The Privateer's Revenge

Aware that Robidou was watching him, Kydd took his time. If this was to be his command, nothing could be left to chance. He crossed to the shrouds; they were faded to the plain hemp but when he examined inside the strands, there was the rich black of Stockholm tar.

The deck was uncluttered, the lead of the lines from aloft economical and practical as to be expected of a small crew. There would have to be doubled backstays and the like as in a man-o'-war to provide for rigging carrying away in the thick of an action, and other additions would be needed aloft.

Her ground tackle—anchors and cables—had been landed but could be inspected later, as would the suits of sails going with the sale, but all in all . . . "She'll do," Kydd said evenly. "Subject t' survey, o' course."

The pace quickened: it was made very clear that ships in harbour do not catch prizes, and Kydd spent more of his time at St Sampson.

When he called on Robidou he was asked to provide a completion date for the conversion. "We're livin' on our capital," the armateur rasped. "Ye must have crew, but not too quick—they'll be guzzlin' on our account soon enough—but they needs t' plan out their time fr'm when you're askin' 'em to sign on, which'll be less'n a week afore ye sails. An' that'll be as soon as she's fit t' swim."

Kydd made to leave but Robidou stopped him. "Aren't ye for-gettin' something, Mr Kydd?"

"Er, what's that, sir?"

"If'n ye goes a-cruisin' without it, the world will take ye as a pirate."

"Ah, th' Letter o' Marque." It was the legal document that set him loose on the seven seas to board and seize ships going about their business without being accused of piracy. He had never seen one close to but knew them to be of vital importance.

"Do ye know what's t' be done in the applyin'?" When Kydd shook his head, he passed across the single sheet of an old Letter of Marque from a previous voyage.

It would be no trivial matter. The object, it seemed, was to petition the King through the High Court of Admiralty for a grant of reprisal, the legal conceit being that the petitioner was seeking redress for injury from the nominated prince—Bonaparte—through the seizing of his property, namely ships and their cargo.

This in turn required the production of a warrant from the Lords Commissioners for executing the Office of Lord High Admiral of Great Britain for the granting thereof to the named captain and ship. To obtain such it was necessary to make deposition as to the suitability of such a vessel and its commander, with the owners, tonnage and rig, her principal officers, the size of crew and armament to be strictly specified. Even the number of shot for each gun and the state of her sea stores would be noted.

"Th' suitability of her captain as must appear before 'em?" Kydd had never heard of a naval captain of a privateer—but, then, it was likely that few would wish to boast of the experience. And what of the recent shadow over his naval career?

"That's as it has t' be," Robidou said impatiently. "You'll not need t' appear. As Guernseymen we can declare b' proxy, an' we has a London agent who'll weasel th' thing through any shoal waters for us. He knows what he's about, an' we're payin' the devil enough for his pains."

Kydd read on. "A bond?"

"Sureties on the commander against his good conduct. I'm askin' Paul Le Mesurier t' stand in the sum o' one thousan' five hundred pounds, as he will, trustin' you'll steer small in the article o' seizin' ships as will fight."

It staggered Kydd. The princely sum of five years of his total pay as commander was being advanced in trust by a complete stranger on the word of Robidou, which he stood to lose if Kydd ran afoul of some bloody-minded Admiralty clerk who judged that his conduct in boarding had been wanting.

Robidou continued, "Well, now, that's under way, then. I fancy ye'll want t' find a crew." He paused. "You'll not know s' many in th' islands—do ye wish t' leave it to me t' find some as'll ship with ye?"

"If y' please, Mr Robidou," Kydd said.

"I'll put th' word about."

Slowly the replies arrived on Renzi's desk: a tribute to the skill and dedication of d'Auvergne's network. Concealed in tree-trunks and under bridges, they were retrieved and, at great risk to the carriers, made their way to the coast, then by fishermen and smugglers to Jersey, now to lie in his hand.

The secrets were held in grubby, spidery letters, some as spirals to be uncurled, others folded to minute squares, in innocent shop receipts or letters to relatives. However, great care was needed, for while the old trick of writing in lemon juice and reading it by the heat of a candle-flame was well known, many preferred to use baking-soda and grape juice. This could be read only the once, then would slowly fade for ever, effectively preventing its later use as evidence.

The messages: fervent support, elaborately worded reasons for unavailability, warnings of billeted troops . . . All needed to be plotted against the route and alternative arrangements made.