He turned to Davies, who said calmly, "Pay no mind t' the Frenchy, sir. He's got no notion o' range over water, and in any case, I know a little diversion, this state o' th' tide, as'll take us close in past the Béniguete instead."
True to his word, Teazer found herself picking her way warily past the frighteningly close kelp-strewn islet while the guns thudded away impotently. Another mile, and they were in open water, the dark coastline fallen away to nothing.
"Clear, sir," Davies said smugly. "This is y'r Goulet," he added, gesturing to the tumble of seas stretching away to the left. "And Brest lies no more'n a dozen miles away there t' the east'd."
This was all very fine; they had won through the worst to the main approaches of the port but where was Immortalité? The little brig-sloop continued across the wide mouth towards the other side but still no trace. And the irritated French might be driven to sending out gunboats.
Picking up on Pointe du Toulinguet on the opposite side, to the anguish of the master watching the ugly scattering of black rocks stretching seaward for miles, they hauled away across the Iroise towards its natural boundary at the Pointe du Raz and the fifteen miles of reefs and shoals extending straight out to sea.
With a four-thousand-mile fetch, the wind from the open sea had a relentless urge to it that seemed to want to bully Teazer ever closer towards the grim coastline. And it was increasing now, with an ugly lop and white horses here and there. The rain had eased to flurries but there was low scud above the ragged cloud.
"Mr Davies?" Kydd asked heavily. It was getting uncomfortable, beam on to the racing seas, and while visibility was improving the doubled lookouts were not seeing any sign of sail.
"Why, y' have to understand, sir, in the inshore squadron we has two jobs to do—tell England when the Mongseers put t' sea, and the other is t' show ourselves anywhere there's a Frenchman, tells 'em they're under eye and it's better for 'em to stay snug in harbour. Immortalité could be . . . well, anywheres."
"Thank you, Mr Davies." Kydd looked out to the unfriendly sea and back to the forbidding coast. Naval duty was a hard taskmaster at times—was it expected that he comb the seas interminably until he found his frigate? In these dangerous waters, with thick weather promising?
The rocky barrier out from the Pointe du Raz was approaching; decisions would have to be made. To leeward, out of sight from the deck, the sweep of Douarnenez Bay had no port of interest, except possibly the small haven of Douarnenez itself. He was not about to risk entering the bay—Douarnenez! A tickle of memory came: his first ship and he a lowly ordinary seaman smelling gunpowder for the first time. It was here that Duke William had clashed briefly with emerging French ships-of-the-line. They must have been taking shelter in an accustomed anchorage—with which the frigate would of course be familiar and might now be reconnoitring.
"We bear up f'r Douarnenez, I believe, Mr Dowse."
They entered the bay past a prominent foreland towering up to larboard, the bay opening up widely beyond. The further shore would only be in sight from the tops and Kydd gazed up at them impatiently. But—nothing. No sail, no frigate. "G'damn it!" he blazed.
"Sir! Sir!" Andrews piped from his station on the afterdeck, hopping from one foot to the other. He was pointing vigorously astern. Tucked well into the lee of the foreland just past, a ship lay at anchor, her ensign plain for all to see.
"Immortalité," Davies confirmed.
However, so far downwind there was nothing for it but to beat back to the big vessel. A gun boomed on her fo'c'sle, drawing attention to the challenge that had shot smartly up her halliards.
"Private signal," roared Kydd to Andrews: thank heaven he had had the foresight to claim these from the flagship before he left and to have the correct signal of the day made up for hoisting every morning.
It soared up briskly: it wouldn't do to trifle with a crack frigate of the inshore squadron. Teazer leant to the wind and beat her way over while Kydd decided that he would not stand on ceremony; even a post-captain would not expect him to dress for a visit on this occasion.
As they neared, a twenty-four-pounder crashed out and the sea plumed ahead of their forefoot. At the same time, all along the length of the frigate's gun deck cannon were run out and Kydd found himself staring down the muzzles of Immortalité's broadside.
His mind froze. Then he thought to check again with her ensign—if she had been captured, the French could never fire under false colours—but she still flew an ensign of the Royal Navy.
"Mr Purchet!" bellowed Kydd, his voice breaking with effort. "Loose the fore topsail sheets this instant!" In a frenzied motion they were cast off and the sail banged and fluttered free. It was the nearest thing to striking topsails, the age-old signal of surrender, that Kydd could think of.
"Clear away the cutter, boat's crew t' muster," he croaked.
Under Poulden's urgent bidding the men stretched out for the frigate, Kydd sitting bolt upright, his foul-weather gear damp and uncomfortable. As they neared, there was confirmation that this was a vessel of the Royal Navy—sea-worn she might be, but every detail, from the blacked muzzles of the cannon to the fancy rope-work round the wind-vane, spoke of a proud sea service.
They came alongside and hooked on, the boat jibbing like a lunatic in the seas that swept the sides of the frigate. Kydd waited for the right moment and jumped for the side-steps, his wet-weather gear tangling and whipping as he climbed up and over the bulwarks.
Two stolid lines of armed marines met him instead of a side-party. A grim-faced post-captain waited ahead and held up his hands for Kydd to stop where he was. "And who the devil are you, sir?" he grated.
"C-commander Kydd, brig-sloop Teazer, at y'r service, sir," Kydd said breathlessly.
"Prove it!" snarled the captain.
Kydd smothered a retort when he realised that, but for a bedraggled and threadbare hat, he was in anonymous foul-weather gear—and he had not a scrap of identification on him as a British officer.
He wheeled round on Poulden, who stood rigidly behind. "What's th' best public house in Plymouth Town? Quickly, man!"
"Th-the Town? Beggin' y'r pardon, sir, but we likes best t' hob-a-nob at th' Portsmouth Hoys, Fore Street in Dock, as serves the best brown ale, but if y' means Old Plymouth, why . . ." He tailed off uncertainly under the ferocious glare of the frigate captain.
There was a brief, unreal silence before the captain grunted, "Very well. Stand down the marines. Secure from quarters." He marched up to Kydd and halted within inches. "Now, sir, do you account for yourself."
Affronted, Kydd retorted, "I'm at a loss, sir, why you fired into me."
The captain kept his eyes fixed on Kydd's and snapped, "So you would not, were you a frigate captain, which I highly doubt will ever be the case? Then, pray, look at it from my point of view.
"A strange and—I observe—foreign-looking sloop sails unconcerned, as though in home waters, straight into Douarnenez Bay, which all good Englishmen do shun. He sees me and, quick as a flash, throws out the private signal, just as if he'd got it by him after capturing one of ours. He puts about impudently and takes his chance to close with me, hoping to catch us off-guard and at anchor, so then he may pour in his treacherous broadsides.
"But he's forgotten one detail." He paused, giving a savage smile, then went on in a voice of rising thunder, "If he's of the Channel Fleet, carries their private signals—then why in Hades is he flying the wrong damn ensign?"
Too late, Kydd remembered. On her temporary side-voyage for Cornwallis, Teazer was flying not the blue ensign of Cornwallis's fleet but the red of Lockwood's command.