Caribbee

Chapter 12

It was a morning like any other. But before the day was out Kydd knew two things would have occurred: L’Aurore would have met the enemy in battle – and he would have come face to face with Tyrell.

Tense and uneasy, he left his cabin to make his way to the captains’ conference in Hannibal for orders in the taking of Marie-Galante.

The watch was securing for sea but at Kydd’s appearance on deck furtive glances and a sudden need to occupy themselves left no doubt as to what they were thinking. Kydd’s face burned.

‘My barge,’ he snapped at Curzon, whose studied blankness was just as revealing.

His boat’s crew were paragons of behaviour but over his shoulder Kydd saw faces at L’Aurore’s gun-ports, others at the rails and more in the tops, watching.

He forced down his emotions. This was an operation against the enemy and he had to keep cool. His duty was to his men and no personal antagonisms must be allowed to deflect him.

Yet as they approached Hannibal his resolve wavered. Would Tyrell be waiting to greet each captain, and there in front of everybody expect him to shake his hand?

He couldn’t do it, nor look him in the eye.

Telling the boat to hang back, he allowed Lydiard of Anson to board while he wrestled with his feelings. Then there was no more time.

The pipes pealed as he mounted the side and stepped aboard, but Tyrell was not on deck. Trying not to let his relief show, Kydd followed the first lieutenant to be introduced to the waiting captains, who stood together by the main-mast. But as he approached, the talking died away and they turned to face him warily.

‘A good day, gentlemen,’ he said, with a brittle lightness.

There were muttered acknowledgements and then they turned back to their conversations. Kydd flushed with anger at the intolerable behaviour but then it dawned on him that they were probably hiding their embarrassment.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bowden standing some yards away; the young man smiled awkwardly at his old captain.

The first lieutenant cleared his throat. ‘Er, gentlemen? Captain Tyrell will welcome you in the great cabin now.’

They began to file into the space, Kydd standing aside until they were all before him, then following. At the last minute he hesitated at the door and the marine sentry’s eye swivelled to him in apprehension. There was no more delaying the moment so he stepped inside.

‘Come in, then!’ Tyrell was at the head of the table, getting his papers in order. He looked up sharply. ‘Sit down. We’ve no time to waste.’

Kydd took the last chair, which was on Tyrell’s right-hand side. He found himself so close he could feel the man’s animal ferocity radiating, but Tyrell ignored him.

Kydd held rigid and forced himself to an icy cold.

‘Right. The assault on Marie-Galante.’ Tyrell sat forward aggressively, glaring around the table. Apart from bloodshot eyes, he seemed untouched by the night before and had once more the tight, dangerous air of a ravening leopard.

‘As senior, I’m in command. Therefore you’ll obey my orders without question. Is that clear?’ he rapped.

He seemed oblivious to the hostile atmosphere building. ‘Now listen. My strategy is simple. If we secure the capital of this miserable island the rest will fall. That’s Gron’ Borg. It’s defended by a fort that commands the harbour so we can’t go in and take it from the front. But I have a plan.’

He looked about him, as if inviting argument, then snapped, ‘And it’s this. Red Party will land to the north of Gron’ Borg, Blue Party to the south. And then?’

‘They advance from both sides?’ Lydiard drawled.

‘No!’ Tyrell barked triumphantly. ‘They head inland, both. When in the damned forest and out of sight, they turn inward, meet, and come in on the town and the fort from the land side. Clear?’

‘While the fort is being engaged from seaward?’ prompted a captain lower down the table.

‘Of course!’ Tyrell bristled.

‘Who shall command the landing parties?’ another asked. If there was to be any glory and distinction it would be for those facing the enemy. The rest would be mere spectators offshore.

‘Why, the hero of Curacao for one!’ Tyrell turned and gave a beaming smile.

Kydd jerked back and stared. Was this a clumsy attempt to make up for his blunder of the night before?

‘Um, thank you, Mr Tyrell.’ His voice sounded thick and unnatural.

‘Mr Kydd will be leading the Blue Party and …’

He waited for their full attention. ‘… and I will lead the Red Party.’

There were indrawn breaths but Tyrell went on remorselessly, his deep-set eyes restless. ‘We have seamen and marines in each party, but only as many as can be transported in our fit of boats. The Crapauds can be relied on to put up a fight, but we’re more’n a match for any Frenchy trooper! Cold steel and a willing heart, that’s how we’ll win, and be damned to it, that’s what we’ll do or I’ll know why.’

Lydiard interjected quietly, ‘Rufus, I understood this operation to be something in the way of a strike to extirpate some kind of secret naval base, not a grand invasion.’

‘Yes, yes, that’s being taken care of by Kydd’s party. Your worry is to stop interference in the landings from Guadeloupe or similar. Hannibal will be off Point-a-Peter and after recovering boats the frigates cruise at the four corners of the island, three leagues to seaward. Shouldn’t be too hard an assignment,’ he added sarcastically.

‘It seems not,’ replied Lydiard, with the barest hint of irony.

‘Good! I’ll bid you all farewell. We sail in an hour. Mr Kydd to remain.’

He watched them leave, then turned abruptly to his right. ‘You’re taking the Blue Party,’ he growled. ‘You can do it?’

Kydd mumbled an acknowledgement.

‘What’s that?’

‘I said, I can do it.’

‘You’ll have to make up numbers from your own ship. We’re short of volunteers.’

‘Yes.’

‘This damn-fool secret base – I take it you’ll detach a flying column the same as failed in Curacao?’

‘I will,’ Kydd bit off.

Tyrell sat back and fiddled with a pencil.

Kydd waited. Was this going to be a grudging apology for his behaviour? Should he accept or …

‘You wondered why I chose you for the Blue Party?’

‘I did.’

‘’Cos you’ve a way with your men. Don’t know why, and don’t really care, but you seem to know ’em better than most.’

Slowly it dawned on Kydd that Tyrell wasn’t going to offer an apology because he didn’t remember what he’d said in his drunken state. His burning anger began to cool. The man was a sot, lost to drink ashore – but his inexcusable behaviour was not driven by malice.

Tyrell’s brow furrowed as though trying to recover a lost thought. ‘I’ll confide to you now, Kydd, this is my first chance at distinction in a major action this war, and I’m going for it with all my heart. At the end we’ll see the white ensign atop the biggest damn building in Gron’ Borg and m’ name will be right up there as conqueror of Marie-Galante.’

Kydd, a Trafalgar veteran, had his views on what constituted a major action but he held his tongue.

He’d never forget what the man had done to him but for now there were bigger issues. ‘Right enough, Rufus. It’ll be your name as will be talked of wherever men remember Marie-Galante.’

That pleased Tyrell. ‘And pity help any who don’t top it the tiger when bid!’ he growled, his face like thunder.

Kydd stood up. ‘I’ll get back aboard. Good fortune to you, Rufus.’ He did not hold out his hand, and Tyrell seemed not to notice. He turned on his heel and left.

Ignoring the nakedly curious looks on the upper deck, he signalled for his boat and told them to stretch out for L’Aurore. Oakley’s pipe shrilled loudly and he came aboard to a set of faces agog.

‘Get those men to work!’ he roared, incensed. ‘The barky’s like a pig-sty.’

There was a great deal to do to complete for sea inside the hour. The naval system of divisions saw to it that each lieutenant had a fair share of every talent the ship possessed: topmen, midshipmen, gunners, those capable of bearing a musket or swinging a cutlass and even artificers. A landing party, however, had to be fit for purpose; this was a fight ashore and the Royal Marines would figure highly.

It had to be assumed that their assault on the fort from landward would not be protracted. Any sensible garrison commander, seeing himself surrounded, would not be inclined to hold out for long enough to warrant taking ladders and siege kit. Likewise, the artillery: with the countryside entirely in British hands, it would be foolish to await a formal battering before yielding.

For the flying column, it was a different matter. Thankfully, they had Renzi’s detailed description, carefully sketched out, with his estimate of its defences. How it would be protected was any man’s guess but if they moved fast and advanced on it from inland they had a good chance of surprise.

Renzi stood at his side as Kydd received his stream of reporting officers. ‘Nicholas, I’m giving you Mr Curzon and a midshipman, with Mr Clinton and eight of his marines, and a dozen armed seamen. Look after them, if you please.’

‘You’ll be requiring Mr Gilbey to head the shore party?’

‘Not on this occasion. Tyrell leads his party so it’s to be expected I shall do likewise.’

‘Interesting. That Tyrell is taking a party himself, that is. Will it be his own men he leads? I wonder if they’ll follow …’

Kydd raised an eyebrow. ‘We’ve both seen him in a tight corner before, against the revolutionaries in Brittany. There’s many a man owes his life to his bloody-minded leadership.’

‘Umm. We shall see, I think.’

On the hour a gun banged in Hannibal and her colours rose. They were on their way.

The assault was planned for dawn, allowing the expedition to pass in clear waters by Guadeloupe in the hours of darkness, to appear out of the mists of daybreak directly before the island of Marie-Galante.

As sunrise tinged the sea with pink and gold, the inhabitants of Marie-Galante and their defenders watched with disbelief then fear as a battleship and four frigates closed in to less than a mile offshore and boats, too many to count, started towards them, in each scarlet and gold, blue and white – and the glitter of steel.

From his own boat on its way to the end of the reef to the south, Kydd could see the Hannibals heading in a mile north towards Grand Anse. It was all going according to plan: they were both out of range of the fort above the town and could land unopposed.

The shoreline grew clearer. At Pointe des Basses the reef ended and he took in pale beaches and thick dark vegetation nearly down to the water’s edge. Ideal for the landing.

‘There, where the fallen tree touches the water,’ Kydd instructed Poulden, who obediently put over the tiller. The other craft were strung astern – it was going to be easy, just- But then he saw figures moving urgently among the thick growth and the first shots rang out in the still morning air, gunsmoke rising lazily. The four marines tasked in each boat got to work in the bows, firing at the origins of the smoke, methodically reloading in relays.

It was imperative to get men ashore, whatever the cost. Having the equivalent of five regiments’ artillery afloat was a dead card, however – the ships would be firing on their own men.

As they drew nearer the shore the whip of bullets was more insistent.

‘Pull, y’ bastards! Lay out and pull for your lives!’ Kydd bawled. The men heaved like demons and the boats flew; the firing fell off as they came in and the opposition melted away.

The boat hissed to a stop in the sand and the men scrambled out, following Kydd, army niceties like forming up lost in the urgency to gain a foothold. Fronds and branches whipped across his face as he led them on, nerves stretched to the extreme. He slashed at the vegetation with his sword until he came upon a semblance of a track that wound inland.

‘Move yourselves!’ he bellowed, and went along the path at a trot. He could hear the clink and jingle of the men panting behind him as they followed. Almost certainly the firing had been from a platoon hastily sent to delay them, but their expectation would be that the invaders would turn down the coast road to advance on Grand-Bourg, while of course they were heading inland.

After a couple of hundred yards Kydd slowed at a clearing and waited for his force to come up with him. ‘Well done, you men!’ he acknowledged breathlessly. ‘We head into the country, then hook around until we’re above the town. A mile or two at most. Where’s Mr Renzi?’

His friend, solemnly flanked by both Curzon and Clinton, the Royal Marines lieutenant, was in plain but serviceable civilian dress with a wide hat set at a rakish angle.

Kydd gave him a tight smile. ‘Nicholas, you know where you want to go. Stay with us until you’re ready to move on the base. March on!’

Almost without warning a rearing cliff, hundreds of feet high, loomed above the trees and palms. But they saw the path took a sideways loop following the contours and they made good speed, their altitude rising slightly and Grand-Bourg firmly in sight below.

Tyrell had been right: this route had taken the defenders completely by surprise and now they had only to meet in the heights above the capital, then together descend to victory.

The going got thicker as they neared the town. Sheltered depressions were covered with luxuriant growth, and at one of these Renzi decided to make his move. ‘The villa – it’s down further, about a quarter-mile. I’ll, er, leave you now, if I may.’

Kydd watched Renzi and his party vanish downwards into the lush green, then ordered his men onwards.

The joining up would be very soon now.

Bowden was in the second boat behind Tyrell and could hear the man’s roars as he urged on his rowers. It had been a fraught time in the lead-up to the landings; Tyrell seemed to have no idea of the knife-edge of feeling among the men. While the squadron was formed up there was no danger of a bloody mutiny, but there would be other times and places …

Tyrell’s bulldog character, aroused by the coming battle, was transforming him. Petty spite and vindictiveness was replaced by a towering eagerness to fall on the enemy. The moods, the suspicions, the menace were gone, leaving a roaring, raging warrior.

Away to the right L’Aurore’s boats were nearly in, white puffs along the coastline showing where they were meeting with opposition. It seemed to have drawn the enemy’s full attention for their own length of coast was quiet and the boats came to a rest in a sheltered sandy cove. Bowden remembered it was here that Columbus had landed to name the island.

There was an uncanny stillness but Tyrell stormed fearlessly inland and found a clearing. ‘To me!’ he bellowed, raising his naked sword.

The men came on warily, sullen. Bowden formed them up in a rough file and moved them to Tyrell, who was waiting impatiently. They tramped forward into the thickening growth after him, but from none came the customary joking and easy talk to be expected of Jack ashore.

Next to him marched Hinckley, an older captain in charge of the small detachment of the 69^th Gloucestershires that made up a third of their force. ‘I mislike this quiet,’ he muttered. ‘I’d be happier were there scouts on our flank.’

Bowden glanced at him. Hinckley had seen service around the world and was much respected by his men. ‘We’d be slowed, surely.’

‘We’d be slowed more should they press home an attack while your men are strung out like that.’ He had his own troops in a tight formation, muskets a-port, alert for anything.

As they trudged on inland, from out of sight ahead came the occasional bull roar of Tyrell’s hectoring. Bowden fancied he could hear musket fire in the direction of the L’Aurore landing and, with a pang, wondered how they were faring – so like a dream had been his service in the frigate, utterly different from the sour moodiness in Hannibal.

But he had to accept that this was his duty … and with a turn of the stomach he remembered that after this action was over there had to be an accounting – a resolution to the dilemma the Hannibal officers faced.

Ragged firing broke out ahead. As one, the seamen dived for cover, wriggling into bushes and under broad-leafed ferns. The soldiers stayed in formation, nervously eyeing Hinckley.

‘I’ll go up and see what’s afoot,’ Bowden said, loping forward in a crouch.

They were not far from the join-up position, the ridge above the town, but it quickly became clear that something had happened.

‘God damn them for a parcel of old women!’ choked Tyrell, hunkered down and gesturing angrily at the strewn articles of abandoned kit on the path and his men cowering in the vegetation. ‘As it’s only a few Crapaud militia sent to delay us!’

There was desultory firing from positions off to the left and a stray bullet whipped through the branches and leaves above.

‘Get up and move!’ Tyrell roared in vexation. He stood up. ‘To the fore, advance, you mumping rogues – or I’ll have every man jack o’ you flogged to within an inch o’ your lives.’

None came out from their hiding places.

‘By God!’ he yelled. ‘I’ll have the hide off you for as cowardly a bunch of lubbers as ever I’ve heard on. We’ve an island to conquer – get on your feet and go!’

Still there was no movement and Tyrell’s face turned red. ‘To hell and damnation with you for a scurvy crew who know no discipline! If I have to go alone I’ll do it – d’ you hear there?’

He hesitated for a few moments more. Then, with a roar of frustration and with drawn sword, he raced forward across the seventy yards or so of clear ground ahead. There was no firing, and he made the ridge safely, flopping down at its crest. ‘Move, you chicken-hearted shabs!’ he yelled, beckoning urgently back at them. ‘Forward, or fry in Hell for ever after I’ve hanged the lot o’ you!’

There was a stirring but not one broke cover to join him.

Bowden’s every instinct was to urge them on to go up with him but where did his real duty lie? His own men were still on their way and his place was with them.

He turned and raced back to call for Hinckley’s soldiers.

This was the climax, Renzi told himself, as they pressed forwards down the path. Not only for the process of clearing his reputation but for the elimination of the biggest threat that existed to the British holdings in the Caribbean, the largest source of revenue to a country locked in war against a world-toppling tyrant.

He led the way; Curzon hurried close behind. He’d taken care before to register that the villa lay in a particular fold in the hills slightly to the north-east, which they were now descending.

He stopped. The faded orange tiles of the roof were visible through the foliage below.

Now for the final act.

‘I believe their attention will be on our fleet and the landings and they are not troubling to look behind them,’ he told Curzon and Clinton. ‘They’ll be considering their position, whether to abandon now or wait until the situation is clearer. I do believe they’ll remain for a while longer – to destroy such a successful operation unnecessarily would be a sad mistake for them.’

Scouts returned with the welcome news that, but for watchers on the balcony, there seemed to be no sign of anything approaching a frenzied defence.

They had the luxury of time to prepare.

‘Your suggestions, gentlemen?’ Renzi invited.

Clinton began crisply, ‘A file of men to each side, out of sight. L’tenant Curzon with the remainder at the ready here. The two files meet and advance with me from the front. The instinct of the defenders is to break for the rear, where we will give them due welcome.’

‘Then I will be with you, Mr Clinton,’ Renzi said firmly.

‘Oh – no, sir. We’ve brought you here now and Mr Kydd was most insistent that-’

‘We cannot delay further, sir.’

‘Very well, Mr Renzi,’ Clinton said, with a lopsided grin. ‘Sar’nt Dodd – the right-hand side.’

Stealthily they threaded down past the villa to the road. Clinton watched for Dodd’s signal that his group was ready, then the two broke into a run, approaching each other and turning to take position. With shouts of dismay, the balcony cleared on an instant.

Renzi paused, letting first one then the other squad enter the garden, firing as they went. Three men burst out from the house but were dropped with musket fire before they had made a few yards. Dodd raced for the door and took position to one side. Musket butts smashed it inwards. Dodd and three others disappeared inside.

Unable to contain himself, Renzi hurried to join them. In the disorder he heard shouts and a single shot, followed by running feet. Then came a smell of burning. He knew where it had to be and motioned to a marine to deal with the door to the operations room. It flew open and inside he saw a man bent over a small fire trying to burn papers. He jerked up in despair. Renzi knocked him aside and stamped on the flames.

Everything was in a chaos of disarray, documents and empty drawers, with office paraphernalia scattered about the floor.

‘Secure the room!’ Renzi ordered loudly.

He picked up a singed paper. With rising exultation he saw it was an order on a vessel to assume a specified position to take the English trading ketch Sunrise. Another was a return on goods seized on a prize, signed by an illegible hand.

‘Sah!’ It was Dodd, fighting down a broad smile. ‘Mr Curzon’s compliments an’ could you attend on him, out the back, like.’

‘Very well. Nothing to be touched here, if you please.’

Curzon was in the garden. Two lines of marines and seamen grinned triumphantly at a huddle in the centre of nearly a dozen individuals, some in uniform.

‘Ah, Mr Renzi,’ he drawled. ‘I’d like to introduce the former owners of this villa who thought to run. None got away, o’ course, so you have the entire gang here for your inspection.’

Renzi gave a short bow. It was the end of a perfect day. From them he would learn just how the operation functioned: where the fleet was located, its system of communication, intelligence … So many things needed answers to draw a line under the whole incredible enterprise.

Kydd stopped and held up his hand. ‘Quiet!’ he hissed. They heard shots from the general direction of the ridge selected for the joining up.

‘Forward!’ he growled. ‘And watch your front.’

The path wound along the contour on the flank of the hill, but until they were fully around, whatever was happening was obscured.

A little further on, they came to a ravine and a small wooden bridge.

‘Stop!’ He heard popping on the other side of the hill where he guessed the ridge must begin. If that was so, Tyrell was in some kind of engagement – but this bridge would make a classic defensive position that could stop an army.

He debated whether to send men on to it to see if they drew fire, then took it upon himself. ‘Cover me,’ he muttered, and stood up to make his run.

The first shot knocked his cocked hat into the ravine, another plucked viciously at his sleeve. He dropped down again immediately.

‘We’ve got to get to Cap’n Tyrell,’ he said, more to himself than anyone in particular. ‘Give me that,’ he told a seaman, and took his musket, slinging it at his back, before securing the belt pouch of ammunition.

‘Sir, what are you-’

But Kydd had already moved out, slithering through the undergrowth until he found the bridge supports. He launched himself forward and up, grasping one of the timbers and using it to swing up and under the roadway. The musket was a clumsy and weighty hindrance.

The criss-cross of struts was child’s play to a seasoned topman and he went rapidly from one to another, the floor of the ravine, with a gushing river far below, nothing for one at home a hundred feet up in wildly heaving rigging.

He reached the other side and unslung the musket, cautiously rising to face where he’d seen the enemy gunsmoke. Something moved and he fired at it.

Dismayed by the sudden appearance on their side of the ravine of an attacker they rose to fire down at him – but half a dozen muskets crashed out from the British seamen and two fell; others ran for their lives.

Kydd finished reloading and pulled himself up. Without waiting for the others, he plunged ahead, musket at the ready.

Within yards he found himself at the edge of a clearing. It was the ridge above the town, and there was Tyrell, lying full-length just below the crest.

‘Captain Tyrell, ahoy!’ he shouted, and went towards him.

Tyrell did not look around, lying oddly still. Uneasy, Kydd quickened his pace, then broke into a run.

‘Rufus!’ he called, but in his concentration on the scene he tripped on a tussock and fell. The musket went off into the ground with a muffled report. Shame-faced, he retrieved the still smoking weapon and went up to Tyrell.

Stunned, he saw that he was dead. Kydd stared down at the body of the one who had done so much to hurt him, now no more.

Suddenly a man was beside him – he hadn’t heard him approach. Startled, he swung round. It was Hinckley, the army captain, who knelt beside Tyrell to examine the wound, then rose slowly, looking at Kydd with an odd expression.

‘If you please, sir,’ he said formally, holding out his hands.

Puzzled, Kydd passed him the musket. Without taking his eyes off Kydd’s he delicately smelt the muzzle, then lowered it.

‘You have a difficulty, Captain?’ Kydd asked with irritation. They had to complete the joining for the final push on Grand-Bourg without delay and there was no time for whatever army silliness this was.

‘He was shot from behind.’

‘He …?’

‘Not from the front.’

Then it dawned. ‘You – you think I killed him?’ Kydd said, incredulous.

‘That is not for me to say, sir.’

Renzi asked that they step inside, to the biggest room of the villa. Taking a comfortable chair, he watched while they filed in and stood in line before him.

There were nervous clerks, stolid functionaries and military men, warily eyeing the Royal Marines who stood smartly at the doorway. Renzi went up to the dark-featured individual he’d first seen in Curacao. ‘Duperre – this is you, sir?’

The man spread his hands. ‘No, sir, I am desolated to tell you I am not.’

‘M’sieur Duperre to step forward, if you please.’

A blank-faced man of years inclined his head. ‘I am he.’

Renzi gave a grim smile. This could not possibly be the head of the most insidious and successful naval operation of recent times.

‘Er, I’ll see Mme Bossu now, I believe.’

‘Bossu?’

‘From the kitchens. Do fetch her for me.’

It took some time to find the little scullery maid hiding under the stairs; Renzi had met her briefly when he had been disguised as Louise Vernou’s porter.

‘My dear. Be so kind as to point out M’sieur Duperre.’

Trembling she indicated a sharp-faced officer, a capitaine de fregate in undress uniform.

So that was the man. ‘Excellent! My congratulations, sir, on a truly impressive operation.’ Something made him hesitate. How was it that only a relatively low-ranking officer was directing such an enterprise at fleet level?

He turned to the maid. ‘And who, pray, is in charge here? Who gives the orders?’

Boldly, she flung out an arm to a somewhat portly gentleman in the dress of a planter, who returned a wan smile.

‘I see. Thank you, my dear, you’ve been most helpful.’

Renzi beamed at the gathering and invited the planter to a nearby study. ‘Do sit, er …?’

The man did not speak; neither did he take a seat.

‘Oh, do not stand on ceremony. We have much to talk of, I believe.’

The man sat slowly.

‘Your naval operation has been truly a wonder and amazement to us – you have my condolences that it is now concluded.’

No words were forthcoming, so Renzi went on, ‘As will stand to the eternal credit of the French Navy.’

Suddenly the man’s face broke into a rueful grin. ‘Well, be damned to it but you’ve landed us fair ’n’ square!’ He chuckled.

‘You’re American?’ Renzi said, in astonishment.

‘Right ’nough. Jonathan Miller’s my handle.’

‘You give the orders?’ Renzi said in disbelief.

‘I do, an’ I don’t take kindly to this guff about the French Navy takin’ all the credit.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Who’m I talkin’ to?’

‘Smith,’ Renzi said neutrally. ‘Nicholas Smith.’

Miller gave a conspiratorial smile. ‘It’ll do as well as mine, I guess.’

‘You were saying?’ prompted Renzi.

‘Well …’

‘We have the operations room and all the papers,’ Renzi said, ‘largely unburned. It shouldn’t take long to put it all together.’

With a sigh Miller began, ‘It’s quite a story, Mr Smith.’

‘I’ve got time.’

‘A splash o’ wine would help.’

Renzi called for some, then settled back to hear Miller’s tale.

‘I’m a businessman from Charleston, where I’m known as one savvy trader, I’ll have you believe.’

‘Go on.’

Miller took charge of the wine and poured a glass for them both, then drank deeply.

‘It’s like this. In business when you see an opportunity you go at it with both hands, you know what I mean?’

‘Quite. Please continue.’

‘The French here, they have a problem. You. So I figure a way out for ’em.’

‘You did? This is a naval matter, I’ll remind you.’

‘Ha! No, it’s not – it’s a business prospect.’

‘Er, I don’t follow.’

‘They can’t ship sugar to France on account o’ your cruisers. No sugar, no trade, no revenue. I’m in the business to remedy just that.’

‘How?’

‘Like I said, it’s a business. We work together, partners like. I lay out the cash, supply the necessaries and take care o’ the management and they … well, they stump up the letters of marque.’

‘I don’t understand – those are for privateers.’

‘Just so! Yours truly has his own fleet of ’em, funded, run and managed by me, but under the French flag.’

‘A fleet of privateers?’

‘Why not? Have ’em working together, send ’em where the meat is. That’s why I’ve got the French Navy – they do all the operations stuff, signals and such. I concentrate on the money-making.’

Renzi gave a half-smile. Privateering was a business like any other, with investors and suppliers, profits and losses. By opening up to large scale – a fleet – it would be possible to pool expenses, lay in supplies wholesale and oversee manning efficiencies. When combined with the expertise of a navy in fleet-level deployments, the effects would be – had been – devastating.

He sat back in admiration. By funding the operation Miller had provided the French with a powerful naval tool and at no expense. It had been a huge capital risk but had no doubt paid him back handsomely.

It was masterful – and it threw up as many questions as it answered.

‘Do tell me, Mr Miller, how did you realise on your prizes? There are no French courts to condemn same that I know of in this part of the world.’

‘Ah, well, no harm to tell you now, seeing as it’s all over.’

He helped himself to another glass. ‘We take only ships we know about, and we plan smart. Make up papers as says she’s an American, new-bought from the English who are too frightened to sail. Papers say as how we’ve been tradin’ with French territory on our own account, as is legal for a neutral. She arrives in Charleston. We’ve a sympathetic Revenoo man who switches papers to show she’s a US trader heading for France under our own dear flag. So – the French madames get their sugar, we split the proceeds and everyone’s happy.’

‘Why are you telling me this? You know we’ll take action.’

‘’Cos in them papers you’ll not catch my name on a one. And on the other, I’d be a fool to think you British are going to take Boney’s Decree without you do something like it yourselves. So there’s only so long this’n is going to work – I’ve made my pile, time to get out.’

‘Well, while you’re in the mood, pray tell me, if you will, how this business works, at all. I’ve a suspicion it’s a very tight operation, well organised, brilliantly run.’

There was no harm in showing his admiration for this American entrepreneur.

Miller settled and said expansively, ‘Right. Well, first we has a network. Of business intelligence. Every sugar port in the Caribbee has its wharf lumpers as knows when a ship’s down to sail. They tips my man on the island the wink and we set to work. Our tricksy papers are made up and, with location instructions, sent out to the nearest deployed privateer.’

‘I don’t see how you know where they’ll be, and-’

‘I’m gettin’ to that. The sugar boat is taken, the prize crew has their papers and off they sail to Charleston. The privateer returns. Now, you were askin’ about the privateer fleet. Well, we has above a dozen places o’ rendezvous. Here we keep ’em supplied with victuals an’ water such as they don’t ever have to make a port, keeping right out of sight o’ your frigates an’ such. We therefore knows where they is, see?’

‘How then do you keep in touch with your fleet? A navy has dispatch cutters, avisos, that sort of thing.’

‘Shark-meat fishermen. They’d cross the Caribbean for a dollar in hand.’

Of course! Like a swarm of mosquitoes off some coasts, their movements would never be questioned. Carrying a pack of papers, instructions – it was brilliant.

‘Tell me, Mr Miller, in all our naval patrols we’ve never once caught up with one of your privateers. Why is that, do you think?’

The American gave a boyish smile. ‘As we have our man in your admiral’s office, o’ course. Can’t tell you his name, you’ll understand, but he’s been mighty obliging in the article of getting your patrol orders to us for a fair fee.’

In a flash of insight Renzi knew who it must be, and said smoothly, ‘I own I was well flammed by the information about Curacao. Was that your …?’

‘Aye, it was. You was getting too close to the real thing, so I arranged a little show as would discredit your idea.’

Renzi sat back. It was Wilikins. The only one to know if he’d taken the bait in order for Miller to put it in train. ‘And it worked, I do confess.’

‘Um, do you tell me now, Mr Smith, how did you catch on to us at all?’

‘I’ll let you know if, first, you tell me something. What became of the crews of the prizes you captured?’

‘Oh, well. Had to make it all pay, so had an arrangement with Emperor Dessalines in Haiti. Quite took to the idea of running white slaves.’

‘You … sold them into slavery?’

‘Don’t take on so. You’ll get ’em back, should you make a ruckus. Can’t be seen to have any kind o’ slavery, his nation founded on the back of a slave revolt.’

Renzi shook his head in disbelief and admiration. The whole thing could only have worked with meticulous attention to detail, immaculate management and business acumen on a heroic scale.

‘Very well. This is how you were dished, Mr Miller.’

There was no need to involve Louise but by the time he had finished there was admiration on both sides. With nothing in writing and everything hearsay, there was every likelihood that the man would get away with whatever he could salvage from the sudden demise of his business.

In a way, Renzi could only honour him for the achievement.