"Naught but one privateer who gave me th' slip, sir," Kydd said apologetically.
"Never mind, lad, early days yet. Now, if ye'd pay mind t' me, there's a service I'd like ye to perform as will spare one of m' frigates."
"Aye, sir."
A pale-faced lieutenant looked round the door and promptly vanished at Cornwallis's frown.
The admiral turned back to Kydd. "Do ye find Immortalité frigate, Cap'n Owen, an' pass to him a small chest f'r which you'll take a receipt in due form? For y'r information it contains a sum in gold—f'r which I'll take your receipt, sir—by which we buy our intelligence."
"Sir. Er, could I know where she's t' be found?"
"Inshore squadron," Cornwallis answered testily. "Who knows? In a westerly, could be anywhere off th' Goulet between the Béniguete an' Toulinguet." At Kydd's hesitation he growled, "Ask Flags, an' get some half-decent charts while ye're about it—it's a graveyard o' ships there, an' this has t' be in the right hands main quickly, sir."
It made sense of a kind, conceded Kydd, resentfully, as Teazer left the commotion of Tor Bay astern and stretched out for Start Point. A little brig taken from her lawful duty was far less of a drain on precious resources than a full-blooded frigate, but this took no account of the feelings of her commander at being so casually sent on errands.
On the other hand this was for Kydd and Teazer a first time in one of the worst stretches of sea to be found anywhere—rock-strewn and treacherous, the approaches to Brest at the extreme Atlantic north-west of France had claimed the lives of countless English men-o'-war over the centuries. It was a dangerous lee-shore in all but the infrequent easterlies, and no place for the faint of heart.
All too soon the Start was abeam: it might be possible to fetch their objective in one tack but in this cloudy, petulant weather there would be no sightings to fix their position reliably. And the increasing westerly, with a making tide, would result in a leeward drift of an unknown quantity that would make even the best estimations questionable.
Despite the need for dispatch the only prudent move would be to make a westing sufficient to come about again and in the morning raise the guardian of Brest, the outlying island of Ushant. Then, knowing their position for a certainty, they could work in closer.
It seemed overly cautious, but Kydd was aware of the little wooden chest with the iron padlock that lay well secured in his bedplace. Much might depend on its safe arrival.
Davies, an amiable master's mate from Ville de Paris, had volunteered to act as guide—Dowse had only limited familiarity with the region so the younger man's advice would be crucial. Prosser had made much of his time of service on blockade in the 1790s but this was as a midshipman and, given his brash attitude, Kydd was not readily inclined to take suggestions from him. Any experiences of the lower deck made no reference to charts or coasting pilots and were no better than reminiscences.
The dawn brought with it thin, misting rain driving in from the west in tall white curtains that advanced slowly over a sullen swell to soak the sombre group on Teazer's quarterdeck. As far as could be relied upon, their reckoning placed them some twenty-five miles to weather of Ushant, the traditional fleet rendezvous, but the sea was empty as the fleet was in Tor Bay.
"Helm up," Kydd ordered, "Steer east." The die was cast: they were now sailing directly downwind towards France. They would sight Ushant and shape course accordingly or, missing it, end embroiled in the maze of half-tide rocks promised by their chart.
Kydd went over the arithmetic. The higher he was on the ship, the further he could see. Distance to the horizon in miles was 1.17 times the square root of the height-of-eye in feet. As he stood on the quarterdeck, his eye was about ten feet up, which gave a figure of some four miles. At its highest, Ushant was no more than a hundred and forty feet odd, which by the same calculation gave about fourteen miles. Therefore, adding the two, he could expect to make landfall at eighteen miles off and nearer twenty-three for a lookout in the maintop.
"Get up there, lad," he ordered Andrews. Another pair of eyes in the tops would never be too many with so much riding on it. But before the lad could swing into the shrouds a sudden cry came from the foretop. "Laaand hooo!" The lookout gestured vigorously to leeward.
In a fever of impatience Kydd waited for the land to come within sight of the deck, an anonymous grey shape firming before them. "Take it south-about," Kydd told the quarter-master. If it was Ushant they needed to be in place for their southward search and if it was not . . .
Davies came and stood next to Kydd, staring intently. "Certainly looks the part, sir," he said pleasantly, as though unaware of the tension about him. "We'll discover f'r sure when we see him off t' the nor'-west. He has a deep bay there, lookin' all the world like the open claw of a lobster."
"We used to say 'nutcracker' in Diomede," Prosser said importantly. He had taken up position on the other side of Kydd, who didn't reply.
It proved to be Ushant and therefore they had their position exactly—for the moment. The westerly was holding and beginning to kick up a bit of a sea, although this was probably more due to its disputing with the last of the down-Channel ebb. Kydd fretted at the ragged rain squalls that marched across and lasted for long minutes, bringing visibility down to yards; not only did this make sighting Immortalité difficult but it hid the dark rocks off to starboard.
"'T'were best we made our southing through the Chenal d'Four," Davies offered. "We have the slant wi' this westerly."
Prosser puffed his cheeks. "In Diomede it was always Chenal d'Helle, on account—"
"Hold y'r noise!" Kydd snapped. "Haven't ye somethin' t' do forrard?"
Leaving the black mass of Ushant astern, they sailed on uneasily until a low line of darker grey spread across the horizon, hardening into a craggy coastline. "France, sir," Davies said unnecessarily. Kydd grunted; of more concern to him now was their undeviating approach directly towards it. Detail became clearer as they neared, a wicked, uncompromising cragginess.
The chart had shown an appalling jumble of unconnected reefs and half-tide rocks and had hinted of fierce tidal currents to be avoided at all costs. To thread a safe route through would be a nightmare without help.
"Are ye sure?"
Davies nodded patiently.
"Tut, tut, an' this is a rare moil," exclaimed Dowse, looking askance at the approaching cliffs, now no more than a couple of miles distant. It was a dead lee shore and all his master's instincts jangled in alarm. His eyes met Kydd's.
"Nothing t' worry of," Davies said cheerfully. "Need to keep inshore o' L'Pâtresses, is all."
The helm went over a bare mile short of the grim heights, but as they made their passage south to parallel them Kydd saw why: at this distance there was a noticeable back wind from the nearby sea-cliffs, which went some way to easing the situation.
Away to starboard the misty sea was full of dismal black crags, white-fringed and dreadful, and after they had passed a stern headland at less than a mile it was evident that they were edging nearer, being crowded ever closer to the coast—suddenly there was no longer any space to wear about or even to tack back to where they had come from. "I mislike it, sir—no sea room, we can't put back," Dowse said. "What if . . . ?"
They were being funnelled between a substantial seaweed-black islet to starboard and a gaunt, twisted headland to larboard, but as they drew in, there was a flat thump on the damp air. Kydd heard more and searched feverishly for where the guns were. There must be a battery somewhere atop the lofty cliffs—which they would pass close beneath.