The Admiral's Daughter

'Er—'

'Captain Praed, sir!'

Kydd's feverish mind supplied the rest. This was none other than Nelson's senior navigating lieutenant whom he'd last encountered at the battle of the Nile those years ago. He was now a post-captain and, bizarrely, the new owner of the castle.

The next few minutes were a hard beat to windward for Commander Kydd.

The stone building above the cove turned out to be a country drinking den. 'Bessy's tavern, an they swears they know nothin', sir.'

Did they take him for a fool? 'Thank you, Mr Purchet, an' I'll keep a tight guard until daybreak, then search properly.' But the smug look on the landlord's face gave little hope that they would find anything.

Distant hails proved to be the party from Trevean on the other side, who came up breathlessly, agog for news. Savagely Kydd sent them about their business and returned to Teazer. It had not been a scene of triumph but he was damned if he'd give up now.

'We carry th' lugger to Penzance f'r inspection,' he grated. Conceivably the vital evidence was still aboard in a cunning hiding-place—false bulkheads, trick water casks and the rest.

In the morning they would search the drinking den; he had fifteen men sealing it off for the rest of the night and nothing would get past them. 'Call me at dawn,' he told Tysoe and fell into his cot fully clothed. He woke in a black mood. Even the beauty of the unfolding daybreak, as the sinister dark crags were transformed by the young sunshine into light-grey and dappled green, failed to move him: with nothing to show for their efforts there would be accusing stares on their return to Penzance.

The searchers went early to Bessy's and returned while he was at breakfast—empty-handed. Then an idea struck, one that had its roots in a mess-deck yarn, far away and in another time. 'Mr Stirk—Toby—I've called ye here in private t' ask f'r help.'

Stirk said nothing, sitting bolt upright, his black eyes unblinking.

'I'm remembering Seaflower cutter in th' Caribbee, a foul night at moorin's off Jamaica, I think it was. Y' had us all agog wi' a tough yarn about a woman an' a ghost. Do y' remember?'

'No, sir,' Stirk answered stolidly.

'I do t' this day, I'll tell ye. Right scareful,' he added, in as comradely a manner as he could manage. 'An' y' happened t' mention then that a long time ago ye may have been among the free traders o' Mount's Bay. I was just wonderin' if that were so.'

Taking his time, Stirk considered and said slowly, 'Y' has the advantage of me, Mr Kydd, an' you knows it. But then I has th' choice as t' what I says back.'

He looked away once, and when his gaze returned to Kydd it was direct and uncompromising. 'Yer wants me to dish m' old shipmates an' that's not possible—but I c'n tell ye that the catblash about Mount's Bay was part o' the dit t' make it sound good, as is allowed. I hail fr'm Romney Marsh, which is in Kent, an' it may have been there as I learnt about th' trade, but th' only time I was in these parts was in Fox cutter—but north Cornwall, Barnstaple an' Lundy, so . . .'

It had been worth a try. 'Aye. Thank 'ee, Toby.' He allowed a look of sorrow to steal across his face. 'Y' see, I'm vexed t' know just where it is ashore they stowed th' cargo. Seems a hard thing t' up hook an' sail away without we have something t' show for our troubles.'

There was no answering smile.

'Such a pity, o' course. We sail back t' Penzance, having been truly gulled, an' there's the Revenue on th' quay, waitin' an' laughin' at our Teazer, a squiddy King's ship as doesn't know th' lay . . .'

Kydd waited, realising he had unconsciously slipped back into fo'c'sle ways of speaking, but there was no response so he rose to his feet. 'M' thanks anyway, Toby—a rummer afore ye go?'

'It's not ashore. Give me a boardin' grapnel an' the pinnace f'r an hour.'

It didn't take long: under the interested gaze of Teazer's company the boat's crew plied the grapnel near where the lugger had been until it snagged. A couple of hands at the line and the first dripping tub broke surface, quickly followed by more, each weighted and roped to the next in a long line.

With a smuggling lugger, prisoners and four hundred gallons of evidence, a well-satisfied sloop-of-war set her sails and left.

CHAPTER 8

'I'LL HAVE T' LEAVE YE to y'r books, then, Nicholas,' Kydd said, in mock sorrow. His friend was dipping into some musty tomes in the corner of a shop in Vauxhall—or 'foxhole' to seamen— Street.

'Er, ah—yes, this could take some time,' Renzi replied absently. 'Shall we meet later?'

Plymouth was a maritime town, but unlike the noisier Portsmouth, it held itself aloof from the immediacy of a large navy dockyard and fleet, which were safely out of the way in Dock, across the marshes. Instead, it was merchant-ship captains from the vessels in the Cattewater who could be found in the inns on the heights of Old Plymouth—but if any would mingle with the seafarers of a dozen nations, or venture into the rough jollity of their taverns and hide-aways, they could also be found in the rickety antiquity of Cockside and other haunts around the Pool.

Kydd had no wish to be caught up in their shoreside sprees and made his way up Cat Street and past the Guild Hall to the more spacious reaches of the Old Town, which the great sea-dog Sir Francis Drake had called home—he had returned to the Sound triumphant from a voyage round the world loaded with treasure, loosing anchor just a few hundred yards from Kydd's new residence, his first anxious question: 'Doth the Queen still reign?'

It was pleasant to be part of the thronging crowds, to step out over the cobblestones and past the ancient buildings that gave Plymouth such a distinctive character. He stopped to peer into a shop's windows at some gaudily coloured political cartoons.

'Why, Mr Kydd!'