Seamanship of the highest order was now required. Usually a mariner's first concern was to keep well clear of the deadly rocks, but Kydd knew their voyage would be in vain unless they not only made a sighting of the Isles of Scilly but searched closely. This would involve the careful reckoning of each tack such that the last leg would place them precisely and safely to westward of the scattered islands.
The weather was sullen but still clear; however, this could change in minutes. It was now not navigation by the science of sextant and chronometer but the far more difficult art of dead-reckoning, leeway resulting from the wind's blast, the mass movement of the ocean under tidal impetus, contrary currents from the north. The master stood grave and silent, his eyes passing ceaselessly over the white-tipped rollers marching in from the open Atlantic.
Rain arrived in fits and blusters, settling to drenching sheets that sometimes thinned and passed on, leaving the seas a hissing expanse of stippled white that curiously took the savage energy from the waves and left them subdued, rounded hillocks rather than ravenous breakers.
Then the first islets formed, alarmingly close, out of the hanging rain-mist. It was vital to make landfall with precision, and there was only wind direction to orient them. The master told Kydd, "This is y'r Pol Bank, sir, an' Bishop Rock somewhere there." There was no disguising the relief in his voice.
The western extremity of the Isles of Scilly. The low, anonymous grey rain-slick ugliness was probably the worst sea hazard in this part of the world. Here, less than a century before, an admiral of the Royal Navy and near two thousand men had died when the Association and most of a victorious returning fleet had made final encounter with these isles.
"Nor'-nor'-east t' Crim Rocks, sir," the master murmured. By now Kydd's dream-like memories of beauty and gracious living were fast fading. The present reality was this wasteland of sea perils and cold runnels of rainwater inside his whipping oilskins.
Thankfully, Teazer was now able to bear away round Bishop Rock for her return and, wallowing uncomfortably, she passed close to the deadly scatter of Crim Rocks. The sight of the dark gashes in the seething white caused Kydd to shiver.
To weather of the Isles of Scilly, they could now look into the few possible hiding-places. Most likely were Crow Sound and Saint Mary's Road near the settlements. If the privateer was riding things out there they were perfectly placed to pounce—but a fresh gale was threatening and the master had said that with a sandy bottom both vessels were unsafe in heavy seas and the bird might well have flown.
They had their duty, however, and despite boldering weather strengthening from the westward Kydd looked into every possible anchorage, wary of the baffling complexity of the offshore tidal streams, which, if the master was to be believed, varied by the hour as they wound through tortuous channels and shallows.
When the fat mass of Round Island was reached it was time to return: with winds abaft, a straightforward run to Land's End and the shelter of Penzance. But the bluster from the south-west was undeniably stronger and the swell lengthening, causing a wrenching wallow as the seas angled in from the quarter.
By the time Land's End had been reached few aboard did not relish the thought of a quiet night in harbour, a cessation of the endless bruising motion. "Penzance, sir?" the master enquired, gripping tightly a line from aloft.
Kydd thought for a moment, then answered, "No, Mr Dowse. I'll ask you t' mark the wind's direction. If it backs more into th' south we'll be held to a muzzler if we sight that Frenchman. No— we press on t' the Lizard and anchor f'r the night in its lee."
His task was to return back up the coast, continuing on past Plymouth into the eastern half of his patrol area, no doubt passing Bazely as they criss-crossed up and down to the limit of their sea endurance. Bloody Jacques had proved himself and could not be underestimated; keeping the seas was their first priority.
Thus, prudently maintaining a good offing, Teazer spent the last few hours of the day crossing Mount's Bay, passing the imposing monolith of St Michael's Mount sheeted in misty spray, and shaping course for the Lizard. The seas were now combers, ragged white-streaked waves that smashed beam-on in thunderous bursts of spray and made life miserable for the watch on deck.
At last, Lizard Point won, they slipped past and fell into its lee; the worst of the wind moderated and they anchored under steep, forbidding cliffs. Teazer slewed about the moment sail was off her and, bow to waves, eased thankfully to her cable.
Kydd waited until the watch on deck had been relieved, then went below. There was no hope of any hot food, and as Tysoe exchanged his sodden clothes, he chewed hard tack and cheese, pondering what constituted sea endurance: the ship's state for sea or the men's willingness to endure such punishing conditions. In this fresh gale a stately ship-of-the-line would snort and jib a little, but would essentially move much more ponderously and predictably; a small brig's endless jerky rearing and falling, however, taxed the muscles cruelly. It was physically exhausting to maintain for long and he hoped the gale would blow itself out overnight.
The morning brought no relief: the gale still hammered, with ragged waves trailing foam-streaks in their wake, but Teazer had her duty and the anchor was weighed at first light.
"Falmouth, sir?" the master asked. Kydd knew that the men at the conn were listening to every word. It was tempting: Falmouth was but several hours away only and offered spacious shelter in Carrick Roads.
However, in these seas no boat could live, and for Teazer to enter the harbour, with its single south-facing entrance, would be to risk finding themselves bailed up. With foul weather clearing the seas of prey the privateer was probably waiting it out in some snug lair, which, if Kydd came across it, would find him helpless. It was worth cracking on.
"We sail on, Mr Dowse. This is a hard man we're after but he's a prime seaman. He won't think aught o' this blow." At his bleak expression Kydd added, "An' then, o' course, we can always run in t' Fowey."
The master said nothing but turned on his heel and went forward. Kydd gave orders that saw them bucketing northwards past the lethal sprawl of the Manacles and into the relative shelter of Falmouth Bay.
They kept in with the coast past the Greeb, and discovered that in its regular north-eastward trend the inshore mile or two under the rocky heights was providing a measure of relief and Teazer made good progress. Kydd's thoughts wandered to a way of life that was so utterly different from this one, where the greatest danger was the social solecism, the highest skill to turn a bon mot at table, and never in life to know a wet shirt or hard tack.
He crushed the rebellious feelings. There would be time enough to rationalise it all after he had settled into his new existence and had the solace of a soul-mate.
A series of whipping squalls chasing round the compass off the Dodman had Teazer fighting hard to keep from being swamped by the swash kicked up over the shoaling Bellows but she won through nobly to resume her more sheltered passage northward.
The Gwineas Rocks and Mevagissey: on the outward voyage they had seen these in calm seas and balmy sunshine. Now they were dark grey and sombre green, edged with surf from the ceaseless march of white-streaked waves. They left Par Sands well to leeward; there was most definitely no refuge for a privateer worth the name beyond tiny Polkerris—they would round Gribbin Head for Fowey.