stones washed white by the slight seas. They proceeded just off the line of breaking waves, the cliffs prettily red- tinted by the setting sun with occasional deep shadowed caves and natural archways, the pungent smell of rotting seaweed wafting out.
Then he saw it: a deep cleft between two bluffs. 'Hold water!' Kydd said, in a low voice. While the boat rocked, he examined it as closely as he could. It was probably eroded by water run-off from above, and therefore a possible way up.
Bringing the cutter about he took it as close as he dared to the shore. With little swell, there was no real danger of the boat rising and falling on to the rocks waiting under it. He splashed over the side into the water and stumbled ashore over the mass of stony boulders towards the cleft. It was in the sunset's shadow but nearer to it, he could see that even though it was choked in places with loose stones it wound up steeply out of sight and, as far as he could tell, to the top. It would do.
He brought his men ashore and sent the boat back. There was nothing more to do but wait for the dawn.
Shivering, stiff, and conscious that he had spent a night under the stars on unyielding stones, Kydd awoke. Others stirred nearby. It was calm and with a slight mist. Impatiently Kydd waited for the light to improve so they could make a move. But when they did reach Sennen Cove, would Bloody Jacques be there?
'I'll be first, Mr Stirk,' Kydd called quietly, looking back over his men as he hurried past. They were not many, but he was relying on the likelihood that only a few would be trusted ashore from the privateer.
If any words were to be said, now was the time; but Kydd could find none in the face of what they were about to do. 'Let's finish th' job,' he said, and began to climb.
It was hard going, a scramble on loose pebbles and dust, then hard-edged rocky shards. They heaved themselves up like topmen, shifting hand or foot only when the others had good purchase. All the time the light strengthened allowing them to see the appalling drop that was opening beneath them to the sea below.
Then the cleft angled to the left and shallowed. The going was easier, and almost before they knew it, the slope gentled and the ground levelled out.
Kydd moved cautiously. There was every reason for Bloody Jacques to post a lookout here: there was a view both to Land's End on the one side and the broad sweep of beach on the other.
And there was indeed a sentry. He was sitting on a ledge of rock gazing out to sea, a clay pipe going peacefully—with a musket across his knees. Kydd dropped to the ground.
The man had to be silenced: the musket would sound the alarm. But in a paradoxical way Kydd was comforted. This was proof that he was right. Bloody Jacques was here.
Stirk slithered up next to him. 'Mr Kydd,' he whispered hoarsely, gesturing to himself and then to the lookout. Kydd nodded, and Stirk scrambled to his feet. He stood swaying for a moment, his hands clamped piteously to his head as though it were about to burst, then fell to his knees.
There was a shout from the man, but Stirk shook his head and crawled further, then stopped to dry-retch into the dust.
The lookout shouted again, thinking him another of his crew, betwaddled after a riotous night. He put down his musket and came over irritably.
Stirk exploded into life, barrelling into the unfortunate man and, with a snarl, lofting him over his shoulder. The sentry crashed on to the edge of the cliff, his fingers scrabbling hopelessly, and slithered over with a despairing cry.
Now they had only to cross a quarter-mile of barren heathland, then descend into Sennen Cove. They hurried along silently and emerged on to the bluffs overlooking the neat little village and the beach. There, nestling within the flat blackness of the reef, was the three-masted lugger they had sought for so long.
There was no early-morning activity aboard and, indeed, none in the village, from what could be seen. If Bloody Jacques was in a cottage, which one? Was he still aboard his lugger—and preparing to sail?
A track led at an angle to the side, which soon wound into thick, concealing furze. Kydd plunged down.
Surprise was their only advantage: they did not carry muskets, which would have hindered them on the climb, and pistols in the belt could well work loose and drop. They were going into the attack armed only with bare steel.
It seemed impossible that their awkward, skidding haste down the track had not been heard in the huddle of cottages just below, but Kydd could detect no alarm. Should they risk everything on a mad dash to the centre of the village or keep out of sight of the lugger and search the houses one by one?
As they came upon the first dwelling he could see that this was no longer an alternative. There were men untidily asleep on the sand, others no doubt elsewhere. Should he spread out his own men in a search or keep them defensively together?
'Stay with me!' he hissed, and stalked out into the narrow street, sword in hand—his precious fighting blade, which had been at his side on countless occasions of peril, a fierce comfort.
Standing four-square, his men behind him, he bellowed, 'Bloody Jacques! I have ye now! Come out an' yield y'self to me!'
His voice echoed off the silent buildings. 'Commander Kydd! In th' King's name, surrender y'self!' There were tiny movements at the windows of some cottages.
Shouts rose from the beach. How many were there?
'We have ye surrounded, y' villain! Come out an' show y'self!'
'Sir—th' lugger! She's gettin' a boat wi' men ashore!' They would soon be overwhelmed; Kydd's men could barely hold their own against those who had come up from the beach.
'Y' last chance afore I come in an' tear ye from y' bed—Mick Haws!'
Behind him a door crashed open and Kydd wheeled round. With an animal roar, a giant of a man in shirt and breeches threw himself towards him, a monster claymore in his fist.
Kydd braced himself, his sword at point. The claymore came down in a mighty sweep, meeting Kydd's blade
