The Privateer's Revenge Read online

  “Thank you, Mr Jessop. That has been most helpful. Good day to you, sir.”

  So there could be little doubt that Kydd’s forged “secret orders” had not originated from Lockwood. Therefore it must have been effected locally.

  Renzi fought down his weariness and concentrated on a careful review of the procedure: he himself had signed for the orders but not sighted them, locking them away in the confidential drawer for the captain’s later attention. When Kydd had opened them he recalled that the outer, normal orders had been in a packet as usual, only the secret orders sealed. He did not recall anything singular about the seal.

  Surely they could not have been falsely planted in Teazer —there had been no signs of a lock forced and, in any case, the idea of any getting past Tysoe for access to Kydd’s inner cabin was ludicrous. Therefore the false orders must have been inserted prior to their delivery to Teazer .

  They had been brought in the usual fashion from the commander-in-chief’s office by Prosser, the master’s mate, who had signed for them properly. He had presumably then returned without delay in the boat to hand them over.

  If at the flag office there had been no secret orders and in Teazer there were—there could be only one conclusion: that Prosser had himself inserted them or knew of the act.

  Prosser! But what possible motivation could he have had for the deed? Vain, insensitive and no leader of men, he was much more likely to have been led by another. Standish? There was no way of telling. Prosser would never risk his career in admitting anything—he had now his acting lieutenancy. And the principal in the affair would have ensured that all tracks had been been well and truly covered.

  It was unfortunate but there was no way forward. As a failed commander Kydd would therefore be for ever under a cloud and—A wave of rage roared through Renzi, shaking him with its intensity. It moved him, as nothing else had, that the gross world of deceit and treachery had reached out and touched his friend.

  Renzi knew that unless he did something he would . . . but then . . . he realised he could.

  The devil that was in him spoke seductively through the storm, plotting a course of action that in its very symmetry was beguiling and deeply satisfying. If the virtuous were to be brought low by an immoral and felonious act, then the wicked should be likewise: in one stroke he could turn the world he despised against itself and at the same time achieve justice for Kydd at last.

  Feverishly he assembled a plan. He would need accomplices who wouldn’t talk—with his inside knowledge of the shadow world of spies and assassins that would be easy. Vipère and Hyène would now be available; he brought to mind their saturnine, grave-robbing features. Yes, they would do admirably.

  Next, a suitable location. What better than the old sail-loft in which Kydd had spent so much time recently? Excellent. Then let the game commence . . .

  • • •

  Sitting at the single table in the dank and empty space, Renzi trimmed the one candle. It shone up with a trembling flame illuminating his face from below with a malevolent gleam. The table was bare, save an open razor in the centre.

  He waited calmly. At the appointed hour there was a scuffle outside; a struggling body was forced within and flung to the ground before him, the pinioned arms splayed immovably sideways, the gagged and blindfolded head desperately turning this way and that.

  The struggles eventually ceased and Renzi nodded; first the gag and then the blindfold were removed and a terrified Prosser looked about wildly. He tried to rise but was held down. “For God’s sake, Renzi, what’s happening?” he choked out.

  Renzi watched him writhe. He had no pity for the man’s ordeal, called from the warmth of the Mermaid Club on a pretext, then rapidly bundled away blindfolded into the night.

  “What’re they doing?” Prosser shouted, terror rising. Vipère cuffed him to silence.

  Renzi contemplated the creature who had brought Kydd down and who was now trembling uncontrollably, his eyes staring at Renzi’s cruel mask of a face.

  “You played Mr Kydd false with your poisonous secret orders. You’ll tell me why.”

  “I—I didn’t do it! It wasn’t me, I swear!”

  Icy anger seized Renzi. “I’ve the blood of far better men than you on my hands,” he snarled, with the conviction of perfect truth. “Yours will not cost me a moment’s pause.” He was shaking now at the sudden insight that he really meant it. His hand slid to the razor and, picking it up slowly, he tested its edge.

  “You—you’re mad!” Prosser gasped, hypnotised by the weapon’s gleaming menace.

  Renzi rose suddenly, shifting his grip on the razor to a workman-like underhand. The two others yanked Prosser’s head back by the hair.

  “No!” Prosser screamed. “I beg you!”

  Renzi paused and the man fell limply. “H-how did you know?” he said weakly. “He said no one would ever discover us.”

  It all came out. Such a simple, foolish act, conceived in jealousy and hatred but with such consequences—it had been Carthew. When he had seen his position as senior commander and favourite threatened by Kydd, and aware of Saumarez’s strict moral code, he had bribed a smuggler to land the chest and persuaded Prosser to tamper with the orders.

  There had been no one else. Carthew had promised Prosser that on this remote station Standish would get the ship and he himself would achieve his long-sought lieutenancy. He had been right— and, but for Renzi, he would certainly have got away with it.

  But Renzi could see no path forward. Without evidence, without witnesses, there would be no happy ending. In lieu, should he put an end to this reptile’s life? He moved forward—Prosser shrieked as the razor went straight to his throat. It stayed poised while a tiny nick beneath exuded a trail of scarlet. “Your life is now forfeit,” Renzi said levelly. “My dearest friend has been ruined by your acts. Can you give me any reason why I should not end it?”

  He waited for the hysterical babble to trail off, having discovered to his intense satisfaction that Prosser had not trusted Carthew and had stealthily retrieved the actual secret orders, which he still had in his possession.

  Renzi pretended to ponder. “I see—to be produced in court at the proper time.” He reflected further. “You will observe,” he said, as though to a lecture audience, “how trivial a task it has been for one in my position to arrange the abduction and death of any I choose. Should you fall in with my demands you may yet escape with your life—but if you fail me I will give orders that will find you out wherever you are and extinguish your miserable existence. Do you understand?”

  “Y-yes, Mr Renzi.”

  “Then this is what you shall do. First bring the orders to me, with your written confession. Afterwards you shall stand up and testify against Carthew—and only then will you stand quite discharged of your obligations. This is now your choice, sir. How will you proceed?”

  “I—I’ll do it, Mr Renzi. Whoever you are . . .”

  It had been a stiff walk out of town, up by Elizabeth College to Grange Road, and a little farther to the Kydd residence, a fine house with many rooms set back discreetly from the road. He passed the gardener, who touched his hat to him as he reached the ornate front door and found the bell pull.

  A bewigged footman regarded him disdainfully. “Sir?” Fighting down a sense of unreality he said, “I’m Nicholas Renzi. I saw that Mr Kydd’s ship is now in port. Is he at home at all?” He had seen the wicked black lines of the privateer schooner as she had returned to a joyous welcome on the quayside but, for some reason, had refrained from joining the crowds.

  The footman seemed unimpressed and held out his hand.

  “Oh, er, I have no visiting card on my person,” Renzi said uncomfortably, “but I assure you I am his good friend and sanguine he will offer me welcome.”

  He was shown into a receiving room adjacent to the door by the disapproving flunkey. Renzi settled into a comfortable chair and picked up a Gentleman’s Magazine to avoid gaping at the splendours of decoration to
hand.

  It was hard to believe that this was now the residence and home of the young, credulous quartermaster’s mate who had sailed with him in Artemis frigate on her legendary voyage round the world; the master’s mate who had stood with the seamen in the great Nore mutiny, then spurned an admiral’s daughter for a country lass at ruinous social cost.

  Kydd’s sea sense had made him a natural predator and he was clearly reaping its rich rewards. Three voyages now. He was a figure of admiration in an island with a long history of privateering and could command the fawning attention of any he chose—and this was only the beginning.

  Had it altered him? Was the open-hearted sailor now a hard-nosed businessman? When each cruise was adding massively to his private fortune, would he deign to go back to life in a humble sloop like Teazer? The more Renzi thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed.

  Most of all, a gulf now separated them that could not have been greater: Kydd had found himself and would go on to great things, while he could only dream of achieving something in the philosophical line, not a path likely to lead to such riches.

  With a sudden stab he realised as well that, as Kydd and his family rose in the world, Cecilia might be placed for ever beyond his reach. His despondency turned to fear.

  The gritty rolling of wheels outside told him that soon he would know the worst. Sitting quite still, his pulse quickening, he heard the cries of an ostler and the jingling of harness—then a deeper voice of authority, probably the major-domo greeting his master: “A pleasant voyage, sir?”

  Then the blessed sound of Kydd’s hearty voice: “Not s’ pleasant, but a mort profitable, I’d have t’ say.”

  “Oh, er, there’s a gentleman in the receiving room,” the voice went on. “He gave no card but claims to be an acquaintance of yours. Will you see him or . . . ?”

  “He gave a name?”

  “Well, yes, sir—a Mr Rancy, sir.”

  “Renzi!” The door burst open—and Kydd stood there, utter delight on his face. “Nicholas!” he cried. “Ye’re here!”

  Renzi stood slowly. “Yes, dear fellow, as you have rightly perceived, I am indeed here,” he said, eyes smarting.

  Kydd advanced impulsively and hugged his friend. Then, frowning, he held him at arm’s length. “That rogue the prince o’ whatever—why, he’s been working ye half t’ death. Still, no need f’r that kind o’ thing any more, Nicholas. We’re rich!”

  While Renzi was digesting the “we,” Kydd turned on the major-domo. “Rouse up th’ hands!” he roared. “We’re t’ have a right true welcome home t’ two heroes o’ the sea!”

  They moved to the more august surroundings of the spacious drawing room, and Renzi noted how confidently Kydd moved about the sumptuous furnishings. Soon, fortified by a fine brandy, the two friends were slipping back into their old familiarity.

  “Then do I take it that your recent voyage might be accounted successful, brother?”

  “Aye,” Kydd said, with relish. “One who thought t’ go a-tradin’ with th’ French colonies—a right Tartar but no match f’r the Witch, o’ course.”

  “So now you have taken the character of a man of means, not to say wealth.”

  “Oh, this pile, y’ think so? It’s on a very favourable lease fr’m a Mr Vauvert, rich cove who’s done well out o’ investin’ in m’ cruises.”

  “Then this bounteous cornucopia might be said sufficient for your plans now to go afoot.”

  “Ah—the plans. Nicholas, I’ve had time t’ think about it. It wasn’t really much of a plan t’ conceive they’ll put ’emselves up against th’ law just f’r a few guineas. Foolish t’ believe so, don’t y’ think?”

  “I’d be obliged to agree, dear fellow. But what if we could find some other way to right this grievous wrong done to you?”

  “Y’ mean, lay out the gold t’ hire a flash London lawyer as will see me right? No, Nicholas, without we have th’ evidence t’ show him it just won’t fadge.”

  “Perhaps then we could find a denizen of the demi-world, an abandoned creature not noted for the delicacy of his morals who would follow the trail wheresoever it led. But who would know such a person?”

  “Nicholas!” Kydd exclaimed, scandalised. “I’ll not have dealings wi’ such. It’s not the place f’r a gentleman, as you y’self tells me!” he said with heat. Hesitating, he conceded reluctantly, “So it seems I’ll have t’ face it. There’s no way forward. This is m’ lot in life, an’ if I’m t’ be truthful then it’s t’ say that it’s not so hard, an’ I’m still fightin’ the King’s enemies—in a private way, o’ course.”

  “Umm. Well, do tell me, for my interest, if it were in any wise made possible that at some future date the vile act is exposed and the malefactors brought to a reckoning, would you still desire to set yourself on Teazer’s quarterdeck again? To give away the carefree life of a corsair for the stern duties of the Navy?”

  Puzzled, Kydd blinked. “Why, o’ course! Why else would I . . . ? Ah, I see—ye’re flamming me! Well, Nicholas, let me say ye can be sure that if I c’n think of another plan as’ll smoke ’em out, well, I’ll do it with all m’ heart.”

  Renzi paused. A half-smile spread as he felt about inside his waistcoat. “Well, now, if you’re ever to be a commander again we’ll have to find a way to deal with these.” Slowly he withdrew a small sheaf of papers.

  Unfolding the top one and holding it up, he asked innocently, “Oh, er, do you recognise this at all?”

  “My God! Th’ secret orders! Where did you . . . ?”

  “From the knave who deliberately inserted them into your lawful orders.”

  “Who?”

  “As instructed by another, who most ardently wished for your ruin.”

  “Who, damn it, Nicholas? Was it Lockwood?” Kydd blazed.

  “Prosser.”

  Kydd slumped in amazement. “That—that gib-faced shicer? In God’s name, why?”

  “To achieve his step as an officer.”

  “An’ who was th’ other?”

  “The principal was Carthew. In a fit of jealous rage he paid a smuggler to land the chest and used Prosser to falsify your orders. Simple, really.”

  Kydd shook his head in wonder. “That any should be s’ low.” He turned to Renzi. “Nicholas, how did ye . . . ?”

  “Oh, merely the application of common logic, and when I enquired it of him he most readily admitted the act. You will find his written confession here, the name of the smuggler, and as well he has agreed to testify against Carthew.”

  Speechless, Kydd could only gaze at him in admiration. “Then— then this means . . .”

  “It is over, dear friend. With this evidence your reinstatement will be a matter of formality only, and remembering the particular kindness Sir James Saumarez had for you, I would not be in the least surprised to find him especially anxious to make up in some handsome way for what you have suffered.” Stretching out lazily, he continued, “And from henceforth your new fortune will set you in the first rank of society, never more to concern yourself with trifles as we mortals must. Not forgetting that your means now will bring you influence and power, perhaps a seat in parliament? It were folly for the Admiralty to ignore such a one.”

  Kydd listened quietly, then grinned. “O’ course, Nicholas, if life in a pawky brig-sloop doesn’t please ye any more, I shall have t’ find a new clerk . . .”

  It took another brandy before conversation could resume.

  With a triumphant flourish Kydd waved the evidence in the air. “Who’d have thought it? I hold in m’ hands just a few squiddy papers, but they’re enough t’ see me back in command o’ dear Teazer!” His eyes shone.

  “And a nemesis for the wrongdoer!” Renzi added.

  “Aye,” Kydd said, his voice hardening. “Carthew doesn’t know it yet but he’s found out, an’ I’m about t’ choke his luff with this’n! I’ll now have my revenge on him, th’ dog!”

  Renzi gave a saintly smile. “A court-martial and dismiss
al with disgrace from His Majesty’s Navy, scorn and contempt at all levels and no hope whatsoever of being received by polite society ever again. And, of course, little prospect of employment by any who value probity in character.”

  The smile grew wider. “If, of course, you wish to cast him into damages then you must add penury to his suffering.”

  “Enough!” Kydd rose to his feet. “I’m goin’ t’ Saumarez— now!”

  Renzi gave a little laugh, which he tried to smother.

  “What?” Kydd grated.

  “Oh, nothing. Just the irony of a privateer’s revenge setting a right true sea officer back into His Majesty’s Service.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  THE ANCIENT CASTLE OF MONT ORGUEIL still lies at the head of Gorey Bay in Jersey. The curious may wish to visit and pace the stone floors of the rooms from which Commodore (later Admiral) Philippe d’Auvergne ran La Correspondance in those desperate days two hundred years ago. They might then desire to mount the old battlements for the thrilling view of the coast of France, as countless sentries and others have done over the centuries since Good Queen Bess. I would recommend the trip; there have been few of my research locations that have proved so little changed and so genuinely atmospheric.

  In fact the Channel Islands are fascinating indeed. St Peter Port is rightly said to be as prime a Georgian city as Bath or Weymouth, and a brisk walk up Grange Road will allow the interested to view the splendours of the residences built by successful privateers and grand merchants. The original harbour remains, but within the embrace of a much larger modern edifice; however the fearful sea hazards of dizzying tidal currents and the maze of submerged rocks still have the power to chill.

  For the inhabitants of the Norman Isles, as fiercely in ­ dependent as ever, the loyal toast will always be to the Duke of Normandy. They revere those who have loomed large in their thousand-year history, perhaps none more than Admiral Sir James Saumarez, a grave figure whose integrity and sensitivity ensured that he would always stand in the shadow of other, more colourful commanders. I was gratified to learn recently that there are plans for his memorial, dynamited by the German army, to be restored.