The Privateer's Revenge (27 page)

The harbour opened to view at the same time as Vicq, no more than a few hundred yards distant, triumphantly fired a gun to weather. Kydd saw with a sinking heart that any channel between Roscoff and the Île de Batz was lost in a desolate and impenetrable rockbound maze.

“Give 'im best, Mr Kydd,” Rowan said sadly. “Ye did y' damnedest for us.” Mortification boiled in Kydd. He felt an insane urge to throw the ship on the reefs to rob Vicq of his victory, but this would be at the cost of lives.

It was time. “G' rot ye for a chicken-hearted scut!” came from behind.

Kydd swung round to a flush-faced Tranter, who had clearly taken refuge in drink as the chase drew to its inevitable climax. “Clap a stopper on't, y' useless shab!” Kydd retorted.

“Or what?” sneered Tranter. “We're goin' t' rot in some Frog chokey f'r years, thanks t' you! A dandy-prat King's man as thinks he's—”

“One more word from ye, an I'll—”

“Ye're finished! I'll be takin' no orders from you no more,
Cap'n!
”

Kydd's pent-up frustration exploded in a fist that felled the man to the deck in one. At that moment a shaft of pale sunlight turned the dull grey seas ahead to green; under the surface the black splotches of seaweed now could be seen streaming away from rocks that had lain hidden before and Kydd saw his chance.

The waters of the great Gulf of Avranches were draining fast into the Atlantic with the ebb—but the seaweed was not pointing straight ahead: it was at an angle, crossing their bow, indicating that the current was not going round the Île de Batz but instead between it and the port, racing into the confusion of crags and half-tide islets between that had seemed so impassable.

“Take us in!” he roared.

Nervously the hand at the tiller worked the vessel round the last rocks and committed
Bien Heureuse
to the hazard. The current clutched at the lugger and whirled her forward. Distant shouts came from Vicq's vessel, but as Kydd turned to see what the Frenchman would do, the vessel hauled out for the seaward side of the big island and disappeared.

Clearly Vicq had no desire to imperil his own ship, but he was confirming, too, that Kydd had stumbled on local knowledge of a channel between, and was hastening round to trap him at the other end.

Or was he? Kydd's first instinct was to throw out an anchor and, after a time, double back the way they had come to freedom, leaving a frustrated Vicq to wait for them at the wrong end. But what if the wily corsair had considered this and was at that moment hove-to, ready for an unwary
Bien Heureuse
to track back into his arms? Or did he reason that Kydd would know this and instead press forward?

Distracted, Kydd noticed suddenly that the current was converging through scattered islets on a deeper but narrow passage close to the island—and it was carrying them along at a breathtaking pace. If he had had any ideas of returning it would be much harder the farther he went in. And now the tide had receded, exposing vast rock-strewn sandbanks and beaches as they left Roscoff to its somnolence.

There was no easy answer, just an even chance that Kydd would make the right choice. “Put us in the lee o' that bluff ahead,” he decided. “We'll stream a kedge b' th' stern.” The craggy cliff-face protruding out from the island with crumbling ruins atop would serve as a temporary refuge, and the ship's bows would be in the right direction if Vicq came after them so that they had to cut and run.

The small anchor splashed down and held. Roscoff was in plain view only a mile back but, dried out, was no threat and the lowering island was, as far as he could see, uninhabited. They were safe, but for how long?

“Get th' boat in th' water—now, y' lubbers.” Vicq was on the other side of the island. He would go and see for himself. Kydd swung over the side into the boat and took the oars. “Get aboard— jus' you,” he told the seaman holding the painter.

“N-no, not me!” the man muttered, shrinking back.

“Be damned t' ye!” Kydd exploded. “I need someone t' hold th' boat, y' villain!”

Not a man moved.

“Anyone!” he bellowed.

“Stan' aside, y' dogs!” shrilled a sailor from the group of men forward, pushing through with a swagger. “I'm wi' ye, Cap'n.” The boarding ended in an undignified tangle of arms and legs, a cutlass clattering to the bottom boards.

“Pookie!” Kydd hissed. “Get out this instant, y' chuckle-headed looby.” But as the man with the painter saw his chance and let go, the boat was taken by the current and slid away rapidly.

“I'll—I'll tan y' hide, Pookie! I'll—I'll . . .” Kydd said angrily, tugging hard at the oars to bring the boat round. A glance showed that too much time would be lost in a return so he pulled it round and headed in.

Beyond two long islets there was a wide beach and he stroked furiously for it. The boat grounded in the sand with a hiss and he scrambled out. “Seize a hold on th' painter,” he panted, “an' if ye lets it float off, I'll—I'll slit y' gizzard.”

“Aye aye, Cap'n.”

Kydd pounded off along the beach until he found a way up to the scrubby top. He stopped and looked back. The figure at the boat was clutching the rope with both hands. He shook his fist; the child waved back jauntily.

A flock of goats scattered at his appearance, and a young herds-man stared at Kydd open-mouthed as he raced past over the patchy ground to the opposite side.

“Bigod!” Kydd gasped, as he dropped down to look. Tucked in within a headland Vicq was just coming to a light anchor, his sails brailed and ready to loose.

Kydd leaped to his feet and ran back the way he had come, the goatherd still mesmerised by his antics. His eyes sought out the boat—and his heart nearly stopped. It was still there but the little figure was surrounded by others. Faint shouts eddied up from the beach.

He ran down the sand, yelling hoarsely; at least they were not in uniform. While their cries were no French that Kydd could understand, their meaning was plain. The little soul they were shouting at held the boat firmly with one hand and was keeping them at bay with a ridiculously large pistol in the other.

Kydd thrust past, set the boat a-swim, turned it into the waves and scrambled in to take the oars. “Get in, y' rascal,” he panted, “an', f'r God's sake, be careful wi' the pistol.”

The child struggled over the gunwales and sat forward as Kydd pulled hard out to sea. “Didn't matter nohow, it were empty. No one'll teach me how t' load it. Will you, Mr Kydd?”

“Now, look, Pookie,” Kydd panted, “I thank ye f'r th' service but if'n ye—”

They came up with
Bien Heureuse
and were pulled alongside. While he clambered aboard Kydd called to Rowan, “He's waiting for us, sure enough.” At the other's grave expression he laughed. “So we'll disappoint. Cut th' cable an' run t' th' west.”

Ready facing the right way, sail was loosed and, wind and tide with them,
Bien Heureuse
began to shoot through the tortuous channel to the open Atlantic. Nearly overcome with relief Kydd blurted out, unthinking, “An' see Turner here gets a double tot.”

The go-between with the conspirators in Paris arrived to meet d'Auvergne late that night. “Le Vicomte Robert d'Aché, this is Mr Renzi, my most trusted confidant.” The man was slightly built, with shrewd, cynical features.

With a polite smile, d'Auvergne went on, “
Le vicomte
is anxious that the shipment of arms is brought forward. How does it proceed, Renzi?”

“The transport from England is delayed by foul winds,” Renzi said smoothly, sensing the real reason for the question was to reassure d'Aché. “I'm sanguine that it shall be with us within the week, sir. Four hundred Tower muskets and one hundred thousand ball cartridge. We lack only the destination.” Setting in motion the requisition had been an interminable grind but allegedly the arms were at sea; local arrangements must be made.

“La Planche Guillemette. Sign and countersign ‘Le Prince de Galles'—‘Le Roi Bourbon.'”

“Very well, sir. As soon as I have word . . .”

D'Auvergne smiled beatifically. “Excellent. Renzi, do escort
le vicomte
down to the privy stairs. His boat awaits him there.”

Renzi attempted conversation on the way but tension radiated from a man well aware that he was about to re-enter Napoleonic France in circumstances that were the stuff of nightmares.

C
HAPTER 13

F
AR FROM SHOWING RESENTMENT
at his handling of Tranter, who was keeping sullenly out of the way, the crew seemed to have settled. Kydd saw willing hands and respectful looks. He lost no time in setting them to boarding practice; it would be a humiliation, not to say a calamity, if they were to be repulsed through lack of discipline or skills.

He appointed Calloway master-at-arms in charge of practice, and for an hour or two the decks resounded to the clash and clatter of blades while the ship stretched ever westward along a desolate coast. Kydd's plan now was to put distance between him and Vicq, and at dawn be at the point where France ended its westward extent and turned sharply south into the Bay of Biscay. This should be a prime lurking place. All shipping from the south must turn the corner there—up from Spain and Portugal and even farther, from the Mediterranean and Africa, all converging on the Channel at the same point.

There were disadvantages, of course: not far south was Brest and therefore the British fleet on station. Few French would be willing to run the blockade and, coast-wise, traffic would be wary. But the pickings were better here than most.

Shortly after three that afternoon they were given their chance: as they lay Portsall Rocks abeam a ship passed into view from the grey haze on the starboard bow. It firmed to an unremarkable square-rigged vessel that held its course to pass them.

“A Balt!” Rowan said, with certainty. Bluff-bowed and rigged as a snow it certainly qualified but when
Bien Heureuse
threw out her colours as a signal to speak she held steady and hoisted the Spanish flag.

“A Baltic Spaniard?” Kydd grunted. “I think not.” The vessel was near twice their size but its ponderous bulk, rolling along, would indicate neither a privateer nor a man-o'-war.

Calloway stood down his men and came aft. “Them's Spanish colours, Mr Kydd,” he said.

“Aye, we know.”

“Are ye going t' take him, sir?”

At first Kydd did not answer. This was so different from a war patrol in a King's ship when stopping a vessel with a row of guns at his back was so straightforward.

“Not so easy as that, lad,” Kydd said, then came to a decision. “Bear down on him gently, Mr Rowan,” he ordered, and the privateer leaned to the wind on a course to intercept. “Mr Calloway,” he said gravely, “you're t' be a sea officer in time, an' I'll always remember it was a hard enough beat t' wind'd for me t' hoist aboard how we takes a prize.” Kydd glanced at the distant ship, still holding her track. “Let me give ye a course t' steer as will see y' through. There's only one thing we're after, an' that's evidence.”

“Evidence?”

“Aye, m' friend. Even y' stoutest courage at the cannon's mouth an' the bravest o' boardings won't stand unless we has th' proof.” He regarded Calloway seriously. “The richest ship we c'n take will never make us a prize 'less th' Admiralty Court says so, an' this they'll never do without we show 'em evidence as will convince th' judge t' condemn him as good prize.”

“A—a judge, Mr Kydd? What's t' be th' crime?”

“An' we're talkin' international law now,” Kydd went on, “as all nations agree on. Now here's the ‘crime.' The one, if we bring evidence that he's an enemy o' the Crown. The other, if he's a neutral an' he's found a-tradin' with 'em.”

“That's all, Mr Kydd?”

“That's all—but th' devil's in th' detail, m' lad.”

“Er . . . ?”

“Ye'll be findin' out soon, never fear.”

The heavily built merchant ship seemed resigned to her fate, bracing aback her foreyards and slowing.
Bien Heureuse
went around her stern to take position off her weather side and Kydd cupped his hands. “Bring to f'r boarding, if y' please!” he hailed, across the short stretch of water.

He turned to Rowan. “I'll board, an' take Calloway as m' notary, with three hands t' rummage th' hold,” he said. “Have a boardin' party standin' by t' send across if I hail.” It was the usual arrangement when not expecting trouble.

Their boat was in the water smartly and Kydd eyed the vessel as they approached. His experience in boarding was extensive but almost all in the Mediterranean and overseas. Here the principles would be the same but the players different.

He had noted that the ship was the
Asturias
as they rounded her stern; her sides were worn but solid and she had the familiar sparse workaday reliability of a merchantman. A rope-ladder clattered down her sides; he mounted nimbly and swung over on to her upper deck.

“I'm Kydd, an' I hold th' Letter o' Marque of a private cruiser.” He offered the paper to the grey-haired man he took to be the master. It was ignored.

“I'll ask ye t' submit to my examination, sir,” he said evenly. The ship smelled of the Baltic: an undertone of pine resin and a certain dankness, which seemed to go with vessels from cold climes.

The man snapped orders at one of the men behind, then met Kydd's eyes coldly. “I vill, thenk you,” he replied tightly, then added, “Pedersen, master.” Yards were laid and sails doused to take the strain off the masts while the ship settled to wait, lifting uneasily on the slight swell.

They took to the small saloon, and after Kydd and Calloway were seated, Pedersen left to get the ship's papers. This was the living space for the officers; here among the polished panels and brass lamps they would eat their meals, exchange the comfortable gossip of the voyage. To Kydd, their intrusion seemed an act of violation.

Pedersen returned and slapped down a thick pack of papers. Sitting opposite, he waited with barely concealed bitterness.

“Spanish flag?” Kydd enquired mildly. The master made much of riffling through the pile and finding the sea-brief, the attested proof of ownership. He passed it across; as far as Kydd could see, the title of the ship was vested in Spanish owners trading with northern Europe and, as King George was as yet still in amity with Spain, this, with a florid certificate of registry on Cartagena, entitled it to fly the Spanish flag.

“Your muster roll, Captain.” As a naval officer, Kydd had by this means unmasked deserters and renegades among crews before now. Swedes, several Finns and other Scandinavians—no Danish. Spanish, Italian names, some unpronounceable Balkans—the usual bag for merchant ships in wartime. Nothing there.

He looked up at the master. “No Englishmen, then, astray fr'm their duty?”

Pedersen returned his look stolidly.
“Nej
.”

So it was a neutral, but this by no means disqualified it as a prize. “Charter party?” Pedersen found it and passed it over. This was the contract for the freighting of the cargo and might reveal to Kydd whether the owners or its destination was illegal—which would make the cargo contraband and subject to seizure.

It was a voyage from Bilbao to Göteborg in Sweden: varying shippers, each with an accompanying bill of lading and duly appearing on the manifest, all apparently innocent of a French connection. And most papers in Spanish but some in Swedish. But such were the common practices and argot of the sea that there was little difficulty is making it out; Kydd had dealt with far more impenetrable Moorish documents in the Mediterranean.

Watched by a wide-eyed Calloway he painstakingly compared dates and places. Even the smallest discrepancy could be exploited to reveal that the papers were false and therefore just reason to act.

He called for the mates' book. The practice in every country was that the first mate of a ship was responsible for stowing the cargo and maintaining a notebook of where each consignment was placed, generally on the principle of first in last out. Against the bills of lading Kydd now checked off their stowage for suspicious reversals of location while Calloway jotted down their actual declaration for later.

Conscious all the time of Pedersen's baleful glare, Kydd knew that under international law he was as entitled as any warship to stop and search a neutral and took his time. But he spotted nothing.

“Port clearance?” This was vital: clearing a port implied the vessel had satisfied the formalities in areas such as Customs, which demanded full details of cargo carried and next destination. For the alert it could reveal whether there was an intention to call at another port before that declared as destination and perhaps other incriminating details.

It was, however, consistent. A hard-working trader on his way from the neutral but unfriendly Spain, voyaging carefully through the sea battlefield that was the Channel to the Baltic before the ice set in.

No prize? He wasn't going to let it go. There was something— was it Pedersen's truculence? If he had the confidence of a clear conscience he would enjoy seeing Kydd's discomfiture, sarcastically throw open the ship to him as other innocents had done before.

No—he would take it further. “I'd like t' see y'r freight, Captain. Be s' good as t' open y'r hold, sir.”

Pedersen frowned. Then, after a slight hesitation, he nodded. “Ver' well.” He got up heavily and they returned on deck.

While the master threw his orders at the wary crew, Kydd called Calloway to him. “We see if what we find squares wi' what's on the manifest,” he whispered. “Check off y'r details—any consignment not on y'r list he's t' account for, as it's not come aboard fr'm some little Frenchy port on the way.”

“Or any as is missing,” murmured Calloway, “which he could've landed . . .”

Kydd chuckled. “Aye, ye're catchin' on, m' boy.”

The thunderous cracking of timbers and goods working in the lanthorn-lit gloom and the dangerous squeeze down amid their powerful reek to the foot-waling below did not deter the experienced quartermaster's mate Kydd had been and he clambered about without hesitation.

Muslin and linen, cased oranges, Spanish wine in barrels; each was pointed out by the mate and accounted for, Kydd's sharp-eyed survey omitting no part of the hold, no difficult corner.

Nothing.

It was galling. There was
something
—his instincts told him so. But what? There was no more time, two ships lying stopped together might attract unwelcome visitors.

Kydd was about to heave himself out of the hold when a glimmer of possibility made itself known. He paused. This would be one for Renzi—but he wasn't here . . .

Slithering down again he worked his way back to the tightly packed wine barrels. He held the lanthorn above one. “Tinto de Toro, Zamora” was burnt crudely into its staves. He sniffed deeply, but all he could detect was the heavy odour of wine-soaked wood.

On its own it was not enough, but Kydd suspected that inside the barrels was not cheap Spanish wine but a rich French vintage. He squirmed over to the casks closest to the ship's side and found what he was looking for—a weeping in one where it had been bruised in a seaway or mishandled.

He reached out, then licked his finger: sure enough, the taste was indisputably the fine body of a Bordeaux—a Médoc or other, perhaps? He was not the sure judge of wine that Renzi was but, certainly, a cheap Spanish table wine this was not. And he could see how it had been done: they had left Bilbao with Spanish wine on the books as a welcome export, passed north along the French coast, crept into a lonely creek and refilled the barrels before setting sail once more.

He had them! Exultant thoughts came—the most overwhelming being the vast amount the prize would bring, with the sudden end of his immediate troubles, but cooler considerations took hold.

The only “evidence” was his nose; was this sufficient justification for him to bring his boarding party swarming over the bulwarks and taking the grave action of carrying the vessel into port? The ship's papers were in perfect order and any trace of a quick turn-aside would be difficult to prove.

He returned to the saloon. “Ship's log!” he demanded. Kydd ignored Pedersen's thunderous look and flipped the dog-eared pages: he wanted to see the dates between sailing and rounding Ushant. It was scrawled in Swedish, but again the shared culture of the sea allowed him to piece together the sequence. Light airs from the south when leaving on the tenth, veering to a fresh seven-knot south-westerly within the day—but not to forty-five degrees north before another two days.

“There!” Kydd said, stabbing at the entry. “Seven knots on a fair wind an' it takes ye three days to cover fifty leagues!” He snorted. “If'n it does then I'm a Dutchman. Ye put in t' Bordeaux country an' took a fill o' Frenchy wines, as I c'n prove below.”

Pedersen's expression did not change. “Ef wine are not Spanish, ze merchant iss cheat—not vorry for me,” he snapped. “An' m' time?” he went on frostily. “I lost by privateers inspect me there,
two
time!”

“An' may we see, then, y'r certificates?” Kydd shot back sarcastically. These had to be issued by the examining vessel on clearing any vessels boarded, that any subsequent boarding could be waived—and none had been shown to Kydd before he began his inspection.