The Privateer's Revenge

CHAPTER 12

KYDD WAS SET UP IN HIS RENDEZVOUS at the Blue Anchor in St Peter Port in due style, ready to stand a muzzier of stingo to any brave tar who wished to sign on with him for a cruise of fortune westward.

It was noisy, hard-drinking work, but Robidou was sitting next to him and it was clear that he was well respected as a privateersman. Among the first to approach was Rowan, a seamed West Country man with a direct eye and quiet manner. His recent experience quickly saw him signed as lieutenant and prize-captain.

A boatswain, Rosco, was next. Bluff, he had a hard-eyed countenance that Kydd liked. Seamen started to appear; there were some prime hands that would not have been out of place on the gun-deck of a man-o'-war—which was probably where they had learned their trade. Others had the look of the wharf-rat about them, but Kydd could not be too particular as numbers were thinning.

Another experienced officer came up: name of Tranter, he could claim service with the Guernseyman Hamon of the Phoenix, which had taken twenty prizes in the Revolutionary War; he was made second prize-captain and lieutenant.

More seamen came; some curious, others disdainful. It was hard to make out their mettle when it was overlaid with the traditional independence of the merchant seaman, but this was not to be a long, deep-sea voyage where any real defects of character could matter.

As time passed, Kydd was perturbed that no gunner had stepped forward: he had secured a pair of nine-pounder carriage guns and needed to see they were fitted properly. A merchant vessel was not equipped with the heavy scantlings of timber round the gun-ports to absorb recoil and they would require sea testing to work up to a safe charge.

By the evening it had become evident that while they would not go short-handed they had not been besieged by eager fortune-hunters and Kydd knew he was lucky to have signed his crew. Now it was time to take on the ship's boys.

Their main purpose was to manage the ship when the men were away in prize-crews. Paid at the lowest rate and with but a half-share each they were nevertheless vital—and cheap. They crowded up to his table, eyes shining, ready for adventure. He hoped the reality of a cold autumn sea and an overcrowded ship would not too quickly disillusion them and managed a few words of encouragement to each.

The next day Kydd was back at the Bien Heureuse, which was now in the water so he could take his fill of her. Her lugger rig was his main concern as it was seldom encountered in the Navy. This one was similar to a French chasse-marée, with its sharply raked third mast and ringsail with jigger boomkin out over the stern, but she had a lengthy bowsprit over her dignified straight stem, English style.

Time was pressing, and there was so much to see to: the sails had to be in reasonable condition for the weather as it worsened with the season; the running rigging needed to be overhauled— no twice-laid stuff to fail at the crucial moment. And all the time expenses were mounting and Robidou had to be convinced of their necessity.

Artificers and artisans were signed on—the sailmaker, armourer, carpenter—each with shares negotiated and commensurate, all found outfits of tools and spares. The clock was ticking with the hands signing aboard and taking wages.

The Priaulx yard was doing a good job but seemed to have no sense of urgency: it needed goading, and drink money for the shipwrights, who were, of course, in a way of business that in a King's yard they were not. A gunner was finally found: Kevern, a sallow and somewhat nervous young man, who had the unsettling habit of agreeing instantly and completely with anything Kydd said.

By now Robidou was showing clear signs of impatience. Kydd's requirement for more powder and shot was denied curtly; he was allowed the bare minimum of charts and no chronometer. The prize-captain Rowan, however, was unexpectedly helpful in discovering odd rutters and pilots of the waters in French and Dutch.

A small crowd of interested spectators had taken to looking on from the pier, to the hazard of the ship's stores, being prepared there to be struck below. Driven to distraction Kydd was told that the cook had stormed off in disgust at the primitive stove—and he knew only too well that the men wouldn't stand for there not being hot scran on board at the right time.

It was chaos and confusion on all sides as Kydd took refuge in his tiny cabin. It smelled of damp bedding and stale tobacco. The timber sides were weeping at the join of the transom, and there would be no money wasted on oiling the faded wood of the bulkhead; it remained a drab and pale-blotched sadness.

He held his head in his hands. What had possessed him to take this on? He would have given a great deal to have his friend Renzi with him, now loyally working at menial clerking in Jersey to give him the chance to clear his name. Yet something had prevented Kydd writing to tell him of his change of situation, some feeling of reluctance to admit to his friend his new status as a privateer.

There were more pressing matters: How could he forge this ship's company into a fighting whole when they were complete strangers? Not a soul would he have aboard that he had known more than hours only. He would be again without a friend in the world.

Staring gloomily at the grubby skylight he had a sudden idea that set him to calling a ship's boy. "Here's a sixpence. Do you find a Mr Luke Calloway as will be at th' Bethel or workin' on th' waterfront, an' tell him th' captain o' Bien Heureuse wants t' speak with him. Off y' go, then!" It would not only provide Calloway with a job and a chance at real money but Kydd would have a familiar face on board.

It wasn't until the afternoon that the lad came back, breathless. "I did fin' a gent b' that name, but he was pushin' a handcart, Mr Kydd. An' when I told 'im what ye wanted, he asked what ship. I told 'im Bien Heureuse, privateer!" He puffed out his cheeks in pride.

"Then where—"

"When he hears she's a private ship, he don't want t' know, sees me off," the boy said, astonished.

Kydd grinned mirthlessly. "Tell him Mr Kydd has need o' his services, younker. Another sixpence if he's aboard b' sundown."

That evening, still without a cook, Kydd welcomed Calloway warmly and, over a hot negus in his cabin, told him of his plans. "An' if ye'd wish it, there's a berth f'r master's mate on th' next cruise." Whatever it took, he would get it past Robidou. After all, Calloway was a prime man-o'-war's man and an officer in his last ship. And a master's mate aboard a merchant ship? Well, if the practice was to call mates "lieutenants" in privateers, then surely he could import other ranks.

"I'd like it well, Mr Kydd," Calloway said, in a voice tinged with awe.

It vexed Kydd that he was apparently now touched by the glamour of a corsair. He went on sternly, "In course, as soon as we're rightfully back aboard Teazer I'll see ye on the quarterdeck as reefer again."

"Aye aye, Captain," Calloway said happily.

"Get y' baggage an' be back smartly. I've a cook t' find fr'm somewhere," Kydd said heavily, remembering. If he did not find one—

"Er, I do know o' one."

"A sea-cook? Where?"

Calloway hesitated. "Over in La Salerie, Mr Kydd. I seen him cook up f'r the boatyard there. See, he's of an age, as we'd say— you'd have t' hide th' grog or he's a devil cut loose, but—"

"He's been t' sea?"

The young man's face cleared. "Oh, aye! If ye'd lend ear t' his yarns an' half of it true, why—"

"Get him here!"

Then, suddenly, it was time: after a last frantic scrabble to load stores and find missing crew, they were singling up the shore lines. Shouts were thrown at men standing uselessly about the fo'c'sle and the boatswain knocked a man to the deck in vexation. Canvas rustled as it was hoisted on the fore and a sightseer bent to give the bow-line an expert twist and toss into the water. As the wind caught the tall lug and the bow sheered away from the pier, Kydd roared the order that brought in the stern painter—and they were on their way out to sea.

Kydd took a deep breath to steady himself: he was back in command and outward bound on a voyage of fortune—free of the land. But this was in a small, barely armed former salt trader, with an untried crew, and in minutes they could be fighting for their lives—or seizing a rich prize.

As they left St Peter Port there had been no fine gun salutes or pennant snapping bravely at the main, the hallowed ceremony of a King's ship putting to sea to meet the enemy. Instead it had been a casual slipping from the pier to catch the ebb, along with all the other small vessels leaving to go about their business on great waters.

Bien Heureuse picked up the breeze and stood out into the channel of the Little Russel. Kydd took care that they carried only small sail until he was happy he knew his ship better. It was unsettling not to have a Queripel or a sailing-master aboard as they headed out past the sombre rocks round the harbour. Probably Robidou had reasoned that if he needed deeper local knowledge he could ask Rowan or one of the others, but for now he must be the one to give orders.

With clear skies and in only a slight lop, they shaped course past the Plattes for the north of Guernsey. "Where are we headed, Mr Kydd?" Rowan asked, standing by his shoulder, perfectly braced on the heeling deck.

"We're t' quarter th' coast west o' Bréhat," Kydd said, in a tone that did not invite discussion. However, he planned to delay their arrival on these hunting grounds along the north coast of France as there was a driving need to get his ship in fighting array before their first encounter. He did not want arguments: he felt there was quarry in those regions and, besides, his one and only patrol of the French coast had been there so these were the only waters he knew well.

Rowan looked at him keenly but said nothing.

They reached the north of Guernsey and put the tiller down for a smart beat westward in the direction of the open Atlantic where he would have the sea-room to take her measure.

The fresh breeze strengthened in gusts and sent the lee gunwale dipping into the racing side wake: a lesson learned. Bien Heureuse was tender on a wind and would need more men to each mast. Her angle of heel was considerable, even for a fore-and-aft rigged vessel and Kydd found himself reaching for a shroud to steady himself. Approaching seas came in with a hard smack on the weather bow and transformed into solid spray that soaked every unwary hand; she was a wet ship.

He tested the wind, leaning into it with his eyes closed, feeling its strength and constancy. A strong blow from the south-southwest; surely they could carry more sail? He made the order to loose one of the two reefs on the fore—the bow fell off and buried itself in the brisk combers. "An' th' main, Mr Rosco!" Kydd bawled; there was little subtlety in the lug rig, but this brought a definite improvement in her response at the tiller.

He sheeted the little ringsail behind him harder in and was surprised by the response. Not only did she right herself considerably and take fewer seas over the bow but her speed seemed to have increased. And closer to the wind: there were possibilities . . .

He let Bien Heureuse take up full and bye again, then tried her going free, downwind. Without a comfortable breadth of beam she felt uneasy, rolling in a regular arc to one side then lurching to the other—not her best point of sailing, and the absence of a weighty cargo low down didn't help.

A crestfallen Calloway appeared. "Sorry, sir. Purvis is—um, flustered b' liquor an' needs t' rest."

Kydd grimaced. Their cook, prostrate with drink. As were other crewmen who had disposed of their advances in the time-honoured way. They would have to be roused soon for the setting of watches, then must abide by the ageless rhythm of the sea. In the Navy such behaviour would earn at the least a night in the bilboes—but this was not the Navy.

"Mr Rowan? I'd be obliged should ye take the deck until we've got our watch-bill. Course west b' south f'r now." Kydd wanted to get the paperwork squared away while the daylight lasted; there were no clear-light spermaceti lamps aboard this vessel.

The motion was uncomfortable in the confines of his cabin, a pronounced wallow that demanded a sustained bracing against the movement. He turned to his papers, hurriedly stuffed into a box. He had not had time fully to digest the "Admiralty Instructions to Privateers," a specific set of rules enclosed with the Letter of Marque, which by their infraction would result in the bond forfeited. They seemed straightforward enough, however, in the main to ensure that merchant ships of whatever flag, and particularly neutrals, were not assailed by swarms of ill-disciplined freebooters little better than pirates. From the look of some of his crew this was not impossible, Kydd thought wryly.

The other paperwork would have to wait. He swung out of the cabin and then on deck. In the cold evening bluster he saw only Rowan and the helmsman in any sense on watch, with possibly a pair of lookouts on the foredeck, but more probably they were landmen, unable to keep below-decks.

He stumped down to the curtained officers' quarters and found the other prize-captain lying in his cot. "Mr Tranter, muster all hands f'r watches," he snapped.

"Bit hard, like," the man drawled. "They been on th' turps—we lets 'em sleep it off." He made no move to rise.

Kydd saw red. "Out 'n' down—now!" he roared. "If I don't see ye on deck this instant, so help me I'll have ye turned afore the mast!"

Tranter rolled an eye towards him. "Y' can't do that," he said, in an aggrieved tone. "This ain't a King's ship. We got articles as say I'm a prize-captain." He contemplated Kydd for a moment more, then slipped down slowly and reached for his watch-coat.

Stumping up the companionway Kydd clamped down his anger. If he was going to have a well-trained crew, instead of a cutlass-waving bunch of pirates, he had his work cut out.

The men came on deck reluctantly, some helped by their shipmates; there were by count but fifty-one, all told. The chill wind whipping in set the unprepared shivering, but Kydd was in no mood for sympathy. He waited until they were still. "Ye're crew o' the Bien Heureuse privateer," he rasped. "Ye've signed articles, an' now ye're takin' my orders."

Apart from some sullen shuffling there seemed to be stolid acceptance; he would show them he knew the customs of the merchant service well enough. "Mr Rowan, Mr Tranter," he called importantly. Rowan stepped forward and, pursing his lips, pointed to a level-eyed seaman with his arms folded across his chest. "Raynor," he grunted.

The man obediently crossed the deck and stood by him. With a grimace, Tranter moved forward and surveyed the group. He called out a thickset seaman from the back, who shuffled across to him through the others.

It went on: the best men fairly distributed, the unknowns parcelled out. When it reached the boys Kydd intervened. "I'll take him t' be m' peggy," he said, pointing to the tallest. He wanted a cabin boy who could stand up for himself.

When the process was complete, Kydd set Calloway to taking down the details. "I'll have a full watch o' the hands b' morning," he ordered both lieutenants. It was now up to them to assign their own men to best advantage in the watch that they themselves would lead.

He left them to it and headed for his cabin, relieved that the first steps had been taken in bringing order to the world. No sooner had he sat down than there was a tap at the door. "Come!" he called.

It was the young lad he had chosen as his cabin boy. "Well, now, an' ye've nothing t' fear if y' do y'r duty, younker," Kydd said genially. Was there not something familiar about the youngster?

"Yes, sir," he replied, not meeting Kydd's eyes.

"I'm sure I've seen ye somewhere about—what do they call ye?"

"L-Leon, s' please ye, sir," the boy said, shrinking back.

Realisation dawned. "Be damned, an' Leon it's not! Pookie more like!" Kydd spluttered. "What th' devil—what d' ye think y'r playin' at, y' chuckle-headed loon?" A twelve-year-old waif of a girl in a privateer, however big for her age?

"I—I want t' be a pirate," she said stiffly, "an' sail the seven seas—"

"Pirate?" Kydd choked.

"—t' seize an' plunder, an' then I'll give it to m' ma."

It was rank lunacy. "How—"

"I heard as how you was goin' t' be captain o' the good ship Ben Herses, an' cruise the seas for—"

"Enough o' th' catblash! You're goin' back t' y'r ma."

The child's eyes filled. "Please, Mr Kydd! I want t' be a sailor, see aroun' the world like you do—an' ye did promise us when we signed as we'd be able seamen afore we knew it. That's what y' said."

Kydd's first reaction was to summon the boatswain and have the girl taken off his hands, but then he sat back heavily. The ship was halfway between Guernsey and the French coast with night coming on: he was not risking those rocky outliers to return in the darkness with a fluky wind. She would have to stay on board for the night.

To return in the morning would be to waste their hard-won westing and result in an ignominious arrival in port to explain that one of the hands he had personally signed up was female. Not to speak of the expense, which would be mounting hourly. And he couldn't land the rascal somewhere to pick up later: there was no friendly territory anywhere to the west of Guernsey. Kydd sighed. "What can y'r mother be feeling now, y' scamp?"

"Ma?" she said scornfully. "She's so plagued b' the little 'uns, she'd be main pleased t' see th' last o' me. I been away before, y' know," she added, with self-possession beyond her years.

"Y' can't stay aboard. What if they finds ye a—a female? Does anyone know?"

"No, they doesn't, Mr Kydd," she said stoutly. "Look, I'll be th' same as the others—honest! I'll pull on y'r ropes an' such, just like a man. Don't make me go back."

Kydd had to admit that she was indistinguishable from a boy in her breeches and plain homespun, and her hair, while long, was in keeping with that of the other ship's boys. Her impish features suggested anything but a demure damsel. Despite himself he warmed to her need to escape dreary poverty for the freedoms of the sea. He made up his mind. "Be just th' same as the other lads? Take orders wi'out a cackle? Stand up f'r y'self?"

"I will, Mr Kydd," she said, with fervour.

"Then I'll make ye a deal."

"Mr Kydd?"

"I don't know ye're a female. Nobody told me. Now, if any aboard find out, ye're taken straight t' this cabin th' same instant an' locked in until we make port again. Y' scavey?"

"Aye, Mr Kydd," she whispered, eyes shining.

"An' none o' y'r snafflin' tricks either—sailors has a short way wi' thieves."

"Never, sir. I only did it t' give Ma."

"Remember—if just a one sees ye're female . . ."

"They won't, Mr Kydd."

He looked at her very directly, "And if'n any shows ye any mischief at all, you're t' come t' me directly. I'll not stand f'r it, d' ye hear?"

"Yes, Mr Kydd."

"Right. Well, Mr. Turner, let me tell ye of y'r duties."

Morning found them under small sail tossing uneasily in a long swell from the west. Bleary-eyed men were roused from below to meet the dawn. This would be the last time Kydd allowed the ship not to be ready at quarters—or whatever passed for battle readiness in a privateer.

"Mr Rowan!" he hailed. "I'll give both watches one bell f'r their breakfast an' then we'll turn to f'r some real sailorin'." It was near impossible to work up a ship's company to effectiveness as a fighting unit in such a short time—but it would be their captain they blamed if they failed to take a prize or, worse, were overcome themselves.

The men left the deck, muttering, and Kydd remembered the cook. Going forward he found the forehatch but, praise be, immediately below it Purvis was at work with his pots and pans on the small portable stove. He looked up cheerily. "Ho there, Cap'n!" he breezed.

"Everything in hand?" Kydd called down. The stove was rigged over a bed of bricks under the open hatch but how it was possible to bring in meals for scores of men in such conditions was a mystery to him.

"Aye—all's a-taunto, sir."

Kydd left him to it and returned to his cabin. Inside, an apprehensive cabin boy waited with a steaming dish and plates on a tray under a neat canvas spray-cover. "Why, thank 'ee, er, Turner." Clearly the cook had been consulted and together they had managed a hot breakfast fit for a captain. It was a hearty burgoo and toast thick with Jersey butter—Kydd had not been able to afford his usual private cabin stores and knew he was sharing with his men.

"Mr Purvis says as if ye has y'r particular taste he will oblige, Mr Kydd."

"That's kind in him," Kydd said. "Now, you duck below an' crowd some victuals inboard. I've got work f'r all hands this forenoon as'll have 'em all in a sweat." He chuckled. The smell of hot food was irresistible and he realised he was very hungry.

Later, restored after his meal Kydd went on deck. He had given it some thought: there was no use trying to bring things along by setting masts to compete or appealing to some sense of nautical excellence. These merchant seamen were used to a sea life very different from the Navy, often with parsimonious owners providing tiny crews barely adequate to do the job, leaving little time or energy for non-essentials.

No, it would be necessary to go about it in other ways. The first was to trust the mates, that they would see to it their men would not let them down.

"Mr Rowan! I desire ye t' exercise y'r men under sail. What do y' have in mind?"

At first it was a shambles, but that was to be expected. Order out of chaos, seamen out of men, the time-honoured sequence when each had to learn the ropes on an unfamiliar ship that did things in its own particular way. "Different ships, different long-splices" was the old saw. But Rowan proved experienced and wise, and well before midday each point of sailing, every manoeuvring task, any major event to be expected in a chase had been completed to satisfaction.

With a core of competence at the heart of the watch it would now be possible to build on it and start the task of bringing along the ordinary seamen, landmen and boys to their rightful standing and respect as full able-bodied seamen.

After a hearty noon meal of beef stew, it was time to attend the guns. Kevern assembled a crew and they set to on their main armament.

It quickly became obvious that they were paradoxically both over- and undergunned. A vessel of their tonnage could be expected to mount at least four carriage guns a side. In his desire for the authoritative heavy crash of a sizeable gun Kydd had acquired a pair of nine-pounders. It had been a mistake: they were too long, unwieldy, and their full recoil would send them right across the deck; if they had to reduce charges out of respect to Bien Heureuse's light timbers the weapons would be of no more use than smaller ones.

Kydd realised he should have stayed with more but lighter guns and felt resentful that Kevern had let him go to sea so encumbered. He consoled himself, however, with the thought that a pitched gun-battle was the last thing he wanted. A quick chase and rapid boarding: that was the way to get an unspoiled prize.

They were making headway: the restraining of his Navy instincts and understanding of his men's ways had gone a long way to winning their grudging respect. It was left to see how they would behave in a boarding. Should he begin to exercise with cutlass and pistols?

Along the horizon on the larboard bow Kydd saw, just starting to lift, the low untidy jumble of dark granite islets that was the north of France. There was little time left now to prepare. He took a deep breath. So much depended on—

"Saaail hoooo!" An excited whoop from forward shattered his thoughts.

"Where awaaay?" he bellowed. The lookout obliged with a pointing finger. There were no tops and ratlines up the shrouds with the lug-rig so he was at essentially the same level.

An excited roar went up and Kydd fumbled for his pocket telescope. This close to the coast, the odds were in favour of it being French and a prize—so soon! His heart thudded as he tried to focus.

They had surprised the ship as it had come round the cliffy headland into full view. No more than three or four miles away it was sailing along the shore on a course past them.

"Steady as she goes!" Kydd called urgently, and rounded on Rowan. "I want these men out o' sight below—now!" They would play the harmless coastal trader for as long as possible. Nothing would be more calculated to alarm their prey than a sudden alteration towards them with crowded decks.

He lifted the telescope again, gripped by rising excitement. So far the vessel was holding its course, and they would hold theirs, imperceptibly inclining towards their victim until they could make a lunge. His mind clamped in concentration on their relative positions and speeds. They were close-hauled westward in brisk seas while the stranger was driving before the wind, a dramatic contrast of pale sail against a backdrop of the sullen, dark-grey squall front spreading behind it. Flickering white wave crests showed in the darkening water nearer.

Kydd's eyes watered as he stared through the glass. It was a brigantine of sorts, so not a warship, and showed no colours. It shaped course closer to the coastline, opening the distance they would have to cover to intercept.

Offshore there was another of the innumerable uninhabited islets. A white mist was lifting on its far side, a token of mighty seas from the Atlantic ceasing their thousands of miles' travel in the concus-sive finality of iron-hard granite.

Under the looming dark heights of the squall, the headland merged into misty white curtains of rain. Trying to control his impatience, Kydd judged that their encounter with the brigantine would occur before the rain reached them. Nothing could be better calculated to pull his ship together as a fighting band than a successful prize-taking.

At the forehatch men unable to contain themselves snatched a look. "Keep th' heads down, y' blaggards!" he bellowed. The stranger would be wielding telescopes, too.

The offshore island disappeared into the advancing rain curtain and Kydd's gaze turned to the vessel. As he tried to make out more detail its perspective altered, curving ponderously round to take up on a course away, back where it had come. They had been discovered.

"Sheet away, y' lubbers!" he shouted, at the men boiling up from below. The stranger—now the chase—was hard by the wind, clawing as desperately as it could to windward but it had lost much ground and now lay barely a mile ahead. A lazy smile came to Kydd's face: in their panic they had put the helm to the wrong side and now found themselves on the other tack to Bien Heureuse. They could not possibly weather the headland.

"We have him now." Kydd laughed. "He'll be ours afore sundown." They would keep to seaward and wait for the chase to come out to them.

Bien Heureuse was lined with eager privateersmen, each hungrily making the same calculation. A sizeable merchantman with a small crew, judging by their tardiness in putting about and taking up close-hauled. Her cargo? Probably returning from Biscay with wine and brandy, risking a quick dash across Baie de Saint Brieuc—a pity for him that a Guernsey privateer just happened to be round the point.

There was no hope for the Frenchman and Kydd wondered why he held on so doggedly. Then the first squall arrived. In a wash of cold down-draught Bien Heureuse entered a wall of rain, passing into a hissing roar of water that stippled the sea white in a drenching deluge. It stunned the wind momentarily and the sails hung limp and wet.

They emerged damp and chill but the chase was still ahead and closer. Then another wall of rain closed round them, and the sails, now deprived of a steady wind, flapped and banged. Visibility was reduced to yards, and the seas lost their liveliness as they were beaten to rounded hillocks in the swell.

Kydd squinted into the chaos, which seemed to go on and on. Where was everything in this never-ending rain world? Uneasily aware of the treacherous currents surging over unforgiving ground he gave the order to veer sheets and Bien Heureuse slowed to a crawl.

The rain volleyed in a loud drumming on their deck, gurgling down the lee scuppers; when it finally stopped, the chase had disappeared. The headland was much closer but there was no sign of the brigantine. Had he successfully weathered the headland? If so, he was away up the coast and could be anywhere.

Then Kydd saw the offshore island again—it was well within reach and would make a perfect place for the Frenchman to lurk out of sight while Kydd went chasing past, then take up on his old course, his voyage delayed only by a few hours.

"Lay us t' wind'ard o' that island!" Kydd snapped. The breeze had picked up and pierced like a knife through his sodden clothes. He shuddered.

"The island?" Rowan said uncertainly. "Are ye sure?"

"He thinks t' wait out o' sight—he's too lubbardly t' have weathered th' point," Kydd said.

Tranter cut in: "I don't reckon he's there at all. We're wastin' time—"

"Get y' men ready f'r a boardin', Mr Tranter, an' you stop y' pratin'!" Kydd answered, with sudden anger.

His heart fell at the sight of the rabble in the waist. They were as unlike a naval boarding party as it was possible to be, jabbering, excited men with drawn cutlasses and lurid headgear. Where was the lethal discipline of a sectioned assault? Where the calm weighing of opportunity and deadly resolve?

"Hold 'em there, Mr Tranter," Kydd called, with an edge of sarcasm. They were up against terrified merchant sailors and the likelihood was that any fight would be minimal.

A nine-pounder was cleared away and Kydd sent Calloway to the forward crew to stiffen them. They were as ready as they could be.

Drawing near, the island seemed the ideal bolt-hole, and at a respectful distance they took time to round the white-fringed weather shore. Kydd kept his telescope up, straining for sight of a naked mast above the irregular lumpiness of the bare rock.

They circled the island in silence, ready for a panic-stricken dash. Nothing. At a loss Kydd carefully quartered the sea. The brigantine had to be somewhere, a little cove perhaps, a hidden river mouth . . . The prey had escaped.

Tranter snorted and stormed below. The men followed in ones and twos, with scornful looks aft.

Kydd caught Rowan's eye. "Where did he go, d' ye think?"

"I don't think y' give th' Frenchy credit, Mr Kydd. He's one cool hand, waits f'r the main squall, then slashes about t' stay inside it an' passes us close in th' murk an' away off t' Paimpol, cool as y' please."

It was galling. It seemed these French matelots in their home waters were every bit as bold and seamanlike as the English, certainly far from being frightened sheep about to be snapped up by a passing wolf. "We press on," Kydd grunted. "There'll be more—an' I know where . . ."

The Sept Îles resolved out of the grey murkiness as he remembered them from the deck of Teazer. The only question now was whether to pass to seaward or take the inner channel. He decided quickly. "South about, lad," he told the helmsman. There was no point in crisp naval orders to an officer-of-the-watch in this vessel.

Obediently the young seaman swung the tiller and Bien Heureuse headed into the channel under easy sail in the fluky north-easterly, every man on eager lookout, as guineas would go to him who first sighted their prey.

This time there was no gunfire from the old fort—they must appear as innocent as the salt trader they had once been. As they passed through unnoticed, Kydd tugged his coat closer and sighed. He was now a captain again, even if it was of a jackal of the seas. He was under no orders other than his own, with nothing to do but fall upon any sail sighted. No other purpose or distraction; no convoys, senior officers, strict instructions. This was what it was to prowl the seas as a single-minded predator. No wonder the carefree life of a pirate in past ages had—

"Saaail!" screamed two men, simultaneously—or was that a seaman and a sharp-eyed boy?

Kydd swung up his glass eagerly. As they emerged from the passage on the other side of Sept Îles he saw a three-masted lugger on the same course. It had taken the deeper seaward route and they had met the other side not more than a mile or two apart.

His telescope told him that the vessel was larger than they and low in the water—a full cargo? A handful of men stood on deck, no doubt filled with consternation at their sudden appearance. The lugger held its course for minutes longer, then curved sharply into the wind and made for the open sea.

"Go after him, then," Kydd growled happily at the helmsman. An exultant roar went up from the men busy at the ropes and Bien Heureuse heeled sharply. The hunt was on.

"Clear away an' give him a gun, Mr Kevern." The first would be unshotted and to weather, the demand to heave-to. The next would be a ball across the ship's bows. Failing a response to this, there would be a cannon shot low over the decks.

With an apologetic crack the nine-pounder under reduced charge spoke out, the rank odour of powder smoke nevertheless carrying aft its message of threat and challenge. "Boarders, Mr Tranter,"

Kydd warned. In the event of resistance he wanted no delay in the manoeuvre to give their opponents time to rally.

The two ships stretched out over the sea, leaving the lumpy grey islands to disappear into the rain astern with the pursuer straining every line and stitch of canvas to close with their prey. As Kydd watched, he saw suddenly that the fleeing craft was falling off the wind. Then, incredibly, it was turning towards them. Rowan cursed and muttered, "That there's Trois Frères o' St Malo—I should o' known."

"Frenchy privateer?"

"A Malouin? He is that. Cap'n Vicq, an' he's a Tartar, particular well manned 'n' armed. We'd best—"

"Helm up!" Kydd roared, to the startled man at the tiller, "T' th' Triagoz!" It was a single near conical rocky islet ahead set in endless reefs but it was the only land in sight—and down to leeward.

With a dispiriting wallow Bien Heureuse slewed about for the distant hillock and picked up speed. Kydd thought furiously. The other was a larger ship and almost certainly more experienced— and these were home waters for the Malouin. In these seas it had the edge—with superior numbers and firepower.

Tranter came aft. "Th' bastard's got us! Tide's on the ebb an' we can't—"

"Hold y' jabber!" Kydd snarled. He had just noticed that the wily Vicq with his slight advantage of speed had eased away to parallel his run for the Triagoz but was closing with every yard. They could not strike for the open sea because Vicq would be waiting there, but on the other hand they were being pressed slowly but surely against the hostile land.

It was the same trick he had used on the Cornish coast to box in another privateer to a rockbound coast—but this time he himself was the victim. The deck fell quiet as each man took in the dire situation. Their captain was the only one who could save them now.

Kydd had no illusions about Vicq. His initial move to flee had drawn Kydd into betraying his true character as a privateer and, further, had lured him into the open sea. Now he had the patience to make sure of Bien Heureuse and win the bounty Napoleon Bonaparte had promised to any who could rid him of a detested English privateer.

By definition they could not prevail in an encounter at sea. Therefore they must keep in with the land. He recalled his first sighting of the lugger low in the water; without doubt, this was the outset of a cruise for Vicq with the ship full of prize-crew and stores. Kydd made his decision: with their lesser draught the only course left to them was to head for the rocks and shallows under the coast to try to shake off the larger craft.

"South!" he ordered. Into the embrace of the land—enemy land. Once again Bien Heureuse bucketed round, taking up on the larboard tack in a race for life and safety.

Vicq conformed immediately and tucked himself in astern for the chase but when Kydd reached the reef-strewn coast and swung cautiously away to the south-west Vicq angled over at once to keep his clamping position to seawards.

Close inshore the prospect was fearful: granite crags, deadly rocky islets emerging with the falling tide—and everywhere the betraying surge of white from unseen sub-sea threats.

Rowan was sent up the foremast in an improvised boatswain's chair to try to spot imminent perils ahead—a trying task with the mast's manic dipping and swaying in the following wind. Vicq remained at a distance, passing on the outer side of the forbidding Plateau de la Méloine and allowing Bien Heureuse the inner passage. In a chill of fear Kydd saw why.

With the wind dead astern the only course was ahead—and into the five-mile stretch of Morlaix Bay. Constrained to keep close inshore Bien Heureuse would need longer going round, and with Vicq taking a straight course to cross it there was only one outcome. The two vessels would converge on the other side of the bay and Kydd's sole voyage as a privateer would be summarily finished.

He balled his fists. It was not just the humiliation of craven surrender—for he could not in all conscience consider a fight against superior odds with the crew he had—it was that the investors who had believed in him would now lose every farthing.

His ship's company would be taken prisoner and, as privateers-men, had no hope of release. And, of course, he would be among them. He could reveal his true identity and claim the protection of his naval rank to be later exchanged, but he knew Bonaparte would make much of capturing a commander, Royal Navy, as captain of a privateer. He could never suffer such dishonour to his service.

Although he would not fight, Kydd was determined to resist capture with everything he had. He fixed Vicq with a terrible concentration, noticing he was disdaining the shallows at the head of the bay. This allowed Kydd to weather a menacing central peninsula but it was only delaying the final act.

As they came to understand the meaning of the drama, panic-stricken local fishermen scattered. They had obviously felt quite secure previously, for at the end of the other side of the bay was Roscoff, where Teazer had been cheated of her prize.

In less than a mile Bien Heureuse would reach the far side. Vicq was on an intercept course under the same wind from astern, which would prevent Kydd's retreat. The climax would occur close in off the ancient port in full view of the townsfolk and the gunboats sallying forth would put paid to any escape.

But the tide had been on the ebb for some time and Kydd reasoned it must now be close to its lowest point. Roscoff harbour was therefore an expanse of mud so neither the gunboats nor any other could be a threat. His spirits rose: the bay finished in the sullen mass of the Île de Batz, three miles long but so close to port that every approaching ship must pass warily round it. If he could think of a way . . .

The harbour opened to view at the same time as Vicq, no more than a few hundred yards distant, triumphantly fired a gun to weather. Kydd saw with a sinking heart that any channel between Roscoff and the Île de Batz was lost in a desolate and impenetrable rockbound maze.

"Give 'im best, Mr Kydd," Rowan said sadly. "Ye did y' damnedest for us." Mortification boiled in Kydd. He felt an insane urge to throw the ship on the reefs to rob Vicq of his victory, but this would be at the cost of lives.

It was time. "G' rot ye for a chicken-hearted scut!" came from behind.

Kydd swung round to a flush-faced Tranter, who had clearly taken refuge in drink as the chase drew to its inevitable climax. "Clap a stopper on't, y' useless shab!" Kydd retorted.

"Or what?" sneered Tranter. "We're goin' t' rot in some Frog chokey f'r years, thanks t' you! A dandy-prat King's man as thinks he's—"

"One more word from ye, an I'll—"

"Ye're finished! I'll be takin' no orders from you no more, Cap'n!"

Kydd's pent-up frustration exploded in a fist that felled the man to the deck in one. At that moment a shaft of pale sunlight turned the dull grey seas ahead to green; under the surface the black splotches of seaweed now could be seen streaming away from rocks that had lain hidden before and Kydd saw his chance.

The waters of the great Gulf of Avranches were draining fast into the Atlantic with the ebb—but the seaweed was not pointing straight ahead: it was at an angle, crossing their bow, indicating that the current was not going round the Île de Batz but instead between it and the port, racing into the confusion of crags and half-tide islets between that had seemed so impassable.

"Take us in!" he roared.

Nervously the hand at the tiller worked the vessel round the last rocks and committed Bien Heureuse to the hazard. The current clutched at the lugger and whirled her forward. Distant shouts came from Vicq's vessel, but as Kydd turned to see what the Frenchman would do, the vessel hauled out for the seaward side of the big island and disappeared.

Clearly Vicq had no desire to imperil his own ship, but he was confirming, too, that Kydd had stumbled on local knowledge of a channel between, and was hastening round to trap him at the other end.

Or was he? Kydd's first instinct was to throw out an anchor and, after a time, double back the way they had come to freedom, leaving a frustrated Vicq to wait for them at the wrong end. But what if the wily corsair had considered this and was at that moment hove-to, ready for an unwary Bien Heureuse to track back into his arms? Or did he reason that Kydd would know this and instead press forward?

Distracted, Kydd noticed suddenly that the current was converging through scattered islets on a deeper but narrow passage close to the island—and it was carrying them along at a breathtaking pace. If he had had any ideas of returning it would be much harder the farther he went in. And now the tide had receded, exposing vast rock-strewn sandbanks and beaches as they left Roscoff to its somnolence.

There was no easy answer, just an even chance that Kydd would make the right choice. "Put us in the lee o' that bluff ahead," he decided. "We'll stream a kedge b' th' stern." The craggy cliff-face protruding out from the island with crumbling ruins atop would serve as a temporary refuge, and the ship's bows would be in the right direction if Vicq came after them so that they had to cut and run.

The small anchor splashed down and held. Roscoff was in plain view only a mile back but, dried out, was no threat and the lowering island was, as far as he could see, uninhabited. They were safe, but for how long?

"Get th' boat in th' water—now, y' lubbers." Vicq was on the other side of the island. He would go and see for himself. Kydd swung over the side into the boat and took the oars. "Get aboard— jus' you," he told the seaman holding the painter.

"N-no, not me!" the man muttered, shrinking back.

"Be damned t' ye!" Kydd exploded. "I need someone t' hold th' boat, y' villain!"

Not a man moved.

"Anyone!" he bellowed.

"Stan' aside, y' dogs!" shrilled a sailor from the group of men forward, pushing through with a swagger. "I'm wi' ye, Cap'n." The boarding ended in an undignified tangle of arms and legs, a cutlass clattering to the bottom boards.

"Pookie!" Kydd hissed. "Get out this instant, y' chuckle-headed looby." But as the man with the painter saw his chance and let go, the boat was taken by the current and slid away rapidly.

"I'll—I'll tan y' hide, Pookie! I'll—I'll . . ." Kydd said angrily, tugging hard at the oars to bring the boat round. A glance showed that too much time would be lost in a return so he pulled it round and headed in.

Beyond two long islets there was a wide beach and he stroked furiously for it. The boat grounded in the sand with a hiss and he scrambled out. "Seize a hold on th' painter," he panted, "an' if ye lets it float off, I'll—I'll slit y' gizzard."

"Aye aye, Cap'n."

Kydd pounded off along the beach until he found a way up to the scrubby top. He stopped and looked back. The figure at the boat was clutching the rope with both hands. He shook his fist; the child waved back jauntily.

A flock of goats scattered at his appearance, and a young herdsman stared at Kydd open-mouthed as he raced past over the patchy ground to the opposite side.

"Bigod!" Kydd gasped, as he dropped down to look. Tucked in within a headland Vicq was just coming to a light anchor, his sails brailed and ready to loose.

Kydd leaped to his feet and ran back the way he had come, the goatherd still mesmerised by his antics. His eyes sought out the boat—and his heart nearly stopped. It was still there but the little figure was surrounded by others. Faint shouts eddied up from the beach.

He ran down the sand, yelling hoarsely; at least they were not in uniform. While their cries were no French that Kydd could understand, their meaning was plain. The little soul they were shouting at held the boat firmly with one hand and was keeping them at bay with a ridiculously large pistol in the other.

Kydd thrust past, set the boat a-swim, turned it into the waves and scrambled in to take the oars. "Get in, y' rascal," he panted, "an', f'r God's sake, be careful wi' the pistol."

The child struggled over the gunwales and sat forward as Kydd pulled hard out to sea. "Didn't matter nohow, it were empty. No one'll teach me how t' load it. Will you, Mr Kydd?"

"Now, look, Pookie," Kydd panted, "I thank ye f'r th' service but if'n ye—"

They came up with Bien Heureuse and were pulled alongside. While he clambered aboard Kydd called to Rowan, "He's waiting for us, sure enough." At the other's grave expression he laughed.

"So we'll disappoint. Cut th' cable an' run t' th' west."

Ready facing the right way, sail was loosed and, wind and tide with them, Bien Heureuse began to shoot through the tortuous channel to the open Atlantic. Nearly overcome with relief Kydd blurted out, unthinking, "An' see Turner here gets a double tot."

The go-between with the conspirators in Paris arrived to meet d'Auvergne late that night. "Le Vicomte Robert d'Aché, this is Mr Renzi, my most trusted confidant." The man was slightly built, with shrewd, cynical features.

With a polite smile, d'Auvergne went on, "Le vicomte is anxious that the shipment of arms is brought forward. How does it proceed, Renzi?"

"The transport from England is delayed by foul winds," Renzi said smoothly, sensing the real reason for the question was to reassure d'Aché. "I'm sanguine that it shall be with us within the week, sir. Four hundred Tower muskets and one hundred thousand ball cartridge. We lack only the destination." Setting in motion the requisition had been an interminable grind but allegedly the arms were at sea; local arrangements must be made.

"La Planche Guillemette. Sign and countersign 'Le Prince de Galles'—'Le Roi Bourbon.'"

"Very well, sir. As soon as I have word . . ."

D'Auvergne smiled beatifically. "Excellent. Renzi, do escort le vicomte down to the privy stairs. His boat awaits him there."

Renzi attempted conversation on the way but tension radiated from a man well aware that he was about to re-enter Napoleonic France in circumstances that were the stuff of nightmares.

CHAPTER 13

FAR FROM SHOWING RESENTMENT at his handling of Tranter, who was keeping sullenly out of the way, the crew seemed to have settled. Kydd saw willing hands and respectful looks. He lost no time in setting them to boarding practice; it would be a humiliation, not to say a calamity, if they were to be repulsed through lack of discipline or skills.

He appointed Calloway master-at-arms in charge of practice, and for an hour or two the decks resounded to the clash and clatter of blades while the ship stretched ever westward along a desolate coast. Kydd's plan now was to put distance between him and Vicq, and at dawn be at the point where France ended its westward extent and turned sharply south into the Bay of Biscay. This should be a prime lurking place. All shipping from the south must turn the corner there—up from Spain and Portugal and even farther, from the Mediterranean and Africa, all converging on the Channel at the same point.

There were disadvantages, of course: not far south was Brest and therefore the British fleet on station. Few French would be willing to run the blockade and, coast-wise, traffic would be wary. But the pickings were better here than most.

Shortly after three that afternoon they were given their chance: as they lay Portsall Rocks abeam a ship passed into view from the grey haze on the starboard bow. It firmed to an unremarkable square-rigged vessel that held its course to pass them.

"A Balt!" Rowan said, with certainty. Bluff-bowed and rigged as a snow it certainly qualified but when Bien Heureuse threw out her colours as a signal to speak she held steady and hoisted the Spanish flag.

"A Baltic Spaniard?" Kydd grunted. "I think not." The vessel was near twice their size but its ponderous bulk, rolling along, would indicate neither a privateer nor a man-o'-war.

Calloway stood down his men and came aft. "Them's Spanish colours, Mr Kydd," he said.

"Aye, we know."

"Are ye going t' take him, sir?"

At first Kydd did not answer. This was so different from a war patrol in a King's ship when stopping a vessel with a row of guns at his back was so straightforward.

"Not so easy as that, lad," Kydd said, then came to a decision. "Bear down on him gently, Mr Rowan," he ordered, and the privateer leaned to the wind on a course to intercept. "Mr Calloway," he said gravely, "you're t' be a sea officer in time, an' I'll always remember it was a hard enough beat t' wind'd for me t' hoist aboard how we takes a prize. " Kydd glanced at the distant ship, still holding her track. "Let me give ye a course t' steer as will see y' through. There's only one thing we're after, an' that's evidence."

"Evidence?"

"Aye, m' friend. Even y' stoutest courage at the cannon's mouth an' the bravest o' boardings won't stand unless we has th' proof." He regarded Calloway seriously. "The richest ship we c'n take will never make us a prize 'less th' Admiralty Court says so, an' this they'll never do without we show 'em evidence as will convince th' judge t' condemn him as good prize."

"A—a judge, Mr Kydd? What's t' be th' crime?"

"An' we're talkin' international law now," Kydd went on, "as all nations agree on. Now here's the 'crime.' The one, if we bring evidence that he's an enemy o' the Crown. The other, if he's a neutral an' he's found a-tradin' with 'em."

"That's all, Mr Kydd?"

"That's all—but th' devil's in th' detail, m' lad."

"Er...?"

"Ye'll be findin' out soon, never fear."

The heavily built merchant ship seemed resigned to her fate, bracing aback her foreyards and slowing. Bien Heureuse went around her stern to take position off her weather side and Kydd cupped his hands. "Bring to f'r boarding, if y' please!" he hailed, across the short stretch of water.

He turned to Rowan. "I'll board, an' take Calloway as m' notary, with three hands t' rummage th' hold," he said. "Have a boardin' party standin' by t' send across if I hail." It was the usual arrangement when not expecting trouble.

Their boat was in the water smartly and Kydd eyed the vessel as they approached. His experience in boarding was extensive but almost all in the Mediterranean and overseas. Here the principles would be the same but the players different.

He had noted that the ship was the Asturias as they rounded her stern; her sides were worn but solid and she had the familiar sparse workaday reliability of a merchantman. A rope-ladder clattered down her sides; he mounted nimbly and swung over on to her upper deck.

"I'm Kydd, an' I hold th' Letter o' Marque of a private cruiser." He offered the paper to the grey-haired man he took to be the master. It was ignored.

"I'll ask ye t' submit to my examination, sir," he said evenly. The ship smelled of the Baltic: an undertone of pine resin and a certain dankness, which seemed to go with vessels from cold climes.

The man snapped orders at one of the men behind, then met Kydd's eyes coldly. "I vill, thenk you," he replied tightly, then added, "Pedersen, master." Yards were laid and sails doused to take the strain off the masts while the ship settled to wait, lifting uneasily on the slight swell.

They took to the small saloon, and after Kydd and Calloway were seated, Pedersen left to get the ship's papers. This was the living space for the officers; here among the polished panels and brass lamps they would eat their meals, exchange the comfortable gossip of the voyage. To Kydd, their intrusion seemed an act of violation.

Pedersen returned and slapped down a thick pack of papers. Sitting opposite, he waited with barely concealed bitterness.

"Spanish flag?" Kydd enquired mildly. The master made much of riffling through the pile and finding the sea-brief, the attested proof of ownership. He passed it across; as far as Kydd could see, the title of the ship was vested in Spanish owners trading with northern Europe and, as King George was as yet still in amity with Spain, this, with a florid certificate of registry on Cartagena, entitled it to fly the Spanish flag.

"Your muster roll, Captain." As a naval officer, Kydd had by this means unmasked deserters and renegades among crews before now. Swedes, several Finns and other Scandinavians—no Danish. Spanish, Italian names, some unpronounceable Balkans—the usual bag for merchant ships in wartime. Nothing there.

He looked up at the master. "No Englishmen, then, astray fr'm their duty?"

Pedersen returned his look stolidly. "Nej."

So it was a neutral, but this by no means disqualified it as a prize. "Charter party?" Pedersen found it and passed it over. This was the contract for the freighting of the cargo and might reveal to Kydd whether the owners or its destination was illegal—which would make the cargo contraband and subject to seizure.

It was a voyage from Bilbao to Göteborg in Sweden: varying shippers, each with an accompanying bill of lading and duly appearing on the manifest, all apparently innocent of a French connection. And most papers in Spanish but some in Swedish. But such were the common practices and argot of the sea that there was little difficulty is making it out; Kydd had dealt with far more impenetrable Moorish documents in the Mediterranean.

Watched by a wide-eyed Calloway he painstakingly compared dates and places. Even the smallest discrepancy could be exploited to reveal that the papers were false and therefore just reason to act.

He called for the mates' book. The practice in every country was that the first mate of a ship was responsible for stowing the cargo and maintaining a notebook of where each consignment was placed, generally on the principle of first in last out. Against the bills of lading Kydd now checked off their stowage for suspicious reversals of location while Calloway jotted down their actual declaration for later.

Conscious all the time of Pedersen's baleful glare, Kydd knew that under international law he was as entitled as any warship to stop and search a neutral and took his time. But he spotted nothing.

"Port clearance?" This was vital: clearing a port implied the vessel had satisfied the formalities in areas such as Customs, which demanded full details of cargo carried and next destination. For the alert it could reveal whether there was an intention to call at another port before that declared as destination and perhaps other incriminating details.

It was, however, consistent. A hard-working trader on his way from the neutral but unfriendly Spain, voyaging carefully through the sea battlefield that was the Channel to the Baltic before the ice set in.

No prize? He wasn't going to let it go. There was something— was it Pedersen's truculence? If he had the confidence of a clear conscience he would enjoy seeing Kydd's discomfiture, sarcastically throw open the ship to him as other innocents had done before.

No—he would take it further. "I'd like t' see y'r freight, Captain. Be s' good as t' open y'r hold, sir."

Pedersen frowned. Then, after a slight hesitation, he nodded. "Ver' well." He got up heavily and they returned on deck.

While the master threw his orders at the wary crew, Kydd called Calloway to him. "We see if what we find squares wi' what's on the manifest," he whispered. "Check off y'r details—any consignment not on y'r list he's t' account for, as it's not come aboard fr'm some little Frenchy port on the way."

"Or any as is missing," murmured Calloway, "which he could've landed . . ."

Kydd chuckled. "Aye, ye're catchin' on, m' boy."

The thunderous cracking of timbers and goods working in the lanthorn-lit gloom and the dangerous squeeze down amid their powerful reek to the foot-waling below did not deter the experienced quartermaster's mate Kydd had been and he clambered about without hesitation.

Muslin and linen, cased oranges, Spanish wine in barrels; each was pointed out by the mate and accounted for, Kydd's sharp-eyed survey omitting no part of the hold, no difficult corner.

Nothing.

It was galling. There was something—his instincts told him so. But what? There was no more time, two ships lying stopped together might attract unwelcome visitors.

Kydd was about to heave himself out of the hold when a glimmer of possibility made itself known. He paused. This would be one for Renzi—but he wasn't here . . .

Slithering down again he worked his way back to the tightly packed wine barrels. He held the lanthorn above one. "Tinto de Toro, Zamora" was burnt crudely into its staves. He sniffed deeply, but all he could detect was the heavy odour of wine-soaked wood.

On its own it was not enough, but Kydd suspected that inside the barrels was not cheap Spanish wine but a rich French vintage. He squirmed over to the casks closest to the ship's side and found what he was looking for—a weeping in one where it had been bruised in a seaway or mishandled.

He reached out, then licked his finger: sure enough, the taste was indisputably the fine body of a Bordeaux—a Médoc or other, perhaps? He was not the sure judge of wine that Renzi was but, certainly, a cheap Spanish table wine this was not. And he could see how it had been done: they had left Bilbao with Spanish wine on the books as a welcome export, passed north along the French coast, crept into a lonely creek and refilled the barrels before setting sail once more.

He had them! Exultant thoughts came—the most overwhelming being the vast amount the prize would bring, with the sudden end of his immediate troubles, but cooler considerations took hold.

The only "evidence" was his nose; was this sufficient justification for him to bring his boarding party swarming over the bulwarks and taking the grave action of carrying the vessel into port? The ship's papers were in perfect order and any trace of a quick turn-aside would be difficult to prove.

He returned to the saloon. "Ship's log!" he demanded. Kydd ignored Pedersen's thunderous look and flipped the dog-eared pages: he wanted to see the dates between sailing and rounding Ushant. It was scrawled in Swedish, but again the shared culture of the sea allowed him to piece together the sequence. Light airs from the south when leaving on the tenth, veering to a fresh seven-knot south-westerly within the day—but not to forty-five degrees north before another two days.

"There!" Kydd said, stabbing at the entry. "Seven knots on a fair wind an' it takes ye three days to cover fifty leagues!" He snorted. "If'n it does then I'm a Dutchman. Ye put in t' Bordeaux country an' took a fill o' Frenchy wines, as I c'n prove below."

Pedersen's expression did not change. "Ef wine are not Spanish, ze merchant iss cheat—not vorry for me," he snapped. "An' m' time?" he went on frostily. "I lost by privateers inspect me there, two time!"

"An' may we see, then, y'r certificates?" Kydd shot back sarcastically. These had to be issued by the examining vessel on clearing any vessels boarded, that any subsequent boarding could be waived—and none had been shown to Kydd before he began his inspection.

"An' they'm be French?" Pedersen came back with equally heavy sarcasm. The French did not issue such certificates.

It was no good; the man was lying through his teeth and had been trading with the enemy, but he could not take the ship prize with this hanging over it. At the very least there would be lengthy litigation, which would cost his investors dearly. He had to let it go.

At his desk the day wore on for Renzi. First there was the matter of the arms shipment. It would arrive soon in a store-ship. To preserve secrecy it would be better to make rendezvous and trans-ship at sea to the lesser vessel that would be making the dangerous run into France. This would probably mean smoothing the offended sensibilities of the master and mate, who would be expecting the formalities of clearing cargo in the usual way, and the crew, who would resent the need to open the hold and rig special tackles in an open seaway.

Then there was the task of finding a vessel suitable for the final dash. D'Auvergne had suggested employing a privateer as their season was drawing to a close and one might be tempted to an extra voyage. They were well armed and not afraid of fighting if the need arose and, of course, had the carrying capacity, but Renzi had a naval officer's healthy dislike of the breed: it would mean haggling with near-pirates.

His attention turned to the details of the currency shipment: this would be coming from England in a cutter and there would be no alternative to the flummery associated with the movement of bullion. It would necessarily be taken aboard and signed for in the flagship, then released upon signature into the delivering vessel—it was the right of the captain of any naval vessel carrying bullion to claim a "freight money" percentage and did this apply to the flagship captain? How were the receipt and delivery to be accounted for in a form acceptable to the Treasury? Who would make the clandestine conveyance? Another privateer?

And all the while he worked on these details, he knew desperate men were risking their lives. Wearily, Renzi picked up another sheet from the growing pile on his desk.

Days passed: the area was not proving as productive as Kydd had hoped. Possibly the autumn weather was thinning the flow or another privateer at work in the vicinity might be frightening off their rightful prey.

It gave Kydd time, though, to make another attempt on sea discipline, but he quickly discovered that, without well-tested naval command structures in place, it was really to no purpose—there was no interlocking chain of responsibility linking the seaman on a gun through gun captains, petty officers, warrant officers and so on to the commanding officer, such that at any point his will was communicated in ready understanding straight to that seaman.

But then he was finding that a merchant sailor was in some ways more independent and expected to perform his seamanlike functions on his own; the ship-owner would not outlay good money on layers of command that were only vital in the heat and stress of combat.

He had to make the best of it: his was a merchant ship prettied up with a pair of nine-pounders and gun-crews of untrained amateurs. Enough to overawe small fry but if any showed real resistance . . . He kept his thoughts to himself and focused on where to find that prey. All too aware that every day without a return was draining capital, Kydd kept the deck from first light until dark—and then their luck changed.

Anchored overnight in the lee of a convenient sweep of rocky headland, Bien Heureuse was greeted in the chill of the morning by the astonishing sight of another vessel no more than a few hundred yards away. In the darkness it had unknowingly chosen the same shelter as they and was still firmly at anchor when it caught sight of them—and the boat thrashing across that Kydd had instantly in the water, with Rowan at the tiller.

It was hardly a ship, more a low, floating barge that was easily recognisable as a store-ship for the Brest dockyard. As the boat drew close, the crew abandoned their efforts to weigh anchor and hastily took to their own boat to escape ashore.

With satisfaction Kydd watched Rowan go alongside and board, his men fanning out fore and aft on the deserted vessel. He had only to select a prize-master and crew and Bien Heureuse had one in the bag.

Rowan returned quickly. "A prize, t' be sure. Dried fish 'n' potatoes f'r the garrison in Brest." No complications with papers and international law, this was an enemy that was now rightfully theirs.

Kydd sent Tranter away as prize-master, glad to see the back of him; the new captain wasted no time in hoisting sail for the run back to Guernsey, ribald shouts of encouragement echoing across the water. Kydd's chest swelled. Their first prize!

Turning his gaze to sea, his eyes focused on a sail, a good three miles away but an unforgivable lapse in lookouts whose attention had been diverted. Square-rigged, she was hove-to and alone out to sea. Uneasy, Kydd sent for his glass as Bien Heureuse won her anchor.

A brig-rig, the workhorse of coastal shipping: she could be anything, but there was something . . . Then, as he watched, the ship got under way again, laying over as she took the wind . . . and he knew for a certainty that it was Teazer.

It affected him deeply, this sudden encounter with the ship he'd loved, his first command, where he had experienced the joys, insights and anxieties that went with the honour of being a captain. And the one where . . . Rosalynd had never come aboard Teazer, had not seen where he slept, never had the chance to . . .

He crushed the thoughts, but when he lifted his telescope he found his eyes stinging and his glass not quite steady. He forced himself to concentration as she altered her course—and headed inshore towards them.

Kydd had no wish to make contact and snapped at Rowan to hasten the unmooring, but Teazer arrived as they were getting under way. Her colours broke at the mizzen shrouds in unmistakable challenge and Kydd had to decide: to attempt a break to the east or await events?

"Luff up," he ordered, resigned to the inevitable.

Teazer rounded to, backing her fore topsail. "Bring to, I'm coming aboard of you, Captain!" It sounded like Prosser with a speaking trumpet, giving the same orders that he himself had used. As it came closer Kydd saw an officer in the sternsheets.

He stood back as the man came aboard. It was Prosser, stiff in his new lieutenant's uniform. He looked about him importantly, then stumbled in shock when he saw Kydd. "I, er, I've been sent b' Commander Standish t' examine y' vessel, um, Mr Kydd," he said uncomfortably.

"Here's m' Letter o' Marque. As ye can see, it's all in order," Kydd snorted. The brailed-up sails banged and slatted overhead impatiently.

Prosser took it, then looked up awkwardly. "He means y' full papers—where bound, freight an'—"

"I know what an examination means," Kydd said cuttingly. "I now need y' reason why m' vessel is bein' detained after I've proved m' business."

"It's not like that, sir. Mr Standish is hard on them who don't carry out his orders t' satisfaction, an' he said—"

"Then tell Commander Standish as I'm a private ship-o'-war and may not be delayed in m' tasking without good reason. Good day, L'tenant." He stalked to the ship's side; Prosser's boat was bobbing off the quarter, the men at their oars.

"Boat's crew!" Kydd roared, and gave the straight-armed up and down signal of the naval order to come alongside. A plump midshipman he did not recognise swivelled round in astonishment. "This instant, damn y'r eyes," Kydd added.

Hesitating, the young man gave the order and the boat came to hook on at the main channel, the midshipman looking reproachfully at Kydd and his officer by turns.

"Good day t' ye, Mr Prosser," Kydd said menacingly. Crimson-faced, the man swung over the bulwarks and barked at his men to shove off.

Kydd saw the pinnace clear, then ordered sail to be loosed and Bien Heureuse resumed her course. He tried not to look astern, but when he did it was to see Teazer brace round and set out in chase.

The high crack of a bow gun fired to weather gave point to her hoist at the signal halliards: "heave-to immediately." Pointedly it was in the naval code, which no strange merchant ship could be expected to know.

Once again Bien Heureuse lay submissively to leeward. Teazer eased close alongside, men at quarters next to their guns in plain sight. "Let everything go by the run or I shall fire into you!" Standish hailed from the quarterdeck, his voice ringing with hauteur.

Kydd bit out orders for the yards to be lowered and tried to keep his anger in check. Was the man showing off in front of his ship's company or was it a deliberate attempt to belittle Kydd in front of his men?

The two ships moved together in the long swell, every detail of the lovely Teazer before him. The chess-tree was set at such a rake that by so doing it cunningly led the tack clear of both the sheet-anchor fluke and a nearby gun-port—he hadn't noticed this before.

Standing back he waited with arms folded. The boarding party swung over the bulwarks and quickly spread out, a petty officer and six with bared cutlasses, then Standish, glorious in brand-new commander's gold lace and sword.

He took his time, disdainfully inspecting the plain decks, a glimmer of a smile at the single pair of nine-pounders and a cursory glance aloft before he strolled over to Kydd. He did not remove his hat. "You failed to stop on my lawful order. What is the meaning of this?"

"You, sir, have come aboard my vessel armed, t' th' contempt of the law an' custom o' the sea. What's th' meanin' o' that?"

Standish blinked. He had obviously forgotten that in the arcane practices of the sea it was quite in order to board with a party of men armed to the teeth—but the officer in charge should never bear a weapon. "I may have omitted the observance in this instance, sir, but I do require an answer to my question."

Several of the boarders dropped their eyes and shuffled in embarrassment.

"An answer? I hove-to in th' first instance, an' the order was improper in the second," Kydd said tightly.

"Improper?" Standish said languidly, moving a few steps away and testing a down-haul. "I rather think not. As I command a King's ship you shall obey my every order whether you like it or not. That is the law."

Kydd held his tongue. How long would this charade continue?

"Lieutenant Prosser was within his rights to demand your papers, as well you know," he went on, and returned to stand arrogantly before Kydd, legs a-brace. "He tells me you bear a Letter of Marque as a private ship. Any luck?" he asked casually.

"Th' sport is thin—" Kydd said thickly.

"Good!" cracked Standish, with a cruel smile, "Then you won't miss a few men. Do you muster your crew on deck, I shall press half, I would think."

"Ye'll press my men?" Kydd choked.

"Are you disputing my right to do so?" He was well within his rights. Prime privateersmen were a favourite target for the press in any form. "If any of your men have protections then in course they will be left to you." He went on implacably, "Do turn your men up more quickly, Mr Kydd. I really don't have time to waste."

With a terrible intensity, Kydd leaned forward, "Have a care, Standish. Lay a hand on just one o' my men an' I'll see ye standing afore Admiral Saumarez to explain y'self!"

Standish recoiled. "You forget yourself, Kydd. You no longer—"

"Oh?" Kydd replied. "Then I'll be glad t' hear what ye'll be saying t' th' commander-in-chief as ye tell him ye've decided t' disobey his orders."

"Orders?"

"Aye. His written order that no native-born Guernseyman—as is his own countryman—shall be subject t' th' press. An' everyone aboard is, as they'll swear."

Standish blinked. "Is this right? Sir James has never given me a written order to that effect."

Kydd pulled himself erect. "Then ye'll be tellin' y'r commander-inchief as ye haven't had th' time t' hoist in his standin' orders?"

Somewhere Kydd had heard that a Guernseyman had ancient privileges that allowed him to serve the "Duke of Normandy" rather than the English sovereign, giving him theoretical protection from the press gang. It was unlikely that Saumarez would take kindly to any who trampled the rights of his proud bailiwick—and who would be the one to argue?

"Very well. Mark my words, Mr Kydd. If this is your deceiving, the next time I see you and, er, your private ship-of-war, I will strip you down to the cook, do you hear?" He stalked to the ship's side and signalled to his boat. Impassively Kydd watched him leave.

When the boat was halfway a full-throated shout came from forward in Teazer. "God save ye as a good 'un, Mr Kydd!"

Stirk's shout was taken up in a roar of others. Standish leaped to his feet in outrage, the boat swaying perilously. "Seize that man in irons!" he yelled. "And stop your cackle instantly—d' you hear me, you mumping rogues?—or I'll see the whole lot of you up before me!"

Kydd gave a wry smile. "Loose sail, Mr Rowan. Let's be away!"

CHAPTER 14

THE SPORT WAS THIN. Days later, of three encounters only one had proved fruitful, a tiny but voluble Portuguese with a freight of slab cork that could only have one destination in this part of the world, and time was getting short. Kydd's hopes of wealth were disappearing fast.

Still, he had learned much of the privateering trade and could see that, given certain advantages in the future, there was every chance of succeeding in a handsome way. There would be changes on the next voyage, he would see to it.

Bien Heureuse returned to St Peter Port in the tail end of an autumn gale but the Great Road lay as a welcome triangle of calm away from the port shielding it from the battering of the south-westerly, and the little privateer finally lay at rest alongside the pier.

Kydd made his way smugly to Robidou's rickety top-floor office to receive an appreciation for a good start in the privateering business and to learn when he was to receive his share of the proceeds.

Robidou told him gruffly to wait while he dealt with his clerk and Kydd contented himself with the fine view over the harbour, including his two prizes.

The clerk was then sent away and, with a cold look, he was bade to sit. It unsettled Kydd—he had expected a warmer welcome. Besides, he wanted to get away to tell his theatrical friends of his adventures.

"Ye've disappointed me, sir," Robidou began heavily. Kydd's heart sank. "M' investors did expect much more'n ye found for 'em," he went on remorselessly. "I told 'em as ye was th' proven article as an active an' enterprisin' privateersman."

Kydd's hackles rose. "Only a couple o' weeks at sea? An' two prizes on m' first voyage."

"Two prizes?" Robidou said acidly. "Th' first a store-ship wi' dried fish an' potatoes—how d' ye expect me t' place such a cargo on the market? Potatoes, when we has our own Jerseys that knocks such into a cocked hat? An' dried fish, as is only fit f'r soldiers?"

"The ship?" Kydd tried.

"A store-ship? Worthless! None wants a slab-sided scow as is built t' supply an army. No, sir, this is no prize worth the name."

Face burning, Kydd said tightly, "Th' Portuguee—a freight o' cork as can only be bound f'r the French wine ports?"

Robidou sighed. "He's worse. I'll agree, it c'n only be f'r the French, but the master is savvy, an' knows it's no use t' us. We don't make wine. So he protests th' capture. In course, we must go to t' litigation in an Admiralty court but this takes a mort o' time—and fees. If'n we win, it's only cork we has, not worth a Brummagem ha'penny a bushel, the ship contemptible an' we can't cover the fees. We have t' let him go."

Kydd bit his lip. "Can we not—"

"We lets him go, an' must pay him demurrage f'r the delay t' his voyage, a sum f'r his extra vittlin', harbour dues t' St Peter Port f'r his moorin'—an' if we're not lucky he'll lodge an' affidavit with his consul claimin' consequential damages! No, sir, ye've not had a good voyage."

Shaken, Kydd realised that, without any return from prizes, the voyage was a failure. And the investors had not merely lost their outlay but were faced with liability for heavy unforeseen payments to the Portuguese. "Er, I'm sure th' next voyage'll be capital. Um, I've learned much as will—"

"Mr Kydd. When th' investors hear o' your—success, I wouldn't hold m'self ready f'r a next voyage. Good day t' ye, sir."

Three days later the venture meeting was brief, and Robidou had news for Kydd when he returned the following morning. "Sir, I have t' tell ye, th' investors did not see their way clear t' renewing an interest in a privateer voyage by any means."

It was expected, but it stung all the same.

"If ye'll attend on me just f'r a few hours, we'll finalise th' books an' then you'll be free t' go."

With the paperwork complete, Kydd left, unemployed once more.

"Why, Tom, m' dear!" Rosie discarded her sewing excitedly and ran to meet Kydd, throwing her arms round him with a kiss. "You're back on land. Do tell me y'r adventures—did you seize any treasure ships a-tall?"

Her eyes were wide in expectancy but she frowned when she saw Kydd's long face. "Is—is something wrong?"

"No treasure, Rosie, jus' two prizes as are t' be despised, I'm told." He sprawled morosely in an armchair. "An' they don't see fit t' give me another voyage."

"Oh. So . . . ?"

Kydd looked at her with affection. "So it means, dear Rosie, there's nothing more I c'n do." That was the nub of it, really; he could return to being a stagehand and eke out a few more weeks of existence but to what end? "I'm t' go back t' England now." He sighed. "'Twas a good plan, but I'm not y'r natural-born corsair I'd have t' say now." A wave of depression came, but at least he could console himself that he had given it his best try.

"Don't leave now," Rosie said, stricken. "You will find the wicked dog as did y' wrong, I know it!"

Kydd smiled. "I'm beholden t' ye all for y' kindness but I'll not be a burden any more. I have t' leave."

"Please don't, Tom!" she pleaded, "Give it just a few more weeks, an' then—"

"No. End o' th' week, Rosie."

With dull eyes Renzi took in a report by one Broyeur who was responsible for their security at the Jersey terminus, detailing actions and observations as they pertained to counter-espionage. Endless lines of trailing this or that suspect, suggestive phrases in purloined letters, rumours—and then one word caught his eye: "Stofflet." It was followed by a short entry: "Per order, Friday last. Drowned—no marks."

The epitaph of a kindly man. Who had . . . Renzi's eyes stung. Rushing in came the memory of the little bald baker taking pity on a hungry stranger and finding a tasty loaf, which Renzi had gratefully devoured. He would no longer serve his ovens or see his little ones. And now where was pity? Where was the humanity? With a catch in his throat he felt control slipping. Why could not logic preserve him from the stern consequences of its own imperatives?

He staggered to his feet, sending the table and its papers crashing to one side. Urgently seeking open air he was soon out on the battlements, breathing raggedly. His fists clenched as he sought the sombre night horizon. The salty air buffeted his face bringing with it a sensory shock. The spasm passed, but left him troubled and destabilised. Since his youth he had found reason and logic a sure shield against the world, but now it had turned on him. What was left to him without the comfort of its certainties?

Sleep came finally to claim him but in the early hours he was dragged to consciousness by a disturbance—shouts, d'Auvergne's urgent retort, men in the passageway. He flung on a coat and hurried there. It was d'Aché, trembling with fatigue, sprawled in a chair and retching, his side blood-soaked to the waist. "Go, fetch a doctor!" d'Auvergne threw at the men standing about uncertainly. "The rest, get out!"

D'Aché had risked everything in bringing his message to Mont Orgueil, such was its urgency. "D'Auvergne," he said weakly, "listen to me! We—we have a crisis!" He slumped in pain, then rallied, his eyes feverish. "Paris—they won't rise up unless they have an unconditional assurance that the British will play their part." He coughed, and the consequent pain doubled him over until it was spent. "You must understand, Bonaparte suspects something. The country is alive with soldiers. It is very dangerous. The Chouans sense treachery, that as soon as . . ."

Once they raised the banner, made their throw, they were marked men, and if the plot failed Napoleon's revenge would be terrible. All the more reason to fear that England, the old enemy, might play them false.

"The last moves will be the most critical," d'Aché resumed, shaking with pain and emotion. "If anything goes wrong it will be most tragic."

D'Auvergne nodded. The frenzied dash with their prisoner through the dark countryside, forces closing in on all sides, the final frantic arrival at the coast—and the Royal Navy not there to receive them into safety? He could see it must be their worst imagining. "They wish a binding commitment of some sort?" he asked.

"A written statement of late date under signature of a high officer of state." Nothing less, apparently, than a document proving the complicity of England in the plot.

"Very well, you shall have it," d'Auvergne said calmly. He paused. "And I shall deliver it."

"No!" d'Aché said hoarsely. "You are known, you'll have no chance." D'Auvergne had been imprisoned on trumped-up charges once in Paris during the brief peace and only been released reluctantly after considerable diplomatic pressure from Westminster.

Yet if things stalled now, inertia would set in, causing the whole to crumble without hope of recovery. As if in a dream Renzi heard himself say, "I shall take it to them." It was logical. The situation was desperate. He knew of the plot, he could speak knowledge-ably of the dispositions and—and he would be dispensable in the eyes of the Government.

"You!" gasped d'Aché. "They don't know you. They'll think you a spy." The irony was not wasted on Renzi, who gave a half-smile.

D'Auvergne frowned. "My dear Renzi, do reflect on your situation. You would have the most compromising document in Christendom on your person that most certainly would incriminate your government. If threatened, your only honourable course would be to—to . . ."

"So who, then, will be your emissary?" Renzi challenged. There was no reply. "I shall require a form of password, an expression of authentication as it were, and . . ."

Early on the Thursday morning a knock at the door caught them by surprise. As the only one fully dressed at that hour, Kydd answered. A messenger held out a letter. "Mr Kydd's residence?" he asked. "Favour o' Mr Vauvert."

Rosie squealed in anticipation and rushed over, her attire forgotten. Kydd broke the seal: it was a curt note from Vauvert indicating that if he wished to hear something to his advantage he should be at the Three Crowns tavern at four promptly.

Rosie clapped and snatched the message from Kydd. "To your advantage, Tom!" she cried. "I knew something would come!"

Kydd did not reply. It was obvious: he was going to be asked to run contraband as a smuggler. No doubt this Vauvert was extracting a fee from a business associate for introducing him. Well, damn it, he would disappoint them both.

"What will you wear, love?" Rosie enthused. "It could be a swell cove taking you t' see his friends!"

He paused. There was just the tiniest chance that it was something else—but the cold tone of the note fitted that of a businessman holding him at arm's length while he was handed along to another. "Nothin' special, Rosie. If'n they can't take me as I come, then . . ."

The Three Crowns was a spacious and well-appointed inn, liberally endowed with snug rooms and discreet alcoves with high-backed chairs for those inclined to serious conversation. Kydd entered diffidently, fingering the single florin in his pocket, which was all he could bring himself to accept from Mojo. He hoped that his mysterious visitor would not expect more than a nip of ale.

A few faces turned curiously but he stared ahead defensively and was left alone. Soon after four the figure of a gentleman in an old-fashioned wig appeared at the door, looking in hesitantly. He seemed distantly familiar, and Kydd rose.

The man hurried over. "I thank you for seeing me, Mr Kydd," he said, in an oddly soft voice.

For a moment he was caught off-balance. Then it came to him. This was Zephaniah Job, whom he had once arrested in Polperro as a smuggler and then been forced to release by higher authority. "I'm to tell you how very sorry I am to have heard about your Rosalynd. Such a sweet child, and to be lost to the world so suddenly."

Kydd gulped, a memory catching him unawares with its intensity. "Yes, sir, I was—much affected." He turned away, so that Job would not catch his expression, and willed himself back to the present.

He realised he shouldn't be surprised to see Job there for he was a sagacious businessman with interests in all things profitable—he even printed his own banknotes. Kydd recalled that Guernsey was the main place of supply for Job's many smuggling enterprises. Now he was going to be offered a position operating against his own colleagues by the man he had previously taken in charge for doing just that.

Job gave a polite smile. "I heard of your privateering voyage just concluded, Mr Kydd. My sympathy on meeting with such poor fortune."

"Thank ye," Kydd said. He was damned if Job was going to get a beer out of his precious florin now.

"You seem in need of some cheer, if I might make bold—will you allow me to press you to join me in a jorum of their finest?"

"Er, maybe I will," Kydd said warily.

"Very well," Job said, after the jug was set in train. "Let me go directly to the head of the matter. I heard about your recent voyage from a common acquaintance and, besides, something of your history while here, and I'm sanguine you'll hear me out if I make you a proposition."

"Go on." He was in no hurry—he might as well listen to what the man had to say.

"I'm a man of business, not a mariner, but I confess I was somewhat surprised when I learned that having taken on the calling of privateer you were unable to make a success of it."

Kydd gave an ill-natured grunt but let him continue.

"Therefore, knowing of your undoubted qualities I made query as to the details. And it seems my surmise was correct. For reasons best known to the investors you were constrained to confine your attentions to the small fry, coastal traders and the like.

"I will speak frankly. To me this is not the best exploitation of your talents—speaking as a businessman, of course. Now, I was too late to take shares in your last venture but I have a mind to consider doing so in the future, should the arrangements be more to my way of thinking."

"Mr Job, that's all very well but I have t' say I've been told there's t' be no second voyage for me."

Job paused to refill Kydd's glass. "This is then my proposition to you. Should you feel a blue-water cruise in the Western Ocean to meet the trade from the West Indies and south would better answer, I will invest in you."

Despite himself Kydd's hopes rose: there was no reason to believe Job would waste his time in impossibilities. "This sounds interestin', Mr Job. But I c'n see a mort o' problems." There was so much to overcome: a deep-sea venture was an altogether larger-scale enterprise, much more costly—and many times the risk.

"I'm no stranger to privateering, you may believe," Job said smoothly. "I find the chief objective is to secure a captain of daring and acumen, the second to ensure he has the ship and men he needs to perform his task. This is essential and must always stand above considerations of expense. Spoiling the ship for a ha'p'orth of tar is false economy, so by not sparing the quality of ship and man, the enterprise does maximise its chances."

"An' increases th' capital risk," Kydd said.

"It does, but those considerations you should leave to the prudent investor who, you can be sure, does take full measure of his exposure." He went on, "For myself, I will increase my own determination in the venture by one simple means. I intend to take the majority shareholding."

"Sir, I c'n see how this might be of advantage t' me . . ."

"Might I correct you in the particulars, sir? I do this not for you but in the cause of profit and gain to accrue to myself. I would not do it unless I saw due opportunity, and having witnessed at the first hand your daring and clear thinking when you apprehended the pirate villain Bloody Jacques, then it's my estimation that the investment is as sound as any now open to me."

"Go on."

"Besides which," Job continued, "I will naturally take reasonable measures to safeguard my position, the first of which is to state that I will in no wise set to hazard my capital without I have a formal proposal from yourself.

"This shall include details of your intended cruising grounds, particulars of the vessel you desire to employ, the crew consequential on its size, the length of voyage—all the usual considerations in matters of this kind, which I'm sure you understand—and each most carefully costed."

Kydd held his elation in check. "Then you shall be the armateur?"

"By no means, sir. There are many such available in Guernsey. I shall be content to remain chief investor, should your proposal prove acceptable."

Playfully, Kydd added, "An' if I find such will be sufficiently advantageous as will allow me t' delay my return to England."

Blinking, Job leaned forward. "Return to . . . ? Sir, that would be to discard a particularly fine business opportunity. Surely you wouldn't—"

Kydd saw his moment. "I've had m' taste of privateerin' an' if I was t' consider another cruise there's t' be changes."

"Oh?"

"Y' mentioned there'll be no spoilin th' ship f'r a ha'p'orth o' tar. Is this t' mean I can select a ship of size as can go up against a big Indiaman man t' man?" "Ah, yes. This is the very point that encourages me in the whole business. As you will allow, a five-hundred- or thousand-ton vessel is an extremely expensive proposition to set a-swim. With you as captain, however, a more modest-sized craft might well be manoeuvred with daring and resource to achieve what in lesser hands would certainly require a larger."

"You'll grant me, Mr Job, that a grand Martinico-man will never strike t' a squiddy cutter an' must always resist. I should need m' choice o' armaments."

"Of course."

"An' men enough t' swarm aboard when th' time comes."

"Undoubtedly."

"Articles I'll draw up m'self of a character as will grant me full powers o' discipline."

"I'm sure that will be possible."

"I say where we cruise."

"As long as it is a blue-water venture I'm certain that will be acceptable. The usual clause runs something like, 'shall cruise in waters to the west to take such ships as you shall fall in with' or similar."

"Well . . . that could be agreeable," Kydd mused, rubbing his chin.

"If you should decide to take this up," Job said earnestly, "then news of my firm and sizeable commitment will of a surety excite interest and speculation that will not leave us shy of subscribers to follow in the enterprise."

"Aye. I see that."

"West of the Azores is a famous place for deep-water privateering, Mr Kydd. Those of an age will recall Talbot of the Prince Frederick in those waters taking two Spanish in fine style. From Bristol to London the bullion took forty-five armed wagons to send it safely to the Tower of London."

"Well . . ."

"Can I expect your proposal?"

Kydd beamed. "Aye, ye can, Mr Job."

He needed a brisk walk along the foreshore to regain his equilibrium while he contemplated the sudden change in his prospects. He had another chance—could he make a success of it? There was rich trade coming in from the Atlantic, but the French were canny and made much use of neutral bottoms. Their allies were largely driven from the seas as well, while the other ships plying the trade routes would be sure to have a vexatious quantity of protective documents. The fabulous Spanish treasure ships were off-limits with the peace still holding, and while there were multitudes of ships afloat, there were millions of square miles of open sea.

But an ocean cruise was a different game altogether from his earlier foray into privateering: a single fat Caribbean trader in sugar could repay their outlay many times over. Two could make him rich. Or none could—He cut short his doubts: this was an opportunity he would take with both hands, all or nothing. However, the proposal needed expertise he did not have, finely judged costing arguments that he would later have to live with.

"Mr Kydd!" Robidou grunted in astonishment. "What can I do for ye? If it's about y'r settlement then I'll tell you—"

"No, Mr Robidou. It's about what I can do f'r you." Kydd knew his man and got to the point. Straight talking, no tacking and veering, simply that if he was given assistance with a proposal he would see to it that Robidou was appointed armateur for the venture.

The name of Zephaniah Job was sufficient to get him a fair hearing and Kydd found himself back in the Three Crowns tavern. He ransacked Robidou's experience: the best area for serious cruising was indeed beyond the Azores—close enough to be at a reasonable sailing distance and far enough that receiving convoys and their escorts would not have formed up. There was stirring talk of cargoes: sugar, coffee, cotton inbound—and outbound exotics like mercury destined for the mines, luxury items for the colonies, bullion. And their chances. French, Batavian, Ligurian, all for the taking, but ready for a fight and disinclined to heave-to at the order of one half their size.

The discussion turned to their ship. Kydd's instinct was for the manoeuvrability of square rig but with the high pointing of fore and aft. Both men agreed on the type of vessel that best fitted the description: a topsail schooner. Robidou knew of one, just laid up for the winter.

As soon as Kydd clapped eyes on the Witch of Sarnia he knew he had to have her. She had been designed and built on speculation as a privateer with a fine-lined hull that took no account of any need for cavernous cargo holds. Low and rakish, there was no mistaking her purpose, but an innocent approach would not be practical with wary deep-water merchantmen, and sailing qualities alone would decide the issue.

She was recently out of the water, propped at the top of the slip and Kydd walked slowly round her, taking in the tight seams, true curves and obviously new construction. This was a sound, well-built and altogether convincing craft as a privateer. His pulse quickened.

A rope-ladder hung over her neat stern and Kydd hauled himself aboard. With most of her gear stored and decks clear of ropes it was possible to take in her sweet lines, leading forward to a bowsprit fully half as long again as the main hull.

As she was bigger than Bien Heureuse his cabin was roomier— narrow, but longer. There were two cabins a side for officers and a pleasant saloon, which would later double as an examining place. Forward, a modest hold was followed by a magazine and store cabins, a galley well and finely contrived crew accommodation.

It was impressive, as unlike Bien Heureuse as it was possible to be, including limewood panelling below and herringbone decking above. Her hull was a wicked black, not from tarred sides but fine enamelling, and with a compelling urgency in her coppered underwater lines, the Witch gave an overwhelming impression of a thoroughbred predator.

Robidou looked pleased at Kydd's evident approval, but cautioned, "This'n is goin' t' be a pretty penny, Mr Kydd. I knows Janvrin and he's not a-goin' t' let this sweet thing go for a song."

The costing began. Although prepared for a bigger outlay than there had been with Bien Heureuse Kydd was shocked as the sum mounted and Robidou's eyebrows rose.

And because it was virtually certain that they would have to fight for their prey, there was the expensive question of armament. A warship had to be equipped to engage in any number of modes: ship-to-ship broadsides, a cutting out, repelling an aggressive boarding, a shore landing—but for Kydd there would be only one: the subduing of a larger ship followed by an unstoppable boarding. And, unlike in a man-o'-war, defensive fire was not required: if the tide turned against them, the slim-lined schooner's response would be to turn and flee, unworried by notions of honour that would have them stay to fight it out.

A gun-deck and rows of cannon were not in contemplation. Instead it would be close-quarter weapons. Swivel guns, a car-ronade or two capable of blasting a sheet of musketballs across the deck and, of course, cutlasses and a pistol for every boarder. Halfpikes and tomahawks were to be carried by some to intimidate, and among the cool-headed he would distribute grenadoes—two pounds of lethal iron ball packed with gunpowder and a lighted fusee to hurl on the opposing deck. And he could see how the topsail cro'jack could be made to do service with stink-pots, devices filled with evil-smelling combustibles . . . In all this the object was to spread fire and fear but without causing damage to a future prize.

Fitting out, manning, storing—without Robidou's head for figures it would have been impossible. More work on the inevitable fees, allowances and imposts, and suddenly it was finished. The proposal was made ready, checked and sent in.

An answer came back with startling promptness: a venture association was being convened immediately on the basis of their proposal and Mr Robidou would be invited to act as armateur. It was extraordinary and wonderful—Kydd was a captain once more.

His exhilaration, however, was tempered by the fact that this was going to be all or nothing: if he failed to deliver a prize he was most certainly finished everywhere.

The Witch of Sarnia was towed to Havelet Bay for fitting out and in the whirlwind of activity Kydd slept aboard and bore a hand himself on turning a deadeye here, stropping a block there. Then it became time to consider his ship's company. Robidou had good advice. "Should ye want t' have a tight crew as will keep loyalty, I'd find a right hard-horse mate an' trust him t' find his own men. They'll owe him, an' he'll owe you, so they'll fight th' barky like good 'uns."

"Ye have an idea o' who . . . ?"

As it happened, Robidou did: the lieutenant on his own last cruise as a privateer. One Henry Cheslyn.

They met at the boat slip; Robidou had been at some pains to prepare Kydd but the sight of the man took him aback. Cheslyn was powerfully built, with a massive leonine head and full beard, and had a deep-sea roll as he walked. Near twenty years Kydd's senior, he had closed, fierce features and flinty eyes in a sea-ruddy face.

"Mr Cheslyn," Kydd acknowledged. What could he say to one so much older and so much more experienced whom he expected to take his orders unquestioned?

They stood regarding one another until Cheslyn spoke. "Cap'n Robidou says as ye're no strut-noddy," he said truculently, in a deep-chested voice. "An' he reckons ye're sharp. But yez a King's man—ever bin in a merchant hooker blue-water, like?"

"Aye," said Kydd evenly. "An' a gallows sight further'n you, I'd wager."

Robidou cut in apprehensively: "Mr Kydd took a convict ship t' Botany Bay in the peace, Henry."

Cheslyn ignored him. "Says ye've odd notions o' discipline—you ain't a-thinkin' o' goin' Navy?" he grunted sourly.

"Mr Cheslyn. I'm t' be captain o' the Witch. She's in the trade o' reprisal. I'm in the business o' finding m'self a sack o' guineas, an' anything or anyone goes athwart m' bows in that is goin' t' clew up fish-meat.

"So there's no misunderstandin', I'm writin' down m' expectations in th' articles f'r all t' sign, an' the one who's t' be m' first l'tenant will be in no doubt where I stand."

"Mr Kydd knows men," Robidou interjected firmly, "as he started a common foremast jack, ye'll know."

"Aye, well, I'll think on it," Cheslyn said, with a last piercing look at Kydd before he stumped away.

"A hard man." Robidou sighed, "Ye'll need t' steer small with him—but I'll tell ye now, he's bright in his nauticals an' a right mauler in a fight. If y' makes him mate, ye'll have no trouble with y' crew."

Within three days Cheslyn had assembled a core of hardened, wolfish seamen, all of whom, it seemed, were capable privateersmen of his long acquaintance. They packed Kydd's rendezvous, taking his measure silently.

This was not a time for fancy speeches. Kydd spoke to them of Caribbean wealth and South American treasure, of a mighty ocean but a well-found ship, shipmates and courage, spirit and discipline. Any who would go a-roving with him might return with a fistful of cobbs but must sign Kydd's articles and take his orders without a word. He finished. The room broke into a hubbub of excited talk. "S' who'll be first t' sign f'r an ocean cruise in th' saucy Witch?" he roared, above the noise.

They crushed forward, Cheslyn elbowing his way to the front. He raised his eyes once to Kydd, then bent to the book and scrawled awkwardly.

"Mate an' first l'tenant!" Kydd called loudly. "An' be s' good as t' introduce me to y'r men, Mr Cheslyn."

For his officers he had brought the one-eyed Le Cocq as his second, a short man but reputed fearless. Gostling, an experienced prize-master, was third. Kydd was surprised when Rosco, the boatswain of Bien Heureuse, fronted at the table.

"Y' has y'r chance now, Mr Kydd," he rumbled, and scratched his name. "An' I wants a piece of it," he said forcefully.

With Rosco as boatswain, and a cold-eyed mariner, Perchard, the gunner, he was well on the way to complement—and then Luke Calloway entered. Pale but resolute he stood before Kydd. "I'd wish t' be wi' ye, sir." How the young man had heard of the venture he had no idea—rumours must be flying in St Peter Port about this late-season cruise into the Atlantic.

"Ah, there's a berth if ye want it, Mr Calloway," Kydd said, "but I have t' tell ye, this is not y'r regular-goin' cruise. We'll be up against th' big ones as'll object t' being taken by a pawky schooner, an' will want t' give us a right pepperin'."

This was not the real reason: the men he would have aboard were a callous, pugnacious crew and young Calloway would be hard put to handle them.

"Sir, I—I'd want t' ship out, if y' please."

"Er, Luke, if it's pewter ye're lackin', then—"

"Able seaman afore th' mast would suit main well, Mr Kydd."

Kydd nodded and threw open the book for signing. Ironically Calloway would probably succeed better at that level without the need to assert himself over the hard characters in the crew, and his seaman's skills were second to none.

It was time for the final act. "Send in th' boys," he called to the door. Instantly the room was filled with an urgent press of youngsters eager to ship out in the Witch of Sarnia, the talk of the town.

One fought to the fore and stood proudly and expectantly before him. Kydd's heart fell at the sight of Pookie Turner. "No, it won't do," he said sadly. "It's an ocean voyage an' I can't—"

The young face set. "Cap'n, y' knows I—"

"I can't, an' ye knows why." Kydd looked pointedly at the eager boy behind.

At the end of the day Kydd sat back, satisfied. These were a dissimilar breed of men to the coastal privateers of his previous experience: tough, competent and professional, deep-sea sailors of one mind—the ruthless pursuit of prey and profit. This alone would make it an altogether different experience. All he had to do was put them in the way of what they desired and they would follow him.

"You're a black-hearted villain!" Rosie taunted him, hearing of Pookie's attempt to sign on. "Can't you understand? She wants adventure and excitement before the mast, Captain, just like you do. Shame on you!"

"Rosie, I'm never before th' mast in Witch, and I'll have y' know this is an ocean voyage wi' a crew o' right cut-throats as any I've seen. It's not right an' proper f'r a young—"

"Y' have ship's boys to do men's work, so if Pookie wants to be a boy why can't she be? Make her y' cabin-boy to keep her under eye if you have to, but I don't think she'll need any o' your protectin'." Kydd thought wryly of her prowess over the other boys with her fists, while Rosie went on warmly, "Besides, if you don't take her, she'll be back on the streets up to her old tricks. And don't forget her share of the booty. Won't this help her poor mama?"

"It's too late betimes, Rosie. I've closed books an' we sail on th' tide tomorrow forenoon. She's a game 'un, she'll find something else," he added lamely.

It was a day of autumn overcast, with a brisk wind that fluttered dresses and tugged at hats as Witch of Sarnia made ready for sea. A crowd had come to see the smart privateer that was reputedly making a daring foray into the Atlantic Ocean on which much Guernsey money was riding.

They lined the quay, gentlemen and ladies, quantities of curious wharf-loafers and the odd redcoat soldier with his woman. Robidou appeared and pushed through the crowd, waving what seemed to be a book. "Just been published," he shouted against the excitement, passing it to Kydd. "Someone gave it me f'r interest— but I think ye should have it."

Kydd yelled back his thanks, but there would be precious little time for books. "Stand by for'ard!" he bawled. As they began to single up the lines his eye was caught by a lone figure standing apart from the others.

With a grin he recognised Pookie who, no doubt, had come down hoping for a last-minute change of heart—so, with an exaggerated beckoning, the Witch of Sarnia's crew was complete. The delighted youngster threw a small bundle aboard, grabbed a rope, twirled round and landed lightly on the deck with a huge smile.

Departure was easy enough in the southerly; sail mounted quickly as lines were let go and hauled in, and water opened up between ship and quay. With Cheslyn by Kydd's side in well-worn sea gear, hard men efficiently handing along tackle falls, and overhead the crack and slap of a topsail spreading along its boom, the schooner made for the twin piers at the entrance.

A knot of spectators on the very end waved gaily, and as they passed close on their way to the open sea the group broke into whooping and shouts. A firework whizzed skywards and another followed. Kydd was touched: his theatrical friends were not allowing him to seek his fortune on the vasty deep without due ceremony. He waved back energetically, which would have produced expressions of horror on "Teazer's quarterdeck. "Kind in 'em to see us on our way," he murmured to Cheslyn, who had looked at him askance but Kydd, feeling the Witch heel as she took the wind at the harbour entrance eagerly seeking the freedom of the open sea, was letting nothing spoil his happiness of the moment.

They passed between the vessels anchored in the Great Road, each with decks lined with interested sailors watching the privateer head out—Kydd knew that the Witch's fine lines would be attracting admiration while her sleek and deadly black form would leave no doubt as to her mission.

Through the Little Russel and leaving the shelter of Herm they met long seas—combers urged up on the lengthy swell by a brisk westerly from the deep Atlantic. Kydd and Robidou had taken the Witch out earlier with a skeleton crew to try her mettle, and with one or two changes to the set of her sails he was satisfied and confident in her sea-keeping.

He had discovered that Witch of Sarnia had completed only one voyage previously, and that a poor one under an over-cautious captain, but he would take full advantage of her qualities—he would have to if she was to have any chance of closing quickly with a prey. His crew were hard-bitten enough, but would they follow into the teeth of a larger crew intent on repelling boarders as he knew a man-o'-war's men would? Could he—

"Saaail!" The cry came at the sudden emergence of a sizeable ship from beyond the point—and directly athwart their path. It took no more than a heartbeat to realise that the noble lines belonged to HMS Teazer. Kydd guessed that Standish had been waiting for him: hearing of Kydd's Atlantic mission he had positioned himself ready for where he must come and was up to some sort of mischief.

"Ye'll 'ware she's a King's ship," Cheslyn muttered pointedly.

"Aye," said Kydd, evenly, watching as Teazer laid her course to intercept them. He was in no mood for Standish's posturing and gave orders that had Witch wheeling about and heading away downwind, mounting the backs of the combers before falling into the trough following in a series of uncomfortable sliding and jerks.

"What d' ye do that for?" Cheslyn spluttered. "He's a brig, an' we can point higher, b' gob!" It was true—the schooner had had every chance of slipping past by clawing closer to the wind but Kydd had seen something . . .

"An' what does this'n mean?" Cheslyn growled. "As if ye're of a mind t'—"

"I'd thank ye t' keep a civil tongue in y' head," retorted Kydd, carefully sighting ahead. If this was going to work he would need everything he had learned of the frightful rocks about them.

"Be damned! Ye're losin' y' westin' by th' hour—this ain't how to—"

Kydd turned and smiled cynically: beyond Teazer was another, Harpy, summoned by the signal flags he had spotted, so obviously in place to swoop if they had tried to slip by.

Cheslyn had the grace to redden, and kept quiet as Kydd made his estimations. Astern, the two brig-sloops were streaming along in grand style, shaking out yet more sail with the wind directly behind them. The fore-and-aft rig advantage of the Witch, however, was now lost to him, and with the brigs' far greater sail area spread to the wind the end seemed inevitable.

Along the deck worried faces turned aft: if Standish had the press warrants, in a short time any not native-born could find himself immured in a King's ship for years.

Ahead was a roil of white, which was the half-tide reef of the Platte Fougère; Kydd stood quietly, watching it carefully, his eye straying back to the two warships, willing them on. Then, at the right moment, he rapped, "Down helm—sheet in hard!"

Pitching deeply the Witch came slewing round to larboard, men scrabbling for purchase with bare feet as they won the sheets in a furious overhand haul. The schooner took up immediately at right angles to her previous course, now broadside to wind and waves in a dizzying roll—but she was passing the reef to its leeward.

Kydd grinned: he knew "Teazer's limits and there was no way she could brace round as quickly when she cleared the reef. Watching her thrashing along dead astern Kydd decided it was time to end the charade. Eyeing the jagged black islets of the Grandes Brayes farther on the bow he sniffed the wind for its precise direction. "Stand by t' go about, Mr Cheslyn." This time there was no argument and the man stumped off, bellowing his orders.

Kydd thanked his stars for an experienced crew: what he was contemplating was not for the faint of heart. Rapidly assuring himself once again of the exact relative position of the islets, reef and the wind's eye, he gave the order to go about.

Witch of Sarnia did not hesitate. She pirouetted to the other tack and took up quickly, passing into the few-hundred-yards-wide channel between reef and islets—and thrashing into the teeth of the wind where no square-rigger could go.

With a pang for his old command, Kydd saw Teazer left far astern as the Witch energetically made the north tip of Guernsey and round. It was done. They had won the open Atlantic and the rest was up to him.

The low lines of the privateer meant exhilarating going, but there was a price to pay: very soon Kydd found his new command was going to be a wet ship, knifing through the waves instead of soaring over them; with every second or third roller the decks were thoroughly sluiced.

But the Witch lived up to her name. It was remarkable how close she held to the wind and her square sail aloft gave added impetus and, at the same time, a degree of manoeuvrability that required fewer men for the same tasks than a sloop.

The vessel type had originated in England, but it was the Americans who had termed it a schooner and taken it as their own, adding special features. From his time on the North American station Kydd recognised the deeply roached topsail that allowed it to clear the rigging; the lead of the schooner stay that was like a shroud moved forward, easing pressure on the foremast to spread an expansive fore staysail.

Engrossed in becoming acquainted with his lady he failed at first to notice Cheslyn next to him.

"Goes like a witch, don't ye think?" he offered, but the man's features remained stony, and an expressionless Le Cocq stood with him.

"This time o' year, after th' equinoctials, gets chancy," the big man said cautiously. "B'sides, the glass is still droppin'."

Kydd looked at him in surprise. "Why, if I didn't know th' better, I'd have t' say m' first l'tenant's gone qualmish!"

Cheslyn reddened. "The Witch ain't built f'r heavy weather. An' that there's no lady's puff." He gestured at the low-lying dark-grey cloud masses across their path.

"A squall or two, I'll grant ye, but this is only y' regular-goin'

Western Ocean blash!" Kydd had seen the Atlantic at its worst and this was no threat at the moment. "I'm t' raise Flores in five days, Mr Cheslyn, do y' like it or no." If the wind stayed steady from the west they could do this even earlier in one slant to the south-south-west and then they would be at their cruising ground.

He turned and left for his cabin, the prospect of rest suddenly enticing. He closed the door firmly; it was not a big cabin—a high bunk over drawers on one side, a working desk with lamp the other and a neat dining-table at the after end. Mercifully there was a skylight above, with a compass repeat farther forward. He ripped off his spray-soaked coat and boots, let them drop carelessly, heaved himself into his bunk and closed his eyes.

The Witch was close-hauled and had an angle of heel that could be alarming on first meeting but he wedged himself in familiarly and let the sounds of the sea wash past him. Reaching ever westwards into the vastness of the Atlantic involved an endless repetition of a sudden crunch from the bows followed by a defiant rapid upwards lift, then an eager long glide downward and forward, the hiss of their way quite audible through the hull.

Weariness laid its hand on him and thoughts crowded in, but one in particular would not let go. Unless he succeeded, this was going to be the very last voyage he would make as a captain. Neither the Navy nor others would ever offer him employment again.

A double wave thumped the bows and the schooner lost her stride with an affronted wiggle, which dislodged Robidou's book in the bedside rack. It fell into his bunk. Kydd sat up and opened the little volume. Thomas Hartwell Horne. A Compendium. He leafed through. It was an exposition in clear English of the Prize Law of 1793 in the form of a handbook of guidance to privateers and ships-of-war, and it had been published by Clarke of Portugal Street this very year.

One stout passage caught his eye: "Lawful force may be used to enforce a boarding, it being assumed a vessel cannot be proved innocent otherwise. Contumacious resistance to fair inquiry is evidence of guilt in law, to be followed by just confiscation."

So, if any objected to his boarding, whatever the circumstances, he had the whole force of the law at his back. And whatever else there was in this little treasure . . .

As he addressed himself to the task of teasing out the practical meanings of the legal rules he barely noticed a tiny knock at the door. It was repeated unsteadily.

"Come!" he called loudly.

It was Pookie, gamely passing hand to hand in the lively motion with a small cloth bundle. "S-sir, Mr Purvis says as how th' fire ain't lit but wonders if this'n will do." It was cuts of cold meat, cheese and bread.

"It'll do fine, younker." The little figure had a pale face and Kydd felt for the effort it must have cost to come below where there was no horizon to steady senses thrown awry by the relentless heave and jerking. "No—leave that, I'll do it," he protested, when his carelessly cast aside wet gear was painfully but tidily stowed in the side-locker. "Compliments t' th' officer o' th' deck," he added, "an' because ye have the youngest eyes in th' ship ye're t' be lookout. F'r prizes, o' course."

The child looked up gratefully and scuttled out.

Kydd resumed his book, munching hungrily on the cold victuals, but he soon noticed a definite change in the rhythm of the vessel, a sulky twist after each lift. He frowned and glanced up at the compass repeat.

North-west? Be damned to it! He slipped out of his bunk, grabbed his grego and made the upper deck. "Mr Cheslyn? What's th' meaning of—"

"I've taken in reefs an' we're headin' f'r shelter in Falmouth," he said truculently, against the bluster of the wind.

"Ye've abandoned course!" Kydd burst out in amazement. "An' without s' much as a by-y'-leave?" It was a near treasonable offence in the Navy.

"Take a look f'r y'self!" Cheslyn said, heated, pointing at the layer of darkness near the horizon ahead.

Kydd caught his anger. "An' what's the barometer say?" he asked dangerously.

"A bare twenty-nine—an' losin' fast."

Without a word Kydd crossed to the hatchway, then to the saloon where a neat Fortin barometer hung on gimbals. He looked closely: as he suspected the fiducial point had not been set—the vernier would not read reliably without a true datum. He tapped the mercury column carefully and adjusted the levelling screw, then saw the reading was closer to twenty-nine and a quarter inches, a figure not out of place in a southern English autumn.

Snorting with contempt, he resumed the deck. Behind Cheslyn the stocky figure of Le Cocq was flanked by Gostling and the boatswain, Rosco, hovered uncomfortably. No one spoke.

"Who has th' deck?" Kydd said loudly, knowing full well who it was.

"Me," snapped Cheslyn.

"Get back on course west b' north," Kydd said coldly, "an' we'll douse th' fore staysail I think."

"We reckon it's goin' t' be evil doin's afore long, an' we—"

"We?"

"As every sailor knows, a westerly in th' fall ain't t' be trusted. An' with th' barometer—"

"At twenty-nine and a quarter? What lubber can't do a correction?" Kydd said scornfully. "I've crossed th' Western Ocean enough times an' I know what I see—what ye have ahead is a parcel o' black squalls only, nothing t' fret upon."

It was worrying that Cheslyn, a reputed North Atlantic mariner, was having trouble with this weather—until Kydd realised he might have other more mercenary reasons for a quick visit to Falmouth. "Bear up, there," he commanded the helmsman. "Course, west b' north."

The others flicked anxious glances at Cheslyn, and Kydd wondered darkly what tales of sea-woe he had been spinning to them. "This I'll do," he said. "Should th' glass fall below twenty-nine before dark I'll put about f'r Falmouth."

It was not much of a concession—if it fell so quickly he would flee in any event—but he was confident in his reading of the sea and felt it unlikely. But he missed having a sailing-master to fall back on for advice and the comfort of such wisdom at his side. He was on his own and would have to stand by his decisions.

Just as dusk was closing in, the first line-squalls arrived. As he suspected, they were short-lived but with disconcerting venom, short periods of screaming and droning in the rigging, and bucking in the canvas. Kydd knew that, behind, a series of black squalls was marching in from windward with an abrupt drop in temperature and the wind veering sharply in their wake.

He was determined to press on. The Witch of Sarnia was well found, nearly new, and her gear could be trusted. It would be uncomfortable and daunting to some but they would do it. But once deep into the ocean, what if a real Atlantic howler coming out of the unknown fell upon them?

A black squall, heavy with stinging rain, blustered over them; the keening winds that followed brought a shock of raw cold as they bullied at watch-coats and oilskins. Kydd sent below those he could, but realised this might not have been a mercy to any still finding their sea-legs; in the fitful conditions the schooner was skittish and unpredictable in her movements.

The seas, however, were constant from the west, long combers, white-streaked down their backs and as powerful as bulls, coming at them ceaselessly. Kydd ticked off the seconds between cresting: if the time had increased, the swell was lengthening, a sure sign of weather to windward.

Another squall; in square rig, with these backing and veering winds, there would be heavy work in the bracing of yards and at the tacks of so many more sails, but in the Witch, with but two main sails, it was so much less.

Some time into the dark hours the wind shifted northerly and at the same time the barometer sank below twenty-nine inches. "Time t' turn an' run," Cheslyn said pugnaciously to Kydd.

"In this dark? What codshead would go a-beam in these seas without he knows what's a-comin' at him fr'm windward? We're safe as we go, an' we stay this way."

The next day dawned on a cold, grey waste of heaving, white-streaked seas and sullen cloudbanks, but no sign of the broken and racing scud of a coming storm. "It'll blow itself out," Kydd said confidently. Cheslyn merely stumped below.

There were no sun-sights possible but despite the dirty weather they seemed to be making good progress. With a whole clear ocean ahead they would pick up their position in time. For now, however, Kydd must estimate the extent of the set to leeward caused by the weather coming at them.

The constant motion was wearying, the bracing against anything solid taking its toll of muscle and strength. He sent Calloway to round up the ship's boys, then start a class of how to pass bends and hitches and the working of knots; possibly it would take their minds off the conditions.

They were now well out into the Atlantic and the weather had eased more westerly again. The underlying swell was long and languorous, which might mean anything, but the wind was back in the south-west as a strong breeze streaming in, fine sailing weather for a schooner.

Night drew in with little in the evening sky to raise concern and Kydd read his Compendium with interest before turning in. He fell asleep almost immediately; any worrying about just where in this vast desert of sea he might find prey could wait for the light of day.

At some time in the night he came suddenly to full wakefulness and lay in the dark knowing something was amiss but unable to pinpoint it. There was nothing, no sudden shouting, no change in the regular pitching and heaving of the ship. The feeling intensified, and a sense of preternatural dread stole over him. He rolled out of his bunk, threw on the grego over his nightclothes and hurried up on deck, his eyes straining into the blackness.

The watch-on-deck looked at him in astonishment. "Cap'n, sir?" said one with concern, approaching. Kydd tried to make sense of his feelings. The rollers showed white in the darkness, seething past as usual, and the overcast made reading the sky conditions difficult. But something was . . .

Then he had it. An almost indefinable continuous low roar at the edge of hearing beneath the bluster of the wind but, once detected, never fading. He froze in horror: a memory from long ago, burned into his soul burst into his consciousness—one night perilously close to the dreaded Cape Horn and . . .

He threw himself at the wheel as he had done then, knocking the helmsman aside, and spun on turns. The little schooner seemed reluctant and frantically Kydd willed it on for otherwise they had but seconds to live.

The roar became audible to the others on deck, who looked at each other in terror as Kydd shrieked, "Hold! Hold on f'r your lives!"

Then the wind died. In not much more than a breath of air Witch of Sarnia came round into the calm whisper and started canting up—the angle increased sharply and the nearness of a monstrous presence beat on Kydd's senses. "Hold!" he howled, as the schooner reared higher still and from within the vessel he could hear anonymous thuds, crashing and terrified cries.

The roaring was now overwhelming and suddenly it became a reality. The foaming peak of a rogue wave of mountainous size rolling down on them out of the night like a juggernaut, its feral presence mind-freezing.

Now all depended on whether Kydd's action had been quick enough. As the schooner's bow buried itself in the boiling white of the crest, the wind, which had been cut off by the sheer bulk of the wave, resumed with shocking force—but she was now in the eye of the gale and it blasted equally both sides of the fore and aft sails. By that one fact the Witch had been saved from being slammed sideways, to die rolling over and over broadside at the teeth of the wave.

The deluge took possession of the deck and came rushing aft; at the same time the naked, dripping bow emerged spearing skywards before the vessel fell with a sickening crunch into the back of the great wave. Then the rush of water thinned and disappeared over the side before it reached them.

They were through! But at what cost? Men boiled up from below in terrified incomprehension; above the bedlam Kydd could hear Cheslyn's roar, then saw his bear-like shape forward as he restored order with his fists.

The man handed himself aft, his heavy face streaked with wet hair, eyes red. "The barky's well shook up below, Mr Kydd," he said hoarsely. "You keep th' deck, sir, an' I'll take some hands below an' do what we can till day."

"Very well, Mr Cheslyn—an' thank ye."

There was a glimmer of a smile, then he left abruptly.

First light showed much the same bleak seascape: white-streaked waves to the horizon, advancing on them energetically, but there had been no worsening during the night. The barometer holding steady confirmed Kydd's estimate that it was but the North Atlantic exercising its age-old right to nastiness. He faced the wind: the centre would be some six points or more out there on his right hand. If he shaped away more south of west he would avoid the worst of the blow and still be on course for the Azores and their hunting ground.

With a sigh of satisfaction he retired to his cabin; they had survived remarkably well, considering, almost certainly because of their new fit of rigging. Between decks the mess was still being cleared away but nothing vital had suffered.

He was peeling off his sodden clothes when the door flew open and a cabin boy raced in shrieking, "An' it's a sail!"

It was pale against the east horizon, and of some size. Excitement swept the Witch, even though Kydd knew the chances of it being prize-worthy were not great, given they had not yet reached their hunting ground.

Nevertheless the privateer prepared for a chase, setting topsails abroad in earnest for the first time since St Peter Port and laying her course to intercept. As if scenting the thrill of the hunt the Witch lay down under her full sail and slashed along in exhilarating style.

Feverishly Kydd brought his new-won knowledge to mind for if there were to be word-grinding arguments he would be ready now. And if the ship resisted their examinations they would earn a whole-hearted boarding.

Strangely, the vessel did not shy away downwind but held her course under the same light sails and in perfect confidence.

"A gun, if y' please, Mr Perchard." As the powder smoke whipped along the decks the Witch of Sarnia broke her colours at the masthead—the Union Flag of Great Britain.

Their intent must be obvious: Why, then, did it not take action? As they drew nearer it became even more perplexing with the ship continuing steadily on, not once varying her eastward course. For some reason her upper rigging was full of men. Putting his telescope down Kydd was certain now that this was a Martinico-man, a French Caribbean trader and therefore an enemy; nearly twice their size, yet not making any manoeuvre to meet the threat.

Cautiously Kydd allowed their courses to converge; then a tricolour rose swiftly up the halliards and instantly up and down the deck-line guns opened with stabs of flame, the smoke carried swiftly to leeward. The lively seas made any kind of accuracy impossible but it was clear to Kydd that they were badly outclassed in weight of metal—any boarding could end up bloody.

Still the stubbornly held course and few sails. Kydd made to pass under her stern at half a mile range—and when the big vessel failed to wheel about to keep his guns bearing on them Kydd understood. "He's taken th' same wave as we," he laughed in relief, "an' is higgled in the top-hamper." It was the cruellest of luck for the ship, weakened beyond manoeuvring in masts or yards. Witch of Sarnia had sighted them before they had found time for a jury-rig to the injured spars. Kydd thought guiltily of the men who had worked through the night as they had, and when blessed daylight had come, so had their nemesis.

But this feeling did not last long: a surging happiness flooded him as he went through the motions of criss-crossing the unfortunate ship's helpless stern until the point was taken and the flag fluttered slowly down. Horne's Compendium would confirm that this was rightful prey and, being enemy, he could fear no lengthy legalities before she was condemned as prize. The venture was made, Witch of Sarnia had made her first kill—and it had taken minutes only.

CHAPTER 15

AS THEY GLIDED CLOSE INTO THE SHORE, Renzi felt the calm of the night, an utter stillness broken only by the occasional animal cry and the slap of playful waves on the side of the privateer. "Here!" the captain grunted, squinting into the anonymous darkness.

"Are you sure?" Renzi asked quietly. The man nodded. By this time there should be two lights showing out to sea, one above the other, but nothing interrupted the uniform blackness of the shoreline. A tantalising scent of autumn woodland and fresh-turned earth wafted out to them.

"Then they've had trouble with the lanterns. If you'll set me ashore now, Mr Jacot?"

"I don't reckon on it, Mr Giramondo."

"Why—"

"Done this afore. Ain't good t' second guess 'em. If they's found trouble . . ."

An hour passed, and more. Although keyed up with the appalling tension, Renzi mused that this would be his first step on the soil of France since those inconceivably remote days when Kydd and he as common seamen had made their desperate escape following an abortive landing.

Kydd! What was his friend doing now? So true and honourable, one of nature's gentlemen who did not deserve his fate—any more than others in the chaos of war. And he had sworn to stay by him, yet here he was—

"There!" Jacot said, with satisfaction. Two lights had finally appeared in the right place. The captain looked at him questioningly and Renzi realised he was waiting for a decision.

Had this signal been delayed by lantern trouble or had it been made under duress after capture to lure them in? Should he seize courage and proceed, or cancel the mission? "I'll go ashore," he said, as calmly as he could. There was no alternative.

The boat nudged into the sandy beach and Renzi scrambled out. It disappeared rapidly into the night and he was left standing at the edge of a wood sloping down to the water's edge. With every nerve stretched to breaking point, he listened. Night sounds, the soughing of wind in the trees, creatures in the undergrowth. And blackness.

At that moment he was in as much mortal danger as ever in his life: the letter sewn into his coat felt like fire, a document of such towering importance that, if he were captured, would result not in his simple execution but in the deadliest torture the state could devise to rip his secrets from him. Then merciful death.

With shocking suddenness a hand clamped over his mouth from behind and his arms were seized on each side. A voice close to his ear whispered, in French, "A sound and you die!"

Renzi nodded and the hand left his mouth but his arms were held as he was frogmarched into the woods. Unseen sharp forest growths whipped across his face as he stumbled along in the grip of at least two men, others following behind.

Panting at the unaccustomed effort, he was relieved when they reached a small glade and paused. The rickety outlines of an old woodcutter's hut appeared before them. Low words were exchanged, then he was brought forward. The door opened, slammed shut behind him and the impelling arms fell away.

Sensing the presence of others in the hut he kept still. There was a tapping of flint and steel and a single candle sputtered into life, to reveal a large man standing behind a table, silent shadows all around.

"Qui êtes vous?" the man said mildly. The accent was metropolitan—Parisian. A poignard blade jabbed impatiently at his throat.

Mustering his best French, Renzi replied, "Nicholas Renzi, a British naval officer."

"We were expecting another."

"Le vicomte was detained by his wounds. I come from him with a letter." Renzi drew back his coat far enough for the scarlet-heart insignia of the Chouans to be seen. A rustle went through the others as they bent to see.

"And here is his token." He held out his hand, which now bore d'Aché's signet ring.

The blade stayed unwavering at his throat.

"So you robbed le vicomte of his ring as well?"

"As a show of his trust in me, he desires further that I should say this to you."

He took a breath, and in the ancient French of seven hundred years ago the noble lines of "La Chanson de Roland" echoed forth in the old hut:

Tere de France, mult estes dulz pal's, Oi desertét a tant ruboste exill! Barons franceis, pur mei vos vei murir, Jo ne vos pois tenser ne guarantir . . .

The blade fell away. "Robert always did relish his civilisation. I am Henri. You told that well, Englishman. Are you perchance a scholar?"

"You were late," Renzi snapped.

"It is the situation, mon brave—soldiers, gendarmerie, they are in unrest, they stalk the woods. It is menacing outside, m'sieur."

The candle flickered as another entered the hut and muttered something to Henri. He nodded, with a frown, then turned to Renzi. "A letter, you said."

"Sir, I've come to deliver assurance from His Britannic Majesty's Government that all possible support shall be given to you in this decisive hour." He relieved the man of the poignard that had recently been at his throat and, with swift, savage strokes, slashed open the lining of his coat.

A sigh went round the hut as he passed over an elaborately sealed parchment. Henri broke it open and held it up to the candlelight. "This is from a Sir Saumarez," he said accusingly.

"It is," said Renzi, with a haughty sniff. "Commander-in-chief and admiral. He owes his allegiance directly to London and his word may be accepted, I believe. Would you rather we delayed by requiring a reply all the way from there?"

"It speaks of aid and assistance but with no detail, no numbers."

"Sir! You can hardly expect a high commander to concern himself in the kind of specifics a quartermaster might deal with." The hut was warm and close; Renzi was perspiring but it was more from the knowledge of the colossal stakes behind his every word than the lack of air.

Peering intently at the letter, Henri spotted d'Aché's scrawl across one corner. He looked up suddenly. "Robert commends us to accept this letter. But we have the biggest decision still. If we—"

"If you rise up and triumph in your plan, where is the certitude that there will be ships and men to join with you in consummating your achievement?"

"Exactly."

There was only one way to go forward now. "Sir," Renzi said, "it is I who have been charged with the responsibility of ensuring that vessels will be there to receive the tyrant—and, of course, any who wish for any reason to quit France at that time. And I have seen with my own eyes the apartment in the castle of Mont Orgueil that is at this moment being prepared by the Prince of Bouillon for Napoleon Bonaparte. Sir, if you have any anxieties on this matter be pleased to address them to me that I might answer them."

Would this suffice?

In the light from the single candle, Henri's eyes seemed to glow—with satisfaction or suspicion? Holding up the letter he pronounced, "By these writings the British Government has implicated itself in the greatest threat to Bonaparte he has ever experienced. In all the chancelleries of Europe it will be seen that perfidious Albion reaches out to topple its foes by cunning and clandestine means and all might tremble that they are to be next."

Renzi held rigid. He had done all that could be expected of him and now the verdict on his efforts was to be made plain.

Henri looked directly at him. "Sir, this letter is a gunpowder keg for your government. That they have seen fit to trust it to our keeping is all the assurance we desire." He held the sheet to the flame. It caught and flared until it was consumed and the ashes fluttered to the floor. "In forty-eight hours you shall have our date and places."

Renzi could find no words and gave a simple bow. A scatter of applause and excited talk was halted by Henri, holding up his hands. "I would that we were able to extend to you the hospitality you deserve but, alas . . ."

He cocked his head to one side and listened intently. Then Renzi felt an irregular thumping in the ground, a jumble of drumbeats out of synchrony.

"Dragoons!"

The door burst open. "Les soldats! Nous sommes trahis!" The hut turned to bedlam and in the rush for the door Renzi heard Henri bellowing orders. Outside in the Stygian darkness there was a crashing of vegetation as the conspirators scattered in every direction.

Renzi's arm was seized and he was forced to one side. "Stay with me!" a woman's voice urged, as she propelled him across the glade into the woods and they plunged deeper into the wilder depths flying over bracken and fallen tree boles. Shots popped behind them and the squeal of horses pierced the night air.

Mercifully the terrifying sounds lessened and, panting uncontrollably, they stopped at the edge of a meadow, still and serene in the beginnings of a moonrise. Renzi was confused: they were certainly no closer to the sea but the drumming hoofbeats were going away. "My brother, he draws them from us," the woman said brokenly.

"He—he is a brave man," Renzi said, affected.

"Is his duty," she sobbed. "We must go."

The mad scramble resumed; Renzi, however, now saw that they were going in a wide sweep along the edge of the woods to reach the landing place. Everything depended on his endurance in overcoming pain and exhaustion.

But what if the privateer, hearing the shots and commotion, had considered that this was none of his business and left? Renzi could tell now that a body of dragoons had entered the wood on its far side, not far from where they were.

He stumbled on, aware of the woman's agonised breathing. Then the wan glitter of the sea showed through the trees and they reached the shore. "This way," she gasped, urging him to the left.

They rounded a small point of land—and there was a boat, ready afloat and bows to sea. Renzi's relief nearly overwhelmed him and it took his last ounce of strength to reach it. "You waited!" he panted wildly to Jacot.

The man looked puzzled. "Why, in course I wants th' other half o' me money, Mr Giramondo."

Almost spent with emotion Renzi urged the woman, "Quickly, into the boat!"

"No." She wept. "I stay with Henri."

"Get in." Jacot pulled Renzi aboard. "We has t' leave now, Mr Giramondo." When Renzi looked back, no one was there.

Kydd sent Gostling as prize-master of the Martinico-man; an English port was only several days' easy sail to leeward. The mood aboard was exultant but Kydd knew they had been lucky—the next could well be hard-fought and he insisted on serious practice with cutlass, pike and musket, a difficult task on a pitching deck.

Flores, the farthest flung of the Azores, was raised as planned, the distant blue-grey peak of Morro Alto reminding him of other times. Having arrived it would now be nothing but hard work; searching, waiting, lurking—Kydd had chosen the area because he knew that merchant masters, at this time of the year, from both the East Indies and the Caribbean, converged north of the island group to pick up the reliable south-westerly trade winds to speed them into Europe.

On the other hand, without fighting-tops his single lookout in their tiny crow's-nest on the foremast would have a height-of-eye of only some forty feet, say seven miles to the horizon. Any number of ships at that very moment were certain to be passing either side as they sailed, perhaps only a dozen miles or so away, perfectly hidden.

"Keep y'r eyes open there!" he roared up at the lookout. He had impressed on them time and again that a prize could appear from anywhere—ahead or just as easily approaching from the beam or even crossing astern.

The day ended quietly, and night saw them lasking along under easy sail. Soon after midnight the overcast cleared and a fat, gibbous moon rose. By morning the weather was near balmy with bright sunlight and a glittering sea.

So far south the temperatures were more than tolerable and Kydd was enjoying the utter contentment of flying-fish weather in a well-found craft, knowing that even if the rest of the voyage proved fruitless he had cleared the costs and, judging from Cheslyn's comments, probably produced some return into the bargain.

The ship fell into routine, far from naval in its details but as comprehensive as Kydd could make it in the circumstances, chief of which was practice with weapons.

In another four days they had reached the limits of their beat across the tracks of homeward-bound vessels and put about for the slant to the south-west. Unusually the weather calmed until they found themselves ghosting along in a glaring sea, a luminous band of white concealing where water met sky.

The sun grew higher and warmer. On the bow the mist burned off and there, revealed for all to see, was a ship. Incredulous yells broke out as its delicate image took form. They were sighted in turn, the vessel's masts coming together, then separating as it put down its helm and made off as fast as it could.

It had gone into a quartering run to allow its square sails to fill to best advantage and, in the light airs, the Witch was finding it a hard chase. No colours or any indication of origin was visible and the angle of the ship made identification impossible. Their own flag would be difficult to make out, end on as it would be.

As noon passed the situation changed: an afternoon breeze strengthened and the schooner picked up speed over the deep blue of the sea. Within an hour white horses were studding the seascape and, their prey encumbered with cargo, eventual success was assured.

"Larb'd side, do y' think, Mr Cheslyn?" Kydd said amiably. He had closed up his crew to quarters, the small gun-crews at the six-pounders, the rest flinting pistols and edging cutlasses—no martial thunder of drums or bravely waving pennons, simply hard-faced men making ready for a fight.

The anticlimax when it came was cruel. As they fore-reached on the sea-worn ship there was sudden activity among the few on her afterdeck and her topsail sheets were let fly as English colours soared up into her rigging.

Rosco recognised the ship. "Bristol Pride, or I'm a Dutchman. Trades wi' Nova Scotia an' the West Country in dried cod an' colonial goods. Reg'lar as clockwork an' this must be her last voyage o' th' season."

The Witch of Sarnia ranged alongside and the Canadian twang of the master floated over the water to confirm that they were indeed on passage from Halifax to Falmouth with such a freighting. Kydd waved and hailed back suitably, aware that the black schooner hissing along so close to them must make a handsome showing.

Nevertheless, this was no prey for the Witch. "Sheer off," he ordered the helm.

"Mr Kydd!" Calloway called urgently, racing up to him.

"Wha—?"

"There, sir!" He pointed vigorously below the Bristol Pride's bowsprit. The buckler, a blanking piece inserted in the hawse while at sea, had been knocked out and an arm was protruding from the hole, frantically jerking a white shirt.

After a split second's incomprehension Kydd bellowed, "Stand to!" at the boarders. "Mr Perchard, a shot afore his bow!"

But they had no stomach for a fight against the numbers that the Witch of Sarnia could muster and Kydd quickly found himself in delighted possession of a French prize of three days before. Her English crew, confined to the fo'c'sle, had found means to alert them and now the bilingual Québecois master and his prize-crew were themselves prisoners.

"Some happy sailors going home t' England," Calloway said mournfully, as they bade farewell to Bristol Pride, "but no prize f'r us, is she, Mr Kydd?"

"No prize," agreed Kydd, then broke into a fierce grin. "But for us there's th' salvage on recapture. One sixth o' th' entire value an' no questions asked."

This was a time for celebration—and relief—for Kydd had needed to demonstrate faith in himself before the investors and had commuted his entire pay for the voyage into shares, which would accrue to his account if, and only if, the voyage was successful.

The length and breadth of the privateer fell quiet as every man figured his own reward. And Kydd now saw his position in the world transformed: even if they met with no more good luck, he had not only cleared expenses but was well on the way to being far better off than at any other time in his life.

It was astonishing how quickly the balance sheet could change. A cargo ship could carry the equivalent of the complete stock of hundreds of shops, and as prize law conveyed the entire ship and cargo to the captor they were in the same position as a prosperous merchant without the need for capital. It was an intoxicating thought.

But it could all be lost—and in a single day. Should Kydd's examination and sending in of a vessel be successfully challenged and he be cast into damages, then the consequences would be grave: a naval officer had a form of compensation but not a privateer captain.

Then there were the fortunes of war: it was foolish to believe that only merchant shipping was abroad. Sooner or later a vengeful warship might loom and predator would become prey—Bonaparte was incensed at the onslaught of privateers on France's vital trade and was showing no mercy to those who fell into his hands.

And his prizes. Would they arrive safely in an English port or in turn be recaptured, as Bristol Pride had been? That would put everything back to nothing and be a total ruination of their hopes and hard-won gains.

Kydd returned to his cabin. Like a pendulum, his mood changed from awe and delight to despondency. Then the gleeful chatter from his cabin boy, as the place was fussily tidied, restored the balance and he turned his mind to the practicalities of the voyage.

Some ten days of provisioning remained and with only one prize-crew away every reason to press on. Kydd and Cheslyn consulted the charts against the prevailing late-season winds and decided on six days north of the Azores and four south before making for home.

The weather was good, but the sport was not. Day after day in blue seas and trade winds and never a sighting. Could it be because now was the season of hurricanes?

D'Auvergne was solicitous when Renzi returned but the strain was showing in the lines of his face. Date and places duly came; Henri had survived the incident but there was no mention of the fate of any other.

Renzi threw himself into the work. The place of embarkation agreed on, it was possible to assess from the depths of water the size of ship they could use. Bonaparte and his gaol-keepers would be a sizeable party, and while bulwarks would have to be low, deck space was vital.

Word came that Querelle, the final link with Brittany, was in hiding six miles out of Paris. Georges had the keys of the citadel— his plot was manifestly coming together. Reliant on couriers for their news, however, Renzi and d'Auvergne could only await its unfolding.

The indomitable Pichegru was smuggled into the capital and concealed close by the barracks. Others converged on Paris, and within a city in a fever of rumour, Napoleon was said to have secret police reports brought to him in bed as soon as he awoke.

From somewhere deep in the Normandy countryside Henri sent advice that the tenuous line of escape that linked Paris to the coast was complete. Horses were staged ready, parties of soldiers set to delay pursuits. It was the last act.

D'Auvergne alerted his commander-in-chief; for security reasons the time and place of Napoleon's embarkation were not given out to the fleet, but Saumarez promised that, within a bracket of time, the Navy would be conducting live exercises at that precise spot, brig-sloops inshore, frigates in depth.

The day dawned: a crystal clear winter's morning like any other, the French coast the same iron-grey granite the other side of a cold sea. The hours passed: when Renzi and d'Auvergne sat down at last to dinner, tired and overwrought, they ate without conversation.

At the end of the meal they raised a glass in silent tribute to the men who were undoubtedly at that moment engaged in mortal struggle in Paris and those who would be stretched out in a desperate gallop towards them.

"I should think it time now . . ." Renzi said thickly. He got to his feet; d'Auvergne stood up and stretched out his hand. Renzi grasped it, neither man able to find words. Abruptly, Renzi left to bring back Napoleon Bonaparte.

Every vessel was in position. Discreet light signals were exchanged with the shore and Renzi's vessel closed slowly with the coast. It was a tricky task in seamanship, the flat beach selected ideal for carriages but a tidal trap. Kedge anchors were prudently laid to seaward for if they were to ground on the sand as the tide went out . . .

And they waited. Arrival had been timed for early dark but there was still no sign from the interior. Hours passed and men grew edgy and anxious for they were vulnerable from sea and shore.

Midnight approached; the plan called for tight timing and this was an ominous sign.

In the long early hours the tide rose again, and in the deathly silence an hour before dawn, they were close enough to hear shouts and disorder carrying in the stillness. The commotion grew nearer and Renzi knew it could have only one meaning.

With desperate sadness he watched running figures burst from the trees, hurling themselves into the shallows towards the waiting ships. The first made it and were hauled up while others, so pitifully few, broke for safety and followed. "It's Georges—he's been taken," gulped one. "We're betrayed—that vermin Querelle turned informer. It's all over for us—finished."

The Witch of Sarnia passed Flores once more and continued south. After barely a day they sighted something in the west: a tiny blob of white on the rim of the world, a sail. At first blinking in and out of existence, then keeping steady, it seized the attention of every soul. They altered towards it instantly, knowing they had the advantage that as their sails were edge on to the other ship their sighting would be delayed.

Then more and more sail came into view. "A convoy," Cheslyn grunted. "But whose?"

Kydd held his telescope steady and tried to make out clues. Anonymous merchant shipping—blue-water vessels certainly. There was a frigate in the van; a large one, possibly of 32 guns, no colours. He swung back to the merchantmen. Nothing remarkable; if they had been closer he would see identifying vanes at their mastheads, numbers in white on their stern quarters.

He began counting the ships—six, eight . . . and that was all. This was very likely not a British convoy; it was a telling comment on his nation's primacy at sea that convoys of sixty or a hundred ships were more the rule.

"Johnny Crapaud," he said crisply, and while the Witch closed with the distant ships he took in the situation. They were running before the south-westerly directly towards the French coast, over a week away. The frigate was protectively at their head and far too formidable even to think of engaging, but if anything happened to it he could take his pick of the brood.

"We stay with th' convoy," he told Cheslyn.

Easing sheets he allowed the ships to advance on him, edging round as the frigate pointedly took position between the privateer and the convoy and shortened sail, allowing its charges to sail on steadily until they were all past, while still remaining between the Witch and her intended victims.

This was exactly what Kydd would have done in the circumstances. They were now astern of the convoy, which was downwind of them, but between them and any prize was the impossible menace of the heavy frigate.

The convoy ploughed on, the frigate on guard and immovably positioned astern. Experimentally Kydd allowed the schooner to ease round the rear of the convoy and begin dropping down towards the van but there was no advantage whatsoever to their fore-and-aft rig in this point of sailing and the frigate kept effortlessly with them.

Kydd eased away and the convoy moved ahead again, the frigate keeping pace with the Witch as though on wires. Eventually they took their place astern of the convoy once more and it was time to think again.

Aboard every one of those ships there would be fear of the privateer dogging them but Kydd could not see how to move against them. He could go tearing downwind to fall on one of the leading vessels but well before he could secure his victim the frigate would be upon him.

On the other hand his advantage of better sailing into the wind was of no use, for the frigate was already on the windward edge of the convoy and perfectly positioned to go to the aid of any as they were all to leeward and in a direct line of sailing.

There was no easy answer. They were only a few days off retiring from the area so perhaps he must let them go—but any accident aboard one of the vessels would make it fall out of line and then it would be theirs; or at night some inexperienced master might lose the convoy and in morning light be found alone on the ocean.

So he would follow in their wake ready to snap up stragglers, like a wolf prowling about a flock of frightened sheep, waiting to catch them off-guard.

They stayed with it through the afternoon and evening. As dusk drew in the frigate, having nothing to fear from revealing her position, hung two lanthorns along the foreyard, three along the main, and settled comfortably in the centre of the two columns of four ships where all might see and be comforted by the bright lights.

There would be no lost sheep, it seemed. The night passed, and the day following, with not the slightest false move by the frigate, which stayed in perfect station between the Witch and the ships huddling together. It was a masterly textbook defence and Kydd wryly honoured the unknown captain.

Two more days went by. They were now approaching France, heading probably to a port south of Brest, possibly Nantes or La Rochelle. Still the skilled blocking. But this course was not altogether out of their way and Kydd would stay with them until the last moment, then head for home.

Meanwhile he would take the opportunity to circumnavigate the convoy slowly, taking in details of each ship and making a hypothetical choice of which he would choose as victim. Speculation passed round Witch as to their qualities and value, but still the frigate kept careful watch and ward.

As they drew nearer the coast they saw various craft, mainly local traders scuttling from port to port and occasionally a larger vessel. Then, with France a low blue-grey smudge ahead at last, everything changed with the sighting of a single vessel closer inshore: not a particularly large ship, a brig, but purposefully beating out towards them.

It posed a dilemma for the frigate captain: Should he abandon his position to windward of the convoy and stand away to intercept the possible threat or remain? If the brig was a warship and hostile it was much more of a threat than the Witch, but if he went to meet it and Kydd struck, he would have to claw back against the wind to come to the rescue.

Kydd watched developments keenly. Soon it became clear that the brig was a man-o'-war, a Royal Navy sloop of the type that was carrying the fight to the enemy in such numbers, come out to try its steel, wheeling about the head of the advancing ships in an arrogant show of inspection. It was too much for the frigate, which loosed sail and charged through the convoy towards the interloper.

An electric thrill whipped through Kydd: at last, here was his chance. A cooler voice intervened to point out that if he was caught with half his men on an enemy deck by the returning frigate the Witch of Sarnia would be blasted out of the water in a single vengeful broadside.

Eight ships. Three or four miles of sea. Was there time to fall on one of the convoy in a wild boarding, seize and sail off with it before the frigate could reach them? All the crew had to do was to put up a stout enough fight to delay matters and they would be saved. It would be a hard and bloody affair. And he had seconds to decide.

At the frigate's decisive move the sloop had kept its distance and was warily stepping away from confrontation. Kydd's instinct was to secure co-operation from the unknown captain and tackle the problem as a team, but a proud navy commander would never stoop to joining with a privateer.

To the starboard rear there was a medium-sized ship-rigged merchantman, probably hailing from the Caribbean and with no particular attraction other than that she had a modest stern quarter and bulwarks to lessen the dangerous climb aboard. She would be his kill.

"Mr Cheslyn, we board!" There was an instant response. He had no need to make bracing speeches: they all knew the stakes—and the reward.

Sheering over to starboard he let the Witch have her head. She rapidly overhauled the merchant ship and set her bowsprit to pass down the vessel's outer side. This was no time to check on the frigate's actions for now they were committed and there was no turning back.

Puffs of smoke appeared from along the afterdeck and were joined by others coming from the tops. A swivel banged, and another. Kydd heard the vicious whip of bullets overhead and felt their thump through his feet as they slammed into the hull.

The gap of water narrowed. "Fire!" he bellowed. Their six-pounder crashed out, its hail of musket balls sleeting across and, with a hoarse roar, the coehorn mortar joined in, throwing grena-does among the defenders who scattered wildly.

The two vessels came together with a crash, sending Kydd staggering; men stood to hurl grapnels—one collapsed as he took a ball to the chest but others secured a hold and hauled the ships together while the boarders gathered, brandishing their weapons in a bloodthirsty show.

However, there were cool and brave heads on the other ship and seamen darted out and hacked at the grapnel lines with axes and the vessels drifted apart again.

They had to act or it was all over. "Wi' me!" Kydd shrieked at Cheslyn, in the crazy noise, and raced forward, throwing over his shoulder at the helmsman, "Take her in!"

On the foredeck Kydd looked frantically about for the fall of a line from aloft, found one and slashed through it; then, as though he were a seaman atop a yard aloft, he ran out on the bowsprit, which was swinging towards the other ship, clamping the coil of line under his arm.

He felt Cheslyn behind him, and others as well—they had moments only, for their impetus through the water would translate to a deflection out by the shock of impact. He reached the cranse iron at the tip of the bowsprit and paused, passing a hurried bowline around the fore topmast stay, conscious of the racing water below and, in the other ship, the men tumbling down from the low poop to meet the sudden threat, and then the long spar was arcing over the enemy deck.

Instantly he dropped. There was only one thing he had to do now but would he live long enough to do it? Then he heard Cheslyn's roaring battle-cry above—followed by the man's body knocking him askew, others dropping by him.

Kydd heaved himself to his feet and felt the line tug away from him. Ignoring the ring and clash of arms around him as Cheslyn parried and thrust to protect him, he threw himself at a kevel-head and passed turns round the thick timber belaying point. The schooner's bowsprit was now fastened to its victim and was thus a bridge into the heart of the other vessel. In minutes it was all over, the defenders falling back in panic at the stream of screeching privateersmen flooding aboard.

Kydd stood apart, watching Cheslyn urgently dispatch men into the rigging and along the deck—then raised his eyes to seek out the frigate. With a lurch of his heart he saw it had skilfully driven the brig clear to leeward, then had worn about instantly and was now beating back ferociously.

They had bare minutes to take possession. Having seen the masterly handling of the frigate Kydd knew it was impossible. Still under full sail, still within the convoy, they had to fight their way out—but to do this they needed to learn enough about the rigging operations of a strange ship to put about without a mistake and there was not the time.

The last of the defenders scuttled out of sight—he was master of the deck but with a hostile crew still unsubdued below. He forced his mind to an icy calm. One thing was clear: this prize was heavy with cargo and would never achieve the swift manoeuvres he needed—and all the time the frigate was thrashing closer.

Defiantly he looked back at the wheel. One of his men held it firmly, not daring to vary the ship's heading until he could be sure of the sail handling. The body of an unknown sailor lay sprawled at his feet.

Then Kydd had it. "Steady as she goes!" he bawled at the helmsman, and hurried over to stand by him. Cheslyn looked aft questioningly. He had groups of men positioned at the base of each mast but Kydd knew that to go about now was simply too risky. Even missing stays would have the frigate right up with them and . . . He shook his head vigorously and concentrated.

They had just this chance. "Follow m' motions!" he croaked at the nervous helmsman. As a square-rigger, they were sailing directly before the south-westerly, which gave them their only advantage—they had a wide angle of possible courses ahead.

"Steer f'r th' Frenchy frigate," Kydd ordered. The helmsman gave a frightened glance but complied, and the ship swung ponderously until it was headed directly towards the ship beating up towards them between the two columns of the convoy.

The man-o'-war did not change its course and Kydd guessed there would be frenzied discussion on her quarterdeck. They stood on stubbornly, but Kydd knew that the frigate captain had only one object—to lay them aboard. He would do his best to oblige.

"Shake out that reef!" he hailed Cheslyn. Sails had been trimmed to achieve an even speed in convoy. Loosing the main and fore-course would give them speed in hand.

The frigate's track did not vary in the slightest and, head to head, the two ships approached each other. Everything now depended on the timing and the placements: Kydd's eye took in not only the menace of the French frigate but the convoy—especially the next-ahead vessel—and he made his calculations deliberately, passing his orders quietly for fine corrections of heading.

Their advance downwind was drawing the next-ahead perilously near, and somewhere on her inner beam there would be a meeting. One or other of the closing ships must give way.

The frigate slashed ahead, straight for them, with no sign of yielding way—but this was not Kydd's concern for at the last possible moment he gave orders to fall away to starboard. Instead of coming to a confrontation their ship instead passed to the outer side of the next-ahead and so close that the pale, shocked faces of the men at the wheel were clear and stark as they bucketed by.

In one move Kydd had placed this ship between him and the frigate as they passed in opposite directions—but the best was yet to come. Enraged by Kydd's bold escape the frigate captain made to bear away closely round the next-ahead's stern, but in his eagerness to grapple gave insufficient allowance for the strength of the fresh winds. In a chorus of splintering smashes, twangs and screams of indignity the frigate made close acquaintance with the vessel's stern quarters and, recoiling, fell off the wind, helpless.

Quickly, Kydd had his new prize angling off into the open sea with Witch of Sarnia close beside.

Outside the Three Crowns Kydd stood in a maze of happiness. He was gazing at a poster on a pillar proclaiming boldly:

FOR SALE BY THE CANDLE

At three crowns tavern, St Peter Port, on Monday the next by Ten o' clock in the Forenoon, The Good Ship héros de guadeloupe, burthen about 400 Tons, lately taken by the witch of sarnia, Letter of Marque, Thomas Kydd, Captain. A remarkable sailer, well found and calculated for the Caribbee trade and may be sent to sea at a Trifling Expence . . . after the Sale, the entire cargo now landed will be set to Auction, inventories may be viewed at . . .

And this was only the first of his two prizes. Hearings had taken place immediately and the evidences of French ownership sent to the Admiralty Prize Court had resulted in swift condemnation as prize, and the vessel was now in the process of being sold at auction.

"Mr Kydd, is it not?" a well-dressed man asked politely, removing his hat. "I believe the heartiest congratulations would be insufficient to express my sense of admiration at your late action. And another prize to your name?"

"Aye, there is, sir," Kydd answered warily.

"Magnificent! Just as in the old days! Oh, might I introduce myself? Robert de Havilland." He handed Kydd a card. "As you may see, I'm a banker and it did cross my mind that should you see fit to favour us with your financial interests then I'm sure that we would be able to offer very advantageous rates to a gentleman as distinguished as yourself. A line of credit against your captures, perhaps? Sovereign investment in Consols at above market—"

"Why, thank ye, Mr de Havilland," Kydd came back politely, "but I'm not ready t' change banks at th' moment." It was truly amazing how many new friends he had made in the few days since his return from sea.

Curious to see proceedings he entered the tavern. It was stifling, packed with merchants watching while the auctioneer droned away on the fine qualities of the vessel under the hammer. A stir went through them when he had finished and an assistant brought a lighted taper.

"Are ye ready, gennelmen? Light th' candle!"

The bids were low at first, then from all sides the serious ones came in. "One fifty t' you, sir—two hundred? Mr Mauger? Two seventy . . ."

Kydd had no idea of the value this represented but was content to let it wash over him. The bids petered out but all eyes were fixed on the candle and Kydd saw that it was burning down to where a blackened pin with a ribbon had been inserted. As the flame neared, the bids redoubled until there was a staccato hammer of shouts before the pin dropped clear, and the highest bidder was declared the new owner.

Turning to go, Kydd was stopped by the auctioneer, who had spotted him. To general acclamation he announced that they had been honoured by the presence of the victorious captor. Kydd blushed and made a hurried escape outside to an unseasonably warm sun.

He strolled along the parade, nodding to respectful passers-by, and pondered the change in life's direction that had brought him so much. He recalled the smugness of Zephaniah Job at the wind-up meeting, the almost fawning attention of Robidou, the ledger figures that told of his restoration to fortune.

Then there was the respect he seemed to have won from Cheslyn and the crew of the privateer at paying-off time. He chuckled aloud to recall a bold and swashbuckling Pookie stepping ashore playing the corsair to the limit as she took home her plunder to present to her mother.

Would Renzi believe how things had changed? His friend's selfless toil in Jersey to keep him going was now no longer necessary. He would ask him to return but without telling him of his great change in fortune, simply say he was due for a surprise. Yes, he must write him a letter . . .

Kydd then remembered a promise, which he would soon be in a position to keep. He planned to take one of those grand and very comfortable mansions in Grange Road.

A celebration, a great dinner occasion—and the only ones invited would be those who had stood so nobly by him. As he hurried along to set it in train he imagined the room resounding to Richard Samson's Shakespearean declaiming, the extravagant gown that Griselda Mayhew would flaunt, the studied nonchalance of Carne, who would probably complain at the waste of a good flyman. It would be a splendid evening.

CHAPTER 16

RENZI WAS ON HIS WAY BACK to Guernsey and to Kydd. He had kept his word and stayed with d'Auvergne until it was obvious there was no more to be done, and then, accepting only what he was owed in wages, he quit the place.

It had been a catastrophe—not for want of courage: there had been every reason to expect a different conclusion but for the treachery of Querelle. The head of the secret police, Fouché, had moved rapidly and, with bloodshed and torture, the conspiracy to kidnap Bonaparte had been comprehensively crushed.

Georges had been taken after a gigantic struggle, the old soldier Pichegru dragged from his bed to the Temple prison. Troops had been sent across the Rhine to arrest the Duc d'Enghien and orders poured out of Paris for apprehending lesser names.

Bonaparte's vengeance was savage: arrests, trials and executions followed swiftly one on another. Georges was guillotined with eleven others, bellowing, "Vive le Roi!" even as the blade fell. The Duc d'Enghien was imprisoned and put on trial for his life while Pichegru was found strangled in his cell with a stick and neckerchief, some said to prevent unwanted disclosures at the trial.

It had been a searing experience: Renzi knew he looked haggard and drawn, and that it would take some time to emerge from the darkness of tainted violence. To see his friend again was now all he asked; he remembered the last letter, the reference to his "surprise," and hoped it would allow some small leavening of Kydd's existence—what means he himself had been able to bring back was not as much as he had hoped.

St Peter Port was unchanged, the waterfront as active as ever. He checked the address on Kydd's letter. Off Fountain Street to the south: quite up to the fringes of respectability—was this his surprise? He found the house easily enough, a somewhat decayed dwelling but of some size.

"Oh?" The strikingly featured woman who answered the door seemed disconcerted at his appearance.

"Madame," Renzi said, with an abject bow, "I have no wish to intrude. My recent understanding is that Mr Thomas Kydd is in residence here."

"Ah!" she said. "You're naught but a bailiff come after the poor lamb!"

"Indeed I am not," Renzi said, with the first smile for many weeks. "I am his friend."

"You're not Mr Renzi?" she said, incredulous.

"I am."

She took him by the arm and said warmly, "Why, do come in! I'm Rosie—he's not living here any more but you'll have such a surprise when y' hear what he's a-doing now."

An hour later, warmed by a stiff tot and the odd group's open regard for him as a friend of Kydd, he stood in the street outside, bemused at the turn of events. Kydd was the talk of the town and, to a fair way of thinking, a rich man—a privateer captain of all things—still out on his third voyage but expected daily.

Renzi wandered down to the foreshore where they had last walked together. By all accounts Kydd's days of penury were well and truly behind him, and his own little contributions would no longer be needed—in fact, the new address he had been given was up on Grange Road, one of the imposing villas that looked down haughtily on the bustling seaport.

It would be a quite different man he would shortly be seeing. Their time together in Teazer was over, of course, however brief in the larger span of life. He'd wedge himself no longer in his tight little cabin, musing on mystical paradigms and vaulting theories while the sea tossed about their sturdy barque—and he would be so much the poorer to have to develop his thoughts in some dingy shorebound building.

Renzi shook off his selfish concerns. Now their ways would necessarily diverge, given their utterly different courses in life, and with Kydd busy amassing a fortune as a privateer captain there would be little point in lingering in Guernsey waiting for his infrequent returns.

No, it was time to part. The bleakness returned, threatening to become a desolation. He cast about for something to fasten on to. Was there anything perhaps he could give Kydd to show him how much he had appreciated his friendship? Given his circumstances, it would have to be a forlorn sort of present.

Then a thought struck. There was one last service he could do for his friend.

With the prospect of increasing wealth and Kydd's consequent high standing in society, there was little doubt that he would now see any resumption of his attempt to clear his name as irrelevant. Renzi had heard from Rosie of Kydd's naïve plan to unbribe the perpetrators. It had no chance, of course, but if he himself by other means was able to get to the bottom of it, it would be a satisfying thing indeed to offer his friend.

* * *

Renzi strode purposefully along the Pollet to Smith Street and made his way up to the headquarters of the commander-in-chief. "Renzi," he snapped at the guard. "Confidential secretary to Commodore d'Auvergne of the Jersey Squadron. If you please—Mr Jessop, high clerk to Sir James."

Being of such stature, the man maintained his own office; Renzi entered, then made play of closing the door behind him and testing the latch. Then he intoned gravely, "Renzi, sir. We have corresponded on occasion."

Mystified, Jessop rose to shake hands.

"Sir. I have come on a matter of some delicacy. You are aware, are you not, of the commodore's other responsibilities?"

"Um, if you are referring to his activities of a clandestine nature arising from his connections with . . . yes, Mr Renzi, as high clerk to the commander-in-chief I am generally made cognisant—"

"There is no necessity for details at this time, Mr Jessop. The matter under privy investigation at this time merely requires an indication only concerning a possible breach of confidentiality. It may or may not be necessary to take the issue further but for now a simple response will answer."

Jessop frowned and waited.

"Within the last several months has any communication of a covert or unusual nature been received by this office from the admiral commanding at Plymouth? Do please indicate with an affirmative or negative only."

The man's face cleared. "Absolutely not. As you must be aware this is a commander-in-chief's station and does not have anything operationally to do with a subordinate admiral in another station. Therefore we have had nothing from Admiral . . . Lockwood, isn't it? Apart from the routine and mundane, that is."

"You can be quite certain that nothing touching on covert operations or deployments—"

"Sir. You can rest assured that anything of such a nature must pass across my desk and there has been no such."

"Nothing that can require a secret deviation from operational orders, perhaps?"

"Mr Renzi, I myself make up the order packs for captains and there have been no secret orders issued a commander on this station these last six months. As you must know, such operations as might be classed as covert are generally attended to by Commodore d'Auvergne. Of course, Cerberus frigate was once diverted—"

"Thank you, Mr Jessop. That has been most helpful. Good day to you, sir."

So there could be little doubt that Kydd's forged "secret orders" had not originated from Lockwood. Therefore it must have been effected locally.

Renzi fought down his weariness and concentrated on a careful review of the procedure: he himself had signed for the orders but not sighted them, locking them away in the confidential drawer for the captain's later attention. When Kydd had opened them he recalled that the outer, normal orders had been in a packet as usual, only the secret orders sealed. He did not recall anything singular about the seal.

Surely they could not have been falsely planted in Teazer —there had been no signs of a lock forced and, in any case, the idea of any getting past Tysoe for access to Kydd's inner cabin was ludicrous. Therefore the false orders must have been inserted prior to their delivery to Teazer.

They had been brought in the usual fashion from the commander-in-chief's office by Prosser, the master's mate, who had signed for them properly. He had presumably then returned without delay in the boat to hand them over.

If at the flag office there had been no secret orders and in Teazer there were—there could be only one conclusion: that Prosser had himself inserted them or knew of the act.

Prosser! But what possible motivation could he have had for the deed? Vain, insensitive and no leader of men, he was much more likely to have been led by another. Standish? There was no way of telling. Prosser would never risk his career in admitting anything—he had now his acting lieutenancy. And the principal in the affair would have ensured that all tracks had been been well and truly covered.

It was unfortunate but there was no way forward. As a failed commander Kydd would therefore be for ever under a cloud and—A wave of rage roared through Renzi, shaking him with its intensity. It moved him, as nothing else had, that the gross world of deceit and treachery had reached out and touched his friend.

Renzi knew that unless he did something he would . . . but then . . . he realised he could.

The devil that was in him spoke seductively through the storm, plotting a course of action that in its very symmetry was beguiling and deeply satisfying. If the virtuous were to be brought low by an immoral and felonious act, then the wicked should be likewise: in one stroke he could turn the world he despised against itself and at the same time achieve justice for Kydd at last.

Feverishly he assembled a plan. He would need accomplices who wouldn't talk—with his inside knowledge of the shadow world of spies and assassins that would be easy. Vipère and Hyène would now be available; he brought to mind their saturnine, grave-robbing features. Yes, they would do admirably.

Next, a suitable location. What better than the old sail-loft in which Kydd had spent so much time recently? Excellent. Then let the game commence . . .

Sitting at the single table in the dank and empty space, Renzi trimmed the one candle. It shone up with a trembling flame illuminating his face from below with a malevolent gleam. The table was bare, save an open razor in the centre.

He waited calmly. At the appointed hour there was a scuffle outside; a struggling body was forced within and flung to the ground before him, the pinioned arms splayed immovably sideways, the gagged and blindfolded head desperately turning this way and that.

The struggles eventually ceased and Renzi nodded; first the gag and then the blindfold were removed and a terrified Prosser looked about wildly. He tried to rise but was held down. "For God's sake, Renzi, what's happening?" he choked out.

Renzi watched him writhe. He had no pity for the man's ordeal, called from the warmth of the Mermaid Club on a pretext, then rapidly bundled away blindfolded into the night.

"What're they doing?" Prosser shouted, terror rising. Vipère cuffed him to silence.

Renzi contemplated the creature who had brought Kydd down and who was now trembling uncontrollably, his eyes staring at Renzi's cruel mask of a face.

"You played Mr Kydd false with your poisonous secret orders. You'll tell me why."

"I—I didn't do it! It wasn't me, I swear!"

Icy anger seized Renzi. "I've the blood of far better men than you on my hands," he snarled, with the conviction of perfect truth. "Yours will not cost me a moment's pause." He was shaking now at the sudden insight that he really meant it. His hand slid to the razor and, picking it up slowly, he tested its edge.

"You—you're mad!" Prosser gasped, hypnotised by the weapon's gleaming menace.

Renzi rose suddenly, shifting his grip on the razor to a workmanlike underhand. The two others yanked Prosser's head back by the hair.

"No!" Prosser screamed. "I beg you!"

Renzi paused and the man fell limply. "H-how did you know?" he said weakly. "He said no one would ever discover us."

It all came out. Such a simple, foolish act, conceived in jealousy and hatred but with such consequences—it had been Carthew. When he had seen his position as senior commander and favourite threatened by Kydd, and aware of Saumarez's strict moral code, he had bribed a smuggler to land the chest and persuaded Prosser to tamper with the orders.

There had been no one else. Carthew had promised Prosser that on this remote station Standish would get the ship and he himself would achieve his long-sought lieutenancy. He had been right— and, but for Renzi, he would certainly have got away with it.

But Renzi could see no path forward. Without evidence, without witnesses, there would be no happy ending. In lieu, should he put an end to this reptile's life? He moved forward—Prosser shrieked as the razor went straight to his throat. It stayed poised while a tiny nick beneath exuded a trail of scarlet. "Your life is now forfeit," Renzi said levelly. "My dearest friend has been ruined by your acts. Can you give me any reason why I should not end it?"

He waited for the hysterical babble to trail off, having discovered to his intense satisfaction that Prosser had not trusted Carthew and had stealthily retrieved the actual secret orders, which he still had in his possession.

Renzi pretended to ponder. "I see—to be produced in court at the proper time." He reflected further. "You will observe," he said, as though to a lecture audience, "how trivial a task it has been for one in my position to arrange the abduction and death of any I choose. Should you fall in with my demands you may yet escape with your life—but if you fail me I will give orders that will find you out wherever you are and extinguish your miserable existence. Do you understand?"

"Y-yes, Mr Renzi."

"Then this is what you shall do. First bring the orders to me, with your written confession. Afterwards you shall stand up and testify against Carthew—and only then will you stand quite discharged of your obligations. This is now your choice, sir. How will you proceed?"

"I—I'll do it, Mr Renzi. Whoever you are . . ."

It had been a stiff walk out of town, up by Elizabeth College to Grange Road, and a little farther to the Kydd residence, a fine house with many rooms set back discreetly from the road. He passed the gardener, who touched his hat to him as he reached the ornate front door and found the bell pull.

A bewigged footman regarded him disdainfully. "Sir?"

Fighting down a sense of unreality he said, "I'm Nicholas Renzi. I saw that Mr Kydd's ship is now in port. Is he at home at all?" He had seen the wicked black lines of the privateer schooner as she had returned to a joyous welcome on the quayside but, for some reason, had refrained from joining the crowds.

The footman seemed unimpressed and held out his hand.

"Oh, er, I have no visiting card on my person," Renzi said uncomfortably, "but I assure you I am his good friend and sanguine he will offer me welcome."

He was shown into a receiving room adjacent to the door by the disapproving flunkey. Renzi settled into a comfortable chair and picked up a Gentleman's Magazine to avoid gaping at the splendours of decoration to hand.

It was hard to believe that this was now the residence and home of the young, credulous quartermaster's mate who had sailed with him in Artemis frigate on her legendary voyage round the world;

the master's mate who had stood with the seamen in the great Nore mutiny, then spurned an admiral's daughter for a country lass at ruinous social cost.

Kydd's sea sense had made him a natural predator and he was clearly reaping its rich rewards. Three voyages now. He was a figure of admiration in an island with a long history of privateering and could command the fawning attention of any he chose—and this was only the beginning.

Had it altered him? Was the open-hearted sailor now a hard-nosed businessman? When each cruise was adding massively to his private fortune, would he deign to go back to life in a humble sloop like Teazer? The more Renzi thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed.

Most of all, a gulf now separated them that could not have been greater: Kydd had found himself and would go on to great things, while he could only dream of achieving something in the philosophical line, not a path likely to lead to such riches.

With a sudden stab he realised as well that, as Kydd and his family rose in the world, Cecilia might be placed for ever beyond his reach. His despondency turned to fear.

The gritty rolling of wheels outside told him that soon he would know the worst. Sitting quite still, his pulse quickening, he heard the cries of an ostler and the jingling of harness—then a deeper voice of authority, probably the major-domo greeting his master: "A pleasant voyage, sir?"

Then the blessed sound of Kydd's hearty voice: "Not s' pleasant, but a mort profitable, I'd have t' say."

"Oh, er, there's a gentleman in the receiving room," the voice went on. "He gave no card but claims to be an acquaintance of yours. Will you see him or . . . ?"

"He gave a name?"

"Well, yes, sir—a Mr Rancy, sir." "Renzi!" The door burst open—and Kydd stood there, utter delight on his face. "Nicholas!" he cried. "Ye're here!"

Renzi stood slowly. "Yes, dear fellow, as you have rightly perceived, I am indeed here," he said, eyes smarting.

Kydd advanced impulsively and hugged his friend. Then, frowning, he held him at arm's length. "That rogue the prince o' whatever—why, he's been working ye half t' death. Still, no need f'r that kind o' thing any more, Nicholas. We're rich!"

While Renzi was digesting the "we," Kydd turned on the major-domo. "Rouse up th' hands!" he roared. "We're t' have a right true welcome home t' two heroes o' the sea!"

They moved to the more august surroundings of the spacious drawing room, and Renzi noted how confidently Kydd moved about the sumptuous furnishings. Soon, fortified by a fine brandy, the two friends were slipping back into their old familiarity.

"Then do I take it that your recent voyage might be accounted successful, brother?"

"Aye," Kydd said, with relish. "One who thought t' go a-tradin' with th' French colonies—a right Tartar but no match f'r the Witch, o' course."

"So now you have taken the character of a man of means, not to say wealth."

"Oh, this pile, y' think so? It's on a very favourable lease fr'm a Mr Vauvert, rich cove who's done well out o' investin' in m' cruises."

"Then this bounteous cornucopia might be said sufficient for your plans now to go afoot."

"Ah—the plans. Nicholas, I've had time t' think about it. It wasn't really much of a plan t' conceive they'll put 'emselves up against th' law just f'r a few guineas. Foolish t' believe so, don't y' think?"

"I'd be obliged to agree, dear fellow. But what if we could find some other way to right this grievous wrong done to you?"

"Y' mean, lay out the gold t' hire a flash London lawyer as will see me right? No, Nicholas, without we have th' evidence t' show him it just won't fadge."

"Perhaps then we could find a denizen of the demi-world, an abandoned creature not noted for the delicacy of his morals who would follow the trail wheresoever it led. But who would know such a person?"

"Nicholas!" Kydd exclaimed, scandalised. "I'll not have dealings wi' such. It's not the place f'r a gentleman, as you y'self tells me!" he said with heat. Hesitating, he conceded reluctantly, "So it seems I'll have t' face it. There's no way forward. This is m' lot in life, an' if I'm t' be truthful then it's t' say that it's not so hard, an' I'm still fightin' the King's enemies—in a private way, o' course."

"Umm. Well, do tell me, for my interest, if it were in any wise made possible that at some future date the vile act is exposed and the malefactors brought to a reckoning, would you still desire to set yourself on "Teazer's quarterdeck again? To give away the carefree life of a corsair for the stern duties of the Navy?"

Puzzled, Kydd blinked. "Why, o' course! Why else would I . . . ? Ah, I see—ye're flamming me! Well, Nicholas, let me say ye can be sure that if I c'n think of another plan as'll smoke 'em out, well, I'll do it with all m' heart."

Renzi paused. A half-smile spread as he felt about inside his waistcoat. "Well, now, if you're ever to be a commander again we'll have to find a way to deal with these." Slowly he withdrew a small sheaf of papers.

Unfolding the top one and holding it up, he asked innocently, "Oh, er, do you recognise this at all?"

"My God! Th' secret orders! Where did you . . . ?"

"From the knave who deliberately inserted them into your lawful orders."

"Who?" "As instructed by another, who most ardently wished for your ruin."

"Who, damn it, Nicholas? Was it Lockwood?" Kydd blazed.

"Prosser."

Kydd slumped in amazement. "That—that gib-faced shicer? In God's name, why?"

"To achieve his step as an officer."

"An' who was th' other?"

"The principal was Carthew. In a fit of jealous rage he paid a smuggler to land the chest and used Prosser to falsify your orders. Simple, really."

Kydd shook his head in wonder. "That any should be s' low." He turned to Renzi. "Nicholas, how did ye . . . ?"

"Oh, merely the application of common logic, and when I enquired it of him he most readily admitted the act. You will find his written confession here, the name of the smuggler, and as well he has agreed to testify against Carthew."