At last! It was a fine morning, the winds were fair, and there was the best part of a week to traverse the hundred and fifty odd miles westward to Ushant and back. With no ports of significance to speak of—Roscoff was the largest, but not a naval port, and the rest were mere rockbound tidal havens—it was an unpromising prospect.
But with the autumn roads now impassable by ox-cart, which could carry several score sacks of grain, it would have to be pack-horses, each managing at best only four. Every beast would itself require feeding and tending by a man, he in turn having needs, and this would be multiplied by the five or six days it would take to cross northern Brittany. How many would it take to keep the fleet in Brest, with its thirty thousand hungry seamen, supplied? A humble hoy could bring eighty tons along the coast in a day and go back for more. Dozens of these vessels must now be threading their way westward, trying to keep out of sight from seaward among the craggy islets and offshore sandbars, all helpless prey to a determined man-o'-war.
Kydd gave a passing thought to these inoffensive craft, manned by seamen whose daily fight was with the sea and this dire coast— how hard it must be to have their voyage cut short, their ship and livelihood snatched from them. Then he turned abruptly to the master: "T' th' west, Mr Dowse." In the fortunes of war, the merchant vessels had to take their chances as did every other seafarer. Even Teazer might suddenly be set upon. There was no room for sentiment.
The coast lay to larboard, its rocks caught in the morning sun with a soft pink tinge and lying in dense scatters or peeping coyly from the waves in a flurry of white. Islands sprawled in groups or out to sea as lonely outposts. This coast had a terrible beauty all of its own.
Teazer sailed on westward, past tortuous inlets leading to huddled settlements: Ploumanac'h and Skeiviec, ancient names from the beginning of time—here was quite another France to the pomp and fashion of Paris. They skirted the ugly jumble of Les Héaux de Bréhat well out to sea, giving best to the small fry cowering up the long river at Tréguier.
"I'd like t' cast a glance at Sept Îles," Kydd murmured. These were sizeable islands lying offshore, of which the master would be aiming to keep Teazer to seaward, but frightened coasters might be skulking among them. They angled towards but from somewhere in their midst the smoke and tiny spat of a small cannon erupted.
"Closer," Kydd ordered. An antique fort in the centre island was ineffectually disputing their progress; it did, however, serve to draw attention to the channel that lay between it and the mainland. "An' south about," he added.
The sloop eased into the passage, with a rose-coloured granite shoreline on either beam and, in the sea overside, an unsettling forest of kelp from the dark depths streaming away with the current. Ahead lay only the odd-shaped high islands of the Triagoz plateau, but the coast had now turned abruptly southwards.
A scream came from the masthead lookout: "Deck hoooo! Two sail under a press o' canvas, standing away!"
From the deck it was clear what was happening. Their decision to take the inshore channel had spooked the two into abandoning their hiding-place in the Triagoz for a hasty dash to the safety of Roscoff, only a couple of hours' sailing across the bay.
"I want 'em!" Kydd grated, levelling his telescope. Across the deck grins appeared. "Mr Queripel, depth o' water 'tween here 'n' Roscoff?"
"There's a channel fr'm the nor'-east . . ." he began uncomfortably.
"Aye?"
"As will serve—but, sir, I have t' tell ye, it's perilous waters hereabouts. Can we not—"
"Nor'-east." Kydd sniffed the wind. "It'll do. Bowlines t' th' bridle an' don't spare th' cordage."
Teazer seemed to sense the drama and leaped ahead. Every eye aboard followed the motions of the quarry whose terror even at a distance could almost be felt. The knowledgeable made lordly judgements as to the probable prize value, but Kydd was aware that things could change in a trice—a frigate disturbed in Roscoff, a sudden change in wind forcing them on to a dead lee shore.
"We're t' shift course here, sir," Queripel said awkwardly. "We must be clear o' th' plateau, else we—"
"They're not concerned t' weather it," Kydd said pointedly. The fleeing vessels were taking a direct course to Roscoff, no more than ten or fifteen miles more. "I—I say we must, sir! Th'—th' tide is on th' ebb an' we—" "They come fr'm hereabouts, they should know—" "It's th' state of tide, sir! I mislike we ignore th' overfalls o' the plateau. I've seen—" "Very well. Ease t' larb'd," Kydd said heavily. They angled farther southwards while their prey flew directly towards the distant smudge of their sanctuary, masts leaning at a precarious angle in their quest for speed. There were groans about Teazer 's deck and sour comments about luck.