He collected himself. “You shall bed in the Principal Yeoman
Warder’s room. Don’t concern yourself on his behalf, pray—the last he had need of it was in 1641.”
Renzi found it hard to avoid being affected by the atmosphere; the musty stonework of the upper floors had some life and light but other places lurking below in the dark and unfathomable depths of the fortress made him shiver.
D’Auvergne continued, “There is a small staff. I have had the kitchens removed to this level, else it plays the devil with keeping the food hot. The gate porter you’ll find in St George Tower—be sure to address him as the maréchal —his lodgings are found by the King’s Receiver and he may claim one gallon of imported wine and a cabot of salt for his pains.”
At length they returned to d’Auvergne’s apartment, where he sat behind a Gothic desk, set before diamond-mullioned windows, and steepled his fingers. “So. You have the measure of my little kingdom, Mr Renzi. What do you think?”
It was impossible to do justice to the sense of awe and unease that this lonely sea-frontier redoubt had brought to him so Renzi murmured, “Quite of another age, sir.”
“Just so. Er, at this point, perhaps I should introduce myself a little more formally. You see at the recent demise of Léopold, Duke of Bouillon, I have succeeded to that principality and am thus entitled to be addressed as, ‘His Serene Highness, the Prince of Bouillon.’”
Renzi sat back in astonishment, remembering just in time a civil bow of his head.
“You will, no doubt, be more comfortable with the usual naval titles at which I will be satisfied. However, I do insist on the style of prince in my correspondence.”
“Sir.”
“You might remark on it that since my lands are at the moment in occupation by Bonaparte’s soldiers, and as the great hall of the castle of Navarre is unavailable to me, I must rest content with
Mont Orgueil. This I cannot deny, sir, and it does explain my ready sympathy with the royalist émigré , don’t you think?”
“It—it must do, sir.”
“Then let us pass on to other matters. Such as yourself, Mr Renzi.”
“Er?” Renzi said uncertainly.
“Quite. I do now require my curiosity to be satisfied as to why such an evidently well-educated patrician comes to me in the character of the ship’s clerk of a brig-sloop—if, indeed, this be so—seeking a form of employment with me. You may speak freely, sir.” He regarded Renzi dispassionately.
“And I, sir,” Renzi said, firmly now, “am in a state of some wonder as to why you have seen fit to offer me a position without the least comprehension of my circumstances.”
D’Auvergne smiled thinly. “I believe myself a tolerable judge of men and in your case I do not feel I am mistaken. Your story, sir, if you please.”
To Renzi’s own ears it seemed so implausible. Going to sea as a foremast hand in a form of self-imposed exile as expiation for what he considered a sin committed by his family, later to find its stern realities strongly appealing after the softness of the land. Finding a friend such as Kydd and their adventuring together, which had ended with Renzi’s own near-mortal fever—but then the revelation of a life’s calling in the pursuit of a theory of natural philosophy that in its rooting in the real world could only be realised by taking ship for distant parts, in Kydd’s command, to be his clerk as a device to be aboard. “And unfortunately he has been, er, superseded and at the moment is without a ship,” Renzi added. There was no need to dwell on the circumstances.
D’Auvergne did not reply for a moment and Renzi began to think he was disbelieved. Then, with a warm smile, the man said, “A remarkable history, sir. I was not wrong in my estimation—and I would like to hear more of you, sir. One evening, perhaps.”
• • •
The chophouse was busy, noisy and welcoming after Kydd’s morning exertions walking the streets in search of clues regarding his situation. He drew his grego clear of the sawdust floor and eased himself into one of the communal tables, nodding to slight acquaintances. “Bean Jar, is it, then?” a waiter asked, swiftly disposing of the remains of a meal in the empty place next to him. His customary order of the local dish of lentils and pork, along with bread and beer, would be his only hot meal of the day.
“Aye.”
“Mutton chop is prime—c’n find yer one f’r sixpence?”
“Not today, thank ’ee,” Kydd said. He had felt his dwindling stock of coins before he entered and mutton was not within reach.
He blessed the fact that, while he was known to the commander-in-chief and other potentates of Guernsey, the common people would not recognise the shabby figure keeping to himself in the street as a naval commander so he could pass about freely in the town. But he had found not the slightest lead to help in his investigations, and time had passed. He had to face it. Renzi had been right. The trail had gone cold, his chances of discovering, let alone proving, the deed now vanishingly remote. It was time to call a stop. He would give it just a few more days, to the point at which his means of sustenance came to an end. Then—then he would go home.
Having made this resolution, he felt more at ease with himself, and in a fit of bravado tipped the waiter a whole penny, then marched out into the street. The autumn sun was hard and bright, and on a whim he headed to the harbour where ships were working cargo, seamen out on the ran-tan, and the rich aroma of sea-salt and tarry ropes pervaded all.
On the broad quay he stopped to watch a handsome barque discharging wine; her yardarm and stay tackles worked in harmony to sway up the cargo from her bowels to a growing pyramid on the wharf. No Customs reckoning here: the great barrels would be rolled directly into the mouths of the warehouses, probably for trans-shipping later by another hull to a British port, given that she flew the American flag, a neutral.
A young man stopped his empty man-hauled cart and waved to him. Kydd stepped across and instantly recognised the face. “Mr Calloway!” he said, in astonishment. “What are ye doing?”
Calloway doffed his battered cap respectfully, an unexpectedly touching gesture in the surroundings, and said shyly, “Mr Standish had his own young gennelmen he wanted t’ place on th’ quarter-deck an’ offered t’ me as whether I’d be turned afore the mast or be put ashore, sir.”
It was a mean act, but in the usual course of events when a captain left his command the midshipmen and “followers” would go with him, allowing the new captain to install his own. And Calloway had chosen the honourable but costly move of retaining his nominal rank instead of reverting to seaman and staying aboard. Midshipmen were not entitled to half-pay and thus he had rendered himself essentially destitute.
“An’ so ye should have done, Mr Calloway,” Kydd said warmly. The thought of others who had served him so well now under an alien command wrenched at him. “Er, can I ask how ye fare now?”
“Why, sir, on Mondays an’ Wednesdays I’m t’ be ballast heaver. Tuesdays an’ Thursdays I’m cart trundler to Mr Duval, the boatbuilder.”
Kydd hesitated, then said stoutly, “Y’ has m’ word on it, Luke, in m’ next ship I’ll expect ye there on th’ quarterdeck with me. Won’t be s’ long, an’ m’ name’ll be cleared, you’ll see.”
“Aye aye, Mr Kydd,” Calloway said quietly.
“An’ where c’n I find ye?”
“Ask at th’ Bethel, sir. They’ll find me when y’ has need o’ me.”
A floating church in harbour, the Bethel was a refuge for seamen seeking relief from the sometimes riotous behaviour of sailors raising a wind in port.
“I’d—I’d like t’ invite ye t’ sup wi’ me a while, but—”
“I thank ye, Mr Kydd, but I must be about m’ duties,” Calloway said, with the barest glance at Kydd’s ragged appearance. “Good fortune t’ ye, sir.”
Renzi had not found the work onerous and, in fact, it was not without interest: d’Auvergne seemed to have a wide circle of royalist acquaintances and was in receipt of considerable sums fr
om charitable institutions in England to distribute to the needy. Some of the royalists apparently had pressing personal problems that d’Auvergne was taking care of privately. Several came while Renzi was working with him. At their suspicious looks he would leave the room quietly; such behaviour from proud ex-noblemen was understandable.
Renzi finished what he was working on and handed it to d’Auvergne, who glanced through it and said, with a smile, “I do fear, Mr Renzi, that we are not making full use of your talents.” He slapped down the papers with satisfaction. “Tonight you shall come to dinner, be it only a family affair, and then I will learn more of your philosophies.”
Renzi was much impressed by the mansion just a mile out of St Helier, set in a vast ornamental garden with interiors of a splendid, if individual magnificence. D’Auvergne had humorously named the house “Bagatelle” and proudly showed him the sights inside: scientific specimens, works of art of considerable value with “relics of injured royalty,” which included objets de toilette from the apartment of Marie Antoinette smuggled out at the height of the Revolution’s horrors.
At length d’Auvergne made his apologies. “I must leave you now for a space, Mr Renzi, to settle a business at my town office but I shall be back directly. Do avail yourself of my library—I take much pleasure from learned works in which the flower of man’s intellect might so readily be imbibed.”
The library was monumental, with some sixty volumes on naval architecture and navigation alone, another hundred or two of Voyages and Travels , a well-thumbed Johnson and a recent Encyclopaedia Britannica . Seventy more on chemistry, mineralogy and a whole shelf of arcane botany, more on applied mathematics and a complete Shakespeare.
Renzi noted that nowhere was there any tome that could remotely be said to address religion, although there was Voltaire and commentaries on Robespierre and the Worship of Reason. And neither were there the usual weighty classics; Virgil, Caesar, Plato were conspicuous by their absence.
A gloomy inner library contained a mass of volumes and pamphlets on the history of France, obscure references to medieval campaigns and racks of genealogical studies. It was staggering. Renzi estimated that no less than four thousand books were before him in serried array. This was erudition indeed and he looked forward keenly to making their owner’s better acquaintance.
D’Auvergne soon returned, and after passing pleasantries over sherry they moved into the dining room. “My dear, this is Mr Nicholas Renzi, a philosophical gentleman who is doing us the honour of dining with us tonight. Renzi, this is Madame de la Tour, daughter of the Count of Vaudreuil, who will perform the honours of the house.” Two children stood meekly by her side and were also introduced.
A shy but warm acknowledgement was bestowed and they sat comfortably at the table en famille . “Do explain to Madame the elements of your study,” d’Auvergne suggested.
Renzi had caught on to the discreet coding: the lady was not his wife. Were the children hers? “Dear Madame, this is naught but a comparative essay into the imperatives of human existence,” he began, “as being differing responses to the same . . .”
Madame paid careful attention but remained silent. D’Auvergne asked intelligently about the same aspects of Rousseau’s position on the noble savage that had so exercised Renzi in the great South Seas some years ago. Casting a shrewd glance at Renzi, he murmured, “From your regard for the Encyclopaedists one might be tempted to conclude that your admiration extends to present philosophies.”
“If by that you are referring to the Revolution, then I can assure you that nothing is more abhorrent to me than the spectacle of the glory of French civilisation falling prey to those political animals now in control of the state.”
“Quite so, quite so. We are of a mind on the subject. Napoleon Bonaparte is now consul-for-life and is energetic and ruthless in his own interest—as witness his domination of the state apparatus, the secret police, even his economic machine, which I have certain knowledge has lately replaced the national currency with his own ‘franc.’” He continued sombrely, “He has now not a single country in arms against him save our own, and therefore has no distraction from his lust to conquer. I cannot recall that our realm has ever lain under a greater menace.”
Renzi shifted in his seat; this reminder of peril was only pointing up his own essential uselessness in the present dangers. To change the subject he asked politely, “Do satisfy my curiosity on one point, if you will, sir. Just why is it that in these singular times their lordships at the Admiralty see fit to rusticate Sir James Saumarez to these remote islands—a proven fighter if ever one were needed— rather than require him to lead a fleet in the great battle that must surely come?”
“Why, sir, have you not surmised?” d’Auvergne said, with raised eyebrows. “It is over. He has won his victory. His purpose is complete.”
“Granville?” said Renzi, puzzled.
“Not at all.” D’Auvergne chuckled. “I talk of a species of silent victory, but for all that, one that will resound down all of time.”
“Sir?”
“Let me be more explicit. In 1794 the French plotted an invasion of the Norman Isles, specifically Jersey. Only the greatest exertions from us and the convulsions on the mainland at the time saved us. Although the Treaty of Amiens ended hostilities in 1802, it became clear quite early that we would be under assault once more, this time by the most formidable general of the age.
“What better move can you conceive of than to dispatch a feared and respected leader of the last war to take station here as commander-in-chief? By his very presence he has discouraged intemperate assault on the Channel Islands and with a simple flourish at Granville he has shown the impracticality of a local invasion. And he did succeed. My intelligence now is that all troop concentrations have dissipated. For the moment we are safe.” He put down his glass and went on: “So on the strategical side this is what has been accomplished: from Calais far to the east, to the extremity of France in the west, they have no harbour of size in which to concentrate a battle fleet to seize the Channel—except Guernsey, which in course is now denied them by Sir James’s silent victory.
“For the French this is galling in the extreme. You see, we in turn do use these islands to our own advantage, which is as a base to fall on their sea lanes with men-o’-war and privateers to paralyse their commerce and attempts to reinforce. And, most critically, to keep close in watch on Bonaparte’s invasion preparations—which we are so well placed to do,” he added, with satisfaction.
The mood changed. He lifted his glass and exclaimed genially, “But then we are neglecting the plaice with our talk. Pray, eat and enjoy—and I have a notion how we might deploy your talents to better effect, Mr Renzi,” he added mysteriously.
• • •
Renzi lay awake in his creaking four-poster. A south-westerly was blustering outside against the ancient stone and penetrating draughts had him drawing up the counterpane. He’d been prepared to endure nights under a hedge and feast on scraps but he was now safely immured in a castle, in comfort under a goosedown quilt and reflecting on the conversations he had enjoyed with the reigning flag-officer no less.
There was no real reason for d’Auvergne to have so readily seized on him as a personal secretary—unless for intellectual companionship. Could this be so? And what were those extra duties that d’Auvergne had alluded to? Was he in truth a prince? His thoughts raced on.
Kydd, meanwhile, was living in a sail-loft, vainly trudging the streets in his forlorn quest. Did Renzi have the right to spend his days in such grand surroundings while his friend suffered? On the other hand, with a library of such richness within reach his study might yet take wings—the Voyages and Travels alone must be a gold-mine of ethnical facts against which . . .
“Ah, Renzi. Did you sleep well at all?” D’Auvergne was at his desk early, reading various articles of mail. Renzi took his accustomed place. “I did, sir.”
One letter seemed to be causing d’Auvergne some conce
rn. He lifted his head and spoke unseeingly: “Oh. That’s good.”
He stood up suddenly and paced about the room then stopped abruptly. “I think it’s about time we put you to real work, Mr Renzi. My daily routine does not vary much, you’ll see. In the morning I shall be here attending to matters and the afternoon I spend aboard my flagship, Severn , devoted to the business of my flag. There she is.” He pointed out of the window.
Renzi glanced at the two-decker of a distinct age peacefully at anchor in the centre of the wide sweep of Gorey Bay below the castle, several smaller vessels moored alongside.
“She’s a 44 only,” d’Auvergne said apologetically, “but, as you can see, Gorey Bay is sandy and open and the only invasion beach worth the name on the island. Severn does her duty nobly as nothing more than a floating battery to cover the approach.”
Renzi could well see the convenience of having a commodore’s retinue so close at hand with the ability to put to sea within minutes. At the same time it left d’Auvergne free to maintain his interests ashore.
“Now, this is your first duty. I desire you to make known to yourself the whole situation obtaining on the mainland with its problems and concerns. Only when you are privy to the complete picture will you be able to assist me as you should.”
“Er, yes, sir.”
“That is, in Brittany and neighbouring regions—Paris and that gang of regicides you may leave to their evil machinations. And for this I would suggest the French local newspapers, all of which are conveyed to me here. A prime source of insight into a country, your newspaper.”
“Sir,” Renzi said politely. “Then might I beg the use of your library for the acquisition of background material and similar?”
“I would hope you do, sir.”
Renzi nearly hugged himself with glee. To spend his days poring over those literary treasures—it was too good to be true.
“Oh, and I’m often accused of being mortally absent-minded, therefore I’ll take the precaution of advancing you your first month’s emolument before I forget.”
The Privateer's Revenge Page 15