The Admiral's Daughter

'Where's th' sand?' Kydd wanted to know.

'I'll go forrard, sir, an' signal to ye.' At Kydd's nod, Sawley scrambled down the centreline and wedged himself into the bow. He glanced aft once then made a positive pointing to starboard.

'Follow th' lad's motions,' Kydd growled. Bucketing madly, the boat approached the dark, seaweed-covered granite, the surge of swells an urgent swash and hiss over the wicked menace of unseen rocks. The hand went out again and Kydd saw where they were headed: an indentation so slight that it was unlikely that the boat's oars could deploy, but there was a strip of sand at its centre.

A small kedge anchor was tossed out and the boat went in, grounding hard. It floated free and banged even harder. 'Go, y' lubbers!' The men tumbled over the side and crowded on to a tiny strip of bare sand. Kydd dropped into the shallows and followed.

'Sir, how we's a-goin' t' get up there?' one man croaked, gesturing at the near-vertical slopes covered with thick, dripping furze. Kydd had counted on at least sheep tracks through the impenetrable thickets.

'Sawley, can we get round this?' he called, but the lad was already disappearing into the brush. Kydd waited impatiently; then he suddenly emerged and beckoned Kydd over. Sawley fished about in the undergrowth and came up with the knotted end of an old rope. 'The smugglers, sir—they'd parbuckle the tubs up to th' top wi' this'n,' he said, with glee.

'You first, younker, show us how t' do it.'

Sawley tested it with jerks then began to climb, clearing the rope of vegetation as he went. If it was for parbuckling there must be another near; Kydd found it and followed, the wind, with cruel cold, finding his wet clothes. The men came along behind.

It was hard going, the furze prickling and gouging, and his upper body having to remember long-ago skills of rope-climbing. Eventually he reached a rounding in the hill, a saddle between the continuing slopes inland and the higher conical mass of Rame Head, dramatically set off in the stormy weather with a ruined chapel on its summit.

He mustered his men together; far below Teazer was moving away to the safety of the next bay. Out to sea there was nothing but a white-lashed wilderness.

'Gets better now, Mr Kydd,' Sawley said brightly.

Eight men: would it make a difference? They would damn well try! Kydd set off, following a faintly defined track up the slope, pressing on as fast as he could, the ground strangely hard and un-moving after the wildly heaving decks.

They reached the summit of the hill and were met with the renewal of the wind's blast in their teeth and the grand, unforgettable sight of Whitsand Bay curving away into the misty distance, with parallel lines of pristine white surf. The grounded merchantman was still out in the bay, her foremast gone, sails in hopeless tatters, her men unmoving black dots in the rigging.

Scanning the horizon Kydd could see no other sail. They were on their own. He humped his part of the long fake of rope and moved off again, their way along the long summit now clear. He bent against the pummelling wind, trying not to think of the stricken vessel below as they reached a fold in the hills that hid the scene.

'We're goin' t' Wiggle, sir,' Sawley panted.

'Wha— ?'

'Aye, sir. It's a place above th' hard sand.'

They came from behind the hill and looked directly down on the scene. Numbers of people were on the beach watching the plight of the hapless merchant vessel. Would they help—or were the lurid tales of Cornish wreckers true?

Reaching the beach and shuddering with cold, Kydd tried to think. It was heart-wrenching to see how near yet how far the vessel was. At this angle only ragged black spars were visible above the raging combers, perhaps a dozen men clutching at the shrouds.

The wreck was bare hundreds of yards off but in at least ten feet of water, enough to drown in. Every sailor knew that, if run ashore, their end would not be so merciful—the rampaging waves would snatch them and batter them to a choking death as they rolled them shoreward, their only hope a quick end by a crushed skull.

The onlookers stood still, looking out to sea dispassionately. Kydd pulled one round to face him. 'Aren't ye goin' to do something?'

The man looked at him. 'They'm dead men,' he said dully. 'What's to do?'

Kydd swung on his men standing behind. He quickly worked a bowline on a bight at the end of the line. 'You!' he said, pointing to the tallest and heaviest. 'With me!'

He lunged into the water, feeling the strength in the surge of the next wave hissing over the beach. He splashed on until another foamed in, its impact sending him staggering. Recovering, he thrust deeper into the waves, feeling them curiously warmer out of the wind's chill. The rope jerked at him. He turned and saw that all eight of his men were floundering behind him, bracing when one was knocked off his feet, then stumbling on.

A lump grew in his throat. With these men he could . . .

A foaming giant of a wave took him full in the chest and sent him down in a choking flurry, handling him roughly until he brought up on the rope and finally found the hard sand under him. When he heaved himself up he saw that only two of his men were still standing, the rest a kicking tangle of legs and bodies.

Flailing forward Kydd tried again, feeling the spiteful urge of the sea as it pressed past him. At the next wave he gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand firm while the force of the water bullied past him unmercifully. As it receded he saw another beyond, even bigger.

The breaker tumbled him down and when he rose his forearm bore a long smear of blood. Trembling with cold and emotion, he had to accept that he and his men were utterly helpless.

He turned and staggered back to the shore, teeth chattering. Along the beach some fishermen had launched a boat, but as Kydd watched it reared violently over the first line of surf, the oars catching by some heroic means. By the third line, though, it had been smashed broadside and rolled over and over in a splintered wreck.