The Privateer's Revenge

by Julian Stockwin

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

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

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

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

  “What?” Kydd grunted.

  “Why, er, we have not yet consulted the newspaper.”

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

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

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

  “There’s a situation here that may interest you,” Renzi said.

  “Oh?”

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

  Kydd gave a lop-sided smile. “Being?”

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

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

  “It has to be—but where’s a sneak thief going to get in while we’re out?”

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

  “Ah—there is one way!”

  “Nicholas?”

  “At night. We don’t batten down all hatches while we’re asleep, do we?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Answer me, y’ scamp, or I has ye taken in b’ th’ watch.”

  The muttered reply was inaudible.

  “Speak up, ’scapegallows!”

  “P-Pookie.”

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

  Defiantly the boyish figure stayed mute.

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

  “Pookie, er, Turner.”

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

  “Get rigged, Nicholas, I’m gettin’ satisfaction fr’m th’ father.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Th’ end?” Kydd said apprehensively.

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

  “Then . . .”

  “Yes.”

  Renzi said nothing further and regarded Kydd gravely. “You’re sayin’ we’re t’ be gone fr’m the islands, return t’ England?”

  “It would seem the time has come, brother.”

  Kydd looked awa
y. “I’m stayin’, Nicholas.”

  “Where—”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Jersey?”

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

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

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

  CHAPTER 9

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Mr Renzi, sir,” the man announced.

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

  “Thank you, sir,” Renzi said, attending carefully while d’Auvergne leaned back in his chair.

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

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

  “I am not, sir.”

  “Then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “You have the French, I trust?” he added.

  “I do, sir.”

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

  A princely sum! It was more than he had dared hope, and— With only a single glance at Renzi’s scuffed shoes d’Auvergne added smoothly, “Of course, this will be at the castle—Mont Orgueil, I should inform you—which is at a remove from St Helier, and therefore I feel an obligation upon me to offer you a room there for a trifle in the way of duties out of the normal hours.”

  “That is most kind in you, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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