The Admiral's Daughter

the convoy to assemble. Kydd's instructions had specified that Teazer would be in the van, with Sparrow, the cutter, taking the rear. Her elderly lieutenant had been indignant when prised from his comfortable berth and had pleaded lack of stores and water, but Kydd was having none of it and the little craft was now shepherding those at the rear out to sea.

The wind was light in this first hour after dawn. Kydd's plan was to make the safety of Falmouth harbour before dark but a dazzling glitter from an expanse of calm waters met him to seaward.

The light airs were fluky about Gribbin Head and Kydd shook out enough sail to ease away slightly. He looked back to check on Sparrow but she was still out of sight, and the narrow entrance was crowded with vessels issuing forth in an unholy scramble to be included in the convoy.

The little bay would soon be filled with jockeying ships, which in the slight breeze would have little steerage way, and before long there would be collisions. There was nothing for it but to set sail without delay. Teazer bore away in noble style as if conscious of her grand position as convoy leader.

An excited Andrews pointed high up to the rounded summit of Gribbin Head where an unmistakable flutter of colour had appeared.

'Signal station, sir,' said Standish, smartly bringing up his glass.

Kydd's eyes, however, were on the ships crowding into the bay—there were scores. He swivelled round and squinted against the glare of the open sea. Now would be a sovereign opportunity for Bloody Jacques to fall upon the unformed herd and take his pick. It was fast turning into a nightmare.

'Can't seem to make 'em out,' Standish muttered, bracing his telescope tightly. They must have been perplexed to see the port suddenly empty of shipping and were probably wanting reassurance. A small thud and a lazy puff of gunsmoke drew attention to the hoist. But it hung limp and unreadable in the warm still airs.

'Hell's bloody bells!' Kydd snarled. There was no way he could conduct a conversation by crude flag signals at this juncture.

'God rot th' pratting lubbers for a—' He checked himself. 'We didn't see 'em, did we?' he bit off. 'Tell Prosser t' douse his 'acknowledge'—keep it at th' dip.'

Standish gave a conspiratorial grin. 'Aye aye, sir!'

It was perfect weather for those ashore enjoying the splendid view of so many ships outward bound. The mists of the morning softened every colour; where sea met sky the green of the water graded imperceptibly into the higher blue through a broad band of haze, an intense paleness suffused by the sunlight.

'Take station astern, y' mumpin' lunatic!' Kydd roared, at an eager West Country lugger trying to pass them to the wider sea. His instruction to the convoy had been elementary: essentially a 'follow me' that even the most stupid could understand. He took off his hat and mopped his brow, aware that he was making a spectacle of himself, but not caring. The milling throng began to string out slowly and at last, in the rear, Kydd saw Sparrow but she was not making much way in the calm air and was ineffectual in her task of whipping in the stragglers.

Indeed, Teazer found herself throwing out more and more sail; the zephyr that had seen them out of harbour was barely enough to keep up a walking pace. However, with Gribbin Head now past, and the wider expanse of St Austell Bay opening up abeam, they had but to weather Dodman Point and would then have a straight run to St Anthony's Head and Falmouth.

Apart from the insignificant inshore craft, the sea was mercifully clear of sail, but who could know, with the bright haze veiling the horizon? Looking back astern again Kydd saw a dismaying number of ships strung out faithfully following in his wake. By turns he was appalled and proud: the undisciplined rabble was as unlike a real convoy as it was possible to be but on the other hand he and his fine sloop had set the argosy on its way.

'How d'ye believe we're proceedin', Mr Dowse?' Kydd said.

Dowse's significant glance at the feathered dog-vane lifting languidly in the main-shrouds, followed by a measured stare at the even slope of the Dodman, was eloquent enough. 'I mislike that mist in the sun's eye, I do, sir. I'd like t' lay the Dodman at th' least two mile under our lee.'

'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.