The Privateer's Revenge

CHAPTER 6

IT WAS GALLING IN THE EXTREME. Because of the gravity of the situation Renzi had overcome his scruples and resolved to warn Kydd of the ugly mood that was building, the savage opinions he had overheard and in charity forewarning him of worse to come. He had to make one last try to get through to Kydd. He entered the cabin after a polite knock and waited.

It was difficult to broach after Kydd's wild triumph, and Renzi controlled himself with effort. "If you only knew what coming to you like this is costing me in violation of my sensibilities—"

"Then you're free t' go. An' why you should come an' waste my time with y'r mess-deck catblash I can't think," Kydd threw over his shoulder, then resumed scratching away with his quill.

"May I know at least why we're at anchor here instead of Guernsey?"

The other vessels had retreated to the security of St Peter Port while they were again moored off Chausey Rocks, with a tired and fractious crew.

Kydd looked up, expressionless. "Since y' ask, I'm t' keep a distant watch on Granville f'r a few days t' see what they'll do." His features had aged so: no sign of animation, none of the interest in things round him, only this dull, blinkered obsession with duty.

"Do you not think it wise to apprise your ship's company of this? They've been sorely tested recently, I believe, and now to be robbed of their rest . . ." The heartless dismissal of the old lady's death as the fortune of war had upset many, and the ferocious solo altercation at the harbour mouth had others questioning Kydd's sanity.

"They'll do their duty," Kydd said shortly, and picked up his pen again.

Renzi drew breath sharply and blurted, "Good God above! The ship is falling apart around you and still you won't see! The men need leadership—someone they can trust, that they may look up to, believe in, not a grief-stricken machine who spouts nothing but duty and—"

Kydd's fist crashed on the table. "Rot you f'r a prating dog!" He shot to his feet. "Who are you t' tell me about leading men?" he said. "As we c'n all see, you've left th' world t' others an' taken refuge in y'r precious books."

Cold with fury, Renzi bit out, "Then, as it's clear you no longer value my services or my friendship, I shall be leaving the ship in Guernsey. Good day to you, sir!" He stormed out, pushing past the boatswain who had been about to knock. Kydd stood, breathing rapidly and gazing after the vanished Renzi.

"Um, sir?" Purchet said uncertainly. "It's b' way of bein' urgent, like."

"What is it, then?" he said.

Purchet stepped inside, closing the door. "M' duty t' tell ye, sir," he mumbled, then stopped as if recollecting himself.

"Tell me what, Mr Purchet?" Kydd snapped.

The boatswain took a deep breath. "In m' best opinion, sir, the men are no longer reliable."

Kydd tensed. "Are ye telling me they're in mutiny, Mr Purchet?" Everything from this point forward, even an opinion or words spoken in haste, might well be next pronounced in the hostile confines of a court-martial.

"I cannot say that, sir."

"Then what?"

"They's a-whisperin', thinkin' as I can't hear 'em," he said gravely. The boatswain's cabin in the small sloop was as thin-walled as Renzi's. "I don't take mind on it, usually, but as it's s' bad . . ."

"Tell me, if y' please," Kydd prodded.

"Er, I have t' say it how I hears it," Purchet said.

"Go on."

"Well, one o' the hands has it as how you're out o' your wits wi' grievin' an' says as any doctor worth th' name would have ye out o' the ship. An' they thinks as how this makes ye not responsible, an' therefore it's not right fer them t' take y'r orders."

"An' the others?"

"Sir, they say how as t' prove it, they seen ye change, like, fr'm their cap'n in Plymouth t' a hard-horse Tartar who doesn't hear 'em any more—them sayin' it, o' course," he added hastily. "They seen ye at Granville, th' last fight, an' say that if ye're careless o' your own life, what's theirs worth?"

Kydd waited, his face stony. "Anything else?"

"Why, sir, this afternoon, when young Jacko said them things y' heard, most would say he'd had his grog an' was talkin' wry, like, no need t' seize 'im in irons like that. An' they're a-feared what ye'll do when he comes up afore ye tomorrow."

"And this's y'r mutiny?"

"There's a gallows deal more, sir, as it's not fit f'r ye t' hear." He looked at Kydd defiantly. "I bin in a mutiny once, an' knows the signs. All it wants is f'r one chuckle-headed ninny t' set 'em off wi' hot words, an' then—"

"Thank 'ee, Mr Purchet. Y' did th' right thing," Kydd said formally.

The boatswain shifted awkwardly and mumbled, "Jus' wanted t' warn ye, like."

As had Renzi.

"I'll—I'll think on it," was all Kydd could manage.

"Then I'll be away for'ard," Purchet said, with quiet dignity.

Kydd sat down slowly, cold with shock. Since he had first won command those few years ago in Malta, he had taken satisfaction that his origins before the mast gave him a particular insight into the thinking of his men, but now—a mutiny?

Deep down he knew the reason and it was the one he feared most.

To be brutally honest with himself, he would have to admit that he was confronting personal failure. His seizing on duty as the answer to his pain, a sure and trustworthy lifeline out of the pit of despair that he had grasped so eagerly; this had secured its object, the continuance of his professional functioning, but at grievous cost. By degrees it had changed him, become the master of his soul and now ruled his every action, turning him into a hard-hearted, blinkered automaton.

He balled his fists. It had been too easy—a way of keeping the world and its hurts at bay, but also an excuse not to think. And, above all, not to face things. He paced fretfully about the cabin: If it was not the answer, then what was?

The decanters were in the sideboard. He hesitated, then took out the rum. Its fire steadied him but this was no remedy. That could only be to face up to his pain, the grief . . . memories.

Since that terrible day he had instinctively shied from their immediacy. Was he ready to deal with them yet? A feeling of inevitability crept over him. He was not blessedly logical, as Renzi was, but something drew him irresistibly to focus on just one thing: the slight but constant pressure at his breast, always so warm against his skin. The locket.

He had worn it next to his heart since the day when Rosalynd's silhouette had been fashioned into a miniature—and he had never dared look upon it since he had lost her. He drew it out slowly, tenderly. For a brief moment he held it tight in his hand, fighting the flood of images, then snapped it open.

Her likeness: Rosalynd. In black crêpe paper, now a little crinkled. He held the trinket reverently, trying to relive the time when it had been new. The cheap gilt finish had now worn through to the bright steel at the edges and in places there were specks of rust, but no matter. What he held in his hands was Rosalynd, his sweetheart.

He gulped as his eyes misted, but another thought intruded, growing in strength and insistence. This was not Rosalynd. It was merely her likeness. It was tarnishing and fading and would eventually disintegrate. It was not her: she no longer existed in this world—except in his memory, and there she would never fade.

He knew then what he had to do. He crossed to the stern windows, opened the centre one and swung it wide. Outside there was impenetrable blackness but with it the clean tang of salt, seaweed and waves soughing mournfully against "Teazer's counter. With only a brief hesitation he hurled the locket into the night.

It was done. With the act came a feeling of release; lovers separated by distance would eventually meet again, but when separated by time they would not. Rosalynd was of the past. There was now no need for any elaborate personal defences: she was safely preserved in his memory, and he had his duties to his present existence. Renzi had been right but it had taken the threat of mutiny to bring him to—

Mutiny! The reality flooded in and his mind snapped to full alertness. He did not fear a bloody uprising so much as the certainty that the moment an order was disobeyed, a scornful or threatening word uttered, nothing short of a court-martial and a noose at the yardarm would satisfy an Admiralty sensitive to the slightest evidence of disaffection or rebellion in the fleet. Long after the corpses were cut down Teazer would bear the stain of dishonour—and it would be entirely the fault of her captain.

It demanded action—and quickly. What should he do? Order the marines to stand to, heading off any moves now under way? Wake Standish and have him, with the warrant officers, armed and aft? This would stop any mutiny in its tracks but would immediately throw the ship into two camps set implacably against each other.

He couldn't do it. He would lose any regard that still remained in his men and that was too great a price to pay. Then what? Do nothing? That was not possible. Instead he would appeal directly to them. On a personal level, but not as a supplicant: as their captain. And not on the quarterdeck in the usual way . . .

His servant Tysoe had taken to keeping out of the way so Kydd went to his sleeping cabin and there found his full dress coat with its Nile medals and pulled it on. Clapping on his gold-laced cocked hat he made his way in the darkness to the hatchway.

As he descended he could hear the usual babble of talk and guffaws issuing from the mess-deck; it was a strong custom of the Service that the captain would never intrude on the men in their own territory in their own time, still less do so without warning— but this was no idle visit.

His appearance at the foot of the ladder was met with an astonished silence, men twisting at their tables and the nearest scrabbling to distance themselves. The stench of so many bodies in the confined space, with the reek of rush dips guttering in their dishes, caught Kydd at the back of the throat: it had been long since he had endured these conditions, inescapable as they were for sailors in a small ship-of-war.

Standing legs a-brace, he placed his hat firmly under his arm and faced them. He said nothing, his hard gaze holding first one, then another. The dim light picked up the gold lacing of his uniform, and when he spoke, he had their entire attention.

"Teazers!" he began. "I won't keep you f'r long. Now, one of y'r number came aft t' see me, thought fit t' lay an information afore me as was necessary f'r me t' know."

Furtive glances were thrown and there were awkward shuffles: was there a spy in their midst, bearing tales to the quarterdeck?

"He was right t' do so. F'r what he said was concernin' y'r own captain. He said t' me that there's those who'd believe I'm not sailin' square wi' ye since I had m' sad loss—that I'm toppin' it th' tyrant t' no account." He paused: apart from the lazy creaking of a ship at anchor there was utter stillness.

"This I'll say to ye. I took aboard all that was said, an' have considered it well. An' my conclusion is, if there's anything that stands athwart "Teazer's bows in bein' the finest fightin' ship in the Navy then, s' help me, I won't rest until I've done something about it. I'll not see m' men discontented, an' I won't, y' have m' word on't."

In the flickering light of 'tween decks it was difficult to make out expressions but the silence told its own story. "I give ye this promise: at th' end o' the month, any man wants t' ship out o' Teazer c'n shift his berth to another. An' that same day, needs o' the Service permittin'. Thank 'ee—an' good night."

He made his exit. Behind him the silence dissolved into a chaos of talk. About to mount the companionway he hesitated, then turned to a tiny cabin and knocked. Renzi appeared and regarded him. In a low voice Kydd said, "I'd be obliged, Nicholas, should ye sup wi' me tonight. There's some things I need t' get off m' chest."

It wasn't until well into the second bottle of wine that Renzi allowed himself to thaw and listen courteously to Kydd's earnest explanations. "Nicholas, all I could see then was that if'n I wanted t' keep from hurtin' all I needed was t' lay hold on duty an' be damned t' all else!"

"Duty taken at its widest interpretation, I'd hazard," Renzi said drily. "To include a zeal touching on engagement with the King's enemies that's a caution to us all." He looked across at Kydd. "Tell me, my friend—for it's a matter much discussed below—was it an unholy passion to prevail or the baser impulse to suicide that had you throw Teazer across the harbour mouth? Do tell. If I might remind you, it did not seem you were of a mind to communicate your motives at the time."

"Why, nothing as can't be explained wi' a bit o' logic," said Kydd, smugly. "It was a fine piece o' reasonin' by their captain, t' take the gunboats out as they did, an' place 'em out o' reach—so I had t' find a way t' call him off. An' I thought o' you, Nicholas. You always say as how I'm overborne by logic, so I set th' French wi' a puzzle.

"Th' duty o' the gunboats was to defend th' port an' its craft. They see Cerberus an' think t' take her. All I did was remind 'em of their duty. I made a sally at th' harbour as made them tremble f'r its safety. They then have t' make up their mind which is th' higher call on their duty, and . . ."

"Bravo! A cool and reasoned decision worthy of Nelson!" There had clearly been no impairment of Kydd's judgement in his time of madness, and there was every reason to hope for a full restoring of the man that lay beneath.

"On quite another matter, brother," Renzi began lightly, "do I see a brightening of spirit, as it were, a routing of melancholia, perhaps?"

"Aye, Nicholas, y' do. It's been . . . hard." He dropped his eyes.

Renzi noticed the tightly clenched fists; the madness was over but the hurt would remain for some time and he longed to reach out. "Ah, you will probably not be interested at this time, but that sainted ethical hedonist Jeremy Bentham did once devise an algorithm for the computing of happiness, the felicific calculus, which I have oft-times made use of in the approaching of vexed decisions in life. And I'm bound to admit this day, to my eternal shame, that by its calculations it would seem you were right in placing aside the admiral's daughter in favour of . . . of the other . . ."

He trailed off uncertainly but Kydd raised his head with a smile. "Aye, m' friend, but I had not th' time t' perform the calculations and had t' set a course by my stars as I saw 'em—and I dare t' say I would do it again."

Renzi's eyes pricked: it had been a hard time for them both but now was the time to move forward. "Er, your opinion. What do you consider the captain of this fair barque would pass in judgement over that iniquitous young mariner, Jacko, now in durance vile?" he said languorously, stretching for another mutton cutlet.

"Why, I believe if th' rascal should make his apologies to his lawful commander, I don't think he will suffer for it." Kydd grinned and raised his glass to his friend.

It was evident that there would be no immediate breakout from Granville so HMS Teazer shaped course to Guernsey, raising Sark in the morning. The flagship was back at her mooring in the Great Road and, like her lesser consorts, dressed overall in bunting, but what caught the attention of every man aboard Teazer, when the smoke of the gun salute had cleared, was the distant squeal of pipes aboard Cerberus, followed by a long, rolling thunder of drums.

"B' glory, mannin' th' yards an' it's all fer us!" came a cry from forward. From below-decks of the flagship her ship's company came racing up, leaping into the shrouds and mounting the rigging of all three masts at once. As they reached the fighting tops they spread out each side along the yards, hundreds of men in urgent motion upwards and outwards. When they were in position the drums stopped and in the sudden silence, atop the mainmast truck at the very highest point of the ship, a lone seaman snatched off his hat, and as he whirled it round disciplined cheers broke out.

Granville was not going to be a great fleet action celebrated by the nation but in Navy fashion these men were recognising their own Teazer 's gallantry in a very public way. The figure of Saumarez was unmistakable on Cerberus's quarterdeck and Kydd made an elaborate bow, which was returned at once.

"Pray allow me to shake the hand of a very fine officer!" the admiral said, when Kydd went aboard to report. "That was the finest stroke this age, I must declare." Looking intently at Kydd he added, "And I do believe that our successful engaging with the enemy has gone some way into laying your own troubles—am I right?"

"Aye, sir."

"Then it will be Lady Saumarez's pleasure to renew your acquaintance in the near future. There will be a dinner given at Saumarez Park on Saturday in grateful token of our victory at which I dare to say you will be guest of honour, Mr Kydd."

In Teazer, Standish was receiving the official visitors and was conspicuously enjoying the task, quantities of young ladies, it seemed, requiring a personal sighting of the ship that had recently fought so bravely. Renzi, however, went below, taking advantage of the quiet in the great cabin to prepare the ship's papers for her return to port.

The wail of a pipe on the upper deck pealed out: this would be Kydd returning from the admiral. A few minutes later he entered the cabin, but his face was bleak, his gaze unseeing. Renzi understood instantly: this was the first triumph he would have been able to lay before Rosalynd.

Then Kydd noticed him and his eyes softened. "Nicholas, m' dear friend, do let's step ashore. I've a yen f'r different faces, if y' understands."

"Why, to be sure. But here are my papers—should our stern captain learn of their neglect in wanton disporting ashore . . ."

They went in plain clothes but their disembarking on to North Pier steps drew immediate attention from the urchins playing about the busy waterfront, and there were gleeful cheers and whoops for two sailor heroes of the hour as they stepped out for town.

It was an agreeable afternoon; Renzi was able to direct their course to take in the colour and bustle of the Pollet, the boatyards and the admirable views to be had from the upper reaches above St Peter Port. Then they supped together at a snug inn with a fine prospect of the castle islet.

They spoke little: Kydd was quiet but Renzi could see that it was part of a process that would end in a new man emerging, hard lines in his features telling of experiences that had not destroyed but changed him, rather as a furnace fires a creation to permanence. Renzi knew that with Kydd's strength of will and depth of character he would eventually come through stronger.

"And so I give you Commander Thomas Kydd, an ornament to his profession and a sea officer whose future can only be bright and glorious in the service of his king!"

Kydd bowed gravely in acknowledgement of Saumarez's fulsome words, while in the splendid room the toast was duly raised by the assembled captains of the squadron, expressions ranging from the hearty and comradely to the envious and grudging. Anointed as the favourite of the commander-in-chief, Kydd could look forward to the plums of appointment on the station.

They clustered about him, exclaiming, laughing, hearing his modest protestations while Saumarez stood watching benevolently. "I do believe you have now proved yourself, Mr Kydd," he called, "so I'm giving you an independent cruise, sir."

There were admiring gasps and growls of envy from the others and a slow smile spread on Kydd's face—and stayed.

The news raced round Teazer. An independent meant that as long as no other was in at the capture of a prize it would be theirs: duly condemned, ship and cargo would be sold and the proceeds would go to the captors—with, of course, a share due to the commander-in-chief.

The atmosphere aboard changed. This was a captain who was demonstrably a favourite of Saumarez, and any lucky enough to be in his ship's company would now share in his fortune. There would be no more talk of mutiny.

Three days later, Prosser returned from the admiral's office with orders. Renzi signed for them and locked them away in Kydd's confidential drawer for his return from shore.

"A cruise t' the west o' Bréhat!" Kydd grunted with satisfaction, picked up an inner packet and looked at it with delighted surprise. "Do y' smoke what this is?" he said, impressed. "It's m' first sealed orders, Nicholas."

It seemed from the superscription that, prior to Kydd's relief of Scorpion off Les Héaux de Bréhat, there was a special mission to be performed as specified in these secret orders. They were to be opened precisely at noon the next day when Teazer was required to be in position three leagues north-east of St Peter Port, halfway between Guernsey and Alderney, and action taken accordingly.

"Secret orders," Kydd said in awe. "We're full stored 'n' watered. Tomorrow we make discovery o' the contents and find we may be under weigh f'r Holland, th' South Seas—anywhere!"

"I rather think not," Renzi said. "As you see, we have to be at Bréhat directly following. In fact, it rather exercises the intellects as to what precisely can be done in just the one day."

CHAPTER 7

AS TEAZER STOOD OUT into the Little Russel passage in the brisk morning breeze, Kydd fought to suppress his emotions. With his mind no longer at severe distraction he was able to take his fill of the sights, and the perfection in the way his ship lifted so willingly to the seas. In the furious rush of events of the last few months he had neglected her but now, with everything set fair ahead, he would take time to renew their relationship.

As if sensing his attention, "Teazer's bows rose, gave a spirited toss and, with a thump, she threw a playful dash of spume aft that wetted his lips with salt. His heart went out to the little ship, now so far from Malta, where she had been born.

The cruise was just what was needed to pull "Teazer's company together. Kydd turned with a grin to Standish, next to him on the quarterdeck. The officer returned an uncertain smile and occupied himself with his telescope.

Grande Canupe safely abeam, Kydd ordered a north-easterly course and in less than two hours had made the specified position. Savouring the moment, he waited for the eight bells of midday to ring out, then went below.

He'd concluded that, in naval terms, Renzi was more of a captain's secretary than a mere ship's clerk, no matter what was entered in the muster book, and therefore could be made privy to any operational confidentialities. "It's noon, Nicholas," he said casually, fingering the sealed packet. "I do believe I'm t' open my secret orders."

It was disappointing in a way: just a single sheet of paper folded several times, no enclosures. Still, this was his first time opening such orders and he scanned it quickly. From an anonymous hand he learned that he was to recover a chest from the French coast and keep it safe until he returned from the cruise. Then he would pass it to the commander-in-chief. The entire operation was to be conducted in the greatest possible secrecy.

"We have t' steer small wi' this mission, Nicholas," Kydd mused. "Not even Kit Standish."

Renzi looked at him soberly. "I can conceive of why it should be so," he said. "Supposing it were to contain documents and plans won at great personal cost. The very knowledge that we have it might nullify any advantage we gain from the intelligence—and put to hazard the brave soul who brings it."

"Aye. It seems th' admiral took pains t' make sure th' orders couldn't be known afore we sailed, an' as far as we can fathom it might all be a reg'lar done thing." Kydd read the instructions more slowly. "L'Anse Pivette. I figure that's t' be somewheres south o' Cap de la Hague." This was the very tip of Normandy to the north. He continued, "We close wi' a small beach after dark an' lift it off—it's passin' strange it says nothin' about anyone handin' it over. Just the spot, th' exact time an' date."

"That's as if the bearer wishes to disassociate from us, reasonably it would seem." Renzi's half-smile appeared. "I cannot help but observe, dear fellow, that there is something else perhaps we should consider, and that is if we are betrayed, the time and place being known, we will then be delivered into the hands of the enemy."

"Or this is th' way it's to be done b' those in the character of a—a spy," Kydd said stoutly. "We carry out our orders, Nicholas."

"Certainly," Renzi said. "It's just that—this creeping about like a common thief is not to my liking. I fear I'm not your born intelligencer."

"Rest easy, m' friend, you're not t' be troubled in this," Kydd said. "It should be quick enough done."

The strictures on secrecy meant that besides Dowse, only one other aboard, Queripel, was told the exact location they were heading for, but neither was informed of the reason.

It was not going to be easy but, clearly, the nameless hero who had tracked across the lonely wilderness of the interior to deposit the chest would be counting on them to muster sufficient seamanship to achieve the last lap in its journey.

"Sir, it's a wild an' savage shore," Queripel said warily. "I remember passing th' Nez during the peace, glad o' some shelter fr'm the Alderney Race, an' recollect as how there's tidal rocks close by as ye'd be glad to keep off from. An approach b' night? I doubts it, sir."

Together he and Kydd pored over the charts: to the north beyond the Nez, the point guarding the bay L'Anse Pivette, was the Race of Alderney with the fiercest currents to be found anywhere. As the ebb tide turned, the direction of the water would reverse, flooding in to fill the Race from the wider Atlantic in surging currents that at times could exceed a ship's best sailing speed, a fearful hazard.

Picking up on something Queripel had said, Kydd formed his plan. That evening a small British warship would be seen sailing northward along the coast, probably intending to round the Cape to look in on Cherbourg, as so many had done in this war. Its inexperienced commander would pass the Nez de Jobourg, immediately find himself in the teeth of the Race and, dismayed, fall back into the lee of the Nez to ride out the hours until the tide slackened. For this he would choose L'Anse Pivette.

There was no time to lose. Kydd bounded up to the upper deck and told Standish, "Ease away t' th' east, if y' please—Cap de Flamanville." This was a dozen miles to the south of the Nez and would allow them to come up as though on their way to the north.

They raised the odd semi-circular headland in two hours and pretended to look into the tiny harbour before shaping course to the north. It needed careful sail-trimming and continual work with the log over the taffrail to keep a constant speed in order that Teazer would meet the Alderney Race at the right tide state. Kydd hid a smile at Standish trying to contain his curiosity at the activity.

Ahead, the bold and characteristic shape of the Nez de Jobourg firmed in the afternoon sun and Queripel pointed out the features. "La Ronde," he said respectfully, of the tail of high rocks extending into the sea at the northern end of the quarter-mile bay. His gaze shifted farther round to a tiny beach. "L'Anse Pivette," he grunted. It was a good anchorage for anything except a southerly.

Kydd's information was that the chest would be placed behind a rock at the well-defined inner end of the small beach. He hauled out his watch. "Tide is well on th' make," he said in satisfaction. "The Race is beyond?"

"Aye, sir, no more'n a half-mile or so."

The shoreline was rugged and precipitous, grey granite and scrubby vegetation, with no sign of life in the soft, late-afternoon sunlight. Kydd trained his glass on the little beach until his eyes watered but could see nothing beyond the dash of ruddy gold sand amid the sombre crags.

The breeze was lightening as they skirted La Ronde and weathered the Nez—full into the making tide of the Race. The current was more rapid than any Kydd could remember: fretful ripples and sliding overfalls were hurrying towards them as far as the eye could see. In the light airs Teazer had no chance. With all sail set, the water gurgled past in a fine wake—but she made no headway, the coastline abeam quite stationary, then sliding away as they were carried back where they had come from.

Queripel smiled. "A calm day," he offered. "In a southerly gale, tide agin wind, 'twould amaze, the seas as are kicked up. An' tide with a blow—why, in high-water springs we c'n meet wi' nine, ten knots an' then—"

"Aye. I'll remember," Kydd said. There might be not a soul to witness "Teazer's arrival but if there was it had to look right. "Helm up an' wear into the bay," he ordered. The ship found her lee and the anchor tumbled down as the sun set out to sea.

Standish could not hold his curiosity any longer and came up to stand next to Kydd as the sails were furled. "To anchor, sir? On an enemy shore?"

"The gig an' two hands in th' water after dark."

"We—we're not going ashore, sir?" It was normally the prerogative of the first lieutenant to lead any party out of a ship.

"No, I am."

The evening drew in, with no movement seen ashore; this desolate spot would seldom be visited by any other than fishermen.

Kydd felt a thrill of apprehension. This was different from his hot-blooded landing at Granville: here there was time to admire the rugged sunset beauty—and imagine what could go wrong.

Was a troop of soldiers concealed ashore? Did a warship lie beyond the point waiting to come down with the tide and fall upon them? If it appeared while he was ashore Standish had the bounden duty to cut the cable and run, leaving them to the French as spies caught in the act.

A three-quarter moon was low in the sky and it was time. The gig was lowered gently. Two seamen, Cobb and Manley, took the oars, Kydd the tiller, and the boat pulled strongly inshore. As soon as they had left the comforting mass of the sloop he became aware of the evening quiet, just the slop and gurgle of water, the distant hiss of waves on shingle—and the enfolding shadows reaching out to claim them.

The boat nudged sand and Kydd stepped out. "We'll be back directly," he said to Manley. Cobb followed him up the beach. The land felt inert and lifeless underfoot, adding to Kydd's unease. He stopped and held up his hand: there was not the slightest sound. He looked about, eyes straining.

The tiny beach ended in a long ledge of rock at the north-western end. They trudged over and behind the rock, in its shadow, found an ordinary oblong wooden case with crude rope handles. Kydd took one end—it was heavy but not impossible for them—and Cobb grabbed the other. Before they lifted it Kydd froze. Was that a tiny scrape, a slither?

With an outraged squawk a large seabird launched itself past them. Kydd cursed and the two manhandled the chest into the boat. Kydd threw his boat-cloak over to conceal it.

"Go!" he hissed at Manley, and they returned hurriedly to Teazer. Standish was leaning over the side in great curiosity. "Strike it down into m' cabin immediately," Kydd snapped at the two seamen, and ordered Standish brusquely to get the ship to sea immediately.

He'd done it. As Teazer leaned to the soft night airs Kydd had the satisfaction of knowing that he had successfully performed his first secret order and now could concentrate on proper sailoring.

Hauling their wind for the south they tried to make up the time to the rendezvous, sailing between Guernsey and Jersey, taking care to fetch the treacherous Roches Douvres—"Rock Dovers" to the sailors—in the safety of morning light.

It was a sobering passage. Kydd had made up his mind to learn what he could of the area in which Teazer would be operating for the foreseeable future, a maze of shoals, sub-sea reefs, fierce tidal currents and some of the most desolate and forbidding coasts he had ever seen. Added to which there was the lesson learned of these waters early in the war when Saumarez himself had been chased by five French warships and thrown his heavy frigate through the hideous tangle of rocks in the west of Guernsey to freedom, a tribute to his courage and to his exceptional knowledge of local conditions.

Queripel had been eager to pass on what he knew, and Kydd began to accrue knowledge and wisdom. As he did so his respect for those who daily plied these waters increased; any who could keep the seas off this ironbound coast would be a good seaman— including the French. St Malo, an ancient town deep in the main bay of Brittany, had produced daring corsairs for centuries, some even now prowling as far afield as the Indian Ocean. This cruise would not be a sinecure.

Off the wicked tumble of grey-brown rocks that was the Île de Bréhat he saw a sloop hove-to. Her challenge was smartly run up, but Kydd was ready with the private signal. It was, of course, Carthew in Scorpion but this time there was no doubting the senior vessel, and as custom dictated, Teazer was sent round her stern to respectfully round to for hailing.

"You've taken your time, I observe, Mr Kydd," he blared, through his speaking trumpet. "I'd expected you a day or more ago. What delayed you?"

It took Kydd aback: it was unlikely that Carthew had knowledge of his secret orders and in any case it was not to be discussed in such a public way. "Er, an errand f'r Admiral Saumarez," he bellowed back. "All concluded now."

"I should think so," Carthew said tartly, then added, "No French about as I've seen to the westward, quiet in Paimpol and you have Harpy to the east'd for a rendezvous here in six days. Any questions?"

"No, sir."

"Very well. Good hunting," he said flatly. His bored tone implied disinterest in Kydd's prospects, and Scorpion lost no time in bracing round and making off to the north, leaving Teazer in sole possession of the patrol area.

At last! It was a fine morning, the winds were fair, and there was the best part of a week to traverse the hundred and fifty odd miles westward to Ushant and back. With no ports of significance to speak of—Roscoff was the largest, but not a naval port, and the rest were mere rockbound tidal havens—it was an unpromising prospect.

But with the autumn roads now impassable by ox-cart, which could carry several score sacks of grain, it would have to be pack-horses, each managing at best only four. Every beast would itself require feeding and tending by a man, he in turn having needs, and this would be multiplied by the five or six days it would take to cross northern Brittany. How many would it take to keep the fleet in Brest, with its thirty thousand hungry seamen, supplied? A humble hoy could bring eighty tons along the coast in a day and go back for more. Dozens of these vessels must now be threading their way westward, trying to keep out of sight from seaward among the craggy islets and offshore sandbars, all helpless prey to a determined man-o'-war.

Kydd gave a passing thought to these inoffensive craft, manned by seamen whose daily fight was with the sea and this dire coast— how hard it must be to have their voyage cut short, their ship and livelihood snatched from them. Then he turned abruptly to the master: "T' th' west, Mr Dowse." In the fortunes of war, the merchant vessels had to take their chances as did every other seafarer. Even Teazer might suddenly be set upon. There was no room for sentiment.

The coast lay to larboard, its rocks caught in the morning sun with a soft pink tinge and lying in dense scatters or peeping coyly from the waves in a flurry of white. Islands sprawled in groups or out to sea as lonely outposts. This coast had a terrible beauty all of its own.

Teazer sailed on westward, past tortuous inlets leading to huddled settlements: Ploumanac'h and Skeiviec, ancient names from the beginning of time—here was quite another France to the pomp and fashion of Paris. They skirted the ugly jumble of Les Héaux de Bréhat well out to sea, giving best to the small fry cowering up the long river at Tréguier.

"I'd like t' cast a glance at Sept Îles," Kydd murmured. These were sizeable islands lying offshore, of which the master would be aiming to keep Teazer to seaward, but frightened coasters might be skulking among them. They angled towards but from somewhere in their midst the smoke and tiny spat of a small cannon erupted.

"Closer," Kydd ordered. An antique fort in the centre island was ineffectually disputing their progress; it did, however, serve to draw attention to the channel that lay between it and the mainland. "An' south about," he added.

The sloop eased into the passage, with a rose-coloured granite shoreline on either beam and, in the sea overside, an unsettling forest of kelp from the dark depths streaming away with the current. Ahead lay only the odd-shaped high islands of the Triagoz plateau, but the coast had now turned abruptly southwards.

A scream came from the masthead lookout: "Deck hoooo! Two sail under a press o' canvas, standing away!"

From the deck it was clear what was happening. Their decision to take the inshore channel had spooked the two into abandoning their hiding-place in the Triagoz for a hasty dash to the safety of Roscoff, only a couple of hours' sailing across the bay.

"I want 'em!" Kydd grated, levelling his telescope. Across the deck grins appeared. "Mr Queripel, depth o' water 'tween here 'n' Roscoff?"

"There's a channel fr'm the nor'-east . . ." he began uncomfortably.

"Aye?"

"As will serve—but, sir, I have t' tell ye, it's perilous waters hereabouts. Can we not—"

"Nor'-east." Kydd sniffed the wind. "It'll do. Bow-lines t' th' bridle an' don't spare th' cordage."

Teazer seemed to sense the drama and leaped ahead. Every eye aboard followed the motions of the quarry whose terror even at a distance could almost be felt. The knowledgeable made lordly judgements as to the probable prize value, but Kydd was aware that things could change in a trice—a frigate disturbed in Roscoff, a sudden change in wind forcing them on to a dead lee shore.

"We're t' shift course here, sir," Queripel said awkwardly. "We must be clear o' th' plateau, else we—"

"They're not concerned t' weather it," Kydd said pointedly. The fleeing vessels were taking a direct course to Roscoff, no more than ten or fifteen miles more. "I—I say we must, sir! Th'—th' tide is on th' ebb an' we—" "They come fr'm hereabouts, they should know—" "It's th' state of tide, sir! I mislike we ignore th' overfalls o' the plateau. I've seen—" "Very well. Ease t' larb'd," Kydd said heavily. They angled farther southwards while their prey flew directly towards the distant smudge of their sanctuary, masts leaning at a precarious angle in their quest for speed. There were groans about Teazer 's deck and sour comments about luck.

And then it happened. The leading vessel struck, slewing round in an instant; she was brought to a complete stop, her foremast toppling like a tree at the shock of impact. The other ship, following close astern, shied to one side but raced on desperately.

"Leave him," Kydd said, eyeing the wreck. He looked at Queripel. "Can we . . . ?"

"He took a reef rock o' th' Plateau de la Méloine. We have t' keep to the suth'ard or finish th' same—but this one"—he nodded at the fleeing ship—"he's going t' be a mort more cautious now. We has a chance." Teazer was in the deeper channel and forging ahead but the other vessel was picking its way fearfully through the weed-covered menaces—with only five or so miles to go they most definitely had a chance.

Queripel stepped aside and Kydd saw that Renzi had appeared on deck, wearing the wistful, absent expression that showed he had been happily immersed in his books until very recently. "Ah. Do I see the cause of so much commotion ahead of us?"

"Aye, y' do," Kydd said. "Supposin' we c'n catch him before Roscoff."

"That's Roscoff?" Renzi said, with interest. "As you'd know, a port of much antiquity. Here it was that Mary Queen of Scots stepped ashore to be married to the Dauphin of France—in the 1540s it must have been."

"We're goin' t' be in gunshot in just a quarter-hour, Nicholas. Do y' think I should hold fire, f'r fear I might hurt our prize?"

"Of course, she was only five years old at the time," Renzi went on thoughtfully. "A barbaric practice, such a union."

"And a fine coaster should fetch a handsome sum, as'll be right welcome at this time," Kydd added.

"Yet many would remember first that it was here as well that the Young Pretender, Charles Edward Stuart, came after the calamitous battle of Culloden—spirited hence by a Malouin privateer, I believe, to his final exile."

But Kydd had his glass up, his attention on the low sea wall coming into view. He stiffened. "The bloody dogs," he growled. "Gunboats!" A gaggle had emerged and were converging on the fleeing vessel. Even if they overhauled it now they could never heave-to and take possession.

"We've lost him," he said, lowering his telescope. He swivelled round and focused on the wreck of the first. It was fast settling— but if they managed to come up on it through the same hazards that had claimed it they could only ingloriously fish out sodden oddments of cargo.

"Carry on t' the west, Mr Dowse." They had done well on their first encounter; there would be others.

It seemed, however, word had spread that a new and aggressive English man-o'-war was abroad and the few sail they sighted scuttled away rapidly. After an uneventful conclusion to the cruise, during which Kydd had taken pains to discover more of the sea conditions in this forbidding but often strangely beautiful seascape, Guernsey lifted into view.

With his new-won local knowledge he conned Teazer himself past Jerbourg Point and into the Great Road. "A shame we haven't a prize at our tail," Standish remarked.

"We shall," Kydd said firmly. The more he knew of these seas, the better able he would be to find their skulking places.

There was no admiral's flag in Cerberus but it flew from his headquarters ashore, and their gun salute cracked out in proper style.

Calloway's quarterdeck brace was an exact imitation of his captain's. Kydd had been impressed by how he had handled the promotion; now in a position of authority over his former shipmates he pitched his orders in such a way that none could take offence at the tone or doubt his intent to be obeyed. "Boat putting off, sir," he reported smartly.

"Very well," Kydd answered.

"Two boats, I think," Standish said, lowering his glass.

It was odd: the first clearly contained an officer and a number of seamen but the other taking position astern of it seemed to carry soldiers. Kydd was ready in his dress uniform for going ashore to report; the boats, however, were heading purposefully towards Teazer so he waited.

When they neared, the second with the soldiers slowed and stood off, the seamen laying to their oars while the first made for the sidesteps. Kydd felt the first stirrings of unease as the boat disappeared under the line of the bulwarks and shortly afterwards, with the wail of a boatswain's call, the stern face of an elderly post-captain came into view.

Kydd took off his hat and approached with a welcoming smile, which was not returned. The officer briskly drew out a paper and intoned, "Commander Thomas Paine Kydd? Provost Captain William Fellowes. By these presents I am instructed by the commander-in-chief to make search of your vessel." He held out the paper—and, unmistakably at the bottom, there was the signature of Admiral Saumarez.

"Er, you . . . ?" Kydd was thunderstruck. Around him the deck came to a standstill, men gaping.

"Commander?" The officer held himself with heavy patience.

"May I know what's the meanin' o' this, sir?" Kydd said tightly, as he recovered himself. "T' be rummaged like a country trader? This is a King's ship, sir, an' I'm her captain. I'll have good reason fr'm you, sir, afore I allow such a freedom."

"Are you disputing the direct order of the admiral, sir?" Fellowes said acidly, holding up the paper.

"I'm asking f'r a right an' proper explanation of y'r actions, sir," Kydd blazed.

"Come, come, sir. You have nothing to fear if you have nothing to hide." There was no pity in the man's eyes.

The situation was absurd but also in deadly earnest. "Very well, sir. Do ye require t' begin for'ard? I'll have th' men take up over the hold as soon as we secure fr'm sea."

Fellowes wheeled round and beckoned to the boat's party, who lost no time in coming aboard. "Leave the matter to us, Commander," he said harshly. The men clambering over the bulwarks were hard-looking, practised in their movements, and assembled in a tight group before the captain.

"You know what to do." The men trotted off—not forward, but aft, disappearing down the hatchway.

"Sir! I've a right t' know! What is it—" But Fellowes had turned his back on him and was gazing out to the dark bulk of Sark, tapping the paper impatiently against his thigh.

Suspiciously quickly, there was movement again at the hatchway. To Kydd's horror, the men were hauling up the confidential chest he had recovered with such pains and protected with so much secrecy. "Belay that, you men!" he roared in anger.

They took no notice and Kydd turned hotly on the provost captain. "Sir! Have y' men stop. That's a chest o' secrets f'r the admiral. Th' greatest confidentiality t' be observed—"

The petty officer in charge touched his hat to the provost captain, ignoring Kydd. "In th' commander's bedplace, sir, under th' cot," he reported.

Kydd struggled for words. "That—that's—"

"A blackamoor tried t' stop us an' we had t' skelp him on th' calabash," the petty officer added impassively.

"Tysoe! Y' poxy villains! I'll—"

"That's enough, Commander," Fellowes rapped. "I have now to ask you to accompany me ashore, if you please."

Kydd hesitated, but only for a moment. The sooner the business was sorted out the better. The box was still unopened and its secrets safe. Perhaps this was, after all, a long-winded way to get it ashore.

"Very well. An' the chest remains secured, th' contents not t' be seen."

"Of course." There was nothing for it but to board the boat, leaving an open-mouthed Standish to complete the moor, then begin harbour routine and storing for the next voyage.

There was no conversation on the passage back; the other boat fell in astern and Kydd realised that the soldiers were there to enforce a predetermined course of action and his unease turned to alarm. This was no simple mistake.

They headed for Smith Street and the headquarters ashore, the seamen bearing the chest following closely behind. Saumarez's flag still flew and Kydd's anxieties began to subside. Soon he would know what it was about.

They entered a small room and Kydd was shown to a single chair on one side while Fellowes sat behind a table. The chest had been delivered intact and lay in the centre. Two marines stood guard over it.

Saumarez strode in. "Ah, sir!" said Kydd in relief, scrambling to his feet. "There's been a—a misunderstanding o' sorts."

Saumarez ignored him. "Is this what you found?" he asked Fellowes.

"It is, sir."

Kydd blinked. "This is th' secret chest. Your chest, sir," he blurted.

"My chest?" Saumarez said in amazement. "You think to make it mine, sir?" His voice thickened in anger. "Open it!"

"But—but, sir, we can't do that."

"Pray why not?"

Kydd's mind reeled. "Because, sir, this is the confidential chest y' ordered me t' recover, wi' secret, um, things as can't be shown t' the ordinary sort!"

Saumarez looked at Kydd in disbelief. "I gave orders? You're attempting to say that I gave orders? No, sir, this will not do! It will not do at all!"

"S-sir!" Kydd pleaded. "Don't open it in front o' the others, I beg." Was he going mad?

Saumarez paused, looking at Kydd keenly. "Then I'll clear the room. All except Captain Fellowes to withdraw and remain outside." He waited until the three were alone. "Now we open the chest. Please oblige us, Captain."

Fellowes cut the cords then threw back the lid. Saumarez took a sharp breath as the contents were revealed—bundles of intricately worked lace and silk goods.

"I—this is . . ." Kydd could find no words.

Saumarez drew himself up, his features suddenly old and weary. "Take this officer to the blue room," he said dully. "I will deal with him presently."

Kydd tried to make sense of it. In just a single hour his entire world had been turned upside-down. Why was Saumarez denying his own orders? Had the secret chest been waylaid and a substitute made for him to convey unwittingly in its place? How had the searchers known where to find it? Should he send for Renzi? Or wait until things became clearer? There was every possibility that Saumarez was even now finding out the truth of the matter and he didn't want to involve his ship or any aboard unless he had to.

It seemed an interminable wait and his mind wandered to concern over Teazer and her condition after her recent voyage. He must have that fore topmast seen to. When it had come down to the deck for exercise the carpenter had shaken his head over a fissure in the timber, and with the worn main tack having been turned end for end already he would need to do battle to win a new outfit for fore and main both. While they were at it, conceivably the chain-pump could—

There was movement and discreet murmuring in the adjoining room, the scraping of chairs, the authoritative voice of Saumarez.

The flag-lieutenant's face appeared. "Sir, if you'd be so good as to present yourself . . ."

Kydd followed the officer. Around a long table faces turned towards him, Saumarez at the head, Fellowes to his right—and Carthew, others. Kydd was ushered to the opposite end to face his commander-in-chief.

"Gentlemen." Saumarez seemed to have difficulty bringing out the word, "gentlemen, I would have you in no way misled as to the nature of this meeting. It is by way of an inquiry only, and has no legal standing. If there is cause enough shown then such proceedings may follow in due course, but for now I wish only to establish the facts at hand."

He looked gravely down the table. "Commander Kydd. You should know that an information was passed to me recently that you were abusing your position as captain of one of His Majesty's ships to set up in trading on your own account, to the detriment of the honest merchants of these islands and to the dishonour of the service."

"Sir, who told you—"

"Mr Kydd! Although this is no court of law you would oblige me by remaining silent until called upon to speak, sir." There was an edge of steel to his tone that Kydd had never heard before and he fell silent, but it was an outrageous accusation and he would soon set matters right when the time came: with a commander-inchief as morally sensitive as Saumarez, it would be an unforgivable abomination that would require the direst penalty.

"My source was anonymous but brought forward facts that left me no choice other than to take further action. I'm sorry to say that the information was in the event proved correct and a search of your vessel has produced prima facie evidence to support the allegation."

Faces gazed at Kydd, some with interest, others neutral.

"In view of your meritorious record to date in the service of the King, I am most reluctant to believe that you could be so far in want of conduct as to take advantage of your position. Therefore I wish to establish to my own satisfaction the true situation."

There was a stirring about the table as papers were laid before him. "Captain Fellowes," Saumarez instructed, "detail for me your recent boarding of HMS Teazer."

Fellowes inclined his head and made to rise.

"No, no, sir—this is not a formal gathering," Saumarez said, with a quick glance at Kydd. "You may speak to me directly." "Sir," he began weightily, reading from notes, "pursuant to your order of the twenty-fifth, on the sighting of the said vessel and its subsequent mooring I proceeded—"

"In plain English, if you please."

"Yes, sir. Er, this morning I and a party of men boarded HMS Teazer soon after it anchored in Guernsey Great Road. There I—"

"Did you encounter any resistance—discouragement of your action?"

"Er—no, sir. But when advised of the purpose of my visit, Commander Kydd became heated in his opposition to my action."

"Quite so," Saumarez said drily.

"But on showing him my authority for so doing he agreed, but attempted to divert my attention forward, away from his cabin, offering to lay open the hold. However, by virtue of the information supplied, my men proceeded straight to Commander Kydd's private quarters where regrettably his servant offered violence to their entry and was forcibly subdued. The chest was found under his cot, as predicted."

"Were there any witnesses to the seizure?"

"Petty Officer Crowe, or any of his party present, is prepared to swear as to where it was found."

"And then?"

"It was hauled, unopened, to the upper deck, at which Commander Kydd became considerably agitated."

"What did he say?"

"I cannot recall his exact words, sir, for the officer appeared incoherent, eventually claiming that the chest was of a level of secrecy that precluded its public display."

"And it remained unopened until brought here?"

"All concerned will testify to its integrity, sir."

Kydd's anger rose at the protracted affair and he made to interject but was stopped by Saumarez. "Commander, are you perhaps claiming that the chest and its contents are in fact for your own private consumption?"

It was a lifeline—but if Teazer had been spotted near L'Anse Pivette by the informer, or his ship's company testified to his bringing aboard a mysterious chest, he would be seen to have lied and then . . .

"No, sir, I am not," he said thickly. "I'm tryin' t' say—"

"Later, sir. I find I must now establish a further point. Commander Carthew, did Teazer arrive at the rendezvous in a timely and proper manner?"

Carthew looked uncomfortable, furtive almost. "Sir. Er . . ."

"Come now, Mr Carthew, we can easily determine the answer from your people if necessary."

"Well, sir . . . then not exactly."

"Sir—your attempt to shield a brother officer does you credit, but we will have the facts, Commander."

"I'm truly sorry to have to say, sir, we were hove-to off Bréhat in wait for some . . . twenty hours after the appointed time."

"Thank you, Mr Carthew," said Saumarez, looking squarely at Kydd. Dropping his eyes, he paused, then seemed to make up his mind. "Bring in "Teazer's sailing-master."

"Mr Dowse, sir." The weatherbeaten mariner shuffled his feet but gazed resolutely ahead. He carried his own master's log.

"Information has been passed to me that Teazer was sighted two leagues off Cap de Flamanville and again close in under the Nez de Jobourg at the time her orders specifically required her to rendezvous off Bréhat. I note to my surprise that there is no entry in the ship's log to this effect. Can you explain this?"

"Yes, sir."

Saumarez leaned back in expectation.

"Mr Kydd, he said as how it were a secret mission, like, an' not t' trouble enterin' it in th' log." "Do you have the true workings for those days?"

"Aye." Dowse steadfastly avoided Kydd's eye.

"And?"

"As y' said, sir. We closed wi' the coast after dark at L'Anse Pivette an' took aboard a—a object."

"Then?" prompted Saumarez.

"Then we made all sail f'r the rendezvous."

"I see. You may stand down now, Mr Dowse," Saumarez said tightly. "Is Mr Standish outside?"

"He is, sir."

"Send him in."

Standish entered carefully, his eyes darting about the room. "Sir?"

"Just one question, Mr Standish. What occurred at L'Anse Pivette?"

Teazer's first lieutenant glanced beseechingly at Kydd, then murmured, "Er, we anchored in the lee of the Race and, um, the captain took away a boat and two men an' landed on the coast o' France."

"You mean the captain went ashore alone but for two hands at the oars?"

Standish looked stricken. "Yes, sir."

"Did he give any reason?"

"N-none that I can recall, sir."

"Was he ashore long?"

"He was away for only half an hour or so, sir."

"And when he returned?"

"In the dark it was difficult to see, if you understand, sir."

"I will make my meaning plainer. Did he return with any object?"

"It was covered with a boat-cloak, sir."

"And as officer-of-the-deck you didn't even glimpse it as it was swayed aboard?" Saumarez said irritably.

"It was the chest," Standish admitted.

"Good God!" Kydd exploded. "This has gone on long enough! Will no one hear me out?"

With a pained expression the admiral replied, "I would be obliged if you would refrain from so using the Lord's name in vain. Yet in all fairness you shall be heard. What is it that you want to say, sir?"

Kydd held his temper fiercely in check: things were bad enough as they were without a confrontation. "Sir. This is y'r chest as ye gave orders f'r me to find an' bring back. I can't understand—"

"Mr Kydd. This is the second time you have made this public accusation and I am finding it difficult to restrain my anger. I gave you no such orders, as well you know, and to be certain of this I have sent for your ship's clerk under escort to bring me "Teazer's orders as received that I might verify their contents myself."

He glared at Kydd, then called, "Is—What is his name?"

"Renzi, sir."

"Is this man in attendance yet?"

"Sir."

"Tell him to step in—lively, now."

Renzi entered; his features were grave.

"You are ship's clerk of HMS Teazer?"

"I am, sir."

"Have you the original orders for the voyage just concluded? Quickly, man!"

Renzi unlaced the folder and handed them across. Kydd craned to see but Saumarez snatched them and scanned them. "What's this? I see here no reference whatsoever to any secret dalliance, Mr Kydd," he said sarcastically. "Pray tell by what means you are able to place such a wild construction on these perfectly straightforward instructions?"

"Sir," Kydd gulped, "there were sealed orders as well, an' they—" "I have heard from my flag-lieutenant that your master's mate Prosser duly signed out on these orders. You, Renzi, were you not responsible for their registering into the ship?"

"Sir."

"You signed them in directly from Mr Prosser, did you not?"

"I did, sir."

"And did you see them contain any sealed orders?"

The room echoed its silence.

"Did they? Answer me, sir."

If Renzi admitted to seeing them it would be to betray Kydd as having allowed him, a mere ship's clerk, access to the highest level of confidentiality. And if he did not, Kydd would have not a single witness to testify to their existence.

"Sir, I signed for the packet but immediately locked it into the captain's confidential stowage," Renzi said quietly, his face pale.

"Sir—"

"Mr Kydd?"

"Sir. I find it monstrous that I'm being treated in this way. I did m' duty t' th' best o' my—"

Saumarez bowed his head and held up his hand. "Clear the room," he said. "I've heard enough. You will remain, Mr Kydd."

When they had left Saumarez looked at Kydd for a long moment before he spoke. "You! Of all the men of promise in my command—to stoop to venal acts as shabby as any."

Kydd tried to say something but it came out as a mumble.

"And you think to obfuscate and temporise with wild tales that do you no credit whatsoever. I have to tell you, sir, I'm both shocked and greatly saddened by what has passed." He sighed deeply and rose slowly from his chair. "And now I have to decide what to do with you." He paced to the end of the room, then turned. "In view of your recent valour and service to my squadron I will not proceed in law, Mr Kydd."

"Th-thank you, sir." There seemed nothing else to say.

"However, I see no other course than to relieve you of your command as of this hour, Mr Kydd. You are not to return to your ship. Your effects will be sent ashore at your convenience. I will not have you as an example to my fleet. Good day to you, sir."

CHAPTER 8

KYDD WAS VERY QUIET, unheeding of the hubbub that eddied around the inn's taproom. The candle guttered, throwing the lines on his face into deep relief. Renzi felt uneasy. Would this sudden catapult into shame and an unknown future tip him back into unreality?

"Ye didn't have t' do it, Nicholas," he said eventually, his beer still untouched in the pewter tankard.

"With Teazer in an uproar and all ahoo? Not as this would assist in a scholard's ruminations."

Kydd raised his head. "Who is . . . ?"

Renzi saw there was no point in prolonging it. "Kit Standish is made captain and Prosser an acting lieutenant." The light died in his friend's eyes and his head dropped. Renzi's heart was wrung with pity. That a man could suffer two such blows in succession was grievous. That neither was of Kydd's doing was so much the worse.

"Did they land y'r books in good shape?" Kydd asked unexpectedly, breaking into Renzi's thoughts. He had found an old sail-loft near the boatbuilders in Havelet Bay as a temporary store for their possessions, the familiar objects of a score of voyages on a dozen seas now hidden under drab canvas, waiting for . . . who knew what?

"They did, bless them. Stirk made the boat's crew bear them the full way, then insisted in making a seamanlike stow of them." He hesitated, then added softly, "And wishes I might make known to you the true feelings of the ship's company on your cruel and unjust treatment."

Kydd gave a tired smile. "You worry I'm ready t' slip m' cable, go astray in m' wits—I know ye too well, ol' friend."

His head drooped once more—but then he looked up suddenly and, with an appalling crash, both of his fists smashed on to the table. He held Renzi's eyes with cold ferocity. "If it takes th' rest o' m' life, I'm going t' get revenge o' this. I don't know what it's about, but y' have my oath—someone's t' pay for it."

Renzi was taken aback. At first he could think of nothing to say; he had his suspicions but it was not the time to air them. He sought refuge in his glass, then said, "Perhaps we should give thought as to our future."

Kydd breathed deeply and forced himself into control. His knuckles were still white, and Renzi felt a fleeting pity for the perpetrator when his friend finally found him.

"Er, what do ye suggest?"

"Well, there's nothing to keep us here," Renzi said, "and I do recall we have the better part of a year's lease left on number eighteen, all paid for, of course, and a pity to waste it."

"No!"

"It's comfortable and . . . it's there," Renzi finished lamely.

"I'm not leavin' here! Not until I've cleared m' name an' been taken back."

"Tom. Dear friend. You should not set your heart on this. I sadly fear it'll prove a deep and fearful mystery that may well be impossible to penetrate at our remove. Someone is out to ruin you, and has friends . . .

"Consider—although you've been dismissed your ship, they've not succeeded in having you cashiered out of the Service. You're unemployed, but still a commander, Royal Navy, and can be given a ship at any time—but not here while Admiral Saumarez remains in command."

"I stay," Kydd hissed. "If I leave, I've got no chance o' nobblin' th' bastard who did this. It's here there's th' clues, an' here I stay till I've laid him by th' tail."

"I understand, brother," Renzi said. "And since these islands are proving such a singular source of ethnical curiosities, so shall I stay too."

"I—I thank ye for it, Nicholas. I've taken rooms here as will serve."

He took a pull at his drink, then said, "This I don't fathom, Nicholas. Why should Saumarez deny his own orders? He's a square-sailin' sort, treated me right well before."

"That's easily answered. There were no sealed orders."

"I saw 'em wi' my own eyes, Nicholas!"

"Those were counterfeit, added to the original orders."

Kydd slumped back. "Why?"

"As I said, to bring about your fall from grace and ruin in the most complete fashion possible. A masterly plot, it has to be admitted," Renzi mused. He went on firmly, "I saw the orders were unopened: Prosser signed for them in due form in the admiral's office and they were still unopened when I took them in charge. This implies that if there was anything untoward it was done in the admiral's office."

"Then we clap on all sail an' go—"

"This will not be possible. Your presence will be resisted. More to the point, it will be to no purpose."

"I'll sweat it out o' th' buggers—someone knows—"

"It would appear, dear fellow, that anyone having influence in a commander-in-chief's office and acting with confidence and a degree of familiarity, one admiral upon another, does in fact suggest—"

"Lockwood!" Kydd recalled the man's threats when he had chosen Rosalynd over his daughter.

"I cannot dispute your conclusion. He has sworn to destroy you for what he imagines you've done concerning his family, and but for the respect you have already won from Admiral Saumarez, you would now be facing a court-martial and certain public ruination."

"How . . . ?"

"The motive is established, the method easily deduced. It requires but one corrupt clerk to accept a suitably fat bribe to insert the poisonous forgery, and one smuggler knowing the coast to deposit the chest, and it is done." He added, "It's the perfect method, for how do we proceed? Do we know who took the bribe? Confront the admiral's staff one by one and demand they confess? Or minutely examine their motions on the day in question and—It's hopeless, I'm obliged to say."

Kydd slumped back. "If you'd have found th' orders when you were called, Nicholas, I'd have waved 'em in Saumarez's face an' m' case would be proved."

"You will believe I searched furiously, the escort looking on with a certain impatience—but as you can observe, if I confessed knowledge of them by their absence, we'd be in a strange fixation both."

"Then they're still aboard!"

"I rather doubt it. I personally supervised the removal of your effects with the intent of their discovery. If you could but remember where you placed them?"

"I—I've tried, damn it, but we were in a moil at th' time, puttin' t' sea an' all."

Renzi sighed. "But then it's all of no account. At this space of time, should you produce them now it would be considered a clumsy attempt at exculpation. No, brother, this is as serious a matter as we have ever faced—and I confess at this time I see no way forward."

Kydd was frustrated and restless. "I've a notion t' take a walk, Nicholas, clear th' intellects." Spirited discussion had not resolved the matter, but there had to be a way through.

With his uniform packed and stowed, Kydd was in his barely worn civilian garb, the dark-green tailed coat and nondescript pantaloons feeling odd after his stout naval coat and breeches. He was now a figure of scandal, of wonder—a Navy captain who had been publicly shamed, caught out in a felony and dismissed his ship. To make things even more juicy for the gossips he was the undoubted hero of the recent Granville action. In the street he would be pointed out, gaped at, scorned—and not a word could he say in his defence.

Feeling hot shame he descended the inn stairs, holding to his heart that, no matter what, he knew he was innocent of any wrongdoing. The street was in its usual clamorous busyness and Kydd's emergence was not noticed. Gathering his courage about him he turned left and marched resolutely up High Street.

Renzi caught up with him in the more spacious upper reaches. "I hadn't bargained on such a gallop," he puffed. "Do moderate your pace, I beg."

But Kydd wanted to be away from the town and didn't slow. Eventually they found the road north, slackened their speed and Renzi found breath for conversation. "A remarkable island—just a few miles broad but—"

"T' be pointed out as—as who I am, it's more'n a man should bear," Kydd said, through his teeth. He knew, however, that there was one easy answer: simply to return to England and find anonymity—but that would deprive him of any chance to uncover the truth and reclaim his honour.

Renzi glanced at him sharply. "Don't take it amiss, my friend, if I remark that few know you by sight, your not having entered upon society to any great degree. I have my doubts there are above a dozen people outside the Navy who know you so you shouldn't overmuch fear the gaze of the herd, if that is your concern."

"Aye, but they'll find out—an' you will say I'm damned in society."

Renzi bit his lip. "Here, this will be so for now, I agree. But in England—"

"I'm not leavin', Nicholas."

They walked on in silence and after an hour returned. Nothing had been concluded other than a vague intent to go to the admiral's office and do something unspecified. Yet every hour that passed . . . For all they knew, Lockwood's agent might still be on the island preparing to return, still available for unmasking.

It was the worst kind of frustration; Kydd found it hard to contain, and as they passed Government House he turned impulsively to go into the naval headquarters. Their entry was refused but he pushed past the scandalised sentry whereupon they were indignantly ejected. There would be no interrogations.

The evening meal was cheerless and silent. It had become obvious now that there would be no quick solution and happy restitution— in fact, nothing constructive whatsoever had suggested itself.

In the morning, Kydd excused himself and said he needed to go for a walk alone. When he returned his face was serious. Renzi knew better than to ask; indeed, his own situation was approaching despair, for complete idleness without the solace of his books was difficult.

The day wore on drearily with neither news nor inspiration; eventually, needing to get out, Renzi suggested they head to the tavern where they had shared a dinner before their world had turned demented.

It was a mistake. They had a fine view of the castle islet below, but also a first-class vantage-point to witness HMS Teazer win her anchor and stand out to sea, her long masthead pennant whipping in the brisk breeze. It was proof positive that a new commission had begun for her, a new life under a new captain.

Kydd's face was like stone. Then Renzi saw a glitter in his eyes and he had to turn away. When he looked back Kydd was as still as a statue, following the little vessel with his eyes until she spread full sail and made off southward—to the open sea. With infinite sadness, he said, "I'd be beholden t' ye, Nicholas, should we go back now."

"It grieves me to raise the subject, brother, but we must take stock of our position." Renzi and Kydd sat in their usual spot in the snug, to one side of the fire, teasing out their half-pints of ale for as long as they could. It was now five days gone and they were no further forward.

Kydd said nothing, gloomily lifting his grog-blackened leather tankard.

"In fine, it is to remark that our means are not without their limit—my humble emolument as a ship's clerk ceased the minute I quit the ship, as you would know, and for your own good self."

Kydd shifted uncomfortably. "I'm on half-pay, that's true, but I have t' say to ye, it's spoken for f'r months ahead—I outlaid a fat purse t' those villains in St Sampson t' prettify "Teazer's bright-work an' gingerbread. I doubt as Standish is appreciatin' it now," he added morosely.

Renzi turned grave. "Am I to understand thereby that we are living on our capital?"

"Aye, I suppose it's so."

"Then—then it's time for a decision, my friend."

"Oh?"

"Most certainly. And it is simply to establish at what point we will be constrained to recognise our resources no longer allow us to continue our hunt and retire from hence, wounded but whole."

"I'm not running!" Kydd blazed. "T' return to m' family wi' such a stain? I'd sooner roast in hell."

Renzi gave a half-smile. "Then we must take prudent measures, steps to preserve body and soul through come what may until . . ."

"Someone's going t' talk," Kydd said positively, "spend their vile guineas like water, make a noise in th' taverns. An' then I'll hear about it," he said savagely. "An' God help th' slivey toad!"

"Very well," Renzi said, without conviction. "The first is to secure our living quarters. This fine inn here is no longer within our competence. We must find—"

"Our?" Kydd cut in. "Nicholas, this is not your fight."

"In all conscience the odds against you are high enough. I cannot find it in me to leave you to face alone what you must, dear brother. No, this is now my decision, which you will allow me to make on my own."

"Tak' it or leave 'un!"

The hard-faced woman turned to go but Renzi stopped her. "We'll take it, madam."

"Ten livres on account," she said, thrusting out a hand from under her shawl. "An' I've plenty o' Frenchies as'll sigh for such a one!"

Kydd frowned at Renzi, who whispered back, "The royalists— having fled the Revolution, they're pining in exile here where they can still see their homeland."

The wrong side of Fountain Street, it was a mansion of grandeur that had seen better times. Now the familiar drawing room, dining room and the rest were each partitioned off with their own noisy family; Kydd and Renzi's domicile was the topmost floor, the old servants' quarters.

"Such a quantity of space!" exclaimed Renzi, stoutly, at the two rooms, a clapboard partition dividing the open space of a garret. Their furniture was limited to a bed each, turned up against the wall, a single table and chair under the window and a seedy dresser. There were bare floorboards and a dank, musty smell throughout.

"Fresh air," offered Kydd, eyeing the dirty window. "And a fireplace." The small grate looked mean and still contained the disconsolate crumbled remains of the last fire, but he rubbed his hands, and said briskly, "We'll soon have it shipshape. Um, not as who's t' say, but I don't spy a kitchen a-tall. How . . . ?"

Renzi forced a bright smile. "In course, we as bachelor gentlemen do send out for our victuals, dear fellow. There's sure to be a chop-house or ordinary close by. As to the smaller comestibles there'll be your milkmaid, baker, pieman calling, eager for our trade."

Kydd looked at the small fireplace. "A kettle f'r tea an' coffee?"

"Tea will soon be beyond our means, I'm sorry to say," Renzi said firmly. "Scotch coffee will probably be available." Kydd winced. Childhood memories of scrimping in hard times had brought back the bitter taste of burned breadcrumbs.

They set to, and a seaman-like scrubbing from end to end soon had the spaces glistening with damp, the window protesting loudly at being opened, and a resolve declared that they would invest in more aids to comfort when their affairs were on the mend. Meanwhile another chair was needed, with various domestic articles as they suggested themselves.

When evening fell and they set about their meagre repast, the extravagance of a bottle of thin Bordeaux did little to lift the mood. A burst of ill-tempered rowdiness came up from below. Was the future stretching ahead to be always like this?

The night passed badly for Kydd. In just a few months he had come from contemplating a high-society wedding to regretting the coals for the comfort of a fire. From captain of a man-o'-war to tenant of a dirty garret. It was hard to take, and lurking at the back of his mind there was always the temptation to slink back cravenly to England.

But that would be to accept the ruin Lockwood had contrived and he'd be damned if he would!

The dull morning began with rain pattering on the window and leaks appearing from nowhere. Over the last of their tea, Renzi gave a twisted smile. "I rather think that the occupation of gentleman is quite over for us, brother. We must seek out some form of income—of employment suitable to our character, or it will be the parish workhouse for us."

"I'll never get another ship from Admiral Saumarez," Kydd said glumly, "even supposing he's one in his gift. Er, y' haven't seen my hairbrush? You know, the pearl-backed one Mother gave me."

"I thought it was on the dresser," Renzi said absently.

"No matter," Kydd said. "It'll turn up."

He reflected for a moment. "An' it must be admitted, anything of employment as takes me back t' sea is not t' be considered—I'd then be removed fr'm here an' couldn't find m' man."

Renzi smiled briefly. "As one of Neptune's creatures, there's little enough for you on terra firma, so completely out of your element."

"I shall think on't," Kydd answered stiffly. "May I know, then, what it is you're proposin' to do, Nicholas?"

"It does set a challenge," Renzi admitted, "my qualifications being of the most cursory. I do suggest we devote this day to a reconnaissance of prospects, each being free to follow our independent course and exchange our experiences later tonight."

Kydd headed down to the busy quayside and found the little octagonal building that had been pointed out to him. The genial harbour-master greeted him and made room for him among the charts and thick-bound books. "What is it I c'n do for ye, Mr Kydd?"

"Kind in you t' see me, Mr Collas. Er, I'd have y' know that I've seen m' share o' sea service—"

"Oh, aye?"

"But at th' moment I find m'self without a ship, an' I thought it might be time t' swallow th' anchor an' take employment ashore, if y' see what I mean."

There was a careful silence.

"That is t' say, if there's a position open in th' harbour authority t' a man o' the sea that ye'd recommend, I'd be grateful t' hear it."

"Y' mean a harbour commissioner, inspector sort o' thing?"

"I do."

"Then I have t' disappoint ye, Mr Kydd. We runs things differently here. No King's men pokin' into our affairs an' that. An' no Customs an' Excise neither. In th' islands trade is king. So it's leave 'em at it to get on wi' their business.

"Now, the most important thing we does is the piloting. T' be a Guernsey pilot is t' be at the top o' th' profession, Mr Kydd. An' afore ye ask, there's none but a Guern' will have th' knowledge t' do it. See, there's nothing like here anywheres in Creation f'r rocks 'n' shoals, and then we adds in the tidal currents, and it's a rare place indeed f'r hazards. Y' learn about a rock—it looks like quite another when th' tide state's different. Y' come upon it in th' fog, see it just the once—which rock are y' going t' tell y'r ship's master it is?"

He went on: "Currents about here c'n be faster'n a man can run but they'll change speed 'n' direction with the tide as well. It's right scareful, th' way it can be well on th' make in one part an' at the same time only at slack in another. Why, springs in the Great Russel y' can hear th' overfalls roaring—does y' know how t' navigate the far side of an overfall in spate? An' then there's the seamounts. Nasty beasts they are, currents over them are wicked and they change—"

"—with th' tide," Kydd said hastily. "I did hear as ye've bought a patent lifeboat." "We did. A Greathead thirty-footer, cost us a hundred and seventy pounds so we takes good care of it."

"And does it need—"

"We keep it at St Sampson."

Clearly it was of small interest and tucked away safely out of harm's way. Kydd was running out of ideas. "Do ye conduct hydrographical surveys hereabouts? I'm doubting th' Admiralty has the time."

"No need. We're well served b' the private charts, all put out b' local mariners as we know 'n' trust. Dobrée an' others, rutters by Deschamps . . ."

"Then buoyage an' lighthouses—surely Trinity House can't be expected—"

"But they do an' all! Ye've probably seen our Casquet light— remarkable thing! Three towers, an' Argand oil wi' reflecting metal—"

Kydd stood up. "Aye. Thank ye, Mr Collas. Good day t' ye."

Renzi waited patiently in the foyer of the imposing red-brick building on St Julian's Avenue. The clerk appeared again, regarding him doubtfully. "Mr Belmont is very busy, but c'n find you fifteen minutes, Mr, er, Renzi."

A thin and bespectacled individual looked up as he entered. "Yes?"

The man was irritable in his manner but making an effort to be civil, so Renzi pressed on: "Sir, at the moment I'm to seek a position in Guernsey that will engage my interests and talents to best advantage.

"My experience in marine insurance will not be unknown to the profession—the barratry case of the Lady of Penarth back in the year 'ninety-three, in which I might claim a leading role, has been well remarked." It would probably not help his case to mention that at the time he had been a common foremast hand in the old Duke William with Kydd.

"Since those days I have occupied myself as an officer in the King's service, lately invalided out, and it struck me that I should perhaps consider turning my experience to account and—"

"Tell me, sir, what is your conceiving of a contract of indemnity?"

"Why, sir, this is nothing but that which is defined in the deed." It was a fair bet that anything and everything would be covered in any good watertight policy.

"Would you allow, then, rotted ropes in an assessment of common average or would it be the particular?"

"Sir, you can hardly expect me to adjudicate in a matter so fine while not in possession of the details at hand."

Belmont sighed. "Might I know then if you have written anything?"

Renzi brightened; he had passed the initial test and now they were enquiring after his common literacy. As to that . . . "Sir, since you so kindly asked," he began warmly, "I am at the moment consumed in the task of evolving an ethnographical theory that I do hope will be published at—"

"I was rather referring to policies," the man rasped sarcastically, "and, as it happens, I'm desolated to find that there is no opening in this establishment for a marine gentleman of your undoubted talents. Good day to you, sir."

In the evening, footsore and thoughtful, it was time to review matters. Kydd's attempts had led nowhere, although he now had the solace that in Guernsey society it seemed his crime was regarded more as bad luck than anything else, the pursuit of profit by trade a worthy enough endeavour whatever the nature of the enterprise.

Renzi's manners and evident breeding had created suspicion and distrust and, apart from a doubtful offer as a proof-reader and another as assistant to a dancing master, whose duties appeared to be nothing more than making himself agreeable to lady students, there was nothing.

"I'm to go to St Sampson tomorrow," Kydd said. "There are several yards as build fine schooners an' brigs there, an' they'll be sure t' need a projector o' quality, one who knows th' sea an' has met fine men o' standin' in strange parts o' th' world," he added unconvincingly.

Renzi hid a smile. Kydd engaged in hard selling to thick-skinned mercantile interests was unlikely, to say the least. "One moment, and I'll jot our ideas down," he said.

He found paper, but then in irritation turned on Kydd: "Brother, I have mentioned before that the silver-lead pencil is a fine but expensive piece, and is for my own studies and not for the, er, general use. Where did you leave it, pray?"

Kydd glowered back. "An' I've heard above ten times o' this wonderful pencil, but f'r now I'm not guilty o' the crime." He hunted about briefly. "It'll turn up."

Renzi paused at the sound from below of a shouted argument reaching its climax in a crash. "Possibly we should be considering a more aggressive approach to securing our existence."

"What?" Kydd grunted.

"Why, er, we have not yet consulted the newspaper."

They sauntered into the nearest coffee-house. Renzi engaged a bewigged attendant in amiable conversation while Kydd sat on a bench and looked around as though waiting, carelessly picking up a recent La Gazette. When he was sure no one was watching he folded the newspaper, slipped it into his waistcoat and left, his face burning.

It was a substantial publication in keeping with the prosperous island economy and its study justified the opening of their last claret, for the light was fast fading and, with a single candle at the table, all Renzi would allow, there were many pages of closely printed columns. They set to, trying to ignore the distant squalling of infants and the reek of burned fat and cheap tallow rising to the upper storeys.

It was depressing reading: without appropriate introductions of the usual sort, access to the more gentlemanly occupations was barred, while without experience even the lower trades would not be open to them.

"There's a situation here that may interest you," Renzi said.

"Oh?"

"Indeed. I see here a vacancy as a shopman for an antigropelos draper, no less."

Kydd gave a lop-sided smile. "Being?"

"Well, a seller of waterproof leggings, of course," Renzi answered lamely. They both tried to laugh, and Kydd reached for the foul-weather flask; there should be some of the precious spirit left from the last stormy deck watch.

"Where's that bedamn'd flask gone to?" grunted Kydd in annoyance, rummaging about. Suddenly he stopped and raised his eyes to meet Renzi's. "A poxy snaffler!"

"It has to be—but where's a sneak thief going to get in while we're out?"

Kydd had locked everything and he was sure that it was not possible to gain entry.

"Ah—there is one way!"

"Nicholas?"

"At night. We don't batten down all hatches while we're asleep, do we?"

"The scrovy swab! If I lay my . . ." Kydd smiled grimly. "Bear a fist, Nicholas. I'm going t' rig a welcome as will see us shakin' hands with th' villain b' morning."

It was easily enough done: the odd length of wood, pieces of string led along the floor, a cunning door wedge. Then they pulled down their beds to retire.

Renzi did not sleep well. It was becoming clear that they were headed into unknown waters: possibly useless penury, certainly life on the fringes of society. He would bear his lot without complaint but now a moral question was arising.

Was he right in acquiescing to Kydd's forlorn search to clear his name? If Lockwood was at the back of it the implication was that he would not rest until Kydd's personal ruin was seen to be accomplished. Therefore even if by some miracle Kydd achieved his exoneration Lockwood would find some other way to secure his revenge. Renzi knew well the lengths to which vindictive men in high places could go if vengeance was their purpose.

But he had vowed to stand by his friend whatever the situation. Therefore, in logic, he must remain.

The bed with its wire frame creaked and twanged as he turned restlessly, but sleep did not come. His mind wandered to his studies: his theory was proceeding well, coalescing about responses to primal needs in differing cultures, but he needed more data. Much more. If only he could lay hold of Baudin's journal, but the French explorer had died in Mauritius and his data was now separated by the unbridgeable gulf of war. Where else could—

Cecilia. Would she wait for him? The thought shocked him into full wakefulness as he reflected on his failure in Australia to forge a life there as a free settler. He had wanted to create an Arcadia of his small landholding for her. Now, his grand plan to complete his first volume for publication to present to her before he felt morally able to seek her hand—where was this, now that his entire endeavour was at an indefinite standstill? What if she—

"Hssst! Nicholas!" Kydd whispered, but Renzi had heard it too. The door-handle was squeaking softly. He lay still. There was just enough wan moonlight to make out gross shadows so the two of them should well be able to handle one—but if there were more?

The door scraped open and stayed for a space. Then the floorboards creaked but Renzi could not see any bulking figure. Instead, to his surprise, he next heard movement from well within the room.

Kydd yanked the string hard. The door banged to and the wedge slammed into place with a triumphant finality. The intruder whirled about and made for the door but it was jammed tightly shut. "Strike a light, Nicholas, an' we'll see what we've snagged," Kydd said, with satisfaction, getting to his feet.

The candle flickered into flame, revealing a slight figure trapped against the door. "Well, now, an' what's y' name then, y' young shicer?"

There was no answer. Two dark eyes watched warily as they approached. The figure was in leggings, a short jacket and a bandanna.

"Answer me, y' scamp, or I has ye taken in b' th' watch."

The muttered reply was inaudible.

"Speak up, 'scapegallows!"

"P-Pookie."

A female child-thief? Caught off-guard in his nightgown Renzi took refuge in frowning severely. "Pookie what, pray?"

Defiantly the boyish figure stayed mute.

"We c'n easily find out b' takin' you t' each o' the families in th' buildin' t' see who owns ye."

"Pookie, er, Turner."

Kydd looked at Renzi in exasperation. The harsh penal system demanded transportation to Botany Bay for the theft of a handkerchief and the gallows for a few shillings. Children as young as nine had gone to the scaffold. What had possessed this ragamuffin to take such risks?

"Get rigged, Nicholas, I'm gettin' satisfaction fr'm th' father."

But there was none, only a listless, irritated mother who screamed threats at the child. "Only twelve year she has an' all, sir, an' s' help me the bastard ain't even mine!" she whined. It seemed they would not be seeing their possessions again.

"Listen t' me, an' mark well what I say," Kydd growled, in a fierce quarterdeck manner. "If'n I catch this scut skulking about our rooms again it's th' beak on th' instant. Compree?"

The coins clinked one by one as Renzi let them drop to the table, his face in shadows from the single, evil-smelling rush dip.

"So bad?" Kydd asked uneasily. He was trying to toast the last of a stale loaf on a brown-coal fire.

At first Renzi did not reply. Then he turned. "Despite domestic economies of such austerity as would quite put Mistress Hannah Glasse to the blush, it would seem that the end must come soon and with no appeal."

"Th' end?" Kydd said apprehensively.

"Suffice it to say that on Friday we shall be unable to render her due to our termagant landlady. It should be quite within prospect that our immediate quitting will be demanded."

"Then . . ."

"Yes."

Renzi said nothing further and regarded Kydd gravely.

"You're sayin' we're t' be gone fr'm the islands, return t' England?"

"It would seem the time has come, brother."

Kydd looked away. "I'm stayin', Nicholas."

"Where—"

"I'm goin' t' the sail-loft. Th' old fisherman as offered it me has no use f'r it. That's where I'll be."

"Dear fellow, that's—that's no living for a gentleman. Why, you might well be taken up for a vagrant. It will not do at all."

Kydd gave a tigerish smile. "I'm seein' it through. That chousin' toad only has t' say one word out o' place an' I'll have him."

It was a piteous image: a fine seaman, and honourable, reduced to rags and the shuffling hopelessness of the poor with the canker of vengeance sapping his life spirit.

"Of course," Renzi said calmly. "Then I do suggest we begin taking the rest of our worldly goods thence. For myself, there is no question that I burden myself on you further. Instead I'll, er, find somewhere to lay my head. Yes! I have a mind to visit Jersey."

"Jersey?"

"A Channel Island not twenty miles to the south-east, which, I might point out to you, is larger in area than this present isle and its opportunities as yet untried. Any news I have will be made available to you at St Peter Port post office."

"Then—then this is y'r farewell, Nicholas," Kydd said, in a low voice, "an' I'd wish it were at a happier time."

"For now, dear friend. When the one meets with fortune I dare to say the other will share in it. Do take care of my manuscripts, I beg. And at any time you will have need of your friend, make it known at the St Helier's post office."

CHAPTER 9

IT WOULD BE EASIER SAID THAN DONE. Carrying a bundle for his immediate needs, Renzi stepped ashore in St Helier, the chief town and port of Jersey, with the pressing goal of finding employment, however humble, that might serve to keep both himself and his friend from starving while Kydd's all-consuming quest spent itself before they returned to England.

Preoccupied, he had not particularly noticed the castle set out into the approaches to St Helier, which was of considerable antiquity. Other defensive works of a more recent vintage briefly caught his eye: the massive crenellations of a fortification along the skyline above the town, gun towers and signal posts. Jersey had a definite edge of siege-like tension about it. St Helier itself was less steep than St Peter Port but appeared busier.

The mariner in Renzi noted the immense scatter of granite reefs that crowded in on the port and would make it a lethal trap if the wind shifted to the south, unlike St Peter Port, which had handy escape routes north and south. He shrugged: there would be precious little sea time for the near future—he had to secure tolerable employ.

Renzi found a coffee-house and went in. Seated in a quiet corner he secured a dog-eared copy of the Gazette de Jersey and scanned it—much about the tenor of existence, economic health and the general happiness of folk could be gauged from the profundity or otherwise of the concerns expressed in a newspaper.

Here, it seemed, there was feverish anticipation of an imminent assault by Bonaparte, but otherwise the usual run of vanities: theatre, gossip, confected moral outrage. But there was also a sense of boundary, between the incomers and the established residents. Not so different from any society in similar constricted circumstances, he reflected, but without the requisite introductions, nearly impossible to penetrate socially—or for the purpose of gentlemanly employment.

Renzi sighed and put down the newspaper. He had come across just one avenue. There was a naval presence here, considerably smaller than in Guernsey but apparently rating a junior commodore. It might be possible by deploying his experience as a ship's clerk to make himself useful somewhere in the establishment.

He called for writing materials and crafted a polite note offering his services to the commodore's office in whatever situation might prove convenient, sealed it and carefully superscribed it in correct naval phrasing. He had provided no return address, begging that any reply might be left poste restante at the St Helier post office, then sat back to finish his coffee.

In the early morning he emerged stiff and shivering from beneath an upturned fishing-boat where he had spent another night on the beach. Trudging into the deserted town his nose led him to a bakery; and for the price of some amiable chatting Renzi went away with half a loaf of stale bread. Around the corner he fished out a hunk of cheese, pared some off with his penknife, then wolfed his breakfast.

The town was coming to life and he wandered through the streets. Like St Peter Port, this was not a poor community—in fact, it, too, showed signs of wealth.

By mid-morning he was ready to continue to seek employment.

On impulse he turned back for the post office; Kydd had promised to keep in touch and he was much concerned for him.

There was nothing from his friend—but there was a neatly sealed letter in an unknown hand, bearing a crest he did not know. It was from Commodore d'Auvergne: in friendly tones it invited him to make himself known at his shore address adjacent to the customs house where they would explore possibilities concerning a position. It seemed a trifle peculiar—a flag-officer, however junior, deigning to involve himself in clerkly hiring? But Renzi could see no advantage to be gained by any kind of prank.

At first he thought he had come to the wrong place. The small office, compared to his usual experience of naval headquarters, could only be termed discreet. He had taken some care in his appearance and stepped in purposefully. He identified himself to a clerk, who looked at him keenly but said nothing and ushered him up a cramped flight of stairs to a small room. It was odd, he thought, that there were no uniformed sentries.

"Mr Renzi, sir," the man announced.

"Ah, do come in, sir," Commodore d'Auvergne said genially, in barely accented English; he had a round, kindly face but with the high forehead and alert eyes of someone intelligent and self-possessed.

"Thank you, sir," Renzi said, attending carefully while d'Auvergne leaned back in his chair.

There was a moment's pause as the commodore summed him up. Then he said briskly, "You wonder why at my eminence I noticed you, sir. That is simple. In the letter your hand betrays you as a gentleman, and your making application for a menial post intrigues me."

Renzi's uneasy smile brought a further penetrating glance. "Of course, this would be a capital way for a spy to inveigle himself into my headquarters. Are you a spy, Mr Renzi?"

"I am not, sir."

"Then?"

"My last post was that of a ship's clerk, sir, lately Teazer, brig-sloop. For reasons that need not trouble you, this position has now been closed to me."

"Clerk? How interesting. It would disappoint me to hear that your removal was for . . . peccant reasons."

"No felonious act has ever attached to my name, sir," Renzi snapped.

"Do pardon my direct speaking, sir. You see, your presenting at this time comes as a particular convenience to me."

At Renzi's wary silence he went on: "Let me be more explicit. As commodore of the Jersey Squadron I have my flagship round the coast at Gorey. This little office provides an official pied-à-terre in St Helier and my private house is nearby. As it happens, sir, I have an especial regard for those who have in their person suffered in the terrible convulsions of the Revolution—the royalistes."

He looked at Renzi intently. "Here there are many émigré French to be seen wandering the streets, poor souls, some even standing for long hours on the cliffs mooning over their lost land, which is in plain view to the east. I do take a personal interest in their plight."

Shuffling some papers on his desk he said, "It is for this reason I maintain an old, contemptible castle near Gorey, which I devote to their cause. Now, there is nothing in the naval sphere available," he said regretfully, "but I have recently lost a valued confidential secretary and the creatures offering themselves in his place are—are lacking in the article of gentlemanly discernment, shall we say? Therefore, should you feel inclined, there is a post I can offer, which shall be my secretary for émigré affairs.

"You have the French, I trust?" he added.

"I do, sir."

"They are a distracted and, some might say, fractious community. Dogmatic priests, aristocrats insisting on the forms of the ancien régime, a thankless task. For this, shall we say fifty livres a month?"

A princely sum! It was more than he had dared hope, and—

With only a single glance at Renzi's scuffed shoes d'Auvergne added smoothly, "Of course, this will be at the castle—Mont Orgueil, I should inform you—which is at a remove from St Helier, and therefore I feel an obligation upon me to offer you a room there for a trifle in the way of duties out of the normal hours."

"That is most kind in you, sir."

"Then may I know when would be an acceptable date for your commencement, Mr Renzi?"

"This is a very remarkable achievement, sir," said Renzi, standing next to d'Auvergne within the grim bastions of Mont Orgueil, softened with tasteful medieval hangings and well-turned Gothic furniture. The castle, four-square and forbidding on a prominence looking across the water at France, had its roots in the age of the longbow and armoured knights, but with the arrival of cannon, it had been abandoned in Elizabethan times to genteel decay.

D'Auvergne had brought back some of the colour and grandeur, particularly in the part of the edifice he occupied, the Corbelled Tower, now an impressive receiving place past the four outer gates and a higgledy-piggledy final spiral staircase.

The rest of the castle was an eccentric accretion of bluff towers and quaint gateways that led to open battlements at the top. There, stretching over two-thirds of the eastern horizon, was the coast of France—the ancient enemy of England.

D'Auvergne gave Renzi a pensive look. "I like to think I am its castellan of modern times and I'm rather fond of it. 'Time has mouldered into beauty many a grim tower,' it's been said. 'And where rich banners once displayed, now only waves a flower . . .' Sad, for there's myriad tales untold here, I'm persuaded."

He collected himself. "You shall bed in the Principal Yeoman Warder's room. Don't concern yourself on his behalf, pray—the last he had need of it was in 1641."

Renzi found it hard to avoid being affected by the atmosphere; the musty stonework of the upper floors had some life and light but other places lurking below in the dark and unfathomable depths of the fortress made him shiver.

D'Auvergne continued, "There is a small staff. I have had the kitchens removed to this level, else it plays the devil with keeping the food hot. The gate porter you'll find in St George Tower—be sure to address him as the maréchal—his lodgings are found by the King's Receiver and he may claim one gallon of imported wine and a cabot of salt for his pains."

At length they returned to d'Auvergne's apartment, where he sat behind a Gothic desk, set before diamond-mullioned windows, and steepled his fingers. "So. You have the measure of my little kingdom, Mr Renzi. What do you think?"

It was impossible to do justice to the sense of awe and unease that this lonely sea-frontier redoubt had brought to him so Renzi murmured, "Quite of another age, sir."

"Just so. Er, at this point, perhaps I should introduce myself a little more formally. You see at the recent demise of Léopold, Duke of Bouillon, I have succeeded to that principality and am thus entitled to be addressed as, His Serene Highness, the Prince of Bouillon.'"

Renzi sat back in astonishment, remembering just in time a civil bow of his head.

"You will, no doubt, be more comfortable with the usual naval titles at which I will be satisfied. However, I do insist on the style of prince in my correspondence."

"Sir."

"You might remark on it that since my lands are at the moment in occupation by Bonaparte's soldiers, and as the great hall of the castle of Navarre is unavailable to me, I must rest content with Mont Orgueil. This I cannot deny, sir, and it does explain my ready sympathy with the royalist émigré, don't you think?"

"It—it must do, sir."

"Then let us pass on to other matters. Such as yourself, Mr Renzi."

"Er?" Renzi said uncertainly.

"Quite. I do now require my curiosity to be satisfied as to why such an evidently well-educated patrician comes to me in the character of the ship's clerk of a brig-sloop—if, indeed, this be so—seeking a form of employment with me. You may speak freely, sir." He regarded Renzi dispassionately.

"And I, sir," Renzi said, firmly now, "am in a state of some wonder as to why you have seen fit to offer me a position without the least comprehension of my circumstances."

D'Auvergne smiled thinly. "I believe myself a tolerable judge of men and in your case I do not feel I am mistaken. Your story, sir, if you please."

To Renzi's own ears it seemed so implausible. Going to sea as a foremast hand in a form of self-imposed exile as expiation for what he considered a sin committed by his family, later to find its stern realities strongly appealing after the softness of the land. Finding a friend such as Kydd and their adventuring together, which had ended with Renzi's own near-mortal fever—but then the revelation of a life's calling in the pursuit of a theory of natural philosophy that in its rooting in the real world could only be realised by taking ship for distant parts, in Kydd's command, to be his clerk as a device to be aboard. "And unfortunately he has been, er, superseded and at the moment is without a ship," Renzi added. There was no need to dwell on the circumstances.

D'Auvergne did not reply for a moment and Renzi began to think he was disbelieved. Then, with a warm smile, the man said, "A remarkable history, sir. I was not wrong in my estimation—and I would like to hear more of you, sir. One evening, perhaps."

The chophouse was busy, noisy and welcoming after Kydd's morning exertions walking the streets in search of clues regarding his situation. He drew his grego clear of the sawdust floor and eased himself into one of the communal tables, nodding to slight acquaintances. "Bean Jar, is it, then?" a waiter asked, swiftly disposing of the remains of a meal in the empty place next to him. His customary order of the local dish of lentils and pork, along with bread and beer, would be his only hot meal of the day.

"Aye."

"Mutton chop is prime—c'n find yer one f'r sixpence?"

"Not today, thank 'ee," Kydd said. He had felt his dwindling stock of coins before he entered and mutton was not within reach.

He blessed the fact that, while he was known to the commanderin-chief and other potentates of Guernsey, the common people would not recognise the shabby figure keeping to himself in the street as a naval commander so he could pass about freely in the town. But he had found not the slightest lead to help in his investigations, and time had passed. He had to face it. Renzi had been right. The trail had gone cold, his chances of discovering, let alone proving, the deed now vanishingly remote. It was time to call a stop. He would give it just a few more days, to the point at which his means of sustenance came to an end. Then—then he would go home.

Having made this resolution, he felt more at ease with himself, and in a fit of bravado tipped the waiter a whole penny, then marched out into the street. The autumn sun was hard and bright, and on a whim he headed to the harbour where ships were working cargo, seamen out on the ran-tan, and the rich aroma of sea-salt and tarry ropes pervaded all.

On the broad quay he stopped to watch a handsome barque discharging wine; her yardarm and stay tackles worked in harmony to sway up the cargo from her bowels to a growing pyramid on the wharf. No Customs reckoning here: the great barrels would be rolled directly into the mouths of the warehouses, probably for trans-shipping later by another hull to a British port, given that she flew the American flag, a neutral.

A young man stopped his empty man-hauled cart and waved to him. Kydd stepped across and instantly recognised the face. "Mr Calloway!" he said, in astonishment. "What are ye doing?"

Calloway doffed his battered cap respectfully, an unexpectedly touching gesture in the surroundings, and said shyly, "Mr Standish had his own young gennelmen he wanted t' place on th' quarterdeck an' offered t' me as whether I'd be turned afore the mast or be put ashore, sir."

It was a mean act, but in the usual course of events when a captain left his command the midshipmen and "followers" would go with him, allowing the new captain to install his own. And Calloway had chosen the honourable but costly move of retaining his nominal rank instead of reverting to seaman and staying aboard. Midshipmen were not entitled to half-pay and thus he had rendered himself essentially destitute.

"An' so ye should have done, Mr Calloway," Kydd said warmly. The thought of others who had served him so well now under an alien command wrenched at him. "Er, can I ask how ye fare now?"

"Why, sir, on Mondays an' Wednesdays I'm t' be ballast heaver. Tuesdays an' Thursdays I'm cart trundler to Mr Duval, the boatbuilder."

Kydd hesitated, then said stoutly, "Y' has m' word on it, Luke, in m' next ship I'll expect ye there on th' quarterdeck with me. Won't be s' long, an' m' name'll be cleared, you'll see."

"Aye aye, Mr Kydd," Calloway said quietly.

"An' where c'n I find ye?"

"Ask at th' Bethel, sir. They'll find me when y' has need o' me."

A floating church in harbour, the Bethel was a refuge for seamen seeking relief from the sometimes riotous behaviour of sailors raising a wind in port.

"I'd—I'd like t' invite ye t' sup wi' me a while, but—"

"I thank ye, Mr Kydd, but I must be about m' duties," Calloway said, with the barest glance at Kydd's ragged appearance. "Good fortune t' ye, sir."

Renzi had not found the work onerous and, in fact, it was not without interest: d'Auvergne seemed to have a wide circle of royalist acquaintances and was in receipt of considerable sums from charitable institutions in England to distribute to the needy. Some of the royalists apparently had pressing personal problems that d'Auvergne was taking care of privately. Several came while Renzi was working with him. At their suspicious looks he would leave the room quietly; such behaviour from proud ex-noblemen was understandable.

Renzi finished what he was working on and handed it to d'Auvergne, who glanced through it and said, with a smile, "I do fear, Mr Renzi, that we are not making full use of your talents." He slapped down the papers with satisfaction. "Tonight you shall come to dinner, be it only a family affair, and then I will learn more of your philosophies."

Renzi was much impressed by the mansion just a mile out of St Helier, set in a vast ornamental garden with interiors of a splendid, if individual magnificence. D'Auvergne had humorously named the house "Bagatelle" and proudly showed him the sights inside: scientific specimens, works of art of considerable value with "relics of injured royalty," which included objets de toilette from the apartment of Marie Antoinette smuggled out at the height of the Revolution's horrors.

At length d'Auvergne made his apologies. "I must leave you now for a space, Mr Renzi, to settle a business at my town office but I shall be back directly. Do avail yourself of my library—I take much pleasure from learned works in which the flower of man's intellect might so readily be imbibed."

The library was monumental, with some sixty volumes on naval architecture and navigation alone, another hundred or two of Voyages and Travels, a well-thumbed Johnson and a recent Encyclopaedia Britannica. Seventy more on chemistry, mineralogy and a whole shelf of arcane botany, more on applied mathematics and a complete Shakespeare.

Renzi noted that nowhere was there any tome that could remotely be said to address religion, although there was Voltaire and commentaries on Robespierre and the Worship of Reason. And neither were there the usual weighty classics; Virgil, Caesar, Plato were conspicuous by their absence.

A gloomy inner library contained a mass of volumes and pamphlets on the history of France, obscure references to medieval campaigns and racks of genealogical studies. It was staggering. Renzi estimated that no less than four thousand books were before him in serried array. This was erudition indeed and he looked forward keenly to making their owner's better acquaintance.

D'Auvergne soon returned, and after passing pleasantries over sherry they moved into the dining room. "My dear, this is Mr Nicholas Renzi, a philosophical gentleman who is doing us the honour of dining with us tonight. Renzi, this is Madame de la Tour, daughter of the Count of Vaudreuil, who will perform the honours of the house." Two children stood meekly by her side and were also introduced.

A shy but warm acknowledgement was bestowed and they sat comfortably at the table en famille. "Do explain to Madame the elements of your study," d'Auvergne suggested.

Renzi had caught on to the discreet coding: the lady was not his wife. Were the children hers? "Dear Madame, this is naught but a comparative essay into the imperatives of human existence," he began, "as being differing responses to the same . . ."

Madame paid careful attention but remained silent. D'Auvergne asked intelligently about the same aspects of Rousseau's position on the noble savage that had so exercised Renzi in the great South Seas some years ago. Casting a shrewd glance at Renzi, he murmured, "From your regard for the Encyclopaedists one might be tempted to conclude that your admiration extends to present philosophies."

"If by that you are referring to the Revolution, then I can assure you that nothing is more abhorrent to me than the spectacle of the glory of French civilisation falling prey to those political animals now in control of the state."

"Quite so, quite so. We are of a mind on the subject. Napoleon Bonaparte is now consul-for-life and is energetic and ruthless in his own interest—as witness his domination of the state apparatus, the secret police, even his economic machine, which I have certain knowledge has lately replaced the national currency with his own 'franc.'" He continued sombrely, "He has now not a single country in arms against him save our own, and therefore has no distraction from his lust to conquer. I cannot recall that our realm has ever lain under a greater menace."

Renzi shifted in his seat; this reminder of peril was only pointing up his own essential uselessness in the present dangers. To change the subject he asked politely, "Do satisfy my curiosity on one point, if you will, sir. Just why is it that in these singular times their lordships at the Admiralty see fit to rusticate Sir James Saumarez to these remote islands—a proven fighter if ever one were needed— rather than require him to lead a fleet in the great battle that must surely come?"

"Why, sir, have you not surmised?" d'Auvergne said, with raised eyebrows. "It is over. He has won his victory. His purpose is complete."

"Granville?" said Renzi, puzzled.

"Not at all." D'Auvergne chuckled. "I talk of a species of silent victory, but for all that, one that will resound down all of time."

"Sir?"

"Let me be more explicit. In 1794 the French plotted an invasion of the Norman Isles, specifically Jersey. Only the greatest exertions from us and the convulsions on the mainland at the time saved us. Although the Treaty of Amiens ended hostilities in 1802, it became clear quite early that we would be under assault once more, this time by the most formidable general of the age.

"What better move can you conceive of than to dispatch a feared and respected leader of the last war to take station here as commander-in-chief? By his very presence he has discouraged intemperate assault on the Channel Islands and with a simple flourish at Granville he has shown the impracticality of a local invasion. And he did succeed. My intelligence now is that all troop concentrations have dissipated. For the moment we are safe." He put down his glass and went on: "So on the strategical side this is what has been accomplished: from Calais far to the east, to the extremity of France in the west, they have no harbour of size in which to concentrate a battle fleet to seize the Channel—except Guernsey, which in course is now denied them by Sir James's silent victory.

"For the French this is galling in the extreme. You see, we in turn do use these islands to our own advantage, which is as a base to fall on their sea lanes with men-o'-war and privateers to paralyse their commerce and attempts to reinforce. And, most critically, to keep close in watch on Bonaparte's invasion preparations—which we are so well placed to do," he added, with satisfaction.

The mood changed. He lifted his glass and exclaimed genially, "But then we are neglecting the plaice with our talk. Pray, eat and enjoy—and I have a notion how we might deploy your talents to better effect, Mr Renzi," he added mysteriously.

Renzi lay awake in his creaking four-poster. A south-westerly was blustering outside against the ancient stone and penetrating draughts had him drawing up the counterpane. He'd been prepared to endure nights under a hedge and feast on scraps but he was now safely immured in a castle, in comfort under a goosedown quilt and reflecting on the conversations he had enjoyed with the reigning flag-officer no less.

There was no real reason for d'Auvergne to have so readily seized on him as a personal secretary—unless for intellectual companionship. Could this be so? And what were those extra duties that d'Auvergne had alluded to? Was he in truth a prince? His thoughts raced on.

Kydd, meanwhile, was living in a sail-loft, vainly trudging the streets in his forlorn quest. Did Renzi have the right to spend his days in such grand surroundings while his friend suffered? On the other hand, with a library of such richness within reach his study might yet take wings—the Voyages and Travels alone must be a gold-mine of ethnical facts against which . . .

"Ah, Renzi. Did you sleep well at all?" D'Auvergne was at his desk early, reading various articles of mail. Renzi took his accustomed place. "I did, sir."

One letter seemed to be causing d'Auvergne some concern. He lifted his head and spoke unseeingly: "Oh. That's good."

He stood up suddenly and paced about the room then stopped abruptly. "I think it's about time we put you to real work, Mr Renzi. My daily routine does not vary much, you'll see. In the morning I shall be here attending to matters and the afternoon I spend aboard my flagship, Severn, devoted to the business of my flag. There she is." He pointed out of the window.

Renzi glanced at the two-decker of a distinct age peacefully at anchor in the centre of the wide sweep of Gorey Bay below the castle, several smaller vessels moored alongside.

"She's a 44 only," d'Auvergne said apologetically, "but, as you can see, Gorey Bay is sandy and open and the only invasion beach worth the name on the island. Severn does her duty nobly as nothing more than a floating battery to cover the approach."

Renzi could well see the convenience of having a commodore's retinue so close at hand with the ability to put to sea within minutes. At the same time it left d'Auvergne free to maintain his interests ashore.

"Now, this is your first duty. I desire you to make known to yourself the whole situation obtaining on the mainland with its problems and concerns. Only when you are privy to the complete picture will you be able to assist me as you should."

"Er, yes, sir."

"That is, in Brittany and neighbouring regions—Paris and that gang of regicides you may leave to their evil machinations. And for this I would suggest the French local newspapers, all of which are conveyed to me here. A prime source of insight into a country, your newspaper."

"Sir," Renzi said politely. "Then might I beg the use of your library for the acquisition of background material and similar?"

"I would hope you do, sir."

Renzi nearly hugged himself with glee. To spend his days poring over those literary treasures—it was too good to be true.

"Oh, and I'm often accused of being mortally absent-minded, therefore I'll take the precaution of advancing you your first month's emolument before I forget."

Renzi was touched. "I am obliged to you, sir." He pocketed the envelope gratefully.

The piles of provincial newspapers were delivered to one of the empty rooms nearby so he excused himself and set to. They were read in market towns by peasant farmers and agricultural factors, yet clues stemming from the fluctuating prices of common produce, and unintended allusions in shrill editorials, revealed that all was not well and ugly dissatisfaction was not far below the surface in Napoleon's France.

When d'Auvergne left for his flagship Renzi scribbled a quick letter to Kydd for collection at the Guernsey post office, enclosing three coins and explaining his good fortune at meeting the Prince de Bouillon without going into detail.

Turning back to his task he heard movement in d'Auvergne's office. Startled, he went through but found only the flag-lieutenant waiting for a message. He seemed surprised to see Renzi. "Er, Jenkins. You must be the new man?"

"Renzi. Secretary pro tempore, I believe," he replied cautiously. "Recently arrived. An interesting place—but tell me, is the man in truth a prince?"

Jenkins grinned. "There's much you'll find odd about our Philippe d'Auvergne, but I have to tell you that, besides the Duke of Clarence, I believe he's the only full-rigged prince in the Service. He was adopted into the line, but a prince for all that."

"A man of some learning, I think."

"He is. Did you know he's an FRS?"

Renzi was amazed. Not only a member of the Royal Society, the premier learned society in the land, but a fellow, no less.

"A deep thinker, he's a Doctor of Letters from Livonia and corresponds with the world on everything from mathematics to botany, but amiable enough. Oh, and an Arctic explorer and colonial planter to boot."

"Has he—is he distinguished in his service career?"

The young lieutenant chuckled. "I'm surprised you haven't heard! In fine, yes. A front-line fighter in the American war, first lieutenant o' the saucy Arethusa and more than a few prizes to his name even before Napoleon. You'll find—oh, thank you," he said, taking some papers from a messenger and stowing them in his satchel. "Have to go now—but I think you'll find your work very . . . interesting."

He hurried off, leaving Renzi in even more perplexity than before.

After two days he felt he had explored enough of the people and the situation and went to d'Auvergne.

"So you feel able to talk about the royalists and their problems. Then pray tell me your observations on the Chouan risings and what they would mean to the paysan and merchant?"

It was apparent that he was being tested but it was not hard to apply his mind to the social effects of a bloodily repressed rural revolt.

D'Auvergne nodded slowly. "Very good. You have a natural insight into the human condition and that I like. One moment."

He rose and crossed to the thick oak door, closed it firmly, then returned and produced a letter. "Now your opinion of this, if you please."

Apprehensive, for some reason, Renzi picked it up. The eyes never left him as he began to read. "Why, this is a letter from . . . It doesn't say." He looked up. "Sir, this is a private letter. We have no right—"

"Shall we leave that aside for now? Do continue."

"From—from someone signing himself 'little cabbage,'" Renzi read out unwillingly. "It's to another—'belle poule.'" He looked up unhappily. "This appears to be from a lover to his amante. Sir, is this necessary?"

"Read," d'Auvergne commanded.

"Very well, sir. We have this person writing—ah, it is to his wife, he mentions the little ones. He is at last to return . . . The time has been hard while they have been separated." He glanced up in silent protest but at d'Auvergne's stony stare he continued. "He will treasure the moment he sets foot in the old cottage once more . . . life in a town is not to be compared to a village of Brittany . . . The soldiers of the garrison are arrogant and he has a loathing for what he has to do . . . but he consoles himself that it is for them both, and with his earnings they will close the door on a harsh world . . ." Renzi finished the pathetic scrap. "Another of Bonaparte's victims, I think. Doing a menial's work in some army town that will pay better than rural beggary. I do so feel for him and his kind."

D'Auvergne waited but Renzi would not be drawn. This kind of human adversity was being played out all over the world as war ravaged previously tranquil communities. Why was he being shown this particular evidence?

"I honour your sentiments, Renzi. However . . ."

A premonition stole over him and he tensed as d'Auvergne leaned back in his chair and spoke in the same controlled tone: "It would interest me to know your reaction if you are aware that the town he speaks of is St Helier, the garrison soldiers from Fort Regent and the man, Stofflet, acting in the character of a baker, is passing details of our troop levels to Decrès."

Renzi listened with a chill of dismay as d'Auvergne continued, "Rather astute, really. He could tell to a man the garrison numbers daily by the size of the bread order. And he plans to return shortly with the capability and firing angles of our defences no doubt carefully paced out and written down."

"A spy," Renzi said uncomfortably.

"You have an objection to spies, then?" d'Auvergne asked innocently.

"It—He must be taken up immediately, of course."

"But the practice of spying?"

"I'm not sure I take your meaning, sir."

"Well, it would seem to me axiomatic that if a covert act by a single individual could result in the discomfiture of many of the enemy then it is not merely morally acceptable, but his bounden duty towards those who would otherwise be put to hazard."

"I do not deny the necessity but the practices of spying are repugnant to me," Renzi said carefully.

"I really do not see where the immorality lies, Mr Renzi. If, as commander-in-chief at the scene of a battle, I receive intelligence that the enemy will come by a different direction, do I alter my dispositions accordingly or refuse to do so on the grounds that the information was gained by a single person working alone?"

Renzi held his silence, wondering if d'Auvergne was trying to provoke him.

"No, of course I cannot, morally or otherwise. My duty as a commander is to build a picture of the forces opposite me in the best way I can—and if an opportunity arises whereby one of my men might move forward, keep out of sight and note the truth of what these are, then I shall be grateful to him."

As though it were final proof in a mathematical theorem, d'Auvergne concluded, "Therefore no one can be surprised that this is carried forward by all nations as a perfectly valid and utile means of acquiring intelligence."

Pulling himself up, Renzi said cuttingly, "Sir, before now I have had to perform bloody acts that were logically dictated by the situation at the time and I believe I have never shied from the duty. What I find immoral is the deployment of such as an instrument of policy."

"In a way, you disappoint me, Renzi. You have not considered your position in logic, which I find is the only method to be trusted for laying the thickets of sentiment and false moral positions. Take the spy himself, for instance."

Feeling a heat of resentment at having his cherished logic brought into such a discussion Renzi reluctantly followed the reasoning.

"The spy is a brave and resourceful man who goes alone and unarmed into the enemy camp. It has often puzzled me," he said, as an aside, "just why we admire and value those who on our behalf do so, while those of our opponents with the same qualities are, on discovery, vilified and must invariably suffer death. An odd notion, don't you think?"

He thought for a moment then continued his main thread: "Is there, I ask you, any difference au fond between ordering a man to stand before the cannon's rage and another who is required to place himself in greater peril within the enemy's territory?"

"It is not in my power to order a man to do anything, sir," Renzi said, with feeling. "Let alone—"

"So who in your universe will harvest the intelligence, save you from the guile of the enemy, his conspiracies and malice?" d'Auvergne snapped. "You have the freedom, bought by others, to walk away from matters of nicety to your conscience and leave their resolution to others. This is neither logical nor responsible."

"Then do I understand it correctly, sir, that you require me to assume the character of a spy in some affair?" Renzi asked coldly.

D'Auvergne slumped back. "No, no. That was never in my desiring," he said wearily. "Mr Renzi, you have gifts of insight and understanding with formidable intelligence and a rare admiration for the primacy of logic. All this fits you in a remarkable manner for the role of assisting myself—simply lightening the burden, if you will—in the conduct of operations of a clandestine nature against Napoleon."

Renzi felt the chill of foreboding.

"If you are in any doubt as to their importance, let me disclose to you that I communicate not with Sir James but directly to the foreign secretary of Great Britain, as indeed I have done since the Terror of Paris in 'ninety-two. The work is allowed to be of such sovereign value that I am entrusted with the maintenance of a network in France whose extent . . . is large."

He sighed raggedly. "At the moment I have none in whom I can place my trust and I bear the burden alone. It was my hope that in some degree you would feel able to offer me your help—and your country, sir."

"Help?" Renzi muttered.

"To maintain the confidential papers, take up some of the load of secret correspondence, speak with those arriving from France with news—and, on occasion, to favour me with your views in matters compelling a difficult decision."

Everything in Renzi rebelled against involvement in illicit affairs of deceit and trickery, in the lies and betrayal that must be at its heart. His whole life was predicated on the sure foundation of the honour and moral obligation of a gentleman, and he had no desire to immerse himself in such a moral quagmire. "Sir. I fear that it would do violence to my nature," he began, "notwithstanding your logic and—"

"It's too late for that, Renzi. Whether you like it or no, you are even now privy to information of a most secret nature. But more pressing than that you have been made aware that there is a service you may do for your country to which you are most peculiarly well fitted."

"Sir, it may well be—"

"Now, it is within your power to turn your back and walk from this room—but for the rest of your days you must live with the knowledge that you have failed when called upon.

"Now, sir, will you do your duty?"

It had been hard to accept that he had been unable to muster any rational argument against the request but he found comfort in observing that the post was only that of confidential secretary taken a trifle further. But he had been wounded by d'Auvergne's polite assurance that there would be no question of personal risk when he had acceded.

Before going further he was curious about one thing: "On the question of trust, sir, how is it that you are assured my character is as you allege?"

"Oh, on that score, I had your room and small baggage searched, and who but a hopeless scholard would burden himself with Goethe and Locke for light reading?" he smiled.

Renzi returned a thin smile while d'Auvergne opened a businesslike chest and found a pair of heavy, intricate keys. "The records are in the crypt below. I have one key, you the only other. Be of good care, Renzi. People's lives are in your hands with those papers."

At Renzi's set face he continued lightly, "Take it from me, dear fellow, it's a quite different and wider moral framework we find ourselves in, but you will discover that being a friend to logic will extract you safely from many a sentimental mire. For example, see if you can overcome your present scruples sufficiently to detect the transcendent moral certitudes in this little exercise.

"I, as a commander, have several thousand lives in my charge and must meet the foe on the battlefield. If I can convince the enemy commander that my attack will come by course A when, in fact, I will come by B, there will be at the close of that day perhaps some hundreds fewer widows left to grieve. How might this best be brought about?"

Renzi shook his head, even more uncomfortable in this world of shades and compromise.

"Well, here is one sure way. Do you charge a brave man with dispatches, emphasising their grave nature and enjoining their safe delivery by all means. He is not to know their false nature and when he is betrayed and valiantly defends them, even to the death, the enemy will be convinced of their authenticity and act accordingly."

With a tight smile he concluded, "So, of course, many lives are saved for the one expended. You really cannot argue against that, Renzi."

And, to his anguish, he found he could not. These were moral quicksands of a kind he had never been forced to confront before, and their serious considering would occupy him painfully for some time to come.

"I would find it . . . difficult, sir. Er, may I know what action you intend in respect of the letter?" It was something he could test d'Auvergne with.

"Stofflet, you mean. All actions must be considered, of course— but pray tell, what do you yourself propose, Renzi?"

"He must be stopped, of course. Taken up as a spy?" He remembered the kind, bald-headed baker from whom he had begged bread. Now he knew that the man was married happily, with children he expected to see soon.

"For a public demonstration in these fevered times that there are spies in our midst? I think not."

"An assassination?" Renzi said neutrally.

"Goodness me, no! Crass barbarism and not to be countenanced by a civilised nation."

"Then taken up quietly and a strict parole demanded before banishment?" Renzi suggested boldly, remembering d'Auvergne's words about brave men suffering death undeservedly.

"Perhaps not. I rather think he must meet with an unfortunate accident."

CHAPTER 10

KYDD TRUDGED UP THE STEEP STEPS. Without noticing, his path had taken him to another level of the town. It was more densely settled and had an indefinable rakish air, which focused round a theatre. Idly he went up and read the billboard: "The Much Adored Griselda Mayhew as The Princess Zenobia and the Magnificent Richard Samson as Count Dragonheart in Carpathia, or, Cupid's Trust Rewarded."

He turned to go but his eyes were caught by another notice underneath: "Stagehands required: none but those able to go aloft and haul ropes heartily shall apply."

If this was not work for a sailor then what was? A week or so of jolly theatricals and then he could claim as much as—as a whole mutton pie, with the full trimmings, of course, and swimming in lumpy gravy. His stomach growled as he entered the theatre.

A short, sharp-eyed man appeared from nowhere. "Where you off to, m' lad? Performance not until seven. Not until seven, I say!"

"Oh, er, th' notice said as how stagehands are required."

"You?" The man stepped back to take his measure. "Done it before? A flyman, I mean?"

Goaded, Kydd looked up: two somewhat faded ornamental gold cords descended each side of the audience entrance from a single ringbolt in the lofty ceiling. With a practised leap he clutched the leftmost one and swarmed effortlessly up to the bolt, then launched himself into space for the other and slid down, hand over hand, much as in the distant past he had found a backstay to reach the deck all the quicker.

"I see," the man said, affecting boredom. "An' we've had sailors before an' all. Wages 're two livres cash on th' nail each performance, no liquor during, find y'r own prog. Er, can y' start now?"

Kydd feigned reluctance. "A livre as earnest." He sniffed, holding out his hand. He had forgotten how much it represented but guessed it must be worth a shilling or two.

"Be off wi' your impertinence! Y'r impertinence, I say!"

Kydd turned on his heel, but the man caught his arm. "One livre, an' I'll know y' name, sir!"

"Tom Cutlass, m' shipmates call me," he answered slowly. "An' yours?"

The man puffed up his chest. "Mr Carne t' you! I'm th' stage-master. Stage-master, I say!"

Kydd took the money. "When do I—"

"Be here at five sharp. Y' late, an' that's all ye get."

Renzi found d'Auvergne at the battlements, staring moodily out to sea, his greatcoat streaming and whipping in the autumn bluster. Renzi followed his gaze and saw a sail against the far-off Brittany shore, then spotted the gaggle of vessels in chase.

The French coast was a distant smother of white from the pounding of the westerly with white flecks of waves vivid in the stretch of water to the dull-grey coastline. It was a hard beat into the fresh gale and the drama played out slowly before them, the hunted craft clawing desperately against the wind, first on one tack, then another, the others straggling astern as it eventually stretched out towards safety.

With stinging raindrops fast turning things into wet misery, Renzi left d'Auvergne to his vigil and returned to his task, collating a number of appraisals, penned by different hands, into a fair summary.

He heard d'Auvergne come back and go straight to his inner sanctum. Then, some time later, a disturbance echoed in the long passage outside his little room—cries, a panting fuss and the loud voice of the serjeant warder. The commotion faded and he heard the drone of other voices, then the chilling sound of a man's sobbing.

D'Auvergne came and slumped in a chair. "L'étalon is taken," he said hoarsely, his face dazed.

It meant nothing to Renzi. "Stallion"—the code-word for an agent? He murmured something, never having seen d'Auvergne so shaken.

"That toad Fouché," he went on. "Betrayal, murder, intrigue— there's nothing he'll not stoop to for his diabolical master, Bonaparte."

"The minister for police?" Renzi responded. Paris and its deadly state apparatus was not within his remit and he had no wish to know anything of it, but d'Auvergne obviously needed to talk.

"Secret police—the vile rogue! When L'étalon was betrayed we had time to get him away, but under Bonaparte's orders, Fouché arrested his family one by one. That—that noble being gave himself up to spare them, and in course will be guillotined."

Renzi avoided the stricken eyes, unable to find words.

D'Auvergne pulled himself together with an effort. "Fouché is not the problem. He'll serve whoever it's in his interest to pander to. It's Napoleon Bonaparte! This man is not only debasing a great civilisation but drenching the world in blood—to satisfy his own lust for conquest!"

Sitting up suddenly, d'Auvergne cried in outrage, "Do you know what the contemptible hypocrite plans now?"

Renzi could only shake his head.

"That—that monster! First Consul and titular head of the Revolution who overthrew King Louis—he's having himself declared emperor! Not just king and monarch—but emperor!"

"No!" Renzi blurted. That the man could so subvert the principles of the Revolution, and the people tamely acquiesce, was a titanic shift in national allegiances. Clearly Bonaparte was taking every last skein of power into his own hands—the majesty of the state of France for his own personal property.

D'Auvergne's face was haggard. "Very soon it will be too late, I fear . . ."

"Too late?"

"For—for the last remedy."

"Sir, I'm not sure I follow," Renzi said.

"My dear Renzi," d'Auvergne murmured, and sat down.

Renzi waited silently.

"I'm about to speak on matters of the very direst secrecy."

Ignoring Renzi's protest he went on firmly, "I feel able to do so, for some small time ago I received private intelligence regarding yourself that allows you are a fit and proper recipient, Renzi . . . or is it to be Laughton?"

Renzi stared at him, taken aback to hear his real name. He had been Nicholas Renzi ever since he had gone to sea those many years ago.

"A prudent precaution, in my position, you will agree. So you see, sir, I now know of your high-minded self-exile, your distinguished actions at St Vincent and Acre; I learned of the quality of your late studies from Count Rumford himself. Therefore I feel able to treat you as my equal in matters touching the safety of the realm.

"You may have heard of my not insignificant successes in instigating unrest and rebellion among the Normans. This has been due largely to my network of agents in France, who smuggle out information and carry out acts of bravery as needs must. That was in the Revolutionary War. Since the start of this war, Bonaparte has moved with ruthless speed. The secret police are everywhere. One even needs a passport to travel to another city.

"This has achieved its object. Nearly all organised opposition to the tyrant is now broken, scattered. There are agents and sympathisers, but they are in daily fear of their lives. The gates of Fortress France are fast closing, and with them any chance to prevent the cataclysm of total war."

It seemed so abstract, discussing such a world in an ancient castle with the winds moaning about, but Renzi felt a sense of inevitability as to what would come next. "Sir, you're speaking of an attempt on Bonaparte's life!"

"No." D'Auvergne gave a rueful smile. "Not his life. His Majesty will not have it. He is to be kidnapped."

"Kidnapped!"

"Yes, Renzi, seized and held. It is a previous plan by others feeling as we do and ready to lay down their lives in the attempt."

"Does this have the support of London?"

"At the most secret level conceivable, but with the King's proviso that Bonaparte shall be brought out of France alive to answer for his crimes."

"Sir, may I ask if we are to be involved?"

"We are central to it! Allow me to lay before you the essence of the plot. It is to waylay his coach as he retires outside Paris with his mistress, as he is wont to do. He is to be spirited instantly through Yvelines and Calvados to the coast—and thence by sea to Jersey."

"Here?"

"Indeed. When I receive word that the plot is to proceed, I shall have an allowance from the foreign secretary to be employed in preparing here at Mont Orgueil an apartment for the reception of Napoleon Bonaparte."

Renzi felt unreality closing in. "Um, sir, is the plot well advanced?"

"Certainly. There are some hundreds of brave souls already in Paris, each with his part to play and practised since the summer. You will, no doubt, recognise the name of General Charles Pichegru?"

"Pichegru!" He had risen rapidly to the top of the Revolutionary Army, invaded and subjugated Holland, then subsequently crossed the Rhine with his victorious troops.

"Yes. The only general in history to capture an entire fleet of ships-of-the-line!" It was the stuff of legend: the Dutch battle-squadron had been ice-bound and Pichegru had led a cavalry charge across the frozen sea to seize them all.

D'Auvergne continued, "He will raise the soldiery, who love him, to take all Paris and declare for the King. In the vacuum that exists at the disappearance of Napoleon, the Duc d'Enghien will be made head of state and regent until King Louis might return to claim his throne."

"But—but the organisation, the timing?"

"I have told you the essence only. There is much more. If you knew Georges Cadoudal, and that for five months he has been in Paris preparing, you would rest your concerns."

"Cadoudal?"

"A man larger than life itself—a Hercules of sublime courage and audacity, and one with an undying reputation in the Chouan risings. I myself have seen Georges hold fast a kicking donkey by its back leg—they sing ballads about him in Brittany."

Renzi found himself utterly at a loss for words.

"There are others too numerous to mention. Chouans who have made the perilous journey from the Vendée to Paris to lie in hiding awaiting the call, those who pass among the people risking everything to bring word of the coup to come. There are even troops of dragoons training in secret in the forests outside the capital."

"Then—when shall it . . . ?"

"It is essential that the rising is supported at a scale where it may succeed. To this end we must await a final commitment from London. In my communications I have stressed the urgency and fading opportunity. We shall hear shortly, I believe."

The evening was turning chilly and Kydd was thankful to get inside the theatre. It was now abuzz with excitement and anxious stagehands hurried to mysterious places past the giant curtain.

For too long Kydd's buoyant good nature had been clouded, but the atmosphere of a place dedicated to losing oneself in fantasy was getting to him. Damn it, he vowed, he would enjoy this interlude.

"Hey, you! You there—Tom, whatever's y' name!" Carne's face came round the curtain and he looked irritable.

"Aye, Mr Carne," Kydd called humbly, and made his way hastily past the seats and on to the stage.

"Come!" The face disappeared, so Kydd pulled back the curtain tentatively and stepped into a dark chaos of props, ladders, improbable scenes painted on vast boards—and an impatient Carne. "This is y' mate as will teach ye." Carne snatched a look at a well-thumbed snap-bound book and turned to a wiry man nearby. "And I want t' block through scene three again f'r Miss Mayhew in ten minutes," he told him, and left them to it.

"Tim Jones," his preceptor said, thrusting out a hand to Kydd. "Look o' the sea about ye, cuffin!" He snorted, then grinned.

"Aye," said Kydd, bemused. "Er, quartermaster's mate round th' Horn in the flying Artemis."

"Artemis?" Jones said respectfully. "As did fer the Citoyenne in th' last war? Glory be! Well, I was only a Jack Dusty in Tiger, had t' go a-longshore wi' the gormy ruddles as ruined m' constitooshun." He clapped Kydd on the shoulder. "We's better be learnin' ye the ropes here right enough."

They left the confusion of the rehearsal for the dark upper eyrie of the fly-loft where Kydd looked down through a maze of ropes and contraptions directly to the stage below. Jones squatted comfortably on the slats, and began: "That there's Mr Carne, an' he's the stage-master who calls th' show from that book he has. He's in charge o' the runnin' crew, which includes us flymen, an' that scrovy crowd workin' below. Now, here's the griff. When the scene shifts, th' whole thing fr'm clew t' earring goes arsy-versy in a very smart way, an' it's us as does it. How? I'll show ye . . ."

Kydd took in the complexity of ropes and machinery that could change their world of enchantment from a sylvan glade to a magnificent palace and back again. He learned of flats and gauzes, clothes and rigging; and of the special whistles that had as much meaning for the stage crew in the complex operations of a scene change as a boatswain's call for seamen in the operation of a man-o'-war.

Carne's hectoring voice rose above the din, and occasionally Kydd caught sight of an actor in fine robes foreshortened by the height as he strode the boards declaiming into the empty darkness. Excitement gripped him: soon the grand play would open—it seemed impossible that the disorderly rumpus below could calm to the breathless scenes he remembered from his last visit to a theatre. "Will we see Miss Mayhew an' Mr Samson a-tall?" he found himself asking in awed tones.

"Y' might at that."

A bellow of "Places! Places!" cut through the confusion. Carne had the company pacing through the new scene arrangement under the director's critical eye and the flymen were soon hard at work on ropes and flats.

There was a last flurry of activity before front of house went to their stations, then a tense wait for the play to commence. The echoing emptiness of the theatre now had a different quality: a background susurrus of rustling and murmuring as the first of the audience took their seats while the reflectored footlights threw magic shadows into the upper reaches.

The noise grew, shouts from rowdier elements mingling with raucous laughter and the animated hum of conversation. The small orchestra struck up with a strenuous overture until anticipation had built sufficiently—and the play began.

It was hard work and the timing exact, but Kydd had the chance to hear and sometimes see the action. At the interval he descended to help with the flats for the second half but was called across by Carne: "Take Miss Mayhew her refreshment, Tom what'syername."

He was passed a single ornate crystal glass on a small lacquer tray with Chinese writing on it. A smell of gin wafted up from it as Kydd carried it to the dressing rooms, past half-dressed nymphs and bearded Magyars, in a stifling atmosphere of heat and excitement, with the unmistakable smell of greasepaint.

"Enterrrr!" The response to his knock was the same imperious trill he had heard on stage. Griselda Mayhew was at her brightly lit mirror, a vision of a towering wig, flowing gown and caked makeup, but a jolly face with kindly eyes.

"Ah, thank you, dearie!" she said gratefully. "Put it down there. I'm near gut-foundered."

She looked at Kydd shrewdly. "Well, I haven't seen you before?"

"Er, new t'night, Miss Mayhew," he said diffidently.

"You're no common stagehand, I'd wager. Gent of decayed fortune, more like. Still, y' came to the right place. Theatre's a fine place t' make your mark. Good luck t' you, cully!"

Blushing, Kydd left. The second half went rapidly, and when the play finished he felt an unaccountable envy for the tempest of applause that followed and the several curtain calls that had him sweating at the heavy ropes. And when the audience had streamed out he felt a pang of loneliness. All he had to look forward to, after these bewitching hours, was the squalor of the sail-loft. He finished securing the rigging as Griselda Mayhew's laughter pealed at Richard Samson's dramatic flourishes with her coat.

She looked in Kydd's direction. "Did y' enjoy tonight at all?" she called to him.

"I did that," Kydd said awkwardly, conscious of his shabby appearance as he approached her shyly.

She frowned slightly, then touched his arm. "It's not my business, but have y' somewhere t' go to?"

Put off-balance Kydd mumbled something, but she interrupted: "I understand, m' dear, we see a lot of 'em down on their luck, like. Well, not t' worry. Look, we're travelling players an' we have t' take a big enough place for the season. Jem just quit, so why don't y' stay with us for a while?" She turned to Samson. "That's all right, isn't it, Dickie?" she said winsomely.

A fiercely protective eye regarded Kydd. "As long as ye don't smoke a pipe, m' good man."

Staggered by their generosity, Kydd took his leave of Carne, pocketed his coins and followed his new friends out into the night.

It was heaven to lie in a proper bed and Kydd slept soundly. In the morning he went diffidently down to join the others but found not a soul abroad at that hour. He made himself useful, squaring away after the wind-down party of the previous evening, to the surprise of the maid-of-all-work, who arrived late and seemed to find his presence unhelpful.

His gear was in the sail-loft and he went out to retrieve those things that would fit into his modest room, reflecting on the strangeness of life that it could change so quickly. When he returned, a young man was holding an angry conversation with a wall and Richard Samson was stalking about in an exotic bed-robe reading aloud from a script in ringing tones.

"Ah, I thought we'd lost you, Mr Cutlass," he roared, when he spotted Kydd. "A yen to feel the ocean's billows, perhaps? Or a midnight tryst with a fair maiden? Do come in and hide those things away."

One by one the others appeared, but it was not until after ten that Griselda made her entrance, the men greeting her with exaggerated stage bows while she sailed in to take the least faded armchair.

"Miss Mayhew." Kydd bowed too.

"Oh dear," she replied. "The others call me Rosie—why don't you, Tom?"

"I will," Kydd said, with a grin. It had been an entertaining morning, rehearsing cue lines from a script for whoever asked it of him and his spirits were high. "Ye're starting a new play, I hear."

"Of course, dearie." She sighed. "We open every second Friday with new. Guernsey's not a big enough place we can stay wi' the same all the time." She looked at Kydd speculatively. "You're not t' be a stagehand for ever. When shall you pick up a script?"

"Well, I . . ." A famous actor? Strutting the stage with swooning ladies to either side, the confidences of princes and dukes? Folk flocking from far and near having heard that the legendary Tom Cutlass was playing? "I'll think on it," he came back awkwardly.

On the way to the theatre he called at the post office and this time there was a letter to collect. It was from Renzi. He ripped it open and three coins fell out. He scrabbled to retrieve them and eagerly scanned the hurried lines. Renzi had met with unexpected success. Soon after arriving he had made the acquaintance of a Prince de Bouillon, whom Kydd took to be an exiled royalist, and had been fortunate enough to find employ in his household as a private secretary. The enclosed thirty livres Kydd could expect every month from his wages.

A lump rose in his throat. With this generous gift he was now free to continue with his quest for as long as he . . . But he had already concluded that he was getting nowhere in uncovering the plot and must give up—must he track about hopelessly for ever? He had a life to lead. He could at least still hope for a ship in England and, in any case, as an officer even of declined circumstances there were genteel niches in society . . . But the instant he left the islands it would be the final surrender to his unjust fate—and Lockwood would have had his vengeance. Was there no middle way?

There were no performances on the Sunday. Some of the players went to Alderney on a visit while others simply slept. Moodily Kydd went to the deserted front parlour and sprawled on the sofa. Unable to escape his thoughts he laid down his newspaper and closed his eyes.

The door opened and the swish of a dress made him look up. "Do I disturb you, Tom?"

"Oh, er, not at all, Rosie," Kydd said, hauling himself upright. "Just thinkin' awhile."

She looked at him steadily. "You're not all you seem, m' friend," she said quietly. "I've seen a few characters in my time an' you're so different—you've got iron in your soul, a man's man. And something's happened. I don't know what it is, but it's thrown you down where y' don't belong."

When Kydd said nothing she came to the sofa and sat beside him. "I may be only a common actress but I know when a man's without a friend t' talk with, an' that's not natural." She straightened her dress demurely and continued, "It would be my honour if you'd take me as y' friend, Tom." Her hand strayed to his knee.

Kydd flinched but, not wanting to offend her, stayed rigid. She withdrew the hand and said quietly, "So, there's a woman at the bottom of it—am I right?"

"No. That is, she . . . No, it's too tough a yarn t' tell."

"Tom! We've a whole Sunday ahead. Your secret will stay wi' me, never fear."

Kydd knew from his sister that, for a lady, there was nothing so intriguing as a man of mystery; Rosie would worm it out of him sooner or later and, besides, he had to talk to someone. "Well, it's a long tale. Y' see . . ." He told her of the Navy, of his rise to success and command of his own ship; of his entry to high society and likely marriage into their ranks and subsequent fall when his heart was taken by another. And finally the terrible revenge a father was taking on him.

"Dear Lord, an' what a tale! I had no idea. My dear, how can you keep your wits about you while you're reduced to—to this?"

Kydd gave the glimmer of a smile. "So th' last question is, just when do I give it away an' return t' England?"

"Never!" she said firmly. "Never! Tom, you're perfectly right— you cannot return without you've regained your honour. It's just as it was in Clarissa Victrix, where the hero is unjustly accused of theft an' thrown into Newgate, an' it's only when his lady seduces the black-hearted earl into handin' over the false evidence that he's made free."

Kydd grimaced, while she went on proudly, "We opened the season wi' that in Weymouth last year to my leading lady."

"'Twould be a fine thing indeed, should I meet wi' such," Kydd said tartly. "I have m' doubts it'll be soon—savin' your kindness, I've no wish t' top it th' beggar f'r much longer."

"An' neither should you!" Rosie soothed. "Tom, do promise me y' won't leave us for now. I've a friend—a . . . a personal friend as was, who I mean t' speak with. An' then we shall see what happens."

Renzi had slept badly: it was either a hare-brained plot by wild-eyed lunatics or the only chance to rid the world of its greatest nightmare. Or perhaps both—and d'Auvergne had made clear that in the event it went ahead Renzi's wholehearted participation was expected, and on the inner circle.

He had now seen the secret correspondence with London: indisputable understandings and instructions from the very highest and concerned with real military and political commitments.

D'Auvergne had not lied about his connections and the scheme was under eye by the foreign secretary of Great Britain and the cabinet itself. But just what was being asked of him?

Interrupting his thoughts, Jenkins, the flag-lieutenant, popped into his office. "Thought you'd be too busy to look in at the post office—letter for you, been there for a while."

It was from Kydd. He had found a menial job, shared lodgings, and expressed sincere gratitude for the few coins enclosed. Renzi started a reply but it wouldn't come. The contrast between his friend's decent, plain-sailing world and this insane arena of chicanery, stealth and the desperate endeavour to topple Bonaparte was too great.

Around noon, the cutter from England with dispatches entered Gorey Bay with a package so important that the commodore himself was brought to sign for it.

Shortly afterwards, a grim-faced d'Auvergne laid a letter in front of Renzi. It was from Lord Hobart, Secretary of State for War, short and to the point. The plot to kidnap Napoleon Bonaparte was to proceed with all possible dispatch and in the greatest possible secrecy.

"There is attached an order authorising exceptional expenditures against Secret Service funds at the Treasury and an expression of full support from their lordships. Renzi, do you cease all duties to attend on me personally. This is the gravest affair this age."

D'Auvergne was in no mood to waste a second. "We shall meet in an hour, my friend. Your current business should be concluded within that time."

Renzi worked quickly: no report or appraisal could stand against the stakes that had now been raised. When he entered d'Auvergne's office he was met with a look of dedicated ferocity. "Mr Renzi. The world knows me as the commodore, Jersey Squadron, and I maintain that position and retinue in my flagship and a small office in St Helier. Some might know that my sympathies with the royalists occupy me on occasions here in Mont Orgueil. Few indeed know of my other activities. As of this moment I count myself officially on leave of absence from my naval duties. It will remain thus until this business is complete."

"Very well, sir." Renzi nodded. "May I enquire as to the establishment you must now engage for this purpose? The line of command, as it were."

"None."

"Sir?" Renzi asked, not sure he had heard aright.

"The matter is too grave, far beyond the compass of what is to be expected of a serving officer, the issue much too delicate to entrust to others at this late hour. It will be you and I alone who will bring this business to a head."

"Sir! It—"

"Consider. The plan calls for a rising in Paris, a co-ordination of forces and an alignment of purpose that is the concern only of those actually there—Georges and company en effet. There is little we might do at this distance and our contribution must be to secure and provide what is asked for, and when the time comes to be ready to extract the tyrant by sea from the territory of France." His eyes gleamed.

"Thus as you will see, our tasks will be limited—but important. Your good self's arriving in Jersey has been a miracle, Renzi. We will press ahead together—my office is yours, and my time. We will share the burden and with it the honour."

This was nothing less than a strident call to join the gathering maelstrom of the great conspiracy. From a reluctant role at the fringe of this half-world he despised he was now being thrust to the centre . . . It was abhorrent to the principles he had lived by—but how could he deny the syllogistic inevitability of the reasoning: that a smaller evil might be justified for the sake of a greater object? Could he in all conscience stand back at this point? This was where logic and morals collided.

"Sir, I shall do my duty in this matter," Renzi said coldly, "with due diligence as my health and strength do allow. But I would have you know, sir, that while bending my best endeavours to the cause I find the business of spying and deception both distasteful and repugnant to my character. When this enterprise is concluded therefore, I must quit your service. That is all."

D'Auvergne nodded. "As I would expect of you, Renzi. Before all things you are a gentleman and you are now being asked to violate your sensibilities beyond the bounds nature sets for them. However, before we begin the enterprise I must have your word upon it that you will enter in with a whole heart, applying your mind and body to the one end. Do I have it?"

"You do, sir."

"Good." He picked up some papers and made a show of shuffling them. "Now, their first task is that of supply. It is vital to their plan to establish a chain of trusted maisons de confiance from Paris to the coast, each to be defended if needed, stocked with fresh horses, food—I've no need to detail this, it is not our concern, but the Chouans will need gold for bribery, arms for the escort. They will have it." He paused for a moment. "And you, Renzi, if you will, shall make it so. Your service as a sea officer allows me to place my fullest trust in your ability to perform this duty. Issue your requirements and I will countersign them without question."

CHAPTER 11

ALTHOUGH HIS FUTURE WAS NOW REASONABLY SECURE Kydd felt qualms. All the time he delayed his return to England he knew Renzi would stay by him at considerable personal cost and this weighed on his conscience. In all fairness he must make plans for departure.

At the theatre Rosie made a point of seeking him out. "Tom, love, I've something for you." At her coy words Richard Samson's expression darkened but she went on gaily, "I'll give it you tonight when we get back."

It was a letter, addressed "To Whom It may Concern" and "Strictly Private." Cautiously Kydd broke the wafer and unfolded the single sheet, conscious that Rosie was watching quietly.

To his surprise the salutation was a firm "Commander Kydd." Puzzled—for he was sure he had not mentioned his last name to Rosie—he read on. In friendly tones the writer allowed that an acquaintance had conveyed to him that Kydd was now at leisure on Guernsey, and it had occurred to him this was a circumstance that might well be turned to mutual advantage. If Kydd was inclined to hear further he would be welcome to call at his convenience.

"A Mr Vauvert," Kydd said offhandedly, "says he wants t' meet me."

Rosie assumed a practical bustle. "You will show me what you intend to wear, my dear," she ordered.

Kydd obediently brought out his best and only walking-out clothes, canvas-wrapped from their storage in the sail-loft, and laid them before her. The dark-green coat with tails had suffered somewhat with mould but more serious was the spotting on the cream pantaloons. Undaunted, Rosie got to work and soon pronounced Kydd ready to appear.

He marched up to an impressive door in Grange Road and knocked. Rosie had told him that Vauvert was an important figure in Guernsey, a merchant investor and négociant of St Peter Port, of some standing, and therefore he could be sure this was not a social call.

He was met by Vauvert himself, an older man of impeccable dress. "Sir, it is kind in you to call," he said, his shrewd eyes taking in Kydd's appearance. "Do come in."

The house was spacious and dark-panelled in the old style with expensive ornaments tastefully placed. "Might I offer you something against this cold evening?"

The cognac was the finest Kydd had tasted; this was hardly surprising, he reflected, given the smuggling reputation of Guernsey. "Tell me, sir," he began, "how it is y' know my name."

"Why, sir, you must understand that good intelligence is a merchant's first requirement if he is to be successful. Your misfortune is not unknown in the fraternity of commerce."

Kydd coloured. "Sir! I have t' make it plain that—"

"Mr Kydd, the circumstances are known to me. If you are innocent I can only commiserate—but if you were informed upon by another less successful than yourself, it is no reflection on your judgement that you were unprepared for such an odious act. Such things do happen from time to time in the conduct of business and you will find no one in Guernsey who will say that the pursuit of profit is in any way morally offensive."

"But—"

"I rather feel we should proceed to more constructive discussion. Do sit, sir." The fire had settled to a comfortable heat in the elegant study and Kydd tried to compose himself. If this was a rich merchant seeking a prestige ornament for his establishment by offering him token employment . . .

"Now, Mr Kydd, let me be open with you. To waste the talents of a sea officer of such shining credentials as yourself in idleness would seem to reflect badly on a nation as sore beset as ourselves. The reasons might be debated but the circumstance itself might yet prove of advantage to both you and me."

He went on: "I shall be brief. You are a naval officer of proved distinction with an active and aggressive attitude to meeting the enemy. These qualities are one and the same as those required in the captain of a private man-o'-war."

"A privateer? No!" Kydd spluttered. "I—it's not possible! I can't—"

"No?" Vauvert said evenly. "Then I've misjudged you, sir. At a time when your country lies under as great a peril as ever it has, you would spend your time at leisure ashore? Let me point out to you that your King's ship and your privateer are in the same business of reprisal. One is at the King's expense, the other paid for by concerned citizens who seek to make their contribution."

"Mr Vauvert, you don't understand. F'r a naval officer—"

"And has it escaped you that war by this means costs His Majesty not a penny? The enemy is made to pay for his own destruction. The sale of prizes repays our own contributions and any overplus is to the credit of those by whose exertions and valour they are secured."

"But—"

"This very house, sir, a not insignificant monument I would dare to say, is itself raised on the proceeds of private cruising in the past age."

Kydd felt anger mount. The man knew nothing of the contempt a King's officer held for his commercial rivals. He could hear cries of disgust as his fellow officers learned of his fall from grace, see the shaking heads. No, it was simply not possible.

And this was the thing he had sworn not to do. Absent himself at sea while his quest remained unresolved? It was the very reason he was delaying in Guernsey. "No," he said, with finality. "It's kind o' you t' think on me, but I'm unable t' see m' way clear in th' matter. I'll bid ye good-day, sir."

Vauvert's disappointment was plain. "My carriage is at your disposal, sir," he said stiffly.

"That won't be necessary," Kydd said, and left.

But outside his annoyance ebbed. Vauvert's disappointment had been genuine; in a way it was a tribute to the respect in which Kydd was held. The man had probably counted on his agreeing to be a privateer captain, with a fine profit on every prize he brought in.

Not that it would in any way sway—Kydd stopped in his tracks. He was getting nowhere in trying to uncover the plot against him and he probably never would unless he tried another tack. Lockwood had obviously bribed a clerk in the admiral's office, no doubt with the connivance of someone local. And what could be bribed could be unbribed! Elation surged: with enough gold in the right places he could achieve anything he wished, including a recanting of the false witness against him. And what faster way to accrue the necessary wealth than as a privateer whose fortune could be won in a single voyage?

With rising excitement he hurried back. He would need to seek leave for employment at sea in the usual way, no doubt, just as he had done for the convict transport to New South Wales. His half-pay would cease immediately, but what an opportunity. Nothing could stand against a determined man with a pot of gold at his back.

The négociant was blank-faced as Kydd was shown back in. "Mr Vauvert, I do apologise, sir, I may have been too precipitate in m' departure. I should have enquired more concerning m' prospects in th' venture."

"I understand, Mr Kydd. It can seem a big step to take when you're not familiar with practices," he said. "I'll do what I can to set your mind at rest. A cigar? No? Perhaps more brandy." A servant appeared with a tray. "Please let me tell you a little of the business.

"I use the word advisedly, for this is something we must keep always before us. It is in the nature of an investment and for so doing we expect a return—to bear a profit to the investors, at the least to recoup our costs." He looked keenly at Kydd. "Now, prudent men of business do weigh the prospects of a return against the risk to their capital, and that of private cruising requires the greatest thought of all. I do not have to detail to a man of your experience the costs of setting a vessel a-swim, but to those must be added considerable legal and agency costs, especially if a prize is to be contested in the courts."

Kydd attended politely, aware that if he was to become a noteworthy privateer captain he must learn as much of these elements as he could.

"It might be said that the chief determinant in success or otherwise of a voyage must be the richness of the cruising ground but I have to tell you that it is not. It is in equal measure the acumen of the financing promoter, and the sagacity and enterprise of the captain." He smiled at Kydd. "You are young and daring, it is true, but your recent actions before Granville tell me that this is tempered in no small measure by cool thinking and a practical appraisal of risk. Should you choose to undertake this venture I for one would not hesitate to accept you."

"Then, sir, you're saying . . ."

"I'm saying only that your suitability for the post is clear. You should understand that the business of any such venture will not be mine to command. The whole will be conducted by a promoter whom we term an armateur. He will form an association of interested persons looking to the matter with a view to investment. Should they concur, articles will be drawn up and the armateur will bring together the subscribers' funds into a consolidated whole, which will then form the capital of the venture. Their return will be in direct proportion to the measure of interest they have shown by their investment."

"I see," Kydd said. "Then as a captain wi' no investment of my own m' position is—"

"This will be a matter for the articles of association. You can be assured that you will be adequately recompensed for your conduct. Some choose a regular wage, others a portion of the proceeds. It is a common thing for a successful captain later to become an investor in himself, with shares accordingly. These many fine mansions you see here in Grange Road are some intimation of what can be achieved."

Kydd's pulse quickened. "Then, er . . ."

Vauvert leaned back. "Well, it seems I've sparked an interest in you, sir. Shall we say that, if I'm able to receive an expression of your earnest in the matter, I shall approach an armateur of my acquaintance to open discussion with a view to forming a venture? Do I have it, Mr Kydd?"

With only the barest hesitation Kydd gulped, "Aye, sir, ye do."

He was nearly late for the evening performance. Carne looked at him sharply as he arrived, but Kydd was too excited to care: he was on another plane of existence and did his work mechanically, letting the nervous energy of the theatre wash about him as a surreal backdrop to his thoughts.

It wasn't until the next morning that he managed to talk to Rosie. He told her what Vauvert had said, then added, with a grin, "So, y' see, if this works f'r me I'm in a fair way t' hauling m'self back t' where I should be."

"You will, love, never doubt it." Her warm smile touched Kydd. If all the world shared her faith in him . . .

The next few days were trying, the possibility of great wealth such a contrast to the reality of present penury, but then a courteously worded note arrived: the armateur had shown a degree of interest and suggested Kydd meet him.

A time and date was duly agreed: Kydd was aware that everything was riding on this next stage. The armateur was a heavily built gentleman of years in plain dress, still with the blocky stance and weatherbeaten features of a professional mariner.

"Le Sieur Robidou is most experienced in these matters, I'll have you know, Mr Kydd. His success as a privateer in the American war is still talked of and he's trusted by all the merchant houses here in the article of practical costs management. He has some questions for you," Vauvert told him.

Kydd found himself held in a steady gaze by the calm blue eyes of the older man. "I'm pleased t' make your acquaintance, sir," Robidou said, in a voice that was deep and authoritative. "Ye've a mind to go a-caper, I believe?"

Vauvert interjected hastily: "Oh, on a caper—it's an old Dutch term for going in search of plunder."

"Er, I'm considering th' prospects," Kydd answered politely.

"Might I know what you conceive t' be a captain's first concern in a private man-o'-war?"

Kydd hesitated, then came back stoutly, "T' keep th' seas without cease until a prize be sighted," he said, "an' then t' spare nothing until th' prize is ours."

Robidou replied in measured tones, "For m'self, I'd think that the higher is t' take a proper regard f'r the ship an' her fittings as they are the property o' the owners, Mr Kydd. Cracking on in a chase is all fine an' well, but if she strains aloft or carries away her sticks, is she fit t' carry on after th' next prize? An' can ye tell me your outlay f'r a prime main-yard? 'Twould make y' eyes water, sir."

Kydd mumbled something, but Robidou pressed on: "Then what would be y'r second-most concern, sir?"

"Why, y'r books of account, o' course, sir," Kydd replied. "What is y'r prize-taking without y' know your expenses t' date as must be set against y'r profit? Double-entry, o' course, an' properly shipshape."

"Well said, sir!" rumbled Robidou. "So many neglect the same t' the eventual mortification o' their finances. Tell me, Mr Kydd, have ye experience at sea in th' commercial line?"

"I have, Mr Robidou. I was captain o' the Totnes Castle in th' colony trade around th' Cape, an' the owners were pleased enough wi' my service." There was probably no need to explain that it had been a convict transport. "And I stood by m' brig-sloop fitting out in Malta. A right caution t' see what hookum snivey the chousin' rogues tried at th' dockyard, it not being a King's yard."

Robidou nodded. "Totnes Castle—can't say I've knowledge of her. Now, these Channel Islands, do ye feel comfortable wi' the sea conditions t' be found here?"

"Aye. In Teazer we had on board Mr Queripel, an' a taut hand he was at y'r currents an' tides. He was good enough t' allow me t' hoist aboard a mort o' learning o' th' Brittany coast."

"I know Queripel," Robidou said. "A good man. Well, I can see ye'll need to haul in a lot more about the privateer trade, but b' the look o' you, we'll rub along, I'm sure. Mr Vauvert, if we can satisfy Mr Kydd with our articles, I think we have a venture."

It was no good. He couldn't go on any longer: a privateer captain or a stagehand—he couldn't be both. But if he stopped working he would be without enough funds to contribute to his lodging or whatever lay ahead.

Rosie was sympathetic. "My dear, it happens to us all. You're between engagements and embarrassed for means." She smiled sweetly. "You shan't leave us on that account." Crossing to a corner table she touched an odd-looking china cat with an upraised paw. "If y' have need, just ask Mojo here." She lifted its head and found him some coins. "In course, we give him back th' rhino as soon as we're in the cobbs again."

Kydd felt a gush of warmth. He felt he was sharing in a tradition that might have been handed down from the travelling players of Shakespeare's time, a custom that helped the needy without causing embarrassment. "Don't worry, Rosie, I will," he said. "An' when m' first prize comes home, we'll have such a hob-a-nob together as will set th' town t' talkin' f'r weeks."

Robidou's small office was on the top floor of an old ship's chandlery on the waterfront near the harbour and still smelled of the century of sea stores that had once been there. He looked up from a broad desk set under old-fashioned windows with a view out to sea. "I think it only proper t' tell ye what's to happen afore we can think t' fit out our craft for cruising."

An elderly clerk scratching away against the wall murmured something but Robidou cut him short. "No, Samuel, those figures must be presented tonight—we'll not disturb ye." He took Kydd into another room and said gravely. "He's preparing our case as will be put t' the investors. It has t' be a fine rousin' one or they'll not hazard their capital."

Kydd felt a sudden chill: his hopes might yet be turned to dust.

"Don't concern y'self, Mr Kydd, that's business for me. But after we've got agreement we must appoint the officers."

"The officers?" Surely this was his prerogative?

"Why, yes! I shall be made ship's husband, o' course, but there's the business house in London. We'll need a bond agent—Paul Le Mesurier I'd trust. We has t' find a proctor an' notary public, and there'll be insurance and legal agents t' appoint. But ye won't be interested in this-all, you'll want t' hear about drawing up th' articles of agreement and shares."

"I do, Mr Robidou!" Kydd said, as heartily as he could.

"Well, curb y' impatience, sir, all in good time. Now after this is signed, we have the venture. I'll be collectin' the subscriptions an' establishin' our credit wi' the Priaulx house—they owns privateers but they'll handle fittin' out for us in return we gives 'em commissions of appraisement an' such on our prizes. When I've done that we can go lookin' for a ship for ye." Robidou chuckled. "Then ye has t' find a crew as will follow, an' then finally take out y'r Letter o' Marque!"

It was an intoxicating thought: there was every reason to hope that soon he could be once more at sea and, miraculously, as captain! "When do we—That is, m' ship. Do we . . . ?"

Just how did one go about acquiring a privateer vessel? Go to a builder of privateers? Look in the newspaper advertisements? Impatience flooded Kydd.

"Your ship? A mite impetuous when we hasn't yet an agreement, sir." Robidou relented with a grin. "Why don't ye take a walk along the harbour? If'n there's a saucy craft as takes y'r eye, it's possible we'll make an offer. Havelet Bay an' St Sampson, the builders' yards there, might have something t' interest ye."

Kydd lost no time. There was every conceivable vessel in St Peter Port harbour. Stately barques, nondescript luggers, and at anchor in the Great Road large merchantmen sporting a surprising number of guns a side.

But where were the privateers? Would he recognise one? Those he had come upon at sea were a mixed bag indeed, from large three-masters to the swarms in the Mediterranean not much bigger than boats. There was probably not a single type of vessel that could be classed definitively as a privateer.

His pace slowed. This would not be easy. Were vessels purpose-built to be privateers? If so, what would their characteristics be? Fast craft, probably sharp in the hull with sparring to take a cloud of canvas—but those were the very kind whose sea-keeping was so poor they would have to retire at the first sign of a blow. And as well, in the confines of a sharp-built vessel, where were the prize-crews going to find berths? And stowage for stores to keep the seas for any length of time? Then again, if he were the prey, a smart, rakish predator lifting above the horizon would instantly have him sheering away for his life, and it would be a tedious and costly stern chase to go after every prize.

It was something to which he had never before given thought. He looked at the ships working cargoes: what would be their perspectives on the matter? As prey at sea, they would be as wary as any wild animal fearing a fox ranging nearby, so if the privateer seemed one of them on its lawful occasions they would not take much notice of his approach or any manoeuvre that would otherwise seem threatening.

Yes! A ship of respectable size, probably brig-rigged, as so many traders were. Then a sudden unmasking of a goodly row of guns to convince even the stoutest heart that resistance would be futile. This would have the additional benefit that there would be no gun-play to damage prize or cargo. A ship, in fact, not so very different from Teazer . . .

There were several that might qualify: as he surveyed the busy harbour one in particular stood out. A black-hulled brigantine of two or three hundred tons, sitting handily on the mud in the tidal harbour to reveal her sweet underwater lines. There were few about her decks; her hatches were on, probably awaiting her cargo—or she was in idleness.

His heart beat faster. Was this the ship that would take him to wealth and respectability—to adventure in the unknown? Casually, he walked round the harbour wall until he was up with her. Close to, she appeared well cared-for, the gear tautly bowsed, lines from aloft properly tarred, decks priddied. All this was a good indicator of her condition below.

He sauntered past to peer at her stern. Cheval Marin was painted there in ornate yellow lettering. Seahorse: a fine name. A ship-keeper gazed up at him curiously. Kydd walked on: he knew now what he wanted—if the investors came to an agreement.

Renzi and d'Auvergne fell quickly into a working relationship based on mutual respect. Together they reviewed the plot, the heroic lengths to which Georges and his compatriots were going merely to maintain themselves at the centre of Napoleon's capital. They traced the route out of Paris that the fleeing carriage and its prisoner must take—west through the meadows and beech forests of the Orne, into the uplands and to the rugged coast, to a secluded but accessible place where the final delivery of the would-be emperor to the waiting vessel could be effected in secrecy and at speed.

That done, it was now necessary to prepare the ground. The secret records of La Correspondance—d'Auvergne's underground network dating back to the days of the Revolution, to the doomed risings in the Vendée with all their desperate valour and treachery— these would hold what was needed.

Renzi placed his candle on the bare table, oppressed by the stifling atmosphere of the ancient dungeon, and crossed to the iron chests. The heavy keys were awkward and the lock wheezed reluctantly, but then he had them: deeds of heroism never to be told to the world, letters of pleading ended briefly in another hand, bald receipts for gold and arms—and the names of those living quietly in the peace of the countryside who had to be informed that service and sacrifice were now asked of them.

He stuffed the ones he needed into his satchel, relocked the chests, closed the grim door and left the room to the dust of centuries.

While Renzi's first requisition was being readied he started on the hundreds of messages that were to go out. Each missive, reaching to villages and farmhouses in a long line to the capital, had to be carefully phrased to avoid implication if it was intercepted but be undeniably authentic.

For Kydd time passed heavily. Then a hurried note came from Robidou to the effect that one of the investors had raised a serious objection. To him as captain? It didn't say, but Kydd knew that Vauvert and Robidou were relying on his name as a daring naval officer to offset his lack of experience. Would this suffice?

Two nights later a letter arrived by hand of messenger. Kydd ripped it open. There was agreement: he was appointed captain, and expected at the office at ten the following morning for the formalities, which would include his acceptance of the initial articles.

Kydd called his friends: "Rosie! Richard! Raise y'r glasses, please, t' Guernsey's newest privateer captain!"

"Hurrah!" Rosie squealed, hugging Kydd. "A real corsair! How romantic! We'll come down to the harbour an' see you off on your voyage o' plunder and adventure. You lucky man!"

At Robidou's office he picked up the memorandum and articles of association that were the foundation of his future. It was strange to see before his eyes, in sombre, weighty phrases, the financial underpinning to nothing less than a voyage of predation—but then he remembered that he was a mere employee of the association, the captain of their venture but, nevertheless, a servant of the owners.

This became even more plain when preparation began on the articles of the voyage. There was dignified discussion concerning his emoluments but this was merely a form of politeness: his basic income would be no more than a bare wage. The incentive for captain and crew would be a share in the proceeds of any prize they might take. This was apportioned out and agreed at a five-eighths share to the managing owners, the rest to be distributed among the privateer crew. The captain would receive sixty shares, twice that of the officers; the boatswain, gunner and other valuable members half that again. The common seaman could expect anything from twelve to two shares in accordance with his worth to the ship.

That settled, there was the question of the conduct of the voyage. In the merchant service there were no Articles of War, no regulations or Admiralty Instructions as a comforting guide and sometime refuge from decision. On a merchantman, aside from the venerable customs of the sea, the captain stood alone to rule as he saw fit—and be ready to take the consequences.

There had to be something sturdy and bracing in the articles, however, as this was the only binding document for a seaman, who must sign them before the forthcoming voyage. For a privateer it was a particular case: carrying on the profession of war but within the structure of the merchant service. Under Robidou's advice, Kydd compromised on simple clauses that required obedience to lawful orders and refraining from insolence and disorderly conduct.

As to provisions touching on combat, it was no use to make appeal to King and country. There was but one simple equation: those who flinched in action or showed cowardly behaviour would forfeit their share in the prize. On the other hand the first man to board a resisting prize would be rewarded: six gold guineas for him and one each for the next six; no pillage to be tolerated.

The articles went on to other details: no extra privileges to officers save the captain; a week's wages in advance on signing and a redeemable ticket for shares immediately on prize condemnation; none to suffer loss of wages or prize money if put ashore with illness or injury caused in the line of duty; and all monies due a seaman to be payable within three months of the end of the voyage.

These were clear enough, for Kydd had been master of a merchant vessel before and the legalities of such documents as the Portage Bill, and others concerning the crew, were no mystery to him. He must have impressed, for Robidou sat back in satisfaction and grunted, "An' if ye'll clap y'r scratch t' the articles we can get th' venture under way."

The armateur pulled out a bottle of malt whisky and glasses. "Here's t' your good health, Mr Kydd, an' may our enterprise be profitable."

It was time to find a ship.

"Aye, I did get sight o' one," Kydd said casually. "She's alongside by South Pier. Name of Cheval Marin. Fine lines she has, trim an' well fettled, wi' a deck as'll take a line o' six-pounders—"

"The brigantine? About two, three hundred ton, a mite over-sparred f'r the Channel?"

"Aye, but not a problem f'r a cruiser."

Robidou's expression hardened. "Pray tell me, Mr Kydd, why do ye think she'll make a privateer?"

"Why, she has the size t' discourage valour and looks a simple merchantman well enough."

"And where did ye say y'r cruising?"

"Gulf of Avranches t' Brest," Kydd said defensively, remembering the two quarry he had seen from Teazer.

"Then ye'll need to think again, I believe. There's two things y' may have overlooked. The first of 'em is, in those waters they're all coasters close in. Shallow draught is what's wanted in chase through shoal waters, bigod, an' that's not y'r Cheval.

"Second is, have ye costed the barky? Three hundred tons, a hundred an' fifty crew—puttin' aside th' purchase price, what'll she cost each day o' sea-time? Disbursements in harbour dues, wharfage, repair an' maintenance? Add all y'r other outlay with this an' we come to a pretty sum. Now, how much do y' reckon a coaster prize will yield, figuring on a ready market but fees o' thirty per centum at the least? Not enough t' cover expenses.

"No, sir. It will not do. You'll be wantin' a trim coaster y'self, I'm thinkin', no more'n eighty ton, probably lug-rigged an' country built, a hold well enough f'r a prize-crew. Y' won't need storin' past a week or so at a time."

Kydd's dreams of cutting the figure of a rapacious privateer putting to sea in a proud craft in search of booty were rapidly fading.

"I did see one as I'll allow is more t' my taste," Robidou went on. "In St Sampson f'r repair, a saucy lugger, just y'r size. You'll want t' see her first, o' course. Name o' Bien Heureuse, been in th' salt trade this last twelve-month, a common enough sight to the French."

"What weight o' metal?" Kydd asked dubiously.

Robidou chuckled. "A Frenchy coastin' craft won't have more'n swivels, so a pair o' small carriage guns'll be enough t' terrify him. If ye're crafty an' go quietly ye'll outsail any deep-laden vessel o' y'r own class, an' then it's how well y' board."

Kydd's first sight of Bien Heureuse was a vessel propped up on the mud near a slip-yard up the coast at St Sampson. Plank walkways were laid to allow their inspection but as Kydd made his way gingerly towards the rearing bulk his heart sank.

Her construction was sound enough, carvel strakes of a thickness out of respect to the rocky shoals and reefs—but so drab. No figurehead or decoration to relieve the sturdy lines, not a touch of gold-leaf or a proud stern-gallery. Her hull was utilitarian tarred black-sided, faded in parts but her spars and rails were varnished, giving an overall impression of unpretentious strength.

They clambered up a wooden ladder to the deck. She was two-masted, really; the third much smaller and well-raked mast right aft was so out of keeping with the others. But at least they soared to a satisfying height, Kydd reflected, and they could probably spread topsails above.

Flush-decked, there was one hatchway forward and one aft: the latter led to what would be his cabin, little more than a hutch with a table and space for a cot, with two tiny skylights above. Forward was a space with curtained-off bunks above lockers, no doubt the officers' accommodation.

Reaching the open air again, Kydd saw that with gratings in the hatches the partitioned hold held good promise of accommodation for prize-crew, and there was the usual fo'c'sle glory-hole right forward for the main crew.