The Admiral's Daughter

'Sir! Sir!' Andrews piped from his station on the afterdeck, hopping from one foot to the other. He was pointing vigorously astern. Tucked well into the lee of the foreland just past, a ship lay at anchor, her ensign plain for all to see.

'Immortalite,' Davies confirmed.

However, so far downwind there was nothing for it but to beat back to the big vessel. A gun boomed on her fo'c'sle, drawing attention to the challenge that had shot smartly up her halliards.

'Private signal,' roared Kydd to Andrews: thank heaven he had had the foresight to claim these from the flagship before he left and to have the correct signal of the day made up for hoisting every morning.

It soared up briskly: it wouldn't do to trifle with a crack frigate of the inshore squadron. Teazer leant to the wind and beat her way over while Kydd decided that he would not stand on ceremony; even a post-captain would not expect him to dress for a visit on this occasion.

As they neared, a twenty-four-pounder crashed out and the sea plumed ahead of their forefoot. At the same time, all along the length of the frigate's gun deck cannon were run out and Kydd found himself staring down the muzzles of Immortalite's broadside.

His mind froze. Then he thought to check again with her ensign—if she had been captured, the French could never fire under false colours—but she still flew an ensign of the Royal Navy.

'Mr Purchet!' bellowed Kydd, his voice breaking with effort. 'Loose the fore topsail sheets this instant!' In a frenzied motion they were cast off and the sail banged and fluttered free. It was the nearest thing to striking topsails, the age-old signal of surrender, that Kydd could think of.

'Clear away the cutter, boat's crew t' muster,' he croaked.

Under Poulden's urgent bidding the men stretched out for the frigate, Kydd sitting bolt upright, his foul-weather gear damp and uncomfortable. As they neared, there was confirmation that this was a vessel of the Royal Navy— sea-worn she might be, but every detail, from the blacked muzzles of the cannon to the fancy rope-work round the wind-vane, spoke of a proud sea service.

They came alongside and hooked on, the boat jibbing like a lunatic in the seas that swept the sides of the frigate. Kydd waited for the right moment and jumped for the side-steps, his wet-weather gear tangling and whipping as he climbed up and over the bulwarks.

Two stolid lines of armed marines met him instead of a side-party. A grim-faced post-captain waited ahead and held up his hands for Kydd to stop where he was. 'And who the devil are you, sir?' he grated.

'C-commander Kydd, brig-sloop Teazer, at y'r service, sir,' Kydd said breathlessly.

'Prove it!' snarled the captain.

Kydd smothered a retort when he realised that, but for a bedraggled and threadbare hat, he was in anonymous foul-weather gear—and he had not a scrap of identification on him as a British officer.

He wheeled round on Poulden, who stood rigidly behind. 'What's th' best public house in Plymouth Town? Quickly, man!'

'Th-the Town? Beggin' y'r pardon, sir, but we likes best t' hob-a-nob at th' Portsmouth Hoys, Fore Street in Dock, as serves the best brown ale, but if y' means Old Plymouth, why . . .' He tailed off uncertainly under the ferocious glare of the frigate captain.

There was a brief, unreal silence before the captain grunted, 'Very well. Stand down the marines. Secure from quarters.' He marched up to Kydd and halted within inches. 'Now, sir, do you account for yourself.'

Affronted, Kydd retorted, 'I'm at a loss, sir, why you fired into me.'

The captain kept his eyes fixed on Kydd's and snapped, 'So you would not, were you a frigate captain, which I highly doubt will ever be the case? Then, pray, look at it from my point of view.

'A strange and—I observe—foreign-looking sloop sails unconcerned, as though in home waters, straight into Douarnenez Bay, which all good Englishmen do shun. He sees me and, quick as a flash, throws out the private signal, just as if he'd got it by him after capturing one of ours. He puts about impudently and takes his chance to close with me, hoping to catch us off-guard and at anchor, so then he may pour in his treacherous broadsides.

'But he's forgotten one detail.' He paused, giving a savage smile, then went on in a voice of rising thunder, 'If he's of the Channel Fleet, carries their private signals—then why in Hades is he flying the wrong damn ensign?'

Too late, Kydd remembered. On her temporary side-voyage for Cornwallis, Teazer was flying not the blue ensign of Cornwallis's fleet but the red of Lockwood's command.

CHAPTER 7

'AN' I'M DETERMINED ON IT, Nicholas,' Kydd said, stretching happily in his armchair.

'We have hardly had time to scrape the salt from our eyebrows after our hard weeks on the briny deep, dear brother,' Renzi sighed, 'and here you are proposing we should immediately embark on the rigours of—'

'Not a high occasion as would embarrass th' exchequer, I'll grant ye, more in the way of an assembly or so,' Kydd said comfortably. Becky came in shyly to draw the curtains and departed with a smile.

'Then might we not consider a rout? No expense of a meal at table, quantities of people arriving and departing when they will, wine and jollity on all sides. And, of course, the decided social advantage of there being the opportunity to accommodate more than the usual number so there will be many more in the way of return invitations.'

'Done!' What was the use of maintaining an establishment if it were not to be gainfully employed? 'Who shall be invited? As ye know, Teazer will not be in port s' long . . .'

While invitations were agreed plans were put in train. 'I'm of th' mind that a woman's touch might be an advantage,' Kydd said. 'Should I—do y' think that Cecilia is t' be invited?'

Renzi looked up from his writing of the invitations—a bold, round copperplate of impeccable execution—and said, in measured tones, 'She is your sister. It would be singular indeed if you did not ask her. And if by this you make allusion to any feelings I might have entertained for the lady, pray spare me your delicacies—she is quite free