The Privateer's Revenge (6 page)

They reached the first rocks. The assumption was that those defending would believe these lofty crags would prevent any seaward onslaught—this would certainly be true for a ship-of-war under sail but well-handled boats could thread their way through and make a landing.

As they approached, the cliffs towered impossibly high above them but their information had been correct: a fold in the cliff-face lay away at an angle; bare rock, scrubby bushes and the occasional scree slope—but a way up!

And praise be! Queripel had the tides precisely calculated in these parts. The rocky plateau at the base was all but submerged, allowing the boats to ground close in. Kydd clambered over the side, all pretensions to dignity abandoned, and splashed into the shallows. “Move y'selves!” he bellowed.

Men started to gather on the rocky strand, many staring up anxiously at the precipitous heights. “Light along th' tackles—get going, then!” Kydd barked irritably. This was his trump card: numbers of nimble-footed topmen would work in relays, advancing upward to secure a block and tackle, which would then be used to sway up swivel guns and their improvised mounts in stages. Only a light weapon at sea, on land in these wild parts they would be the only artillery in the field, and would give pause to even the finest infantry arrayed against them.

“Now!” Kydd gestured to Ambrose, and the marines began to climb up the slope, disappearing quickly into the scrubby under-growth in clouds of reddish dust. At the top they would throw up a defensive perimeter for the rest. The stolid sergeant had grasped immediately what had to be done.

It seemed to be going well—too well? Nearly two hundred men were massing at the foot of the cliff, each encumbered with a musket slung over his back and others with ungainly packs of ammunition. As more landed, they were getting increasingly in each other's way.

Kydd drew his sword hastily. “Forward!” he yelled, and led them upwards in a rush. So much had to go right! There were those who were detailed to haul on the tackles, unarmed topmen swarming up to secure the blocks, more still to fleet the blocks once close up, others to keep together for gun-crew when on the level . . .

At any moment lines of soldiers might appear along the edge of the cliff—and it would be all over very quickly. Panting with effort, Kydd yanked on bushes to heave himself up the craggy heights, muscles burning and his world contracting to the untidy slither of dust and rubble that was their path.

Out of sight above them the marines must have reached the top—would they be met with naked bayonets or . . . ? But there had been no sudden shouts so they were still in with a chance.

When he drew near to the top Ambrose scrambled over to him. Breathless, Kydd heard that the perimeter was secure with outlying sentries concealed and the defenders not yet in sight. Keeping his head down, the marine pointed out the salient features: a far-distant cluster of buildings, probably a farm, and farther still the tip of a steeple. For the rest it was open fields and curious cows in a gently rolling rural tranquillity.

“We post th' guns here—an' over there,” Kydd gasped.

“Sah.” Ambrose pointed suddenly. Following the outstretched arm Kydd saw mass movement at the edge of a small wood a mile or so away. Without a telescope he could only squint. Then, as the activity extended to each side, there could be no mistake. Troops were deploying.

“Get those guns up here at th' rush!” he bawled, and heaved on a line himself. The swivels with their clumsy frame mountings were manhandled up and hurried into position. Men fanned out to either side. It was sobering how few two hundred looked when occupying a battlefield.

But they were in time. Dusty and weary, chests heaving with exertion, they stood ready.

Trumpets could be heard faintly as the soldiers opposite formed a line and, to the thin rattle of drums, advanced on them. “Give 'em a swivel,” Kydd ordered. They were not within range but it would show them what they'd be up against.

At the spiteful
crack
there was wavering in the ranks, and screamed orders carried across to them. The lines came to stop and a white flag rose. It was brought forward by an officer. Kydd grinned savagely: the day was theirs—and so easily.

The man trudged over, red and angry. “Damn it, sir, no one told us o' artillery in the field. Rather unsportin', I would have thought. Where the devil did they come from?”

“Show him, Sergeant,” Kydd grunted, and watched while the officer was escorted to the cliff-edge and peered down.

When he returned he mopped his forehead. “Well, sir, an' I declare m'self well and truly at a stand.” It had been a hard march for the soldiers from the redoubts to the west but they had been too late.

“I give ye victory, sir,” the officer said in admiration. “Those ship guns were a master-stroke.” He advanced to shake Kydd's hand. “Major Jevons, o' the Guernsey Militia. Might I hope t' see you at Fort George one day, sir?”

It had started as a difference of opinion between Lieutenant Governor, General Sir John Doyle, and Rear Admiral Saumarez as to the adequacy of the military defences in the south of the island. Kydd had taken up Saumarez's conjecture that they were not impregnable and now there was proof positive for all to see.

HMS
Teazer
had closed with the land the better to view proceedings and had the singular distinction of flying the colours of Rear Admiral Saumarez with the standard of the Lieutenant Governor.

In a little over an hour Kydd was back aboard. “Well done, sir!” Saumarez said genially, when introductions had been made on the quarterdeck to Doyle. “Showed 'em what the Navy can do, by Jove.” He looked benignly upon Kydd. “And what an active and enterprising officer might be trusted to achieve.”

C
HAPTER 4

T
HE CHAMBER OF THE
H
OUSE OF
L
ORDS
was in an uproar. Baron Grenville, a former foreign secretary, was on his feet and in full cry: “In fact I'm led to believe that this government has no idea—
no idea
—of the dire threat the kingdom now faces! Allow me, my noble lords, to attempt to arouse some measure of urgency in this supine Tory ministry.”

Seated on the Woolsack before the empty throne, the lord chancellor frowned but made no move to intervene.

Grenville waited for the noise to lessen then pronounced, “I can now say for a certainty that Bonaparte no longer menaces Great Britain with invasion.” Having the august chamber's full attention, he went on, “This is just so: the threats have now been withdrawn!” There was puzzled murmuring. Then he continued, with quiet venom, “My noble lords, the empty threats have gone, and in their place is the awful reality. From Dunkirk in the east to Granville in the west, in every French harbour and port opposite us, there are now being built hundreds—nay, thousands—of invasion craft whose only purpose is to throw one hundred and fifty thousand men on the English shore.”

Lord Hobart fidgeted in his seat. As secretary of state for war in a beleaguered administration, his would be the task of replying to the unanswerable.

“This realm, at great cost to its treasure, has created and maintains a navy whose chief purpose is the safeguarding of our islands. We have a right to see it arrayed in all its might along our coasts, resolutely facing the enemy, as it has done so gloriously from long before.” Grenville gestured at the wall panels, each of which depicted a scene of some heroic sea battle from England's long past.

He paused, then asked, “But where is it now? Apart from Lord Keith in the Downs it always seems to be away on some distant errand—dissipating its strength on some foreign adventure. It should be
here
, standing four-square before Bonaparte's hordes.”

Turning sharply, he looked straight at Hobart. “I beg this House do remain attentive while the noble lord does enlighten us as to why we should not be
terrified
at this moment!”

Rising slowly, Hobart tried to marshal his thoughts. “My lords, er, there is—”

There was a stir at the door and the lord chancellor got to his feet. “The Earl St Vincent,” he intoned.

A buzz of interest broke out. The bluff man in the splendid robes of a peer of the realm was Jervis. Honoured by his sovereign, he was a sea hero whose service dated back to before Nelson was born. It had been he who, in the year of the Great Mutiny, had led the fleet against the combined might of the French and Spanish to spectacular success. He now stood at the pinnacle of his sea profession as First Lord of the Admiralty and strategic head of the Navy, feared and respected.

His wintry eyes took in the excited peers as he paced slowly to the centre of the chamber. “My noble lords!” he said, in a voice that had in past days carried through winter gales. “I do not deny that we are faced with a determined and dangerous foe who is undoubtedly resolved on the conquest of Great Britain. You are right to be concerned, to question the power of the Royal Navy to withstand the tyrant.”

He paused. “It is not in me to find you agreeable words of comfort—that is not my way. You ask me to assure you that Bonaparte will not prevail. That cannot be in my power to guarantee to you.” In the utter silence Earl St Vincent added grimly, “This only am I sure upon: I do not say, my lords, that the French will not come. I say only they will not come by sea.”

“Sir,
Teazer
's number at the signal tower,” Standish said, to the motionless figure on the quarterdeck. A ship's pennants hung out meant a summons for her captain to attend immediately upon the commander-in-chief. Standish tried to hide his curiosity.

“Aye,” Kydd acknowledged dully. “Th' gig t' be alongside in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you, Flags. I'll ring when you're needed.” Saumarez turned to Kydd, “Do sit, sir,” he said formally. He picked up a paper from his desk and regarded Kydd gravely. “There are two matters that I wish to discuss, the first of which is causing me some distress. I think it fair to inform you that I have received a most unusual, that is to say disturbing, communication from the port admiral at Plymouth.” He regarded Kydd steadily. “In it Admiral Lockwood has seen fit to disclose to me his views on your moral worth while serving in his command, which are not necessarily to your credit.”

“Sir? This is—”

“The wording need not concern you, but it should be understood that I myself hold personal probity and the strictures of honour among gentlemen at the highest possible value, especially so in any of my commanding officers whose moral example will naturally be followed by those serving aboard his ship.

“Now, Mr Kydd, please know that I propose to decide for myself your fitness of character for the dignity of captain of your vessel, as is only right and proper. However, the nature of these views implies a moral transgression of some weight and I therefore do beg you to acquaint me now with the substance of—”

“I have naught t' regret,” Kydd whispered, his face pale.

“Why, surely Admiral Lockwood did not—”

“He—There's nothing I've done f'r which I need be ashamed. Nothing!”

“It's very odd, then, that—”

“I swear!”

Saumarez leaned back, plainly mystified. He seemed to come to a conclusion and sat forward. “Er, very well, sir. Then I'm minded to take your word on it.” He put down the paper firmly. “And therefore, unless I learn of something to the contrary, you shall hear no more of it.

“Now, may I know if you've been able to find a measure of companionship at the Mermaid's Club?”

“Thank you, sir, I have,” Kydd said stiffly.

“Again, you do have my sincere condolences, Mr Kydd, and my wife wishes you to know that she perfectly understands your—”

“Sir.”

“Yes, well, perhaps we shall move on to matters more of the moment.” He reached across and rang the desk bell. “Ah, Flags. If we could have the Gulf of Avranches charts.”

He turned to Kydd with a sombre expression. “You're no doubt aware of the preparations the Corsican tyrant is undertaking for his enterprise against England. I have this day received more news of these evil works, which must not be suffered to continue with impunity.” Saumarez selected the large-scale chart and laid it on his desk. “I have not forgotten my pledge to make your command an active one, Mr Kydd, and now I have a mission for you.”

He moved the chart round to face Kydd, tapping his finger at a point on the coast of Normandy, a bare forty leagues from England. “I wish you to look into Granville to discover a count of invasion craft and similar assembling there. Should your report warrant, I shall have no alternative but to contemplate action against them.”

Granville was one of the few harbours of that iron-bound coast, lying to the south-east beyond the vast reef plateaus and vicious half-tide rocks and could only be approached at particular states of the tide. The harbour was in the lee of a long peninsula, an ancient town atop its length and long, enfolding stone piers providing capacious shelter below.

“I understand, sir.”

“It will not be an easy task—the waters in approach are shallow and treacherous and the tidal streams prodigious. I believe that spring equinoctial ranges exceeding forty feet are often experienced there,” he added, with a thin smile. “And you will discover Granville to be so situated that only the closest approach will answer.”

“I'll do m' duty, sir.”

“I'm sure you will, Mr Kydd.” Saumarez said. “There may be others who may feel that their greater familiarity with these waters entitles them to this important task. I'm confident, however, that you will secure the intelligence without overly hazarding your ship or taking unnecessary risks, and it only remains for me to wish you good fortune.”

“Where's Queripel?” Kydd demanded.

Standish, startled by Kydd's sudden appearance on deck in the midst of the upheaval necessary in a rush to sea, turned to Prosser. “Pass the word for Mr Queripel.”

“My cabin!” Kydd said irritably, and left.

The lieutenant scowled. “Where the devil's Quez?” he said to Prosser. “I don't know what all the fuss is about, this is only a reconnaissance—action to be avoided at all costs. Where is the rogue, dammit?”

The little man puffed up, buttoning his waistcoat. “As I was amustering m' charts,” he said, with dignity.

“Captain wants your company,” Standish grunted.

Kydd looked up as Queripel entered the great cabin. “What do ye know of Granville?”

“Granville! Not y' harbour of notice—dries at low water, miles o' reefs and sandbanks afore you come up with it. C'n get a nasty lop over the shallows if'n the wind's in the sou'-west on the ebb and—”

“I mean t' look into it directly,” Kydd said flatly. “How . . . ?”

Queripel hesitated, then said defensively, “An' if it please ye, 'twould oblige me should Mr Dowse be heard an' all.” Queripel was clearly conscious that his position aboard was local and irregular: a hired pilot would in the nature of things assume responsibility for the ship, but his position was ill-defined and he did not want difficulties with the sailing-master later.

Dowse was summoned and Kydd gestured him to one side as a chart was spread. “I'll hear
your
opinions afterwards. Get on with it, then, Mr Queripel.”

“From the suth'ard, Mr Kydd,” Dowse came in, before Queripel could speak, pointing to the long peninsula set out to the southwest from the north-south-trending coast. To see directly into the port it did seem obvious they would have to make their approach more from the south.

“Won't be possible, Mr Dowse,” Queripel said firmly, “what with Banc de Tombelaine an' the shoalest water of all t' the sou'-sou'-west. We has t' come at it by the same course as all do take, from the west, an' lay Le Videcocq rocks no more'n a couple o' cables distant.”

“From th' west?” Kydd said sourly. “An' under eye the whole time?”

“Can't be helped, sir,” said Queripel.

Teazer
had lain uneasily to anchor overnight to the east of Îles Chausey, a six-mile desolation of countless rocks and reefs that were a bare ten miles from the Normandy coast and Granville. At dawn the winds were fair, the day bright and no sail in sight. But the sloop remained stubbornly at anchor: there would be no sudden descent on the port, for Queripel had been insistent. The tides had to be right.

It was not until after nine that
Teazer
got under weigh. The tide-set had been quite apparent while they were moored; the ship had soon swung into the ebb and the rapid current had gurgled urgently along her hull until in the early hours it had lessened. After the vessel had veered right about, the busy swirling had begun again in the opposite direction.

On a strengthening flood tide
Teazer,
with doubled lookouts, raised the coast, an uneven ripple of blue-grey firming quickly to a sweep of craggy coastline interspersed with sandhills and beaches. The pale blobs of sail close inshore changed aspect one after another as the far-off craft, recognising an approaching man-o'-war, fled for their lives.

The Granville peninsula, Cape Lihou, lay dead ahead. Ending in a prominent lofty headland, it angled across and half concealed the harbour. The sheltering stone piers of the port sweeping the vessels into its embrace were dozens of feet high, in deference to the vast tidal range. And they hid the harbour completely, with everything it contained.

“They enters b' keeping in wi' the land from the south,” Queripel murmured. This lie of the piers would give the best protection from harsh westerlies, but meant that their one and only chance to see past the high stone walls was to close right in with the land, then make a hard turn to the left until they could peer inside the two pier-heads.

“Take us in, Mr Dowse,” Kydd ordered, lifting his telescope to scrutinise the panorama. The distant last sail was even now disappearing within the enfolding piers as they approached, leaving the whole coast in both directions clear and somnolent in the autumn sunshine.

The headland gained clarity, but as they neared and shaped course to its southward there was a gust of white on the bluff tip and, seconds later, a double thump. Cannon balls plumed and skit-tered towards them.

“Ranging fire only,” murmured Standish, coming up to stand next to Kydd. “The villains'll have to do better'n that.”

Kydd didn't reply. Another rumble, and a shot passed the length of the ship before meeting spectacularly with a wave crest to send spray sheeting and rattling over the quarterdeck. “Stand on, Mr Dowse,” he said, with a cold grin. “We'll tack about opposite the harbour entrance as quick as y' please an' out again.”