The Admiral's Daughter

and hapless contractors were at twelve hours' notice to supply many tons of vegetables.

There was much activity ashore on Paignton Sands, too. Snaking lines of horses and cattle were stretched out over the hills heading towards a series of tents. Around them were piles of barrels and men in frenetic motion. The oxen, driven overland from the depot at Ivybridge, were being slaughtered, salted and headed up there and then in casks on the beach.

It was a telling commentary on the efforts of the nation to provide for its sailors, and a demonstration for all to see of the value placed on keeping this vital battle fleet at sea.

The monstrous sides of the flagship towered up and Kydd felt nervous. This was the commander-in-chief, Sir William Cornwallis, whose iron discipline was chiefly responsible for holding together the fleet in the fearsome conditions of the Atlantic blockade. His sea service went back to the American war—his brother had surrendered at Yorktown—and he had been with Rodney at the battle of the Saintes and served as a commodore in India against Tippoo Sahib.

Kydd mounted the side-steps carefully and was met at the ornate entry-port with the thrilling squeal of pipes and the bored looks of the receiving-party. A lieutenant politely doffed his hat while Kydd punctiliously saluted first the quarterdeck, then him, before he strode aft and up to the admiral's cabin.

'Sit y'self down, m' boy,' the great man muttered, rooting about among his charts, then looking up mildly. 'Kind in ye to call.' The florid countenance and bluff ways of a country squire hid a sharp mind and ruthless organiser; the seamen called him 'Billy-go-tight' and stood well clear when he was to be seen pacing slowly, head down, about the decks.

'Seen much sport?' Cornwallis asked kindly.

'Naught but one privateer who gave me th' slip, sir,' Kydd said apologetically.

'Never mind, lad, early days yet. Now, if ye'd pay mind t' me, there's a service I'd like ye to perform as will spare one of m' frigates.'

'Aye, sir.'

A pale-faced lieutenant looked round the door and promptly vanished at Cornwallis's frown.

The admiral turned back to Kydd. 'Do ye find Immortalite frigate, Cap'n Owen, an' pass to him a small chest f'r which you'll take a receipt in due form? For y'r information it contains a sum in gold—f'r which I'll take your receipt, sir—by which we buy our intelligence.'

'Sir. Er, could I know where she's t' be found?'

'Inshore squadron,' Cornwallis answered testily. 'Who knows? In a westerly, could be anywhere off th' Goulet between the Beniguete an' Toulinguet.' At Kydd's hesitation he growled, 'Ask Flags, an' get some half-decent charts while ye're about it—it's a graveyard o' ships there, an' this has t' be in the right hands main quickly, sir.'

It made sense of a kind, conceded Kydd, resentfully, as Teazer left the commotion of Tor Bay astern and stretched out for Start Point. A little brig taken from her lawful duty was far less of a drain on precious resources than a full-blooded frigate, but this took no account of the feelings of her commander at being so casually sent on errands.

On the other hand this was for Kydd and Teazer a first time in one of the worst stretches of sea to be found anywhere—rock-strewn and treacherous, the approaches to Brest at the extreme Atlantic north-west of France had claimed the lives of countless English men-o'-war over the centuries. It was a dangerous lee-shore in all but the infrequent easterlies, and no place for the faint of heart.

All too soon the Start was abeam: it might be possible to fetch their objective in one tack but in this cloudy, petulant weather there would be no sightings to fix their position reliably. And the increasing westerly, with a making tide, would result in a leeward drift of an unknown quantity that would make even the best estimations questionable.

Despite the need for dispatch the only prudent move would be to make a westing sufficient to come about again and in the morning raise the guardian of Brest, the outlying island of Ushant. Then, knowing their position for a certainty, they could work in closer.

It seemed overly cautious, but Kydd was aware of the little wooden chest with the iron padlock that lay well secured in his bedplace. Much might depend on its safe arrival.

Davies, an amiable master's mate from Ville de Paris, had volunteered to act as guide—Dowse had only limited familiarity with the region so the younger man's advice would be crucial. Prosser had made much of his time of service on blockade in the 1790s but this was as a midshipman and, given his brash attitude, Kydd was not readily inclined to take suggestions from him. Any experiences of the lower deck made no reference to charts or coasting pilots and were no better than reminiscences.

The dawn brought with it thin, misting rain driving in from the west in tall white curtains that advanced slowly over a sullen swell to soak the sombre group on Teazer's quarterdeck. As far as could be relied upon, their reckoning placed them some twenty-five miles to weather of Ushant, the traditional fleet rendezvous, but the sea was empty as the fleet was in Tor Bay.

'Helm up,' Kydd ordered, 'Steer east.' The die was cast: they were now sailing directly downwind towards France. They would sight Ushant and shape course accordingly or, missing it, end embroiled in the maze of half-tide rocks promised by their chart.

Kydd went over the arithmetic. The higher he was on the ship, the further he could see. Distance to the horizon in miles was 1.17 times the square root of the height-of-eye in feet. As he stood on the quarterdeck, his eye was about ten feet up, which gave a figure of some four miles. At its highest, Ushant was no more than a hundred and forty feet odd, which by the same calculation gave about fourteen miles. Therefore, adding the two, he could expect to make landfall at eighteen miles off and nearer twenty-three for a lookout in the maintop.

'Get up there, lad,' he ordered Andrews. Another pair of eyes in the tops would never be too many with so much riding on it. But before the lad could swing into the shrouds a sudden cry came from the foretop. 'Laaand hooo!' The lookout gestured vigorously to leeward.

In a fever of impatience Kydd waited for the land to come within sight of the deck, an anonymous grey shape firming before them. 'Take it south-about,' Kydd told the quarter-master. If it was Ushant they needed to be in place for their southward search and if it was not . . .

Davies came and stood next to Kydd, staring intently. 'Certainly looks the part, sir,' he said pleasantly, as though unaware of the tension about him. 'We'll discover f'r sure when we see him off t' the nor'-west. He has a deep bay there, lookin' all the world like the open claw of a lobster.'