The Privateer's Revenge

by Julian Stockwin

  Carthew leaned back, his expression unreadable. “I will do it, sir,” Kydd said.

  Renzi squinted closer at the congested typeface and brought the little brass Argand lamp nearer. It guttered for a moment: the disadvantage of having his tiny cabin so close to the main hatchway was, however, more than offset by the relief it gave from the ’tween-decks fetor and he resumed his study.

  The small volume in German, in turgid Hochdeutsch dealt with the Perfectibilists, who were urging the reclamation of modern society from its sordid roots, not through gross revolutions but the perfection of human nature through rigorous moral education.

  On the other side of the thin partition the mess-decks were in full cry after issue of grog and the talk eddied noisily round. It did not penetrate Renzi’s thoughts for he was well used to it. He was much more interested in how a source for this moral education could be found, given that Weishaupt had specifically proclaimed the abolition of all religion. Yet the Illuminaten could not be lightly dismissed: it was said to be a secret society of freemasonry with Goethe himself a member and—

  Suddenly he became aware that the mess-deck had gone quiet, but for one deep-throated voice holding forth nearby. Despite himself he listened: it was Mawgan, petty officer and captain of the foretop, an older man and steady—Renzi could visualise the scene beyond the thin bulkhead, the others listening raptly to him.

  “No, mates, I ain’t! An’ this is fer why. He’s got th’ mark about ’im. I seen it before, done somethin’ evil an’ has t’ pay fer it. First he loses his doxy an’ then it’s his ship an’ we with it, afore he finally goes down ter his just reward.”

  There was indistinct murmuring and Poulden came in, troubled: “Y’ can’t say that, mate. He’s had a hard beat t’ wind’d since losin’ his sweetheart, bound t’ bear down on ’im, like.” There was increased muttering, which did not sound like sympathy.

  “There’s one thing as gives me pause t’ think.” Renzi knew it to be the voice of the sharp-faced Gissing, gunner’s mate. “Yer’ve all got him on th’ wrong tack. He’s not a death-or-glory boy, not he. No, it ain’t that a-tall—an’ I’ll tell yez fer why.”

  Renzi held still. Kydd’s call for volunteers on his return from a council-of-war had been met with a stony silence and his own offer curtly dismissed. No more eloquent testimony was needed for the loss of moral authority that Kydd was now facing.

  “Go on, cully, then tell us— why’s our Tom Cutlass not a-tryin’ t’ top it the flash hero?”

  There was a moment’s pause, then Mawgan said, “’Cos he’s not int’rested.” Shouting down the disbelieving cries, he continued, “He’s not int’rested fer a clinkin’ good reason. He’s got th’ death-wish.”

  “Yer what?” A horrified quiet spread through the mess-deck.

  “A death-wish, yer iggerant lubber. That’s when y’ grief is so oragious y’ can’t see as life’s worth th’ living. Y’ doesn’t care if yer lives or dies, an’ then y’ feels as if bein’ dead might just be th’ medicine t’ cure all y’r pain . . .”

  This was clearly a new and deeply disturbing thought for straight-thinking sailors to dwell upon. Renzi hesitated. If he intervened, his overhearing their private talk would be revealed and his position become impossible. But at the same time he could recognise the signs: in the absence of insight and enlightened leadership from Kydd, the malignancy of unreason and superstition was spreading among the unlettered seamen and it would not take much . . .

  “So he’s going t’ be careless with his life—an’ I ask ye this. Will he be any different wi’ us?” There was a dismayed silence and he finished flatly, “There’s a-going t’ be them as leaves their bones here, mates, take my word on’t.”

  Teazer had made one pass along the coast north with Kydd at a telescope, and as the evening was drawing in she was heading south once more. To an appalled Standish on the quarterdeck, Kydd had loudly declared that in the absence of men of spirit he was going on the mission alone. It had brought astonishment and grudging admiration but no volunteers.

  Now, as the time was approaching, there was a fearful expectation about the ship: landing on an enemy coast under arms to act the spy was utterly alien to the kind of courage a seaman was normally called upon to display.

  When lights began twinkling ashore and a hazy darkness descended, Kydd came up on deck, dressed in dark clothing, his face pale and set. “Sir, may we know your intentions? If—if you—” Standish stammered.

  “I shall be landin’ at th’ neck o’ the peninsula,” Kydd said coldly, “an’ will cross quickly to th’ other side, which if ye’ll remember is a beach along fr’m the harbour. They won’t be expectin’ any t’ approach fr’m the inside direction.”

  “Sir.” Stirk touched his hat respectfully but remained impassive. “Boat’s alongside.”

  Poulden and three seamen were in the gig; their role would be confined to taking him ashore, perilous though that would be. “Ready t’ land, sir,” Stirk reminded.

  “You have th’ ship, Mr Standish,” Kydd said stiffly, and crossed to the side, looking neither to right nor left. Renzi held still, watching silently.

  “Sah!” Sergeant Ambrose emerged from the main hatchway, followed by three more marines, each with blackened gaiters, signifying imminent action. “Y’r escort present ’n’ correct, sah!”

  Kydd hesitated and turned to Ambrose, who saluted smartly. “Sergeant—do you . . . ?”

  “We’ll be with ye, sir.”

  “Thank ’ee, Sergeant, but—”

  “Th’ men are volunteers too, sir,” he said crisply.

  There was a stirring among the men and Midshipman Calloway stepped across the deck. “I’ll come if y’ wants me, Mr Kydd,” he said, twisting his hat nervously in his hands.

  Stirk growled something at him but he held his ground.

  “Yes, lad.” No emotion could be seen on Kydd’s face.

  “Sir—if you’ll have me.” Andrews, the wispy midshipman, came forward too and looked at Kydd, imploring.

  So junior, Renzi thought, but he would not be such a loss to the service if he failed to return.

  “Very well.”

  From the crowd now came cries of encouragement and further offers but Kydd cut them off. “Th’ Royal Marines an’ these two. Muskets f’r the redcoats.”

  In a hushed silence they boarded the gig. Renzi followed it with his eyes into the darkness but Kydd did not look back.

  The oars rose and fell, dipping carefully and economically, the rowlocks stuffed with rags to muffle the thump of each stroke. Kydd sat upright, his gaze searching what could be seen of the shore until he pointed in one direction. “Th’ beach there—we land at th’ northern end.” The lights of the town were along the top of the peninsula, well to the south; an anonymous rural darkness stretched away everywhere else.

  Obediently Stirk moved the tiller and the boat headed in. Every sight, every sound that could not be instantly identified was a threat—betrayal and disaster could happen so quickly. The pale beach looked so exposed, a low, dark rock at the end offering the only cover.

  The boat hissed to a standstill on the sand at the edge of the water and, taut with tension, the men went over the side, then splashed ashore—aware that the hard sand underfoot was the soil of the enemy. “T’ me,” Kydd whispered hoarsely, and hurried to the nearby rocks, searching for a sea-facing cove.

  They scurried after him to the shelter, their boat and security already heading rapidly seawards. With the whites of eyes flashing about him, Kydd whispered, “No more’n half a mile across here, I’ve measured it wi’ bearings. No lights as c’n be seen, should be all farmland. We come t’ a beach th’ other side, work our way as close as we need. Questions?”

  “If’n we get cut off by a patrol . . .” Ambrose began.

  “We don’t let ourselves be,” Kydd said. He raised his head cautiously above the line of granite. “Nothing. We move.”

  They crossed a straggling line of coa
rse grass into low dunes that soon gave way to firmer grassland, but it was now so dark that only gross shadows loomed ahead, not a light within a mile. Kydd struck out inland, the marines on either side, the midshipmen in a nervous crouch behind. The smell of cow pasture was rank after the purity of the sea air.

  A stout stone wall materialised across their path with a suspiciously military-looking ditch beyond. They scrambled over and found muddy water at the bottom of the ditch before reaching, panting, the far side. Ahead the ground rose and the skyline could just be made out. Squarely athwart their track was the squat, low shape of a building.

  “A sentry post,” whispered Calloway, fearfully.

  “Sergeant?”

  Ambrose sucked in his breath. “Not as any might say . . .”

  They waited for long minutes, seeing no signs of life, just hearing the breathy night air playing through the straggling grasses. Then Kydd said, in a hard whisper, “We can’t wait all night. We go forward. When we get to the building, we listen.” He moved quickly towards the silent shadow.

  It was of rough stone but gave no other clue. They pressed up to its cold bulk, keeping an absolute quiet, their breathing seeming loud in the stillness. Nothing. “We go—”

  The wooden squeal of a door shattered the silence. It was opening on the opposite side. Then came the clink and slither of—a harness? Sword scabbard? A military accoutrement?

  “A marine at each end,” hissed Kydd savagely. “Bayonets! Take him wi’ cold steel if he turns th’ corner.”

  Ambrose dispatched his men who silently took position, unseen in the inky blackness behind the wall. The random clinking sounded from one side, growing louder and more distinct, almost certainly the spurs of a cavalryman. The footfalls, however, seemed uncertain. Ambrose whispered cynically, “He’s bin on the doings ’n’ is goin’ behind to take a piss.”

  The sounds drew nearer and nearer—and, in a desperate swing, a terrified young marine transfixed an indistinct figure with an audible meaty thump. The figure dropped, squealing and choking, the unmistakable clatter of a falling bucket like a thunderclap.

  “It’s—it’s an ol’ woman! I done an ol’ lady!” The marine’s cry of horror pierced the night. He dropped beside the frantically twisting shape on the ground, her terror-stricken frail cries turning to pathetic sobs.

  Kydd swung on Ambrose. “Sergeant!” he ordered stonily.

  The man hesitated only a moment, then crossed over, took the marine’s musket and thrust the bayonet expertly; once, twice. There was a last despairing wail that ended in choking and—stillness.

  “We got t’ go back now,” Calloway pleaded, and the other midshipman’s wretched puking could be heard to one side. But there was only the serene caress of the night breeze abroad and Kydd turned on them. “On y’r feet,” he said harshly. “This is only a farmhouse. We’re going on.”

  Beyond the structure a rough-made access road gave them fast going to the main road to town, crossing in front of them. Halfway! If it were daylight they could probably see down into the harbour from the other side. As it was—

  “Halte là—qui vive ?” In the dimness they had not noticed a foot sentry astride the road farther down. “Qui va là ?” he called again, more forcefully.

  Kydd whipped round: there was only low scrub nearby, pitiful cover. “Sergeant—”

  But the sentry had yanked out a pistol and fired at them. Then, hefting his musket, he stood his ground.

  “It’s no good, sir,” Ambrose whispered hastily. “He’s stayin’ because he knows there’s others about.” More voices could be heard on the night air.

  Kydd stood still for a moment, then said savagely, “Back t’ th’ boat!”

  They wheeled about, racing past the silent bulk of the farmhouse and to the ditch. As they clambered over the wall there was the sudden tap of a musket, then others, dismayingly close.

  “Move!” Kydd bawled. There was no need now for quiet. They stumbled and rushed towards the sea, tripping and cursing in their frenzy.

  Kydd stopped suddenly. “Where’s the marines?” he panted. A double crack to his rear answered him. Ambrose was behind the wall delaying the troops closing in, two firing while two reloaded. It would hold for minutes at most.

  Kydd and his men made the beach. The pale sands gave nothing away—there was no boat to be seen. The end must be very near, despite Ambrose’s sacrifice. Kydd traced the line of the water’s edge along the beach until his eyes watered.

  The firing stopped, but then out on the dunes flanking them musket fire stabbed again—inland. The marines must still be doing their duty but it would not be long now.

  At that moment a rocket, just half a cable offshore, soared up and burst in a bright sprinkle of stars. “A gun!” Kydd roared. “Any wi’ a musket, fire it now!”

  But, of course, there was none. In the inky darkness no sailor untrained in the art could possibly be relied on to reload a musket; the marines must do it by feel.

  “There’s no one?” Kydd pleaded.

  “Sir! I have this,” Andrews said shamefacedly, handing over a little folding pistol. He had taken it just in case, a foolish notion, but now . . .

  “Priming powder?”

  It was in a little silver flask. Kydd snatched it and sprinted to the nearest rock. He shook out a large pile and, holding the pistol lock close, stood clear and pulled the trigger. The powder caught in a bright flare, which died quickly but did the job.

  “Come on!” Kydd yelled hoarsely. “For y’r lives!” He broke cover and ran to the water’s edge. And there it was, their boat pulling strongly inshore, Stirk at the tiller. It grounded and Kydd stood in the waves, urging the others into it.

  “We gotta leave now, sir!” Stirk pleaded. His crew were rotating the boat seaward for a fast withdrawal to the safety of the sea.

  “Wait!”

  All along the line of dunes the flash of muskets was increasing. Twice Kydd felt the whip of bullets close by. The boat was afloat and pointing out to sea, but he remained standing in the shallows with his hand on the gunwale.

  Then there was a flurry of firing from up the beach and figures were staggering across the sand, one with another over his back. “Ambrose an’ the marines!”

  Willing hands helped them into the boat and, with frantic strokes, the little craft finally won the open sea.

  Troubled and depressed, Renzi stood by the main shrouds, gazing out into the hostile darkness. The talk of a death-wish was nonsense, of course, but it pointed up the core of the difficulty: since losing Rosalynd, Kydd had turned hard and bitter, and no longer possessed the humanity that had informed his leadership before.

  It had destabilised his men, who could not be expected to follow one whose character they could not fathom, whose human feeling was so much in doubt and who was said to be deranged by grief. Above all, the iron control and remoteness now set him apart.

  There was a distant spatter of firing ashore. Renzi stiffened: the party must have been discovered, he thought. They could not last long against regular French troops and he gripped the shroud.

  Standish appeared next to him. “Seems he’s got himself into a pother,” he said casually. “To be expected. We’ll give him an hour, I think.” Renzi could not trust himself to reply.

  Another spasm of firing occurred farther along—it grew to a crescendo, musket flashes now atop the dunes all along the beach. Then it lessened and stopped abruptly. It was not possible in the dark to make out what had happened, but Standish let out a theatrical sigh. “It seems to be all over with Mr Kydd, I do believe.”

  “You’ll send another boat,” Renzi snapped.

  “I will not. There’s half the French army there waiting for us to blunder in to the rescue. I’ll be taking Teazer to sea and—”

  “Boat ahoooyy!” The fo’c’sle lookout’s voice cracked with feeling. A distant cry came out of the night. A seaman ran aft and touched his hat to Standish.

  “Our boat in sight, sir,” he said,
with relish.

  The tired party came over the bulwark, ashen-faced, the wounded marine handed up tenderly. Kydd went straight aft to Standish. “I’m t’ see the admiral. You have th’ ship till I return.” Without acknowledging Renzi he went over the side and the boat shoved off.

  Renzi noted sadly that Kydd had not said a word of praise to the men or ordered a double tot for them, something inconceivable before.

  The boat came back quickly; as soon as Kydd was inboard he summoned Standish. “Th’ admiral has decided t’ resume th’ action. We stand to at dawn.”

  This time it was to be both bomb-vessels, Sulphur and her tenders having arrived during the night, and not only that but a daytime assault for maximum accuracy. The tides allowed for an approach at five in the morning and the two ships would pound away for as long as the tide allowed, probably until ten—or until they were overwhelmed by vessels emboldened by daylight, which the French must surely have in readiness. Much would depend on Kydd’s in-shore squadron . . .

  The two bomb-vessels crabbed in and began the elaborate preparations with three anchors and springs attached in such a way that the vessel could be oriented precisely. It was then a technical matter for the gunners: the charge exactly calculated for range and the fuse cut at the right point to explode the thirteen-inch mortar shell just above the ground for deadly effect.

  As the day broke with wistful autumn sunshine the bomb-vessels opened up. Sheets of flame shrouded the small ships in a vast cloud, again the heavy concussion, and this time it was possible to glimpse a black speck hurled high in a parabola, trailing a thin spiral. Seconds later from behind the headland a muffled crash was followed by a lazy column of dirty smoke.

  The provocation was extreme and there was every possibility that before long the beleaguered French would burst out of the harbour in a vengeful lunge to crush their tormentors.

  The frigate moved in as close as she dared, leadsmen in the chains and kedges streamed, but there was no avoiding the fact that the bomb-vessels could only be defended by the smaller ships with a lesser draught. Teazer and the cutter stayed off the entrance to the harbour.