14-Caribbee: A Kydd Sea Adventure Read online

  In the morning L’Aurore spread sail and continued on her patrol, a lazy circling of Guadeloupe, taking the inner passage between it and La Désidérade and the other islands, Marie-Galante and the legendary Saintes.

  Four days later she hove to off Pointe-à-Pitre and that night prepared to pick up Louise.

  Renzi insisted on going in the boat, and when they reached their position off Petit-Bourg, he tended the dark-lanthorn ready to signal the reply.

  The men lay on their oars and waited. It was still and calm, the rippling of water along the boat the loudest sound, but the soft blackness remained inviolate.

  The boat thwarts were hard and Renzi squirmed uncomfortably but never took his eyes off the shore.

  An hour passed, another. The current was taking them gently away to the north and every so often the boat had to be brought back.

  One by one the lights were disappearing on the land and by midnight they had all winked out.

  And still nothing.

  This was worrying: a moonrise was expected about two and they could not risk being seen so close inshore. What if …?

  Dark thoughts crowded in. Renzi forced them aside and tried to concentrate. The men were, in the age-old way, lying across the boat yarning quietly together, the drone of their voices and occasional snicker getting on his nerves.

  If indeed Louise had been taken up, there would be questions under duress – it was too much to expect that she could hold out against torture, and if that was the case, there was every chance that an armed launch was now on its way out to intercept them.

  The first sliver of moon appeared. They had to leave.

  ‘Out oars, we’re going back.’

  Kydd was waiting at the taffrail. ‘Where’s Louise?’ he demanded.

  ‘Shall we go below?’ Renzi answered wearily. ‘There’s something I have to tell you.’

  In the cabin Kydd exploded: ‘You persuaded the poor innocent to go into Guadeloupe after your crack-brained secret base? Are you insane, Nicholas?’

  ‘It has to be logical. I’ve—’

  ‘Be damned to you! Have you any idea what you’ve done? She’s all alone in there, for God’s sake, probably at this minute in some stinking French prison waiting for … for …’

  ‘She went of her own accord, brother. Her choice!’

  ‘Of course she would! To please you, damn it! I can’t believe it of you – taking advantage of a tender-hearted woman like that for your own ends.’

  Kydd’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’d never have thought it, Nicholas. You of all people, full of your morals and logic, you’ve no idea of what it is to be in the real world. Not stopping to think what you’ve—’

  ‘I’m going in to find out what happened to her,’ Renzi said quietly. ‘If you’ll set me ashore tomorrow night, I’m determined to find her.’

  ‘And look for your lunatic base!’

  Renzi’s eyes glowed dangerously. ‘I said I’ll go after Louise.’

  Kydd paused. ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right. I’ll not allow it.’

  ‘I’m going.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then this minute I’ll go overside and swim ashore, I swear it.’

  ‘You’ve no chance, Nicholas. You’ll be taken as an Englishman the first person who sees you.’

  ‘That’s my affair. I’d be obliged if you’d linger here for another day, then put me ashore.’

  ‘You’re quite determined on it, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am.’

  Kydd drew a quick breath. ‘Very well, I won’t stand in your way.’

  ‘Have a care, sir!’ Doud hissed anxiously from the boat.

  The top of the fish quay was deserted, a patchwork of shadows; beyond, lights of the village. Renzi cautiously edged to one side, tiptoed to a stack of lobster pots and peered over.

  The road wound out of sight past a group of houses and in the other direction there were deserted pig-pens and a farmhouse with lights ablaze.

  Cautiously he stepped out. He was dressed plainly, in dark clothing with a makeshift knapsack on his back. There was no point in disguise: he was a stranger and his accent marked him out as an Englishman so his only hope was a rapid entry and exit.

  His plan was simple: to reach Pointe-à-Pitre in an hour or so and find Louise’s well-remembered house near the waterfront. If there were any of the family Vernou left, that was where they would be. If not, he’d have to think again.

  After he had passed the last house, he breathed a little easier. Lofty palm trees and thick bush lined the road; if he saw or heard anything he could be out of sight in a second. He moved quickly, wryly recalling that this was the self-same road that, years before, Kydd had taken with his party escaping from the capital when it was captured by the revolutionaries.

  The night was cool and the thinning sky overhead allowed him a glimpse of the stars and the comfort of knowing his direction. He caught the glimmer of water to his right: the head of the bay, and it was therefore only about ten minutes to the bridge and the same to the other side to the capital.

  Houses began again, some with lights. He hurried past them, his heart thumping when a dog began a sudden howling and someone came to the door. He froze and after a moment the door banged shut, the dog now barking maniacally.

  It fell silent after he reached the road to the bridge. In French Europe, bridges were often guarded as a matter of course, and it was too dark to see if there was a factionnaire at this one. As quietly as he could he followed the road on to the bridge but his footsteps became a wooden thumping. He pressed on, trying to think of what he would say if stopped.

  He was two-thirds over when he heard some way behind him the creak and grind of a cart. He hurried along, then saw the unmistakable outline of a sentry-box. He stopped in panic and glanced back: the cart had reached the bridge and was beginning to cross it.

  A figure stepped into the road out of the sentry-box and his heart quailed. The man gestured irritably to him but, in a flood of relief, he saw he was motioning him out of the way. No doubt merely the bridge-keeper, making sure farmers paid their dues if they tried to cross at night.

  Renzi mumbled something and pressed on to the streets beyond.

  It had been many years and the darkness made it difficult to recognise where he was.

  A couple passed on the opposite side, talking animatedly.

  Were the Vernous on the north or the south side of the square? A man turned the corner and walked directly towards him. Renzi swayed a little, as though intoxicated, and the man passed wide in distaste.

  Suddenly he recognised an odd wrought-iron pattern of a gate and recalled it was at the corner just up from the house.

  He hurried on and there it was, with a light in the upper-floor bedroom where, long ago, he and Kydd had been quartered. His heart beat fast but he had to play it with the utmost care. He passed by without curious looks, trying to remember what was in the street behind, then recalled it was the grassy path that led to the waterfront, close to where he and Louise had got away in the brig, leaving Kydd alone.

  He doubled back along the path – no one was following. As he drew abreast of the rear of the Vernou residence, he jumped over the low picket fence into the hibiscus bushes and was underneath the little balcony of the bedroom.

  He’d brought to mind the noisy creaking of the rickety steps that led down from it that had made it impossible for himself and Kydd to slip out by themselves. With a last look around he leaped for the underside of the balcony. This was much quieter, but if he was seen, the game would be over.

  He heaved and swung his legs up – they caught and he rolled over the rail, landing on the balcony with a light thump.

  The curtains were drawn and he could not see who was inside. If it was Louise he was safe – if anyone else …

  Taking a deep breath, he tapped lightly. There was no sound from inside so he tried again. Then he heard movement, someone coming to the window. If there was screaming …

  The cu
rtains were drawn back and it was Louise.

  She stared at him, as if at a ghost, then recovered, her key rattling nervously as she unlocked the little door.

  ‘Quickly – come in!’ she hissed, pulling him in bodily. Before she closed the door she looked out carefully, then drew the curtains and turned on him.

  ‘You fool! The Citizen Watch Committee don’t trust me and are out.’

  ‘Louise, you’re safe. I was so worried—’

  ‘For now. I’m followed, watched – this is why I cannot go to your rendezvous.’

  ‘How will you—’

  ‘You must get out – now! There is no secret base here, nothing I have heard or seen in Guadeloupe. You must go, M’sieur Renzi. Go back to your ship while you can.’

  HMS Hannibal did her best. An old lady of a previous war, she had neither the agility nor the deadly grace of the newer 74s and now, matched with them in line-of-battle, she was showing her age.

  The flagship in the van braced up into the wind in breathless pursuit of the mock enemy, the other two astern sharpened in, but it was too much for the second in line. She tried but could not come up to the wind as close as the others and inexorably sagged away to leeward.

  On the quarterdeck her captain turned red and roared murder at the sweating men set to bringing in every last inch on the sheets.

  ‘She’s as high as she’ll go,’ her sailing master mumbled, looking up at the sails, straining hard as boards, the tiniest flutter threatening on every weather leech.

  ‘If I want your opinion, Mr Maitland, I’ll beg it of you,’ Tyrell snarled sarcastically. ‘Until then, hold your tongue, sir!’

  The master retired, his face set.

  ‘Hard in that fore topmast staysail, you vile set o’ lubbers, or I’ll see your backbones, every one, I swear!’ Tyrell bellowed forward, eyeing the flagship, whose starboard side now stretched away in full view as they fell further away from the line.

  On the foredeck the raw acting fifth lieutenant, Mason, tried manfully to obey, his high-pitched voice carrying aft to the sombre group watching on the quarterdeck as he urged on his men. As was the case in so many other stations in a notorious ship unable to attract volunteers, he was short-handed and three men were few enough to put on the soaring triangular staysail.

  Without warning the sail broke free. Flogging out savagely, it sent men sprawling into the scuppers.

  ‘God rot it!’ roared Tyrell. ‘The bloody dogs – can you believe it? They let go the rope!’ he spluttered, beside himself with rage. ‘Hale ’em all aft – every last man jack o’ the lubbers!’

  They shambled up, the white-faced Mason with them.

  ‘It was an accident, sir,’ he began.

  ‘Hold your peace, Mr Mason. I’ll deal with you later.’

  Tyrell stared down at the three men, his face working. ‘I know what you’re up to, you black-hearted rascals! Don’t think I don’t – I’m wise to you! Your little game is to make Hannibal look a shab before the admiral, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sir, it really was—’

  ‘Well, it won’t work, and now you’re going to pay for it.’ The men stared back in bitter resentment, knowing better than to say anything.

  ‘Sir, the sheet carried away. The line was rotten!’ Mason burst in.

  Like a snake, Tyrell rounded on him. ‘You’re dismissed the deck, Mr Mason. Get to my cabin and wait for me there – this instant, sir!’

  No one caught Mason’s eye as he turned stiffly and went below but Bowden saw the glitter of tears of frustration as he went. It was a cruel and unnecessary thing to inflict on the earnest young man and his heart went out to him.

  ‘You three, you’re in irons until tomorrow forenoon and then you’ll be up before me. Failing in your duty, which I daresay will earn you six at the gratings – and another half a dozen for the shame you brought on your ship.’

  Ahead, the flagship had noted Hannibal’s unweatherly clawing and had considerately paid off a little until the line was whole again but it didn’t mollify Tyrell, who stumped about the deck, like a caged beast.

  It was the same throughout the rest of the day, his brooding figure a malignant presence likely to appear silently from behind whenever officers or men were talking together. He did not go below until well into the evening.

  The wardroom was in a black mood – there was little talk and few amused asides. Every officer was suffering: even the ponderous first lieutenant, Griffith, had been subject to a tirade in public for some petty shortcoming and he now kept to himself. Bowden occupied his time quietly, reading when he could, sometimes writing long letters home – careful not to express any criticism to his uncle and guardian, now a rear-admiral.

  It was the unguessable arbitrary nature of their captain that sapped at morale, on one day demanding haste at all costs, then on another furious at the consequent compromises in quality, sometimes cruelly dismissing the efforts men were making for him, and at the next extravagantly rewarding mediocre performance. It made no sense.

  The morning brought with it a heavy tropical downpour. The flagship ahead disappeared in grey-white curtains of solid water and the officer-of-the-watch grew lines of worry, which deepened as they plunged on, blind.

  Tyrell paced up and down the quarterdeck, cocked hat jammed tight sending streams of water down his oilskin. Quite able to leave for a comfortable dry cabin, he remained morosely on deck, occasionally looking up at wet sails trailing sheets of water as they caught the rain.

  Once, he flashed a gleeful grin at the officer-of-the-watch, who jerked with surprise and answered with a weak smile. ‘Get those good men below in the dry, Bowden, there’s a good fellow,’ he ordered, pointing to four sailors forward.

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ Bowden replied, knowing it could well change the rare good mood to a raging tantrum if he objected and pointed out that they were posted in the eye of the ship for the express purpose of warning of collision with the invisible flagship ahead.

  The rain stopped, the decks began steaming under a hot sun, and Tyrell finally went below to change. As soon as he had gone the atmosphere brightened.

  Bowden caught movement out of the corner of his eye, Midshipman Joyce stealthily descending from aloft. He realised what was going on: the young rascal was engaged in the old game of baiting a marine.

  The target was the poop-deck sentry, standing on duty with his musket, motionless and facing inboard. Joyce took out a piece of twine and secured it to the rigging and its other end he ever so carefully tied to the marine’s queue. Mission accomplished, he retired to await results.

  Shortly, from out of the cabin spaces, a genial Tyrell emerged, looking about him with satisfaction.

  The marine on the deck above snapped to attention, keen to show his alertness on duty by the routine of pacing across the deck to take a new position the other side. He shouldered his musket smartly and stepped out.

  The twine tautened – the hapless marine was jerked backwards and crashed down, musket clattering. Disoriented, and on hands and knees, he looked around bewildered for the source of the attack.

  The quarterdeck roared with laughter, Tyrell joining in. Joyce, clearly apprehensive at the possible consequences, gave a relieved smile.

  When order was restored Tyrell ordered crisply, ‘Sar’nt of the watch, lay aft.’

  The beefy soldier reported warily.

  ‘We’ve a younker here doesn’t show sufficient respect to your Royal Marines, Sar’nt. Give him a musket and set him to marching the length o’ the ship, fore and aft, until I say stop.’

  Under the heavy musket the slight midshipman set out in good imitation of a Royal, stiffly swinging his arms and with a professional look of blankness just a trifle overdone. He was encouraged throatily by the sergeant, and shouts of support came as he passed by working seamen along the gangways to the foredeck and the root of the bowsprit, where he stamped around in a creditable ‘about turn’ before marching down the other side.

  Bowden watched wi
th relief. Was their tyrant at last lightening up?

  Time passed and, visibly tiring under the unfamiliar weight of the musket, Joyce was no longer playing to the gallery, now trudging on in a mindless tramp, eyes fixed to the deck in front of him.

  ‘Er, sir,’ Bowden ventured, ‘stand down Mr Joyce? He’s been going for an hour.’

  ‘No.’ There was no compassion of any kind to be seen in his face.

  The spiritless plodding went on – and on. Now there was pity and rough sympathy in the looks from the seamen for it was obvious that Joyce was suffering. He stumbled on doggedly, determined not to give in.

  ‘I’ll be below,’ Tyrell told the officer-of-the-watch and abruptly left.

  Joyce crumpled to the deck.

  Instantly the skylight on the poop opened and Tyrell popped into view, bellowing, ‘The last order was “march”, Mr Joyce! I have you under my eye, and if you stop again, I’ll see you court-martialled for disobeying a direct order.’

  Shocked, the quarterdeck could only look on silently as the lad got to his feet and, with a superhuman effort, thudded the musket down on his shoulder and started off, a nightmarish shamble with staring eyes.

  ‘Send for the doc,’ Bowden whispered to a messenger.

  The surgeon came, a shrivelled individual. ‘That man’s not fit to continue,’ Bowden said in hard tones. ‘Do you not agree, sir?’

  Looking about him fearfully, the surgeon went to Joyce who, in his Calvary, didn’t pause, slogging on endlessly, seemingly in a trance. ‘I, er, cannot see that—’

  ‘What in Hades are you doing there, Surgeon?’ thundered Tyrell, who had shot out on deck.

  ‘Why, um, this man’s—’

  ‘Do you think to interfere with my authority, sir?’

  ‘Er, not at all,’ quavered the man.

  ‘Then get about your business, sir.’

  Bravely the sergeant came up and faced Tyrell. ‘He’s had enough, sir. Can’t you—’

  ‘I’ll not have my orders questioned!’ he roared, to the deck in general. ‘The next man who interferes will be arrested on the spot.’