The Privateer's Revenge (29 page)

Stirk's shout was taken up in a roar of others. Standish leaped to his feet in outrage, the boat swaying perilously. “Seize that man in irons!” he yelled. “And stop your cackle instantly—d' you hear me, you mumping rogues?—or I'll see the whole lot of you up before me!”

Kydd gave a wry smile. “Loose sail, Mr Rowan. Let's be away!”

C
HAPTER 14

T
HE SPORT
was
THIN
. Days later, of three encounters only one had proved fruitful, a tiny but voluble Portuguese with a freight of slab cork that could only have one destination in this part of the world, and time was getting short. Kydd's hopes of wealth were disappearing fast.

Still, he had learned much of the privateering trade and could see that, given certain advantages in the future, there was every chance of succeeding in a handsome way. There would be changes on the next voyage, he would see to it.

Bien Heureuse
returned to St Peter Port in the tail end of an autumn gale but the Great Road lay as a welcome triangle of calm away from the port shielding it from the battering of the south-westerly, and the little privateer finally lay at rest alongside the pier.

Kydd made his way smugly to Robidou's rickety top-floor office to receive an appreciation for a good start in the privateering business and to learn when he was to receive his share of the proceeds.

Robidou told him gruffly to wait while he dealt with his clerk and Kydd contented himself with the fine view over the harbour, including his two prizes.

The clerk was then sent away and, with a cold look, he was bade to sit. It unsettled Kydd—he had expected a warmer welcome. Besides, he wanted to get away to tell his theatrical friends of his adventures.

“Ye've disappointed me, sir,” Robidou began heavily. Kydd's heart sank. “M' investors did expect much more'n ye found for 'em,” he went on remorselessly. “I told 'em as ye was th' proven article as an active an' enterprisin' privateersman.”

Kydd's hackles rose. “Only a couple o' weeks at sea? An' two prizes on m' first voyage.”

“Two prizes?” Robidou said acidly. “Th' first a store-ship wi' dried fish an' potatoes—how d' ye expect me t' place such a cargo on the market? Potatoes, when we has our own Jerseys that knocks such into a cocked hat? An' dried fish, as is only fit f'r soldiers?”

“The ship?” Kydd tried.

“A store-ship? Worthless! None wants a slab-sided scow as is built t' supply an army. No, sir, this is no prize worth the name.”

Face burning, Kydd said tightly, “Th' Portuguee—a freight o' cork as can only be bound f'r the French wine ports?”

Robidou sighed. “He's worse. I'll agree, it c'n only be f'r the French, but the master is savvy, an' knows it's no use t' us. We don't make wine. So he protests th' capture. In course, we must go to t' litigation in an Admiralty court but this takes a mort o' time—and fees. If'n we win, it's only cork we has, not worth a Brummagem ha'penny a bushel, the ship contemptible an' we can't cover the fees. We have t' let him go.”

Kydd bit his lip. “Can we not—”

“We lets him go, an' must pay him demurrage f'r the delay t' his voyage, a sum f'r his extra vittlin', harbour dues t' St Peter Port f'r his moorin'—an' if we're not lucky he'll lodge an' affidavit with his consul claimin' consequential damages! No, sir, ye've not had a good voyage.”

Shaken, Kydd realised that, without any return from prizes, the voyage was a failure. And the investors had not merely lost their outlay but were faced with liability for heavy unforeseen payments to the Portuguese. “Er, I'm sure th' next voyage'll be capital. Um, I've learned much as will—”

“Mr Kydd. When th' investors hear o' your—
success,
I wouldn't hold m'self ready f'r a next voyage. Good day t' ye, sir.”

Three days later the venture meeting was brief, and Robidou had news for Kydd when he returned the following morning. “Sir, I have t' tell ye, th' investors did not see their way clear t' renewing an interest in a privateer voyage by any means.”

It was expected, but it stung all the same.

“If ye'll attend on me just f'r a few hours, we'll finalise th' books an' then you'll be free t' go.”

With the paperwork complete, Kydd left, unemployed once more.

“Why, Tom, m' dear!” Rosie discarded her sewing excitedly and ran to meet Kydd, throwing her arms round him with a kiss. “You're back on land. Do tell me y'r adventures—did you seize any treasure ships a-tall?”

Her eyes were wide in expectancy but she frowned when she saw Kydd's long face. “Is—is something wrong?”

“No treasure, Rosie, jus' two prizes as are t' be despised, I'm told.” He sprawled morosely in an armchair. “An' they don't see fit t' give me another voyage.”

“Oh. So . . . ?”

Kydd looked at her with affection. “So it means, dear Rosie, there's nothing more I c'n do.” That was the nub of it, really; he could return to being a stagehand and eke out a few more weeks of existence but to what end? “I'm t' go back t' England now.” He sighed. “'Twas a good plan, but I'm not y'r natural-born corsair

I'd have t' say now.” A wave of depression came, but at least he could console himself that he had given it his best try.

“Don't leave now,” Rosie said, stricken. “You
will
find the wicked dog as did y' wrong, I
know
it!”

Kydd smiled. “I'm beholden t' ye all for y' kindness but I'll not be a burden any more. I have t' leave.”

“Please don't, Tom!” she pleaded, “Give it just a few more weeks, an' then—”

“No. End o' th' week, Rosie.”

With dull eyes Renzi took in a report by one Broyeur who was responsible for their security at the Jersey terminus, detailing actions and observations as they pertained to counter-espionage. Endless lines of trailing this or that suspect, suggestive phrases in purloined letters, rumours—and then one word caught his eye: “Stofflet.” It was followed by a short entry: “Per order, Friday last. Drowned—no marks.”

The epitaph of a kindly man. Who had . . . Renzi's eyes stung. Rushing in came the memory of the little bald baker taking pity on a hungry stranger and finding a tasty loaf, which Renzi had gratefully devoured. He would no longer serve his ovens or see his little ones. And now where was pity? Where was the humanity? With a catch in his throat he felt control slipping. Why could not logic preserve him from the stern consequences of its own imperatives?

He staggered to his feet, sending the table and its papers crashing to one side. Urgently seeking open air he was soon out on the battlements, breathing raggedly. His fists clenched as he sought the sombre night horizon. The salty air buffeted his face bringing with it a sensory shock. The spasm passed, but left him troubled and destabilised. Since his youth he had found reason and logic a sure shield against the world, but now it had turned on him. What was left to him without the comfort of its certainties?

Sleep came finally to claim him but in the early hours he was dragged to consciousness by a disturbance—shouts, d'Auvergne's urgent retort, men in the passageway. He flung on a coat and hurried there. It was d'Aché, trembling with fatigue, sprawled in a chair and retching, his side blood-soaked to the waist. “Go, fetch a doctor!” d'Auvergne threw at the men standing about uncertainly. “The rest, get out!”

D'Aché had risked everything in bringing his message to Mont Orgueil, such was its urgency. “D'Auvergne,” he said weakly, “listen to me! We—we have a crisis!” He slumped in pain, then rallied, his eyes feverish. “Paris—they won't rise up unless they have an unconditional assurance that the British will play their part.” He coughed, and the consequent pain doubled him over until it was spent. “You must understand, Bonaparte suspects something. The country is alive with soldiers. It is very dangerous. The Chouans sense treachery, that as soon as . . .”

Once they raised the banner, made their throw, they were marked men, and if the plot failed Napoleon's revenge would be terrible. All the more reason to fear that England, the old enemy, might play them false.

“The last moves will be the most critical,” d'Aché resumed, shaking with pain and emotion. “If anything goes wrong it will be most tragic.”

D'Auvergne nodded. The frenzied dash with their prisoner through the dark countryside, forces closing in on all sides, the final frantic arrival at the coast—and the Royal Navy not there to receive them into safety? He could see it must be their worst imagining. “They wish a binding commitment of some sort?” he asked.

“A
written
statement of late date under signature of a high officer of state.” Nothing less, apparently, than a document proving the complicity of England in the plot.

“Very well, you shall have it,” d'Auvergne said calmly. He paused. “And I shall deliver it.”

“No!” d'Aché said hoarsely. “You are known, you'll have no chance.” D'Auvergne had been imprisoned on trumped-up charges once in Paris during the brief peace and only been released reluctantly after considerable diplomatic pressure from Westminster.

Yet if things stalled now, inertia would set in, causing the whole to crumble without hope of recovery. As if in a dream Renzi heard himself say, “I shall take it to them.” It was logical. The situation was desperate. He knew of the plot, he could speak knowledgeably of the dispositions and—and he would be dispensable in the eyes of the Government.

“You!” gasped d'Aché. “They don't know you. They'll think you a spy.” The irony was not wasted on Renzi, who gave a half-smile.

D'Auvergne frowned. “My dear Renzi, do reflect on your situation. You would have the most compromising document in Christendom on your person that most certainly would incriminate your government. If threatened, your only honourable course would be to—to . . .”

“So who, then, will be your emissary?” Renzi challenged. There was no reply. “I shall require a form of password, an expression of authentication as it were, and . . .”

Early on the Thursday morning a knock at the door caught them by surprise. As the only one fully dressed at that hour, Kydd answered. A messenger held out a letter. “Mr Kydd's residence?” he asked. “Favour o' Mr Vauvert.”

Rosie squealed in anticipation and rushed over, her attire forgotten. Kydd broke the seal: it was a curt note from Vauvert indicating that if he wished to hear something to his advantage he should be at the Three Crowns tavern at four promptly.

Rosie clapped and snatched the message from Kydd. “To your
advantage,
Tom!” she cried. “I knew something would come!”

Kydd did not reply. It was obvious: he was going to be asked to run contraband as a smuggler. No doubt this Vauvert was extracting a fee from a business associate for introducing him. Well, damn it, he would disappoint them both.

“What will you wear, love?” Rosie enthused. “It could be a swell cove taking you t' see his friends!”

He paused. There was just the tiniest chance that it was something else—but the cold tone of the note fitted that of a businessman holding him at arm's length while he was handed along to another. “Nothin' special, Rosie. If'n they can't take me as I come, then . . .”

The Three Crowns was a spacious and well-appointed inn, liberally endowed with snug rooms and discreet alcoves with high-backed chairs for those inclined to serious conversation. Kydd entered diffidently, fingering the single florin in his pocket, which was all he could bring himself to accept from Mojo. He hoped that his mysterious visitor would not expect more than a nip of ale.

A few faces turned curiously but he stared ahead defensively and was left alone. Soon after four the figure of a gentleman in an old-fashioned wig appeared at the door, looking in hesitantly. He seemed distantly familiar, and Kydd rose.

The man hurried over. “I thank you for seeing me, Mr Kydd,” he said, in an oddly soft voice.

For a moment he was caught off-balance. Then it came to him. This was Zephaniah Job, whom he had once arrested in Polperro as a smuggler and then been forced to release by higher authority. “I'm to tell you how very sorry I am to have heard about your Rosalynd. Such a sweet child, and to be lost to the world so suddenly.”

Kydd gulped, a memory catching him unawares with its intensity. “Yes, sir, I was—much affected.” He turned away, so that Job would not catch his expression, and willed himself back to the present.

He realised he shouldn't be surprised to see Job there for he was a sagacious businessman with interests in all things profitable—he even printed his own banknotes. Kydd recalled that Guernsey was the main place of supply for Job's many smuggling enterprises. Now he was going to be offered a position operating against his own colleagues by the man he had previously taken in charge for doing just that.

Job gave a polite smile. “I heard of your privateering voyage just concluded, Mr Kydd. My sympathy on meeting with such poor fortune.”

“Thank ye,” Kydd said. He was damned if Job was going to get a beer out of his precious florin now.

“You seem in need of some cheer, if I might make bold—will you allow me to press you to join me in a jorum of their finest?”