Julian Stockwin - The Admiral's Daughter

Number eighteen was no longer a snug haven. His estrangement from Renzi cast a pall over their lodging, and when Mrs Bargus came in to find whether to set the fire it was with a disapproving air.

But there was one who would understand, Kydd hoped. His spirits returned as he summoned the housekeeper. "Here, Mrs Bargus, find a boy an' tell him t' deliver a note this hour." A reply came back by return:

Dear brother,

I have to get this off, so please do forgive if I'm short. I'm so truly sorry to hear of your trouble, but right at this time I don't think I can be seen with you, Mrs Mullins taking on so. You will understand, won't you? And I don't think I want to go on board your ship and see Mr Renzi there until things are settled. Do keep well, and next time I see you I hope it will be with Rosalynd.

Kydd felt the world closing in on him. The only thing now in his universe that had any meaning was Rosalynd. Her softness, the clear sweetness of her voice—only she mattered. He sat back and let warm thoughts of her take him away.

It was getting towards dusk, and as he readied himself to return to the ship there was a hesitant tap at the door below and voices as Mrs Bargus answered.

"I, um, was passing."

"Bazely! S' kind in ye! Please draw up a chair—brandy?"

"Not now, thank 'ee," he said, without his usual breeziness. "I can't stop for long. Fenella puts out on the morning tide. To the east'd," he added.

"Well, now . . ." Kydd tried to think of talk, but Bazely cut him short. "I came, er, to see if there's anything I can do for ye," he said uncomfortably.

"Do for me?"

"Now you've come up against things, an' all. You'll know what I mean."

Kydd was touched beyond measure. Bazely had risked the admiral's displeasure and his career by visiting him. "That's so good of ye, Bazely. It seems there's not s' many wish t' stand as my friend. I'm sorry we didn't find time ever f'r a ran-tan ashore."

"One of us has to keep the seas while the other sports it in harbour, m' old cock. It's the way of it. I recall y' took a hammering off Whitsand while we was snug at two anchors in Tor Bay."

"Aye. Well, it's right good of ye t' call. I might yet have a need." A soft look spread on Kydd's face as he added, "An' I'll have ye know, wherever Rosalynd and I fetch up, you'll be first across th' threshold, m' friend."

HMS Teazer's orders were waiting for her captain when he returned aboard. A single page, delivered by a lieutenant under signature. It was far from elaborate; the "special service" was nothing more than the instruction to resume smuggler-hunting, to remain on station without leaving, at his peril.

It was a cynical move: by one easy stroke, and appearing to be in earnest about a serious problem, Lockwood had ensured that Kydd would find neither glory nor notice; it was a sentence of sea toil and drudgery, flogging up and down the coast after fast and elusive smugglers, who seemed to have second sight.

When Teazer finally put to sea it was with a scratch company, the Impress Service finding seven resentfuls, a new gunner's mate, with Stirk presumed lost, and discontent rippling out from the quarterdeck after their fate was revealed.

How things had changed. Teazer, his fine ship of which he had been so proud, was now the focus of his troubles; and she was not the lovely creature she had been. He had not been able to find the funds to smooth away the raw marks of damage and repair with expensive varnish and had had to accept the utilitarian dull black of the dockyard which disfigured and besmirched her bright-sided hull.

They rounded the Rame westwards past Whitsand Bay; they were the same places as before but now they seemed indifferent, going about their unseen everyday business while Teazer sailed endlessly offshore.

But one held special meaning: almost hidden from seaward the snug village of Polperro came up under their lee—he would have given almost anything to land there, but even the most compelling reason would be misinterpreted. And as he could not travel from Plymouth and return in a day, and was unable to sleep out of his ship, it would be impossible to visit Rosalynd.

Kydd had to possess himself in patience for the twenty-four days that remained before they would be finally together and be satisfied with the precious locket. Polperro was left gradually to sink astern.

Days followed other days; Renzi had retreated into formality and spent time in Kydd's cabin only on ship's business. Standish affected a cynical correctness that preyed on Kydd's nerves, but he hugged to his heart the knowledge that now every day was one closer.

He took advantage of a mild south-easterly to call on the Collector of Customs at Fowey. As usual, he heard a litany of missed landings, fruitless swoops, the outrageous ease with which operations were co-ordinated, and views on the complete useless-ness of the Royal Navy, but nothing to help his quest.

The gig set off to return to Teazer and Kydd spotted seamen crowding together at the foremast about one man. It wasn't until he was aboard that he could see Tobias Stirk was at the centre of attention.

Only Standish knew the real reason for Stirk's absence and Kydd took savage delight in not asking him to the cabin to listen to any adventures, instead ordering him to take the ship to sea.

"Good t' see ye, right fine it is!" Kydd said, in unaffected pleasure. "Th' best sight I've had f'r a sennight, y' must believe."

"An' it's right oragious t' be back, Mr Kydd," Stirk growled.

Kydd felt a rush of warmth. "Ye'll have a rummer for y'r bones," he said, then found glasses and a bottle.

He saw Stirk looking up at him with his steely eyes as he poured and, for some reason, felt defensive. "Not as who's t' tell, Toby, but it's been a hard beat for me these last weeks," he tried to say lightly. "Only t' say, there's been a mort o' trouble over me bein' spliced t' the wrong lady and, er, y' may hear rum things about me," he finished lamely.

Stirk watched him levelly as he took a pull at his drink, then set the glass down and said carefully. "Sorry t' hear of it, sir."

"Aye," Kydd said. There had been a time when he could have unburdened his soul to this man but that was far in the past and they were separated in any friendship by the widest gulf that could exist in a ship. He topped up Stirk's glass. "Then I'll be pleased t' hear of y'r adventuring now, Mr Stirk."

There was a glimmer of a smile. "And ye'll be interested in these," Stirk grunted, as he tugged off his shoes and retrieved some folded papers. "Fr'm Guernsey."

Kydd scanned them quickly. One was a form of cargo manifest but in essence showed orders to tranship specified freight to an English ship, openly listed contraband. It was countersigned—by the guarantor.

"It's Zephaniah Job o' Polperro," Stirk said bluntly. "Runs it all, even sets 'imself up as a bank t' guarantee to the Mongseers which supplies th' run goods."

Kydd brought to memory the kindly face of the Mr Job he had met: could he really be the same man?

He looked at another paper; a letter-of-credit with the same beautifully executed and perfectly readable signature with an ornate flourish in the exact centre below it. Zephaniah Job.

"A very fly gennelman, Mr Job. Has s' much ridin' on the cargoes he's taken over th' business o' gettin' it ashore himself. Organises th' lot fr'm a master book 'e keeps."

So that was how—

"Now, Mr Kydd, if ye has th' book an' matches it there t' the sailin' times, even a blind Dutchman 'll have t' say as how he must by y' man."

"How—"

"That's 'cos I know where 'e keeps th' book. It's in his house, f'r I seen him get it quick, like, so it must be there. An' if ye'd rummage his house, why . . ."