The pinnace stroked for the harbour entrance, eyes turning at the dramatic flare of rocks that was the Peak. Ashore, people hurried to stand along the rugged heights to watch the drama.
"Th' fish quay," Kydd ordered his coxswain. A small boat scrambled to get out of the way and people crowded there when it could be seen where they were headed.
"Hold water larb'd, give way st'b'd." The pinnace swung and headed in. "Toss y'r oars!" Looms were smacked on thighs and oars thrown vertical as the boat glided in to the quay. Excited faces peered over the edge and Kydd adopted a suitably grave expression as he climbed up to the top, his men behind him.
"Form up," he snapped, clapping his cocked hat firmly in place. "Shoulder y'r arms." There were gasps from the jostling onlookers as the seamen drew their cutlasses and rested the bare blades on their shoulders.
The crowd's noise died as they watched, wide-eyed. There was a jostling movement and suddenly Rosalynd was there—fear and delight in her features. "Thomas!" she called, and flung herself forward.
"Hey, Miss! Y' can't do that!" Poulden said, scandalised. "That's the captain!"
"The captain!" she squealed, eyes shining. "But he's my captain!"
"Er, hmm," Kydd said gruffly. "M' dear, I have m' duty t' do, if y' please." He was conscious of a growing hubbub as he was recognised under his gold lace, and there were open grins among his men. "If ye'd wait f'r me . . ."
"I'll be here for you, my very dearest!" she breathed. A hug turned into a kiss before Kydd, crimson-faced, could march the men off, the crowd surging after them.
He knew the way: they swung across the little bridge and up the pathway, the nervous agitation of the throng echoing in the narrow lane as they speculated loudly on their destination. At the modest cottage he hammered on the door. "Open th' door! In the King's name, open!"
Unrest spread as the people realised what was happening; Job was popular in Polperro. Kydd raised his hand to knock again but the door opened and a bemused Job emerged, blinking in the sun. "Gentlemen? Ah, Mr Kydd, is it not?"
Kydd felt a wave of misgiving at seeing him again. A powerful smuggling gang-master? If Stirk was wrong . . .
"Let's be inside, sir," he said firmly. There were angry shouts from the crowd, but Poulden and one other entered close behind and shut the door.
"I've reason t' believe . . ." Kydd began. It sounded so theatrical, and the mild-mannered Job stared at him in alarm. "Right, Poulden. Y' know what ye're lookin' for—go to it."
"What? You can't do that, sir! What are you doing?" Job shrilled,
as Poulden went into the room described by Stirk. "There's the accounts of years in there—they'll be sent all topsy-turvy. Oh, do stop him, Mr Kydd, I beg."
But it was too late. Poulden came back with a great volume and placed it on the table in front of Kydd. "Behind th' dresser, sir."
Neat columns: names, dates, cargoes. Consignees, special instructions, ships, times, places. It was more than enough. "Zephaniah Job. I arrest you f'r—f'r doin' smugglin', contrary t' the law. Ye'll come with us t' Fowey—now."
Iron handcuffs were produced. Job was now calm, almost serene. "This is my home village, Mr Kydd. It would oblige me extremely should you permit me to go on board your vessel unfettered, sir."
"Your word?"
"My word."
There was something disturbing about his imperturbability but Kydd allowed his request and they stepped outside.
The crowd was restless. Shouts and jeers met them and a stone whistled past Kydd's head. "Go," he told Poulden, and the party set off quickly for the quay, seamen with naked blades to each side of him and the prisoner. Catcalls sounded above the tumult; cries of anger and betrayal.
They reached the quay and the pinnace made ready. Rosalynd stood back, her face pale with shock.
"Bliddy spy, that's what y' came 'ere for!" screamed Mrs Minards, in Kydd's face.
"Aye! Not fit f'r a Polperro lass, he ain't!" spat Puckey, and the mob took it up. Grim-faced, Kydd told Job to get into the boat and turned to face the crowd, seeing Rosalynd tear free and run to him sobbing.
"I had t' do my duty," he said huskily. Fish entrails slapped against his coat, soiling Rosalynd as well.
She composed herself. "You must always do your duty, my love. Go now, and I'll be waiting for you."
"Sir?" Poulden said anxiously.
"S-soon," was all Kydd could trust himself to say to her, before he turned abruptly and went down into the boat. "Give way," he said, in a low voice, and as they made for the open sea, he twisted round to keep her in view as long as he could.
He should have considered it more, Kydd thought bitterly. Job was a benefactor to the village, well liked and, most importantly, a regular employer of tub carriers and lookouts. Kydd had angered the folk of Polperro, antagonised the very place that had made him so welcome, and now his world of happiness had contracted to just one person—whom he had unthinkingly made an outcast among her own people.
"Sir?" Standish entered, unsure. "Ah, Mr Job is asking for a word with you in private, sir. I did tell him it was improper, but . . ."
"It is. Where is he now?"
"In irons, sir. I thought it—"
"In bilboes? A mort hard on a man o' years, Mr Standish. Bring him t' me, I'll hear him out." For some reason he had an odd regard for the man.
"I do apologise f'r my lieutenant, Mr Job. He's zealous in th' King's service, y' must understand. Now, what c'n I do for you?"
Job settled himself. "You will believe that my course is finished, Commander, but I should like to say to you here that there is a service I can yet do for my fellow man, which it would render me much satisfaction to perform."
Kydd kept a noncommittal silence.
"And it has to be admitted, its doing must stand me in good stead for anything that must follow for me."
"Y'r service?"
"Yes. You will no doubt have heard of that vile privateersman, Bloody Jacques."
The hairs on Kydd's neck pricked. "I have. What can y' tell me of the villain?"
"I want you to remove this evil creature from the high seas, sir."
"Your jest is in bad taste, Mr Job," Kydd said.
"Let me explain," Job said evenly. "You may have noticed that his knowledge of these coasts is exemplary. This is no coincidence. I can tell you now that I know him well, but as Michael Haws, resident as was of Looe—a species of turn-coat, as it were, in his own interest.
"In the past I have had occasion to employ him and his lugger in—in trading ventures, but since the resumption of war he has taken the character of a French privateer in order to prey more profitably on our richer trade. In short, a pirate, owing allegiance to none."
It was incredible—if true.
"He wears a dark beard, adopts a rough manner, all this is to hide his identity, of course—and the selecting of victims on the deck of captures to run them through as an example to the rest, why, this is nothing more than disposing of those he knows, and fears might later bear witness against him."
"This is fine information, Mr Job, but I—"
"I will lead you to him. The rest I leave to you."
"Well, gentlemen," Kydd said, with relish, unfolding the chart of St Austell Bay on the table. "Thanks t' our guest Mr Job we're at last one jump ahead o' Mr Bloody Jacques. We have th' same information that he has—there's t' be a landing at Pentewan Sands this next night." He let the news sink in and went on, "The villain's goin' t' be waitin' to take th' smuggler, an' when he makes his move we want t' be there to make ours on him. And mark this, if y' please, I'm not goin' t' spare this poxy villain. He's not y' usual privateersman, he's a mad dog an' must be put down."
Standish looked grave, the others remained impassive.
"He's not about t' give up without he takes it out of us. I don't need t' say it, but he'll not be offerin' quarter an' therefore I do see it as a fight t' the finish. I'm sorry t' see Teazer's company put t' hazard in this way, but I know you'll see th' need.