The captain snatched up the speaking trumpet from its bracket. "The brig ahoy, sheer off. Bear away, this instant!" A ship-of-the-line was far too ponderous to play games.
"He means to head us through," Houghton exclaimed in disbelief. "You villains! Bear off! You must give way to a King's ship, damn you!"
Houghton stalked forward, eyeing the menace of Black Rock ahead. "Give him a gun, forrard!" he roared. A six-pounder on the fo'c'sle banged out. The gunsmoke was borne away in a body through the entrance, but the brig paid no heed, her main yard dipping and swaying closer and closer to their own lower rigging. "We take the eastern channel, let that villain choose the west," Houghton snapped. The brig's shallower draught would allow him the passage.
"Aye aye, sir. Lay Black Rock close to larb'd, and hold your course," Bampton acknowledged.
Just two hundred yards from Black Rock the brig diverged to the other side of the danger. The seaweed-covered rocks were now in close detail. All eyes followed the rogue vessel still under full sail plunging past the hazard.
"Sir!" the helmsman called urgently. Unable to release the wheel he indicated vigorously with his head. With all attention on the brig they had not noticed two fishing smacks close-hauled under fore and aft sail, crossing their bows to leave harbour. They shot into view from behind St Anthony's Head to starboard. Seeing the brig they changed their minds and tried to go about, floundering in stays dead ahead.
Bampton's mouth opened—but closed again. The channel was only a few hundred yards wide, with Black Rock to one side and the high headland of St Anthony to the other. It didn't take much imagination to see that, running downwind as they were, backing or dousing sail to stop their way was impossible—even if this was achieved Tenacious would probably slew helplessly round to cast up on shore. The smacks were doomed.
"Helm a-larb'd," Hambly calmly told the man at the wheel. "Keep with th' land a cable or so."
"No . . ." Bampton hesitated. He could not utter the words of contradiction that would firmly sheet home to him responsibility for the next few minutes.
The master kept his eyes ahead, his face tranquil. Tenacious's bows slowly paid off towards the rain-dark coast towering so near to starboard. Individual tumbling rock formations could be made out, seagulls perched on them watching the big ship curiously. The swash of their wake, the slat and creak of shipboard noises were loud in the silence.
They'd avoided the smacks, but another danger presented. Sprawled across their track was a new headland, with a round castle prominent on its heights, but Hambly kept his course.
"Should you—"
Hambly did not deign to notice Bampton.
Kydd saw the problem. If they could not come hard round their only other action to starboard was to head ignominiously into a creek just opening up. He held his breath, then felt the first puff of a playful easterly coming down the creek . . . Depth of water close to, local winds—the master had known!
The edge of their sails shivered and Hambly said, over his shoulder, "We'll brace up, I believe."
As they did so, Kydd saw that, without any movement at the helm, the ship's bow swung safely away from the shore.
"Aye, the set of th' ebb," Hambly said and, unexpectedly, smiled. HMS Tenacious found her course again and came to anchor in the spacious expanse of Carrick Roads and Falmouth.
Kydd hugged his boat-cloak around him as the officers' gig left the shelter of the ship's side, sails to a single reef. He pulled his hat tighter and smiled weakly at Renzi through spats of spray. A straggle of low buildings along the shoreline, Falmouth was a small town tucked away just inside the western headland, around from the ruined Pendennis Castle.
Inside the harbour, clusters of smaller ships were moored close before the town, but the majority of shipping, assembling for the convoy, crowded into Carrick Roads—a mass of merchant ships of all kinds and destinations, with boats under sail or oar crisscrossing the waters.
"Fish Strand," Renzi told the coxswain, as they approached the town. The gig headed past the anchored vessels for the tiny quay. "Return before dusk, if you please," he ordered, and the two friends stepped ashore.
"If you should desire a restorative . . ." The First and Last on Market Street seemed to meet the bill—with a jolly tavern-keeper and roaring fire in the taproom to accompany their hot spiced rum.
"Fish Strand?" Kydd said, cupping his toddy.
"Indeed. Mr Pringle assures us that somewhere about here we'll find all we need to preserve the soul in the wilderness of Nova Scotia." Renzi pulled a battered guinea from his pocket. "And it seems that I should return with a proof suitable for a diminutive midshipman against Boreas's worst."
Lieutenants did no watches in harbour: this was a duty for master's mates and midshipmen. Kydd acknowledged that it was very satisfactory to be free to go ashore as the spirit moved, and he was privately relieved to be away from the atmosphere in the wardroom.
A grey-haired man of some quality entered the alehouse. He saw the two naval officers and inclined his head, then signalled to the pot-boy and came across. "Good afternoon, gentlemen. Do I see officers of that fine two-decker in the roads?"
"You do, sir," Renzi answered. "Lieutenants Kydd and Renzi of His Majesty's Ship Tenacious, at your service."
"Greaves, Lawrence Greaves. And your noble vessel is bound for North America?"
"She is."
"Ah! Then you will be our guardian angel, our protector of this 'trade,' perhaps?" Greaves was clearly no stranger to sea passages—a "trade" was the common maritime term for a convoy. "May I sit with you?" he asked. "My wife and I will be embarked on the City of Sydney for Halifax." The pot-boy hovered. "The same? Or would you prefer wine?" The grey was confined to his side-whiskers, and his eyes were genial. "Your first visit?"
"It will be," Kydd admitted, "but I'll wager this is not your first, sir."
"No indeed. I'm commissioner for lands in Halifax, as it happens, returning to my post."
"Then, sir, it puzzles me t' know why you don't take the packet service—it's much the faster," Kydd said, seeing a smart brigantine with the Blue Peter at her masthead through the tavern window.
"No mystery, my friend. My wife is no sailor and insists on the conveniences of a larger vessel, and for me, I much prefer the comforting presence of one of His Majesty's men-o'-war about me. Do you know much of these packets?"
"Not a great deal, sir, but that they do carry inviolable protections against the press," said Renzi.
"Well, then, the post-office packet, small but fast, the mails of the kingdom are entrusted to these, and not only that but passengers and specie—bullion for treasury interchange. They risk tempest and privateers to make a fast passage, and I ask you to conceive of the value to a merchant of receiving his letter-of-credit by reply within fifteen weeks of consigning his petition to an Atlantic crossing."
Kydd murmured an appreciation, but Greaves leaned forward. "A nest of villains, sir! They carry the King's mails, but should they spy a prize, they will not scruple to attack at risk of their cargo—and worse! Even under the strictest post-office contract, they weigh down their vessel with private freight to their common advantage. And should this not be enough, it is commonly known that while the post office will recompense them for a loss at sea to an enemy, profit may just as readily be won from the insurances."
A crack of gunfire drew their attention to the brigantine. Her Blue Peter was jerking down, with vigorous activity at her fore-deck windlass. "Ah, yes, she'll be in Halifax two weeks before us—if the privateers let her . . ."