The Privateer's Revenge (5 page)

His excitement mounted. What fortune to have come ashore the very day it was to be delivered. A wave of guilt rushed in: he had vowed to stand by Kydd in his grief and travail. But at this particular time he was not so immediately needed, and this lecture, given by a passing savant, would not be repeated.

He would go! He had plenty of time to discover the whereabouts of the Royal College as the event would take place this evening so until then he could wander the narrow streets agreeably and possibly the rocky shore. His means did not extend to a meal but there were sights enough for an enquiring mind. Feeling like an errant schoolboy, he set out.

With evening drawing in Renzi topped the rise above the town, footsore and hungry, looking for the ancient college. The town was giving way to country; on the left-hand side, for some distance, he saw a series of newer, more handsome houses, and on the right, open fields and a dilapidated structure of uncertain antiquity.

Where were the college and the people flocking to the lecture? He stopped a passing tradesman. “Elizabeth College? Ye're looking at it!” he was told.

It was an academy of sorts, much decayed but still in possession of extensive grounds and with only one glimmer of light showing. Renzi entered hesitantly.

“Welcome, welcome! Do come in, sir!” The broad room was musty with age and gloomy with dark panelling. There were but six sitting among the rows of school chairs facing the lectern from which a diminutive cleric beamed at him.

He settled in the second row. Chairs scraped and coughs tailed off in the silence until it became evident that no more would arrive. The man picked up his papers and introduced himself; the talk was pleasantly delivered and competent, the material stimulating. At the conclusion Renzi applauded enthusiastically but he subsided at the thin handclaps from the rest of the stolid audience.

Renzi offered a question or two, which were gratefully received, then the meeting concluded, most quickly making for the door—all but one gentleman. “A good evening to you, sir,” he said, “and I do not believe I have seen you before.”

“Mr Renzi, er, of the Navy. Just visiting.”

“Then I should thank you for supporting the reverend doctor with your presence. Are you by any chance an old scholar of the college?”

“No, sir.” So the lecture had been a noble attempt by the dominie to attract the public, the gentleman speaking with him an old boy loyally present. Judging by the painfully chalked Latin epigrams still on the board, Renzi surmised that the lecture would not seem to be typical of the kind of instruction normally carried on.

“Then . . . ?” the man asked politely.

“I have a penchant for the outworkings of human culture of any age, sir.”

“An unusual inclination for a sea officer, if I might remark it.” The man's bearing was aristocratic, his eyes shrewd.

“I—I am not a naval officer, sir. My situation is fortunate, being that of a man of some learning afforded the felicity of board and lodging, while I undertake my investigations, for the trifling price of acting as ship's clerk.”

“How curious!” The man hesitated, then held out his hand. “My name is Vauvert, and it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr . . . ?”

“Renzi.”

“My carriage is at present in use, else I should offer to transport you back to your ship, but my house is near and no doubt you will appreciate refreshment before you return.”

Vauvert's house was one of the large, handsome buildings on the other side of the road. “I'm by way of being an
écuyer
, that is to say a
négociant
, a merchant investor, and my name is not unknown in these islands.”

Renzi took in the fashionable adornments of the drawing room. “Mr Vauvert, it would gratify me considerably to know how it is that a distant island, barely five miles across, can display such wealth and success, when others . . .”

“The reason is simple. We are left to our own devices, Mr Renzi. Parliament in London plays no part in our affairs and our loyalty is not to the English King but to the Duke of Normandy.”

“I'm astonished to hear it,” Renzi murmured uneasily.

“This is so,” Vauvert said firmly. “Our islands were anciently in the fiefdom of Normandy and we see no reason to shift our allegiance to the Crown of England.”

Renzi held still. In the face of the revolutionary madness sweeping Europe, savage laws had been forced through by the prime minister William Pitt with swift and dire penalties for illegal and treasonable association. If—

“Therefore our loyal toast will always remain to the Duke of Normandy—who, since his subsequent conquest of England in 1066, now occupies the throne in the person of His Majesty King George.”

At Renzi's expression he continued smoothly, “Which confers considerable benefits, chief of which is an independence in matters of trade and law—for instance, we are outside the remit of English Customs and Excise . . .”

“I have heard the term ‘smuggling' used in that connection,” Renzi said delicately.
Teazer
's days of guarding the Cornish coast were still fresh in his memory.

“Never in these islands!” Vauvert said stoutly. “We are the suppliers of goods only. If our clients choose to evade payment of duty on subsequent import then this cannot be our concern. It has served us well over the centuries, in truth.”

“And privateering, I've been led to believe.”

“
And
privateering. It must be confessed that many fine houses along Grange Road here were raised on the profits therefrom. But, pray, do not be deceived. It is our trading that has made us what we are. That and our independence. You will want to hear of our Bailiff and Constable who in this land hold powers higher than a prime minister, our jurats, States and Royal Courts—but I fear you will not wish to be delayed.”

Renzi gave a polite bow and murmured a farewell.

“It is, however, an unlettered place,” Vauvert added. “I would very much like to hear of the progress of your studies here, Mr Renzi, perhaps at a later date . . .”

C
HAPTER 3

A
S RENZI ENTERED THE CAPTAIN'S CABIN
, Kydd threw him a dark look. “Th' ship in th' state y' see her, and y' step ashore on the ran-tan like some jackanapes wi' not a care in th' world? I'm surprised at ye, Nicholas!”

“It was ship's business,” Renzi replied, “and there being no boat going inshore after dark, as you'll recall.” He had spent a cold night on the foreshore, waiting for
Teazer
's milk-boat at dawn, and did not need a lecture.

“There's some who'd say as ye're guilty of being absent fr'm place o' duty,” Kydd said hotly. “How c'n I keep discipline if'n you're straggling ashore as it pleases ye?”

Renzi paused. “I feel you're not yourself, my friend. Perhaps you should—”

“Don't y' understand me?” Kydd said harshly. “You're ship's clerk an' have a duty t' the ship. Y' know, I c'n have ye in irons f'r breaking out o' the ship—desertion!”

Angry now, Renzi took a moment to control himself. “My dear fellow, your words cannot help but strike me as somewhat intemperate, not to say provocative, and hardly justified. You've been under strain lately, I know, and—”

“Ye're not t' go ashore again without I say so.”

“As you wish,” Renzi said, “Yet I'll have you know that I understand and have much sympathy for you in your loss . . .”

“F' give me f'r sayin' it,” Kydd said sarcastically, “but I don't see how y' can. Until y' cares enough f'r someone, loves 'em as I do—did . . .” he said thickly. He faced away suddenly, then turned back with a wooden expression. “But, then, it's of no account to you, o' course.”

Renzi felt his control slipping. “Confound it, man—do you think you're the only one who's loved and lost? Death is part of life, and others find ways to deal with it.” He was breathing deeply. “You're not the same man I knew, Tom. It's knocked you askew, touched your human judgement—where's your spirit? You've changed— and not for the better.”

Kydd did not respond and stared down at his hands. Then he said, “You're in th' right of it. I'm changed.” With a heavy sigh he went on, “I'm now empty—quite empty, y' see, an' there's only duty now in m' life.”

Renzi bit his lip. “This won't do, Tom. You must come up with a round turn—see yourself, what you're becoming. Do I need to lay it out before you? Be a
man,
for God's sake!”

Kydd stiffened. “An' you're th' one t' tell
me?
If
you
were a man you'd not have run off fr'm Cecilia to New South Wales.”

With a deadly ferocity, Renzi swept Kydd's papers off his desk. He leaned down, inches from his face. “How
dare
you?”

Kydd did not flinch, staring back with equal intensity, and said slowly, “Pick up th' papers—or leave my ship now!”

Renzi bit off what he was about to say and made to walk away, then turned back abruptly to face Kydd again. “I will
not
leave the ship. You don't realise it but, at this moment, there is not a soul whom you may call friend. And I solemnly warn you, as surely as the sun will set this day, very soon you will most certainly need one.”

“Do try the buttered crab, Mr Kydd,” Lady Saumarez pressed,

“You really should—Guernsey is not to be outshone in the article of fruits of the sea.”

“Yes, yes, my dear,” the admiral murmured. He turned to Kydd and chuckled. “She's local-born, as was I, and will not rest until you are as a fatted calf on the good produce of our island.”

Kydd sat quietly, toying with his food.

“Now, I always like to invite my new captains to a little dinner
en famille
like this—less formal and allows us to talk freely, learn about each other, as it were.”

“Aye, sir,” Kydd said respectfully.

“Tell me, your service history is sparse in its detail—you were at the Nile, were you not?”

“Sir. Fifth of
Tenacious
.”

“Come, come, sir! You are much too coy. I happen to know that you were out in the boats when
L'Orient
blew up. That must have been such a fearful sight close to. Did you suffer much on your own account?”

“No, sir. I had th' boat's crew under coats an' sails. Th' big wreckage went over th' top of us.”

Saumarez waited but Kydd did not elaborate. “And this is how you won your step to commander?”

“No, sir. That was later, just before th' peace.” He resumed his meal.

Saumarez threw an amused look of resignation at his wife, who simpered encouragement at Kydd. “Who placed you on your own quarterdeck?”

“It was Adm'ral Keith, sir.”

“For a fine action, no doubt.”

“Off Toulon, Captain Rowley desired I be removed fr'm his ship, sir, an' so Adm'ral Keith sent me t' Malta to commission a new brig jus' built.”

Saumarez sat back in amazement. “Well—'pon my soul! For an officer of record you are a quiet one. Have you any family?”

“No, sir.”

“Ah, well, then, perhaps you should. There is nothing on this earth to compare with the love of a good woman to set the cares of the world to naught.” His warm look at his wife was returned with an affection that was as tender as it was private. He turned back to Kydd. “May we know if you have any hopes at all—in the connubial sense, I mean?”

Kydd sat rigid and unspeaking.

Saumarez went on, “Sea officers, I fear, are so much at a disadvantage when it comes to affairs of the heart. I remember once when . . .” Then his words trailed off and astonishment was replaced by dismay as tears coursed down Kydd's face. Lady Saumarez stared open-mouthed.

Saumarez jumped up, stupefied by the sight but caught himself quickly. “Er, my dear, Commander Kydd is, um—and will be retiring with me to the red drawing room—for brandy, that is.”

He hurried round the table, helped Kydd to his feet and led him into a large room with a cheerful fire. “Now, what is this, sir?” Saumarez asked, in a kindly tone.

“I—I can only apologise f'r m' conduct, s-sir,” Kydd choked. “Y'see, I've—I've just this month lost m' intended t' drowning—” He fought down the tears and added stiffly, “If you desire, sir, I shall leave y' house immediately, o' course.”

“Good heavens, no. I had no idea—here, you shall have a good brandy directly.” He hurried to the decanter. “It's one of the faults of our modern society that a man cannot in any wight allow his feelings to display. Do sit, sir—my wife will fully understand when I tell her of your sad loss.”

“Sir.”

“It will, of course, be a grievous ordeal for you, but remember that for those who trust in the Lord's goodness it will be seen that there is a reason, however hard it is to apprehend at this time.” He drew his chair closer and confided, “You will perhaps not at this point easily entertain the notion, but it has been said that my nature is one that in its sensitivity might more readily be seen in a man of the cloth. I can assure you that any distress in my fellow creature I do feel for myself.” He touched Kydd's arm lightly. “Therefore I trust you will not take it amiss when I offer my advice. It is that you do seek the humanity and warmth of your fellow man in the healing—the well-springs of charity are deep, and within us all.”

Kydd's expression did not change.

“I'm only too aware that for the captain of a ship this might prove . . . difficult, but there is a means to this end. I'm referring in this to the Mermaid's Club, which is a retreat for naval officers in St Peter Port. There you may find solace with your brothers of the sea.”

At Kydd's silence his forehead creased in concern. “In fact, you may take it as a species of command, sir. I shall have a word in the right place as will see you introduced. Dwelling on your hurts in the privacy of your cabin is not to be countenanced. Now, I will be bending my mind to the task of finding ways to keep you and your command as active as I can contrive. Never doubt it, Mr Kydd, all things will pass in God's good time.”

The room was broad but low, and dominated at the far end by windows that extended the entire width to provide a fine prospect of the busy harbour below. “Ho there, the stranger!” a voice called from the group at ease round a mahogany table towards the back.

Kydd handed his cloak to a steward, stepped forward and bowed. “Kydd, brig-sloop
Teazer
.” A few in armchairs nearby looked up curiously from their newspapers, then nodded politely.

Kydd was the only one in uniform; the others wore shore clothes. He approached the group. “Gentlemen.”

“Come to join, I take it,” a large man, older than Kydd, said.

“Aye.”

“Umm. Of good standing, polite to your betters, not afraid of the bottle? Any habits, vices we should know about?” His eyes were shrewd.

“No.”

“A pity. We can do with men o' spirit. Right. Ten livres a month—that's less'n a guinea—feast-days extra, commensal brandy extra. Are you game?”

“Aye.”

“Then you're in. I'm Carthew of
Scorpion
ship-sloop, and chairman o' the Mermaid. This is O'Brien out of
Harpy
brig and the rest you'll get to know soon enough.”

He sat back in his chair and contemplated Kydd. “Sit yourself down, then, Kydd. O'Brien, get the young man a rummer. Now, sir, we'll know more of you. What did you do to be banished to this benighted corner o' the world?”

“I was detached fr'm the Plymouth command o' Admiral Lockwood, agreeable to an Admiralty request—”

“Ding dong bell, man, and what's that meant to say? That you—”

“I received m' orders an' I did my duty, Mr Carthew,” Kydd rapped.

Faces turned elsewhere in the room and the talking died away for a space. “Well, well! Do I see a discontented fire-eater before me? If so, you have my condolences, my dear sir. You'll have to work hard to chase up some sport here.”

O'Brien murmured something indistinct and Carthew laughed cynically. “Then my best advice to him is to get used to it—the only way he's getting out of here now is to contrive to be wrecked or become the admiral's
élève
when there's to be a promotion!” He continued to appraise Kydd coolly. “Is it right that you were at the Nile?”

“I was.”

“I see. And Saumarez here second-in-command under Our Nel. Fortunate for you, not to say useful,” he said smoothly.

“I was fifth in
Tenacious,
signal luff, an' never clapped eyes on him but the once, if that's y'r meaning.”

“Do ease sheets, Mr Fire-eater,” Carthew said evenly. “This is a small command and we all have to live with each other.”

As the hard night softened with the first intimations of dawn, Kydd readied his boats' crews. It was a hastily planned operation with all the potential to go wrong. During the night they had been towed within striking distance by
Teazer
. He was in the first boat, about to lead the shore party, which included others who had been sent in reinforcement from the squadron.

An oar clunked awkwardly as the men took up position for the coming assault. “Hold y' noise, oaf,” Kydd hissed savagely, “or I swear I'll see y' liver at the gangway tomorrow!” The man stared back at him resentfully.

All hinged on surprise—getting the men ashore and to the top of the two-hundred-foot cliffs before troops, roused by sentries, could arrive from farther up and down the coast. Once on the heights there was level ground into the interior countryside, and if they could establish a well-defended position, reinforcements could flood ashore.

The coast materialised ahead from the dove-grey mists, high, craggy and forbidding. There might be pickets even now concerned by the odd cluster of shapes out to sea, finding a telescope and . . . Kydd scanned the area feverishly, looking for the features he must locate in order to land in the right place: an offshore scatter of rocks that guarded a small coomb, not much more than a fissure but which would give them a chance to reach the top. There! At the right distance from the unmistakable high headland to the southwest he saw the betraying white of sea-washed rocks extending out in a distinctive pattern, Les Lieuses, Sept Boues and the rest.

“Stretch out!” Kydd roared. “Stretch out f'r y'lives!” The need for caution was past—now everything depended on speed. Oars thumped and strained as men leaned into the task. Astern, the other boats surged and flew to bellows and threats from their coxswains.

At the periphery of his vision Kydd saw movement at the high cliff-edge. It was a figure on horseback! The alarm would now be given speedily—their margin of time was perilously small. The figure fell back and disappeared.