The cruise was just what was needed to pull "Teazer's company together. Kydd turned with a grin to Standish, next to him on the quarterdeck. The officer returned an uncertain smile and occupied himself with his telescope.
Grande Canupe safely abeam, Kydd ordered a north-easterly course and in less than two hours had made the specified position. Savouring the moment, he waited for the eight bells of midday to ring out, then went below.
He'd concluded that, in naval terms, Renzi was more of a captain's secretary than a mere ship's clerk, no matter what was entered in the muster book, and therefore could be made privy to any operational confidentialities. "It's noon, Nicholas," he said casually, fingering the sealed packet. "I do believe I'm t' open my secret orders."
It was disappointing in a way: just a single sheet of paper folded several times, no enclosures. Still, this was his first time opening such orders and he scanned it quickly. From an anonymous hand he learned that he was to recover a chest from the French coast and keep it safe until he returned from the cruise. Then he would pass it to the commander-in-chief. The entire operation was to be conducted in the greatest possible secrecy.
"We have t' steer small wi' this mission, Nicholas," Kydd mused. "Not even Kit Standish."
Renzi looked at him soberly. "I can conceive of why it should be so," he said. "Supposing it were to contain documents and plans won at great personal cost. The very knowledge that we have it might nullify any advantage we gain from the intelligence—and put to hazard the brave soul who brings it."
"Aye. It seems th' admiral took pains t' make sure th' orders couldn't be known afore we sailed, an' as far as we can fathom it might all be a reg'lar done thing." Kydd read the instructions more slowly. "L'Anse Pivette. I figure that's t' be somewheres south o' Cap de la Hague." This was the very tip of Normandy to the north. He continued, "We close wi' a small beach after dark an' lift it off—it's passin' strange it says nothin' about anyone handin' it over. Just the spot, th' exact time an' date."
"That's as if the bearer wishes to disassociate from us, reasonably it would seem." Renzi's half-smile appeared. "I cannot help but observe, dear fellow, that there is something else perhaps we should consider, and that is if we are betrayed, the time and place being known, we will then be delivered into the hands of the enemy."
"Or this is th' way it's to be done b' those in the character of a—a spy," Kydd said stoutly. "We carry out our orders, Nicholas."
"Certainly," Renzi said. "It's just that—this creeping about like a common thief is not to my liking. I fear I'm not your born intelligencer."
"Rest easy, m' friend, you're not t' be troubled in this," Kydd said. "It should be quick enough done."
The strictures on secrecy meant that besides Dowse, only one other aboard, Queripel, was told the exact location they were heading for, but neither was informed of the reason.
It was not going to be easy but, clearly, the nameless hero who had tracked across the lonely wilderness of the interior to deposit the chest would be counting on them to muster sufficient seamanship to achieve the last lap in its journey.
"Sir, it's a wild an' savage shore," Queripel said warily. "I remember passing th' Nez during the peace, glad o' some shelter fr'm the Alderney Race, an' recollect as how there's tidal rocks close by as ye'd be glad to keep off from. An approach b' night? I doubts it, sir."
Together he and Kydd pored over the charts: to the north beyond the Nez, the point guarding the bay L'Anse Pivette, was the Race of Alderney with the fiercest currents to be found anywhere. As the ebb tide turned, the direction of the water would reverse, flooding in to fill the Race from the wider Atlantic in surging currents that at times could exceed a ship's best sailing speed, a fearful hazard.
Picking up on something Queripel had said, Kydd formed his plan. That evening a small British warship would be seen sailing northward along the coast, probably intending to round the Cape to look in on Cherbourg, as so many had done in this war. Its inexperienced commander would pass the Nez de Jobourg, immediately find himself in the teeth of the Race and, dismayed, fall back into the lee of the Nez to ride out the hours until the tide slackened. For this he would choose L'Anse Pivette.
There was no time to lose. Kydd bounded up to the upper deck and told Standish, "Ease away t' th' east, if y' please—Cap de Flamanville." This was a dozen miles to the south of the Nez and would allow them to come up as though on their way to the north.
They raised the odd semi-circular headland in two hours and pretended to look into the tiny harbour before shaping course to the north. It needed careful sail-trimming and continual work with the log over the taffrail to keep a constant speed in order that Teazer would meet the Alderney Race at the right tide state. Kydd hid a smile at Standish trying to contain his curiosity at the activity.
Ahead, the bold and characteristic shape of the Nez de Jobourg firmed in the afternoon sun and Queripel pointed out the features. "La Ronde," he said respectfully, of the tail of high rocks extending into the sea at the northern end of the quarter-mile bay. His gaze shifted farther round to a tiny beach. "L'Anse Pivette," he grunted. It was a good anchorage for anything except a southerly.
Kydd's information was that the chest would be placed behind a rock at the well-defined inner end of the small beach. He hauled out his watch. "Tide is well on th' make," he said in satisfaction. "The Race is beyond?"
"Aye, sir, no more'n a half-mile or so."
The shoreline was rugged and precipitous, grey granite and scrubby vegetation, with no sign of life in the soft, late-afternoon sunlight. Kydd trained his glass on the little beach until his eyes watered but could see nothing beyond the dash of ruddy gold sand amid the sombre crags.
The breeze was lightening as they skirted La Ronde and weathered the Nez—full into the making tide of the Race. The current was more rapid than any Kydd could remember: fretful ripples and sliding overfalls were hurrying towards them as far as the eye could see. In the light airs Teazer had no chance. With all sail set, the water gurgled past in a fine wake—but she made no headway, the coastline abeam quite stationary, then sliding away as they were carried back where they had come from.
Queripel smiled. "A calm day," he offered. "In a southerly gale, tide agin wind, 'twould amaze, the seas as are kicked up. An' tide with a blow—why, in high-water springs we c'n meet wi' nine, ten knots an' then—"
"Aye. I'll remember," Kydd said. There might be not a soul to witness "Teazer's arrival but if there was it had to look right. "Helm up an' wear into the bay," he ordered. The ship found her lee and the anchor tumbled down as the sun set out to sea.
Standish could not hold his curiosity any longer and came up to stand next to Kydd as the sails were furled. "To anchor, sir? On an enemy shore?"
"The gig an' two hands in th' water after dark."
"We—we're not going ashore, sir?" It was normally the prerogative of the first lieutenant to lead any party out of a ship.
"No, I am."
The evening drew in, with no movement seen ashore; this desolate spot would seldom be visited by any other than fishermen.
Kydd felt a thrill of apprehension. This was different from his hot-blooded landing at Granville: here there was time to admire the rugged sunset beauty—and imagine what could go wrong.
Was a troop of soldiers concealed ashore? Did a warship lie beyond the point waiting to come down with the tide and fall upon them? If it appeared while he was ashore Standish had the bounden duty to cut the cable and run, leaving them to the French as spies caught in the act.
A three-quarter moon was low in the sky and it was time. The gig was lowered gently. Two seamen, Cobb and Manley, took the oars, Kydd the tiller, and the boat pulled strongly inshore. As soon as they had left the comforting mass of the sloop he became aware of the evening quiet, just the slop and gurgle of water, the distant hiss of waves on shingle—and the enfolding shadows reaching out to claim them.