Then the cleft angled to the left and shallowed. The going was easier, and almost before they knew it, the slope gentled and the ground levelled out.
Kydd moved cautiously. There was every reason for Bloody Jacques to post a lookout here: there was a view both to Land's End on the one side and the broad sweep of beach on the other.
And there was indeed a sentry. He was sitting on a ledge of rock gazing out to sea, a clay pipe going peacefully—with a musket across his knees. Kydd dropped to the ground.
The man had to be silenced: the musket would sound the alarm. But in a paradoxical way Kydd was comforted. This was proof that he was right. Bloody Jacques was here.
Stirk slithered up next to him. "Mr Kydd," he whispered hoarsely, gesturing to himself and then to the lookout. Kydd nodded, and Stirk scrambled to his feet. He stood swaying for a moment, his hands clamped piteously to his head as though it were about to burst, then fell to his knees.
There was a shout from the man, but Stirk shook his head and crawled further, then stopped to dry-retch into the dust.
The lookout shouted again, thinking him another of his crew, betwaddled after a riotous night. He put down his musket and came over irritably.
Stirk exploded into life, barrelling into the unfortunate man and, with a snarl, lofting him over his shoulder. The sentry crashed on to the edge of the cliff, his fingers scrabbling hopelessly, and slithered over with a despairing cry.
Now they had only to cross a quarter-mile of barren heathland, then descend into Sennen Cove. They hurried along silently and emerged on to the bluffs overlooking the neat little village and the beach. There, nestling within the flat blackness of the reef, was the three-masted lugger they had sought for so long.
There was no early-morning activity aboard and, indeed, none in the village, from what could be seen. If Bloody Jacques was in a cottage, which one? Was he still aboard his lugger—and preparing to sail?
A track led at an angle to the side, which soon wound into thick, concealing furze. Kydd plunged down.
Surprise was their only advantage: they did not carry muskets, which would have hindered them on the climb, and pistols in the belt could well work loose and drop. They were going into the attack armed only with bare steel.
It seemed impossible that their awkward, skidding haste down the track had not been heard in the huddle of cottages just below, but Kydd could detect no alarm. Should they risk everything on a mad dash to the centre of the village or keep out of sight of the lugger and search the houses one by one?
As they came upon the first dwelling he could see that this was no longer an alternative. There were men untidily asleep on the sand, others no doubt elsewhere. Should he spread out his own men in a search or keep them defensively together?
"Stay with me!" he hissed, and stalked out into the narrow street, sword in hand—his precious fighting blade, which had been at his side on countless occasions of peril, a fierce comfort.
Standing four-square, his men behind him, he bellowed, "Bloody Jacques! I have ye now! Come out an' yield y'self to me!"
His voice echoed off the silent buildings. "Commander Kydd! In th' King's name, surrender y'self!" There were tiny movements at the windows of some cottages.
Shouts rose from the beach. How many were there?
"We have ye surrounded, y' villain! Come out an' show y'self!"
"Sir—th' lugger! She's gettin' a boat wi' men ashore!" They would soon be overwhelmed; Kydd's men could barely hold their own against those who had come up from the beach.
"Y' last chance afore I come in an' tear ye from y' bed—Mick Haws!"
Behind him a door crashed open and Kydd wheeled round. With an animal roar, a giant of a man in shirt and breeches threw himself towards him, a monster claymore in his fist.
Kydd braced himself, his sword at point. The claymore came down in a mighty sweep, meeting Kydd's blade with a jarring smash, numbing his arm. But he was not intimidated: such a heavy weapon was unwieldy and slow—the fight would be over soon.
However, it had been a blind—Bloody Jacques held a smaller blade in his other hand, which swept round in a savage thrust to Kydd's groin. He parried awkwardly, the action bringing them close, and caught the other man's rank stench. He became aware that the fighting round him had become general. Clashes of weapons, cries of pain. But he dared not lose concentration. He tried to turn his parry to a tierce, but it was savagely deflected.
More sounds of fighting, blade on blade, pistol shots. Kydd felt his opponent's desperation but what if the lugger crew reached them before . . . ? However, Calloway had kept a cool head, and when Bloody Jacques had been flushed out he had done his duty. With a sudden hiss and whoosh, Kydd heard their signal rocket soar skyward.
There was a groan of pain, more shrieks. From his men? It was only the fine balance and superbly tempered steel of his weapon that enabled him to withstand the savage battering that followed, the demented onslaught with which Bloody Jacques was trying to overwhelm him.
But suddenly the tide seemed to have turned: cheers and jeering broke out, strengthening as the sounds of battle diminished. Clearly the privateersmen had realised the significance of the rocket—that a King's ship was in the vicinity. They were throwing down their weapons, which, no doubt, were swiftly snatched up by Kydd's men.
"If ye'd stand clear, sir." Kydd could not afford to take his eye from his opponent but he knew what Stirk intended to do. However, a musket ball to the throat was too easy an end for this man.
"Belay that," he called breathlessly, between blows. "He's t' pay . . . at th'end . . . of a rope!"
That goaded Bloody Jacques into a furious, reckless assault that sent Kydd stumbling, then falling full-length backwards. In an instant the man threw himself forward, but Kydd had sensed this coming and thrust out with his foot. Bloody Jacques fell— squarely on to Kydd's waiting blade. It was all over in seconds. Kydd drew himself to his feet and looked around breathlessly. In the mêlée the men of Teazer had suffered lightly. Bloody Jacques and several of the privateersmen lay still, the others huddled together in meek submission.
"Well, Mr Job, and as you've been of such rousin' assistance to us, I'm sure that—"
"Ah, Mr Kydd. I've been meaning to talk with you about this. You see—and please forgive if I'm brief in the article of explanations—there may be reasons why it should be more expedient for you to set me at liberty, as it were."
Kydd slumped back, amazed at the man's effrontery. "Pray why should I do that?" he said.
"I'm sure this will go no further, Mr Kydd? Then I should inform you that my business interests are near—and far."
"If you're thinkin' t' offer me—"
"Sir, I shall speak more clearly. In my trading ventures—"
"Smugglin'!"
Job allowed a pained expression to appear. "—in which it is plain I have made my mark and thereby gained the respect and trust of many disparate parties, which necessarily includes the French authorities, it would appear that His Majesty's government has found me of some utility in actions of a clandestine nature. These might include the passing of agents and others into and out of France in the character of smuggling crew—do not, I beg, press me for details."
"Go on."
"I cannot go further, apart from suggesting that your admiral in the strictest confidence consults a Mr Congalton at the Foreign Office as to whether, in fact, it is a good idea that I be taken up as a common smuggler. If I am unsupported, I may of course be instantly taken and cast into prison."
His confident smile implied there was little danger of that.
"And, dare I mention it, sir, your reputation with your admiral afterwards will be as high as if this were public knowledge."
To put before Lockwood that not only had he laid hold of the smuggler-in-chief but that he was privy to secrets at the highest level would be sweet indeed. "I'll need y' word on it."