The Privateer's Revenge

by Julian Stockwin

  The sailors’ taverns were beacons of light and noise and he made for the nearest. His mouth tasted vile, his head throbbed—but a gage of bowse with the splicings would soon set him to rights. Kydd pushed open the door and a sickly sweet smell of liquored sawdust and warm humanity hit him. A few turned, then resumed their conversations.

  Across the room a serving maid looked at him speculatively and made her way through the tables. “A hard time, sailor?” she said sympathetically. It was not uncommon after a rough voyage and the hard carousing that followed for a sailor to sell his clothes. Kydd’s heart warmed to her and he gave a shy smile. “Ye’re welcome here, shipmate,” she continued. “An’ what c’n I find f’r you as will chase away y’r mem’ries, m’ dear?”

  Kydd’s face clouded. “Thank ’ee, Miss—but there isn’t a med’cine made as will settle that. Er, I have m’ hopes of a long voyage t’ come, though,” he concluded weakly. His expression eased. “But a muzzler o’ y’r right true sort is wha’ I’d take kindly.”

  “Look, come over an’ sit wi’ these gennelmen,” she said and waved a pot towards a cosy group about a table in the corner. “They’s in from the Indies, eleven weeks ’cross the Western Ocean wi’ a sprung foremast an’ aught t’ eat but belaying-pin soup an’ handspike hash.”

  The beer was dark, honest and spread the glow of inebriation once more. His new friends had glanced at him curiously just once and then, as was the way of the sea, had accepted him for what he was. “Yez must’ve had a time of it, Tom, m’ skiddy cock. Which hooker?” one asked.

  “Save y’r kindness, mates, an’ it’s something I—I don’t wan’ t’ talk of,” Kydd said gruffly, and took refuge in his tankard.

  “Right b’ us, ain’t it?” the oldest in the group said hastily to the others and called for another pint. “An’ if ye’re not flush in the fob . . .” he muttered kindly.

  “Ah, ‘everybody’s mess an’ no one’s watch’?” Kydd snorted. “No, cuffin, I has m’ cobbs as will pay m’ way.”

  He fumbled with his shoe while the others looked away politely. He found the coins—in his careless haste he had slipped in three half-guineas and a florin, a princely sum for a seaman. Embarrassed, he mumbled something and ordered a drink for each man.

  They had not questioned Kydd’s reticence—many went to sea for a good enough reason—but they told him willingly of their own hard passage. Seeing Kydd relax a little, they asked what he had in mind for the future and, head spinning, he tried to explain his great need for far voyaging. They nodded: it was the ambition of most seamen when reaching port to spend all their hard-won pay in one glorious spree and, penniless, sign on for another hard voyage.

  “Well, matey, we’s not f’r south o’ the Line, but y’ might want t’ think about Barbadoes Packet . Sailin’ soon f’r Batavia in hardwares. Her mate’ll be about lookin’ f’r hands tonight, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  Kydd tried blearily to take it in.

  “Th’ mate?” said another, with feeling. “Ye’re forgettin’ it’s Hellyer, a right bucko as ever I seen! You ship out in that there—”

  A splintering crash and female screams slammed into Kydd’s consciousness followed by urgent shouts and a strident bellow from the door. Reeling, he tried to make sense of it as his companions shot to their feet and yelled at him, “The press! Skin out while y’ can, Tom— jowla , jowla , matey!” They disappeared hurriedly into the scrimmage and Kydd tried clumsily to follow but fell headlong. Before he could rise he felt knees in his back, his thumbs secured with rope-yarns, and he was yanked to his feet.

  “Got a rough knot ’ere, sir,” the press gang seaman called, his hand firmly on the scruff of Kydd’s neck as he tried to writhe free.

  A young lieutenant was approaching and Kydd hung his head in stupefied dejection, waiting for recognition. “Ah, yes. Looks fit enough. Hey, you—which ship? What rate o’ seaman?”

  Kydd struggled with his befuddled mind. “Er, there’s a mistake,” he mumbled.

  “That’s ‘sir’ t’ you, cully,” the seaman said, with a sharp cuff to Kydd’s head.

  “Um, sir, y’ can’t take me, I’m . . . er, that is t’ say, I’m . . .” He trailed off weakly.

  “And, pray, what are you, then? A gentleman?” the officer said sarcastically, eyeing Kydd’s appearance. “Or possibly the captain of your ship as can’t be spared.”

  The seaman tittered.

  Kydd said nothing, overcome with mortification. The lieutenant changed his tone. “Now there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Should you show willing, in the King’s service, we can make a man of you. Proud to serve! Who knows, there’s been those who’ve been rated full petty officer in just a few years.”

  Numb, Kydd was led off with the others by the Impress Service, the regular organisation for supplying the fleet with men. He knew they were going to the receiving ship, an old, no longer fit-for-service hulk moored well out.

  There, they were herded into the darkness of the hold, and the gratings slid into place with hopeless finality. Two dim lanthorns revealed dirty straw and pitiful bodies, a pail of water in the corner. In the morning he would be cleaned up to go before the regulating captain who, he recalled, was Byam, honourably wounded at the Nile. Without question he would be recognised.

  The drink-haze fled, leaving him in full knowledge of the horror of his situation. He would be laughed out of the Navy. Even the merchant sailors would chortle with glee at the story of his downfall. To the disgrace of his family, he would be pointed out wherever he went as the captain who had been pressed by his own press gang.

  The long night passed in self-condemnation, recrimination and torturing images of his shocked friends and relations as they heard the news. How could he bear the shame? What excuse could he offer? He lay sleepless on the rank straw, dreading the day to come.

  At first light the guards took up position at the grating. Kydd heard footsteps approaching and saw figures peering down. He shrank away. There were muffled voices, then a guard lifted away the grating and swung over a lanthorn. “Hey! Yair, you wi’ the grego!”

  Kydd looked up miserably.

  “Yes, that’s him, the villain,” came a cultured voice. Another loomed next to him.

  The ladder was slid down. “Up ’n’ out, matey, an’ no tricks!”

  Kydd climbed slowly, misery overflowing. He reached the top and raised his eyes—to be met with the grave face of Nicholas Renzi, who said, with a sigh, “It’s him. Tom Brown, gunner’s mate. Never to be trusted ashore. I dare to say that Teazer’s captain will know what to do with him.” He turned to the lieutenant. “I do thank you for securing him—we’ll have him back aboard immediately. I don’t believe Captain Byam need be troubled.” Then he ordered the thick-set seaman next to him, “Hale him into the longboat directly, if you please.”

  Tobias Stirk grinned mirthlessly and frogmarched Kydd away.

  CHAPTER 2

  HEARING MOVEMENT IN THE OTHER BEDROOM , Renzi sat up. Although he was very tired, he rose quickly and dressed. It had been a long, distressing night. After frantically searching for Kydd for hours, he had gone to Teazer and found Stirk. Together, with Stirk sworn to secrecy, they had scoured the dockyard and town. Then, despairing, they had thought to check the press gang catch.

  Renzi knocked softly. Kydd’s pain was heartbreaking and he was clearly not responsible for his actions: Who knew what he might do next?

  “Tom?” he called gently. “Are you awake, brother?”

  There was an indistinct murmur. Renzi entered. To his surprise Kydd was shaved, dressed and tying his neckcloth. “Do I see you well, my friend?” Renzi ventured.

  “As ye’d expect.” Kydd did not take his eyes from the mirror.

  “Believe me, brother, you have my every understanding. When one’s wits are askew with grief there is no telling where the mind will stray.”

  “Spare me y’r pity, Nicholas,” Kydd said. “It happened.”

  “I’m saying that I’ve yet
to meet the man who, trapped in a pit, is able to fix on far horizons. What you did—”

  “What I did was weak an’ foolish. I could’ve brought th’ Service t’ contempt an’ ridicule.” He paused. “I’m t’ be—I’m beholden t’ ye, Nicholas, f’r what ye did last night.”

  “It was nothing more than a friend would do, dear fellow.”

  Kydd resumed at the mirror. “I’m goin’ back aboard. This is m’ duty an’ this I must obey above all things.” He paused. “It was th’ last thing she spoke t’ me, o’ course,” he added, swallowing hard.

  “A noble sentiment, Thomas. Fitting for a gentleman of the first rank.”

  Kydd found his waistcoat. “Ye’ll oblige me b’ tellin’ how many— er, who saw me last night.”

  “Why, none of acquaintance, I believe,” Renzi answered equably. “The quarter is not favoured by King’s men.”

  “But there was Stirk.”

  “It was Toby Stirk who thought to summon a waterman, once we were landed, and even gave you his coat to wear over yours on the way back. Do you think he would be the kind of man to glory in his captain’s abasement? There is none who—”

  “And Cecilia?”

  “She will now be in possession of my note detailing how you were cruelly set upon by footpads while taking the night air to clear your head, and that visitors are discouraged.”

  Kydd finished dressing. “I’m returnin’ t’ Teazer now,” he said abruptly. “Do ye wish t’ come?”

  “If that is my duty, Captain.”

  “It is.”

  The waterman, under the tight-lipped grimace of his passenger, bent to his oars and sent the wherry skimming across to the little brig in Barn Pool. Rounding the pretty stern windows he brought it expertly alongside her side-steps, and Kydd boarded briskly.

  “You, sir!” he roared at Prosser, the lounging mate-of-the-watch, who straightened in dismay at Kydd’s sudden appearance. “What kind o’ watch can’t sight their captain returnin’ on board?”

  Prosser snatched off his hat. “Er, you’re not in uniform, sir,” he said weakly.

  Farther forward the boatswain faltered under Kydd’s glare. “We—we weren’t told ye was comin’, sir,” he said.

  Hurriedly the watch found things that needed attention round the decks. “This is not a King’s ship, it’s a Dutch scow. What are th’ men doin’ for’ard?” Kydd said angrily. “Hangin’ out th’ washing? If’n ye can’t take charge properly, Mr Prosser, I’ll find someone who will.”

  He stalked down to his cabin. Renzi paused, then descended the after hatchway to his own tiny hideaway to wait out the mood.

  The morning wore on: he usually worked by the clear light of the stern windows in the captain’s cabin. He gathered up his papers and made his way aft, knocked softly and waited.

  “Yes?”

  The impatient tone made him hesitate.

  Kydd was at his desk, his face stony. “Is there anything y’ need?”

  “Oh—er, you wished to sight the quarterly return on casks shaken,” Renzi said, thinking quickly. “Will this be the right time, do you think?”

  “Not now. Ask th’ bosun to step aft, if y’ please.”

  The afternoon watch came to an end and the starboard watch for liberty mustered. There would be the usual sore heads in the morning after their time ashore. Standish paid his respects warily and was off as smartly, leaving the ship to its evening rest. Renzi waited a little longer, then went up.

  Kydd was sitting motionless by the stem windows, gazing out at the shadowed waters. “I—I’ll be stayin’ with Teazer for now, Nicholas,” he said stiffly. “Ye’re at liberty t’ use number eighteen as y’ see fit.”

  “Thank you, my friend,” Renzi said quietly. “But, as you’ll know, we’ve been at sixes and sevens in recent days. I need to take some quiet time to bring things to order. I shall stay aboard.” Without asking, he sat down in the opposite chair.

  Kydd stirred and cleared his throat. “Ship’s business? Then do y’ care t’ share m’ dinner?”

  It was a cheerless meal: not so much Kydd’s halting conversation or his silences but the contrast with what had been before. Kydd’s face was drawn, his eyes dull, and there was no light-hearted taking up of Renzi’s witty sallies.

  As soon as he decently could, Renzi excused himself.

  The next day Kydd kept to his cabin. Life aboard Teazer settled to a dreary stasis at her mooring, the entire ship affected by the solitary and melancholy figure in the captain’s cabin.

  Renzi knew the cause of the flares of temper, the distracted silences: Kydd had seized on duty as salvation—the stern call to a code of conduct that was plain, uncompromising and immediate. A pathway out, which would offer a clear and unthinking course to follow that was sure and secure. And it was denied him while Teazer lay idle.

  What would Admiral Lockwood plan for them? he wondered. It was an embarrassment now to have Kydd in his command, despite his recent successful cruise. Another anti-smuggling patrol? Worthy but dull, with possibly the Admiralty questioning continued employment of such a proven asset in this way. It would probably be a vague order to keep the seas as far from Plymouth as could be contrived; in any event, the sooner they got under way the better.

  On the fifth day, Standish went ashore to the dockyard and returned with packages. He disappeared into Kydd’s cabin and soon the ship was alive with rumour—orders had arrived at last.

  The ship’s clerk reported with the others. While the cabin filled with animated chatter, Renzi picked up the single sheet: “. . . and agreeable to an Admiralty Order . . . you are detached from duty in the Plymouth Command and shall proceed forthwith to join the Channel Islands Squadron . . .”

  Renzi smiled cynically. Not only had Lockwood rid himself of his embarrassment but had even managed to have them consigned to the quiet backwater guarding those lonely English outposts, the tiny Channel Islands near the French coast. He had never heard of any stirring battles in that quarter—in fact, nothing of note in all the years of war. It was exile for Kydd.

  He looked again. The date was a good seven months earlier. Lockwood had been asked then to provide a vessel but had held on jealously to his small fleet—until now.

  “We’re near ready t’ sail. What’s to do about our marines?” Kydd exploded, as though it was Renzi’s fault.

  “We’ll hear back soon, I’m sure of it,” Renzi responded, although he felt that Kydd had enough on his hands without insisting they ship the complement of marines to which they were entitled since they were now proceeding to a “foreign” station.

  He had himself worded the application, which had been duly acknowledged, but Kydd was in a dangerous mood. “Don’t th’ marines barrack in Stonehouse? I’ve a mind t’ go ashore an’ stir the idle swabs.”

  There was no dissuading him and Renzi found himself hurrying behind as Kydd stalked the short distance from Stonehouse Pool to the massive light grey stonework of the barracks. A sentry snapped to attention and slapped his musket, bringing a lieutenant strolling out from the gatehouse. “Sir,” he said, saluting smartly, “what can I do—”

  “Commander Kydd, HMS Teazer . An’ where are our marines?”

  The lieutenant blinked. “Sir?”

  “I’ve not time t’ discuss th’ matter. Please t’ conduct us to y’r general in charge.”

  “The colonel commandant,” the lieutenant said, clearly pained. “This is irregular, sir. Perhaps the adjutant might satisfy.”

  They headed across the parade ground, passing several drill squads of marines executing complex manoeuvres.

  Kydd did not waste time. “Kydd, HMS Teazer . We’re t’ sail soon an’ I’ve heard nothing of our marines, sir.”

  The adjutant steepled his fingers, then glanced up at the ramrod-straight colour sergeant at his side. “Then I’m to understand that you seek a company of marines to make up the complement of your fine vessel before you sail?”

  “Yes.”

  The
adjutant barked, “Sar’nt, go outside and find this officer some marines.”

  “Sah!” bellowed the man, with a quivering salute, and marched noisily away. In a suspiciously short time he marched back in and crashed to attention with another salute. “Sah! No marines . Sah!”

  “None?”

  “No marines a-tall. Sah!”

  The adjutant assumed an expression of saintly sorrow. “There, Commander, you see? We cannot help you—there are no marines left, I regret to say.” Sounds of screamed orders on the parade ground outside echoed in the office.

  Kydd took a deep breath. “You flam me, sir, an’ I’ll not stand f’r it,” he snarled. “What are th’ men outside? A flock o’ goats? If I don’t get m’ men an’ that main quickly, I’ll—”

  “Commander! There seems to be a misunderstanding!” the adjutant said smoothly. “We may yet find you some men.” He pointed at the colour sergeant. “Tell me, what do you see there?”

  “A marine?” Kydd grated, without humour.

  “No, sir. If you will observe, the man bears facings and cuffs of royal blue. This to the knowing signifies a royal regiment. Sir, he is a Royal Marine and has been since His Majesty in the year two did us the signal honour of recognising our services to the Crown of the last century or so.”

  “Sah!” the colour sergeant blurted in satisfaction. “Loyal an’ royal it is. Sah!”

  “So, you see, these are proud men and are entitled to their hon-ours. Should you take aboard Royal Marines you will find no more loyal and courageous a band of men anywhere.”

  Kydd glowered.

  “Now, let me see, I have the current sea roster here. Pray tell, where do you see your service mainly? What rate of ship? It does matter, you know.”

  “Brig-sloop, Channel Islands Squadron,” Kydd snapped.

  The officer sighed. “Not as who might say an active station.” He leafed through the book. “A brig-sloop, ship’s company of eighty—a hundred? Then you’ll be looking to a company of a sergeant, corporal and a score of privates.”