The Privateer's Revenge (21 page)

Carne's hectoring voice rose above the din, and occasionally Kydd caught sight of an actor in fine robes foreshortened by the height as he strode the boards declaiming into the empty darkness. Excitement gripped him: soon the grand play would open—it seemed impossible that the disorderly rumpus below could calm to the breathless scenes he remembered from his last visit to a theatre. “Will we see Miss Mayhew an' Mr Samson a-tall?” he found himself asking in awed tones.

“Y' might at that.”

A bellow of “Places! Places!” cut through the confusion. Carne had the company pacing through the new scene arrangement under the director's critical eye and the flymen were soon hard at work on ropes and flats.

There was a last flurry of activity before front of house went to their stations, then a tense wait for the play to commence. The echoing emptiness of the theatre now had a different quality: a background susurrus of rustling and murmuring as the first of the audience took their seats while the reflectored footlights threw magic shadows into the upper reaches.

The noise grew, shouts from rowdier elements mingling with raucous laughter and the animated hum of conversation. The small orchestra struck up with a strenuous overture until anticipation had built sufficiently—and the play began.

It was hard work and the timing exact, but Kydd had the chance to hear and sometimes see the action. At the interval he descended to help with the flats for the second half but was called across by Carne: “Take Miss Mayhew her refreshment, Tom what'syername.”

He was passed a single ornate crystal glass on a small lacquer tray with Chinese writing on it. A smell of gin wafted up from it as Kydd carried it to the dressing rooms, past half-dressed nymphs and bearded Magyars, in a stifling atmosphere of heat and excitement, with the unmistakable smell of greasepaint.

“
Enterrrr!”
The response to his knock was the same imperious trill he had heard on stage. Griselda Mayhew was at her brightly lit mirror, a vision of a towering wig, flowing gown and caked makeup, but a jolly face with kindly eyes.

“Ah, thank you, dearie!” she said gratefully. “Put it down there. I'm near gut-foundered.”

She looked at Kydd shrewdly. “Well, I haven't seen you before?”

“Er, new t'night, Miss Mayhew,” he said diffidently.

“You're no common stagehand, I'd wager. Gent of decayed fortune, more like. Still, y' came to the right place. Theatre's a fine place t' make your mark. Good luck t' you, cully!”

Blushing, Kydd left. The second half went rapidly, and when the play finished he felt an unaccountable envy for the tempest of applause that followed and the several curtain calls that had him sweating at the heavy ropes. And when the audience had streamed out he felt a pang of loneliness. All he had to look forward to, after these bewitching hours, was the squalor of the sail-loft. He finished securing the rigging as Griselda Mayhew's laughter pealed at Richard Samson's dramatic flourishes with her coat.

She looked in Kydd's direction. “Did y' enjoy tonight at all?” she called to him.

“I did that,” Kydd said awkwardly, conscious of his shabby appearance as he approached her shyly.

She frowned slightly, then touched his arm. “It's not my business, but have y' somewhere t' go to?”

Put off-balance Kydd mumbled something, but she interrupted: “I understand, m' dear, we see a lot of 'em down on their luck, like. Well, not t' worry. Look, we're travelling players an' we have t' take a big enough place for the season. Jem just quit, so why don't y' stay with us for a while?” She turned to Samson. “That's all right, isn't it, Dickie?” she said winsomely.

A fiercely protective eye regarded Kydd. “As long as ye don't smoke a pipe, m' good man.”

Staggered by their generosity, Kydd took his leave of Carne, pocketed his coins and followed his new friends out into the night.

It was heaven to lie in a proper bed and Kydd slept soundly. In the morning he went diffidently down to join the others but found not a soul abroad at that hour. He made himself useful, squaring away after the wind-down party of the previous evening, to the surprise of the maid-of-all-work, who arrived late and seemed to find his presence unhelpful.

His gear was in the sail-loft and he went out to retrieve those things that would fit into his modest room, reflecting on the strangeness of life that it could change so quickly. When he returned, a young man was holding an angry conversation with a wall and Richard Samson was stalking about in an exotic bed-robe reading aloud from a script in ringing tones.

“Ah, I thought we'd lost you, Mr Cutlass,” he roared, when he spotted Kydd. “A yen to feel the ocean's billows, perhaps? Or a midnight tryst with a fair maiden? Do come in and hide those things away.”

One by one the others appeared, but it was not until after ten that Griselda made her entrance, the men greeting her with exaggerated stage bows while she sailed in to take the least faded armchair.

“Miss Mayhew.” Kydd bowed too.

“Oh dear,” she replied. “The others call me Rosie—why don't you, Tom?”

“I will,” Kydd said, with a grin. It had been an entertaining morning, rehearsing cue lines from a script for whoever asked it of him and his spirits were high. “Ye're starting a new play, I hear.”

“Of course, dearie.” She sighed. “We open every second Friday with new. Guernsey's not a big enough place we can stay wi' the same all the time.” She looked at Kydd speculatively. “You're not t' be a stagehand for ever. When shall you pick up a script?”

“Well, I . . .” A famous actor? Strutting the stage with swooning ladies to either side, the confidences of princes and dukes? Folk flocking from far and near having heard that the legendary Tom Cutlass was playing? “I'll think on it,” he came back awkwardly.

On the way to the theatre he called at the post office and this time there
was
a letter to collect. It was from Renzi. He ripped it open and three coins fell out. He scrabbled to retrieve them and eagerly scanned the hurried lines. Renzi had met with unexpected success. Soon after arriving he had made the acquaintance of a Prince de Bouillon, whom Kydd took to be an exiled royalist, and had been fortunate enough to find employ in his household as a private secretary. The enclosed thirty livres Kydd could expect every month from his wages.

A lump rose in his throat. With this generous gift he was now free to continue with his quest for as long as he . . . But he had already concluded that he was getting nowhere in uncovering the plot and must give up—must he track about hopelessly for ever? He had a life to lead. He could at least still hope for a ship in England and, in any case, as an officer even of declined circumstances there were genteel niches in society . . . But the instant he left the islands it would be the final surrender to his unjust fate—and Lockwood would have had his vengeance. Was there no middle way?

There were no performances on the Sunday. Some of the players went to Alderney on a visit while others simply slept. Moodily Kydd went to the deserted front parlour and sprawled on the sofa. Unable to escape his thoughts he laid down his newspaper and closed his eyes.

The door opened and the swish of a dress made him look up. “Do I disturb you, Tom?”

“Oh, er, not at all, Rosie,” Kydd said, hauling himself upright. “Just thinkin' awhile.”

She looked at him steadily. “You're not all you seem, m' friend,” she said quietly. “I've seen a few characters in my time an' you're so different—you've got iron in your soul, a man's man. And something's happened. I don't know what it is, but it's thrown you down where y' don't belong.”

When Kydd said nothing she came to the sofa and sat beside him. “I may be only a common actress but I know when a man's without a friend t' talk with, an' that's not natural.” She straightened her dress demurely and continued, “It would be my honour if you'd take me as y' friend, Tom.” Her hand strayed to his knee.

Kydd flinched but, not wanting to offend her, stayed rigid. She withdrew the hand and said quietly, “So, there's a woman at the bottom of it—am I right?”

“No. That is, she . . . No, it's too tough a yarn t' tell.”

“Tom! We've a whole Sunday ahead. Your secret will stay wi' me, never fear.”

Kydd knew from his sister that, for a lady, there was nothing so intriguing as a man of mystery; Rosie would worm it out of him sooner or later and, besides, he had to talk to someone. “Well, it's a long tale. Y' see . . .” He told her of the Navy, of his rise to success and command of his own ship; of his entry to high society and likely marriage into their ranks and subsequent fall when his heart was taken by another. And finally the terrible revenge a father was taking on him.

“Dear Lord, an' what a tale! I had no idea. My dear, how can you keep your wits about you while you're reduced to—to this?”

Kydd gave the glimmer of a smile. “So th' last question is, just when do I give it away an' return t' England?”

“Never!” she said firmly. “Never! Tom, you're perfectly right— you cannot return without you've regained your honour. It's just as it was in
Clarissa Victrix
, where the hero is unjustly accused of theft an' thrown into Newgate, an' it's only when his lady seduces the black-hearted earl into handin' over the false evidence that he's made free.”

Kydd grimaced, while she went on proudly, “We opened the season wi' that in Weymouth last year to my leading lady.”

“'Twould be a fine thing indeed, should I meet wi' such,” Kydd said tartly. “I have m' doubts it'll be soon—savin' your kindness, I've no wish t' top it th' beggar f'r much longer.”

“An' neither should you!” Rosie soothed. “Tom, do promise me y' won't leave us for now. I've a friend—a . . . a personal friend as was, who I mean t' speak with. An' then we shall see what happens.”

Renzi had slept badly: it was either a hare-brained plot by wild-eyed lunatics or the only chance to rid the world of its greatest nightmare. Or perhaps both—and d'Auvergne had made clear that in the event it went ahead Renzi's wholehearted participation was expected, and on the inner circle.

He had now seen the secret correspondence with London: indisputable understandings and instructions from the very highest and concerned with real military and political commitments. D'Auvergne had not lied about his connections and the scheme was under eye by the foreign secretary of Great Britain and the cabinet itself. But just what was being asked of
him?

Interrupting his thoughts, Jenkins, the flag-lieutenant, popped into his office. “Thought you'd be too busy to look in at the post office—letter for you, been there for a while.”

It was from Kydd. He had found a menial job, shared lodgings, and expressed sincere gratitude for the few coins enclosed. Renzi started a reply but it wouldn't come. The contrast between his friend's decent, plain-sailing world and this insane arena of chicanery, stealth and the desperate endeavour to topple Bonaparte was too great.

Around noon, the cutter from England with dispatches entered Gorey Bay with a package so important that the commodore himself was brought to sign for it.

Shortly afterwards, a grim-faced d'Auvergne laid a letter in front of Renzi. It was from Lord Hobart, Secretary of State for War, short and to the point. The plot to kidnap Napoleon Bonaparte was to proceed with all possible dispatch and in the greatest possible secrecy.

“There is attached an order authorising exceptional expenditures against Secret Service funds at the Treasury and an expression of full support from their lordships. Renzi, do you cease all duties to attend on me personally. This is the gravest affair this age.”

D'Auvergne was in no mood to waste a second. “We shall meet in an hour, my friend. Your current business should be concluded within that time.”

Renzi worked quickly: no report or appraisal could stand against the stakes that had now been raised. When he entered d'Auvergne's office he was met with a look of dedicated ferocity. “Mr Renzi. The world knows me as the commodore, Jersey Squadron, and I maintain that position and retinue in my flagship and a small office in St Helier. Some might know that my sympathies with the royalists occupy me on occasions here in Mont Orgueil. Few indeed know of my other activities. As of this moment I count myself officially on leave of absence from my naval duties. It will remain thus until this business is complete.”

“Very well, sir.” Renzi nodded. “May I enquire as to the establishment you must now engage for this purpose? The line of command, as it were.”

“None.”

“Sir?” Renzi asked, not sure he had heard aright.

“The matter is too grave, far beyond the compass of what is to be expected of a serving officer, the issue much too delicate to entrust to others at this late hour. It will be you and I alone who will bring this business to a head.”

“Sir! It—”

“Consider. The plan calls for a rising in Paris, a co-ordination of forces and an alignment of purpose that is the concern only of those actually there—Georges and company
en effet
. There is little we might do at this distance and our contribution must be to secure and provide what is asked for, and when the time comes to be ready to extract the tyrant by sea from the territory of France.” His eyes gleamed.