideration of prizes or personal ambition must stand in the way. “Keep your eyes open, there!” he roared up at the foretop lookout. Cap de la Hague was approaching fast in the fair wind but once round the larger mass of the peninsula, the wind under the land would drop and the ship would take longer to respond to anything they came up with.
“Th’ Grunes, sir,” Queripel warned, as they neared the rocky outliers.
“To clear ’em?” Kydd grunted. It would not do to stay safely distant out to sea while the French crept along furtively close inshore.
“I’d not be happy under a mile, Mr. Kydd,” Queripel answered.
With an offshore wind and a favourable tide they could take risks. “Let’s have it eight cables,” Kydd said. The French chart had La Petite and La Grande Grunes at no more than seven. Queripel said nothing.
They approached the bleak shore, and as they eased to sail along it the lookout hailed to point out something in the sea.
It was a wide and lazy surface eddy over some sinister submarine hazard that they wouldn’t have noticed had the water not been so calm.
An accusing glance from Queripel told Kydd that these were the Grunes and he turned to the first lieutenant. “Mr. Hallum, we’re going coastal now. The people to their stations, if y’ please.”
With the boats in their davits free of their gripes and ready for lowering, a hand on the fo’c’sle with lead-line ready coiled, the watch-of-the-hands alert and in no doubt about their duties for emergency manoeuvres, there was little more they could do to alleviate the deadly danger they were in by sailing so close.
Two or three miles ahead the first anchorage of note was marked. Queripel mumbled that it was a contemptible place with a sizeable rock awash the very entrance, but Kydd would not leave anything to chance.
The south-westerly that had been so briskly bearing them from Alderney had now died to a gentle breeze in the lee of the cliffs and Teazer moved along at little more than walking pace. All depended on what they saw when they passed the headland. In the small bay anything might be at anchor, prey or predator, but they could not meet every hidden inlet closed up at battle quarters: they must trust to quick reactions and correct judgements.
The bay was innocent of any vessel, merely a sweep of sandy beach between two nondescript headlands set amid an appalling sprawl of rocks scarring the sea out to a dismaying distance. The visibility was good and the winds safely offshore—but what would it be to cruise here in adverse weather, Kydd wondered. Around the far headland the coast fell back; it would stay trending away to the east-south-east until the port of Cherbourg, ten miles further on and mercifully less set about with reefs and hazards. They remained under easy sail—there was no point in haste: the patrol was for a period of days on station and then they would return.
Teazer settled to routine, the age-old and comfortable rhythms of the sea that the Royal Navy had evolved to a fine art. “Hands to supper” was piped, as eight bells signalled the start of the first dog-watch. In noisy conviviality the grog tub was brought up and the spirit mixed for issue to all messes before their evening meal.
Kydd kept the deck out of sheer contentment. Cherbourg came into view; over there, one of Napoleon’s arsenals was dedicated to the crushing of England and yet, he reflected, Teazer was sailing by unchallenged with a merry crew enjoying their evening.
The port was well defended by fortifications, which Kydd had no intention of provoking. He knew that small English cutters of shallow draught were lying off the harbour and that their sole purpose was to keep watch on significant movements there. If necessary they could alert Saumarez’s heavy frigates within half a day.
Kydd kept well away and, towards dusk, had made the far side of the port. Earlier he had noted a cryptic marking on the French chart that had piqued his interest: Pointe du Brick and within, a tiny bay, Anse du Brick. “Brick” was French for “brig” and—who knew?—it might have a more subtle meaning. He intended to anchor for the night close in, under full view of the enemy shore, thereby retaining his clamping hold on the coast.
“Is this wise, sir?” Hallum murmured. “At our moorings we’ll be at the mercy of any of superior force.”
“Aye, this must be so,” said Kydd, “but ye’ll observe that nothing can get by without we know it.” No vessel of size would risk a close-in passage at night and by dawn they would be well on their way.
In the fading light they found their place, little more than a deeply wooded cleft in impassable terrain with a neat beach at its foot. The hand-lead told of rapidly shoaling water so Teazer went to two anchors with a precautionary kedge to seaward. It left them in an admirable position to pounce on any vessel trusting to the cover of darkness to slip by into Cherbourg.
The quiet of the night enfolded them; the delicate scent of woodland was borne out on a gentle breeze and the faint maaaaa of a goat sounded to one side. Only the soft slap and gurgle of the current along Teazer’s sides intruded and about the deck men spoke in low voices in respect to the stillness.
It was a bold, even impudent move—but it had a weakness that might prove fatal. If the wind shifted foul in the night they might find themselves trapped against the shore, unable to claw off, helpless against the gunboats that would be quickly called from Cherbourg once their plight was discovered.
The night was quiet and the wind had held, if anything backing more southerly. At dawn Teazer weighed and stood out for the north but almost immediately there was a heavy thud and smoke from a fort on a small promontory.
“Surprisin’ t’ see ’em awake,” growled the boatswain, shielding his eyes from the first rays of the day as he tried to make it out.
“Fort Lévi,” Queripel said.
“An’ they should’ve held their fire until we were under their guns,” Kydd said contemptuously. “Bear away, if ye please.” They skirted around the impotent fort while he considered the next hazard. “We’ll keep inside the Septentrionale,” he told Dowse, leaving Queripel to mutter on his own. It was hard on the man but this was the only way they would be in any real position should enemy craft chance by.
Once Cap Lévi was rounded and they resumed eastward, Queripel came up to Kydd and offered, “If ye’d keep east b’ south five mile, there’s an inside pass
age only th’ fisher-folk takes as will see us through t’ Barfleur.”
After they had angled across near to the low, marshy coastline Teazer found herself easing between the land and a near-submerged cluster of dark, granite rocks, the highest with a strange-looking twist of iron atop it. “Th’ Chenal Hédouin the Frenchies call it,” Queripel said, “on account of—”
“Aye, well, do keep a weather eye on y’r channel, then, Mr. Queripel. I don’t want to leave Teazer’s bones here,” Kydd said tightly. He suspected that only a small number of the countless crags under the surface were showing trace of their existence.
Now within less than half a mile of an endless dun-coloured beach the country’s remote nature was plain: low, marshy, a reedy lake. They were far from the civilised world. Eyeing a projecting knot of rock on shore, Queripel said, “Now east b’ north, sir.”
Teazer altered more to the northward until she was just abreast a large lake, at which point the helm went over again and they found themselves heading between a sullen clutch of offshore rocks and a flat headland sprawling out to sea with a lighthouse that was a good seventy feet high.
“Pointe de Barfleur?” Kydd asked doubtfully. Surely they had not reached the end of their patrol area so quickly.
“Aye, sir,” Queripel said, with satisfaction. They emerged suddenly into the open sea. It was masterly piloting, Kydd conceded, grateful for the Channel Islander’s years of merchant-service experience on this coast in the peace.
He took in the calm glitter of an unbroken horizon. This was now the Baie de Seine, and at its opposite shore was Le Havre and with it the Seine River down from Paris. It was an utterly different land, and the start of the line of ports stretching away that Bonaparte was using to assemble his invasion fleets. Those would be the desperate business of the legendary Downs squadron under Admiral Keith, daily hand-to-hand struggles as small ships like Teazer were thrown at the enemy flotillas in epic engagements before Napoleon’s very eyes.
They themselves had seen nothing—one or two fishing luggers, lobstermen and tiny craft; no sign of the armada that was threatening England. But they had reached the limit of their cruise: it was time to return.
Invasion Page 2