The Privateer's Revenge (3 page)

“You've applied for a removal out of
Teazer,
” Renzi said quietly.

Standish looked at him sharply. “Who told you that?” His gaze swung back to the boat. “But it's true enough. Since he's crossed the admiral's hawse there's no hope o'
Teazer
being put in the way of a good fight and chance of distinction—the Channel Islands, I ask you!” He continued moodily, “And it's got to be said, since his dolly had the bad grace to get drowned he's been knocked athwart and no use to any. I fear our Mr Kydd's appetite for glory has gone, and with it any desire I have to stay in this ark of misery.”

Renzi did not reply. The rot was setting in. Only the previous day they had lost Boyd, one of their only two midshipmen. There had been a rambling letter from his father about a fortunate placement in a ship-of-the-line but the real reason was obvious: society was unwilling for their sons and heirs to learn their officer-like qualities from someone of Kydd's reputation. And none had come forward to take Boyd's place; this was unfortunate for a midshipman counted as a petty officer and, among other things, could stand a watch in harbour under the mate-of-the-watch. It would not improve Prosser's attitude.

From his tiny cabin Renzi could not fail to overhear mess-deck conversations: at the moment the men were generally understanding of their captain's grief but he would quickly lose sympathy if he could not soon come to himself and give the ship and her company the attention they deserved.

Word was passed of the marines' imminent arrival, then Kydd appeared and stood motionless with a look of inward distraction. Renzi noted the resulting movement of officers and men: they were crossing the deck to keep their distance, not out of respect.

The boat's coxswain hooked on abreast the side-steps. Renzi moved unobtrusively to watch. After the sergeant and corporal had swung themselves inboard less than half seemed confident in their movements boarding a ship-of-war. However, the sight of so many identical red-coated uniforms was striking beside the individual dress of the seamen.

When the men had been drawn up to satisfaction by the corporal, the sergeant swung about and marched down the deck. He had strong, confident features with an easy cheerfulness. “Sar'nt Ambrose, sah! Corporal Jay, sah! An' twelve privates come t' join,” he reported.

“An' not before time, Sergeant,” Kydd said. “We're t' sea directly.”

“With only one midshipman?” murmured Renzi beside him. “A mort hard on Mr Prosser, I believe.”

“Do him good, th' lazy villain!” Kydd flared. But he knew this was no minor quibble: the lack of a midshipman in the opposite watch was going to affect more than just the watchkeepers for in any kind of action they were effective in standing between officers and men.

He rounded on Renzi: “So, if y'r polite society doesn't see
Teazer
a fit berth f'r their sons, why, I'm th' captain, an' it's m' right to set on the quarterdeck as midshipman any I please!” he retorted. He turned back with a sardonic smile. “Send Able Seaman Calloway aft, if y' please.”

Teazer
put to sea on the tide and stood out into the Channel. Seen from the rolling green hills of Devon, there was nothing to suggest that this was anything other than one of the many small men-o'-war going about their vital business in great waters. Her spars and rigging properly a-taunto, her pennant streaming out, sails trimmed to perfection, she was a picture of grace and warlike beauty—but on her quarterdeck, with the marks of grief and misery on his face, a figure stared astern over the widening seas at the receding coast.

Renzi watched Kydd unnoticed. It would be long months before England was sighted once more. Was there a chance that his friend could heal, away from the memories? He made his way below, guiltily aware that for himself the exile would not be wasted: he had heard enough of the Channel Islands, with their neither truly English nor certainly French character, to be looking forward keenly to his time there. An earnest guidebook was waiting on the bookshelf and opportunities in the future for exemplary ethnical comparisons would be limitless.

At daybreak they raised the south-west of Guernsey and, with the customary pilot aboard for entry into harbour, rounded the south-eastern tip. The island itself was only a few miles long, but a dismaying number of vicious rocks, reefs and islets were visible in the approaches to the harbour, scores of black fangs waiting on every hand.

St Peter Port was guarded by the brooding mass of Herm offshore, and closer to, a squat castle on a rocky islet before an inner harbour. Between, there was a broad expanse of clear water, sheltered from the prevailing westerlies. There, upwards of thirty ships were moored, including three warships riding to anchor.

“Ye'll be wantin' the two-decker, o' course,” the pilot said respectfully. “
Diomede,
an' flagship o' y'r admiral.” She was only a 50 but boasted a splendid gallery with a real, old-fashioned stern-walk.
Teazer
's small swivel cracked in salute as six marines—all that could be found room for on the afterdeck—were drawn up and, with much stamping and slapping of muskets, brought proudly to attention.

“Away the gig.” Kydd, in full dress uniform, stepped gravely into the boat. Renzi watched it stroke smartly away for the flagship. The twittering of pipes carried over the water as Kydd mounted the side and was gone.

“I'll be below,” Standish announced, a bored look on his face. He clattered down the hatchway, leaving Renzi with the pilot, whose work would not be done until
Teazer
had anchored safely.

“This is Admiral Saumarez,” Renzi pondered aloud to the pilot.

“Aye, it is.”

“And something of a hero, I believe,” Renzi added. “Was it not
Orion
at St Vincent and the Nile? And, of course, Algeciras . . .”

“A Guernseyman first an' always,” the pilot said stoutly.

“This is his
fleet?
” Renzi said, gesturing at the other two ships, both frigates of some maturity. Even the small flagship
Diomede
was of an obsolete and derided class, not big enough to fight in the line of battle or fast enough to stay with frigates.

“Well, an' there's another two frigates out on a cruise, like,” the pilot said defensively. “Plenty an' enough for Sir James t' see away Johnny Frenchman, I'll believe.”

To Renzi it was unsettling: at a time when England stood in such peril why consign one of Nelson's band of brothers, a proven leader and experienced admiral, to be a full commander-in-chief of a tiny island or two and a handful of frigates?

He held his doubts, but that didn't stop the boatswain pressing the case: “As it may be, cully, but it don't say why such a right copper-bottomed fightin' man as him tops it the admiral-in-chief here when a little one'll do, does it?”

The pilot drew himself up. “No mystery, m' friend. He's a Guern', as I said, an' he's come back t' stand by his people in their time o' need. Anything y' can see wrong wi' that?”

Kydd returned, his face set. “Great Road, astern o'
Cerberus
,” he ordered Standish, who had come back on deck and was awaiting the order to moor. “Mr Renzi, please t' attend on me,” he added, and disappeared below.

There was a marine on duty outside the captain's cabin. As a naval officer, Renzi had been accustomed to due obeisance but as a ship's clerk he was not to be noticed; Kydd, however, received the respect of a musket clash as they passed into
Teazer
's great cabin.

Kydd emptied his dispatch case of papers. “I'd be obliged if ye'd see t' these. Orders o' the station as will touch on
Teazer
's standin' orders, forms o' the sort as y' will see bear on our new standing.”

“New standing?”

“Aye,” Kydd snarled. “As second t'
Cerberus
32. Attached t' her for victuals an' stores, f'r duties as her captain will fr'm time t' time direct.”

“Attached? This will—”

“It means no cruisin' on our own any more.”

Renzi frowned. Apart from the obvious loss of independence, the natural assumption of honours for the senior in any combat that might eventuate and the halving or less of any prize money, there would be little chance now for challenges and diversions to lift Kydd from the pit of despair. “My commiserations, dear fellow. How shall you—”

Kydd's expression was hard. “I shall do m'
duty,
as will you, an' every man aboard this barky. Those orders t' be transcribed directly, an' the purser t' lay aft now.” Kydd's eyes gleamed fiercely, his drawn features bleak and forbidding—almost callous in their estrangement from the world. Renzi felt deep disquiet.

The papers complete, Kydd left for
Cerberus
to make his number with her captain. He returned quickly, without comment, in time to receive the seven local men coming aboard who had volunteered. Unlike the general run of seamen in England they could be sure that service would be in their home waters, defending their own kith and kin.

At six bells Mr Queripel, a small but well-built man in nondescript old-fashioned dress, arrived aboard. His certificate showed him approved by the commander-in-chief to act locally as a form of on-board permanent pilot, insisted upon by Saumarez for all non-native naval vessels in his command. Renzi saw Dowse, their own sailing-master, take wary measure of him.

Standish turned to Kydd. “Sir, might I ask—”

“When
Cerberus
puts t' sea, so does
Teazer,
” Kydd grated. “Until then we remain in attendance at anchor. Is that clear?”

“Aye aye, sir,” Standish said sulkily.

That night there was no invitation for Renzi to dine with the captain; he supped with Standish and the others in what passed for a wardroom, the cramped space outside the cabins below.

“Tut, tut,” the master said, after the meal had advanced sufficiently for tongues to be loosened. “Where are our spirits? Why are we cast down? Th' chances are we'll soon have our heart torn out on some Godforsaken rock and out o' this 'un quick enough.”

“Mr Dowse! F'r shame!” said the boatswain, Purchet. “Could be th' Frogs are out an' then—”

“And then they fall on these pawky islands?” Standish sneered, from the head of the table. “I don't think so, Mr Hellfire Bosun. No, if they've got a handful of hours to crowd across the Channel, they'll not waste time here.” He tossed back his wine.

“Then why's his grandevity Sir James o' Algeciras sent here?” Dowse asked. “Must be f'r a very good reason.”

“Ha!”
Standish came back instantly. “You really can't smoke it? He's here for just the same reason as we are.” He glanced quickly at Renzi, who had taken no part in the discussion, then went on, “In course, he's run afoul of some higher and sent here to keep the natives quiet!” He went on strongly, “Stands to reason, dammit—commander-in-chief of an island four miles thick and not a ship-o'-the-line in his command? What other reason than he's been exiled too?” he said bitterly.

“What's
your
opinion, if y' please, Mr Renzi?” Dowse asked politely.

By now, in this company, Renzi had been accepted for what he was—an enigma, but no threat. He had kept to himself, scrupulously careful never to take anyone's part, his relationship with Kydd seen as that of an eccentric and needy scholiast taking advantage of the free board and lodging due a ship's clerk. A quiet and amiable manner, however, had ensured him the warmth of these men. “Why, I've seen nothing so far that might lead us to suppose there has been some form of alienation, but this presents a mystery. I fear that without facts I'm as much at a loss as you are.”

Standish snorted. “If you insist on making it a mystery, sir, I do not.” He banged down his glass. “Rather more to the point is our predicament.”

“Our which?” said Renzi, mildly. Over time they had come to see that he did not carry tales to Kydd and were increasingly open in his presence. With his ear to mess-deck gossip and to the confidences of the commander, he was in a unique position—which might well end in an impossible situation if he did not tread circumspectly.

“You do not call this a predicament that we're to spend the rest o' the war flogging up and down this coast while all the victories are won elsewhere? I have my hopes of a sea career, gentlemen, as won't be found here. Remember, out of sight, out of mind. We'll not be noticed in
this
pawky scow.” He took a savage pull at his wine. “And,” he paused for breath, “I asked to be appointed into

Teazer
because I'd heard Tom Cutlass was to be her owner and we'd ride to glory together in some famous mauling. In just six months he's thrown the lot away! In with the admiral's daughter and set fair to be made post into a frigate for his trouble, me as his premier, and he takes up with some country milkmaid!”