The Privateer's Revenge (20 page)

“I, as a commander, have several thousand lives in my charge and must meet the foe on the battlefield. If I can convince the enemy commander that my attack will come by course A when, in fact, I will come by B, there will be at the close of that day perhaps some hundreds fewer widows left to grieve. How might this best be brought about?”

Renzi shook his head, even more uncomfortable in this world of shades and compromise.

“Well, here is one sure way. Do you charge a brave man with dispatches, emphasising their grave nature and enjoining their safe delivery by all means. He is not to know their false nature and when he is betrayed and valiantly defends them, even to the death, the enemy will be convinced of their authenticity and act accordingly.”

With a tight smile he concluded, “So, of course, many lives are saved for the one expended. You really cannot argue against that, Renzi.”

And, to his anguish, he found he could not. These were moral quicksands of a kind he had never been forced to confront before, and their serious considering would occupy him painfully for some time to come.

“I would find it . . . difficult, sir. Er, may I know what action you intend in respect of the letter?” It was something
he
could test d'Auvergne with.

“Stofflet, you mean. All actions must be considered, of course— but pray tell, what do you yourself propose, Renzi?”

“He must be stopped, of course. Taken up as a spy?” He remembered the kind, bald-headed baker from whom he had begged bread. Now he knew that the man was married happily, with children he expected to see soon.

“For a public demonstration in these fevered times that there are spies in our midst? I think not.”

“An assassination?” Renzi said neutrally.

“Goodness me, no! Crass barbarism and not to be countenanced by a civilised nation.”

“Then taken up quietly and a strict parole demanded before banishment?” Renzi suggested boldly, remembering d'Auvergne's words about brave men suffering death undeservedly.

“Perhaps not. I rather think he must meet with an unfortunate accident.”

C
HAPTER 10

K
YDD TRUDGED UP THE STEEP STEPS
. Without noticing, his path had taken him to another level of the town. It was more densely settled and had an indefinable rakish air, which focused round a theatre. Idly he went up and read the billboard: “The
Much Adored
Griselda Mayhew as The Princess Zenobia and the
Magnificent
Richard Samson as Count Dragonheart in
Carpathia, or, Cupid's Trust Rewarded
.”

He turned to go but his eyes were caught by another notice underneath: “Stagehands required: none but those able to go aloft and haul ropes heartily shall apply.”

If this was not work for a sailor then what was? A week or so of jolly theatricals and then he could claim as much as—as a whole mutton pie, with the full trimmings, of course, and swimming in lumpy gravy. His stomach growled as he entered the theatre.

A short, sharp-eyed man appeared from nowhere. “Where you off to, m' lad? Performance not until seven. Not until seven, I say!”

“Oh, er, th' notice said as how stagehands are required.”

“You?” The man stepped back to take his measure. “Done it before? A flyman, I mean?”

Goaded, Kydd looked up: two somewhat faded ornamental gold cords descended each side of the audience entrance from a single ringbolt in the lofty ceiling. With a practised leap he clutched the leftmost one and swarmed effortlessly up to the bolt, then launched himself into space for the other and slid down, hand over hand, much as in the distant past he had found a backstay to reach the deck all the quicker.

“I see,” the man said, affecting boredom. “An' we've had sailors before an' all. Wages 're two livres cash on th' nail each performance, no liquor during, find y'r own prog. Er, can y' start now?”

Kydd feigned reluctance. “A livre as earnest.” He sniffed, holding out his hand. He had forgotten how much it represented but guessed it must be worth a shilling or two.

“Be off wi' your impertinence! Y'r impertinence, I say!”

Kydd turned on his heel, but the man caught his arm. “One livre, an' I'll know y' name, sir!”

“Tom Cutlass, m' shipmates call me,” he answered slowly. “An' yours?”

The man puffed up his chest. “Mr Carne t' you! I'm th' stage-master. Stage-master, I say!”

Kydd took the money. “When do I—”

“Be here at five sharp. Y' late, an' that's all ye get.”

Renzi found d'Auvergne at the battlements, staring moodily out to sea, his greatcoat streaming and whipping in the autumn bluster. Renzi followed his gaze and saw a sail against the far-off Brittany shore, then spotted the gaggle of vessels in chase.

The French coast was a distant smother of white from the pounding of the westerly with white flecks of waves vivid in the stretch of water to the dull-grey coastline. It was a hard beat into the fresh gale and the drama played out slowly before them, the hunted craft clawing desperately against the wind, first on one tack, then another, the others straggling astern as it eventually stretched out towards safety.

With stinging raindrops fast turning things into wet misery, Renzi left d'Auvergne to his vigil and returned to his task, collating a number of appraisals, penned by different hands, into a fair summary.

He heard d'Auvergne come back and go straight to his inner sanctum. Then, some time later, a disturbance echoed in the long passage outside his little room—cries, a panting fuss and the loud voice of the serjeant warder. The commotion faded and he heard the drone of other voices, then the chilling sound of a man's sobbing.

D'Auvergne came and slumped in a chair. “L'Étalon is taken,” he said hoarsely, his face dazed.

It meant nothing to Renzi. “Stallion”—the code-word for an agent? He murmured something, never having seen d'Auvergne so shaken.

“That toad Fouché,” he went on. “Betrayal, murder, intrigue— there's nothing he'll not stoop to for his diabolical master, Bonaparte.”

“The minister for police?” Renzi responded. Paris and its deadly state apparatus was not within his remit and he had no wish to know anything of it, but d'Auvergne obviously needed to talk.

“Secret police—the vile rogue! When L'Étalon was betrayed we had time to get him away, but under Bonaparte's orders, Fouché arrested his family one by one. That—that noble being gave himself up to spare them, and in course will be guillotined.”

Renzi avoided the stricken eyes, unable to find words.

D'Auvergne pulled himself together with an effort. “Fouché is not the problem. He'll serve whoever it's in his interest to pander to. It's Napoleon Bonaparte! This man is not only debasing a great civilisation but drenching the world in blood—to satisfy his own lust for conquest!”

Sitting up suddenly, d'Auvergne cried in outrage, “Do you know what the contemptible hypocrite plans now?”

Renzi could only shake his head.

“That—that monster! First Consul and titular head of the Revolution who overthrew King Louis—he's having himself declared emperor! Not just king and monarch—but
emperor!”

“No!” Renzi blurted. That the man could so subvert the principles of the Revolution, and the people tamely acquiesce, was a titanic shift in national allegiances. Clearly Bonaparte was taking every last skein of power into his own hands—the majesty of the state of France for his own personal property.

D'Auvergne's face was haggard. “Very soon it will be too late, I fear . . .”

“Too late?”

“For—for the last remedy.”

“Sir, I'm not sure I follow,” Renzi said.

“My dear Renzi,” d'Auvergne murmured, and sat down.

Renzi waited silently.

“I'm about to speak on matters of the very direst secrecy.”

Ignoring Renzi's protest he went on firmly, “I feel able to do so, for some small time ago I received private intelligence regarding yourself that allows you are a fit and proper recipient, Renzi . . . or is it to be Laughton?”

Renzi stared at him, taken aback to hear his real name. He had been Nicholas Renzi ever since he had gone to sea those many years ago.

“A prudent precaution, in my position, you will agree. So you see, sir, I now know of your high-minded self-exile, your distinguished actions at St Vincent and Acre; I learned of the quality of your late studies from Count Rumford himself. Therefore I feel able to treat you as my equal in matters touching the safety of the realm.

“You may have heard of my not insignificant successes in instigating unrest and rebellion among the Normans. This has been due largely to my network of agents in France, who smuggle out information and carry out acts of bravery as needs must. That was in the Revolutionary War. Since the start of this war, Bonaparte has moved with ruthless speed. The secret police are everywhere. One even needs a passport to travel to another city.

“This has achieved its object. Nearly all organised opposition to the tyrant is now broken, scattered. There are agents and sympathisers, but they are in daily fear of their lives. The gates of Fortress France are fast closing, and with them any chance to prevent the cataclysm of total war.”

It seemed so abstract, discussing such a world in an ancient castle with the winds moaning about, but Renzi felt a sense of inevitability as to what would come next. “Sir, you're speaking of an attempt on Bonaparte's life!”

“No.” D'Auvergne gave a rueful smile. “Not his life. His Majesty will not have it. He is to be kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped!”

“Yes, Renzi, seized and held. It is a previous plan by others feeling as we do and ready to lay down their lives in the attempt.”

“Does this have the support of London?”

“At the most secret level conceivable, but with the King's proviso that Bonaparte shall be brought out of France alive to answer for his crimes.”

“Sir, may I ask if we are to be involved?”

“We are central to it! Allow me to lay before you the essence of the plot. It is to waylay his coach as he retires outside Paris with his mistress, as he is wont to do. He is to be spirited instantly through Yvelines and Calvados to the coast—and thence by sea to Jersey.”

“Here?”

“Indeed. When I receive word that the plot is to proceed, I shall have an allowance from the foreign secretary to be employed in preparing here at Mont Orgueil an apartment for the reception of Napoleon Bonaparte.”

Renzi felt unreality closing in. “Um, sir, is the plot well advanced?”

“Certainly. There are some hundreds of brave souls already in Paris, each with his part to play and practised since the summer. You will, no doubt, recognise the name of General Charles Pichegru?”

“Pichegru!” He had risen rapidly to the top of the Revolutionary Army, invaded and subjugated Holland, then subsequently crossed the Rhine with his victorious troops.

“Yes. The only general in history to capture an entire fleet of ships-of-the-line!” It was the stuff of legend: the Dutch battle-squadron had been ice-bound and Pichegru had led a cavalry charge across the frozen sea to seize them all.

D'Auvergne continued, “He will raise the soldiery, who love him, to take all Paris and declare for the King. In the vacuum that exists at the disappearance of Napoleon, the Duc d'Enghien will be made head of state and regent until King Louis might return to claim his throne.”

“But—but the organisation, the timing?”

“I have told you the essence only. There is much more. If you knew Georges Cadoudal, and that for five months he has been in Paris preparing, you would rest your concerns.”

“Cadoudal?”

“A man larger than life itself—a Hercules of sublime courage and audacity, and one with an undying reputation in the Chouan risings. I myself have seen Georges hold fast a kicking donkey by its back leg—they sing ballads about him in Brittany.”

Renzi found himself utterly at a loss for words.

“There are others too numerous to mention. Chouans who have made the perilous journey from the Vendée to Paris to lie in hiding awaiting the call, those who pass among the people risking everything to bring word of the coup to come. There are even troops of dragoons training in secret in the forests outside the capital.”

“Then—when shall it . . . ?”

“It is essential that the rising is supported at a scale where it may succeed. To this end we must await a final commitment from London. In my communications I have stressed the urgency and fading opportunity. We shall hear shortly, I believe.”

The evening was turning chilly and Kydd was thankful to get inside the theatre. It was now abuzz with excitement and anxious stage-hands hurried to mysterious places past the giant curtain.

For too long Kydd's buoyant good nature had been clouded, but the atmosphere of a place dedicated to losing oneself in fantasy was getting to him. Damn it, he vowed, he would enjoy this interlude.

“Hey, you! You there—Tom, whatever's y' name!” Carne's face came round the curtain and he looked irritable.

“Aye, Mr Carne,” Kydd called humbly, and made his way hastily past the seats and on to the stage.

“Come!” The face disappeared, so Kydd pulled back the curtain tentatively and stepped into a dark chaos of props, ladders, improbable scenes painted on vast boards—and an impatient Carne. “This is y' mate as will teach ye.” Carne snatched a look at a well-thumbed snap-bound book and turned to a wiry man nearby. “And I want t' block through scene three again f'r Miss Mayhew in ten minutes,” he told him, and left them to it.

“Tim Jones,” his preceptor said, thrusting out a hand to Kydd. “Look o' the sea about ye, cuffin!” He snorted, then grinned.

“Aye,” said Kydd, bemused. “Er, quartermaster's mate round th' Horn in the flying
Artemis
.”

“
Artemis?
” Jones said respectfully. “As did fer the
Citoyenne
in th' last war? Glory be! Well, I was only a Jack Dusty in
Tiger,
had t' go a-longshore wi' the gormy ruddles as ruined m'
constitooshun.” He clapped Kydd on the shoulder. “We's better be learnin' ye the ropes here right enough.”

They left the confusion of the rehearsal for the dark upper eyrie of the fly-loft where Kydd looked down through a maze of ropes and contraptions directly to the stage below. Jones squatted comfortably on the slats, and began: “That there's Mr Carne, an' he's the stage-master who calls th' show from that book he has. He's in charge o' the runnin' crew, which includes us flymen, an' that scrovy crowd workin' below. Now, here's the griff. When the scene shifts, th' whole thing fr'm clew t' earring goes arsy-versy in a very smart way, an' it's us as does it. How? I'll show ye . . .”

Kydd took in the complexity of ropes and machinery that could change their world of enchantment from a sylvan glade to a magnificent palace and back again. He learned of flats and gauzes, clothes and rigging; and of the special whistles that had as much meaning for the stage crew in the complex operations of a scene change as a boatswain's call for seamen in the operation of a man-o'-war.