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know what to expect an’ they’ll have daylight to prepare.”

“Y’ want a retreat?” Kydd said tautly. “Sulphur will be up with us this day—we have th’ chance f’r double the fire.”

“Do you want to return there without clear cause? We don’t know for a fact we have failed, sir,” retorted Carthew.

“We find out,” Kydd rapped. “Lie at anchor today, an’ this night land a reconnaissance party t’ settle the matter, the bombs t’ await their signal.”

“A reconnaissance party? Against such odds? Pray who would be the hero you would find to accept this mission?” Carthew enquired silkily.

Saumarez rubbed his eyes in fatigue. “Gentlemen, this discussion is to no account. In the absence of information I must decide myself if—”

“I’ll lead the party!” Kydd announced, looking directly at Carthew. “Sir, I’ll be ashore at dusk—and with y’r information b’ midnight.”

“Mr Kydd,” said Saumarez, weighing his words, “am I to understand you are volunteering to lead a party of reconnaissance yourself? You must understand that in the nature of things this must be regarded in the character of a ‘forlorn hope.’ We are all wanting sleep, Mr Kydd, our judgement necessarily in question. I beg you will reconsider your offer, sir.”

Carthew leaned back, his expression unreadable.

“I will do it, sir,” Kydd said.

Renzi squinted closer at the congested typeface and brought the little brass Argand lamp nearer. It guttered for a moment: the disadvantage of having his tiny cabin so close to the main hatchway was, however, more than offset by the relief it gave from the ’tween-decks fetor and he resumed his study.

The small volume in German, in turgid Hochdeutsch dealt with the Perfectibilists, who were urging the reclamation of modern the privateer’s Revenge

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society from its sordid roots, not through gross revolutions but the perfection of human nature through rigorous moral education.

On the other side of the thin partition the mess-decks were in full cry after issue of grog and the talk eddied noisily round. It did not penetrate Renzi’s thoughts for he was well used to it. He was much more interested in how a source for this moral education could be found, given that Weishaupt had specifically proclaimed the abolition of all religion. Yet the Illuminaten could not be lightly dismissed: it was said to be a secret society of freemasonry with Goethe himself a member and—

Suddenly he became aware that the mess-deck had gone quiet, but for one deep-throated voice holding forth nearby. Despite himself he listened: it was Mawgan, petty officer and captain of the foretop, an older man and steady—Renzi could visualise the scene beyond the thin bulkhead, the others listening raptly to him.

“No, mates, I ain’t! An’ this is fer why. He’s got th’ mark about

’im. I seen it before, done somethin’ evil an’ has t’ pay fer it. First he loses his doxy an’ then it’s his ship an’ we with it, afore he finally goes down ter his just reward.”

There was indistinct murmuring and Poulden came in, troubled:

“Y’ can’t say that, mate. He’s had a hard beat t’ wind’d since losin’

his sweetheart, bound t’ bear down on ’im, like.” There was increased muttering, which did not sound like sympathy.

“There’s one thing as gives me pause t’ think.” Renzi knew it to be the voice of the sharp-faced Gissing, gunner’s mate. “Yer’ve all got him on th’ wrong tack. He’s not a death-or-glory boy, not he.

No, it ain’t that a-tall—an’ I’ll tell yez fer why.”

Renzi held still. Kydd’s call for volunteers on his return from a council-of-war had been met with a stony silence and his own offer curtly dismissed. No more eloquent testimony was needed for the loss of moral authority that Kydd was now facing.

“Go on, cully, then tell us— why’s our Tom Cutlass not a-tryin’

t’ top it the flash hero?”

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There was a moment’s pause, then Mawgan said, “’Cos he’s not int’rested.” Shouting down the disbelieving cries, he continued, “He’s not int’rested fer a clinkin’ good reason. He’s got th’

death-wish.”

“Yer what?” A horrified quiet spread through the mess-deck.

“A death-wish, yer iggerant lubber. That’s when y’ grief is so oragious y’ can’t see as life’s worth th’ living. Y’ doesn’t care if yer lives or dies, an’ then y’ feels as if bein’ dead might just be th’

medicine t’ cure all y’r pain . . .”

This was clearly a new and deeply disturbing thought for straight-thinking sailors to dwell upon. Renzi hesitated. If he intervened, his overhearing their private talk would be revealed and his position become impossible. But at the same time he could recognise the signs: in the absence of insight and enlightened leadership from Kydd, the malignancy of unreason and superstition was spreading among the unlettered seamen and it would not take much . . .

“So he’s going t’ be careless with his life—an’ I ask ye this. Will he be any different wi’ us?” There was a dismayed silence and he finished flatly, “There’s a-going t’ be them as leaves their bones here, mates, take my word on’t.”

Teazer had made one pass along the coast north with Kydd at a telescope, and as the evening was drawing in she was heading south once more. To an appalled Standish on the quarterdeck, Kydd had loudly declared that in the absence of men of spirit he was going on the mission alone. It had brought astonishment and grudging admiration but no volunteers.

Now, as the time was approaching, there was a fearful expectation about the ship: landing on an enemy coast under arms to act the spy was utterly alien to the kind of courage a seaman was normally called upon to display.

When lights began twinkling ashore and a hazy darkness descended, Kydd came up on deck, dressed in dark clothing, his face the privateer’s Revenge

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pale and set. “Sir, may we know your intentions? If—if you—”

Standish stammered.

“I shall be landin’ at th’ neck o’ the peninsula,” Kydd said coldly,

“an’ will cross quickly to th’ other side, which if ye’ll remember is a beach along fr’m the harbour. They won’t be expectin’ any t’

approach fr’m the inside direction.”

“Sir.” Stirk touched his hat respectfully but remained impassive.

“Boat’s alongside.”

Poulden and three seamen were in the gig; their role would be confined to taking him ashore, perilous though that would be.

“Ready t’ land, sir,” Stirk reminded.

“You have th’ ship, Mr Standish,” Kydd said stiffly, and crossed to the side, looking neither to right nor left. Renzi held still, watching silently.

“Sah!” Sergeant Ambrose emerged from the main hatchway, followed by three more marines, each with blackened gaiters, sig-nifying imminent action. “Y’r escort present ’n’ correct, sah!”

Kydd hesitated and turned to Ambrose, who saluted smartly.

“Sergeant—do you . . . ?”

“We’ll be with ye, sir.”

“Thank ’ee, Sergeant, but—”

“Th’ men are volunteers too, sir,” he said crisply.

There was a stirring among the men and Midshipman Calloway stepped across the deck. “I’ll come if y’ wants me, Mr Kydd,” he said, twisting his hat nervously in his hands.

Stirk growled something at him but he held his ground.

“Yes, lad.” No emotion could be seen on Kydd’s face.

“Sir—if you’ll have me.” Andrews, the wispy midshipman, came forward too and looked at Kydd, imploring.

So junior, Renzi thought, but he would not be such a loss to the service if he failed to return.

“Very well.”

From the crowd now came cries of encouragement and further

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offers but Kydd cut them off. “Th’ Royal Marines an’ these two.

Muskets f’r the redcoats.”

In a hushed silence they boarded the gig. Renzi followed it with his eyes into the darkness but Kydd did not look back.

The oars rose and fell, dipping carefully and economically, the rowlocks stuffed with rags to muffle the thump of each stroke.

Kydd sat upright, his gaze searching what could be seen of the shore until he pointed in one direction. “Th’ beach there—we land at th’ northern end.” The lights of the town were along the top of the peninsula, well to the south; an anonymous rural darkness stretched away everywhere else.

Obediently Stirk moved the tiller and the boat headed in. Every sight, every sound that could not be instantly identified was a threat—betrayal and disaster could happen so quickly. The pale beach looked so exposed, a low, dark rock at the end offering the only cover.

The boat hissed to a standstill on the sand at the edge of the water and, taut with tension, the men went over the side, then splashed ashore—aware that the hard sand underfoot was the soil of the enemy. “T’ me,” Kydd whispered hoarsely, and hurried to the nearby rocks, searching for a sea-facing cove.

They scurried after him to the shelter, their boat and security already heading rapidly seawards. With the whites of eyes flashing about him, Kydd whispered, “No more’n half a mile across here, I’ve measured it wi’ bearings. No lights as c’n be seen, should be all farmland. We come t’ a beach th’ other side, work our way as close as we need. Questions?”

“If’n we get cut off by a patrol . . .” Ambrose began.

“We don’t let ourselves be,” Kydd said. He raised his head cautiously above the line of granite. “Nothing. We move.”

They crossed a straggling line of coarse grass into low dunes that soon gave way to firmer grassland, but it was now so dark that the privateer’s Revenge

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only gross shadows loomed ahead, not a light within a mile. Kydd struck out inland, the marines on either side, the midshipmen in a nervous crouch behind. The smell of cow pasture was rank after the purity of the sea air.

A stout stone wall materialised across their path with a suspiciously military-looking ditch beyond. They scrambled over and found muddy water at the bottom of the ditch before reaching, panting, the far side. Ahead the ground rose and the skyline could just be made out. Squarely athwart their track was the squat, low shape of a building.

“A sentry post,” whispered Calloway, fearfully.

“Sergeant?”

Ambrose sucked in his breath. “Not as any might say . . .”

They waited for long minutes, seeing no signs of life, just hearing the breathy night air playing through the straggling grasses.

Then Kydd said, in a hard whisper, “We can’t wait all night. We go forward. When we get to the building, we listen.” He moved quickly towards the silent shadow.

It was of rough stone but gave no other clue. They pressed up to its cold bulk, keeping an absolute quiet, their breathing seeming loud in the stillness. Nothing. “We go—”

The wooden squeal of a door shattered the silence. It was opening on the opposite side. Then came the clink and slither of—a harness? Sword scabbard? A military accoutrement?

“A marine at each end,” hissed Kydd savagely. “Bayonets! Take him wi’ cold steel if he turns th’ corner.”

Ambrose dispatched his men who silently took position, unseen in the inky blackness behind the wall. The random clinking sounded from one side, growing louder and more distinct, almost certainly the spurs of a cavalryman. The footfalls, however, seemed uncertain. Ambrose whispered cynically, “He’s bin on the doings

’n’ is goin’ behind to take a piss.”

The sounds drew nearer and nearer—and, in a desperate swing,

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a terrified young marine transfixed an indistinct figure with an audible meaty thump. The figure dropped, squealing and choking, the unmistakable clatter of a falling bucket like a thunderclap.

“It’s—it’s an ol’ woman! I done an ol’ lady!” The marine’s cry of horror pierced the night. He dropped beside the frantically twisting shape on the ground, her terror-stricken frail cries turning to pathetic sobs.

Kydd swung on Ambrose. “Sergeant!” he ordered stonily.

The man hesitated only a moment, then crossed over, took the marine’s musket and thrust the bayonet expertly; once, twice. There was a last despairing wail that ended in choking and—stillness.

“We got t’ go back now,” Calloway pleaded, and the other midshipman’s wretched puking could be heard to one side. But there was only the serene caress of the night breeze abroad and Kydd turned on them. “On y’r feet,” he said harshly. “This is only a farmhouse. We’re going on.”

Beyond the structure a rough-made access road gave them fast going to the main road to town, crossing in front of them.

Halfway! If it were daylight they could probably see down into the harbour from the other side. As it was—

“Halte là—qui vive?” In the dimness they had not noticed a foot sentry astride the road farther down. “Qui va là?” he called again, more forcefully.

Kydd whipped round: there was only low scrub nearby, pitiful cover. “Sergeant—”

But the sentry had yanked out a pistol and fired at them. Then, hefting his musket, he stood his ground.

“It’s no good, sir,” Ambrose whispered hastily. “He’s stayin’ because he knows there’s others about.” More voices could be heard on the night air.

Kydd stood still for a moment, then said savagely, “Back t’ th’

boat!”

They wheeled about, racing past the silent bulk of the farmhouse the privateer’s Revenge

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and to the ditch. As they clambered over the wall there was the sudden tap of a musket, then others, dismayingly close.

“Move!” Kydd bawled. There was no need now for quiet. They stumbled and rushed towards the sea, tripping and cursing in their frenzy.

Kydd stopped suddenly. “Where’s the marines?” he panted. A double crack to his rear answered him. Ambrose was behind the wall delaying the troops closing in, two firing while two reloaded.

It would hold for minutes at most.

Kydd and his men made the beach. The pale sands gave nothing away—there was no boat to be seen. The end must be very near, despite Ambrose’s sacrifice. Kydd traced the line of the water’s edge along the beach until his eyes watered.

The firing stopped, but then out on the dunes flanking them musket fire stabbed again—inland. The marines must still be doing their duty but it would not be long now.

At that moment a rocket, just half a cable offshore, soared up and burst in a bright sprinkle of stars. “A gun!” Kydd roared. “Any wi’ a musket, fire it now!”

But, of course, there was none. In the inky darkness no sailor untrained in the art could possibly be relied on to reload a musket; the marines must do it by feel.

“There’s no one?” Kydd pleaded.

“Sir! I have this,” Andrews said shamefacedly, handing over a little folding pistol. He had taken it just in case, a foolish notion, but now . . .

“Priming powder?”

It was in a little silver flask. Kydd snatched it and sprinted to the nearest rock. He shook out a large pile and, holding the pistol lock close, stood clear and pulled the trigger. The powder caught in a bright flare, which died quickly but did the job.

“Come on!” Kydd yelled hoarsely. “For y’r lives!” He broke cover and ran to the water’s edge. And there it was, their boat

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pulling strongly inshore, Stirk at the tiller. It grounded and Kydd stood in the waves, urging the others into it.

“We gotta leave now, sir!” Stirk pleaded. His crew were rotating the boat seaward for a fast withdrawal to the safety of the sea.

“Wait!”

All along the line of dunes the flash of muskets was increasing.

Twice Kydd felt the whip of bullets close by. The boat was afloat and pointing out to sea, but he remained standing in the shallows with his hand on the gunwale.

Then there was a flurry of firing from up the beach and figures were staggering across the sand, one with another over his back.

“Ambrose an’ the marines!”

Willing hands helped them into the boat and, with frantic strokes, the little craft finally won the open sea.

Troubled and depressed, Renzi stood by the main shrouds, gazing out into the hostile darkness. The talk of a death-wish was nonsense, of course, but it pointed up the core of the difficulty: since losing Rosalynd, Kydd had turned hard and bitter, and no longer possessed the humanity that had informed his leadership before.

It had destabilised his men, who could not be expected to follow one whose character they could not fathom, whose human feeling was so much in doubt and who was said to be deranged by grief.

Above all, the iron control and remoteness now set him apart.

There was a distant spatter of firing ashore. Renzi stiffened: the party must have been discovered, he thought. They could not last long against regular French troops and he gripped the shroud.

Standish appeared next to him. “Seems he’s got himself into a pother,” he said casually. “To be expected. We’ll give him an hour, I think.” Renzi could not trust himself to reply.

Another spasm of firing occurred farther along—it grew to a crescendo, musket flashes now atop the dunes all along the beach. Then it lessened and stopped abruptly. It was not possible the privateer’s Revenge

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in the dark to make out what had happened, but Standish let out a theatrical sigh. “It seems to be all over with Mr Kydd, I do believe.”

“You’ll send another boat,” Renzi snapped.

“I will not. There’s half the French army there waiting for us to blunder in to the rescue. I’ll be taking Teazer to sea and—”

“Boat ahoooyy!” The fo’c’sle lookout’s voice cracked with feeling. A distant cry came out of the night. A seaman ran aft and touched his hat to Standish.

“Our boat in sight, sir,” he said, with relish.

The tired party came over the bulwark, ashen-faced, the wounded marine handed up tenderly. Kydd went straight aft to Standish.

“I’m t’ see the admiral. You have th’ ship till I return.” Without acknowledging Renzi he went over the side and the boat shoved off.

Renzi noted sadly that Kydd had not said a word of praise to the men or ordered a double tot for them, something inconceivable before.

The boat came back quickly; as soon as Kydd was inboard he summoned Standish. “Th’ admiral has decided t’ resume th’ action. We stand to at dawn.”

This time it was to be both bomb-vessels, Sulphur and her tenders having arrived during the night, and not only that but a daytime assault for maximum accuracy. The tides allowed for an approach at five in the morning and the two ships would pound away for as long as the tide allowed, probably until ten—or until they were overwhelmed by vessels emboldened by daylight, which the French must surely have in readiness. Much would depend on Kydd’s inshore squadron . . .

The two bomb-vessels crabbed in and began the elaborate preparations with three anchors and springs attached in such a way that the vessel could be oriented precisely. It was then a technical

Julian Stockwin

matter for the gunners: the charge exactly calculated for range and the fuse cut at the right point to explode the thirteen-inch mortar shell just above the ground for deadly effect.

As the day broke with wistful autumn sunshine the bomb-vessels opened up. Sheets of flame shrouded the small ships in a vast cloud, again the heavy concussion, and this time it was possible to glimpse a black speck hurled high in a parabola, trailing a thin spiral. Seconds later from behind the headland a muffled crash was followed by a lazy column of dirty smoke.

The provocation was extreme and there was every possibility that before long the beleaguered French would burst out of the harbour in a vengeful lunge to crush their tormentors.

The frigate moved in as close as she dared, leadsmen in the chains and kedges streamed, but there was no avoiding the fact that the bomb-vessels could only be defended by the smaller ships with a lesser draught. Teazer and the cutter stayed off the entrance to the harbour.

Suddenly, from the harbour mouth came a succession of gunboats—one by one in an endless stream—a growing array until a full twenty-two of the ugly craft were in view.

“Attend at th’ entrance!” roared Kydd aft to the signal crew. All possible forces were needed, even if it stripped bare the bomb-vessel defences. “An’ give ’em a gun!” As the red-flag signal whipped up, a gun cracked out forward to lend urgency.

The other two sloops hauled their wind for the entrance, but before they arrived the gunboats were roping themselves together in a double line facing outward. “Be damned t’ it!” Standish spluttered. “They’re defending the harbour as they think we mean to cut ’em out!”

It was telling evidence of the respect and awe in which the Royal Navy was held by her enemies. Nevertheless, the battering the French were receiving was murderous and unceasing. Surely they would attempt some kind of retaliation.

the privateer’s Revenge

In the light morning airs, powder smoke hung about the ships in slowly roiling masses as the mortars thudded again and yet again, the dun clouds spreading gradually far and wide. There was little response from the forts, sited to overlook the port; the French were paying dearly for having ignored the possibility of an artillery strike from the sea.

Dowse pointed over the side. “Mr Kydd, ye can see—we’re makin’ foul water.” The tide now fast on the ebb, their keel was stirring up seabed mud.

The bomb-vessels concluded their work and their windlasses heaved in their ground tackle, but it was this moment that held the greatest danger: Would the enemy see the fleet in retreat and throw caution to the winds to seek revenge?

Cerberus lingered until the last possible moment to cover the withdrawal before bracing round for the run out to sea, her admiral’s flag proudly aloft. Still the enemy remained out of sight. But it was time to leave: Teazer jockeyed round to take position astern of the flagship, the last to leave the field of battle.

Then, suddenly, the frigate slewed sharply to starboard and slowed to a crawl before stopping altogether. Her sails were let fly, then doused, the big man-o’-war now motionless. “She’s gone aground,” hissed Kydd. “We close an’ take th’ admiral off.”

Things had changed catastrophically: the powerful ship was now helpless. Hard and fast with the ebb far from spent, without the means to manoeuvre, she lay easy prey.

“Sir, we stand ready t’ take you off,” bellowed Kydd, through the speaking trumpet to Cerberus’s quarterdeck. Saumarez could be seen in serious consultation with Selby. Hard decisions must be made: to abandon ship now, in good order and no loss of life, or be forced later to a humiliating scramble over the side in the face of hostile gunfire.

Disdaining an offered hailer, Saumarez cupped his hands and roared back, “I shall stand by the ship, Mr Kydd. Do as you see

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fit for the defending of the bombs—their preservation is of great importance.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Kydd acknowledged.

The bomb-vessels even now were making a slow but steady retreat to the north-west—but if any of the small squadron was detached, would the remainder be enough to discourage a determined attack on the stranded frigate? On the other hand all could be retained and deployed to prevent the enemy leaving Granville, the only threat of any consequence. But if, once out of sight, the bombs were set upon . . .

“Tell Harpy t’ come within hail,” Kydd called. It was a moot point whether his temporary command of a squadron defending the bombs could be said still to exist in their absence but he had his orders from the admiral. Harpy was dispatched with the schooner Eling to chase after and stay with the bombs.

“Scorpion t’ come within hail.” The bigger ship-sloop affected not to notice the signal but, at Teazer’s gun, went about and came up, pointedly rounding to windward off her quarter. Kydd ignored the calculated slight: the custom of service was for the senior to lie-to while the junior went round her stern to leeward and Carthew, no doubt, was making a point.

“I’d be obliged should you stay wi’ the frigate,” Kydd hailed.

“Teazer an’ Carteret will lie off th’ harbour.” There was an un-intelligible acknowledgement from Carthew and the three-master curved away, leaving just one brig-sloop and one tiny cutter to meet whatever challenge would emerge from between those stone piers.

The day wore on; it was clear that Cerberus had lost the race against the tide—she was now visibly at an angle and unnaturally still. And the significance would not be lost on the French. With such a prize within reach, there for the taking, it could now be only a matter of time.

Another hour. Now the frigate lay heeled over at a crazy angle, the privateer’s Revenge

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her guns either in the water or impotently skyward, her green-streaked copper bulking indecently, her men moving hand over hand along the decks, the ship a picture of helplessness.

When the attack did come it was cunningly mounted and rapidly carried out. Without warning a stream of other gunboats under oars issued out, one after another. In the light winds Teazer and Carteret were too late in closing with them, and with their car-ronades’ short range could only blaze away in futile desperation as the shallow-draught gunboats swiftly made away against the wind for the north of the Videcocq rocks, where no British ship could follow.

It was a master-stroke. The gunboats were positioned such that their weapons could bear on the helpless frigate—only one long gun each, but these were full-size eighteen- or twenty-four-pounders. Together they would have the same weight of metal as the broadside of a frigate of equal size. And Cerberus could do nothing but endure until the inevitable capitulation.

The guns opened with slow and deliberate fire. The first shot sent up a plume of water just short, others joining to surround the frigate with a forest of splashes—and then, aim improving, dark holes appeared in the naked hull.

Renzi watched in alarm; Kydd’s squadron had failed. In just a short while the admiral’s flag must be lowered in abject surrender.

Then, suddenly, his friend seemed to lose his reason. He wheeled his sloop about and sent her pell-mell at the harbour itself.

In the smoke and confusion of combat a miracle happened. The gunboats abandoned their prey and retreated inside the walls of the harbour, and when the tide returned Cerberus was duly refloated and was able to make off to safety.

But Kydd was not of a mind to communicate his motives to anyone . . .

Chapter 6

It was galling in the extreme. Because of the gravity of the situation Renzi had overcome his scruples and resolved to warn Kydd of the ugly mood that was building, the savage opinions he had overheard and in charity forewarning him of worse to come.

He had to make one last try to get through to Kydd. He entered the cabin after a polite knock and waited.

It was difficult to broach after Kydd’s wild triumph, and Renzi controlled himself with effort. “If you only knew what coming to you like this is costing me in violation of my sensibilities—”

“Then you’re free t’ go. An’ why you should come an’ waste my time with y’r mess-deck catblash I can’t think,” Kydd threw over his shoulder, then resumed scratching away with his quill.

“May I know at least why we’re at anchor here instead of Guernsey?”

The other vessels had retreated to the security of St Peter Port while they were again moored off Chausey Rocks, with a tired and fractious crew.

Kydd looked up, expressionless. “Since y’ ask, I’m t’ keep a distant watch on Granville f’r a few days t’ see what they’ll do.” His features had aged so: no sign of animation, none of the interest in things round him, only this dull, blinkered obsession with duty.

“Do you not think it wise to apprise your ship’s company of the privateer’s Revenge

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this? They’ve been sorely tested recently, I believe, and now to be robbed of their rest . . .” The heartless dismissal of the old lady’s death as the fortune of war had upset many, and the ferocious solo altercation at the harbour mouth had others questioning Kydd’s sanity.

“They’ll do their duty,” Kydd said shortly, and picked up his pen again.

Renzi drew breath sharply and blurted, “Good God above! The ship is falling apart around you and still you won’t see! The men need leadership—someone they can trust, that they may look up to, believe in, not a grief-stricken machine who spouts nothing but duty and—”

Kydd’s fist crashed on the table. “Rot you f’r a prating dog!” He shot to his feet. “Who are you t’ tell me about leading men?” he said. “As we c’n all see, you’ve left th’ world t’ others an’ taken refuge in y’r precious books.”

Cold with fury, Renzi bit out, “Then, as it’s clear you no longer value my services or my friendship, I shall be leaving the ship in Guernsey. Good day to you, sir!” He stormed out, pushing past the boatswain who had been about to knock. Kydd stood, breathing rapidly and gazing after the vanished Renzi.

“Um, sir?” Purchet said uncertainly. “It’s b’ way of bein’ urgent, like.”

“What is it, then?” he said.

Purchet stepped inside, closing the door. “M’ duty t’ tell ye, sir,”

he mumbled, then stopped as if recollecting himself.

“Tell me what, Mr Purchet?” Kydd snapped.

The boatswain took a deep breath. “In m’ best opinion, sir, the men are no longer reliable.”

Kydd tensed. “Are ye telling me they’re in mutiny, Mr Purchet?”

Everything from this point forward, even an opinion or words spoken in haste, might well be next pronounced in the hostile confines of a court-martial.

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“I cannot say that, sir.”

“Then what?”

“They’s a-whisperin’, thinkin’ as I can’t hear ’em,” he said gravely. The boatswain’s cabin in the small sloop was as thin-walled as Renzi’s. “I don’t take mind on it, usually, but as it’s s’

bad . . .”

“Tell me, if y’ please,” Kydd prodded.

“Er, I have t’ say it how I hears it,” Purchet said.

“Go on.”

“Well, one o’ the hands has it as how you’re out o’ your wits wi’

grievin’ an’ says as any doctor worth th’ name would have ye out o’ the ship. An’ they thinks as how this makes ye not responsible, an’ therefore it’s not right fer them t’ take y’r orders.”

“An’ the others?”

“Sir, they say how as t’ prove it, they seen ye change, like, fr’m their cap’n in Plymouth t’ a hard-horse Tartar who doesn’t hear

’em any more—them sayin’ it, o’ course,” he added hastily. “They seen ye at Granville, th’ last fight, an’ say that if ye’re careless o’

your own life, what’s theirs worth?”

Kydd waited, his face stony. “Anything else?”

“Why, sir, this afternoon, when young Jacko said them things y’

heard, most would say he’d had his grog an’ was talkin’ wry, like, no need t’ seize ’im in irons like that. An’ they’re a-feared what ye’ll do when he comes up afore ye tomorrow.”

“And this’s y’r mutiny?”

“There’s a gallows deal more, sir, as it’s not fit f’r ye t’ hear.” He looked at Kydd defiantly. “I bin in a mutiny once, an’ knows the signs. All it wants is f’r one chuckle-headed ninny t’ set ’em off wi’

hot words, an’ then—”

“Thank ’ee, Mr Purchet. Y’ did th’ right thing,” Kydd said formally.

The boatswain shifted awkwardly and mumbled, “Jus’ wanted t’ warn ye, like.”

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As had Renzi.

“I’ll—I’ll think on it,” was all Kydd could manage.

“Then I’ll be away for’ard,” Purchet said, with quiet dignity.

Kydd sat down slowly, cold with shock. Since he had first won command those few years ago in Malta, he had taken satisfaction that his origins before the mast gave him a particular insight into the thinking of his men, but now—a mutiny?

Deep down he knew the reason and it was the one he feared most.

To be brutally honest with himself, he would have to admit that he was confronting personal failure. His seizing on duty as the answer to his pain, a sure and trustworthy lifeline out of the pit of despair that he had grasped so eagerly; this had secured its object, the continuance of his professional functioning, but at grievous cost. By degrees it had changed him, become the master of his soul and now ruled his every action, turning him into a hard-hearted, blinkered automaton.

He balled his fists. It had been too easy—a way of keeping the world and its hurts at bay, but also an excuse not to think. And, above all, not to face things. He paced fretfully about the cabin: If it was not the answer, then what was?

The decanters were in the sideboard. He hesitated, then took out the rum. Its fire steadied him but this was no remedy. That could only be to face up to his pain, the grief . . . memories.

Since that terrible day he had instinctively shied from their imme-diacy. Was he ready to deal with them yet? A feeling of inevitability crept over him. He was not blessedly logical, as Renzi was, but something drew him irresistibly to focus on just one thing: the slight but constant pressure at his breast, always so warm against his skin. The locket.

He had worn it next to his heart since the day when Rosalynd’s silhouette had been fashioned into a miniature—and he had never

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dared look upon it since he had lost her. He drew it out slowly, tenderly. For a brief moment he held it tight in his hand, fighting the flood of images, then snapped it open.

Her likeness: Rosalynd. In black crêpe paper, now a little crin-kled. He held the trinket reverently, trying to relive the time when it had been new. The cheap gilt finish had now worn through to the bright steel at the edges and in places there were specks of rust, but no matter. What he held in his hands was Rosalynd, his sweetheart.

He gulped as his eyes misted, but another thought intruded, growing in strength and insistence. This was not Rosalynd. It was merely her likeness. It was tarnishing and fading and would eventually disintegrate. It was not her: she no longer existed in this world—except in his memory, and there she would never fade.

He knew then what he had to do. He crossed to the stern windows, opened the centre one and swung it wide. Outside there was impenetrable blackness but with it the clean tang of salt, seaweed and waves soughing mournfully against Teazer’s counter. With only a brief hesitation he hurled the locket into the night.

It was done. With the act came a feeling of release; lovers separated by distance would eventually meet again, but when separated by time they would not. Rosalynd was of the past. There was now no need for any elaborate personal defences: she was safely preserved in his memory, and he had his duties to his present existence. Renzi had been right but it had taken the threat of mutiny to bring him to—

Mutiny! The reality flooded in and his mind snapped to full alert-ness. He did not fear a bloody uprising so much as the certainty that the moment an order was disobeyed, a scornful or threatening word uttered, nothing short of a court-martial and a noose at the yardarm would satisfy an Admiralty sensitive to the slightest evidence of disaffection or rebellion in the fleet. Long after the corpses were cut down Teazer would bear the stain of dishonour—and it the privateer’s Revenge

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would be entirely the fault of her captain.

It demanded action—and quickly. What should he do? Order the marines to stand to, heading off any moves now under way? Wake Standish and have him, with the warrant officers, armed and aft?

This would stop any mutiny in its tracks but would immediately throw the ship into two camps set implacably against each other.

He couldn’t do it. He would lose any regard that still remained in his men and that was too great a price to pay. Then what? Do nothing? That was not possible. Instead he would appeal directly to them. On a personal level, but not as a supplicant: as their captain. And not on the quarterdeck in the usual way . . .

His servant Tysoe had taken to keeping out of the way so Kydd went to his sleeping cabin and there found his full dress coat with its Nile medals and pulled it on. Clapping on his gold-laced cocked hat he made his way in the darkness to the hatchway.

As he descended he could hear the usual babble of talk and guf-faws issuing from the mess-deck; it was a strong custom of the Service that the captain would never intrude on the men in their own territory in their own time, still less do so without warning—

but this was no idle visit.

His appearance at the foot of the ladder was met with an astonished silence, men twisting at their tables and the nearest scrabbling to distance themselves. The stench of so many bodies in the confined space, with the reek of rush dips guttering in their dishes, caught Kydd at the back of the throat: it had been long since he had endured these conditions, inescapable as they were for sailors in a small ship-of-war.

Standing legs a-brace, he placed his hat firmly under his arm and faced them. He said nothing, his hard gaze holding first one, then another. The dim light picked up the gold lacing of his uniform, and when he spoke, he had their entire attention.

“Teazers!” he began. “I won’t keep you f’r long. Now, one of y’r number came aft t’ see me, thought fit t’ lay an information afore

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me as was necessary f’r me t’ know.”

Furtive glances were thrown and there were awkward shuffles: was there a spy in their midst, bearing tales to the quarterdeck?

“He was right t’ do so. F’r what he said was concernin’ y’r own captain. He said t’ me that there’s those who’d believe I’m not sailin’ square wi’ ye since I had m’ sad loss—that I’m toppin’ it th’

tyrant t’ no account.” He paused: apart from the lazy creaking of a ship at anchor there was utter stillness.

“This I’ll say to ye. I took aboard all that was said, an’ have considered it well. An’ my conclusion is, if there’s anything that stands athwart Teazer’s bows in bein’ the finest fightin’ ship in the Navy then, s’ help me, I won’t rest until I’ve done something about it. I’ll not see m’ men discontented, an’ I won’t, y’ have m’ word on’t.”

In the flickering light of ’tween decks it was difficult to make out expressions but the silence told its own story. “I give ye this promise: at th’ end o’ the month, any man wants t’ ship out o’

Teazer c’n shift his berth to another. An’ that same day, needs o’

the Service permittin’. Thank ’ee—an’ good night.”

He made his exit. Behind him the silence dissolved into a chaos of talk. About to mount the companionway he hesitated, then turned to a tiny cabin and knocked. Renzi appeared and regarded him. In a low voice Kydd said, “I’d be obliged, Nicholas, should ye sup wi’

me tonight. There’s some things I need t’ get off m’ chest.”

It wasn’t until well into the second bottle of wine that Renzi allowed himself to thaw and listen courteously to Kydd’s earnest explanations. “Nicholas, all I could see then was that if’n I wanted t’ keep from hurtin’ all I needed was t’ lay hold on duty an’ be damned t’ all else!”

“Duty taken at its widest interpretation, I’d hazard,” Renzi said drily. “To include a zeal touching on engagement with the King’s enemies that’s a caution to us all.” He looked across at Kydd. “Tell me, my friend—for it’s a matter much discussed below—was it an the privateer’s Revenge

unholy passion to prevail or the baser impulse to suicide that had you throw Teazer across the harbour mouth? Do tell. If I might remind you, it did not seem you were of a mind to communicate your motives at the time.”

“Why, nothing as can’t be explained wi’ a bit o’ logic,” said Kydd, smugly. “It was a fine piece o’ reasonin’ by their captain, t’

take the gunboats out as they did, an’ place ’em out o’ reach—so I had t’ find a way t’ call him off. An’ I thought o’ you, Nicholas.

You always say as how I’m overborne by logic, so I set th’ French wi’ a puzzle.

“Th’ duty o’ the gunboats was to defend th’ port an’ its craft.

They see Cerberus an’ think t’ take her. All I did was remind ’em of their duty. I made a sally at th’ harbour as made them tremble f’r its safety. They then have t’ make up their mind which is th’

higher call on their duty, and . . .”

“Bravo! A cool and reasoned decision worthy of Nelson!” There had clearly been no impairment of Kydd’s judgement in his time of madness, and there was every reason to hope for a full restoring of the man that lay beneath.

“On quite another matter, brother,” Renzi began lightly, “do I see a brightening of spirit, as it were, a routing of melancholia, perhaps?”

“Aye, Nicholas, y’ do. It’s been . . . hard.” He dropped his eyes.

Renzi noticed the tightly clenched fists; the madness was over but the hurt would remain for some time and he longed to reach out. “Ah, you will probably not be interested at this time, but that sainted ethical hedonist Jeremy Bentham did once devise an algo-rithm for the computing of happiness, the felicific calculus, which I have oft-times made use of in the approaching of vexed decisions in life. And I’m bound to admit this day, to my eternal shame, that by its calculations it would seem you were right in placing aside the admiral’s daughter in favour of . . . of the other . . .”

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He trailed off uncertainly but Kydd raised his head with a smile.

“Aye, m’ friend, but I had not th’ time t’ perform the calculations and had t’ set a course by my stars as I saw ’em—and I dare t’ say I would do it again.”

Renzi’s eyes pricked: it had been a hard time for them both but now was the time to move forward. “Er, your opinion. What do you consider the captain of this fair barque would pass in judgement over that iniquitous young mariner, Jacko, now in durance vile?” he said languorously, stretching for another mutton cutlet.

“Why, I believe if th’ rascal should make his apologies to his lawful commander, I don’t think he will suffer for it.” Kydd grinned and raised his glass to his friend.

It was evident that there would be no immediate breakout from Granville so HMS Teazer shaped course to Guernsey, raising Sark in the morning. The flagship was back at her mooring in the Great Road and, like her lesser consorts, dressed overall in bunting, but what caught the attention of every man aboard Teazer, when the smoke of the gun salute had cleared, was the distant squeal of pipes aboard Cerberus, followed by a long, rolling thunder of drums.

“B’ glory, mannin’ th’ yards an’ it’s all fer us!” came a cry from forward. From below-decks of the flagship her ship’s company came racing up, leaping into the shrouds and mounting the rigging of all three masts at once. As they reached the fighting tops they spread out each side along the yards, hundreds of men in urgent motion upwards and outwards. When they were in position the drums stopped and in the sudden silence, atop the mainmast truck at the very highest point of the ship, a lone seaman snatched off his hat, and as he whirled it round disciplined cheers broke out.

Granville was not going to be a great fleet action celebrated by the nation but in Navy fashion these men were recognising their own Teazer’s gallantry in a very public way. The figure of Saumarez was unmistakable on Cerberus’s quarterdeck and Kydd made an the privateer’s Revenge

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elaborate bow, which was returned at once.

“Pray allow me to shake the hand of a very fine officer!” the admiral said, when Kydd went aboard to report. “That was the finest stroke this age, I must declare.” Looking intently at Kydd he added, “And I do believe that our successful engaging with the enemy has gone some way into laying your own troubles—am I right?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Then it will be Lady Saumarez’s pleasure to renew your acquaintance in the near future. There will be a dinner given at Saumarez Park on Saturday in grateful token of our victory at which I dare to say you will be guest of honour, Mr Kydd.”

In Teazer, Standish was receiving the official visitors and was conspicuously enjoying the task, quantities of young ladies, it seemed, requiring a personal sighting of the ship that had recently fought so bravely. Renzi, however, went below, taking advantage of the quiet in the great cabin to prepare the ship’s papers for her return to port.

The wail of a pipe on the upper deck pealed out: this would be Kydd returning from the admiral. A few minutes later he entered the cabin, but his face was bleak, his gaze unseeing. Renzi understood instantly: this was the first triumph he would have been able to lay before Rosalynd.

Then Kydd noticed him and his eyes softened. “Nicholas, m’

dear friend, do let’s step ashore. I’ve a yen f’r different faces, if y’

understands.”

“Why, to be sure. But here are my papers—should our stern captain learn of their neglect in wanton disporting ashore . . .”

They went in plain clothes but their disembarking on to North Pier steps drew immediate attention from the urchins playing about the busy waterfront, and there were gleeful cheers and whoops for two sailor heroes of the hour as they stepped out for town.

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course to take in the colour and bustle of the Pollet, the boatyards and the admirable views to be had from the upper reaches above St Peter Port. Then they supped together at a snug inn with a fine prospect of the castle islet.

They spoke little: Kydd was quiet but Renzi could see that it was part of a process that would end in a new man emerging, hard lines in his features telling of experiences that had not destroyed but changed him, rather as a furnace fires a creation to permanence.

Renzi knew that with Kydd’s strength of will and depth of character he would eventually come through stronger.

“And so I give you Commander Thomas Kydd, an ornament to his profession and a sea officer whose future can only be bright and glorious in the service of his king!”

Kydd bowed gravely in acknowledgement of Saumarez’s fulsome words, while in the splendid room the toast was duly raised by the assembled captains of the squadron, expressions ranging from the hearty and comradely to the envious and grudging. Anointed as the favourite of the commander-in-chief, Kydd could look forward to the plums of appointment on the station.

They clustered about him, exclaiming, laughing, hearing his modest protestations while Saumarez stood watching benevolently.

“I do believe you have now proved yourself, Mr Kydd,” he called,

“so I’m giving you an independent cruise, sir.”

There were admiring gasps and growls of envy from the others and a slow smile spread on Kydd’s face—and stayed.

The news raced round Teazer. An independent meant that as long as no other was in at the capture of a prize it would be theirs: duly condemned, ship and cargo would be sold and the proceeds would go to the captors—with, of course, a share due to the commander-in-chief.

The atmosphere aboard changed. This was a captain who was demonstrably a favourite of Saumarez, and any lucky enough to the privateer’s Revenge

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be in his ship’s company would now share in his fortune. There would be no more talk of mutiny.

Three days later, Prosser returned from the admiral’s office with orders. Renzi signed for them and locked them away in Kydd’s confidential drawer for his return from shore.

“A cruise t’ the west o’ Bréhat!” Kydd grunted with satisfaction, picked up an inner packet and looked at it with delighted surprise.

“Do y’ smoke what this is?” he said, impressed. “It’s m’ first sealed orders, Nicholas.”

It seemed from the superscription that, prior to Kydd’s relief of Scorpion off Les Héaux de Bréhat, there was a special mission to be performed as specified in these secret orders. They were to be opened precisely at noon the next day when Teazer was required to be in position three leagues north-east of St Peter Port, halfway between Guernsey and Alderney, and action taken accordingly.

“Secret orders,” Kydd said in awe. “We’re full stored ’n’ watered.

Tomorrow we make discovery o’ the contents and find we may be under weigh f’r Holland, th’ South Seas—anywhere!”

“I rather think not,” Renzi said. “As you see, we have to be at Bréhat directly following. In fact, it rather exercises the intellects as to what precisely can be done in just the one day.”

Chapter 7

As Teazer stood out into the Little Russel passage in the brisk morning breeze, Kydd fought to suppress his emotions. With his mind no longer at severe distraction he was able to take his fill of the sights, and the perfection in the way his ship lifted so willingly to the seas. In the furious rush of events of the last few months he had neglected her but now, with everything set fair ahead, he would take time to renew their relationship.

As if sensing his attention, Teazer’s bows rose, gave a spirited toss and, with a thump, she threw a playful dash of spume aft that wetted his lips with salt. His heart went out to the little ship, now so far from Malta, where she had been born.

The cruise was just what was needed to pull Teazer’s company together. Kydd turned with a grin to Standish, next to him on the quarterdeck. The officer returned an uncertain smile and occupied himself with his telescope.

Grande Canupe safely abeam, Kydd ordered a north-easterly course and in less than two hours had made the specified position.

Savouring the moment, he waited for the eight bells of midday to ring out, then went below.

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any operational confidentialities. “It’s noon, Nicholas,” he said casually, fingering the sealed packet. “I do believe I’m t’ open my secret orders.”

It was disappointing in a way: just a single sheet of paper folded several times, no enclosures. Still, this was his first time opening such orders and he scanned it quickly. From an anonymous hand he learned that he was to recover a chest from the French coast and keep it safe until he returned from the cruise. Then he would pass it to the commander-in-chief. The entire operation was to be conducted in the greatest possible secrecy.

“We have t’ steer small wi’ this mission, Nicholas,” Kydd mused.

“Not even Kit Standish.”

Renzi looked at him soberly. “I can conceive of why it should be so,” he said. “Supposing it were to contain documents and plans won at great personal cost. The very knowledge that we have it might nullify any advantage we gain from the intelligence—and put to hazard the brave soul who brings it.”

“Aye. It seems th’ admiral took pains t’ make sure th’ orders couldn’t be known afore we sailed, an’ as far as we can fathom it might all be a reg’lar done thing.” Kydd read the instructions more slowly. “L’Anse Pivette. I figure that’s t’ be somewheres south o’ Cap de la Hague.” This was the very tip of Normandy to the north. He continued, “We close wi’ a small beach after dark an’

lift it off—it’s passin’ strange it says nothin’ about anyone handin’

it over. Just the spot, th’ exact time an’ date.”

“That’s as if the bearer wishes to disassociate from us, reasonably it would seem.” Renzi’s half-smile appeared. “I cannot help but observe, dear fellow, that there is something else perhaps we should consider, and that is if we are betrayed, the time and place being known, we will then be delivered into the hands of the enemy.”

“Or this is th’ way it’s to be done b’ those in the character of a—a spy,” Kydd said stoutly. “We carry out our orders, Nicholas.”

“Certainly,” Renzi said. “It’s just that—this creeping about 106

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like a common thief is not to my liking. I fear I’m not your born intelligencer.”

“Rest easy, m’ friend, you’re not t’ be troubled in this,” Kydd said. “It should be quick enough done.”

The strictures on secrecy meant that besides Dowse, only one other aboard, Queripel, was told the exact location they were heading for, but neither was informed of the reason.

It was not going to be easy but, clearly, the nameless hero who had tracked across the lonely wilderness of the interior to deposit the chest would be counting on them to muster sufficient seamanship to achieve the last lap in its journey.

“Sir, it’s a wild an’ savage shore,” Queripel said warily. “I remember passing th’ Nez during the peace, glad o’ some shelter fr’m the Alderney Race, an’ recollect as how there’s tidal rocks close by as ye’d be glad to keep off from. An approach b’ night?

I doubts it, sir.”

Together he and Kydd pored over the charts: to the north beyond the Nez, the point guarding the bay L’Anse Pivette, was the Race of Alderney with the fiercest currents to be found anywhere.

As the ebb tide turned, the direction of the water would reverse, flooding in to fill the Race from the wider Atlantic in surging currents that at times could exceed a ship’s best sailing speed, a fearful hazard.

Picking up on something Queripel had said, Kydd formed his plan. That evening a small British warship would be seen sailing northward along the coast, probably intending to round the Cape to look in on Cherbourg, as so many had done in this war. Its inexperienced commander would pass the Nez de Jobourg, immediately find himself in the teeth of the Race and, dismayed, fall back into the lee of the Nez to ride out the hours until the tide slackened.

For this he would choose L’Anse Pivette.

There was no time to lose. Kydd bounded up to the upper deck and told Standish, “Ease away t’ th’ east, if y’ please—Cap de the privateer’s Revenge

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Flamanville.” This was a dozen miles to the south of the Nez and would allow them to come up as though on their way to the north.

They raised the odd semi-circular headland in two hours and pretended to look into the tiny harbour before shaping course to the north. It needed careful sail-trimming and continual work with the log over the taffrail to keep a constant speed in order that Teazer would meet the Alderney Race at the right tide state. Kydd hid a smile at Standish trying to contain his curiosity at the activity.

Ahead, the bold and characteristic shape of the Nez de Jobourg firmed in the afternoon sun and Queripel pointed out the features.

“La Ronde,” he said respectfully, of the tail of high rocks extending into the sea at the northern end of the quarter-mile bay. His gaze shifted farther round to a tiny beach. “L’Anse Pivette,” he grunted.

It was a good anchorage for anything except a southerly.

Kydd’s information was that the chest would be placed behind a rock at the well-defined inner end of the small beach. He hauled out his watch. “Tide is well on th’ make,” he said in satisfaction.

“The Race is beyond?”

“Aye, sir, no more’n a half-mile or so.”

The shoreline was rugged and precipitous, grey granite and scrubby vegetation, with no sign of life in the soft, late-afternoon sunlight. Kydd trained his glass on the little beach until his eyes watered but could see nothing beyond the dash of ruddy gold sand amid the sombre crags.

The breeze was lightening as they skirted La Ronde and weathered the Nez—full into the making tide of the Race. The current was more rapid than any Kydd could remember: fretful ripples and sliding overfalls were hurrying towards them as far as the eye could see. In the light airs Teazer had no chance. With all sail set, the water gurgled past in a fine wake—but she made no headway, the coastline abeam quite stationary, then sliding away as they were carried back where they had come from.

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Queripel smiled. “A calm day,” he offered. “In a southerly gale, tide agin wind, ’twould amaze, the seas as are kicked up. An’ tide with a blow—why, in high-water springs we c’n meet wi’ nine, ten knots an’ then—”

“Aye. I’ll remember,” Kydd said. There might be not a soul to witness Teazer’s arrival but if there was it had to look right. “Helm up an’ wear into the bay,” he ordered. The ship found her lee and the anchor tumbled down as the sun set out to sea.

Standish could not hold his curiosity any longer and came up to stand next to Kydd as the sails were furled. “To anchor, sir? On an enemy shore?”

“The gig an’ two hands in th’ water after dark.”

“We—we’re not going ashore, sir?” It was normally the prerogative of the first lieutenant to lead any party out of a ship.

“No, I am.”

The evening drew in, with no movement seen ashore; this desolate spot would seldom be visited by any other than fishermen.

Kydd felt a thrill of apprehension. This was different from his hot-blooded landing at Granville: here there was time to admire the rugged sunset beauty—and imagine what could go wrong.

Was a troop of soldiers concealed ashore? Did a warship lie beyond the point waiting to come down with the tide and fall upon them? If it appeared while he was ashore Standish had the bounden duty to cut the cable and run, leaving them to the French as spies caught in the act.

A three-quarter moon was low in the sky and it was time. The gig was lowered gently. Two seamen, Cobb and Manley, took the oars, Kydd the tiller, and the boat pulled strongly inshore. As soon as they had left the comforting mass of the sloop he became aware of the evening quiet, just the slop and gurgle of water, the distant hiss of waves on shingle—and the enfolding shadows reaching out to claim them.

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directly,” he said to Manley. Cobb followed him up the beach. The land felt inert and lifeless underfoot, adding to Kydd’s unease. He stopped and held up his hand: there was not the slightest sound.

He looked about, eyes straining.

The tiny beach ended in a long ledge of rock at the north-western end. They trudged over and behind the rock, in its shadow, found an ordinary oblong wooden case with crude rope handles. Kydd took one end—it was heavy but not impossible for them—and Cobb grabbed the other. Before they lifted it Kydd froze. Was that a tiny scrape, a slither?

With an outraged squawk a large seabird launched itself past them. Kydd cursed and the two manhandled the chest into the boat. Kydd threw his boat-cloak over to conceal it.

“Go!” he hissed at Manley, and they returned hurriedly to Teazer. Standish was leaning over the side in great curiosity.

“Strike it down into m’ cabin immediately,” Kydd snapped at the two seamen, and ordered Standish brusquely to get the ship to sea immediately.

He’d done it. As Teazer leaned to the soft night airs Kydd had the satisfaction of knowing that he had successfully performed his first secret order and now could concentrate on proper sailoring.

Hauling their wind for the south they tried to make up the time to the rendezvous, sailing between Guernsey and Jersey, taking care to fetch the treacherous Roches Douvres—“Rock Dovers” to the sailors—in the safety of morning light.

It was a sobering passage. Kydd had made up his mind to learn what he could of the area in which Teazer would be operating for the foreseeable future, a maze of shoals, sub-sea reefs, fierce tidal currents and some of the most desolate and forbidding coasts he had ever seen. Added to which there was the lesson learned of these waters early in the war when Saumarez himself had been chased by five French warships and thrown his heavy frigate through 110

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the hideous tangle of rocks in the west of Guernsey to freedom, a tribute to his courage and to his exceptional knowledge of local conditions.

Queripel had been eager to pass on what he knew, and Kydd began to accrue knowledge and wisdom. As he did so his respect for those who daily plied these waters increased; any who could keep the seas off this ironbound coast would be a good seaman—

including the French. St Malo, an ancient town deep in the main bay of Brittany, had produced daring corsairs for centuries, some even now prowling as far afield as the Indian Ocean. This cruise would not be a sinecure.

Off the wicked tumble of grey-brown rocks that was the Île de Bréhat he saw a sloop hove-to. Her challenge was smartly run up, but Kydd was ready with the private signal. It was, of course, Carthew in Scorpion but this time there was no doubting the senior vessel, and as custom dictated, Teazer was sent round her stern to respectfully round to for hailing.

“You’ve taken your time, I observe, Mr Kydd,” he blared, through his speaking trumpet. “I’d expected you a day or more ago. What delayed you?”

It took Kydd aback: it was unlikely that Carthew had knowledge of his secret orders and in any case it was not to be discussed in such a public way. “Er, an errand f’r Admiral Saumarez,” he bellowed back. “All concluded now.”

“I should think so,” Carthew said tartly, then added, “No French about as I’ve seen to the westward, quiet in Paimpol and you have Harpy to the east’d for a rendezvous here in six days.

Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well. Good hunting,” he said flatly. His bored tone implied disinterest in Kydd’s prospects, and Scorpion lost no time in bracing round and making off to the north, leaving Teazer in sole possession of the patrol area.

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At last! It was a fine morning, the winds were fair, and there was the best part of a week to traverse the hundred and fifty odd miles westward to Ushant and back. With no ports of significance to speak of—Roscoff was the largest, but not a naval port, and the rest were mere rockbound tidal havens—it was an unpromising prospect.

But with the autumn roads now impassable by ox-cart, which could carry several score sacks of grain, it would have to be pack-horses, each managing at best only four. Every beast would itself require feeding and tending by a man, he in turn having needs, and this would be multiplied by the five or six days it would take to cross northern Brittany. How many would it take to keep the fleet in Brest, with its thirty thousand hungry seamen, supplied? A humble hoy could bring eighty tons along the coast in a day and go back for more. Dozens of these vessels must now be thread-ing their way westward, trying to keep out of sight from seaward among the craggy islets and offshore sandbars, all helpless prey to a determined man-o’-war.

Kydd gave a passing thought to these inoffensive craft, manned by seamen whose daily fight was with the sea and this dire coast—

how hard it must be to have their voyage cut short, their ship and livelihood snatched from them. Then he turned abruptly to the master: “T’ th’ west, Mr Dowse.” In the fortunes of war, the merchant vessels had to take their chances as did every other seafarer.

Even Teazer might suddenly be set upon. There was no room for sentiment.

The coast lay to larboard, its rocks caught in the morning sun with a soft pink tinge and lying in dense scatters or peeping coyly from the waves in a flurry of white. Islands sprawled in groups or out to sea as lonely outposts. This coast had a terrible beauty all of its own.

Teazer sailed on westward, past tortuous inlets leading to huddled settlements: Ploumanac’h and Skeiviec, ancient names from 112

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the beginning of time—here was quite another France to the pomp and fashion of Paris. They skirted the ugly jumble of Les Héaux de Bréhat well out to sea, giving best to the small fry cowering up the long river at Tréguier.

“I’d like t’ cast a glance at Sept Îles,” Kydd murmured. These were sizeable islands lying offshore, of which the master would be aiming to keep Teazer to seaward, but frightened coasters might be skulking among them. They angled towards but from somewhere in their midst the smoke and tiny spat of a small cannon erupted.

“Closer,” Kydd ordered. An antique fort in the centre island was ineffectually disputing their progress; it did, however, serve to draw attention to the channel that lay between it and the mainland. “An’

south about,” he added.

The sloop eased into the passage, with a rose-coloured granite shoreline on either beam and, in the sea overside, an unsettling forest of kelp from the dark depths streaming away with the current.

Ahead lay only the odd-shaped high islands of the Triagoz plateau, but the coast had now turned abruptly southwards.

A scream came from the masthead lookout: “Deck hoooo! Two sail under a press o’ canvas, standing away!”

From the deck it was clear what was happening. Their decision to take the inshore channel had spooked the two into abandoning their hiding-place in the Triagoz for a hasty dash to the safety of Roscoff, only a couple of hours’ sailing across the bay.

“I want ’em!” Kydd grated, levelling his telescope. Across the deck grins appeared. “Mr Queripel, depth o’ water ’tween here

’n’ Roscoff?”

“There’s a channel fr’m the nor’-east . . .” he began uncomfortably.

“Aye?”

“As will serve—but, sir, I have t’ tell ye, it’s perilous waters hereabouts. Can we not—”

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“Nor’-east.” Kydd sniffed the wind. “It’ll do. Bow-lines t’ th’

bridle an’ don’t spare th’ cordage.”

Teazer seemed to sense the drama and leaped ahead. Every eye aboard followed the motions of the quarry whose terror even at a distance could almost be felt. The knowledgeable made lordly judgements as to the probable prize value, but Kydd was aware that things could change in a trice—a frigate disturbed in Roscoff, a sudden change in wind forcing them on to a dead lee shore.

“We’re t’ shift course here, sir,” Queripel said awkwardly. “We must be clear o’ th’ plateau, else we—”

“They’re not concerned t’ weather it,” Kydd said pointedly. The fleeing vessels were taking a direct course to Roscoff, no more than ten or fifteen miles more.

“I—I say we must, sir! Th’—th’ tide is on th’ ebb an’ we—”

“They come fr’m hereabouts, they should know—”

“It’s th’ state of tide, sir! I mislike we ignore th’ overfalls o’ the plateau. I’ve seen—”

“Very well. Ease t’ larb’d,” Kydd said heavily.

They angled farther southwards while their prey flew directly towards the distant smudge of their sanctuary, masts leaning at a precarious angle in their quest for speed. There were groans about Teazer’s deck and sour comments about luck.

And then it happened. The leading vessel struck, slewing round in an instant; she was brought to a complete stop, her foremast toppling like a tree at the shock of impact. The other ship, following close astern, shied to one side but raced on desperately.

“Leave him,” Kydd said, eyeing the wreck. He looked at Queripel. “Can we . . . ?”

“He took a reef rock o’ th’ Plateau de la Méloine. We have t’

keep to the suth’ard or finish th’ same—but this one”—he nodded at the fleeing ship—“he’s going t’ be a mort more cautious now.

We has a chance.”

Teazer was in the deeper channel and forging ahead but the 114

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other vessel was picking its way fearfully through the weed-covered menaces—with only five or so miles to go they most definitely had a chance.

Queripel stepped aside and Kydd saw that Renzi had appeared on deck, wearing the wistful, absent expression that showed he had been happily immersed in his books until very recently. “Ah.

Do I see the cause of so much commotion ahead of us?”

“Aye, y’ do,” Kydd said. “Supposin’ we c’n catch him before Roscoff.”

“That’s Roscoff?” Renzi said, with interest. “As you’d know, a port of much antiquity. Here it was that Mary Queen of Scots stepped ashore to be married to the Dauphin of France—in the 1540s it must have been.”

“We’re goin’ t’ be in gunshot in just a quarter-hour, Nicholas. Do y’ think I should hold fire, f’r fear I might hurt our prize?”

“Of course, she was only five years old at the time,” Renzi went on thoughtfully. “A barbaric practice, such a union.”

“And a fine coaster should fetch a handsome sum, as’ll be right welcome at this time,” Kydd added.

“Yet many would remember first that it was here as well that the Young Pretender, Charles Edward Stuart, came after the calamitous battle of Culloden—spirited hence by a Malouin privateer, I believe, to his final exile.”

But Kydd had his glass up, his attention on the low sea wall coming into view. He stiffened. “The bloody dogs,” he growled.

“Gunboats!” A gaggle had emerged and were converging on the fleeing vessel. Even if they overhauled it now they could never heave-to and take possession.

“We’ve lost him,” he said, lowering his telescope. He swivelled round and focused on the wreck of the first. It was fast settling—

but if they managed to come up on it through the same hazards that had claimed it they could only ingloriously fish out sodden oddments of cargo.

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“Carry on t’ the west, Mr Dowse.” They had done well on their first encounter; there would be others.

It seemed, however, word had spread that a new and aggressive English man-o’-war was abroad and the few sail they sighted scuttled away rapidly. After an uneventful conclusion to the cruise, during which Kydd had taken pains to discover more of the sea conditions in this forbidding but often strangely beautiful seascape, Guernsey lifted into view.

With his new-won local knowledge he conned Teazer himself past Jerbourg Point and into the Great Road. “A shame we haven’t a prize at our tail,” Standish remarked.

“We shall,” Kydd said firmly. The more he knew of these seas, the better able he would be to find their skulking places.

There was no admiral’s flag in Cerberus but it flew from his headquarters ashore, and their gun salute cracked out in proper style.

Calloway’s quarterdeck brace was an exact imitation of his captain’s. Kydd had been impressed by how he had handled the promotion; now in a position of authority over his former shipmates he pitched his orders in such a way that none could take offence at the tone or doubt his intent to be obeyed. “Boat putting off, sir,” he reported smartly.

“Very well,” Kydd answered.

“Two boats, I think,” Standish said, lowering his glass.

It was odd: the first clearly contained an officer and a number of seamen but the other taking position astern of it seemed to carry soldiers. Kydd was ready in his dress uniform for going ashore to report; the boats, however, were heading purposefully towards Teazer so he waited.

When they neared, the second with the soldiers slowed and stood off, the seamen laying to their oars while the first made for the side-steps. Kydd felt the first stirrings of unease as the boat disappeared 116

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under the line of the bulwarks and shortly afterwards, with the wail of a boatswain’s call, the stern face of an elderly post-captain came into view.

Kydd took off his hat and approached with a welcoming smile, which was not returned. The officer briskly drew out a paper and intoned, “Commander Thomas Paine Kydd? Provost Captain William Fellowes. By these presents I am instructed by the commander-in-chief to make search of your vessel.” He held out the paper—and, unmistakably at the bottom, there was the signature of Admiral Saumarez.

“Er, you . . . ?” Kydd was thunderstruck. Around him the deck came to a standstill, men gaping.

“Commander?” The officer held himself with heavy patience.

“May I know what’s the meanin’ o’ this, sir?” Kydd said tightly, as he recovered himself. “T’ be rummaged like a country trader?

This is a King’s ship, sir, an’ I’m her captain. I’ll have good reason fr’m you, sir, afore I allow such a freedom.”

“Are you disputing the direct order of the admiral, sir?” Fellowes said acidly, holding up the paper.

“I’m asking f’r a right an’ proper explanation of y’r actions, sir,”

Kydd blazed.

“Come, come, sir. You have nothing to fear if you have nothing to hide.” There was no pity in the man’s eyes.

The situation was absurd but also in deadly earnest. “Very well, sir. Do ye require t’ begin for’ard? I’ll have th’ men take up over the hold as soon as we secure fr’m sea.”

Fellowes wheeled round and beckoned to the boat’s party, who lost no time in coming aboard. “Leave the matter to us, Commander,” he said harshly. The men clambering over the bulwarks were hard-looking, practised in their movements, and assembled in a tight group before the captain.

“You know what to do.” The men trotted off—not forward, but aft, disappearing down the hatchway.

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“Sir! I’ve a right t’ know! What is it—” But Fellowes had turned his back on him and was gazing out to the dark bulk of Sark, tapping the paper impatiently against his thigh.

Suspiciously quickly, there was movement again at the hatchway.

To Kydd’s horror, the men were hauling up the confidential chest he had recovered with such pains and protected with so much secrecy. “Belay that, you men!” he roared in anger.

They took no notice and Kydd turned hotly on the provost captain. “Sir! Have y’ men stop. That’s a chest o’ secrets f’r the admiral. Th’ greatest confidentiality t’ be observed—”

The petty officer in charge touched his hat to the provost captain, ignoring Kydd. “In th’ commander’s bedplace, sir, under th’

cot,” he reported.

Kydd struggled for words. “That—that’s—”

“A blackamoor tried t’ stop us an’ we had t’ skelp him on th’

calabash,” the petty officer added impassively.

“Tysoe! Y’ poxy villains! I’ll—”

“That’s enough, Commander,” Fellowes rapped. “I have now to ask you to accompany me ashore, if you please.”

Kydd hesitated, but only for a moment. The sooner the business was sorted out the better. The box was still unopened and its secrets safe. Perhaps this was, after all, a long-winded way to get it ashore.

“Very well. An’ the chest remains secured, th’ contents not t’

be seen.”

“Of course.” There was nothing for it but to board the boat, leaving an open-mouthed Standish to complete the moor, then begin harbour routine and storing for the next voyage.

There was no conversation on the passage back; the other boat fell in astern and Kydd realised that the soldiers were there to enforce a predetermined course of action and his unease turned to alarm. This was no simple mistake.

They headed for Smith Street and the headquarters ashore, the 11

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seamen bearing the chest following closely behind. Saumarez’s flag still flew and Kydd’s anxieties began to subside. Soon he would know what it was about.

They entered a small room and Kydd was shown to a single chair on one side while Fellowes sat behind a table. The chest had been delivered intact and lay in the centre. Two marines stood guard over it.

Saumarez strode in. “Ah, sir!” said Kydd in relief, scrambling to his feet. “There’s been a—a misunderstanding o’ sorts.”

Saumarez ignored him. “Is this what you found?” he asked Fellowes.

“It is, sir.”

Kydd blinked. “This is th’ secret chest. Your chest, sir,” he blurted.

“My chest?” Saumarez said in amazement. “You think to make it mine, sir?” His voice thickened in anger. “Open it!”

“But—but, sir, we can’t do that.”

“Pray why not?”

Kydd’s mind reeled. “Because, sir, this is the confidential chest y’ ordered me t’ recover, wi’ secret, um, things as can’t be shown t’ the ordinary sort!”

Saumarez looked at Kydd in disbelief. “I gave orders? You’re attempting to say that I gave orders? No, sir, this will not do! It will not do at all!”

“S-sir!” Kydd pleaded. “Don’t open it in front o’ the others, I beg.” Was he going mad?

Saumarez paused, looking at Kydd keenly. “Then I’ll clear the room. All except Captain Fellowes to withdraw and remain outside.” He waited until the three were alone. “Now we open the chest. Please oblige us, Captain.”

Fellowes cut the cords then threw back the lid. Saumarez took a sharp breath as the contents were revealed—bundles of intricately worked lace and silk goods.

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“I—this is . . .” Kydd could find no words.

Saumarez drew himself up, his features suddenly old and weary.

“Take this officer to the blue room,” he said dully. “I will deal with him presently.”

Kydd tried to make sense of it. In just a single hour his entire world had been turned upside-down. Why was Saumarez denying his own orders? Had the secret chest been waylaid and a substitute made for him to convey unwittingly in its place? How had the searchers known where to find it? Should he send for Renzi? Or wait until things became clearer? There was every possibility that Saumarez was even now finding out the truth of the matter and he didn’t want to involve his ship or any aboard unless he had to.

It seemed an interminable wait and his mind wandered to concern over Teazer and her condition after her recent voyage. He must have that fore topmast seen to. When it had come down to the deck for exercise the carpenter had shaken his head over a fissure in the timber, and with the worn main tack having been turned end for end already he would need to do battle to win a new outfit for fore and main both. While they were at it, conceivably the chain-pump could—

There was movement and discreet murmuring in the adjoin-ing room, the scraping of chairs, the authoritative voice of Saumarez.

The flag-lieutenant’s face appeared. “Sir, if you’d be so good as to present yourself . . .”

Kydd followed the officer. Around a long table faces turned towards him, Saumarez at the head, Fellowes to his right—and Carthew, others. Kydd was ushered to the opposite end to face his commander-in-chief.

“Gentlemen.” Saumarez seemed to have difficulty bringing out the word, “gentlemen, I would have you in no way misled as to the nature of this meeting. It is by way of an inquiry only, and 120

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has no legal standing. If there is cause enough shown then such proceedings may follow in due course, but for now I wish only to establish the facts at hand.”

He looked gravely down the table. “Commander Kydd. You should know that an information was passed to me recently that you were abusing your position as captain of one of His Majesty’s ships to set up in trading on your own account, to the detriment of the honest merchants of these islands and to the dishonour of the service.”

“Sir, who told you—”

“Mr Kydd! Although this is no court of law you would oblige me by remaining silent until called upon to speak, sir.” There was an edge of steel to his tone that Kydd had never heard before and he fell silent, but it was an outrageous accusation and he would soon set matters right when the time came: with a commander-in-chief as morally sensitive as Saumarez, it would be an unforgivable abomination that would require the direst penalty.

“My source was anonymous but brought forward facts that left me no choice other than to take further action. I’m sorry to say that the information was in the event proved correct and a search of your vessel has produced prima facie evidence to support the allegation.”

Faces gazed at Kydd, some with interest, others neutral.

“In view of your meritorious record to date in the service of the King, I am most reluctant to believe that you could be so far in want of conduct as to take advantage of your position. Therefore I wish to establish to my own satisfaction the true situation.”

There was a stirring about the table as papers were laid before him. “Captain Fellowes,” Saumarez instructed, “detail for me your recent boarding of HMS Teazer.”

Fellowes inclined his head and made to rise.

“No, no, sir—this is not a formal gathering,” Saumarez said, with a quick glance at Kydd. “You may speak to me directly.”

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“Sir,” he began weightily, reading from notes, “pursuant to your order of the twenty-fifth, on the sighting of the said vessel and its subsequent mooring I proceeded—”

“In plain English, if you please.”

“Yes, sir. Er, this morning I and a party of men boarded HMS

Teazer soon after it anchored in Guernsey Great Road. There I—”

“Did you encounter any resistance—discouragement of your action?”

“Er—no, sir. But when advised of the purpose of my visit, Commander Kydd became heated in his opposition to my action.”

“Quite so,” Saumarez said drily.

“But on showing him my authority for so doing he agreed, but attempted to divert my attention forward, away from his cabin, offering to lay open the hold. However, by virtue of the information supplied, my men proceeded straight to Commander Kydd’s private quarters where regrettably his servant offered violence to their entry and was forcibly subdued. The chest was found under his cot, as predicted.”

“Were there any witnesses to the seizure?”

“Petty Officer Crowe, or any of his party present, is prepared to swear as to where it was found.”

“And then?”

“It was hauled, unopened, to the upper deck, at which Commander Kydd became considerably agitated.”

“What did he say?”

“I cannot recall his exact words, sir, for the officer appeared inco-herent, eventually claiming that the chest was of a level of secrecy that precluded its public display.”

“And it remained unopened until brought here?”

“All concerned will testify to its integrity, sir.”

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interject but was stopped by Saumarez. “Commander, are you perhaps claiming that the chest and its contents are in fact for your own private consumption?”

It was a lifeline—but if Teazer had been spotted near L’Anse Pivette by the informer, or his ship’s company testified to his bringing aboard a mysterious chest, he would be seen to have lied and then . . .

“No, sir, I am not,” he said thickly. “I’m tryin’ t’ say—”

“Later, sir. I find I must now establish a further point. Commander Carthew, did Teazer arrive at the rendezvous in a timely and proper manner?”

Carthew looked uncomfortable, furtive almost. “Sir. Er . . .”

“Come now, Mr Carthew, we can easily determine the answer from your people if necessary.”

“Well, sir . . . then not exactly.”

“Sir—your attempt to shield a brother officer does you credit, but we will have the facts, Commander.”

“I’m truly sorry to have to say, sir, we were hove-to off Bréhat in wait for some . . . twenty hours after the appointed time.”

“Thank you, Mr Carthew,” said Saumarez, looking squarely at Kydd. Dropping his eyes, he paused, then seemed to make up his mind. “Bring in Teazer’s sailing-master.”

“Mr Dowse, sir.” The weatherbeaten mariner shuffled his feet but gazed resolutely ahead. He carried his own master’s log.

“Information has been passed to me that Teazer was sighted two leagues off Cap de Flamanville and again close in under the Nez de Jobourg at the time her orders specifically required her to rendezvous off Bréhat. I note to my surprise that there is no entry in the ship’s log to this effect. Can you explain this?”

“Yes, sir.”

Saumarez leaned back in expectation.

“Mr Kydd, he said as how it were a secret mission, like, an’ not t’ trouble enterin’ it in th’ log.”

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“Do you have the true workings for those days?”

“Aye.” Dowse steadfastly avoided Kydd’s eye.

“And?”

“As y’ said, sir. We closed wi’ the coast after dark at L’Anse Pivette an’ took aboard a—a object.”

“Then?” prompted Saumarez.

“Then we made all sail f’r the rendezvous.”

“I see. You may stand down now, Mr Dowse,” Saumarez said tightly. “Is Mr Standish outside?”

“He is, sir.”

“Send him in.”

Standish entered carefully, his eyes darting about the room.

“Sir?”

“Just one question, Mr Standish. What occurred at L’Anse Pivette?”

Teazer’s first lieutenant glanced beseechingly at Kydd, then murmured, “Er, we anchored in the lee of the Race and, um, the captain took away a boat and two men an’ landed on the coast o’ France.”

“You mean the captain went ashore alone but for two hands at the oars?”

Standish looked stricken. “Yes, sir.”

“Did he give any reason?”

“N-none that I can recall, sir.”

“Was he ashore long?”

“He was away for only half an hour or so, sir.”

“And when he returned?”

“In the dark it was difficult to see, if you understand, sir.”

“I will make my meaning plainer. Did he return with any object?”

“It was covered with a boat-cloak, sir.”

“And as officer-of-the-deck you didn’t even glimpse it as it was swayed aboard?” Saumarez said irritably.

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“It was the chest,” Standish admitted.

“Good God!” Kydd exploded. “This has gone on long enough!

Will no one hear me out?”

With a pained expression the admiral replied, “I would be obliged if you would refrain from so using the Lord’s name in vain. Yet in all fairness you shall be heard. What is it that you want to say, sir?”

Kydd held his temper fiercely in check: things were bad enough as they were without a confrontation. “Sir. This is y’r chest as ye gave orders f’r me to find an’ bring back. I can’t understand—”

“Mr Kydd. This is the second time you have made this public accusation and I am finding it difficult to restrain my anger. I gave you no such orders, as well you know, and to be certain of this I have sent for your ship’s clerk under escort to bring me Teazer’s orders as received that I might verify their contents myself.”

He glared at Kydd, then called, “Is—What is his name?”

“Renzi, sir.”

“Is this man in attendance yet?”

“Sir.”

“Tell him to step in—lively, now.”

Renzi entered; his features were grave.

“You are ship’s clerk of HMS Teazer? ”

“I am, sir.”

“Have you the original orders for the voyage just concluded?

Quickly, man!”

Renzi unlaced the folder and handed them across. Kydd craned to see but Saumarez snatched them and scanned them. “What’s this? I see here no reference whatsoever to any secret dalliance, Mr Kydd,” he said sarcastically. “Pray tell by what means you are able to place such a wild construction on these perfectly straightforward instructions?”

“Sir,” Kydd gulped, “there were sealed orders as well, an’

they—”

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“I have heard from my flag-lieutenant that your master’s mate Prosser duly signed out on these orders. You, Renzi, were you not responsible for their registering into the ship?”

“Sir.”

“You signed them in directly from Mr Prosser, did you not?”

“I did, sir.”

“And did you see them contain any sealed orders?”

The room echoed its silence.

“Did they? Answer me, sir.”

If Renzi admitted to seeing them it would be to betray Kydd as having allowed him, a mere ship’s clerk, access to the highest level of confidentiality. And if he did not, Kydd would have not a single witness to testify to their existence.

“Sir, I signed for the packet but immediately locked it into the captain’s confidential stowage,” Renzi said quietly, his face pale.

“Sir—”

“Mr Kydd?”

“Sir. I find it monstrous that I’m being treated in this way. I did m’ duty t’ th’ best o’ my—”

Saumarez bowed his head and held up his hand. “Clear the room,”

he said. “I’ve heard enough. You will remain, Mr Kydd.”

When they had left Saumarez looked at Kydd for a long moment before he spoke. “You! Of all the men of promise in my command—to stoop to venal acts as shabby as any.”

Kydd tried to say something but it came out as a mumble.

“And you think to obfuscate and temporise with wild tales that do you no credit whatsoever. I have to tell you, sir, I’m both shocked and greatly saddened by what has passed.” He sighed deeply and rose slowly from his chair. “And now I have to decide what to do with you.” He paced to the end of the room, then turned. “In view of your recent valour and service to my squadron I will not proceed in law, Mr Kydd.”

“Th-thank you, sir.” There seemed nothing else to say.

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“However, I see no other course than to relieve you of your command as of this hour, Mr Kydd. You are not to return to your ship.

Your effects will be sent ashore at your convenience. I will not have you as an example to my fleet. Good day to you, sir.”

Chapter 8

Kydd was very quiet, unheeding of the hubbub that eddied around the inn’s taproom. The candle guttered, throwing the lines on his face into deep relief. Renzi felt uneasy. Would this sudden catapult into shame and an unknown future tip him back into unreality?

“Ye didn’t have t’ do it, Nicholas,” he said eventually, his beer still untouched in the pewter tankard.

“With Teazer in an uproar and all ahoo? Not as this would assist in a scholard’s ruminations.”

Kydd raised his head. “Who is . . . ?”

Renzi saw there was no point in prolonging it. “Kit Standish is made captain and Prosser an acting lieutenant.” The light died in his friend’s eyes and his head dropped. Renzi’s heart was wrung with pity. That a man could suffer two such blows in succession was grievous. That neither was of Kydd’s doing was so much the worse.

“Did they land y’r books in good shape?” Kydd asked unexpectedly, breaking into Renzi’s thoughts. He had found an old sail-loft near the boatbuilders in Havelet Bay as a temporary store for their possessions, the familiar objects of a score of voyages on a dozen seas now hidden under drab canvas, waiting for . . . who knew what?

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full way, then insisted in making a seamanlike stow of them.” He hesitated, then added softly, “And wishes I might make known to you the true feelings of the ship’s company on your cruel and unjust treatment.”

Kydd gave a tired smile. “You worry I’m ready t’ slip m’ cable, go astray in m’ wits—I know ye too well, ol’ friend.”

His head drooped once more—but then he looked up suddenly and, with an appalling crash, both of his fists smashed on to the table. He held Renzi’s eyes with cold ferocity. “If it takes th’ rest o’ m’ life, I’m going t’ get revenge o’ this. I don’t know what it’s about, but y’ have my oath—someone’s t’ pay for it.”

Renzi was taken aback. At first he could think of nothing to say; he had his suspicions but it was not the time to air them. He sought refuge in his glass, then said, “Perhaps we should give thought as to our future.”

Kydd breathed deeply and forced himself into control. His knuckles were still white, and Renzi felt a fleeting pity for the perpetrator when his friend finally found him.

“Er, what do ye suggest?”

“Well, there’s nothing to keep us here,” Renzi said, “and I do recall we have the better part of a year’s lease left on number eighteen, all paid for, of course, and a pity to waste it.”

“No!”

“It’s comfortable and . . . it’s there,” Renzi finished lamely.

“I’m not leavin’ here! Not until I’ve cleared m’ name an’ been taken back.”

“Tom. Dear friend. You should not set your heart on this. I sadly fear it’ll prove a deep and fearful mystery that may well be impossible to penetrate at our remove. Someone is out to ruin you, and has friends . . .

“Consider—although you’ve been dismissed your ship, they’ve not succeeded in having you cashiered out of the Service. You’re unemployed, but still a commander, Royal Navy, and can be given the privateer’s Revenge

12

a ship at any time—but not here while Admiral Saumarez remains in command.”

“I stay,” Kydd hissed. “If I leave, I’ve got no chance o’ nobblin’

th’ bastard who did this. It’s here there’s th’ clues, an’ here I stay till I’ve laid him by th’ tail.”

“I understand, brother,” Renzi said. “And since these islands are proving such a singular source of ethnical curiosities, so shall I stay too.”

“I—I thank ye for it, Nicholas. I’ve taken rooms here as will serve.”

He took a pull at his drink, then said, “This I don’t fathom, Nicholas. Why should Saumarez deny his own orders? He’s a square-sailin’ sort, treated me right well before.”

“That’s easily answered. There were no sealed orders.”

“I saw ’em wi’ my own eyes, Nicholas!”

“Those were counterfeit, added to the original orders.”

Kydd slumped back. “Why?”

“As I said, to bring about your fall from grace and ruin in the most complete fashion possible. A masterly plot, it has to be admitted,” Renzi mused. He went on firmly, “I saw the orders were unopened: Prosser signed for them in due form in the admiral’s office and they were still unopened when I took them in charge.

This implies that if there was anything untoward it was done in the admiral’s office.”

“Then we clap on all sail an’ go—”

“This will not be possible. Your presence will be resisted. More to the point, it will be to no purpose.”

“I’ll sweat it out o’ th’ buggers—someone knows—”

“It would appear, dear fellow, that anyone having influence in a commander-in-chief’s office and acting with confidence and a degree of familiarity, one admiral upon another, does in fact suggest—”

“Lockwood!” Kydd recalled the man’s threats when he had chosen Rosalynd over his daughter.

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“I cannot dispute your conclusion. He has sworn to destroy you for what he imagines you’ve done concerning his family, and but for the respect you have already won from Admiral Saumarez, you would now be facing a court-martial and certain public ruination.”

“How . . . ?”

“The motive is established, the method easily deduced. It requires but one corrupt clerk to accept a suitably fat bribe to insert the poisonous forgery, and one smuggler knowing the coast to deposit the chest, and it is done.” He added, “It’s the perfect method, for how do we proceed? Do we know who took the bribe? Confront the admiral’s staff one by one and demand they confess? Or minutely examine their motions on the day in question and—It’s hopeless, I’m obliged to say.”

Kydd slumped back. “If you’d have found th’ orders when you were called, Nicholas, I’d have waved ’em in Saumarez’s face an’

m’ case would be proved.”

“You will believe I searched furiously, the escort looking on with a certain impatience—but as you can observe, if I confessed knowledge of them by their absence, we’d be in a strange fixation both.”

“Then they’re still aboard!”

“I rather doubt it. I personally supervised the removal of your effects with the intent of their discovery. If you could but remember where you placed them?”

“I—I’ve tried, damn it, but we were in a moil at th’ time, puttin’ t’ sea an’ all.”

Renzi sighed. “But then it’s all of no account. At this space of time, should you produce them now it would be considered a clumsy attempt at exculpation. No, brother, this is as serious a matter as we have ever faced—and I confess at this time I see no way forward.”

• • •

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Kydd was frustrated and restless. “I’ve a notion t’ take a walk, Nicholas, clear th’ intellects.” Spirited discussion had not resolved the matter, but there had to be a way through.

With his uniform packed and stowed, Kydd was in his barely worn civilian garb, the dark-green tailed coat and nondescript pantaloons feeling odd after his stout naval coat and breeches.

He was now a figure of scandal, of wonder—a Navy captain who had been publicly shamed, caught out in a felony and dismissed his ship. To make things even more juicy for the gossips he was the undoubted hero of the recent Granville action. In the street he would be pointed out, gaped at, scorned—and not a word could he say in his defence.

Feeling hot shame he descended the inn stairs, holding to his heart that, no matter what, he knew he was innocent of any wrongdoing. The street was in its usual clamorous busyness and Kydd’s emergence was not noticed. Gathering his courage about him he turned left and marched resolutely up High Street.

Renzi caught up with him in the more spacious upper reaches.

“I hadn’t bargained on such a gallop,” he puffed. “Do moderate your pace, I beg.”

But Kydd wanted to be away from the town and didn’t slow.

Eventually they found the road north, slackened their speed and Renzi found breath for conversation. “A remarkable island—just a few miles broad but—”

“T’ be pointed out as—as who I am, it’s more’n a man should bear,” Kydd said, through his teeth. He knew, however, that there was one easy answer: simply to return to England and find anonymity—but that would deprive him of any chance to uncover the truth and reclaim his honour.

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overmuch fear the gaze of the herd, if that is your concern.”

“Aye, but they’ll find out—an’ you will say I’m damned in society.”

Renzi bit his lip. “Here, this will be so for now, I agree. But in England—”

“I’m not leavin’, Nicholas.”

They walked on in silence and after an hour returned. Nothing had been concluded other than a vague intent to go to the admiral’s office and do something unspecified. Yet every hour that passed . . .

For all they knew, Lockwood’s agent might still be on the island preparing to return, still available for unmasking.

It was the worst kind of frustration; Kydd found it hard to contain, and as they passed Government House he turned impulsively to go into the naval headquarters. Their entry was refused but he pushed past the scandalised sentry whereupon they were indig-nantly ejected. There would be no interrogations.

The evening meal was cheerless and silent. It had become obvious now that there would be no quick solution and happy restitution—

in fact, nothing constructive whatsoever had suggested itself.

In the morning, Kydd excused himself and said he needed to go for a walk alone. When he returned his face was serious. Renzi knew better than to ask; indeed, his own situation was approaching despair, for complete idleness without the solace of his books was difficult.

The day wore on drearily with neither news nor inspiration; eventually, needing to get out, Renzi suggested they head to the tavern where they had shared a dinner before their world had turned demented.

It was a mistake. They had a fine view of the castle islet below, but also a first-class vantage-point to witness HMS Teazer win her anchor and stand out to sea, her long masthead pennant whipping in the brisk breeze. It was proof positive that a new commission had begun for her, a new life under a new captain.

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Kydd’s face was like stone. Then Renzi saw a glitter in his eyes and he had to turn away. When he looked back Kydd was as still as a statue, following the little vessel with his eyes until she spread full sail and made off southward—to the open sea. With infinite sadness, he said, “I’d be beholden t’ ye, Nicholas, should we go back now.”

“It grieves me to raise the subject, brother, but we must take stock of our position.” Renzi and Kydd sat in their usual spot in the snug, to one side of the fire, teasing out their half-pints of ale for as long as they could. It was now five days gone and they were no further forward.

Kydd said nothing, gloomily lifting his grog-blackened leather tankard.

“In fine, it is to remark that our means are not without their limit—my humble emolument as a ship’s clerk ceased the minute I quit the ship, as you would know, and for your own good self

. . .”

Kydd shifted uncomfortably. “I’m on half-pay, that’s true, but I have t’ say to ye, it’s spoken for f’r months ahead—I outlaid a fat purse t’ those villains in St Sampson t’ prettify Teazer’s bright-work an’ gingerbread. I doubt as Standish is appreciatin’ it now,”

he added morosely.

Renzi turned grave. “Am I to understand thereby that we are living on our capital?”

“Aye, I suppose it’s so.”

“Then—then it’s time for a decision, my friend.”

“Oh?”

“Most certainly. And it is simply to establish at what point we will be constrained to recognise our resources no longer allow us to continue our hunt and retire from hence, wounded but whole.”

“I’m not running!” Kydd blazed. “T’ return to m’ family wi’

such a stain? I’d sooner roast in hell.”

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Renzi gave a half-smile. “Then we must take prudent measures, steps to preserve body and soul through come what may until . . .”

“Someone’s going t’ talk,” Kydd said positively, “spend their vile guineas like water, make a noise in th’ taverns. An’ then I’ll hear about it,” he said savagely. “An’ God help th’ slivey toad!”

“Very well,” Renzi said, without conviction. “The first is to secure our living quarters. This fine inn here is no longer within our competence. We must find—”

“Our?” Kydd cut in. “Nicholas, this is not your fight.”

“In all conscience the odds against you are high enough. I cannot find it in me to leave you to face alone what you must, dear brother. No, this is now my decision, which you will allow me to make on my own.”

“Tak’ it or leave ’un!”

The hard-faced woman turned to go but Renzi stopped her.

“We’ll take it, madam.”

“Ten livres on account,” she said, thrusting out a hand from under her shawl. “An’ I’ve plenty o’ Frenchies as’ll sigh for such a one!”

Kydd frowned at Renzi, who whispered back, “The royalists—

having fled the Revolution, they’re pining in exile here where they can still see their homeland.”

The wrong side of Fountain Street, it was a mansion of grandeur that had seen better times. Now the familiar drawing room, dining room and the rest were each partitioned off with their own noisy family; Kydd and Renzi’s domicile was the topmost floor, the old servants’ quarters.

“Such a quantity of space!” exclaimed Renzi, stoutly, at the two rooms, a clapboard partition dividing the open space of a garret. Their furniture was limited to a bed each, turned up against the wall, a single table and chair under the window and a seedy the privateer’s Revenge

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dresser. There were bare floorboards and a dank, musty smell throughout.

“Fresh air,” offered Kydd, eyeing the dirty window. “And a fireplace.” The small grate looked mean and still contained the disconsolate crumbled remains of the last fire, but he rubbed his hands, and said briskly, “We’ll soon have it shipshape. Um, not as who’s t’ say, but I don’t spy a kitchen a-tall. How . . . ?”

Renzi forced a bright smile. “In course, we as bachelor gentlemen do send out for our victuals, dear fellow. There’s sure to be a chophouse or ordinary close by. As to the smaller comestibles there’ll be your milkmaid, baker, pieman calling, eager for our trade.”

Kydd looked at the small fireplace. “A kettle f’r tea an’

coffee?”

“Tea will soon be beyond our means, I’m sorry to say,” Renzi said firmly. “Scotch coffee will probably be available.” Kydd winced. Childhood memories of scrimping in hard times had brought back the bitter taste of burned breadcrumbs.

They set to, and a seaman-like scrubbing from end to end soon had the spaces glistening with damp, the window protesting loudly at being opened, and a resolve declared that they would invest in more aids to comfort when their affairs were on the mend.

Meanwhile another chair was needed, with various domestic articles as they suggested themselves.

When evening fell and they set about their meagre repast, the extravagance of a bottle of thin Bordeaux did little to lift the mood.

A burst of ill-tempered rowdiness came up from below. Was the future stretching ahead to be always like this?

The night passed badly for Kydd. In just a few months he had come from contemplating a high-society wedding to regretting the coals for the comfort of a fire. From captain of a man-o’-war to tenant of a dirty garret. It was hard to take, and lurking at the back of his mind there was always the temptation to slink back cravenly to England.

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But that would be to accept the ruin Lockwood had contrived and he’d be damned if he would!

The dull morning began with rain pattering on the window and leaks appearing from nowhere. Over the last of their tea, Renzi gave a twisted smile. “I rather think that the occupation of gentleman is quite over for us, brother. We must seek out some form of income—of employment suitable to our character, or it will be the parish workhouse for us.”

“I’ll never get another ship from Admiral Saumarez,” Kydd said glumly, “even supposing he’s one in his gift. Er, y’ haven’t seen my hairbrush? You know, the pearl-backed one Mother gave me.”

“I thought it was on the dresser,” Renzi said absently.

“No matter,” Kydd said. “It’ll turn up.”

He reflected for a moment. “An’ it must be admitted, anything of employment as takes me back t’ sea is not t’ be considered—I’d then be removed fr’m here an’ couldn’t find m’ man.”

Renzi smiled briefly. “As one of Neptune’s creatures, there’s little enough for you on terra firma, so completely out of your element.”

“I shall think on’t,” Kydd answered stiffly. “May I know, then, what it is you’re proposin’ to do, Nicholas?”

“It does set a challenge,” Renzi admitted, “my qualifications being of the most cursory. I do suggest we devote this day to a reconnaissance of prospects, each being free to follow our independent course and exchange our experiences later tonight.”

Kydd headed down to the busy quayside and found the little oc-tagonal building that had been pointed out to him. The genial harbour-master greeted him and made room for him among the charts and thick-bound books. “What is it I c’n do for ye, Mr Kydd?”

“Kind in you t’ see me, Mr Collas. Er, I’d have y’ know that I’ve seen m’ share o’ sea service—”

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“Oh, aye?”

“But at th’ moment I find m’self without a ship, an’ I thought it might be time t’ swallow th’ anchor an’ take employment ashore, if y’ see what I mean.”

There was a careful silence.

“That is t’ say, if there’s a position open in th’ harbour authority t’ a man o’ the sea that ye’d recommend, I’d be grateful t’ hear it.”

“Y’ mean a harbour commissioner, inspector sort o’ thing?”

“I do.”

“Then I have t’ disappoint ye, Mr Kydd. We runs things differently here. No King’s men pokin’ into our affairs an’ that. An’

no Customs an’ Excise neither. In th’ islands trade is king. So it’s leave ’em at it to get on wi’ their business.

“Now, the most important thing we does is the piloting. T’ be a Guernsey pilot is t’ be at the top o’ th’ profession, Mr Kydd.

An’ afore ye ask, there’s none but a Guern’ will have th’ knowledge t’ do it. See, there’s nothing like here anywheres in Creation f’r rocks ’n’ shoals, and then we adds in the tidal currents, and it’s a rare place indeed f’r hazards. Y’ learn about a rock—it looks like quite another when th’ tide state’s different. Y’ come upon it in th’ fog, see it just the once—which rock are y’ going t’

tell y’r ship’s master it is?”

He went on: “Currents about here c’n be faster’n a man can run but they’ll change speed ’n’ direction with the tide as well.

It’s right scareful, th’ way it can be well on th’ make in one part an’ at the same time only at slack in another. Why, springs in the Great Russel y’ can hear th’ overfalls roaring—does y’ know how t’ navigate the far side of an overfall in spate? An’ then there’s the seamounts. Nasty beasts they are, currents over them are wicked and they change—”

“—with th’ tide,” Kydd said hastily. “I did hear as ye’ve bought a patent lifeboat.”

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“We did. A Greathead thirty-footer, cost us a hundred and seventy pounds so we takes good care of it.”

“And does it need—”

“We keep it at St Sampson.”

Clearly it was of small interest and tucked away safely out of harm’s way. Kydd was running out of ideas. “Do ye conduct hydrographical surveys hereabouts? I’m doubting th’ Admiralty has the time.”

“No need. We’re well served b’ the private charts, all put out b’ local mariners as we know ’n’ trust. Dobrée an’ others, rutters by Deschamps . . .”

“Then buoyage an’ lighthouses—surely Trinity House can’t be expected—”

“But they do an’ all! Ye’ve probably seen our Casquet light—

remarkable thing! Three towers, an’ Argand oil wi’ reflecting metal—”

Kydd stood up. “Aye. Thank ye, Mr Collas. Good day t’ ye.”

Renzi waited patiently in the foyer of the imposing red-brick building on St Julian’s Avenue. The clerk appeared again, regarding him doubtfully. “Mr Belmont is very busy, but c’n find you fifteen minutes, Mr, er, Renzi.”

A thin and bespectacled individual looked up as he entered.

“Yes?”

The man was irritable in his manner but making an effort to be civil, so Renzi pressed on: “Sir, at the moment I’m to seek a position in Guernsey that will engage my interests and talents to best advantage.

“My experience in marine insurance will not be unknown to the profession—the barratry case of the Lady of Penarth back in the year ’ninety-three, in which I might claim a leading role, has been well remarked.” It would probably not help his case to mention the privateer’s Revenge

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that at the time he had been a common foremast hand in the old Duke William with Kydd.

“Since those days I have occupied myself as an officer in the King’s service, lately invalided out, and it struck me that I should perhaps consider turning my experience to account and—”

“Tell me, sir, what is your conceiving of a contract of indemnity?”

“Why, sir, this is nothing but that which is defined in the deed.”

It was a fair bet that anything and everything would be covered in any good watertight policy.

“Would you allow, then, rotted ropes in an assessment of common average or would it be the particular?”

“Sir, you can hardly expect me to adjudicate in a matter so fine while not in possession of the details at hand.”

Belmont sighed. “Might I know then if you have written anything?”

Renzi brightened; he had passed the initial test and now they were enquiring after his common literacy. As to that . . . “Sir, since you so kindly asked,” he began warmly, “I am at the moment consumed in the task of evolving an ethnographical theory that I do hope will be published at—”

“I was rather referring to policies,” the man rasped sarcastically,

“and, as it happens, I’m desolated to find that there is no opening in this establishment for a marine gentleman of your undoubted talents. Good day to you, sir.”

In the evening, footsore and thoughtful, it was time to review matters. Kydd’s attempts had led nowhere, although he now had the solace that in Guernsey society it seemed his crime was regarded more as bad luck than anything else, the pursuit of profit by trade a worthy enough endeavour whatever the nature of the enterprise.

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distrust and, apart from a doubtful offer as a proof-reader and another as assistant to a dancing master, whose duties appeared to be nothing more than making himself agreeable to lady students, there was nothing.

“I’m to go to St Sampson tomorrow,” Kydd said. “There are several yards as build fine schooners an’ brigs there, an’ they’ll be sure t’ need a projector o’ quality, one who knows th’ sea an’ has met fine men o’ standin’ in strange parts o’ th’ world,” he added unconvincingly.

Renzi hid a smile. Kydd engaged in hard selling to thick-skinned mercantile interests was unlikely, to say the least. “One moment, and I’ll jot our ideas down,” he said.

He found paper, but then in irritation turned on Kydd: “Brother, I have mentioned before that the silver-lead pencil is a fine but expensive piece, and is for my own studies and not for the, er, general use. Where did you leave it, pray?”

Kydd glowered back. “An’ I’ve heard above ten times o’ this wonderful pencil, but f’r now I’m not guilty o’ the crime.” He hunted about briefly. “It’ll turn up.”

Renzi paused at the sound from below of a shouted argument reaching its climax in a crash. “Possibly we should be considering a more aggressive approach to securing our existence.”

“What?” Kydd grunted.

“Why, er, we have not yet consulted the newspaper.”

They sauntered into the nearest coffee-house. Renzi engaged a bewigged attendant in amiable conversation while Kydd sat on a bench and looked around as though waiting, carelessly picking up a recent La Gazette. When he was sure no one was watching he folded the newspaper, slipped it into his waistcoat and left, his face burning.

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claret, for the light was fast fading and, with a single candle at the table, all Renzi would allow, there were many pages of closely printed columns. They set to, trying to ignore the distant squall-ing of infants and the reek of burned fat and cheap tallow rising to the upper storeys.

It was depressing reading: without appropriate introductions of the usual sort, access to the more gentlemanly occupations was barred, while without experience even the lower trades would not be open to them.

“There’s a situation here that may interest you,” Renzi said.

“Oh?”

“Indeed. I see here a vacancy as a shopman for an antigropelos draper, no less.”

Kydd gave a lop-sided smile. “Being?”

“Well, a seller of waterproof leggings, of course,” Renzi answered lamely. They both tried to laugh, and Kydd reached for the foul-weather flask; there should be some of the precious spirit left from the last stormy deck watch.

“Where’s that bedamn’d flask gone to?” grunted Kydd in annoyance, rummaging about. Suddenly he stopped and raised his eyes to meet Renzi’s. “A poxy snaffler!”

“It has to be—but where’s a sneak thief going to get in while we’re out?”

Kydd had locked everything and he was sure that it was not possible to gain entry.

“Ah—there is one way!”

“Nicholas?”

“At night. We don’t batten down all hatches while we’re asleep, do we?”

“The scrovy swab! If I lay my . . .” Kydd smiled grimly. “Bear a fist, Nicholas. I’m going t’ rig a welcome as will see us shakin’

hands with th’ villain b’ morning.”

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string led along the floor, a cunning door wedge. Then they pulled down their beds to retire.

Renzi did not sleep well. It was becoming clear that they were headed into unknown waters: possibly useless penury, certainly life on the fringes of society. He would bear his lot without complaint but now a moral question was arising.

Was he right in acquiescing to Kydd’s forlorn search to clear his name? If Lockwood was at the back of it the implication was that he would not rest until Kydd’s personal ruin was seen to be accomplished. Therefore even if by some miracle Kydd achieved his exoneration Lockwood would find some other way to secure his revenge. Renzi knew well the lengths to which vindictive men in high places could go if vengeance was their purpose.

But he had vowed to stand by his friend whatever the situation.

Therefore, in logic, he must remain.

The bed with its wire frame creaked and twanged as he turned restlessly, but sleep did not come. His mind wandered to his studies: his theory was proceeding well, coalescing about responses to primal needs in differing cultures, but he needed more data. Much more. If only he could lay hold of Baudin’s journal, but the French explorer had died in Mauritius and his data was now separated by the unbridgeable gulf of war. Where else could—

Cecilia. Would she wait for him? The thought shocked him into full wakefulness as he reflected on his failure in Australia to forge a life there as a free settler. He had wanted to create an Arcadia of his small landholding for her. Now, his grand plan to complete his first volume for publication to present to her before he felt morally able to seek her hand—where was this, now that his entire endeavour was at an indefinite standstill? What if she—

“Hssst! Nicholas!” Kydd whispered, but Renzi had heard it too.

The door-handle was squeaking softly. He lay still. There was just enough wan moonlight to make out gross shadows so the two of them should well be able to handle one—but if there were more?

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The door scraped open and stayed for a space. Then the floorboards creaked but Renzi could not see any bulking figure.

Instead, to his surprise, he next heard movement from well within the room.

Kydd yanked the string hard. The door banged to and the wedge slammed into place with a triumphant finality. The intruder whirled about and made for the door but it was jammed tightly shut. “Strike a light, Nicholas, an’ we’ll see what we’ve snagged,”

Kydd said, with satisfaction, getting to his feet.

The candle flickered into flame, revealing a slight figure trapped against the door. “Well, now, an’ what’s y’ name then, y’ young shicer?”

There was no answer. Two dark eyes watched warily as they approached. The figure was in leggings, a short jacket and a ban-danna.

“Answer me, y’ scamp, or I has ye taken in b’ th’ watch.”

The muttered reply was inaudible.

“Speak up, ’scapegallows!”

“P-Pookie.”

A female child-thief? Caught off-guard in his nightgown Renzi took refuge in frowning severely. “Pookie what, pray?”

Defiantly the boyish figure stayed mute.

“We c’n easily find out b’ takin’ you t’ each o’ the families in th’

buildin’ t’ see who owns ye.”

“Pookie, er, Turner.”

Kydd looked at Renzi in exasperation. The harsh penal system demanded transportation to Botany Bay for the theft of a hand-kerchief and the gallows for a few shillings. Children as young as nine had gone to the scaffold. What had possessed this ragamuf-fin to take such risks?

“Get rigged, Nicholas, I’m gettin’ satisfaction fr’m th’ father.”

But there was none, only a listless, irritated mother who screamed threats at the child. “Only twelve year she has an’ all, sir, an’ s’

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help me the bastard ain’t even mine!” she whined. It seemed they would not be seeing their possessions again.

“Listen t’ me, an’ mark well what I say,” Kydd growled, in a fierce quarterdeck manner. “If’n I catch this scut skulking about our rooms again it’s th’ beak on th’ instant. Compree?”

The coins clinked one by one as Renzi let them drop to the table, his face in shadows from the single, evil-smelling rush dip.

“So bad?” Kydd asked uneasily. He was trying to toast the last of a stale loaf on a brown-coal fire.

At first Renzi did not reply. Then he turned. “Despite domestic economies of such austerity as would quite put Mistress Hannah Glasse to the blush, it would seem that the end must come soon and with no appeal.”

“Th’ end?” Kydd said apprehensively.

“Suffice it to say that on Friday we shall be unable to render her due to our termagant landlady. It should be quite within prospect that our immediate quitting will be demanded.”

“Then . . .”

“Yes.”

Renzi said nothing further and regarded Kydd gravely.

“You’re sayin’ we’re t’ be gone fr’m the islands, return t’

England?”

“It would seem the time has come, brother.”

Kydd looked away. “I’m stayin’, Nicholas.”

“Where—”

“I’m goin’ t’ the sail-loft. Th’ old fisherman as offered it me has no use f’r it. That’s where I’ll be.”

“Dear fellow, that’s—that’s no living for a gentleman. Why, you might well be taken up for a vagrant. It will not do at all.”

Kydd gave a tigerish smile. “I’m seein’ it through. That chousin’

toad only has t’ say one word out o’ place an’ I’ll have him.”

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to rags and the shuffling hopelessness of the poor with the canker of vengeance sapping his life spirit.

“Of course,” Renzi said calmly. “Then I do suggest we begin taking the rest of our worldly goods thence. For myself, there is no question that I burden myself on you further. Instead I’ll, er, find somewhere to lay my head. Yes! I have a mind to visit Jersey.”

“Jersey?”

“A Channel Island not twenty miles to the south-east, which, I might point out to you, is larger in area than this present isle and its opportunities as yet untried. Any news I have will be made available to you at St Peter Port post office.”

“Then—then this is y’r farewell, Nicholas,” Kydd said, in a low voice, “an’ I’d wish it were at a happier time.”

“For now, dear friend. When the one meets with fortune I dare to say the other will share in it. Do take care of my manuscripts, I beg. And at any time you will have need of your friend, make it known at the St Helier’s post office.”

Chapter 9

It would be easier said than done. Carrying a bundle for his immediate needs, Renzi stepped ashore in St Helier, the chief town and port of Jersey, with the pressing goal of finding employment, however humble, that might serve to keep both himself and his friend from starving while Kydd’s all-consuming quest spent itself before they returned to England.

Preoccupied, he had not particularly noticed the castle set out into the approaches to St Helier, which was of considerable antiquity. Other defensive works of a more recent vintage briefly caught his eye: the massive crenellations of a fortification along the skyline above the town, gun towers and signal posts. Jersey had a definite edge of siege-like tension about it. St Helier itself was less steep than St Peter Port but appeared busier.

The mariner in Renzi noted the immense scatter of granite reefs that crowded in on the port and would make it a lethal trap if the wind shifted to the south, unlike St Peter Port, which had handy escape routes north and south. He shrugged: there would be precious little sea time for the near future—he had to secure tolerable employ.

Renzi found a coffee-house and went in. Seated in a quiet corner he secured a dog-eared copy of the Gazette de Jersey and scanned it—much about the tenor of existence, economic health and the the privateer’s Revenge

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general happiness of folk could be gauged from the profundity or otherwise of the concerns expressed in a newspaper.

Here, it seemed, there was feverish anticipation of an imminent assault by Bonaparte, but otherwise the usual run of vanities: theatre, gossip, confected moral outrage. But there was also a sense of boundary, between the incomers and the established residents.

Not so different from any society in similar constricted circumstances, he reflected, but without the requisite introductions, nearly impossible to penetrate socially—or for the purpose of gentlemanly employment.

Renzi sighed and put down the newspaper. He had come across just one avenue. There was a naval presence here, considerably smaller than in Guernsey but apparently rating a junior commodore. It might be possible by deploying his experience as a ship’s clerk to make himself useful somewhere in the establishment.

He called for writing materials and crafted a polite note offering his services to the commodore’s office in whatever situation might prove convenient, sealed it and carefully superscribed it in correct naval phrasing. He had provided no return address, begging that any reply might be left poste restante at the St Helier post office, then sat back to finish his coffee.

In the early morning he emerged stiff and shivering from beneath an upturned fishing-boat where he had spent another night on the beach. Trudging into the deserted town his nose led him to a bak-ery; and for the price of some amiable chatting Renzi went away with half a loaf of stale bread. Around the corner he fished out a hunk of cheese, pared some off with his penknife, then wolfed his breakfast.

The town was coming to life and he wandered through the streets. Like St Peter Port, this was not a poor community—in fact, it, too, showed signs of wealth.

By mid-morning he was ready to continue to seek employment.

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On impulse he turned back for the post office; Kydd had promised to keep in touch and he was much concerned for him.

There was nothing from his friend—but there was a neatly sealed letter in an unknown hand, bearing a crest he did not know. It was from Commodore d’Auvergne: in friendly tones it invited him to make himself known at his shore address adjacent to the customs house where they would explore possibilities concerning a position.

It seemed a trifle peculiar—a flag-officer, however junior, deigning to involve himself in clerkly hiring? But Renzi could see no advantage to be gained by any kind of prank.

At first he thought he had come to the wrong place. The small office, compared to his usual experience of naval headquarters, could only be termed discreet. He had taken some care in his appearance and stepped in purposefully. He identified himself to a clerk, who looked at him keenly but said nothing and ushered him up a cramped flight of stairs to a small room. It was odd, he thought, that there were no uniformed sentries.

“Mr Renzi, sir,” the man announced.

“Ah, do come in, sir,” Commodore d’Auvergne said genially, in barely accented English; he had a round, kindly face but with the high forehead and alert eyes of someone intelligent and self-possessed.

“Thank you, sir,” Renzi said, attending carefully while d’Auvergne leaned back in his chair.

There was a moment’s pause as the commodore summed him up. Then he said briskly, “You wonder why at my eminence I noticed you, sir. That is simple. In the letter your hand betrays you as a gentleman, and your making application for a menial post intrigues me.”

Renzi’s uneasy smile brought a further penetrating glance. “Of course, this would be a capital way for a spy to inveigle himself into my headquarters. Are you a spy, Mr Renzi?”

“I am not, sir.”

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“Then?”

“My last post was that of a ship’s clerk, sir, lately Teazer, brig-sloop. For reasons that need not trouble you, this position has now been closed to me.”

“Clerk? How interesting. It would disappoint me to hear that your removal was for . . . peccant reasons.”

“No felonious act has ever attached to my name, sir,” Renzi snapped.

“Do pardon my direct speaking, sir. You see, your presenting at this time comes as a particular convenience to me.”

At Renzi’s wary silence he went on: “Let me be more explicit. As commodore of the Jersey Squadron I have my flagship round the coast at Gorey. This little office provides an official pied-à-terre in St Helier and my private house is nearby. As it happens, sir, I have an especial regard for those who have in their person suffered in the terrible convulsions of the Revolution—the royalistes.”

He looked at Renzi intently. “Here there are many émigré French to be seen wandering the streets, poor souls, some even standing for long hours on the cliffs mooning over their lost land, which is in plain view to the east. I do take a personal interest in their plight.”

Shuffling some papers on his desk he said, “It is for this reason I maintain an old, contemptible castle near Gorey, which I devote to their cause. Now, there is nothing in the naval sphere available,” he said regretfully, “but I have recently lost a valued confidential secretary and the creatures offering themselves in his place are—are lacking in the article of gentlemanly discernment, shall we say? Therefore, should you feel inclined, there is a post I can offer, which shall be my secretary for émigré affairs.

“You have the French, I trust?” he added.

“I do, sir.”

“They are a distracted and, some might say, fractious community. Dogmatic priests, aristocrats insisting on the forms of the 150

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ancien régime, a thankless task. For this, shall we say fifty livres a month?”

A princely sum! It was more than he had dared hope, and—

With only a single glance at Renzi’s scuffed shoes d’Auvergne added smoothly, “Of course, this will be at the castle—Mont Orgueil, I should inform you—which is at a remove from St Helier, and therefore I feel an obligation upon me to offer you a room there for a trifle in the way of duties out of the normal hours.”

“That is most kind in you, sir.”

“Then may I know when would be an acceptable date for your commencement, Mr Renzi?”

“This is a very remarkable achievement, sir,” said Renzi, standing next to d’Auvergne within the grim bastions of Mont Orgueil, softened with tasteful medieval hangings and well-turned Gothic furniture. The castle, four-square and forbidding on a prominence looking across the water at France, had its roots in the age of the longbow and armoured knights, but with the arrival of cannon, it had been abandoned in Elizabethan times to genteel decay.

D’Auvergne had brought back some of the colour and grandeur, particularly in the part of the edifice he occupied, the Corbelled Tower, now an impressive receiving place past the four outer gates and a higgledy-piggledy final spiral staircase.

The rest of the castle was an eccentric accretion of bluff towers and quaint gateways that led to open battlements at the top. There, stretching over two-thirds of the eastern horizon, was the coast of France—the ancient enemy of England.

D’Auvergne gave Renzi a pensive look. “I like to think I am its castellan of modern times and I’m rather fond of it. ‘Time has mouldered into beauty many a grim tower,’ it’s been said. ‘And where rich banners once displayed, now only waves a flower . . .’

Sad, for there’s myriad tales untold here, I’m persuaded.”

He collected himself. “You shall bed in the Principal Yeoman the privateer’s Revenge

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Warder’s room. Don’t concern yourself on his behalf, pray—the last he had need of it was in 1641.”

Renzi found it hard to avoid being affected by the atmosphere; the musty stonework of the upper floors had some life and light but other places lurking below in the dark and unfathomable depths of the fortress made him shiver.

D’Auvergne continued, “There is a small staff. I have had the kitchens removed to this level, else it plays the devil with keeping the food hot. The gate porter you’ll find in St George Tower—be sure to address him as the maréchal—his lodgings are found by the King’s Receiver and he may claim one gallon of imported wine and a cabot of salt for his pains.”

At length they returned to d’Auvergne’s apartment, where he sat behind a Gothic desk, set before diamond-mullioned windows, and steepled his fingers. “So. You have the measure of my little kingdom, Mr Renzi. What do you think?”

It was impossible to do justice to the sense of awe and unease that this lonely sea-frontier redoubt had brought to him so Renzi murmured, “Quite of another age, sir.”

“Just so. Er, at this point, perhaps I should introduce myself a little more formally. You see at the recent demise of Léopold, Duke of Bouillon, I have succeeded to that principality and am thus entitled to be addressed as, ‘His Serene Highness, the Prince of Bouillon.’”

Renzi sat back in astonishment, remembering just in time a civil bow of his head.

“You will, no doubt, be more comfortable with the usual naval titles at which I will be satisfied. However, I do insist on the style of prince in my correspondence.”

“Sir.”

“You might remark on it that since my lands are at the moment in occupation by Bonaparte’s soldiers, and as the great hall of the castle of Navarre is unavailable to me, I must rest content with 152

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Mont Orgueil. This I cannot deny, sir, and it does explain my ready sympathy with the royalist émigré, don’t you think?”

“It—it must do, sir.”

“Then let us pass on to other matters. Such as yourself, Mr Renzi.”

“Er?” Renzi said uncertainly.

“Quite. I do now require my curiosity to be satisfied as to why such an evidently well-educated patrician comes to me in the character of the ship’s clerk of a brig-sloop—if, indeed, this be so—seeking a form of employment with me. You may speak freely, sir.” He regarded Renzi dispassionately.

“And I, sir,” Renzi said, firmly now, “am in a state of some wonder as to why you have seen fit to offer me a position without the least comprehension of my circumstances.”

D’Auvergne smiled thinly. “I believe myself a tolerable judge of men and in your case I do not feel I am mistaken. Your story, sir, if you please.”

To Renzi’s own ears it seemed so implausible. Going to sea as a foremast hand in a form of self-imposed exile as expiation for what he considered a sin committed by his family, later to find its stern realities strongly appealing after the softness of the land. Finding a friend such as Kydd and their adventuring together, which had ended with Renzi’s own near-mortal fever—but then the revelation of a life’s calling in the pursuit of a theory of natural philosophy that in its rooting in the real world could only be realised by taking ship for distant parts, in Kydd’s command, to be his clerk as a device to be aboard. “And unfortunately he has been, er, super-seded and at the moment is without a ship,” Renzi added. There was no need to dwell on the circumstances.

D’Auvergne did not reply for a moment and Renzi began to think he was disbelieved. Then, with a warm smile, the man said, “A remarkable history, sir. I was not wrong in my estimation—and I would like to hear more of you, sir. One evening, perhaps.”

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• • •

The chophouse was busy, noisy and welcoming after Kydd’s morning exertions walking the streets in search of clues regarding his situation. He drew his grego clear of the sawdust floor and eased himself into one of the communal tables, nodding to slight acquaintances. “Bean Jar, is it, then?” a waiter asked, swiftly disposing of the remains of a meal in the empty place next to him. His customary order of the local dish of lentils and pork, along with bread and beer, would be his only hot meal of the day.

“Aye.”

“Mutton chop is prime—c’n find yer one f’r sixpence?”

“Not today, thank ’ee,” Kydd said. He had felt his dwindling stock of coins before he entered and mutton was not within reach.

He blessed the fact that, while he was known to the commander-in-chief and other potentates of Guernsey, the common people would not recognise the shabby figure keeping to himself in the street as a naval commander so he could pass about freely in the town. But he had found not the slightest lead to help in his investigations, and time had passed. He had to face it. Renzi had been right. The trail had gone cold, his chances of discovering, let alone proving, the deed now vanishingly remote. It was time to call a stop. He would give it just a few more days, to the point at which his means of sustenance came to an end. Then—then he would go home.

Having made this resolution, he felt more at ease with himself, and in a fit of bravado tipped the waiter a whole penny, then marched out into the street. The autumn sun was hard and bright, and on a whim he headed to the harbour where ships were working cargo, seamen out on the ran-tan, and the rich aroma of sea-salt and tarry ropes pervaded all.

On the broad quay he stopped to watch a handsome barque dis-charging wine; her yardarm and stay tackles worked in harmony 154

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to sway up the cargo from her bowels to a growing pyramid on the wharf. No Customs reckoning here: the great barrels would be rolled directly into the mouths of the warehouses, probably for trans-shipping later by another hull to a British port, given that she flew the American flag, a neutral.

A young man stopped his empty man-hauled cart and waved to him. Kydd stepped across and instantly recognised the face. “Mr Calloway!” he said, in astonishment. “What are ye doing?”

Calloway doffed his battered cap respectfully, an unexpectedly touching gesture in the surroundings, and said shyly, “Mr Standish had his own young gennelmen he wanted t’ place on th’ quarterdeck an’ offered t’ me as whether I’d be turned afore the mast or be put ashore, sir.”

It was a mean act, but in the usual course of events when a captain left his command the midshipmen and “followers” would go with him, allowing the new captain to install his own. And Calloway had chosen the honourable but costly move of retaining his nominal rank instead of reverting to seaman and staying aboard. Midshipmen were not entitled to half-pay and thus he had rendered himself essentially destitute.

“An’ so ye should have done, Mr Calloway,” Kydd said warmly.

The thought of others who had served him so well now under an alien command wrenched at him. “Er, can I ask how ye fare now?”

“Why, sir, on Mondays an’ Wednesdays I’m t’ be ballast heaver.

Tuesdays an’ Thursdays I’m cart trundler to Mr Duval, the boatbuilder.”

Kydd hesitated, then said stoutly, “Y’ has m’ word on it, Luke, in m’ next ship I’ll expect ye there on th’ quarterdeck with me. Won’t be s’ long, an’ m’ name’ll be cleared, you’ll see.”

“Aye aye, Mr Kydd,” Calloway said quietly.

“An’ where c’n I find ye?”

“Ask at th’ Bethel, sir. They’ll find me when y’ has need o’ me.”

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A floating church in harbour, the Bethel was a refuge for seamen seeking relief from the sometimes riotous behaviour of sailors raising a wind in port.

“I’d—I’d like t’ invite ye t’ sup wi’ me a while, but—”

“I thank ye, Mr Kydd, but I must be about m’ duties,” Calloway said, with the barest glance at Kydd’s ragged appearance. “Good fortune t’ ye, sir.”

Renzi had not found the work onerous and, in fact, it was not without interest: d’Auvergne seemed to have a wide circle of royalist acquaintances and was in receipt of considerable sums from charitable institutions in England to distribute to the needy. Some of the royalists apparently had pressing personal problems that d’Auvergne was taking care of privately. Several came while Renzi was working with him. At their suspicious looks he would leave the room quietly; such behaviour from proud ex-noblemen was understandable.

Renzi finished what he was working on and handed it to d’Auvergne, who glanced through it and said, with a smile, “I do fear, Mr Renzi, that we are not making full use of your talents.”

He slapped down the papers with satisfaction. “Tonight you shall come to dinner, be it only a family affair, and then I will learn more of your philosophies.”

Renzi was much impressed by the mansion just a mile out of St Helier, set in a vast ornamental garden with interiors of a splendid, if individual magnificence. D’Auvergne had humorously named the house “Bagatelle” and proudly showed him the sights inside: scientific specimens, works of art of considerable value with “rel-ics of injured royalty,” which included objets de toilette from the apartment of Marie Antoinette smuggled out at the height of the Revolution’s horrors.

At length d’Auvergne made his apologies. “I must leave you now for a space, Mr Renzi, to settle a business at my town office but I 156

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shall be back directly. Do avail yourself of my library—I take much pleasure from learned works in which the flower of man’s intellect might so readily be imbibed.”

The library was monumental, with some sixty volumes on naval architecture and navigation alone, another hundred or two of Voyages and Travels, a well-thumbed Johnson and a recent Encyclopaedia Britannica. Seventy more on chemistry, mineralogy and a whole shelf of arcane botany, more on applied mathematics and a complete Shakespeare.

Renzi noted that nowhere was there any tome that could remotely be said to address religion, although there was Voltaire and commentaries on Robespierre and the Worship of Reason.

And neither were there the usual weighty classics; Virgil, Caesar, Plato were conspicuous by their absence.

A gloomy inner library contained a mass of volumes and pam-phlets on the history of France, obscure references to medieval campaigns and racks of genealogical studies. It was staggering.

Renzi estimated that no less than four thousand books were before him in serried array. This was erudition indeed and he looked forward keenly to making their owner’s better acquaintance.

D’Auvergne soon returned, and after passing pleasantries over sherry they moved into the dining room. “My dear, this is Mr Nicholas Renzi, a philosophical gentleman who is doing us the honour of dining with us tonight. Renzi, this is Madame de la Tour, daughter of the Count of Vaudreuil, who will perform the honours of the house.” Two children stood meekly by her side and were also introduced.

A shy but warm acknowledgement was bestowed and they sat comfortably at the table en famille. “Do explain to Madame the elements of your study,” d’Auvergne suggested.

Renzi had caught on to the discreet coding: the lady was not his wife. Were the children hers? “Dear Madame, this is naught but a comparative essay into the imperatives of human existence,” he the privateer’s Revenge

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began, “as being differing responses to the same . . .”

Madame paid careful attention but remained silent. D’Auvergne asked intelligently about the same aspects of Rousseau’s position on the noble savage that had so exercised Renzi in the great South Seas some years ago. Casting a shrewd glance at Renzi, he murmured, “From your regard for the Encyclopaedists one might be tempted to conclude that your admiration extends to present philosophies.”

“If by that you are referring to the Revolution, then I can assure you that nothing is more abhorrent to me than the spectacle of the glory of French civilisation falling prey to those political animals now in control of the state.”

“Quite so, quite so. We are of a mind on the subject. Napoleon Bonaparte is now consul-for-life and is energetic and ruthless in his own interest—as witness his domination of the state apparatus, the secret police, even his economic machine, which I have certain knowledge has lately replaced the national currency with his own ‘franc.’” He continued sombrely, “He has now not a single country in arms against him save our own, and therefore has no distraction from his lust to conquer. I cannot recall that our realm has ever lain under a greater menace.”

Renzi shifted in his seat; this reminder of peril was only pointing up his own essential uselessness in the present dangers. To change the subject he asked politely, “Do satisfy my curiosity on one point, if you will, sir. Just why is it that in these singular times their lordships at the Admiralty see fit to rusticate Sir James Saumarez to these remote islands—a proven fighter if ever one were needed—

rather than require him to lead a fleet in the great battle that must surely come?”

“Why, sir, have you not surmised?” d’Auvergne said, with raised eyebrows. “It is over. He has won his victory. His purpose is complete.”

“Granville?” said Renzi, puzzled.

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“Not at all.” D’Auvergne chuckled. “I talk of a species of silent victory, but for all that, one that will resound down all of time.”

“Sir?”

“Let me be more explicit. In 1794 the French plotted an invasion of the Norman Isles, specifically Jersey. Only the greatest exertions from us and the convulsions on the mainland at the time saved us.

Although the Treaty of Amiens ended hostilities in 1802, it became clear quite early that we would be under assault once more, this time by the most formidable general of the age.