The Privateer's Revenge (19 page)

“Er, yes, sir.”

“That is, in Brittany and neighbouring regions—Paris and that gang of regicides you may leave to their evil machinations. And for this I would suggest the French local newspapers, all of which are conveyed to me here. A prime source of insight into a country, your newspaper.”

“Sir,” Renzi said politely. “Then might I beg the use of your library for the acquisition of background material and similar?”

“I would hope you do, sir.”

Renzi nearly hugged himself with glee. To spend his days poring over those literary treasures—it was too good to be true.

“Oh, and I'm often accused of being mortally absent-minded, therefore I'll take the precaution of advancing you your first month's emolument before I forget.”

Renzi was touched. “I am obliged to you, sir.” He pocketed the envelope gratefully.

The piles of provincial newspapers were delivered to one of the empty rooms nearby so he excused himself and set to. They were read in market towns by peasant farmers and agricultural factors, yet clues stemming from the fluctuating prices of common produce, and unintended allusions in shrill editorials, revealed that all was not well and ugly dissatisfaction was not far below the surface in Napoleon's France.

When d'Auvergne left for his flagship Renzi scribbled a quick letter to Kydd for collection at the Guernsey post office, enclosing three coins and explaining his good fortune at meeting the Prince de Bouillon without going into detail.

Turning back to his task he heard movement in d'Auvergne's office. Startled, he went through but found only the flag-lieutenant waiting for a message. He seemed surprised to see Renzi. “Er, Jenkins. You must be the new man?”

“Renzi. Secretary pro tempore, I believe,” he replied cautiously. “Recently arrived. An interesting place—but tell me, is the man in truth a prince?”

Jenkins grinned. “There's much you'll find odd about our Philippe d'Auvergne, but I have to tell you that, besides the Duke of Clarence, I believe he's the only full-rigged prince in the Service. He was adopted into the line, but a prince for all that.”

“A man of some learning, I think.”

“He is. Did you know he's an FRS?”

Renzi was amazed. Not only a member of the Royal Society, the premier learned society in the land, but a fellow, no less.

“A deep thinker, he's a Doctor of Letters from Livonia and corresponds with the world on everything from mathematics to botany, but amiable enough. Oh, and an Arctic explorer and colonial planter to boot.”

“Has he—is he distinguished in his service career?”

The young lieutenant chuckled. “I'm surprised you haven't heard! In fine, yes. A front-line fighter in the American war, first lieutenant o' the saucy
Arethusa
and more than a few prizes to his name even before Napoleon. You'll find—oh, thank you,” he said, taking some papers from a messenger and stowing them in his satchel. “Have to go now—but I think you'll find your work very . . . interesting.”

He hurried off, leaving Renzi in even more perplexity than before.

After two days he felt he had explored enough of the people and the situation and went to d'Auvergne.

“So you feel able to talk about the royalists and their problems. Then pray tell me your observations on the Chouan risings and what they would mean to the
paysan
and merchant?”

It was apparent that he was being tested but it was not hard to apply his mind to the social effects of a bloodily repressed rural revolt.

D'Auvergne nodded slowly. “Very good. You have a natural insight into the human condition and that I like. One moment.”

He rose and crossed to the thick oak door, closed it firmly, then returned and produced a letter. “Now your opinion of this, if you please.”

Apprehensive, for some reason, Renzi picked it up. The eyes never left him as he began to read. “Why, this is a letter from . . . It doesn't say.” He looked up. “Sir, this is a private letter. We have no right—”

“Shall we leave that aside for now? Do continue.” “From—from someone signing himself ‘little cabbage,'” Renzi read out unwillingly. “It's to another—‘
belle poule
.'” He looked up unhappily. “This appears to be from a lover to his
amante
. Sir, is this necessary?”

“Read,” d'Auvergne commanded.

“Very well, sir. We have this person writing—ah, it is to his wife, he mentions the little ones. He is at last to return . . . The time has been hard while they have been separated.” He glanced up in silent protest but at d'Auvergne's stony stare he continued. “He will treasure the moment he sets foot in the old cottage once more

. . . life in a town is not to be compared to a village of Brittany

. . . The soldiers of the garrison are arrogant and he has a loathing for what he has to do . . . but he consoles himself that it is for them both, and with his earnings they will close the door on a harsh world . . .” Renzi finished the pathetic scrap. “Another of Bonaparte's victims, I think. Doing a menial's work in some army town that will pay better than rural beggary. I do so feel for him and his kind.”

D'Auvergne waited but Renzi would not be drawn. This kind of human adversity was being played out all over the world as war ravaged previously tranquil communities. Why was he being shown this particular evidence?

“I honour your sentiments, Renzi. However . . .”

A premonition stole over him and he tensed as d'Auvergne leaned back in his chair and spoke in the same controlled tone: “It would interest me to know your reaction if you are aware that the town he speaks of is St Helier, the garrison soldiers from Fort Regent and the man, Stofflet, acting in the character of a baker, is passing details of our troop levels to Decrès.”

Renzi listened with a chill of dismay as d'Auvergne continued, “Rather astute, really. He could tell to a man the garrison numbers daily by the size of the bread order. And he plans to return shortly with the capability and firing angles of our defences no doubt carefully paced out and written down.”

“A spy,” Renzi said uncomfortably.

“You have an objection to spies, then?” d'Auvergne asked innocently.

“It—He must be taken up immediately, of course.”

“But the practice of spying?”

“I'm not sure I take your meaning, sir.”

“Well, it would seem to me axiomatic that if a covert act by a single individual could result in the discomfiture of many of the enemy then it is not merely morally acceptable, but his bounden
duty
towards those who would otherwise be put to hazard.”

“I do not deny the necessity but the practices of spying are repugnant to me,” Renzi said carefully.

“I really do not see where the immorality lies, Mr Renzi. If, as commander-in-chief at the scene of a battle, I receive intelligence that the enemy will come by a different direction, do I alter my dispositions accordingly or refuse to do so on the grounds that the information was gained by a single person working alone?”

Renzi held his silence, wondering if d'Auvergne was trying to provoke him.

“No, of course I cannot, morally or otherwise. My duty as a commander is to build a picture of the forces opposite me in the best way I can—and if an opportunity arises whereby one of my men might move forward, keep out of sight and note the truth of what these are, then I shall be grateful to him.”

As though it were final proof in a mathematical theorem, d'Auvergne concluded, “Therefore no one can be surprised that this is carried forward by all nations as a perfectly valid and utile means of acquiring intelligence.”

Pulling himself up, Renzi said cuttingly, “Sir, before now I have had to perform bloody acts that were logically dictated by the situation at the time and I believe I have never shied from the duty. What I find immoral is the deployment of such as an instrument of policy.”

“In a way, you disappoint me, Renzi. You have not considered your position in logic, which I find is the only method to be trusted for laying the thickets of sentiment and false moral positions. Take the spy himself, for instance.”

Feeling a heat of resentment at having his cherished logic brought into such a discussion Renzi reluctantly followed the reasoning.

“The spy is a brave and resourceful man who goes alone and unarmed into the enemy camp. It has often puzzled me,” he said, as an aside, “just why we admire and value those who on our behalf do so, while those of our opponents with the same qualities are, on discovery, vilified and must invariably suffer death. An odd notion, don't you think?”

He thought for a moment then continued his main thread: “Is there, I ask you, any difference
au fond
between ordering a man to stand before the cannon's rage and another who is required to place himself in greater peril within the enemy's territory?”

“It is not in my power to order a man to do anything, sir,” Renzi said, with feeling. “Let alone—”

“So who in your universe will harvest the intelligence, save you from the guile of the enemy, his conspiracies and malice?” d'Auvergne snapped. “You have the freedom, bought by others, to walk away from matters of nicety to your conscience and leave their resolution to others. This is neither logical nor responsible.”

“Then do I understand it correctly, sir, that you require me to assume the character of a spy in some affair?” Renzi asked coldly.

D'Auvergne slumped back. “No, no. That was never in my desiring,” he said wearily. “Mr Renzi, you have gifts of insight and understanding with formidable intelligence and a rare admiration for the primacy of logic. All this fits you in a remarkable manner for the role of assisting myself—simply lightening the burden, if you will—in the conduct of operations of a clandestine nature against Napoleon.”

Renzi felt the chill of foreboding.

“If you are in any doubt as to their importance, let me disclose to you that I communicate not with Sir James but directly to the foreign secretary of Great Britain, as indeed I have done since the Terror of Paris in 'ninety-two. The work is allowed to be of such sovereign value that I am entrusted with the maintenance of a network in France whose extent . . . is large.”

He sighed raggedly. “At the moment I have none in whom I can place my trust and I bear the burden alone. It was my hope that in some degree you would feel able to offer me your help—
and
your country, sir.”

“Help?” Renzi muttered.

“To maintain the confidential papers, take up some of the load of secret correspondence, speak with those arriving from France with news—and, on occasion, to favour me with your views in matters compelling a difficult decision.”

Everything in Renzi rebelled against involvement in illicit affairs of deceit and trickery, in the lies and betrayal that must be at its heart. His whole life was predicated on the sure foundation of the honour and moral obligation of a gentleman, and he had no desire to immerse himself in such a moral quagmire. “Sir. I fear that it would do violence to my nature,” he began, “notwithstanding your logic and—”

“It's too late for that, Renzi. Whether you like it or no, you are even now privy to information of a most secret nature. But more pressing than that you have been made aware that there is a service you may do for your country to which you are most peculiarly well fitted.”

“Sir, it may well be—”

“Now, it is within your power to turn your back and walk from this room—but for the rest of your days you must live with the knowledge that you have failed when called upon.

“Now, sir, will you do your duty?”

It had been hard to accept that he had been unable to muster any rational argument against the request but he found comfort in observing that the post was only that of confidential secretary taken a trifle further. But he had been wounded by d'Auvergne's polite assurance that there would be no question of personal risk when he had acceded.

Before going further he was curious about one thing: “On the question of trust, sir, how is it that you are assured my character is as you allege?”

“Oh, on that score, I had your room and small baggage searched, and who but a hopeless scholard would burden himself with Goethe and Locke for light reading?” he smiled.

Renzi returned a thin smile while d'Auvergne opened a businesslike chest and found a pair of heavy, intricate keys. “The records are in the crypt below. I have one key, you the only other. Be of good care, Renzi. People's lives are in your hands with those papers.”

At Renzi's set face he continued lightly, “Take it from me, dear fellow, it's a quite different and wider moral framework we find ourselves in, but you will discover that being a friend to logic will extract you safely from many a sentimental mire. For example, see if you can overcome your present scruples sufficiently to detect the transcendent moral certitudes in this little exercise.