The Privateer's Revenge (12 page)

“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 algorithm 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 . . .”

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 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.

It was an agreeable afternoon; Renzi was able to direct their 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 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.”

C
HAPTER 7

A
S
T
EAZER 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.

He'd concluded that, in naval terms, Renzi was more of a captain's secretary than a mere ship's clerk, no matter what was entered in the muster book, and therefore could be made privy to 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 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 seaman-ship 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

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.

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.

The boat nudged sand and Kydd stepped out. “We'll be back 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 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.

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.