The Privateer's Revenge

by Julian Stockwin

  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 l
ive 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 carronade or two capable of blasting a sheet of musketballs across the deck and, of course, cutlasses and a pistol for every boarder. Half-pikes 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, wolf-ish 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.