The Privateer's Revenge Read online

  Renzi was touched. “I am obliged to you, sir.” He pocketed the envelope gratefully.

  The piles of provincial newspapers were delivered to one of the empty rooms nearby so he excused himself and set to. They were read in market towns by peasant farmers and agricultural factors, yet clues stemming from the fluctuating prices of common produce, and unintended allusions in shrill editorials, revealed that all was not well and ugly dissatisfaction was not far below the surface in Napoleon’s France.

  When d’Auvergne left for his flagship Renzi scribbled a quick letter to Kydd for collection at the Guernsey post office, enclosing three coins and explaining his good fortune at meeting the Prince de Bouillon without going into detail.

  Turning back to his task he heard movement in d’Auvergne’s office. Startled, he went through but found only the flag-lieutenant waiting for a message. He seemed surprised to see Renzi. “Er, Jenkins. You must be the new man?”

  “Renzi. Secretary pro tempore, I believe,” he replied cautiously. “Recently arrived. An interesting place—but tell me, is the man in truth a prince?”

  Jenkins grinned. “There’s much you’ll find odd about our Philippe d’Auvergne, but I have to tell you that, besides the Duke of Clarence, I believe he’s the only full-rigged prince in the Service. He was adopted into the line, but a prince for all that.”

  “A man of some learning, I think.”

  “He is. Did you know he’s an FRS?”

  Renzi was amazed. Not only a member of the Royal Society, the premier learned society in the land, but a fellow, no less.

  “A deep thinker, he’s a Doctor of Letters from Livonia and corresponds with the world on everything from mathematics to botany, but amiable enough. Oh, and an Arctic explorer and colonial planter to boot.”

  “Has he—is he distinguished in his service career?”

  The young lieutenant chuckled. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard! In fine, yes. A front-line fighter in the American war, first lieutenant o’ the saucy Arethusa and more than a few prizes to his name even before Napoleon. You’ll find—oh, thank you,” he said, taking some papers from a messenger and stowing them in his satchel. “Have to go now—but I think you’ll find your work very . . . interesting.”

  He hurried off, leaving Renzi in even more perplexity than before.

  After two days he felt he had explored enough of the people and the situation and went to d’Auvergne.

  “So you feel able to talk about the royalists and their problems. Then pray tell me your observations on the Chouan risings and what they would mean to the paysan and merchant?”

  It was apparent that he was being tested but it was not hard to apply his mind to the social effects of a bloodily repressed rural revolt.

  D’Auvergne nodded slowly. “Very good. You have a natural insight into the human condition and that I like. One moment.”

  He rose and crossed to the thick oak door, closed it firmly, then returned and produced a letter. “Now your opinion of this, if you please.”

  Apprehensive, for some reason, Renzi picked it up. The eyes never left him as he began to read. “Why, this is a letter from . . . It doesn’t say.” He looked up. “Sir, this is a private letter. We have no right—”

  “Shall we leave that aside for now? Do continue.” “From—from someone signing himself ‘little cabbage,’” Renzi read out unwillingly. “It’s to another—‘ belle poule .’” He looked up unhappily. “This appears to be from a lover to his amante . Sir, is this necessary?”

  “Read,” d’Auvergne commanded.

  “Very well, sir. We have this person writing—ah, it is to his wife, he mentions the little ones. He is at last to return . . . The time has been hard while they have been separated.” He glanced up in silent protest but at d’Auvergne’s stony stare he continued. “He will treasure the moment he sets foot in the old cottage once more

  . . . life in a town is not to be compared to a village of Brittany

  . . . The soldiers of the garrison are arrogant and he has a loathing for what he has to do . . . but he consoles himself that it is for them both, and with his earnings they will close the door on a harsh world . . .” Renzi finished the pathetic scrap. “Another of Bonaparte’s victims, I think. Doing a menial’s work in some army town that will pay better than rural beggary. I do so feel for him and his kind.”

  D’Auvergne waited but Renzi would not be drawn. This kind of human adversity was being played out all over the world as war ravaged previously tranquil communities. Why was he being shown this particular evidence?

  “I honour your sentiments, Renzi. However . . .”

  A premonition stole over him and he tensed as d’Auvergne leaned back in his chair and spoke in the same controlled tone: “It would interest me to know your reaction if you are aware that the town he speaks of is St Helier, the garrison soldiers from Fort Regent and the man, Stofflet, acting in the character of a baker, is passing details of our troop levels to Decrès.”

  Renzi listened with a chill of dismay as d’Auvergne continued, “Rather astute, really. He could tell to a man the garrison numbers daily by the size of the bread order. And he plans to return shortly with the capability and firing angles of our defences no doubt carefully paced out and written down.”

  “A spy,” Renzi said uncomfortably.

  “You have an objection to spies, then?” d’Auvergne asked innocently.

  “It—He must be taken up immediately, of course.”

  “But the practice of spying?”

  “I’m not sure I take your meaning, sir.”

  “Well, it would seem to me axiomatic that if a covert act by a single individual could result in the discomfiture of many of the enemy then it is not merely morally acceptable, but his bounden duty towards those who would otherwise be put to hazard.”

  “I do not deny the necessity but the practices of spying are repugnant to me,” Renzi said carefully.

  “I really do not see where the immorality lies, Mr Renzi. If, as commander-in-chief at the scene of a battle, I receive intelligence that the enemy will come by a different direction, do I alter my dispositions accordingly or refuse to do so on the grounds that the information was gained by a single person working alone?”

  Renzi held his silence, wondering if d’Auvergne was trying to provoke him.

  “No, of course I cannot, morally or otherwise. My duty as a commander is to build a picture of the forces opposite me in the best way I can—and if an opportunity arises whereby one of my men might move forward, keep out of sight and note the truth of what these are, then I shall be grateful to him.”

  As though it were final proof in a mathematical theorem, d’Auvergne concluded, “Therefore no one can be surprised that this is carried forward by all nations as a perfectly valid and utile means of acquiring intelligence.”

  Pulling himself up, Renzi said cuttingly, “Sir, before now I have had to perform bloody acts that were logically dictated by the situation at the time and I believe I have never shied from the duty. What I find immoral is the deployment of such as an instrument of policy.”

  “In a way, you disappoint me, Renzi. You have not considered your position in logic, which I find is the only method to be trusted for laying the thickets of sentiment and false moral positions. Take the spy himself, for instance.”

  Feeling a heat of resentment at having his cherished logic brought into such a discussion Renzi reluctantly followed the reasoning.

  “The spy is a brave and resourceful man who goes alone and unarmed into the enemy camp. It has often puzzled me,” he said, as an aside, “just why we admire and value those who on our behalf do so, while those of our opponents with the same qualities are, on discovery, vilified and must invariably suffer death. An odd notion, don’t you think?”

  He thought for a moment then continued his main thread: “Is there, I ask you, any difference au fond between ordering a man to stand before the cannon’s rage and another who is required to place himsel
f in greater peril within the enemy’s territory?”

  “It is not in my power to order a man to do anything, sir,” Renzi said, with feeling. “Let alone—”

  “So who in your universe will harvest the intelligence, save you from the guile of the enemy, his conspiracies and malice?” d’Auvergne snapped. “You have the freedom, bought by others, to walk away from matters of nicety to your conscience and leave their resolution to others. This is neither logical nor responsible.”

  “Then do I understand it correctly, sir, that you require me to assume the character of a spy in some affair?” Renzi asked coldly.

  D’Auvergne slumped back. “No, no. That was never in my desiring,” he said wearily. “Mr Renzi, you have gifts of insight and understanding with formidable intelligence and a rare admiration for the primacy of logic. All this fits you in a remarkable manner for the role of assisting myself—simply lightening the burden, if you will—in the conduct of operations of a clandestine nature against Napoleon.”

  Renzi felt the chill of foreboding.

  “If you are in any doubt as to their importance, let me disclose to you that I communicate not with Sir James but directly to the foreign secretary of Great Britain, as indeed I have done since the Terror of Paris in ’ninety-two. The work is allowed to be of such sovereign value that I am entrusted with the maintenance of a network in France whose extent . . . is large.”

  He sighed raggedly. “At the moment I have none in whom I can place my trust and I bear the burden alone. It was my hope that in some degree you would feel able to offer me your help— and your country, sir.”

  “Help?” Renzi muttered.

  “To maintain the confidential papers, take up some of the load of secret correspondence, speak with those arriving from France with news—and, on occasion, to favour me with your views in matters compelling a difficult decision.”

  Everything in Renzi rebelled against involvement in illicit affairs of deceit and trickery, in the lies and betrayal that must be at its heart. His whole life was predicated on the sure foundation of the honour and moral obligation of a gentleman, and he had no desire to immerse himself in such a moral quagmire. “Sir. I fear that it would do violence to my nature,” he began, “notwithstanding your logic and—”

  “It’s too late for that, Renzi. Whether you like it or no, you are even now privy to information of a most secret nature. But more pressing than that you have been made aware that there is a service you may do for your country to which you are most peculiarly well fitted.”

  “Sir, it may well be—”

  “Now, it is within your power to turn your back and walk from this room—but for the rest of your days you must live with the knowledge that you have failed when called upon.

  “Now, sir, will you do your duty?”

  It had been hard to accept that he had been unable to muster any rational argument against the request but he found comfort in observing that the post was only that of confidential secretary taken a trifle further. But he had been wounded by d’Auvergne’s polite assurance that there would be no question of personal risk when he had acceded.

  Before going further he was curious about one thing: “On the question of trust, sir, how is it that you are assured my character is as you allege?”

  “Oh, on that score, I had your room and small baggage searched, and who but a hopeless scholard would burden himself with Goethe and Locke for light reading?” he smiled.

  Renzi returned a thin smile while d’Auvergne opened a businesslike chest and found a pair of heavy, intricate keys. “The records are in the crypt below. I have one key, you the only other. Be of good care, Renzi. People’s lives are in your hands with those papers.”

  At Renzi’s set face he continued lightly, “Take it from me, dear fellow, it’s a quite different and wider moral framework we find ourselves in, but you will discover that being a friend to logic will extract you safely from many a sentimental mire. For example, see if you can overcome your present scruples sufficiently to detect the transcendent moral certitudes in this little exercise.

  “I, as a commander, have several thousand lives in my charge and must meet the foe on the battlefield. If I can convince the enemy commander that my attack will come by course A when, in fact, I will come by B, there will be at the close of that day perhaps some hundreds fewer widows left to grieve. How might this best be brought about?”

  Renzi shook his head, even more uncomfortable in this world of shades and compromise.

  “Well, here is one sure way. Do you charge a brave man with dispatches, emphasising their grave nature and enjoining their safe delivery by all means. He is not to know their false nature and when he is betrayed and valiantly defends them, even to the death, the enemy will be convinced of their authenticity and act accordingly.”

  With a tight smile he concluded, “So, of course, many lives are saved for the one expended. You really cannot argue against that, Renzi.”

  And, to his anguish, he found he could not. These were moral quicksands of a kind he had never been forced to confront before, and their serious considering would occupy him painfully for some time to come.

  “I would find it . . . difficult, sir. Er, may I know what action you intend in respect of the letter?” It was something he could test d’Auvergne with.

  “Stofflet, you mean. All actions must be considered, of course— but pray tell, what do you yourself propose, Renzi?”

  “He must be stopped, of course. Taken up as a spy?” He remembered the kind, bald-headed baker from whom he had begged bread. Now he knew that the man was married happily, with children he expected to see soon.

  “For a public demonstration in these fevered times that there are spies in our midst? I think not.”

  “An assassination?” Renzi said neutrally.

  “Goodness me, no! Crass barbarism and not to be countenanced by a civilised nation.”

  “Then taken up quietly and a strict parole demanded before banishment?” Renzi suggested boldly, remembering d’Auvergne’s words about brave men suffering death undeservedly.

  “Perhaps not. I rather think he must meet with an unfortunate accident.”

  CHAPTER 10

  KYDD TRUDGED UP THE STEEP STEPS . Without noticing, his path had taken him to another level of the town. It was more densely settled and had an indefinable rakish air, which focused round a theatre. Idly he went up and read the billboard: “The Much Adored Griselda Mayhew as The Princess Zenobia and the Magnificent Richard Samson as Count Dragonheart in Carpathia, or, Cupid’s Trust Rewarded .”

  He turned to go but his eyes were caught by another notice underneath: “Stagehands required: none but those able to go aloft and haul ropes heartily shall apply.”

  If this was not work for a sailor then what was? A week or so of jolly theatricals and then he could claim as much as—as a whole mutton pie, with the full trimmings, of course, and swimming in lumpy gravy. His stomach growled as he entered the theatre.

  A short, sharp-eyed man appeared from nowhere. “Where you off to, m’ lad? Performance not until seven. Not until seven, I say!”

  “Oh, er, th’ notice said as how stagehands are required.”

  “You?” The man stepped back to take his measure. “Done it before? A flyman, I mean?”

  Goaded, Kydd looked up: two somewhat faded ornamental gold cords descended each side of the audience entrance from a single ringbolt in the lofty ceiling. With a practised leap he clutched the leftmost one and swarmed effortlessly up to the bolt, then launched himself into space for the other and slid down, hand over hand, much as in the distant past he had found a backstay to reach the deck all the quicker.

  “I see,” the man said, affecting boredom. “An’ we’ve had sailors before an’ all. Wages ’re two livres cash on th’ nail each performance, no liquor during, find y’r own prog. Er, can y’ start now?”

  Kydd feigned reluctance. “A livre as earnest.” He sniffed, holding out his hand. He had forgotten how much i
t represented but guessed it must be worth a shilling or two.

  “Be off wi’ your impertinence! Y’r impertinence, I say!”

  Kydd turned on his heel, but the man caught his arm. “One livre, an’ I’ll know y’ name, sir!”

  “Tom Cutlass, m’ shipmates call me,” he answered slowly. “An’ yours?”

  The man puffed up his chest. “Mr Carne t’ you! I’m th’ stage-master. Stage-master, I say!”

  Kydd took the money. “When do I—”

  “Be here at five sharp. Y’ late, an’ that’s all ye get.”

  Renzi found d’Auvergne at the battlements, staring moodily out to sea, his greatcoat streaming and whipping in the autumn bluster. Renzi followed his gaze and saw a sail against the far-off Brittany shore, then spotted the gaggle of vessels in chase.

  The French coast was a distant smother of white from the pounding of the westerly with white flecks of waves vivid in the stretch of water to the dull-grey coastline. It was a hard beat into the fresh gale and the drama played out slowly before them, the hunted craft clawing desperately against the wind, first on one tack, then another, the others straggling astern as it eventually stretched out towards safety.

  With stinging raindrops fast turning things into wet misery, Renzi left d’Auvergne to his vigil and returned to his task, collating a number of appraisals, penned by different hands, into a fair summary.

  He heard d’Auvergne come back and go straight to his inner sanctum. Then, some time later, a disturbance echoed in the long passage outside his little room—cries, a panting fuss and the loud voice of the serjeant warder. The commotion faded and he heard the drone of other voices, then the chilling sound of a man’s sobbing.

  D’Auvergne came and slumped in a chair. “L’Étalon is taken,” he said hoarsely, his face dazed.

  It meant nothing to Renzi. “Stallion”—the code-word for an agent? He murmured something, never having seen d’Auvergne so shaken.

  “That toad Fouché,” he went on. “Betrayal, murder, intrigue— there’s nothing he’ll not stoop to for his diabolical master, Bonaparte.”