Caribbee (24 page)

‘Sir, I’ve no reason whatsoever to doubt the man. My experience tells me he’s—’

‘Your experience, sir? What is that to me?’

‘I did mention before, sir, that I have in fact previously acted in the capacity of a—’

‘You did, and I’ll bear it in mind.’

He brightened. ‘And, now I have done so, a solution to my dilemma now presents itself.’ A pleased smile dawned.

‘Yes. This is what we’ll do. While putting in train the preliminaries of planning and requisition for a descent on the island, there will be our man who goes to Curaçao itself in some cunning guise and sees for himself what’s the truth of the matter. You’ll see, of course, I can’t allow an invasion unless it’s absolutely necessary.’

Renzi knew what was coming. ‘Our man?’

‘Who better than yourself, Renzi? You say as how you have all this experience …’

Wilikins was delighted. ‘How exciting for you, Mr Renzi! To go into the midst of the enemy as it were and—’

‘Pray contain yourself, Mr Wilikins,’ Renzi said huffily. ‘Quite apart from the fact that I’m to act the spy, a calling I do cordially detest, the danger to be apprehended is great indeed. And might I prevail upon you to employ the utmost discretion in this business? As of this moment the admiral and your own good self are the only ones to be aware of this affair, but if it should become known to a wider extent I would most assuredly pay for it with my life.’

The clerk blinked, then regarded Renzi gravely. ‘That is something I would regret above all things. Nothing shall be spoken beyond these four walls.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, touched at the little man’s sincerity. ‘And now, Mr Wilikins, have you any information at all concerning the island?’

‘Ah, yes, we do. Your Captain Bligh had a confrontation with the Dutch there in the last war and did record much of his experiences. My predecessor, though, had a quaint notion of the art of filing and its recovery may take some little time.’

Kydd sat down suddenly. ‘This is a hard thing to put on a man, Nicholas. You would not have been thought the less if you had refused – are there not, should we say, men of that profession Dacres could call upon?’

‘There is little on this station that warrants the maintenance of such, therefore no. Time is very limited and any person entering in on Curaçao must have knowledge of military and naval affairs to be aware of the significance of what he observes.’

Kydd looked at him with the tiniest touch of amusement. ‘And as it’s your theory to be proved you won’t leave it to another.’

‘Not at all,’ Renzi said, with dignity. ‘We are beset by the greatest threat yet launched by Bonaparte. If it succeeds in cutting off our Caribbean trade, he will take note and deploy it elsewhere. It has to be stopped – and I know my duty.’

‘Yes, Nicholas, you always did.’ Kydd pondered. ‘It’ll be a tricky thing. We haven’t any good charts of that side of the Caribbean and a night landing from
L’Aurore
will—’

‘Rest your concerns, dear fellow.
L’Aurore
will not be needed.’

The baffling light winds relented at last and, resolving out of the bright haze ahead, the island of Curaçao spread gradually across their field of view.

It had been only three days but the strain of maintaining his disguise was telling on Renzi. The amiable American master had gone out of his way to show an interest in his business prospects, this Herr Haugwitz coming all the way from the small Hanseatic town of Bremen. Just how did he think he was going to deal with the twin hazards of Napoleon’s decree on the one hand and the iniquitous British on the other?

Renzi had countered the well-meaning interrogation in heavily accented English by saying that he was on an exploratory trip only, to gauge possibilities for a product that, for commercial reasons, he was not at liberty to reveal. It had satisfied and he had had then only to fend off the friendly prattle of a gregarious captain gratified that his modest vessel had been selected for the passage.

The pilot and Customs cutter appeared and, while the formalities were concluded, Renzi’s pulse quickened.

It was the very height of impudence to think he could just come to the Dutch colony, spy out the operation and leave. But that was what was planned, and the longer he stayed the more dangerous his situation. The American had told him that he was calling to offload molasses and take aboard seventeen barrels of aloes and then would be off – say, two days in all. Renzi had every intention of leaving with him.

On its own a simple count of men-o’-war in harbour would be misleading for there would be far more out at sea on their predatory occasions, but it would be necessary only to sight two or three to confirm matters. And he knew where the controlling base was and the name of its principal. He had only to verify they existed and he would have all the proof Dacres needed that this was indeed the place.

The shoreline was beautiful: long beaches overhung with palms and studded with houses; judging by their spacing from each other, they must be well-appointed villas.

Renzi could not see the town of Willemstad and its harbour until they drew closer, then made out a channel. It was barely a couple of hundred yards across but they confidently entered it in the light but steady easterly trade wind.

So close, every detail was clear: dominating the entrance to the channel on one side was the angular pentagon of a stone fort; further in, the buildings of the town were charming reminders of Cape Town’s Dutch-influenced architecture, almost in exaggeration with their exuberant colour and quaint grace. At the far end of the channel stood another impressive fort, atop the heights of a conical hill where it was able to menace the channel and the inner harbour that now opened up.

‘The Schottegat,’ Renzi was informed. It was an impressive sight – two or three miles of open water snugly within the island, completely sheltered from the worst hurricanes. Eagerly his eyes darted about, taking in what he could of the harbour and its seafront.

There were sea-craft in abundance, from small native coastal smacks to respectable traders at the inner wharves, but safely out of the way at a trot, a row of mooring piles set out from the shore, five near-identical low-built schooners were roped together.

They were not in view for long as the ship rounded to and doused sail. Lines were sent ashore and they were hauled alongside.

‘Well, Herr Haugwitz, we’re here in Curaçao right enough. This’n is Willemstad – where you stayin’, may I ask?’

Renzi indicated that he rather hoped to have the use of his cabin for the two days while he had his meetings. This was agreed on and Renzi was left to his own devices while the ship prepared to land its cargo.

It was baking hot – unlike the more northerly Jamaica, surrounded by sea, this was an island only thirty miles off the great mass of the South American continent and at only twelve degrees above the equator.

He looked about. It was not a large town, mainly located in a typical neat Dutch grid of streets, situated on both sides of the channel. Around the Schottegat were boat-builders, warehouses, wharves – all the usual sights of a sea-port, together with the odour of fish offal, sun-baked dust and an indefinable scent, which, Renzi guessed, was the blossom of some exotic fruit.

Around a little inlet, near the roped schooners, was Parera, where the mysterious Duperré was said to be. Renzi felt light-headed – it had all been too quick, too easy. Was it a trap? He couldn’t see why – no one had known he was coming.

So, all it needed was for him to step out and uncover the secret – if, in fact, it existed.

He hefted his small case. It carried convincing documents copied from a genuine merchant, contrived by Wilikins to portray a cautious representative of a Bremen trading house out to gauge prospects away from the English Caribbean. They should pass muster … in any ordinary circumstance.

He also had a paper with the roughly written address of an apothecary on the opposite side of the channel, helpfully provided by the American captain. With poor English and no Dutch, of course he was lost, wasn’t he? It sounded thin and he prayed his answers, if he was questioned as to why he was off the beaten track, would pass muster.

It was hot and dusty on the road that wound around the inlet. Ahead he saw a discreet cluster of old buildings overhung by greenery standing alone, perfect for the role of secret operations headquarters – but were they?

Cheerful local traders passed by, some of whom waved at him, a small flock of goats was being fussed up a hill and a pair of voluble washerwomen argued as they toiled along with their bundles. All so normal – and so out of kilter with what his intellect was saying, that this had to be Napoleon’s greatest threat to the Caribbean yet.

He came nearer, trying not to be seen peering too closely. The buildings were not deserted – he could see activity inside. A horse whinnied out of sight, from behind the house, then someone rode out. Renzi dropped his gaze, trudging on, then sensed the animal turn and come towards him – but it broke into an easy canter and went by.

Letting out his breath, he raised his eyes. The intervening vegetation made it impossible to see much of the interior of the buildings. He dared not linger and ambled on, admiring the scenery until he saw how he could approach the schooners without being seen – go along the foreshore and peer around the point.

Out of sight from both the buildings and the trot, he stopped not fifty yards away from the vessels. In rising excitement he saw what he was looking for. Each was armed with guns far beyond those required for self-defence, including a pair in the bows – chase guns, never needed in an innocent trader. Swivels, others. They had to be armed French naval ships.

He had half of what he needed. Now for the rest.

His attention was taken by a chilling sight. A man-o’-war was gliding slowly into her moorings. A big one – a thirty-six-gun heavy frigate, by the look of her. With a closer look, he saw she was Dutch, no doubt tasked to guard the operation.

He retraced his steps – and from a safe distance took in the decayed grandeur of the old buildings, its overgrown garden. It was impossible to penetrate, short of a stealthy creeping-up, with all this implied in frightful danger. He could see no way to get close enough.

After all this, was he to return without the vital confirmation?

He felt for the piece of paper in his pocket and decided that boldness was the only way forward: he’d go up and knock on the door and ask the way to the apothecary.

Pausing to consult his fob watch, he shook his head and looked around in frustration. He noticed the most imposing of the buildings and, on impulse, opened the garden gate and walked towards the front door. Almost immediately, to his intense satisfaction, two men silently appeared and fell into step behind him.

There was movement and the hum of voices inside, but it quickly fell away at his hesitant knock. He turned to smile uncertainly at the two behind him. They remained expressionless and Renzi knew that he was irrevocably launched into an encounter that could have only one of two possible endings.

The door was snatched open by a powerfully built man, who deftly stepped aside while Renzi was hustled in by the pair to a small, bare room. It held a table and two chairs only.

‘
Asseyez-vous
,’ ordered one of his escorts, before taking up position implacably across the door.

Renzi blinked in confusion, not understanding the language.

‘
À présent!
’ snarled the man again, gesturing unmistakably at the chair.

A short time later a younger, more open-faced man entered with another, older, and sat opposite. ‘How can we be of service to you?’ he asked mildly, in French.

‘
Oh, ich verstehe nicht französisch
,’ Renzi said weakly, clutching his case but inwardly exulting. If this was not a French naval officer, he stood well flammed. The only task now was to beat a hasty retreat with his precious information.

At his words the younger glanced at the other significantly. ‘
D’Allemand
,’ he muttered.

The older nodded and replied in French, ‘He’s a spy, of course.’

‘You think so,
mon amiral
? A spy who thinks to come right up and knock on the door? And doesn’t know French? Even the English are not that stupid!’

So the older must be Duperré, he surmised, discreetly noting his features with interest.

The younger turned to Renzi and, with an encouraging smile, said kindly, ‘We know you’re a spy, my friend. Now we’re going to take you outside and execute you.’

Renzi smiled back, but spread his hands sorrowfully in incomprehension. ‘Sorry, sorry. You spik Engleesh, I unnerstand.’

As if he was to be fooled by that old trick.

‘
Merde.
Go and find someone with German for this imbecile,’ the young man said, and, with another sharp look at Renzi, left.

The swirl of the day resumed: voices raised, orders loudly given amid much bustle. Renzi caught snatches of what was being said, every bit worth hearing.

‘… the admiral said … took a fat sugar scow off Morant … get this signal off … he must be at the rendezvous point as agreed by …’

It was conclusive. He had both heard and seen enough. This was indeed the tactile reality and proof of what he had logically foreseen. Sudden impatience seized him – but then he realised that the greatest danger was yet to come: if the German speaker was a native, could he keep up the pretence?

A cold wash of apprehension went over him. He was comfortable with the Hochdeutsch of Goethe but city slang was beyond him.

Footsteps approached and the young man brought in a nervous waiter, still in his apron.

‘
Guten Tag. Wie heißt du?
’ he asked, after prompting.

Renzi felt a flood of relief. The man was Alsatian with an atrocious accent.

He beamed. ‘My name is Haugwitz, a merchant of Bremen. Do tell these gentlemen that I have no wish to intrude, merely to ask the way to this address.’ He handed over the paper with a winning smile.

It was passed across for scrutiny. The young man looked up, then reached out for Renzi’s case.