Invasion (4 page)

It was galling—in front of their eyes a valuable British ship being borne off to France. Kydd felt for the luckless crew, now prisoners destined to rot in one of Bonaparte's prison-fortresses. “Be damned to it! I'll not see 'em in chokey!” he burst out, but he was not clear how this could be prevented.
Teazer
was still on the same larboard tack, leaning into it on a course parallel with the distant depths of the bay, while the barque was already on the opposite tack and set fair to make Cherbourg in one reach.

Firing on the vessel was out of the question and the time needed to tack about in chase would probably hand the Frenchman an unbeatable lead. They could hope for a wind-change in the fluky conditions nearer the coast, but the breeze was holding strength, now veering slowly to the south-west.

Kydd saw the plain stern-quarters of the barque pulling steadily away and gritted his teeth. Either way they stood to lose the chase— unless . . .

It was without question that he had the finer ship. But how much better? “Mr. Purchet, bowlines to th' bridle, an' sheet in on all courses until ye hears 'em sing.” He was going to make a race of it; a long board deep into the bay, a flying stay about to the other tack and direct chase in the hope that he could head the other ship before it made port.

Word got about quickly. Soon the decks were crowded with tars, each with his own opinion of how to get the best from their fair barque, some all for an immediate tack and lunge, others urging extremes of sail spread.

The boatswain was cautious. “Sir, ye'll want a slip-rope an' toggle on the bowlines, I'm thinking.” Their purpose was to tauten the leading edge of the major sails to allow the helmsman to ease in right up to the wind. Purchet was suggesting a way to cast them off rapidly and take up on the other side when they tacked about.

“Aye, make it so,” Kydd agreed, as he considered the next move.
Teazer
's trim was fine. He made a point of checking whenever possible for it had a surprising effect on performance: if the ship had a tendency to come up to the wind—if she was ardent—this had to be counteracted by the opposite rudder, which necessarily caused a degree of turbulence and drag to the detriment of speed.

He crossed to the helmsman, Poulden, probably the best timoneer aboard. “Does she gripe?” he demanded. He had not sensed any giveaway lurch to windward when the bows rose.

“Not as who should say, sir,” the man said stolidly.

They were making excellent speed. The seas were fine on the bow, and without the need to punch through them, there would be no slowing to their progress. However, the barque was well past and into the bay, making a fine show of it with royals now spread.

It was time for vigorous measures.
Teazer
did not carry fancy sail—he could set the fore-topmast stuns'l in these conditions, but bonnets and drabblers would impede rather than assist. No, this race would be won if he tuned his ship like a violin.

“I'll have ye swift in the cat-harpings,” he told the boatswain. He considered for a moment, then turned to the master. “Take the lar-bowlines an' see to the bracing, Mr. Dowse. Each yard to be braced in half a point more'n the one below it.” The resulting slight spiral would take into account the stronger winds to be found aloft.

“Aye aye, sir.”

“An' set hands to th' lifts, the yards to be agreeable as ye can to the horizon.” At their lively degree of heel so close-hauled, this would restore the sails' natural aspect rather than bag the wind to the lee side.

“Sir.”

There was more to think about: too great a press of sail might bury her forefoot or thrust her to leeward. Paradoxically it was often better to reduce sail to increase speed—that foretop-gallant, for instance? He gave the order to Dowse to make it so.

It was exhilarating sailing. Never had
Teazer
been urged like this, the sea hissing and seething past, all sail drawing to perfection in the spanking breeze and glorious sunset.

Kydd stood by the wheel, every nerve at full stretch, sensing the exact angle of the wind on his cheeks, listening intently to its thrum on taut rigging and the creaking, high-pitched then low, from deep within the ship as the waves passed under her keel. Any of this might change and be the first warning of sudden calamity in the straining spars and rigging.

“Mr. Hallum? Stations f'r staying.” This was the trickiest part: putting about to the other tack. If they fumbled it, all would be over. And they needed more than a workmanlike manoeuvre. They had to make it a lightning move that had them over on their new tack and sails fully drawing with not a second's delay.

Kydd snatched a glance at the barque, now significantly closer to Cherbourg and safety. He was going to play it out to the last card. “I have the ship, Mr. Dowse,” he said formally, to the sailing master.

“Aye, sir.” There was no resentment in his tone: he understood that it was for his own protection—any failure in timing or execution could not now be blamed on him.

“Stay by me, if y' please,” Kydd added quietly.

Hallum approached to report that stations for staying ship were now complete: lines thrown off from the belaying pins and faked along for running, every part-of-ship readied and tense—waisters, fo'c'slemen, topmen, each a part of the whole. Just one falsestep could bring them all down.

“Ready about!” Kydd roared, and looked over the side.

They were slashing along as fast as he had ever seen her stretch before.

“Ready . . . ready . . . Ease down the helm!” Carefully, spoke by spoke, Poulden began the fateful turn. This was not the time for a sudden showy spinning of the wheel and abrupt angling of the rudder over, which would result in spectacular white foaming and a sudden slowing in impetus as the drag came on. Instead
Teazer
kept her speed on, allowing time for the jib sheets to be eased and, behind Kydd, the mainsail boom hauled amidships to keep the sail full until the last moment.

“Helm's a-lee!” Forward there was instant movement as the fore-sheet was let go, together with the sheets to the head-sails, and
Teazer
's bow began to swing into the wind, the sails slatting busily. Checking away the top bowline and lee fore-brace they heaved around. Kydd saw the motion and bawled, “Rise tacks an' sheets!”

The mainsails had lost their taut straining and their lines were manhandled to clear the nettings and other gear as
Teazer
nosed into the wind. “Haul in! Mainsail haul!” Kydd bellowed.

Hand over hand the mainyard was braced around at a furious pace, the fore remaining on the old tack. As
Teazer
rotated through the wind's eye this levered round the after part of the ship. The fore as well took the wind aback but on the opposite tack, pushing the bows away on to the new course.

Everyone knew the stakes. It was the synchrony of movements that held the key, and
Teazer
responded nobly. “Haul of all!” Kydd ordered exultantly—the main would fill and draw just as fast as the new weather tack and lee-sheets could be brought in. The fore was braced around smartly and, with a brisk banging and flapping, the sails caught.
Teazer
leaned to her new course, the men frantically at work to get in every foot of their hauling.

It was done—and beautifully. Kydd grunted, satisfied. His ship was as capable as she was pretty.

As they settled to their rushing passage he looked across at the barque. It was now on the same board and, although it was ahead by a considerable margin, the game was far from over. Their prey was clawing as close to the wind as it could, while
Teazer,
thanks to Kydd's patient and careful estimates, lay to the wind with every sail drawing optimally.

“We're fore-reaching,” the master admitted, eyeing the other vessel. Their tracks were converging and
Teazer
was coming up on the barque with every minute. Kydd found himself clenching his fists, frustrated that there now seemed little more that could be done.

The boatswain cleared his throat awkwardly. “Er, sir, when I was a younker I seen a trick once.”

“Oh?”

“Th' lower yards, sir. T' increase th' traverse.”

A square-rigged ship could lie only about six points to the wind, for the big spars swinging across the ship would come up against the mast stay and shrouds, a natural limit. Kydd glanced at the big mainyard above them, immovably up against the mainstay at the extremity of its traverse. “I'd like to know how, Mr. Purchet.”

“Why, sir, we slacks off th' truss-tackle as gives us play, an' then cants down th' weather yard-arm while we swigs off on th' catharpings all we can.” This would allow the yard to slide up and into where the shrouds were at their narrowest—at the cost of the set of the sail.

From his memory of studying for his lieutenant's examination Kydd recalled the double tangent rule: the tangent of the angle of the wind to the yard should be twice that between yard and keel. This ensured that even a little achieved would see the effect multiplied. “We do it, Mr. Purchet,” he said. It would be tricky work: with sails drawing hard, the truss-ropes held the big spar against the mast. To slacken them deliberately . . .

With both main- and fore-course cocked up at an angle they sheeted in once more.

“Half a point, I'd say,” the master said, clearly impressed.

While this was not dramatic, it would amount over the miles to several ship's lengths further to weather. Could it make the difference? Kydd eyed the distances. The object was to point higher into the wind yet retain a faster speed, culminating in an overlap at any distance to windward with the chase at his mercy under his lee. Should they end even yards to leeward it was certain to get away.

Dowse assumed position next to Poulden and monitored closely the flutter at the edge of the main. It could so easily change to the sail taken violently aback. “Be ye yare at th' helm, son,” he said quietly, aware of the tender situation. “I'll bear watch.” Together they worked to bring the racing sloop to within a knife's edge of the wind.

“Luff 'n' lie,” Dowse murmured, and Poulden inched over the wheel. “Dyce!” he ordered. “An' nothing t' leeward.”

Teazer
flew. In the gathering dusk she seemed to reach out after the fleeing barque, every man aboard watching forward and feeling for the gallant ship now doing her utmost for them. If the chase ended triumphantly, the epic pursuit would be talked about for years to come.

In the further distance the sullen dark mass of northern France lay across their path, with the lights of Cherbourg dead ahead and their prey now visibly nearer, as though it were being hauled closer on a rope. It was evident that before long a convergence would take place.

In the last of the sunset they were finally within cannon shot of the vessel to windward. Kydd spared a fleeting sympathy for the unknown captain, who must now be seeing the stone quays of the entrance to the harbour, but then he thought of the prisoners soon to taste freedom. “Place us within hailing distance, Mr. Dowse,” Kydd said—but suddenly the situation changed utterly.

The barque fell away to leeward in a tight turn, wearing about to place itself directly before the wind—away from the safety of Cherbourg and back towards where they had come from. It caught Kydd completely off guard and it was some time before they could throw off the gear they had rigged for the chase against the wind.

It was a meaningless move: there was no friendly port to the north or anything except the endless desolation of rocks and reefs before Barfleur and there was now no question but that
Teazer
was the swifter. The barque had made good distance by the sudden wearing but
Teazer
was closing rapidly, the wind astern allowing any course she chose. When the other ship veered towards the shore
Teazer
did likewise. At this rate it would be over before they made Cap Lévi even though the Frenchman had put up a fine show.

Then, half a mile short of the cape and with
Teazer
only a few hundred yards astern, the vessel sheered towards the land and, in the gathering darkness, rounded to and calmly let go her anchor. Incredulous, Kydd was about to give the orders for a final reckoning when the mystery resolved. In a flurry of gunfire, bright flashes stabbed from the squat fort on the promontory above. In the gloom he had overlooked Fort Lévi. The guns were of respectable calibre and quite capable of smashing
Teazer
to a ruin well before he and his crew could secure their prize. It was all over.

Circling out of range, Kydd knew he should give best to the Frenchman now sheltering under the guns of the fort and move on. But his blood was up and he would not give in. Boats after dark—a cutting-out expedition! The French would imagine that he would give up and sail away during the night and therefore would wait patiently for morning before making for Cherbourg—but they would be in for an unwelcome surprise.

The night was moonless, impenetrably black and relatively calm; perfect conditions. The fort obliged by carelessly showing lights that were ideal navigation markers and Kydd set to with the planning.