Caribbee

Chapter 8

At his book by the stern windows in the great cabin Renzi heard movement on the deck above, then stillness. A few minutes later the silvery shriek of the boatswain’s call was on the air – the captain had returned from the admiral. Oakley liked to make a performance of it, ornamenting the upper notes with clever trills and tailing off in a perfectly contrived falling cadence.

Renzi knew Kydd set great store on the ceremony of piping aboard, not for the honour and personal satisfaction it gave but for it being a token of the discipline and order that arose naturally in the practice of the ancient customs of the Royal Navy.

A little time later his friend emerged into the cabin, Tysoe magically appearing to strip him of his finery.

‘Not as if you seem gratified at your reception, brother.’ Kydd certainly did not much resemble a frigate captain returning after reporting the destruction of an enemy to his commander.

‘Oh, he gives me joy of my victory, Nicholas, and mentioned that Lydiard went on to place a prize crew on the other Frenchy after he lost spars in the storm and hauled down his flag.’

‘Then?’

Kydd broke off to order sherry from Tysoe and continued, ‘As he’s much vexed and distracted by dispatches from Lapwing sloop. It turns out that while we were putting an end to the frigate pair, in quite another area we’re taking losses still, proving it can’t be them.’

‘So the conundrum remains,’ Renzi reflected. ‘Widely separated actions, which can’t be by privateers because we have most under eye in Guadeloupe and Martinique, and there’s no other port in the Caribbean that can sustain same.’

‘It’s more puzzling even than that. What no one can reckon is where they’re sending their captures to be condemned and sold – or any word at all about what happens to their crews. As if they’ve vanished entirely.’

‘So, an unknown enemy performing unknown evil acts, the result of which is not known.’

‘Don’t jest, Nicholas. The planters are in a right taking, saying it’s the work of the devil. Some believe this is Bonaparte with a secret weapon and you can be sure I’m not going to tell ’em of Mr Fulton’s submarine boat.’ His brow suddenly furrowed. ‘You don’t think …’

‘Well, I did say there would be a serious retaliation by Mr Bonaparte, but I’m not sure it’s to be that, not unless he’s improved his torpedoes greatly.’

Kydd settled into his chair. ‘Are we then to suppose that they’re taking their captures somewhere right away, with a view to mounting a convoy to sail ’em to Europe all together?’

‘We cannot dismiss the notion, dear fellow, but this does not address the first cause. How are they able to strike without our patrols see them? Where is their base that can sustain whatever they are at in so many different parts of the Caribbean? What is our defence against it? We beg to know.’

‘These are questions that we can’t answer, not at anchor here in Port Royal. Dacres is insistent on it: we’re driven to sea until we find the rogues and put a stop to it. L’Aurore sets out as soon as we’ve stored and fettled, but to where, no one has any notion.’

Renzi murmured his sympathy, but could find little of value to contribute. It was a perplexity in the extreme, for if this was the grand revenge he had always feared Bonaparte would inflict, it was succeeding only too well.

While Kydd got on with his paperwork he bent his mind to the problem with all the logic he could muster. His instincts told him that it had to be accepted it must be a species of secret operation that was being conducted, since their regular naval forces had never encountered any of its participants at any time. And they were suspiciously successful, implying some form of intelligence being gained and exploited.

He himself was no stranger to clandestine activity, at one time having been at the centre of a plot to kidnap Napoleon, and he knew the excruciating level of detail required to carry it off. He sombrely recalled Commodore d’Auvergne and his crushing burden of control, the string of agents stretching from Normandy to Paris itself – and their useless bravery.

So what, then, if the French had set up such a network? The British could claim no monopoly on covert operations. What if there was a web of agents across the Caribbean, being controlled by a gifted French naval officer much like d’Auvergne? Someone with an equal grasp of detail, who was pulling the strings of a commerce-raiding operation quite unlike the usual.

Tightly integrated, centrally managed and intelligently deployed. In essence, a fleet. After Trafalgar, there being no foreseeable prospect of an invasion of Britain, the forces gathered for its execution had been idle. There would therefore be a large number available of those chaloupes or prames, escorts for the invasion barges, small but powerful enough to stand against anything less than a frigate. An ‘admiral’ in command of a sizeable detachment could, with information supplied, send them dodging about the Caribbean, like assassins, quickly extracting them from the scene of the crime before detection and sending them on to the next. Yes. It made sense.

‘My dear fellow, it does cross my mind that there is an explanation for what we are seeing. Consider this.’

Kydd looked up from his writing and, point by point, Renzi laid out his reasoning.

‘Why, that’s not impossible, I’d say. We had a tidy fight of it against some off Calais in dear old Teazer, if you remember.’ Kydd looked thoughtful. ‘It would need an organising brain of the first rank, and reliable captains who know their duty and can navigate. But if your idea’s right, there’s one thing you need to show.’

‘Their central base.’

‘Just so. Your admiral needs somewhere to maintain his fleet, victual and water, all the usual, as well as have a port to hold all his captures. Which to be legal have to be condemned as good prize in a French court sitting wherever that may be. To be honest with you, I can’t think of such a one.’

It was the weakest part of the idea – but who was to say it was impossible, if no one had yet undertaken a search for such a secret base?

‘Nicholas, you’ve a right noble headpiece and this is what I’m going to do. We’re going to Dacres together and you shall put it to him yourself.’

The commander-in-chief of the Jamaica Squadron heard him out politely and sat back to consider. ‘A pretty theory, Renzi. Much to commend it.’ He pondered further. ‘I like the bit about Bonaparte employing his surplus invasion escorts. And the French have some very able officers, very able. The whole thing’s not impossible.’

He fiddled with a paperknife, then carefully placed it down and said abruptly, ‘But I can’t move on it.’

‘Sir?’

‘No evidence. No evidence at all. Surely we’d have heard something. A sighting of a chaloupe or similar. Very distinctive in the Caribbean, I’d have thought.’

Renzi waited.

‘And always we come back to this question of his base. He’s not only to supply his ships but has to keep up communications. We’d certainly look to have intercepted at least one dispatch cutter but we haven’t. We’d then find where it was headed and therefore the base.’

‘Sir, if we ferreted about in earnest, made good search of-’ Kydd began.

‘No. Not possible. Every ship we have must keep to the sea-lanes, if only to discourage the beggars.’

With sudden weariness, he added, ‘I’ve no idea what’s out there doing this damage to our interests but it’s causing me much grief. If you come across the slightest piece of evidence in support, do let me know – or if you can construe where your secret base is, I’ll get the nearest ship to look in on it. Otherwise there’s not much more I can do.’

‘Sir,’ Renzi asked quietly, ‘with your permission, may I consult the patrol briefs and casualty reports? To see if there’s some kind of pattern?’

‘Very well. See Wilikins, my confidential clerk. He’ll dig ’em out for you. Now, Mr Kydd, when did you say you’d be ready to sail?’

‘Mr Renzi, is it? Then how can I be of service to you, sir?’

He was a dry individual but had a warmth and willingness that reached out to Renzi. ‘Why, Mr Wilikins, that’s so kind in you. Would you be so good as to lay out for me the fleet’s patrol reports of this last month and a Caribbean chart? I have a need to consult the one in relation to the other.’

‘Of course. Er, may I know what it is that you’re investigating? I have knowledge of the archives we hold to some detail,’ he added modestly.

‘Thank you, no. It’s a conjecture only, not worthy of interrupting your day, sir.’

‘Why, that’s no imposition, Mr Renzi. Just between you and me, in our usual round there’s little to divert an active mind. I’d be glad to help.’

It was tempting: this was a man who knew the station intimately and could no doubt contribute detail that would otherwise take him weeks to unearth. And as the admiral’s confidential secretary he would surely be reliable.

‘Then I accept, with thanks. Now, Mr Wilikins, what I’m about to tell you must be in the nature of a confidence. Pray do not speak of this to others.’ If rumours of a French fleet of predators got abroad, they would terrify Jamaica.

There was a pained look, but the man agreed.

‘Very well. You’re no doubt aware that we’ve suffered losses among our trade much above the usual.’

‘I am – Admiral Dacres speaks of little else,’ he said, with feeling.

‘In this matter I have a notion, a possibility only, of how such might have been achieved.’

‘Therefore it must of a surety be pursued, sir.’

‘Then do hear what I say now, Mr Wilikins. Your views will be valued.’

Renzi laid out his arguments for a secret fleet controlled by a master hand, an organisational genius able to provide supply and havens for his assets and a port of size able to contain his captures, until now undiscovered.

The clerk suddenly sat down, pale behind his neat spectacles. ‘Why, sir, that is quite an idea, some might say a flight of fancy.’

‘Nevertheless, it is one answer in logic to our dilemma.’

‘Yet a hard thing to prove, sir. What, may I ask, do you plan to do, should you take it further?’

‘Which I shall certainly do, Mr Wilikins. The admiral does not intend to move on this without he has evidence. If I can deduce the whereabouts of this base and it is shown to him, the theory turns to fact. He will then be able to strike at the heart of the operation and bring it to a close.’

‘I see. This will take some pains, I’m sure. How will you proceed?’

‘The time and place of each capture to be plotted, then related in terms of distance to each conceivable candidate locality in turn. You see, to achieve his successes he must have a network of information concerning the sailing of each victim. If we calculate the time necessary to alert and get response, and place it next to this, it will disqualify some and push others to prominence. We will find it on the basis of mathematical elimination, never fear.’

‘A daunting task,’ Wilikins murmured.

‘The stakes are great, sir.’

‘Most certainly, Mr Renzi! The idea is novel but has its features. Let us begin.’

‘Very good. Now, where to start – Haiti?’

They began with St Nicholas Mole, an old French port going back to the 1600s and well known in the past as a nest of corsairs, but immediately ran into difficulties. The casualty reports they were working to had in nearly every instance the actual position of capture only loosely defined. That a ship had sailed on this date, bound for a given port, had simply not arrived on schedule, the bracket of dates producing an unworkable margin of error.

‘Unfortunate. We shall have to think our way to another solution, Mr Wilikins,’ Renzi muttered.

A variation, perhaps, with the range of uncertainty represented by a line, a strip of paper, which could be overlaid one over the other for a visual match?

By evening they had gone over the permutations of only four of the possible harbours and there were many more to cover. The willing clerk offered to work on, but Renzi needed time to think and took his leave.

The next day he redoubled his efforts but, by the end of the afternoon, could see that he was not going to arrive at a computed solution. But what else was there?

With sympathy, Wilikins saw Renzi rub his eyes. ‘There’s one thing we may try, my friend,’ he offered hesitantly. ‘But it’s only my humble idea.’

‘Say on, my dear sir,’ Renzi said, eager for anything that could break through the morass facing him.

‘I’ve heard it answered in the days of the great Admiral Rodney.’

‘Please go on.’

‘Well, there were bad losses from privateers in those days. So many that, faced with ruin, Lloyd’s insurers sent an investigator from England to determine the facts. He came and immediately offered a great reward to any who could uncover their nest, their locus domesticus. In fact, one of their own came forward privily and informed, claiming the reward, which allowed the admiral to mount an operation to extirpate them.’

‘Umm. The power of venality to overcome loyalty is never to be scorned, sir.’

‘Unhappily I fear we have not the time to petition Lloyd’s, Mr Renzi.’

‘Ah. You may leave that to me, Mr Wilikins. I do believe we shall pursue your idea, sir. And not a word to a soul, remember.’

The clerk brightened. ‘Of course not. So gratified to be of assistance, Mr Renzi.’

‘An irregular proceeding, sir, most irregular!’ Dacres sat back and frowned. ‘In the character of a Lloyd’s man you’ll be offering a reward for the uncovering of a nest of privateers? What has this to do with a naval fleet operation?’

‘You’ll grant appearances will be much the same, sir. Some curious soul will have seen such – a quantity of vessels issuing from and arriving at a place they have no right to be, large amounts of victuals being shipped in, numbers of country ships at anchor and-’

‘Yes, yes. But where the devil am I going to find the cash for this reward, I’d like to know, sir?’

‘Others may well point out that Admiral Rodney found his way to funding it and believed the happy outcome more than recompensed him.’

‘Humph. Well, now persuade me how you’ll not be flammed by a rogue claiming to know and doesn’t.’

‘Sir, I’m to tell you I’m not unacquainted with the arts of dissimulation. Were Commodore d’Auvergne to be present, he would speak warmly of my conduct on his behalf, er, at significant events for this country of a clandestine nature.’

‘You’re admitting you’ve been acting as agent in some species of hugger-mugger operation.’

Renzi winced. ‘Not as if I’d wished to have it known, sir.’

‘Of course not, no employment for a gentleman, I can understand that. Your secret’s safe with me, Renzi.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘And I’ve a mind to see this through – anything that has any sort of chance of ridding us of the vermin. What do you propose?’

Several days later, L’Aurore was due to sail within forty-eight hours, and Renzi found himself making for the Shipp Inn on Queen’s Street in Port Royal. Here, all those years ago, he had roistered with one Tom Kydd and his shipmates, who had found themselves unaccountably crew of Seaflower cutter – it was a warm thought. It would be awkward, of course, if he was recognised, but in an old-fashioned wig and spectacles he didn’t think it likely.

It had changed little and he couldn’t help but give a tiny smile as he took up solitary residence in the snug, which he had hired for the night. He sat, with an untouched pewter of stingo, and waited.

Reward posters had been pasted up all about the town, proclaiming the existence of a Mr Smith from Lloyd’s of London come to investigate the recent losses. It seemed he was offering a large reward of an undisclosed sum for information leading to an uncovering of the privateers’ nest. All dealings in the strictest confidence and prompt payment in bright silver dollars assured.

It was an outside chance, and if he came away empty-handed it would probably mean the end for his prospects of revealing the plot – if it existed. His logical mind, however, came back stoutly with the observation that, while there was at the moment no evidence in support, it did explain things better than any alternative.

At the front of the tavern sailors roared with laughter as they downed rum punch but this was to the good – he didn’t want to be overheard in his dealings.

As the evening wore on, the happy noise began to get on his nerves. He saw off four hopefuls, transparently ignorant, then called for a pie and soup, as much for a change as to fend off hunger. The pot-boy brought in the food, curious about the strange gentleman sitting alone and sober in a haunt that in former days had seen many a pirate plotting a voyage of plunder.

It was soon approaching midnight; Renzi had to conclude that if there was a clandestine base apparently no one had seen it. The idea of a secret fleet, however attractive in logic, remained just that – an empty theory.

The tavern quietened as the revellers departed. Renzi decided he’d give it until twelve and then leave. At a few minutes to the hour the pot-boy entered hesitantly, wide-eyed and holding out a folded note. ‘I’m t’ give you this’n.’

Renzi found a coin and the lad disappeared quickly.

The note was roughly written and in block capitals: ‘I HAVE THE GRIFF YOU WANTS. ITS BIGGER THAN YOU KNOW. I’LL HAVE ALL MY COBBS TONIGHT, OR NOTHING. IF YOU WANT TO PLAY, SHIFT INTO THE OTHER SEAT.’

Instantly, Renzi came to full alert, his heart thudding. This was near professional – in some way he was being put under observation as he read. Carefully he rose and went around the table to the chair he had out for visitors. It had its back to the door.

He glanced again at the rest of the note. ‘THEN DONT LOOK ROUND OR YOUR A DEAD MAN.’

He sat and waited for the blindfold. He heard the door open and soft paces, then dark cloth was fastened around his eyes. More paces around the table and the scraping of a chair.

‘Right, cully. Now we talks.’

The voice was low and had a West Country burr. The man had evidently waited until the tavern was nearly clear of customers before he had made his move.

‘I’m Mr Smith of Lloyd’s Insurance,’ Renzi said neutrally. ‘Do you have information on a privateers’ nest as will interest me, Mr … er?’

‘No names.’ He paused. ‘I’ve surely got something as will blow ye out of y’r seat, never doubt it. What I want t’ see first is the colour o’ your money.’

‘Very well.’ Renzi felt inside his waistcoat and brought out a soft hide purse, clinking it suggestively before pouring out the contents in a little stream, sliding the silver towards himself where he could see it through chinks directly down from under the blindfold.

‘That?’ the man said in disbelief. ‘Won’t buy a monkey his mort o’ joy-juice. Have to do better’n that.’

‘I can,’ Renzi said levelly. ‘Much more. I have it close by – no need to tempt a man to slit my throat and run with it. How much depends on what you can tell me.’

‘I’ve more t’ tell ye right enough. But what’s to stop ye runnin’ off without payin’ after I tells yez?’

‘What’s to stop you slitting my gizzard after I hand over the silver, just to keep your secret safe?’

The man chortled. ‘Seems we’ve come to a chock-a-block.’

Renzi was quick to pick up that he was a seaman: his reference to the state of a tackle, when the lower block has run up against the upper, stopping the hoist, had given him away.

‘Not necessarily,’ Renzi said carefully. ‘This you shall have when you’ve satisfied me with your information. The rest comes only after a runner takes a note containing the information to one of my colleagues, who will countersign it, and returns to me here with this evidence that the secret is secure in our hands.’

‘An’ you’ll be waitin’ here, o’ course.’

‘As will you, my friend, and the money.’

There was a heavy silence while this was digested.

‘No tricks!’

‘You have my word.’

Renzi got straight to the point: ‘So then, where is this privateers’ nest, at all?’

‘Ha! This is where you’re on the wrong course entirely, Mr Smith. ’Cos they’s not privateers, not at all. We’re talkin’ Navy, French Navy, as has a whole fleet as they’re controlling from the one place.’

Renzi felt a wash of relief mixed with elation but fought it down. He put out his hand for the coins, neatly divided them in two and pushed one pile across. ‘Which place?’

He felt the man reach across and draw the remainder to him but didn’t try to stop it. He was in too much of a fever to hear the rest.

‘Curacao.’

In a rush of insight, Renzi saw how this could be all too possible and cursed himself for not considering the island before.

It was small and lay on the other side of the Caribbean, not far off the continental land mass of South America and of trifling importance in trade. However, it was still a tiny remnant of the Dutch empire, and the Hollanders, under a puppet government of Napoleon, would certainly do as they were told. Renzi’s pulse raced. ‘You’ve seen them yourself?’

‘Last voyage we did. Sees ’em come an’ go at a trot in the Schottegat, as is within Willemstad.’

‘You can’t tell me anything else?’

‘Well … the admiral cove is a right Tartar an’ he’s ashore in a big place at Parera, can’t miss him. Heard his name was Duperre or such.’

‘Is the island fortified? Do they have ships-of-the-line there?’

‘Why you askin’ me this? I’ve told you all I saw. Now, let’s see the rest o’ the rhino!’

Mind racing, Renzi tried to think. With the location of the base now known, it was really up to Dacres how he acted. Further questions could wait. The main thing was, he had what he wanted.

‘This does appear satisfactory information. You will have your reward once the runner returns. If you would be so good as to stand behind me as I remove my blindfold to write … there.’

He scribbled the bare facts on the back of a poster. Curacao – the French Navy, Duperre in command. Then a request to countersign.

Handing it over his shoulder and being careful not to turn, he said, ‘Do get a messenger to take this at once to a Mr Wilikins.’ He gave the address and added, ‘He is not expecting this. Nonetheless the messenger is to be insistent he be called to sight and sign it.’ He hoped the confidential clerk would forgive being roused from bed but he would quickly realise the import of the paper.

Time passed. Renzi, blindfolded again, sat uncomfortably. The man discouraged conversation, and when the pot-boy returned, he snatched the paper and slapped it on the table, resuming his position behind.

‘Look at it!’ he demanded, as the blindfold was again lifted.

It was duly signed.

‘Where’s these cobbs close by, then? I’ll get ’em now.’

‘Do I get a name? In case I have more questions.’

‘No. Find them dollars.’

Renzi felt inside his waistcoat on the other side. ‘I did say close by,’ he said lightly. Drawing out a similar hide bag he spilled out the coins in a noisy cascade. A hand immediately came out and swept them up, then roughly pulled down the blindfold again.

‘Don’t take it off for a count o’ fifty, cuffin.’ There was a scraping of the chair and the door closed.

The admiral’s eyes gleamed. ‘Curacao! The devils – let’s take a look.’

He crossed to the table and spread out a chart of the Caribbean. ‘Ah! You see?’

The island was at the south point of an inverted triangle where the northern base was Jamaica to one side and the Leeward Islands to the other, each spaced equally apart – a near perfect sallying point.

‘A rapid descent would-’

‘Your success in the intelligence line is well remarked, Mr Renzi. Matters of naval strategy may be safely left to myself.’

‘Only that a delay would allow our losses-’

‘This is out of your hands now, Renzi. There are higher matters to consider, touching as they do on strategicals of an international significance.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘For instance – how do I act in this? We’ve not had the smallest difficulty from the Hollanders in this war but any move against the French there would be an intolerable provocation.’

He frowned, steepling his fingers. ‘So this compels me to make a decision in which there can be no middle ground. To be obliged to leave them to their depredations – or mount a full-scale invasion with all the consequent expense and peril.’

‘Sir, they cannot be left to it.’

‘An invasion of any enemy territory, Renzi, is not to be contemplated lightly. We must be assured of success, else we shall be put to scorn by the world.’

‘Quite, sir.’ The words chosen were revealing: Dacres was seriously contemplating a direct assault in depth by himself and was not inclined to share the glory with the larger Leeward Islands command. If the latter were brought in they would necessarily take control and credit, but would therefore also take the odium in the event of failure.

For several moments Dacres remained wrapped in thought, then said sharply, ‘And we only have the word of this unknown common seaman as to what’s afoot – and, come to think of it, providing me with the only evidence thus far that your theory is not some wild fantasy.’

He glared at Renzi as if it were entirely his fault that his day had turned so complicated.

‘Sir, I’ve no reason whatsoever to doubt the man. My experience tells me he’s-’

‘Your experience, sir? What is that to me?’

‘I did mention before, sir, that I have in fact previously acted in the capacity of a-’

‘You did, and I’ll bear it in mind.’

He brightened. ‘And, now I have done so, a solution to my dilemma now presents itself.’ A pleased smile dawned.

‘Yes. This is what we’ll do. While putting in train the preliminaries of planning and requisition for a descent on the island, there will be our man who goes to Curacao itself in some cunning guise and sees for himself what’s the truth of the matter. You’ll see, of course, I can’t allow an invasion unless it’s absolutely necessary.’

Renzi knew what was coming. ‘Our man?’

‘Who better than yourself, Renzi? You say as how you have all this experience …’

Wilikins was delighted. ‘How exciting for you, Mr Renzi! To go into the midst of the enemy as it were and-’

‘Pray contain yourself, Mr Wilikins,’ Renzi said huffily. ‘Quite apart from the fact that I’m to act the spy, a calling I do cordially detest, the danger to be apprehended is great indeed. And might I prevail upon you to employ the utmost discretion in this business? As of this moment the admiral and your own good self are the only ones to be aware of this affair, but if it should become known to a wider extent I would most assuredly pay for it with my life.’

The clerk blinked, then regarded Renzi gravely. ‘That is something I would regret above all things. Nothing shall be spoken beyond these four walls.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, touched at the little man’s sincerity. ‘And now, Mr Wilikins, have you any information at all concerning the island?’

‘Ah, yes, we do. Your Captain Bligh had a confrontation with the Dutch there in the last war and did record much of his experiences. My predecessor, though, had a quaint notion of the art of filing and its recovery may take some little time.’

Kydd sat down suddenly. ‘This is a hard thing to put on a man, Nicholas. You would not have been thought the less if you had refused – are there not, should we say, men of that profession Dacres could call upon?’

‘There is little on this station that warrants the maintenance of such, therefore no. Time is very limited and any person entering in on Curacao must have knowledge of military and naval affairs to be aware of the significance of what he observes.’

Kydd looked at him with the tiniest touch of amusement. ‘And as it’s your theory to be proved you won’t leave it to another.’

‘Not at all,’ Renzi said, with dignity. ‘We are beset by the greatest threat yet launched by Bonaparte. If it succeeds in cutting off our Caribbean trade, he will take note and deploy it elsewhere. It has to be stopped – and I know my duty.’

‘Yes, Nicholas, you always did.’ Kydd pondered. ‘It’ll be a tricky thing. We haven’t any good charts of that side of the Caribbean and a night landing from L’Aurore will-’

‘Rest your concerns, dear fellow. L’Aurore will not be needed.’

The baffling light winds relented at last and, resolving out of the bright haze ahead, the island of Curacao spread gradually across their field of view.

It had been only three days but the strain of maintaining his disguise was telling on Renzi. The amiable American master had gone out of his way to show an interest in his business prospects, this Herr Haugwitz coming all the way from the small Hanseatic town of Bremen. Just how did he think he was going to deal with the twin hazards of Napoleon’s decree on the one hand and the iniquitous British on the other?

Renzi had countered the well-meaning interrogation in heavily accented English by saying that he was on an exploratory trip only, to gauge possibilities for a product that, for commercial reasons, he was not at liberty to reveal. It had satisfied and he had had then only to fend off the friendly prattle of a gregarious captain gratified that his modest vessel had been selected for the passage.

The pilot and Customs cutter appeared and, while the formalities were concluded, Renzi’s pulse quickened.

It was the very height of impudence to think he could just come to the Dutch colony, spy out the operation and leave. But that was what was planned, and the longer he stayed the more dangerous his situation. The American had told him that he was calling to offload molasses and take aboard seventeen barrels of aloes and then would be off – say, two days in all. Renzi had every intention of leaving with him.

On its own a simple count of men-o’-war in harbour would be misleading for there would be far more out at sea on their predatory occasions, but it would be necessary only to sight two or three to confirm matters. And he knew where the controlling base was and the name of its principal. He had only to verify they existed and he would have all the proof Dacres needed that this was indeed the place.

The shoreline was beautiful: long beaches overhung with palms and studded with houses; judging by their spacing from each other, they must be well-appointed villas.

Renzi could not see the town of Willemstad and its harbour until they drew closer, then made out a channel. It was barely a couple of hundred yards across but they confidently entered it in the light but steady easterly trade wind.

So close, every detail was clear: dominating the entrance to the channel on one side was the angular pentagon of a stone fort; further in, the buildings of the town were charming reminders of Cape Town’s Dutch-influenced architecture, almost in exaggeration with their exuberant colour and quaint grace. At the far end of the channel stood another impressive fort, atop the heights of a conical hill where it was able to menace the channel and the inner harbour that now opened up.

‘The Schottegat,’ Renzi was informed. It was an impressive sight – two or three miles of open water snugly within the island, completely sheltered from the worst hurricanes. Eagerly his eyes darted about, taking in what he could of the harbour and its seafront.

There were sea-craft in abundance, from small native coastal smacks to respectable traders at the inner wharves, but safely out of the way at a trot, a row of mooring piles set out from the shore, five near-identical low-built schooners were roped together.

They were not in view for long as the ship rounded to and doused sail. Lines were sent ashore and they were hauled alongside.

‘Well, Herr Haugwitz, we’re here in Curacao right enough. This’n is Willemstad – where you stayin’, may I ask?’

Renzi indicated that he rather hoped to have the use of his cabin for the two days while he had his meetings. This was agreed on and Renzi was left to his own devices while the ship prepared to land its cargo.

It was baking hot – unlike the more northerly Jamaica, surrounded by sea, this was an island only thirty miles off the great mass of the South American continent and at only twelve degrees above the equator.

He looked about. It was not a large town, mainly located in a typical neat Dutch grid of streets, situated on both sides of the channel. Around the Schottegat were boat-builders, warehouses, wharves – all the usual sights of a sea-port, together with the odour of fish offal, sun-baked dust and an indefinable scent, which, Renzi guessed, was the blossom of some exotic fruit.

Around a little inlet, near the roped schooners, was Parera, where the mysterious Duperre was said to be. Renzi felt light-headed – it had all been too quick, too easy. Was it a trap? He couldn’t see why – no one had known he was coming.

So, all it needed was for him to step out and uncover the secret – if, in fact, it existed.

He hefted his small case. It carried convincing documents copied from a genuine merchant, contrived by Wilikins to portray a cautious representative of a Bremen trading house out to gauge prospects away from the English Caribbean. They should pass muster … in any ordinary circumstance.

He also had a paper with the roughly written address of an apothecary on the opposite side of the channel, helpfully provided by the American captain. With poor English and no Dutch, of course he was lost, wasn’t he? It sounded thin and he prayed his answers, if he was questioned as to why he was off the beaten track, would pass muster.

It was hot and dusty on the road that wound around the inlet. Ahead he saw a discreet cluster of old buildings overhung by greenery standing alone, perfect for the role of secret operations headquarters – but were they?

Cheerful local traders passed by, some of whom waved at him, a small flock of goats was being fussed up a hill and a pair of voluble washerwomen argued as they toiled along with their bundles. All so normal – and so out of kilter with what his intellect was saying, that this had to be Napoleon’s greatest threat to the Caribbean yet.

He came nearer, trying not to be seen peering too closely. The buildings were not deserted – he could see activity inside. A horse whinnied out of sight, from behind the house, then someone rode out. Renzi dropped his gaze, trudging on, then sensed the animal turn and come towards him – but it broke into an easy canter and went by.

Letting out his breath, he raised his eyes. The intervening vegetation made it impossible to see much of the interior of the buildings. He dared not linger and ambled on, admiring the scenery until he saw how he could approach the schooners without being seen – go along the foreshore and peer around the point.

Out of sight from both the buildings and the trot, he stopped not fifty yards away from the vessels. In rising excitement he saw what he was looking for. Each was armed with guns far beyond those required for self-defence, including a pair in the bows – chase guns, never needed in an innocent trader. Swivels, others. They had to be armed French naval ships.

He had half of what he needed. Now for the rest.

His attention was taken by a chilling sight. A man-o’-war was gliding slowly into her moorings. A big one – a thirty-six-gun heavy frigate, by the look of her. With a closer look, he saw she was Dutch, no doubt tasked to guard the operation.

He retraced his steps – and from a safe distance took in the decayed grandeur of the old buildings, its overgrown garden. It was impossible to penetrate, short of a stealthy creeping-up, with all this implied in frightful danger. He could see no way to get close enough.

After all this, was he to return without the vital confirmation?

He felt for the piece of paper in his pocket and decided that boldness was the only way forward: he’d go up and knock on the door and ask the way to the apothecary.

Pausing to consult his fob watch, he shook his head and looked around in frustration. He noticed the most imposing of the buildings and, on impulse, opened the garden gate and walked towards the front door. Almost immediately, to his intense satisfaction, two men silently appeared and fell into step behind him.

There was movement and the hum of voices inside, but it quickly fell away at his hesitant knock. He turned to smile uncertainly at the two behind him. They remained expressionless and Renzi knew that he was irrevocably launched into an encounter that could have only one of two possible endings.

The door was snatched open by a powerfully built man, who deftly stepped aside while Renzi was hustled in by the pair to a small, bare room. It held a table and two chairs only.

‘Asseyez-vous,’ ordered one of his escorts, before taking up position implacably across the door.

Renzi blinked in confusion, not understanding the language.

‘A present!’ snarled the man again, gesturing unmistakably at the chair.

A short time later a younger, more open-faced man entered with another, older, and sat opposite. ‘How can we be of service to you?’ he asked mildly, in French.

‘Oh, ich verstehe nicht franzosisch,’ Renzi said weakly, clutching his case but inwardly exulting. If this was not a French naval officer, he stood well flammed. The only task now was to beat a hasty retreat with his precious information.

At his words the younger glanced at the other significantly. ‘D’Allemand,’ he muttered.

The older nodded and replied in French, ‘He’s a spy, of course.’

‘You think so, mon amiral? A spy who thinks to come right up and knock on the door? And doesn’t know French? Even the English are not that stupid!’

So the older must be Duperre, he surmised, discreetly noting his features with interest.

The younger turned to Renzi and, with an encouraging smile, said kindly, ‘We know you’re a spy, my friend. Now we’re going to take you outside and execute you.’

Renzi smiled back, but spread his hands sorrowfully in incomprehension. ‘Sorry, sorry. You spik Engleesh, I unnerstand.’

As if he was to be fooled by that old trick.

‘Merde. Go and find someone with German for this imbecile,’ the young man said, and, with another sharp look at Renzi, left.

The swirl of the day resumed: voices raised, orders loudly given amid much bustle. Renzi caught snatches of what was being said, every bit worth hearing.

‘… the admiral said … took a fat sugar scow off Morant … get this signal off … he must be at the rendezvous point as agreed by …’

It was conclusive. He had both heard and seen enough. This was indeed the tactile reality and proof of what he had logically foreseen. Sudden impatience seized him – but then he realised that the greatest danger was yet to come: if the German speaker was a native, could he keep up the pretence?

A cold wash of apprehension went over him. He was comfortable with the Hochdeutsch of Goethe but city slang was beyond him.

Footsteps approached and the young man brought in a nervous waiter, still in his apron.

‘Guten Tag. Wie hei?t du?’ he asked, after prompting.

Renzi felt a flood of relief. The man was Alsatian with an atrocious accent.

He beamed. ‘My name is Haugwitz, a merchant of Bremen. Do tell these gentlemen that I have no wish to intrude, merely to ask the way to this address.’ He handed over the paper with a winning smile.

It was passed across for scrutiny. The young man looked up, then reached out for Renzi’s case.

‘Tell Monsieur Haugwitz that I am admiring his satchel. Where was it made at all?’ He detached it from Renzi’s grasp and rummaged inside while Renzi nervously allowed that it was a family heirloom, passed down from his father and therefore from Oldenburg.

The papers inside were riffled through, then replaced and the case handed back. ‘Tell him he’s a fool to turn east, the apothecary is to the west – over the channel in Otrabanda. Show him out, and point him in the right direction.’

It was translated and Renzi made much of thanking all in sight. Smothering a sigh of relief, he gave a friendly wave and set out once more.