The Admiral's Daughter (36 page)

“It is. Where is he now?”

“In irons, sir. I thought it—”

“In bilboes? A mort hard on a man o' years, Mr Standish. Bring him t' me, I'll hear him out.” For some reason he had an odd regard for the man.

“I do apologise f'r my lieutenant, Mr Job. He's zealous in th' King's service, y' must understand. Now, what c'n I do for you?”

Job settled himself. “You will believe that my course is finished, Commander, but I should like to say to you here that there is a service I can yet do for my fellow man, which it would render me much satisfaction to perform.”

Kydd kept a noncommittal silence.

“And it has to be admitted, its doing must stand me in good stead for anything that must follow for me.”

“Y'r service?”

“Yes. You will no doubt have heard of that vile privateersman, Bloody Jacques.”

The hairs on Kydd's neck pricked. “I have. What can y' tell me of the villain?”

“I want you to remove this evil creature from the high seas, sir.”

“Your jest is in bad taste, Mr Job,” Kydd said.

“Let me explain,” Job said evenly. “You may have noticed that his knowledge of these coasts is exemplary. This is no coincidence. I can tell you now that I know him well, but as Michael Haws, resident as was of Looe—a species of turn-coat, as it were, in his own interest.

“In the past I have had occasion to employ him and his lugger in—in trading ventures, but since the resumption of war he has taken the character of a French privateer in order to prey more profitably on our richer trade. In short, a pirate, owing allegiance to none.”

It was incredible—if true.

“He wears a dark beard, adopts a rough manner, all this is to hide his identity, of course—and the selecting of victims on the deck of captures to run them through as an example to the rest, why, this is nothing more than disposing of those he knows, and fears might later bear witness against him.”

“This is fine information, Mr Job, but I—”

“I will lead you to him. The rest I leave to you.”

“Well, gentlemen,” Kydd said, with relish, unfolding the chart of St Austell Bay on the table. “Thanks t' our guest Mr Job we're at last one jump ahead o' Mr Bloody Jacques. We have th' same information that he has—there's t' be a landing at Pentewan Sands this next night.” He let the news sink in and went on, “The villain's goin' t' be waitin' to take th' smuggler, an' when he makes his move we want t' be there to make
ours
on
him.
And mark this, if y' please, I'm not goin' t' spare this poxy villain. He's not y' usual privateersman, he's a mad dog an' must be put down.”

Standish looked grave, the others remained impassive.

“He's not about t' give up without he takes it out of us. I don't need t' say it, but he'll not be offerin' quarter an' therefore I do see it as a fight t' the finish. I'm sorry t' see
Teazer
's company put t' hazard in this way, but I know you'll see th' need.

“Now. I don't want t' lose this chance so I've given it a lot o' thought. I'd like y'r comments afterwards.” He glanced at Renzi, sitting at a small table and taking a record, but he realised there would be no discourse in the old way with his friend.

However Kydd was satisfied he was thinking as Bloody Jacques was. The smuggler would be running fast and direct across the Channel, for with every sail hostile there would be no point in prolonging exposure. Therefore his course would be generally from the south-east, given the easy westerlies that had prevailed these last few days.

But it would be in the last few miles only that the smuggler's position would be guaranteed. Where could a privateer lurk unseen? In the almost north-south trend of St Austell Bay to the Dodman, with Pentewan in the middle, one place stood out above all others: Black Head, to the north. This looming mass of granite standing well out could comfortably conceal a dozen vessels within a mile or so of the sands. Not passed from the south-east and with all attention in the smuggling craft on the dangers of the landing, the privateer could close in from behind with deadly ease.

“So it's t' be Black Head. Are we agreed?” A murmur about the table he took to be consensus and went on, “Then I want t' be in position close in to Charlestown harbour at dusk t' be ready to drop down on 'em at th' right time.”

From seaward, Kydd hoped that HMS
Teazer
at anchor looked for all the world like a merchant brig waiting out the tide to enter Charlestown, but aboard her, preparations for the night went on apace.

It was going to be that hardest of battlefields, the sea at night, with all that it meant for the accuracy of gunfire and distinguishing friend from foe in combat on a strange deck in the pitch dark. With most certainly a larger crew in the privateer, the odds were shortening fast.

But their duty was plain and there could be no hanging back; there would be many sailors along the Cornish coast who would bless their names before the night was out—or not, should they miss this chance.

“Sunset, sir,” Standish said, in a low voice.

“Very well,” Kydd said briskly. “Hands t' quarters and prove th' lookouts.” It was not impossible that Bloody Jacques could arrive at Black Head from the north. It was now just a waiting game.

The run ashore was timed for after dark and before the moon rose. The land in shadows lost its character and faded into gloom. Lights began to wink on ashore. Kydd lost sight of the tip of Black Head; it was time to get under way.

It seemed so at odds with the lovely scene, it should have been a time of serenity, perhaps a promenade in the warmth of the evening, hand in hand—he thrust away the thoughts.

Tysoe brought his treasured fighting sword. He acknowledged curtly and fastened it on. “Man th' capstan—quietly now.”

The anchor broke ground and they ghosted out into the blackness. The tension began to work on Kydd, but at the back of them was the thought that he so much needed this success, for Rosalynd's sake. The pirate-privateer captured as well as the smuggling chief: it would secure his standing, no matter what Lockwood could contrive.

“Still! Absolute silence in th' ship!” Somewhere out there was the bloodiest foe on the coast—or not. If this was nothing but a wild-goose chase he would have Job back in irons instantly.

“Sir!” Andrews whispered urgently.

The midshipman's more acute hearing had picked up something. Kydd strained—then heard a regular series of tiny wooden squeals, precisely as if the yard on a lugger was being hoisted up the mast. And the sound came from closer in to the land: if this was the privateer he must have superlative knowledge of the coast. They rippled on through the calm water trying hard to catch a betraying clue, knowing Bloody Jacques would be keeping his own silence. But if that was indeed yards being swayed up, the pirate was hoisting sail to make his lunge.

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.”