The Privateer's Revenge Read online

  The lieutenant remained silent.

  “I’ll not have Cerberus think us laggardly in our duty. I’ll trouble ye to fetch y’r instrument. T’ save you the figuring it’ll be six degrees an’ forty-four minutes ye’ll set.” He stared Standish down, and an abashed midshipman was sent below for Standish’s sextant, which, like many officers, he preferred to the more old-fashioned octant.

  Kydd waited until Standish was on the foredeck sighting, then stumped off. As soon as he had gone Standish abandoned the task and returned aft, his face murderous. “Get for ’ard with this, you,” he demanded of Prosser, shoving the sextant at him. “The sooner I’m quit o’ this madness I swear, the better.”

  Mid-afternoon the signal to tack was thrown out from Cerberus, with the amplification that the two would advance in line-abreast by the same distance. Kydd had been expecting this, and from noon had both watches on deck and lines ranged along ready for the manoeuvre. The hoist jerked down—the execute. In frenzied excitement Teazer hauled and braced, spinning about handily under her brig rig full minutes before the frigate, surging ahead in a fluster of foam but quickly finding need to brail her courses and idle until Cerberus had steadied on her new track.

  The waning sun brought with it brisker winds: oceanic westerlies that had a fetch of thousands of miles and a steady pressure that drove unwary sailors staggering across the deck. It was exhilarating sailing—men came from below to watch Teazer take the combers on her bow in a crunch of seas, a dizzying swoop and lift, while out there on their beam to windward was the thrilling picture of a thoroughbred frigate snoring along in a smother of white, close-hauled under a full press of sail.

  Purchet came aft and touched his hat, leaning forward to make himself heard. “She’s like t’ wring her topmasts, sir,” he said respectfully. Aloft, every sail was as taut as a board, thrumming with nervous tension and with edges in a mad flutter. The boatswain crossed to a sheet and thumped it with a closed fist. It was as un-yielding as an iron bar. He looked back significantly.

  Kydd did not speak at first; his gaze went to the topsails, which shivered on the point of going aback where the apprehensive helmsman was luffing up, spilling wind to avert disaster. “Single reef in th’ courses,” he allowed grudgingly.

  Out on their beam the frigate was making splendid sailing, her wake racing past and with only the occasional graceful nod and sway in answer to the lively conditions. Teazer, however, was now taking the seas heavily forward, the straining impulse of her sails sending her into steep oncoming waves with an explosion of white sea and then the shock of a sudden slowing. Courses were double-reefed and topsails to a precautionary single.

  “Signal, sir,” reported a midshipman. Cerberus was visibly pulling ahead. “Our pennant, keep better station!” The flags streamed out high and clear. It was, no doubt, something of a sweet revenge for the frigate captain, for as Teazer struggled to keep up Cerberus increased her lead, all the while keeping the signal flying.

  It was not until dusk, and Teazer floundering miles astern, that the frigate relented and, with a fine show, brought to until the little sloop could come up.

  It had been a fruitless chase, the French long gone and nothing to show.

  When they had cast anchor again in St Peter Port, Kydd had been summoned by Captain Selby to Cerberus; what had been said Renzi did not know, but Kydd had retired immediately to his cabin, ejecting him. As he left, Renzi caught sight of Kydd slumping in his chair, staring unseeingly out of the stern windows.

  Allowing an hour to pass he had returned under some pretence of letters to be signed at the same time as Tysoe, Kydd’s servant, had under his advice brought in wine and left quickly. Kydd said nothing but accepted a glass.

  “A drollery to reflect that Guernsey is undoubtedly the chief supplier to our smuggling fraternity in Cornwall, and here we are to consider them our charges to protect,” Renzi said lightly.

  Kydd stared into his wine.

  “And such a singular part of the realm, I’ve read. The guidebook tells that they still converse in a species of ancient Norman French, which your Parisian would find it a sore puzzle to understand.” He inspected his wine. “A visit ashore should prove most diverting . . .”

  “Go, then.”

  “I had rather hoped for your company in such an interesting place, as we may talk about at a later time.”

  “Understand that I only have th’ one interest— to do my duty, an’ no other!”

  Renzi tried once more. “It might prove restorative to the spirit to accept something of the kindness and hospitality that is undoubtedly on offer to the heroes who defend these shores. To taste something of the delicacies peculiar to these climes—it seems the gâche alone will reward the asking.”

  “I’m stayin’ aboard.” Kydd’s voice was flat and spiritless.

  Standish returned bubbling with tales of St Peter Port and its social attractions; it seemed that, as a colourful landfall, it was fulfilling every expectation.

  Renzi was sorely tempted: what he had read so far in the guidebook had been explicit about the remarkable differences in social attributes to be experienced on the island neither a colony nor a contiguous moiety of either England or France. They were stationed here, true, but for how long? Better to snatch a glimpse now.

  It was not hard to conceive of an excuse that must take him ashore, two papers needed the signature of the civil authority, and soon he was in Teazer’s boat heading for St Peter Port, the town above the enfolding arms of a north and south pier set about a tidal harbour.

  The shore rose steeply behind, buildings crowding along irregular streets, and directly at the fore, a long and busy waterfront lined with tall warehouses that took in goods directly from the ships alongside. The port was remarkably busy, the flags of a dozen nations visible from the many ships now settling on the mud. This was no maritime backwater.

  He was left at North Pier and, remembering the directions he had been given, pushed past the noisy porters and wharfingers and squeezed up the narrow passages between the buildings to emerge on the main street.

  He looked about. Here was a quality of building that would not disgrace Bath or Weymouth. The shops of a perfumier, a stay-maker and an importer of carpets from London, all evidence of a level of society on the tiny island that was no stranger to wealth, a diverting ethnographical study. Was it purely economics at the root of their success or was it true there were other aspects to their culture?

  High Street was choked with people, carts and carriages in rowdy contention. He found his way to Smith Street, a steep road that led him up to quite another purlieu: imposing new buildings that looked out above the hurly-burly of the town to the sweeping prospect of the harbour, castle islet and distant islands.

  He found the government offices easily enough and it took minutes only to complete his duty, but as he wandered back down to High Street and its lively crowds he felt reluctant to return to Teazer straight away. He decided to walk the length of the thoroughfare, revelling in the riotous sounds and smells after so long in the small ship with its bleak atmosphere. At the end was a church and, beyond, a rookery of decaying medieval houses crowded on the steep slopes above boatyards on the strand.

  He turned to go back; but on noticing a raised level with the crush and animation of a market, he was drawn irresistibly to the cheerful din. At the far end was a noble arch, and to the right a stone building with, in the upper storey, the unmistakable lofty windows of an assembly hall.

  Renzi crossed to admire it; on the end wall there were posters, theatre notices and, to one side, a beautifully handwritten one. He bent to read: “The Cists and Dolmens of Ancient Sarnia newly considered. A public lecture to be given at the Royal College of Elizabeth . . . Revd Dr Carey, MA Oxon etc., etc. . . .”

  Dolmens! Of course! Were these in any way related to the cromlechs of Brittany? What manner of mysterious peoples had created those great stone monoliths? Had their civilisation wilted and crumbled from the immense ef
fort—or had they failed to meet some overwhelming economic challenge and subsequently disappeared from the face of the earth?

  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 . . .”

  CHAPTER 3

  AS 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.