Caribbee

Chapter 5

Renzi’s message to his brother was returned with a delighted note insisting he visit immediately, a gig being provided for his conveyance. Leaving behind the noise and smell of Kingston, Renzi and Kydd clopped along the dusty road inland, through the endless green sameness of the cane-fields, past grinding ox-wagons teetering under their load of crude sugar and plodding lines of slaves with their field tools and piccaninny followers.

Kydd found himself reflecting that Renzi’s younger brother was so different from his friend. He’d been set up as a planter by their father and had done well for himself, was established and settled with an estate and lady. And now Renzi was returning to him, after all these years, with little to show for himself.

He sympathised. The age-old conundrum: was this the price of adventure, the wider world, excitements that others could only dream about? If so, it didn’t explain Kydd, a young sailor when first in Jamaica, now returning in glory as captain of his own ship while, in the eyes of the world, his gifted friend had hardly progressed.

Kydd gazed out as they passed through a village, the gaily dressed people contrasting with their drab dwellings, but the enigma that was his closest friend wouldn’t leave him – and then a darker thought stole in.

Kydd knew that for many years Renzi had loved his sister Cecilia but felt he did not have the means to be worthy of becoming her husband. Frustrated with his long dallying, Kydd had extracted a promise from him to seek his sister’s hand the very day they arrived back in England. But as her brother, he had certain responsibilities: was he being fair to her, giving his support to her marriage to someone with no visible prospects whatsoever?

He tried to shake off the thoughts and was glad when they topped a rise and saw the Great House at the end of a winding drive, edged with the flower-entwined penguin hedge that he remembered from his earlier visit.

Richard Laughton was waiting on the veranda, thicker-set and with a harder look about him. He was wearing a broad smile, however, as he strode up to greet them.

‘Well met, brother! So very pleased you’re come. Your last letter was more’n a year ago and I’m much exercised to discover your news.’ He shook Renzi’s hand with obvious delight, then turned politely to Kydd.

‘I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure, sir. You …’

‘Ah, but you have, Richard,’ Renzi said. ‘Mr Kydd, as came with me when-’

Laughton’s eyes widened in recognition. ‘No, it can’t be!’

‘It is, and now you must call him Captain Kydd, of the jolly frigate L’Aurore, or he’ll have you keelhauled, brother.’

They sat together on the veranda in cane easy-chairs. The houseboy produced sangaree and explanations were made, Laughton in frank admiration at the tale of Kydd’s rise in the world.

Renzi fiddled with his glass. ‘You do seem content with your lot, Richard. Fortune’s tide in your favour, it seems.’

‘Why, we do have our odd vexations but that should not concern you.’

‘The Trelawney Maroons?’ The last time they’d visited bands of escaped slaves living in the hills had descended to terrorise the plantations.

‘Put down, and the rascals sent to Canada long since. No, this is an agreeable existence for a gentleman, it must be said.’

He glanced up amiably at Renzi. ‘And for yourself? Is-’

‘Richard,’ he said, ‘might I ask a service of you?’

‘Of course! Say away, old man.’

‘It is that Thomas being now at an eminence, perhaps an introduction to those he will be among during his commission in the Caribbean …’

Laughton grinned. ‘I’ve no doubt that something suitable can be arranged for a handsome frigate captain, Nicholas.’

‘Thank you.’

He went on delicately, ‘And as you will, of course, attend, brother, would you be so good as to let me know your wishes regarding your, er, name? That is to say, may I now introduce you truly as my brother?’ The last time they had visited, Renzi, in the middle of his morally dictated self-sentence of five years on the lower-deck, had asked to be known only by his name-in-exile.

‘It would oblige should you continue to address me in the same way.’

‘As you wish,’ Richard replied. ‘I know you are not reconciled to Father, Nicholas, yet it pains me not to acknowledge you as kin. Can we not-’

‘If you must, perhaps as cousin.’

‘Very well. You always were a character of some complication, Nicholas.’ He looked at him steadily for a moment, then went on, ‘Mother is well but cast down by your absence. Since I’m the only one graced with the receiving of your letters I’ve seen fit to keep her in the knowledge that at least you’re still alive. Our father is in rude good health but refuses utterly to allow your name to be spoken in his presence.’

When Renzi didn’t respond, he added, ‘You’re not one for letters, Nicholas, and I’m sanguine there’s much you haven’t told us. That last, you spoke of submarine boats and a Mr Smith going on a journey, and you said I’d learn all about it in due course. Can you-’

‘Yes. Later, perhaps.’

‘Well, er, what are you doing with yourself at the moment, you and our doughty captain?’

‘I … I’m a scholar of a detached character, well advanced in an ethnical theory that requires I gather data at the first hand in different parts of the world. For this, Mr Kydd is affording me accommodation in his ship in return for my acting as his confidential secretary.’

Laughton politely heard him out then spoke flatly: ‘Nicholas. I speak to you as family. Whether you wish it or no, you are eldest and will later go on to inherit-’

‘I think not. Father has taken steps to prevent that.’

‘But-’

Renzi interrupted him, ‘I am happy with my lot.’

Laughton hesitated. ‘There are other concerns, brother.’

‘Which are?’

‘May I know if there might be, as who should say, a lady in your life?’

‘There is.’

‘Ah. Do I know the family? The north, possibly – or is it to be your London beauty?’

Renzi shot a warning glance at Kydd. ‘Neither,’ he said curtly.

‘Come, come, sir, it is of some interest to us all, a good marriage bringing families of lineage together. Have you reached a settlement with the father?’

‘I take that as impertinence, sir. This is entirely a personal matter.’

‘Nicholas, if you marry beneath yourself it’s most certainly a matter for me.’

Kydd bristled, but managed to say politely, ‘Richard, I happen to know your brother hasn’t even asked the lady.’

‘Is this so?’

‘My heart is entirely taken by the woman. I will marry no other.’

‘Then?’

‘Then … it were better we changed the subject.’ Renzi took up his glass and looked stubbornly away.

Kydd glanced at him in concern, then turned to his brother. ‘You mentioned you had your vexations, Richard. How can that be in such a fine country?’

Laughton eased into a reluctant smile. ‘Since you ask it, Mr Sailorman, it’s surely our losses to privateers. Let me tell you that a ship making for the Barbados convoy carries in her hold much of the season’s hard-won yield. What you probably don’t know is that we’re financed in our operation by advances on London against that crop. If this is taken it’s a calamity impossible to contemplate, so we must insure with Lloyd’s. As the losses go up, so does the insurance premium – which, believe it or no, now stands above six per centum.’

Kydd made a sympathetic murmur.

‘And I’ll remind you that’s a cost in wartime always to be added to our operating expenses, or a sum to be subtracted from our profits, each and every time.’

Acknowledging this with a nod, Kydd interjected drily, ‘I’m no man of business, m’ friend, but even I can see that if the French are driven from the seas then they’ll not get their own crop to market, and the sugar price must surely rise handsomely. I dare to say this goes some way towards compensating for the inconvenience.’

‘You’re in the right of it, Thomas,’ chuckled Laughton. ‘But spare a thought for our other worries. For instance, here on a tropical isle we find the soil’s quickly wearied, exhausted. Without notice a field will throw up stunted, pitiable growths no good to man or beast.’

‘Is there no help for it?’

‘Yes, for those whose study it is to ’ware the signs. Guinea grass answers, sown promiscuous, on which we raise useful numbers of cattle and sheep, their manure a sovereign cure. And our new Bourbon cane strain, which-’

‘So sugar might be accounted a profitable and reliable business for you, brother?’

Renzi’s question made Laughton pause before he answered. ‘Shall we say I lose no sleep b’ nights in torment that my produce will not find a market?’

He waited while their glasses were refilled, then continued, ‘As some facts of a domestic nature will best illuminate. Take your Hannah Glasse, much cried up for her family cookery. Her receipt for seed-cake in the Spanish way demands an entire three pounds of moist sugar, while for your common marmalade it’s at the rate of one pound on every four oranges. And when the modern taste in tea scorns anything less than fourteen pounds of best refined for each pound of leaves, and with a population to be reckoned in millions, you’ll see why I rest easy.’

‘Some might say it’s all on the backs of your slaves.’

Laughton’s smile disappeared. ‘Pray what is your meaning, Nicholas? Are you to be numbered with the Abolitionists?’

‘Do not be concerned, Richard. I merely point out what I’m told is to be heard on all sides these days in London Town.’

‘Then to them I’d say the same thing. These creatures are brought from the most savage and benighted region on the planet. Here they’re exposed to a mode of living, three full meals a day and accommodation that they in their rude huts and ignorance couldn’t even dream of. They are like children and require firm structure in handling, and even educating in the notion of work in return for the necessities of life.’

‘Under the threat of the whip?’

‘Does not your child respond to a flogging if driven to it by necessity? Nicholas, I’m an enlightened owner. I rule with justice and mercy, not to say kindness. Not only do I clothe and feed them but have given over my own land to them for their growing of greenstuffs for the market – but I’d never be fool enough to believe they’re anything but savages at heart.’

‘It seems a pity that-’

Laughton’s face hardened. ‘If by this you’re saying I should free all my slaves then, by the same business logic, I face an impossible situation.’

‘Impossible?’

‘Quite. For by this action I would be utterly unable to compete with the produce of other nations that do retain labour without cost. And that applies to all of us – and then where is your government revenue stream? No, brother, accept if you please that slavery is a regrettable necessity in these modern times.’

At Renzi’s look he added, ‘Was it not your sainted William Cowper who said it best -

‘I pity them greatly, but I must be mum,

For how could we do without sugar and rum?’

‘Ha! There’s no arguing with that, Nicholas.’ Kydd laughed. ‘Let me tell you, Richard, your brother’s an odd fish at times. I do remember when-’

‘Yes. Well, no offence taken, old fellow. Now, I’ve been giving some thought to your social event …’

‘Well, gentlemen, time to earn our salt.’ Kydd looked encouragingly at his officers. ‘And in what our brothers in a sail-of-the-line would die for, an independent cruise, and should we fall in with a prize on the way, then Admiral Dacres declares he would not take it amiss.’

He was met with expressions ranging from the naked cupidity of Gilbey to the guarded interest of Curzon and the near hero-worship of Buckle, now no longer under threat of removal.

‘Our orders are plain and direct: to rid the seas of any who would prey on our trade.’

They all knew that. It was how he proposed to go about it that had their attention. L’Aurore was in prime condition now. Port Royal had gone to work on her defects so frayed lines, stretched canvas and strained timbers were things of the past. Whatever her captain decided, she would be ready.

Kydd carried on, ‘Any old Caribbee hands will know that for a frigate the regular way is to keep deep-water guard over the main passages into the Caribbean, they being choke-points for sea traffic of all nations, rather than aimless wandering about the seas, looking for distraction.

‘I’ve a different notion. If I were a privateer …’ in this company he could never admit that once he had been one ‘… I’d be looking to skulk somewhere close to a shipping lane to dart out and snap up, then make away briskly.’

He flipped open the main chart of the Caribbean and found Jamaica. ‘Here are we, and there is Hispaniola,’ he said, indicating the large island to the east. ‘Windward Passage to its west, the Mona Passage to the east. Ocean traders, of course, do use these, but as a privateer I’ve another prospect in mind. Sugar vessels on their way to Barbados to join the England convoy.’

‘Ah – because they’re sailing alone, we not having the escorts,’ Curzon grunted.

‘An’ their track always to be south o’ Hispaniola,’ added Gilbey, thoughtfully. ‘Staying north to pick up the current. In which case …’

‘Yes?’ Kydd said.

Gilbey leaned over and studied the chart. ‘Why, here’s a possibility,’ he murmured, ‘as is right handy for such.’ He indicated a large triangle of land that jutted out from the even east-west line of the south of Hispaniola.

‘How so?’

‘It puts ’em closer to the shipping track, as well provides a lee either side should the weather turn bad.’

‘My thinking too, Mr Gilbey,’ Kydd said, gratified. ‘Now, here’s the lay.’

Underneath was a larger-scale chart. He pointed to the tip of the triangle. ‘Cape Beata – and mark the island offshore. He has his lee and his anchorage both. I’d wager if there’s any of the brethren lurking, it’ll be there we’ll flush ’em out.’

‘Supposing there’s none found?’ Curzon said lightly.

‘Then we continue on to the east and Mona Passage, as if that is what we intended all along,’ grinned Kydd.

‘Purely out of interest only, and being a mort hazy about this part of the world, just what forces do the Spanish have in the island these days?’

‘Well, er, it’s a tricky business to say, Mr Clinton,’ he told his lieutenant of marines, ‘as Hispaniola is in the character of two countries – St Domingue to the west under the French and Santo Domingo to the east under the Spanish. But there’s been a slave revolt and – well, I believe we’ll beg Mr Renzi to tell us the rest.’

After politely summoning him, Kydd asked formally, ‘Mr Renzi, would you be so good as to tell us your appreciation of the situation obtaining in Hispaniola at present?’

His friend paused, marshalling his thoughts. ‘Not an easy task, sir, and one only explicable with a little history. The French colonised the western third of the island a century or more ago, the eastern two-thirds being Spanish since the days of Columbus. In 1795 the Spanish, at war with ourselves, saw it as impossible to continue to govern and yielded up the whole island to the French.’

‘So it’s French.’

‘Not so easily answered. The slaves of the French heard of their revolution with liberte, egalite, fraternite for all, assumed it applied to them and, duly disappointed, rose in rebellion. They had a masterly general, one Toussaint L’Ouverture, who remarkably prevailed and made treaty with the authorities to abolish slavery in return for the former slaves remaining loyal to France. This was granted. When Napoleon Bonaparte came to power he first agreed to this, but then changed his mind and sent General Leclerc to restore slavery. Not Boney’s most intelligent plan, I’m persuaded. L’Ouverture fought Leclerc to a standstill, even with France free to pour in reinforcements while we were at peace between the wars. So the French turned to treachery, offering to parlay, then kidnapped L’Ouverture and took him to France where he died in chains. With their great enemy removed, did they then triumph? Not at all. This betrayal inflamed the slaves beyond reason and under a singularly brutal leader, Dessalines, they flung themselves into as savage a war as any to be seen in Christendom. The burning alive of prisoners in village squares was the least of it, bestial conduct on both sides the rule.

‘The result – stark catastrophe for the French, who in their efforts to bring back slavery lost fifty thousand soldiers and no fewer than eighteen generals, a far worse beating than ever we’ve been able to achieve over them.’

‘That’s all very well, Renzi,’ Gilbey said, with irritation. ‘We’ve heard most of that. What we want t’ know is who rules now?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Then-’

‘The French were ejected from the whole of Hispaniola. Dessalines has proclaimed himself Emperor Jacques the First, over a new-conjured nation he calls Haiti, and inaugurated his rule with a general slaughter of all white settlers. Bonaparte has vowed not to rest until it’s recovered for his empire, while Spain makes no secret of its desire to take back their eastern realm. Gentlemen, given this clash of claims, I would declare that the sovereignty of this island remains … unclear.’

‘Excepting they’re each and all our enemy,’ Curzon came in smugly, ‘Therefore we can feel free to act as we will.’

‘Not so,’ Renzi replied, ‘as we have since made common cause with Dessalines, whom it would be folly to antagonise.’

Holding up his hand at Gilbey’s exasperated outburst, Kydd asked, ‘Then what should we conclude at all? What are the practicals in the matter?’

Renzi gave a brief smile and replied simply, ‘There is a species of mob rule and most grievous corruption abroad in this benighted island. There will be no Spanish garrison, still less French, for our good emperor detests any and all foreigners, including our own selves. Therefore we may fear no impregnable castle, frigates in harbour, or any sudden threat. I leave the rest to you.’

Kydd nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Renzi. Well put and clear. We sail tomorrow with confidence!’

Heeling to the fine north-easterly trades, L’Aurore made good time to Cape Beata; every man who could be there was on deck, eagerly scanning for prey. It was rumoured that their captain had second sight as regards privateers, and all expectation was that their arrow-straight passage was for a purpose.

‘Get up there, Mr Buckle,’ Kydd said, handing over his own pocket telescope. ‘I want you to report from the masthead any vessels – at anchor or under way. If they flee, don’t you dare lose ’em – keep them under eye. Clear?’

‘Right, sir!’ The enthusiasm of the reply brought a smothered cheer from nearby seamen but the third lieutenant had already swung nimbly into the shrouds.

A morning haze, however, lay along the coast and in its delicate pearl mistiness it was impossible to make out detail, but as they neared it began to lift.

Almost immediately there was a cry from the masthead. Buckle was peering with fierce concentration towards the firming sight of an offshore island, the mainland still lost in mist.

‘What is it?’ Kydd called up, in an impatient bellow.

‘Er, sail, I think, sir. No – I’m sure!’

‘Explain yourself, damn it!’

‘Well, I saw him at first but I can’t now.’ He craned forward, searching frantically in all directions with the telescope.

With a splutter of rage, Kydd hauled himself into the shrouds and mounted up to join him with a speed that had even the topmen looking thoughtful. ‘Now, Mr Buckle, what the devil are you trying to say?’

‘Over there, sir. Next to the big island – he’s gone now.’

Kydd snatched the glass and scanned the coast carefully.

The emerging headland itself was unimpressive, leading down in a tame finish for a forty-odd-mile cape to end in flat, pinkish rocks. Offshore there were two islands. The nearest to the cape, Isla Beata, was a five-mile triangle and was separated from it by a channel. The other, much smaller, was further out still, a single island less than a mile across.

And not a sail in sight.

‘You’re sure you saw something, Mr Buckle?’

‘I did, sir!’

‘Did you?’ Kydd snapped at the posted lookout.

‘No, sir, can’t say as I did.’

Kydd twisted about and shouted to the other mast, ‘Main top lookout, ahoy! Did you sight sail?’

‘None!’

Kydd swung out and down the shrouds. Before he made the deck, his mood had calmed: given the conditions, any sail could well have vanished into the mists closer inshore. ‘He’s between the large island and the cape. Take us in, Mr Kendall.’

They came more by the wind as they changed course and began to open up the channel between. The master pursed his lips – the tell-tale white of sub-sea reefs was becoming visible in the two-mile gap. ‘It’s shoal water in there, an’ a strong current hereabouts, Mr Kydd. I don’t reckon-’

‘I’ve seen enough. Take us south-about then.’ He’d had an unobstructed view of the channel and there was nothing in it. They’d pass by the island to its other side, and if it was innocent of vessels, he’d have to admit he’d been wrong in his intuition.

Renzi stood by him silently as L’Aurore quickly passed the tip of the island.

‘Nothing but empty sea,’ Kydd said woodenly.

‘Still one place you haven’t looked, dear fellow.’

‘Oh?’

‘The outer island. Small, but enough to conceal. Should we put up our helm now we might profitably circle the island by wearing about it.’

‘We’ve seen three sides of it, no sign of anything.’ Alto Velo was only seven or eight hundred yards long, with a lofty conical peak.

‘What have we to lose?’

‘Very well, Nicholas. To please you. Mr Kendall, we wear about Alto Velo.’

They fell off downwind but the fourth side was as bare as all else.

‘Resume course, Mr Kendall.’

‘To?’

‘It’s the Mona Passage for us, I’m sorry to say.’

The frigate paid off to return on its eastward course, the expectant groups of men breaking up and going crestfallen about their business.

‘Um, I could swear …’

‘What’s that, Nicholas?’

‘Nothing, really. Just that I thought I saw a fleck of white and now it’s red, is all.’

‘On the island?’

‘Well, at the end, near the waterline, as it were.’

‘Now, don’t you start seeing things – I’ve enough with Mr Buckle.’

But a thought, a long-ago memory, gradually took form and coalesced into a single idea. A sailor’s yarn during some long-forgotten watch in the Pacific. Something about …

‘Heave to! This instant, if you please.’ The differing motion on the ship brought the curious back on deck.

‘Get a boat in the water, Mr Curzon – and from the opposite ship’s side to the island.’

Curiosity turned to astonishment.

‘Er, and hail aft Mr Saxton.’

The master’s mate arrived, wide-eyed and expectant. When Kydd explained to him what he wanted, he broke into a wide grin and went away immediately to find a boat’s crew.

L’Aurore got under way again, shaking out sail as though she meant to circle the island once more. But she had left her gig behind – the smallest boat on board, which, with bows towards land and its crew hunkered down out of sight below the gunwale, was near invisible from the shore.

For long minutes it lay bobbing to the waves until a hoarse cry came from forward. ‘She’s away.’ L’Aurore had disappeared behind the green slopes of the island.

‘Out oars,’ Saxton ordered crisply.

They were only five: himself, gunner’s mate Stirk, and the seamen Doud, Wong and Pinto.

‘Give way together,’ Saxton rapped. ‘Silence in the boat, fore ’n’ aft!’

He was concentrating on the landing: there was a fringing beach with few rocks and the greenery was resolving into palm trees and the deep green verdure of a Caribbean island. He picked out the likeliest spot and conned the little boat in.

It hissed to a stop at the water’s edge, the rich odour of the land welcoming them in a wall of warmth.

‘Doud ’n’ Pinto, away to the right. Stirk ’n’ Wong, to the left,’ he ordered.

Doud eased the pistol in his belt and headed out with Pinto to follow the water’s edge around.

Saxton went off along the beach behind Stirk and Wong. Then he realised that if L’Aurore was in that direction their quarry would be at the other end of the island – in fact, close by.

‘Stirk!’ he called urgently. ‘Go ahead and spy out the lay.’

The big man loped quickly out of sight. Shortly afterwards his head bobbed above the bushes and he beckoned.

Heart in his mouth, Saxton joined him. Stirk pointed. No more than fifty yards away a black man sat on the beach, staring intently at L’Aurore far off to the right. Beside him were two large flags on sticks, one red, one white.

Stirk tapped Saxton on the arm and pointed again. Nearly out of view in the opposite direction around the point was a low-lined schooner, her sails loose in their gear.

That old yarn that Kydd had recalled had saved the day: in the American war the South Sea whaler Amelia had avoided capture by a privateer by the simple ruse of dodging about an island, a man ashore signalling to it the whereabouts of the other so that it could keep to the opposite side, always out of sight. It had been in effect the childhood game of chase in which a frustrated pursuer could never catch any quarry who made it to the fat trunk of a tree.

The watcher did not hear their tiptoe approach along the soft sand. They loomed up beside him and the man jerked around in fright. Then, from the other direction, Doud and Pinto appeared.

‘So what do we do wi’ the bastard?’ Stirk asked mildly, fingering his weapon. ‘I can give him the frights, should ye need to ask him his code.’

‘No need,’ said Saxton, smugly. ‘I’ve got it figured!’

‘Oh?’ said Stirk.

‘Simple. He stays in sight o’ both, and signals where L’Aurore is by saying she is to my left or right, larboard or starboard. That’s red or green at sea – he can use red but green won’t be seen, so he uses white. See?’

‘I reckon,’ Stirk said, in admiration.

The rest was easy. Leaving Wong to keep the man company, they took the flags and went to a point of rock. L’Aurore was approaching from the right – so Saxton took the red flag and furiously waved it to and fro as if in the utmost urgency.

There was an immediate response: the schooner hauled in on her tacks and sheets and got under way as soon as she could, rounding the point under a press of sail – directly into the open arms of the frigate.

‘A splendid catch,’ Gilbey said, admiring the fine lines of their prize. An island schooner of about eighty tons, low and with a roguishly raked mast, she was built for speed over cargo capacity, as might be expected of a privateer.

Her crew, disconsolate on the main deck of L’Aurore, were not many, which implied men away in prizes. The captain, a bitter young man of South American origin, demanded to know who had betrayed them.

‘His papers, if he has any. If none, I’m desolated to have to inform him that he and his crew shall swing as pirates,’ Kydd told Renzi, whose Spanish, since their actions at Buenos Aires, was now more than adequate.

‘He shall fetch them, if he is at liberty to do so.’

Returning with Curzon, the captain stiffly presented a folded parchment. It was a Spanish letter of marque for the schooner Infanta on a privateering voyage in the north Caribbean and appeared to have been issued under the hand of the viceroy of New Grenada in Venezuela.

‘Very well, they’re spared the rope. Get them below,’ Kydd grunted.

Curzon waited until they had been escorted away, then said, in an undertone, ‘I suspect you’d be interested in other articles I relieved them of.’

Kydd called Renzi and, in the privacy of his cabin, they went through the haul. Innocent papers, such as would be found on any working ship: invoices for stores received, goods landed, repairs completed. Nothing to raise suspicion – except that the sea-port common to all was Puerto de Barahona, some fifty-odd miles further to the north.

‘Aha! We have his bolt-hole, the devil,’ Kydd declared, with satisfaction. Any privateer needed a repair base, supplies to stay at sea and, even more importantly, a safe haven to which it would send back its prizes.

‘You’re not thinking …’

‘I am.’

‘Then I’m obliged to remind you that this port lies in Santo Domingo – or should I say Haiti? – and by this we should be violating its sovereign neutrality.’

Kydd hesitated. ‘Good point, Nicholas, but there’s another side to it. I know privateering, and to put a private cruiser to sea needs funds and backing. I’ll wager it’s a joint venture of the port, and if this is so, then Haiti won’t want to know of it or they’d be obliged to admit they’re allowing military operations by a foreign power on their soil.’

‘Possibly. But even the sight of a frigate heading into the coast will-’

‘She won’t. They’re expecting this Infanta to return after a cruise, and she will – bearing a surprise below decks.’

Kydd grinned. Even more effective a blow than capturing one was the elimination of a privateer nest. Energised, he summoned Gilbey immediately and outlined the situation. ‘First, we get rid of the prisoners.’

‘Sir?’ the first lieutenant spluttered.

‘Yes. We land them on Alto Velo, pick ’em up later.’

‘Oh, I see, sir.’

‘Then I’m calling for volunteers for a species of cutting out in the Infanta.’

‘Aye aye, sir,’ Gilbey said, brightening. ‘May I know who’s to command?’

‘I’m thinking on it,’ Kydd said, but he’d already made up his mind.

A little later Lieutenant Buckle hesitantly appeared. ‘You sent for me?’

‘I did. To say I’m sorry for doubting your sighting earlier.’

‘Oh, er, thank you, sir, that’s good of you.’

‘And by way of amends – to offer you a chance.’

‘Sir?’ he said warily.

‘Your first command.’

When a disgruntled Gilbey reported the lower deck cleared, Kydd appeared on the quarterdeck before his men.

He was satisfied by what he saw. Deeply tanned, fit and as individual as any long-service ship’s company, they returned his gaze with confidence and trust.

‘Mr Gilbey, take the names of the first fifty. Volunteers for a cutting out – step forward!’

To his astonishment there was only an embarrassed shuffling. ‘Volunteers! Step up to Mr Gilbey, lively now!’

After a space there was an apologetic call from the mass of men. ‘Who’s t’ be in command?’

‘Why, Mr Buckle as made the sighting,’ Kydd said sharply.

Something like a sigh went through the crowded deck. The seamen looked down at their feet awkwardly.

Kydd was furious but there was nothing he could do about it: he had called for volunteers and there had been none. He could order Curzon in Buckle’s place but that would destroy what authority the man still had.

Thinking quickly, he folded his arms and said casually, ‘Oh, and I perhaps omitted to say, Infanta being quite another vessel to L’Aurore, any prize recovered will naturally be to the account of her crew only.’

‘You can’t say that!’ Renzi hissed at him.

‘Oh?’ Kydd said quietly. ‘What else can I do?’ He lifted his chin. ‘In any case, I’m sure you’ll not fail to correct me in proper form – after it’s over?’

The first to step forward was a defiant Doud, quickly followed by his long-time messmate Pinto.

Then boatswain’s mate Cumby mumbled, ‘I’ll go if’n Poulden does.’

He was duly joined by the coxswain, who clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I’m not leaving th’ cobbs all to you, mate.’ He sniffed.

Others moved forward. Then Clinton took off his hat in a mock bow and declared, ‘Should there be a confrontation ashore it would be singular indeed if the Royal Marines are to be excluded. Would a file of lobsterbacks be welcome?’

Kydd had his fifty.

‘Shove off!’ came Buckle’s somewhat un-naval command.

Stirk held his tongue. He had his misgivings and they were growing; his coming forward had given his shipmates heart to do likewise. He glanced back at L’Aurore, seeing Captain Kydd looking down as they cast off. Why weren’t all naval officers like him? Square and true, worth any man’s following.

The schooner swung away from L’Aurore and both ships took up close-hauled out to the east, to make an offing before going about and raising Puerto de Barahona, Infanta tucking in astern of her senior.

Stirk watched Buckle hovering around the wheel, nervously checking their heading. Nearby was Luke Calloway, master’s mate and second in command, barely in his twenties.

Now, there was one of the right sort. He’d started out as an illiterate ship’s boy and had pulled himself up by his own efforts. Stirk gave a wry grin: that both he and the captain had been old shipmates didn’t trouble him – he was an old sea-dog and knew he could never hoist in all the book learning necessary to go further. Just as long as those like Kydd and Calloway earned respect by their actions he would take their orders happily.

This junior lieutenant was of another stamp. Like a young pup, he was trying too hard to please – and seemed to have had a very patchy naval background. Word had it he had no experience of square rig worth a spit, and all of it within the Caribbean, hardly the nursery for young officers that the blockading squadrons offered.

Stirk took some comfort in that, as boatswain of the craft, he oversaw all manoeuvres and was in a position to intervene if things got into a tangle. Once action started it could be different … and then it might be another story.

The two ships put about at midday, allowing an easy sail while they closed the coast. The intention was to make landfall as dusk was clamping in, allowing enough light for recognising, but hopefully not so much that anything out of place would be spotted. Buckle seemed quite at home with schooner rig, not often to be seen in naval service, and sensibly turned in after they settled on their final board.

At daybreak, some twenty miles off the coast, L’Aurore heaved to and called Infanta alongside to take aboard the volunteers held back from the small passage. They crowded into the little schooner but it would get worse for them in their final approach when they would be crammed out of sight below.

‘Mr Buckle! Is there anything more you need?’ To Stirk, Kydd’s voice from the quarterdeck sounded tinged with anxiety, which did little to settle his own unease.

‘Er, I can’t think of anything,’ Buckle called back.

‘Then I’ll wish you and Infanta good fortune.’

The schooner got under way and passed L’Aurore to take position ahead. Any watcher on land would now see a plucky little craft crowding on sail in a desperate attempt to escape capture by making the safety of the harbour.

Stirk made the most of the fading light and went around the decks, checking. In the circumstances, the plan had to be simple. Enter Puerto de Barahona past any fortifications by bluff, and when within, spy out any vessel worth the cutting out. If there were anything to be gained by raiding ashore, then any general mayhem would be acceptable – a blue rocket would signal L’Aurore they were landing, a red that the defences were too strong.

The coast loomed, thickly verdant and rumpled; the port was neither enemy nor friend at first appearance, an unsettling lack of certainty.

Buckle stood stiffly by the wheel, clearly conscious of his role, pale-faced in his cocked hat and sword. ‘Right – everyone below, we’re nearly there,’ he ordered.

‘Sir,’ Stirk said heavily, ‘wouldn’t ye like to be in somethin’ more comfortable t’ wear, like?’ It was not up to him to point out the obvious: that an officer in the King’s uniform was an unusual sight in a privateer.

Their run in was straightforward enough: chalk cliffs stood out stark in the fading light, angling down as if pointing to a cluster of buildings. Closer in, the harbour could be made out – a gap in two white-fringed reefs, then a low hook of land enfolding from the right. Small, but ideal for a privateer hideaway – no frigate was ever going to close with those reefs.

The schooner, with the last of the sea breeze behind her, surged inside them. Balked of her prey, L’Aurore gave up and headed back out to sea. All eyes in Infanta were on the low spit of land to the right. What would be revealed when they were inside it?

Long minutes later they had their answer: a near half-mile length of calm water with a sizeable brig at anchor and, at the far end, signs of a shipbuilding slip.

The helm went over and they sheeted in for the run-up.

‘We go for the brig, do you think?’ Buckle asked.

‘Sir,’ Stirk said stolidly. Asking him what to do? At least he could see no signs of fear or panic in the man.

‘What-’ Calloway was looking astern in consternation. Not more than twenty yards behind was another, larger, schooner – in their eagerness they had not checked the other arm of the harbour to the left and they were now cut off. Trapped.

From its rakish lines and the number of men, it was definitely another privateer and it was after them, coming up fast. A swarthy figure stood on the bowsprit holding on to a stay and bellowing something aggressively. Other men began bunching behind him.

Stirk felt his gut knotting as he saw that Buckle’s choices had narrowed to two: fight or surrender. But then he did an utterly unexpected thing: he waved and yelled back a lengthy reply in the same heathen tongue.

‘Stirk – go below and, on your life, keep those men out of sight!’ he hissed urgently.

‘Sir!’ He wasted no time in obeying, then returned, expecting anything.

But Buckle was hailing again. This time it produced a flurry of shouting and activity and then the schooner sheered widely around, and made off at speed for the reef gap.

‘Wha’?’ Stirk said in amazement. ‘Sir, can y’ tell me, what was all that?’

‘Why, nothing much. It was a Captain Romana, he was asking in Creole how we fared on our cruise. I told him we had all our men away in prizes, but if he was quick there’s still a couple for him to take.’

In frank admiration, Stirk touched his forelock to the man. Quick thinking like that made up for a lot in his estimation.

It had been close, but they were now free to move on the brig, and all attention turned forward.

‘Stand by, below!’

The evening was drawing in with its usual velvet feel – but an edge of tension grew as the brig drew near.

There was a lanthorn in the rigging aft, but apart from that, it lay in peaceful stillness, lapped by tiny waves in a picture of tranquillity. Stirk noted in satisfaction that Buckle ordered sail reduced as they approached: they would have aroused suspicion had they careered into the anchorage.

The schooner eased its progress, ghosting the last few hundred yards as if to pass the anchored vessel. At the last minute course was altered to come alongside – still nobody was visible on deck, the glimmer of light through a side-scuttle aft the only sign of habitation.

‘Now, sir?’ Stirk wanted to know. If they were to storm the brig they needed men up on deck ready, sufficient to overwhelm any the other could muster.

‘No!’ Buckle said firmly. ‘We’ll do it quietly. Take only three and go below to persuade ’em that resistance is folly. Understand?’

The two vessels nudged together and Stirk stepped across, cutlass drawn. With a fierce grin he led his men down the after hatch.

The only crew aboard were playing cards at a table in the diminutive saloon. They looked up in astonishment at the invasion.

It was short work to secure the ship. No shots fired, no sudden assault to waken the little town, and now they had a prize: it was a master-stroke. How it would be got to sea was another matter, of course.

When Infanta poled off to return to L’Aurore there were still no signs of alarm along the dusky shore and Buckle paused. ‘Do you think we should stir them up a bit? Let them know the L’Aurores have visited?’

Poulden looked at Stirk in mock resignation. ‘Aye, a good idea, sir.’

The far end of the harbour was the loading wharf; it had a sugar lighter tied up to it. ‘That’s depth o’ water enough for us!’ crowed Doud.

The schooner got under way and as they crossed the last hundred yards people began crowding along the shore.

‘Come to see what we’ve got for ’em after our cruise.’ Poulden chuckled.

Infanta doused sail and glided in under the gaze of the curious spectators. Buckle hailed the crowd – one bent to take the line thrown ashore and others helped to haul in the schooner. In the twilight they had not seen anything amiss.

Suddenly a blue rocket whooshed up from the schooner, soaring high across the sky. L’Aurore now knew they were storming ashore and would have boats in the water to take them off if things went against them.

The people fell back in dismay – then a crowd of English seamen boiled up from the hatch brandishing cutlasses and shrieking war cries.

Most onlookers broke and ran; others hid as two armed parties made for their objectives.

One, under Calloway, raced for the shipyard, the marines beside them, with muskets a-port. The yard had closed for the day but the lock at the gates was no match for Wong’s crowbar. Inside were two ships building on slips – nearby, pitch pots and teased oakum for caulking, perfect fire starters. Soon flames leaped and flared dramatically in the darkness.

The other party under Buckle made for the town, hurrying through the few mean streets and searching for opportunities for mayhem. Townsfolk scattered, screaming.

At the end of the road they were surprised to be met by shouts and desperate yelling. It was coming from men inside a stockade, English sailors held prisoners. ‘Turn ’em loose,’ Buckle said. ‘They’re crew of the brig as will take it to sea for us.’

One wild-eyed seaman held back. ‘I wants t’ get evens on the Spanish. If ye’ll follow me, I’ll show y’ where Don Espada lives, the bastard.’

It was a mansion set out from the hill on the slope. As they approached there was the flash of muskets from the mock turrets, but in the bad light the shots went wide, and soon the men were crashing through the ornamental garden and battering down the door.

Muffled shouts came from within and Buckle ordered them all to fall back while he negotiated. The door was opened by a haughty Spaniard, who stood sullenly.

‘Secure him and we’d better be on our way back,’ Buckle ordered briefly.

From the waterfront, they heard scattered musket fire. If they were prevented from getting back aboard, there could be only one ending to their adventure. A ball zinged from the road and another slapped through a marine’s jacket.

‘Take cover!’ Buckle yelled. It was only another intersection before they arrived at the wharf – but they were under fire from an unknown direction.

‘A flying column to secure the wharf?’ Clinton suggested. Casualties would be severe, and worse, if they then held their positions until inevitably enemy reinforcements arrived.

‘Waste of men. No, I’ll-’

Suddenly, like a thunderclap in the still night air, a carronade smashed out. It could mean only one thing – L’Aurore’s boats come in support. The launch and cutter, under oars and stretching out fiercely, had opened fire when well out of range but it was effective: the unknown snipers had run for their lives.

‘Go!’ yelled Buckle, and pelted towards the seafront.

Calloway and his party were waiting for them in Infanta and they lost no time in putting out to join the L’Aurores, the schooner abuzz with jubilation.

‘A right good mill!’ Doud cackled, looking back at the leaping flames.

‘You really think so?’ Buckle replied, with obvious pleasure.

‘Sir, I protest! It should’ve been my landing,’ Gilbey said, aggrieved, as the victors boarded L’Aurore.

‘And lose my first lieutenant?’ Kydd said mildly, looking down benignly on his capering men. ‘I’ll have you know it was a close-run thing and events could have turned out in quite another way.’

Gilbey did not appear mollified, but for Kydd it had been a resounding success: a prize won even if its cargo had been brought ashore. As a prize recovered it would count as salvage only but then again, with the release of the brig’s men, there had been no need to provide crew.

The shipyard set afire would render the port useless as a privateer base and, in any case, the townsfolk would know that, its secret out, it would be under eye from the British fleet from now on. And to cap it all, they had in custody one Don Espada, a Spaniard who’d been secretly running things there, to prove the situation.

That night while the seamen were enjoying an extended suppertime with a double tot, Kydd invited his officers to dinner, braving Tysoe’s frowns to broach his private cabin stores. The wine was the best he possessed and the officers’ cook excelled himself. This was going to be a night to remember.

‘Wine with you, sir!’ said Curzon to Gilbey, who was rapidly thawing in the happy atmosphere. Further down, Buckle was glowing in new-found respect.

‘To Lady Fortune, who’s done so handsomely for the Billy Roarers,’ Gilbey returned. He was never going to allow that Buckle was anything but the child of luck for his achievement. He then turned to Kydd. ‘In course, what you said about prize accounts is so much catblash.’

Kydd smiled thinly. ‘I’ve asked Mr Renzi to look into the matter and his appreciation is that if we grant that it is another vessel entirely, then those who were aboard her must be in the nature of deserters, they still being on the muster-roll of L’Aurore. Unhappily, therefore, it would seem that each must choose between a flogging or allowing their shipmates to share in the prize.’

Renzi blinked, then offered with solemnity, ‘Or L’Aurore’s captain is court-martialled for misappropration of a prize before it be condemned.’

It was a good point: prize rules were strict, and a charge of piracy could be brought against the captain of any King’s ship who took possession of a vessel before it had been examined in a vice-admiralty court and declared subject to forfeiture, and therefore made good prize, no matter what the circumstances.

It stilled conversation about the table until Kydd said lightly, ‘Save only where the ship is a man-o’-war under the flag of an enemy power. And I take Infanta to be so, even if in a private line of business.’

There was a relieved murmuring about the table but then Owen, the dry Welshman and purser, spoke: ‘Then it were better our books of account were put in order before our return.’

‘Books?’ Kydd said, puzzled.

‘Yes, Captain. Should you have taken up this vessel into your service, then there must be a line of disbursement for stores and equipment. Neither I nor the gunner nor boatswain can be expected to write off items consumed without a proper ticket.’

‘Oh. Well, what do you recommend, Mr Owen?’

‘Why, there’s naught to say. The deed is done.’

Kydd sighed. The last thing he needed was the prospect of having to explain himself later to a clerk of the cheque concerning the expenditure of funds intended for L’Aurore upon another vessel.

‘There’s nothing I can do?’

‘As I said, the books must be squared.’

Kydd was irritated by this intrusion into the warmth of the evening. ‘How will we do that?’

‘I can do this, but I must have your predated certificate that Infanta is taken up as tender to HMS L’Aurore.’

A tender. A minor craft set in menial attendance on a much larger, usually a ship-of-the-line when in port, to convey passengers, supplies and generally be at beck and call. Then it dawned: a tender was borne on the books of its mother ship for stores and victualling, but much more important was what it implied.

‘You shall have your certificate, Mr Owen.’

Kydd grinned as the idea grew to full flower. ‘And thank you for the steer. Gentlemen, our sainted purser has solved our accounting problems and given us a splendid opportunity at one and the same time.’

Kydd raised his glass to the mystified purser. ‘Do I explain, sir, or will you? No? Then it shall be me.’

He had their full attention. ‘Mr Owen is pointing out that we now have a regular-going tender, just like a battleship. And what do tenders do? They go where they’re bid, no questions asked. So if, while we’re on patrol in the Mona Passage, it is sent on a whim to, say, twenty degrees north, there’s none to gainsay us.’

Enjoying the baffled looks around the table, he continued, ‘It being a rascally part of the world it is naturally armed. Which would be fortunate, should it fall in with an enemy. That is, any enemy.’

Smiles began to appear as his drift became apparent. ‘Which is to say, even hostile merchant vessels who choose to cross its bows, which can never be suffered by any under the King’s colours, even if only a paltry tender.’

There was open laughter now. ‘So I must find an officer well acquainted with these coasts who I may trust with the charge of L’Aurore’s tender,’ Kydd concluded. ‘One not to be daunted by service in a small ship and one of undoubted sagacity in tight circumstances.’

He looked about, then allowed his gaze to settle on the hero of the hour. ‘Mr Buckle, I give you joy of your command. Gentlemen, do raise your glasses to … His Majesty’s jolly Privateer Infanta!’