The Privateer's Revenge Read online

  “Tell me, your service history is sparse in its detail—you were at the Nile, were you not?”

  “Sir. Fifth of Tenacious .”

  “Come, come, sir! You are much too coy. I happen to know that you were out in the boats when L’Orient blew up. That must have been such a fearful sight close to. Did you suffer much on your own account?”

  “No, sir. I had th’ boat’s crew under coats an’ sails. Th’ big wreckage went over th’ top of us.”

  Saumarez waited but Kydd did not elaborate. “And this is how you won your step to commander?”

  “No, sir. That was later, just before th’ peace.” He resumed his meal.

  Saumarez threw an amused look of resignation at his wife, who simpered encouragement at Kydd. “Who placed you on your own quarterdeck?”

  “It was Adm’ral Keith, sir.”

  “For a fine action, no doubt.”

  “Off Toulon, Captain Rowley desired I be removed fr’m his ship, sir, an’ so Adm’ral Keith sent me t’ Malta to commission a new brig jus’ built.”

  Saumarez sat back in amazement. “Well—’pon my soul! For an officer of record you are a quiet one. Have you any family?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Ah, well, then, perhaps you should. There is nothing on this earth to compare with the love of a good woman to set the cares of the world to naught.” His warm look at his wife was returned with an affection that was as tender as it was private. He turned back to Kydd. “May we know if you have any hopes at all—in the connubial sense, I mean?”

  Kydd sat rigid and unspeaking.

  Saumarez went on, “Sea officers, I fear, are so much at a disadvantage when it comes to affairs of the heart. I remember once when . . .” Then his words trailed off and astonishment was replaced by dismay as tears coursed down Kydd’s face. Lady Saumarez stared open-mouthed.

  Saumarez jumped up, stupefied by the sight but caught himself quickly. “Er, my dear, Commander Kydd is, um—and will be retiring with me to the red drawing room—for brandy, that is.”

  He hurried round the table, helped Kydd to his feet and led him into a large room with a cheerful fire. “Now, what is this, sir?” Saumarez asked, in a kindly tone.

  “I—I can only apologise f’r m’ conduct, s-sir,” Kydd choked. “Y’see, I’ve—I’ve just this month lost m’ intended t’ drowning—” He fought down the tears and added stiffly, “If you desire, sir, I shall leave y’ house immediately, o’ course.”

  “Good heavens, no. I had no idea—here, you shall have a good brandy directly.” He hurried to the decanter. “It’s one of the faults of our modern society that a man cannot in any wight allow his feelings to display. Do sit, sir—my wife will fully understand when I tell her of your sad loss.”

  “Sir.”

  “It will, of course, be a grievous ordeal for you, but remember that for those who trust in the Lord’s goodness it will be seen that there is a reason, however hard it is to apprehend at this time.” He drew his chair closer and confided, “You will perhaps not at this point easily entertain the notion, but it has been said that my nature is one that in its sensitivity might more readily be seen in a man of the cloth. I can assure you that any distress in my fellow creature I do feel for myself.” He touched Kydd’s arm lightly. “Therefore I trust you will not take it amiss when I offer my advice. It is that you do seek the humanity and warmth of your fellow man in the healing—the well-springs of charity are deep, and within us all.”

  Kydd’s expression did not change.

  “I’m only too aware that for the captain of a ship this might prove . . . difficult, but there is a means to this end. I’m referring in this to the Mermaid’s Club, which is a retreat for naval officers in St Peter Port. There you may find solace with your brothers of the sea.”

  At Kydd’s silence his forehead creased in concern. “In fact, you may take it as a species of command, sir. I shall have a word in the right place as will see you introduced. Dwelling on your hurts in the privacy of your cabin is not to be countenanced. Now, I will be bending my mind to the task of finding ways to keep you and your command as active as I can contrive. Never doubt it, Mr Kydd, all things will pass in God’s good time.”

  The room was broad but low, and dominated at the far end by windows that extended the entire width to provide a fine prospect of the busy harbour below. “Ho there, the stranger!” a voice called from the group at ease round a mahogany table towards the back.

  Kydd handed his cloak to a steward, stepped forward and bowed. “Kydd, brig-sloop Teazer .” A few in armchairs nearby looked up curiously from their newspapers, then nodded politely.

  Kydd was the only one in uniform; the others wore shore clothes. He approached the group. “Gentlemen.”

  “Come to join, I take it,” a large man, older than Kydd, said.

  “Aye.”

  “Umm. Of good standing, polite to your betters, not afraid of the bottle? Any habits, vices we should know about?” His eyes were shrewd.

  “No.”

  “A pity. We can do with men o’ spirit. Right. Ten livres a month—that’s less’n a guinea—feast-days extra, commensal brandy extra. Are you game?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then you’re in. I’m Carthew of Scorpion ship-sloop, and chairman o’ the Mermaid. This is O’Brien out of Harpy brig and the rest you’ll get to know soon enough.”

  He sat back in his chair and contemplated Kydd. “Sit yourself down, then, Kydd. O’Brien, get the young man a rummer. Now, sir, we’ll know more of you. What did you do to be banished to this benighted corner o’ the world?”

  “I was detached fr’m the Plymouth command o’ Admiral Lockwood, agreeable to an Admiralty request—”

  “Ding dong bell, man, and what’s that meant to say? That you—”

  “I received m’ orders an’ I did my duty, Mr Carthew,” Kydd rapped.

  Faces turned elsewhere in the room and the talking died away for a space. “Well, well! Do I see a discontented fire-eater before me? If so, you have my condolences, my dear sir. You’ll have to work hard to chase up some sport here.”

  O’Brien murmured something indistinct and Carthew laughed cynically. “Then my best advice to him is to get used to it—the only way he’s getting out of here now is to contrive to be wrecked or become the admiral’s élève when there’s to be a promotion!” He continued to appraise Kydd coolly. “Is it right that you were at the Nile?”

  “I was.”

  “I see. And Saumarez here second-in-command under Our Nel. Fortunate for you, not to say useful,” he said smoothly.

  “I was fifth in Tenacious, signal luff, an’ never clapped eyes on him but the once, if that’s y’r meaning.”

  “Do ease sheets, Mr Fire-eater,” Carthew said evenly. “This is a small command and we all have to live with each other.”

  As the hard night softened with the first intimations of dawn, Kydd readied his boats’ crews. It was a hastily planned operation with all the potential to go wrong. During the night they had been towed within striking distance by Teazer . He was in the first boat, about to lead the shore party, which included others who had been sent in reinforcement from the squadron.

  An oar clunked awkwardly as the men took up position for the coming assault. “Hold y’ noise, oaf,” Kydd hissed savagely, “or I swear I’ll see y’ liver at the gangway tomorrow!” The man stared back at him resentfully.

  All hinged on surprise—getting the men ashore and to the top of the two-hundred-foot cliffs before troops, roused by sentries, could arrive from farther up and down the coast. Once on the heights there was level ground into the interior countryside, and if they could establish a well-defended position, reinforcements could flood ashore.

  The coast materialised ahead from the dove-grey mists, high, craggy and forbidding. There might be pickets even now concerned by the odd cluster of shapes out to sea, finding a telescope and . . . Kydd scanned the area feverishly, looking for the features he must locate
in order to land in the right place: an offshore scatter of rocks that guarded a small coomb, not much more than a fissure but which would give them a chance to reach the top. There! At the right distance from the unmistakable high headland to the southwest he saw the betraying white of sea-washed rocks extending out in a distinctive pattern, Les Lieuses, Sept Boues and the rest.

  “Stretch out!” Kydd roared. “Stretch out f’r y’lives!” The need for caution was past—now everything depended on speed. Oars thumped and strained as men leaned into the task. Astern, the other boats surged and flew to bellows and threats from their coxswains.

  At the periphery of his vision Kydd saw movement at the high cliff-edge. It was a figure on horseback! The alarm would now be given speedily—their margin of time was perilously small. The figure fell back and disappeared.

  They reached the first rocks. The assumption was that those defending would believe these lofty crags would prevent any seaward onslaught—this would certainly be true for a ship-of-war under sail but well-handled boats could thread their way through and make a landing.

  As they approached, the cliffs towered impossibly high above them but their information had been correct: a fold in the cliff-face lay away at an angle; bare rock, scrubby bushes and the occasional scree slope—but a way up!

  And praise be! Queripel had the tides precisely calculated in these parts. The rocky plateau at the base was all but submerged, allowing the boats to ground close in. Kydd clambered over the side, all pretensions to dignity abandoned, and splashed into the shallows. “Move y’selves!” he bellowed.

  Men started to gather on the rocky strand, many staring up anxiously at the precipitous heights. “Light along th’ tackles—get going, then!” Kydd barked irritably. This was his trump card: numbers of nimble-footed topmen would work in relays, advancing upward to secure a block and tackle, which would then be used to sway up swivel guns and their improvised mounts in stages. Only a light weapon at sea, on land in these wild parts they would be the only artillery in the field, and would give pause to even the finest infantry arrayed against them.

  “Now!” Kydd gestured to Ambrose, and the marines began to climb up the slope, disappearing quickly into the scrubby under-growth in clouds of reddish dust. At the top they would throw up a defensive perimeter for the rest. The stolid sergeant had grasped immediately what had to be done.

  It seemed to be going well—too well? Nearly two hundred men were massing at the foot of the cliff, each encumbered with a musket slung over his back and others with ungainly packs of ammunition. As more landed, they were getting increasingly in each other’s way.

  Kydd drew his sword hastily. “Forward!” he yelled, and led them upwards in a rush. So much had to go right! There were those who were detailed to haul on the tackles, unarmed topmen swarming up to secure the blocks, more still to fleet the blocks once close up, others to keep together for gun-crew when on the level . . .

  At any moment lines of soldiers might appear along the edge of the cliff—and it would be all over very quickly. Panting with effort, Kydd yanked on bushes to heave himself up the craggy heights, muscles burning and his world contracting to the untidy slither of dust and rubble that was their path.

  Out of sight above them the marines must have reached the top—would they be met with naked bayonets or . . . ? But there had been no sudden shouts so they were still in with a chance.

  When he drew near to the top Ambrose scrambled over to him. Breathless, Kydd heard that the perimeter was secure with outlying sentries concealed and the defenders not yet in sight. Keeping his head down, the marine pointed out the salient features: a far-distant cluster of buildings, probably a farm, and farther still the tip of a steeple. For the rest it was open fields and curious cows in a gently rolling rural tranquillity.

  “We post th’ guns here—an’ over there,” Kydd gasped.

  “Sah.” Ambrose pointed suddenly. Following the outstretched arm Kydd saw mass movement at the edge of a small wood a mile or so away. Without a telescope he could only squint. Then, as the activity extended to each side, there could be no mistake. Troops were deploying.

  “Get those guns up here at th’ rush!” he bawled, and heaved on a line himself. The swivels with their clumsy frame mountings were manhandled up and hurried into position. Men fanned out to either side. It was sobering how few two hundred looked when occupying a battlefield.

  But they were in time. Dusty and weary, chests heaving with exertion, they stood ready.

  Trumpets could be heard faintly as the soldiers opposite formed a line and, to the thin rattle of drums, advanced on them. “Give ’em a swivel,” Kydd ordered. They were not within range but it would show them what they’d be up against.

  At the spiteful crack there was wavering in the ranks, and screamed orders carried across to them. The lines came to stop and a white flag rose. It was brought forward by an officer. Kydd grinned savagely: the day was theirs—and so easily.

  The man trudged over, red and angry. “Damn it, sir, no one told us o’ artillery in the field. Rather unsportin’, I would have thought. Where the devil did they come from?”

  “Show him, Sergeant,” Kydd grunted, and watched while the officer was escorted to the cliff-edge and peered down.

  When he returned he mopped his forehead. “Well, sir, an’ I declare m’self well and truly at a stand.” It had been a hard march for the soldiers from the redoubts to the west but they had been too late.

  “I give ye victory, sir,” the officer said in admiration. “Those ship guns were a master-stroke.” He advanced to shake Kydd’s hand. “Major Jevons, o’ the Guernsey Militia. Might I hope t’ see you at Fort George one day, sir?”

  It had started as a difference of opinion between Lieutenant Governor, General Sir John Doyle, and Rear Admiral Saumarez as to the adequacy of the military defences in the south of the island. Kydd had taken up Saumarez’s conjecture that they were not impregnable and now there was proof positive for all to see.

  HMS Teazer had closed with the land the better to view proceedings and had the singular distinction of flying the colours of Rear Admiral Saumarez with the standard of the Lieutenant Governor.

  In a little over an hour Kydd was back aboard. “Well done, sir!” Saumarez said genially, when introductions had been made on the quarterdeck to Doyle. “Showed ’em what the Navy can do, by Jove.” He looked benignly upon Kydd. “And what an active and enterprising officer might be trusted to achieve.”

  CHAPTER 4

  THE CHAMBER OF THE HOUSE OF LORDS was in an uproar. Baron Grenville, a former foreign secretary, was on his feet and in full cry: “In fact I’m led to believe that this government has no idea— no idea —of the dire threat the kingdom now faces! Allow me, my noble lords, to attempt to arouse some measure of urgency in this supine Tory ministry.”

  Seated on the Woolsack before the empty throne, the lord chancellor frowned but made no move to intervene.

  Grenville waited for the noise to lessen then pronounced, “I can now say for a certainty that Bonaparte no longer menaces Great Britain with invasion.” Having the august chamber’s full attention, he went on, “This is just so: the threats have now been withdrawn!” There was puzzled murmuring. Then he continued, with quiet venom, “My noble lords, the empty threats have gone, and in their place is the awful reality. From Dunkirk in the east to Granville in the west, in every French harbour and port opposite us, there are now being built hundreds—nay, thousands—of invasion craft whose only purpose is to throw one hundred and fifty thousand men on the English shore.”

  Lord Hobart fidgeted in his seat. As secretary of state for war in a beleaguered administration, his would be the task of replying to the unanswerable.

  “This realm, at great cost to its treasure, has created and maintains a navy whose chief purpose is the safeguarding of our islands. We have a right to see it arrayed in all its might along our coasts, resolutely facing the enemy, as it has done so gloriously from long before.” Grenv
ille gestured at the wall panels, each of which depicted a scene of some heroic sea battle from England’s long past.

  He paused, then asked, “But where is it now? Apart from Lord Keith in the Downs it always seems to be away on some distant errand—dissipating its strength on some foreign adventure. It should be here , standing four-square before Bonaparte’s hordes.”

  Turning sharply, he looked straight at Hobart. “I beg this House do remain attentive while the noble lord does enlighten us as to why we should not be terrified at this moment!”

  Rising slowly, Hobart tried to marshal his thoughts. “My lords, er, there is—”

  There was a stir at the door and the lord chancellor got to his feet. “The Earl St Vincent,” he intoned.

  A buzz of interest broke out. The bluff man in the splendid robes of a peer of the realm was Jervis. Honoured by his sovereign, he was a sea hero whose service dated back to before Nelson was born. It had been he who, in the year of the Great Mutiny, had led the fleet against the combined might of the French and Spanish to spectacular success. He now stood at the pinnacle of his sea profession as First Lord of the Admiralty and strategic head of the Navy, feared and respected.

  His wintry eyes took in the excited peers as he paced slowly to the centre of the chamber. “My noble lords!” he said, in a voice that had in past days carried through winter gales. “I do not deny that we are faced with a determined and dangerous foe who is undoubtedly resolved on the conquest of Great Britain. You are right to be concerned, to question the power of the Royal Navy to withstand the tyrant.”

  He paused. “It is not in me to find you agreeable words of comfort—that is not my way. You ask me to assure you that Bonaparte will not prevail. That cannot be in my power to guarantee to you.” In the utter silence Earl St Vincent added grimly, “This only am I sure upon: I do not say, my lords, that the French will not come. I say only they will not come by sea.”

  “Sir, Teazer’s number at the signal tower,” Standish said, to the motionless figure on the quarterdeck. A ship’s pennants hung out meant a summons for her captain to attend immediately upon the commander-in-chief. Standish tried to hide his curiosity.