Victory

Commentaries on the Laws of England

Chapter 1

At a hesitant knock on the cabin door Thomas Kydd’s servant paused in shaving his master.

‘Sir – Mr Hallum’s duty an’ Ushant is sighted to the nor’-east, eight miles,’ blurted the duty midshipman, a little abashed at seeing his captain under the razor.

‘Thank you, Mr Tawse,’ Kydd grunted.

Nicholas Renzi looked up from the papers he was working on by the early morning light. He and Kydd were friends of many years. Both had achieved the quarterdeck from before the mast, but while Kydd had gained command of his own ship Renzi now pursued scholarly interests and acted as his clerk. Peering out of the stern windows of the little brig-sloop he said hopefully, ‘And a fair wind for the Downs – I so yearn for a dish of Mistress Butterworth’s haricot of mutton.’

Teazer had been taken from her patrol line along the French coast near the invasion ports and sent with dispatches, passengers and mail to the blockading battleships off Brest. A small ship had to expect such lowly employment but on her return, she would have a short spell in Deal, then be back on station, playing her part to thwart Napoleon Bonaparte’s plans for the invasion of England.

It was the nightmare that haunted every man, woman and child – that the moat would be crossed and the staunch island nation must then taste the horrors of war. All it needed was for the emperor to wrest control from the Royal Navy for a few tides and, with half a million men under arms and two thousand vessels now in the invasion flotilla, he could flood the country with the armies that had conquered all Europe.

Kydd shifted restlessly. ‘Thank you, Tysoe. A breakfast when it’s ready.’ The towel was expertly flicked away and he was released to take up his lieutenant’s reworked quarters bill. They had lost two men to death and wounding and five to sickness; it had been made very clear that there would be no replacements, for the country had been stripped of trained seamen and Teazer’s humble station did not warrant special treatment.

He glanced at the paper irritably. Hallum had no doubt done his best but to rate up the pleasant but diffident Williams to full gun-captain was not the way to fill holes. Even now, after months in Teazer, his first lieutenant seemed not to know the men, their character, their individual strengths and weaknesses.

Kydd circled Bluett’s name in the gun-crew and scrawled, ‘to be GC’ then realised that as a sail-trimmer the man could not be expected to absent himself just when his crew would need him. Damn. Very well, he’d make young Rawlings sail-trimmer. Barely more than a ship’s boy, he was nevertheless agile and bright – he’d soon learn to swarm up to the tops with the best of them. But would he cope under savage enemy fire?

Imperceptibly the ship’s angular rhythm of pitch and roll changed to a smoother rise and fall as she rounded Ushant, the lonely island that marked the north-west extremity of France. Now, with this fair south-westerly, it was a straight run up-Channel for home.

The masthead lookout’s hail cut through Kydd’s thoughts. ‘Saaail hoooo! Sail t’ the larb’d quarter!’

He snatched up his grego against the autumn chill and joined the group on the quarterdeck. ‘Mr Hallum?’

‘Two points abaft the beam, sir, and steering towards us.’

Kydd nodded: the unknown ship was inward bound from the Atlantic Ocean. A lone merchantman? But every British merchant ship had by law to be a member of a convoy. Then was it a daring Frenchman breaking the blockade? If so, his luck had just run out . . .

‘I’ll take a peep, I believe,’ he said, and swung easily up into the main-shrouds, mounting to the main-top. His pocket glass steadied on the speck of paleness away to the west. Smallish, but unmistakable with its tell-tale three masts, it was a chasse maree, a lugger, and the favoured vessel of the infamous Brittany privateers.

A smile of satisfaction spread across Kydd’s face: he was perfectly placed to crowd the luckless corsair against the unfriendly Cornish coast, and in any chase the rising seas would favour the larger Teazer. He hailed the deck below, ordering the necessary course change to intercept.

Almost certainly the vessel was returning after a voyage of depredation from somewhere like St Malo, a notorious nest of privateers, but now it had found Teazer athwart its hawse. Suddenly the image foreshortened, then opened up again – it was putting about, back to the open ocean.

It would be to no avail: Teazer held it to advantage and would converge well before it could escape. Kydd descended quickly and stood clear as the guns were cast loose and battle preparations made. The privateer was making a run for it. It was unlikely to take on a full-blooded man-o’-war but it was armed and dangerous with plenty of men so nothing could be left to chance.

The wind was veering and strengthening; there would be reefs in its soaring lugsails soon and, with the quartering fresh breeze as Teazer’s best point of sailing, he could rely on an interception before noon.

Within a few hours the sombre dark grey of the English coast lifted into view and they had gained appreciably on the privateer, which would soon be in range. Apart from a far-distant scatter of coastal sail there did not appear to be any other vessels and Kydd would shortly make his move.

‘Bolderin’ weather,’ said Purchet, the boatswain, staring gloomily at the approaching change. Curtains of white hung vertically against sullen dark cloud banks. Teazer’s open main-deck in a line squall was not best placed for play with the guns; it was a challenge to try to keep the priming powder dry on heaving wet decks while rain hammered down.