The Privateer's Revenge Read online

  They rounded a small point of land—and there was a boat, ready afloat and bows to sea. Renzi’s relief nearly overwhelmed him and it took his last ounce of strength to reach it. “You waited!” he panted wildly to Jacot.

  The man looked puzzled. “Why, in course I wants th’ other half o’ me money, Mr Giramondo.”

  Almost spent with emotion Renzi urged the woman, “Quickly, into the boat!”

  “No.” She wept. “I stay with Henri.”

  “Get in.” Jacot pulled Renzi aboard. “We has t’ leave now, Mr Giramondo.” When Renzi looked back, no one was there.

  Kydd sent Gostling as prize-master of the Martinico-man; an English port was only several days’ easy sail to leeward. The mood aboard was exultant but Kydd knew they had been lucky—the next could well be hard-fought and he insisted on serious practice with cutlass, pike and musket, a difficult task on a pitching deck.

  Flores, the farthest flung of the Azores, was raised as planned, the distant blue-grey peak of Morro Alto reminding him of other times. Having arrived it would now be nothing but hard work; searching, waiting, lurking—Kydd had chosen the area because he knew that merchant masters, at this time of the year, from both the East Indies and the Caribbean, converged north of the island group to pick up the reliable south-westerly trade winds to speed them into Europe.

  On the other hand, without fighting-tops his single lookout in their tiny crow’s-nest on the foremast would have a height-ofeye of only some forty feet, say seven miles to the horizon. Any number of ships at that very moment were certain to be passing either side as they sailed, perhaps only a dozen miles or so away, perfectly hidden.

  “Keep y’r eyes open there!” he roared up at the lookout. He had impressed on them time and again that a prize could appear from anywhere—ahead or just as easily approaching from the beam or even crossing astern.

  The day ended quietly, and night saw them lasking along under easy sail. Soon after midnight the overcast cleared and a fat, gibbous moon rose. By morning the weather was near balmy with bright sunlight and a glittering sea.

  So far south the temperatures were more than tolerable and Kydd was enjoying the utter contentment of flying-fish weather in a well-found craft, knowing that even if the rest of the voyage proved fruitless he had cleared the costs and, judging from Cheslyn’s comments, probably produced some return into the bargain.

  The ship fell into routine, far from naval in its details but as comprehensive as Kydd could make it in the circumstances, chief of which was practice with weapons.

  In another four days they had reached the limits of their beat across the tracks of homeward-bound vessels and put about for the slant to the south-west. Unusually the weather calmed until they found themselves ghosting along in a glaring sea, a luminous band of white concealing where water met sky.

  The sun grew higher and warmer. On the bow the mist burned off and there, revealed for all to see, was a ship. Incredulous yells broke out as its delicate image took form. They were sighted in turn, the vessel’s masts coming together, then separating as it put down its helm and made off as fast as it could.

  It had gone into a quartering run to allow its square sails to fill to best advantage and, in the light airs, the Witch was finding it a hard chase. No colours or any indication of origin was visible and the angle of the ship made identification impossible. Their own flag would be difficult to make out, end on as it would be.

  As noon passed the situation changed: an afternoon breeze strengthened and the schooner picked up speed over the deep blue of the sea. Within an hour white horses were studding the seascape and, their prey encumbered with cargo, eventual success was assured.

  “Larb’d side, do y’ think, Mr Cheslyn?” Kydd said amiably. He had closed up his crew to quarters, the small gun-crews at the six-pounders, the rest flinting pistols and edging cutlasses—no martial thunder of drums or bravely waving pennons, simply hard-faced men making ready for a fight.

  The anticlimax when it came was cruel. As they fore-reached on the sea-worn ship there was sudden activity among the few on her afterdeck and her topsail sheets were let fly as English colours soared up into her rigging.

  Rosco recognised the ship. “Bristol Pride, or I’m a Dutchman. Trades wi’ Nova Scotia an’ the West Country in dried cod an’ colonial goods. Reg’lar as clockwork an’ this must be her last voyage o’ th’ season.”

  The Witch of Sarnia ranged alongside and the Canadian twang of the master floated over the water to confirm that they were indeed on passage from Halifax to Falmouth with such a freighting. Kydd waved and hailed back suitably, aware that the black schooner hissing along so close to them must make a handsome showing.

  Nevertheless, this was no prey for the Witch . “Sheer off,” he ordered the helm.

  “Mr Kydd!” Calloway called urgently, racing up to him.

  “Wha—?”

  “There, sir!” He pointed vigorously below the Bristol Pride’s bowsprit. The buckler, a blanking piece inserted in the hawse while at sea, had been knocked out and an arm was protruding from the hole, frantically jerking a white shirt.

  After a split second’s incomprehension Kydd bellowed, “Stand to!” at the boarders. “Mr Perchard, a shot afore his bow!”

  But they had no stomach for a fight against the numbers that the Witch of Sarnia could muster and Kydd quickly found himself in delighted possession of a French prize of three days before. Her English crew, confined to the fo’c’sle, had found means to alert them and now the bilingual Québecois master and his prize-crew were themselves prisoners.

  “Some happy sailors going home t’ England,” Calloway said mournfully, as they bade farewell to Bristol Pride, “but no prize f’r us, is she, Mr Kydd?”

  “No prize,” agreed Kydd, then broke into a fierce grin. “But for us there’s th’ salvage on recapture. One sixth o’ th’ entire value an’ no questions asked.”

  This was a time for celebration—and relief—for Kydd had needed to demonstrate faith in himself before the investors and had commuted his entire pay for the voyage into shares, which would accrue to his account if, and only if, the voyage was successful.

  The length and breadth of the privateer fell quiet as every man figured his own reward. And Kydd now saw his position in the world transformed: even if they met with no more good luck, he had not only cleared expenses but was well on the way to being far better off than at any other time in his life.

  It was astonishing how quickly the balance sheet could change. A cargo ship could carry the equivalent of the complete stock of hundreds of shops, and as prize law conveyed the entire ship and cargo to the captor they were in the same position as a prosperous merchant without the need for capital. It was an intoxicating thought.

  But it could all be lost—and in a single day. Should Kydd’s examination and sending in of a vessel be successfully challenged and he be cast into damages, then the consequences would be grave: a naval officer had a form of compensation but not a privateer captain.

  Then there were the fortunes of war: it was foolish to believe that only merchant shipping was abroad. Sooner or later a vengeful warship might loom and predator would become prey—Bonaparte was incensed at the onslaught of privateers on France’s vital trade and was showing no mercy to those who fell into his hands.

  And his prizes. Would they arrive safely in an English port or in turn be recaptured, as Bristol Pride had been? That would put everything back to nothing and be a total ruination of their hopes and hard-won gains.

  Kydd returned to his cabin. Like a pendulum, his mood changed from awe and delight to despondency. Then the gleeful chatter from his cabin boy, as the place was fussily tidied, restored the balance and he turned his mind to the practicalities of the voyage.

  Some ten days of provisioning remained and with only one prize-crew away every reason to press on. Kydd and Cheslyn consulted the charts against the prevailing late-season winds and decided on six days north of the Azores and four south bef
ore making for home.

  The weather was good, but the sport was not. Day after day in blue seas and trade winds and never a sighting. Could it be because now was the season of hurricanes?

  D’Auvergne was solicitous when Renzi returned but the strain was showing in the lines of his face. Date and places duly came; Henri had survived the incident but there was no mention of the fate of any other.

  Renzi threw himself into the work. The place of embarkation agreed on, it was possible to assess from the depths of water the size of ship they could use. Bonaparte and his gaol-keepers would be a sizeable party, and while bulwarks would have to be low, deck space was vital.

  Word came that Querelle, the final link with Brittany, was in hiding six miles out of Paris. Georges had the keys of the citadel— his plot was manifestly coming together. Reliant on couriers for their news, however, Renzi and d’Auvergne could only await its unfolding.

  The indomitable Pichegru was smuggled into the capital and concealed close by the barracks. Others converged on Paris, and within a city in a fever of rumour, Napoleon was said to have secret police reports brought to him in bed as soon as he awoke.

  From somewhere deep in the Normandy countryside Henri sent advice that the tenuous line of escape that linked Paris to the coast was complete. Horses were staged ready, parties of soldiers set to delay pursuits. It was the last act.

  D’Auvergne alerted his commander-in-chief; for security reasons the time and place of Napoleon’s embarkation were not given out to the fleet, but Saumarez promised that, within a bracket of time, the Navy would be conducting live exercises at that precise spot, brig-sloops inshore, frigates in depth.

  The day dawned: a crystal clear winter’s morning like any other, the French coast the same iron-grey granite the other side of a cold sea. The hours passed: when Renzi and d’Auvergne sat down at last to dinner, tired and overwrought, they ate without conversation.

  At the end of the meal they raised a glass in silent tribute to the men who were undoubtedly at that moment engaged in mortal struggle in Paris and those who would be stretched out in a desperate gallop towards them.

  “I should think it time now . . .” Renzi said thickly. He got to his feet; d’Auvergne stood up and stretched out his hand. Renzi grasped it, neither man able to find words. Abruptly, Renzi left to bring back Napoleon Bonaparte.

  Every vessel was in position. Discreet light signals were exchanged with the shore and Renzi’s vessel closed slowly with the coast. It was a tricky task in seamanship, the flat beach selected ideal for carriages but a tidal trap. Kedge anchors were prudently laid to seaward for if they were to ground on the sand as the tide went out . . .

  And they waited. Arrival had been timed for early dark but there was still no sign from the interior. Hours passed and men grew edgy and anxious for they were vulnerable from sea and shore.

  Midnight approached; the plan called for tight timing and this was an ominous sign.

  In the long early hours the tide rose again, and in the deathly silence an hour before dawn, they were close enough to hear shouts and disorder carrying in the stillness. The commotion grew nearer and Renzi knew it could have only one meaning.

  With desperate sadness he watched running figures burst from the trees, hurling themselves into the shallows towards the waiting ships. The first made it and were hauled up while others, so pitifully few, broke for safety and followed. “It’s Georges—he’s been taken,” gulped one. “We’re betrayed—that vermin Querelle turned informer. It’s all over for us—finished.”

  The Witch of Sarnia passed Flores once more and continued south. After barely a day they sighted something in the west: a tiny blob of white on the rim of the world, a sail. At first blinking in and out of existence, then keeping steady, it seized the attention of every soul. They altered towards it instantly, knowing they had the advantage that as their sails were edge on to the other ship their sighting would be delayed.

  Then more and more sail came into view. “A convoy,” Cheslyn grunted. “But whose?”

  Kydd held his telescope steady and tried to make out clues. Anonymous merchant shipping—blue-water vessels certainly. There was a frigate in the van; a large one, possibly of 32 guns, no colours. He swung back to the merchantmen. Nothing remarkable; if they had been closer he would see identifying vanes at their mastheads, numbers in white on their stern quarters.

  He began counting the ships—six, eight . . . and that was all. This was very likely not a British convoy; it was a telling comment on his nation’s primacy at sea that convoys of sixty or a hundred ships were more the rule.

  “Johnny Crapaud,” he said crisply, and while the Witch closed with the distant ships he took in the situation. They were running before the south-westerly directly towards the French coast, over a week away. The frigate was protectively at their head and far too formidable even to think of engaging, but if anything happened to it he could take his pick of the brood.

  “We stay with th’ convoy,” he told Cheslyn.

  Easing sheets he allowed the ships to advance on him, edging round as the frigate pointedly took position between the privateer and the convoy and shortened sail, allowing its charges to sail on steadily until they were all past, while still remaining between the Witch and her intended victims.

  This was exactly what Kydd would have done in the circumstances. They were now astern of the convoy, which was downwind of them, but between them and any prize was the impossible menace of the heavy frigate.

  The convoy ploughed on, the frigate on guard and immovably positioned astern. Experimentally Kydd allowed the schooner to ease round the rear of the convoy and begin dropping down towards the van but there was no advantage whatsoever to their fore-and-aft rig in this point of sailing and the frigate kept effortlessly with them.

  Kydd eased away and the convoy moved ahead again, the frigate keeping pace with the Witch as though on wires. Eventually they took their place astern of the convoy once more and it was time to think again.

  Aboard every one of those ships there would be fear of the privateer dogging them but Kydd could not see how to move against them. He could go tearing downwind to fall on one of the leading vessels but well before he could secure his victim the frigate would be upon him.

  On the other hand his advantage of better sailing into the wind was of no use, for the frigate was already on the windward edge of the convoy and perfectly positioned to go to the aid of any as they were all to leeward and in a direct line of sailing.

  There was no easy answer. They were only a few days off retiring from the area so perhaps he must let them go—but any accident aboard one of the vessels would make it fall out of line and then it would be theirs; or at night some inexperienced master might lose the convoy and in morning light be found alone on the ocean.

  So he would follow in their wake ready to snap up stragglers, like a wolf prowling about a flock of frightened sheep, waiting to catch them off-guard.

  They stayed with it through the afternoon and evening. As dusk drew in the frigate, having nothing to fear from revealing her position, hung two lanthorns along the foreyard, three along the main, and settled comfortably in the centre of the two columns of four ships where all might see and be comforted by the bright lights.

  There would be no lost sheep, it seemed. The night passed, and the day following, with not the slightest false move by the frigate, which stayed in perfect station between the Witch and the ships huddling together. It was a masterly textbook defence and Kydd wryly honoured the unknown captain.

  Two more days went by. They were now approaching France, heading probably to a port south of Brest, possibly Nantes or La Rochelle. Still the skilled blocking. But this course was not altogether out of their way and Kydd would stay with them until the last moment, then head for home.

  Meanwhile he would take the opportunity to circumnavigate the convoy slowly, taking in details of each ship and making a hypothetical choice of which he would choose as victim. Speculatio
n passed round Witch as to their qualities and value, but still the frigate kept careful watch and ward.

  As they drew nearer the coast they saw various craft, mainly local traders scuttling from port to port and occasionally a larger vessel. Then, with France a low blue-grey smudge ahead at last, everything changed with the sighting of a single vessel closer in-shore: not a particularly large ship, a brig, but purposefully beating out towards them.

  It posed a dilemma for the frigate captain: Should he abandon his position to windward of the convoy and stand away to intercept the possible threat or remain? If the brig was a warship and hostile it was much more of a threat than the Witch, but if he went to meet it and Kydd struck, he would have to claw back against the wind to come to the rescue.

  Kydd watched developments keenly. Soon it became clear that the brig was a man-o’-war, a Royal Navy sloop of the type that was carrying the fight to the enemy in such numbers, come out to try its steel, wheeling about the head of the advancing ships in an arrogant show of inspection. It was too much for the frigate, which loosed sail and charged through the convoy towards the interloper.

  An electric thrill whipped through Kydd: at last, here was his chance. A cooler voice intervened to point out that if he was caught with half his men on an enemy deck by the returning frigate the Witch of Sarnia would be blasted out of the water in a single vengeful broadside.

  Eight ships. Three or four miles of sea. Was there time to fall on one of the convoy in a wild boarding, seize and sail off with it before the frigate could reach them? All the crew had to do was to put up a stout enough fight to delay matters and they would be saved. It would be a hard and bloody affair. And he had seconds to decide.

  At the frigate’s decisive move the sloop had kept its distance and was warily stepping away from confrontation. Kydd’s instinct was to secure co-operation from the unknown captain and tackle the problem as a team, but a proud navy commander would never stoop to joining with a privateer.