Caribbee

by Julian Stockwin

  ‘It’s more puzzling even than that. What no one can reckon is where they’re sending their captures to be condemned and sold – or any word at all about what happens to their crews. As if they’ve vanished entirely.’

  ‘So, an unknown enemy performing unknown evil acts, the result of which is not known.’

  ‘Don’t jest, Nicholas. The planters are in a right taking, saying it’s the work of the devil. Some believe this is Bonaparte with a secret weapon and you can be sure I’m not going to tell ’em of Mr Fulton’s submarine boat.’ His brow suddenly furrowed. ‘You don’t think …’

  ‘Well, I did say there would be a serious retaliation by Mr Bonaparte, but I’m not sure it’s to be that, not unless he’s improved his torpedoes greatly.’

  Kydd settled into his chair. ‘Are we then to suppose that they’re taking their captures somewhere right away, with a view to mounting a convoy to sail ’em to Europe all together?’

  ‘We cannot dismiss the notion, dear fellow, but this does not address the first cause. How are they able to strike without our patrols see them? Where is their base that can sustain whatever they are at in so many different parts of the Caribbean? What is our defence against it? We beg to know.’

  ‘These are questions that we can’t answer, not at anchor here in Port Royal. Dacres is insistent on it: we’re driven to sea until we find the rogues and put a stop to it. L’Aurore sets out as soon as we’ve stored and fettled, but to where, no one has any notion.’

  Renzi murmured his sympathy, but could find little of value to contribute. It was a perplexity in the extreme, for if this was the grand revenge he had always feared Bonaparte would inflict, it was succeeding only too well.

  While Kydd got on with his paperwork he bent his mind to the problem with all the logic he could muster. His instincts told him that it had to be accepted it must be a species of secret operation that was being conducted, since their regular naval forces had never encountered any of its participants at any time. And they were suspiciously successful, implying some form of intelligence being gained and exploited.

  He himself was no stranger to clandestine activity, at one time having been at the centre of a plot to kidnap Napoleon, and he knew the excruciating level of detail required to carry it off. He sombrely recalled Commodore d’Auvergne and his crushing burden of control, the string of agents stretching from Normandy to Paris itself – and their useless bravery.

  So what, then, if the French had set up such a network? The British could claim no monopoly on covert operations. What if there was a web of agents across the Caribbean, being controlled by a gifted French naval officer much like d’Auvergne? Someone with an equal grasp of detail, who was pulling the strings of a commerce-raiding operation quite unlike the usual.

  Tightly integrated, centrally managed and intelligently deployed. In essence, a fleet. After Trafalgar, there being no foreseeable prospect of an invasion of Britain, the forces gathered for its execution had been idle. There would therefore be a large number available of those chaloupes or prames, escorts for the invasion barges, small but powerful enough to stand against anything less than a frigate. An ‘admiral’ in command of a sizeable detachment could, with information supplied, send them dodging about the Caribbean, like assassins, quickly extracting them from the scene of the crime before detection and sending them on to the next. Yes. It made sense.

  ‘My dear fellow, it does cross my mind that there is an explanation for what we are seeing. Consider this.’

  Kydd looked up from his writing and, point by point, Renzi laid out his reasoning.

  ‘Why, that’s not impossible, I’d say. We had a tidy fight of it against some off Calais in dear old Teazer, if you remember.’ Kydd looked thoughtful. ‘It would need an organising brain of the first rank, and reliable captains who know their duty and can navigate. But if your idea’s right, there’s one thing you need to show.’

  ‘Their central base.’

  ‘Just so. Your admiral needs somewhere to maintain his fleet, victual and water, all the usual, as well as have a port to hold all his captures. Which to be legal have to be condemned as good prize in a French court sitting wherever that may be. To be honest with you, I can’t think of such a one.’

  It was the weakest part of the idea – but who was to say it was impossible, if no one had yet undertaken a search for such a secret base?

  ‘Nicholas, you’ve a right noble headpiece and this is what I’m going to do. We’re going to Dacres together and you shall put it to him yourself.’

  The commander-in-chief of the Jamaica Squadron heard him out politely and sat back to consider. ‘A pretty theory, Renzi. Much to commend it.’ He pondered further. ‘I like the bit about Bonaparte employing his surplus invasion escorts. And the French have some very able officers, very able. The whole thing’s not impossible.’

  He fiddled with a paperknife, then carefully placed it down and said abruptly, ‘But I can’t move on it.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘No evidence. No evidence at all. Surely we’d have heard something. A sighting of a chaloupe or similar. Very distinctive in the Caribbean, I’d have thought.’

  Renzi waited.

  ‘And always we come back to this question of his base. He’s not only to supply his ships but has to keep up communications. We’d certainly look to have intercepted at least one dispatch cutter but we haven’t. We’d then find where it was headed and therefore the base.’

  ‘Sir, if we ferreted about in earnest, made good search of—’ Kydd began.

  ‘No. Not possible. Every ship we have must keep to the sea-lanes, if only to discourage the beggars.’

  With sudden weariness, he added, ‘I’ve no idea what’s out there doing this damage to our interests but it’s causing me much grief. If you come across the slightest piece of evidence in support, do let me know – or if you can construe where your secret base is, I’ll get the nearest ship to look in on it. Otherwise there’s not much more I can do.’

  ‘Sir,’ Renzi asked quietly, ‘with your permission, may I consult the patrol briefs and casualty reports? To see if there’s some kind of pattern?’

  ‘Very well. See Wilikins, my confidential clerk. He’ll dig ’em out for you. Now, Mr Kydd, when did you say you’d be ready to sail?’

  ‘Mr Renzi, is it? Then how can I be of service to you, sir?’

  He was a dry individual but had a warmth and willingness that reached out to Renzi. ‘Why, Mr Wilikins, that’s so kind in you. Would you be so good as to lay out for me the fleet’s patrol reports of this last month and a Caribbean chart? I have a need to consult the one in relation to the other.’

  ‘Of course. Er, may I know what it is that you’re investigating? I have knowledge of the archives we hold to some detail,’ he added modestly.

  ‘Thank you, no. It’s a conjecture only, not worthy of interrupting your day, sir.’

  ‘Why, that’s no imposition, Mr Renzi. Just between you and me, in our usual round there’s little to divert an active mind. I’d be glad to help.’

  It was tempting: this was a man who knew the station intimately and could no doubt contribute detail that would otherwise take him weeks to unearth. And as the admiral’s confidential secretary he would surely be reliable.

  ‘Then I accept, with thanks. Now, Mr Wilikins, what I’m about to tell you must be in the nature of a confidence. Pray do not speak of this to others.’ If rumours of a French fleet of predators got abroad, they would terrify Jamaica.

  There was a pained look, but the man agreed.

  ‘Very well. You’re no doubt aware that we’ve suffered losses among our trade much above the usual.’

  ‘I am – Admiral Dacres speaks of little else,’ he said, with feeling.

  ‘In this matter I have a notion, a possibility only, of how such might have been achieved.’

  ‘Therefore it must of a surety be pursued, sir.’

  ‘Then do hear what I say now, Mr Wilikins. Your views will be va
lued.’

  Renzi laid out his arguments for a secret fleet controlled by a master hand, an organisational genius able to provide supply and havens for his assets and a port of size able to contain his captures, until now undiscovered.

  The clerk suddenly sat down, pale behind his neat spectacles. ‘Why, sir, that is quite an idea, some might say a flight of fancy.’

  ‘Nevertheless, it is one answer in logic to our dilemma.’

  ‘Yet a hard thing to prove, sir. What, may I ask, do you plan to do, should you take it further?’

  ‘Which I shall certainly do, Mr Wilikins. The admiral does not intend to move on this without he has evidence. If I can deduce the whereabouts of this base and it is shown to him, the theory turns to fact. He will then be able to strike at the heart of the operation and bring it to a close.’

  ‘I see. This will take some pains, I’m sure. How will you proceed?’

  ‘The time and place of each capture to be plotted, then related in terms of distance to each conceivable candidate locality in turn. You see, to achieve his successes he must have a network of information concerning the sailing of each victim. If we calculate the time necessary to alert and get response, and place it next to this, it will disqualify some and push others to prominence. We will find it on the basis of mathematical elimination, never fear.’

  ‘A daunting task,’ Wilikins murmured.

  ‘The stakes are great, sir.’

  ‘Most certainly, Mr Renzi! The idea is novel but has its features. Let us begin.’

  ‘Very good. Now, where to start – Haiti?’

  They began with St Nicholas Mole, an old French port going back to the 1600s and well known in the past as a nest of corsairs, but immediately ran into difficulties. The casualty reports they were working to had in nearly every instance the actual position of capture only loosely defined. That a ship had sailed on this date, bound for a given port, had simply not arrived on schedule, the bracket of dates producing an unworkable margin of error.

  ‘Unfortunate. We shall have to think our way to another solution, Mr Wilikins,’ Renzi muttered.

  A variation, perhaps, with the range of uncertainty represented by a line, a strip of paper, which could be overlaid one over the other for a visual match?

  By evening they had gone over the permutations of only four of the possible harbours and there were many more to cover. The willing clerk offered to work on, but Renzi needed time to think and took his leave.

  The next day he redoubled his efforts but, by the end of the afternoon, could see that he was not going to arrive at a computed solution. But what else was there?

  With sympathy, Wilikins saw Renzi rub his eyes. ‘There’s one thing we may try, my friend,’ he offered hesitantly. ‘But it’s only my humble idea.’

  ‘Say on, my dear sir,’ Renzi said, eager for anything that could break through the morass facing him.

  ‘I’ve heard it answered in the days of the great Admiral Rodney.’

  ‘Please go on.’

  ‘Well, there were bad losses from privateers in those days. So many that, faced with ruin, Lloyd’s insurers sent an investigator from England to determine the facts. He came and immediately offered a great reward to any who could uncover their nest, their locus domesticus. In fact, one of their own came forward privily and informed, claiming the reward, which allowed the admiral to mount an operation to extirpate them.’

  ‘Umm. The power of venality to overcome loyalty is never to be scorned, sir.’

  ‘Unhappily I fear we have not the time to petition Lloyd’s, Mr Renzi.’

  ‘Ah. You may leave that to me, Mr Wilikins. I do believe we shall pursue your idea, sir. And not a word to a soul, remember.’

  The clerk brightened. ‘Of course not. So gratified to be of assistance, Mr Renzi.’

  ‘An irregular proceeding, sir, most irregular!’ Dacres sat back and frowned. ‘In the character of a Lloyd’s man you’ll be offering a reward for the uncovering of a nest of privateers? What has this to do with a naval fleet operation?’

  ‘You’ll grant appearances will be much the same, sir. Some curious soul will have seen such – a quantity of vessels issuing from and arriving at a place they have no right to be, large amounts of victuals being shipped in, numbers of country ships at anchor and—’

  ‘Yes, yes. But where the devil am I going to find the cash for this reward, I’d like to know, sir?’

  ‘Others may well point out that Admiral Rodney found his way to funding it and believed the happy outcome more than recompensed him.’

  ‘Humph. Well, now persuade me how you’ll not be flammed by a rogue claiming to know and doesn’t.’

  ‘Sir, I’m to tell you I’m not unacquainted with the arts of dissimulation. Were Commodore d’Auvergne to be present, he would speak warmly of my conduct on his behalf, er, at significant events for this country of a clandestine nature.’

  ‘You’re admitting you’ve been acting as agent in some species of hugger-mugger operation.’

  Renzi winced. ‘Not as if I’d wished to have it known, sir.’

  ‘Of course not, no employment for a gentleman, I can understand that. Your secret’s safe with me, Renzi.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘And I’ve a mind to see this through – anything that has any sort of chance of ridding us of the vermin. What do you propose?’

  Several days later, L’Aurore was due to sail within forty-eight hours, and Renzi found himself making for the Shipp Inn on Queen’s Street in Port Royal. Here, all those years ago, he had roistered with one Tom Kydd and his shipmates, who had found themselves unaccountably crew of Seaflower cutter – it was a warm thought. It would be awkward, of course, if he was recognised, but in an old-fashioned wig and spectacles he didn’t think it likely.

  It had changed little and he couldn’t help but give a tiny smile as he took up solitary residence in the snug, which he had hired for the night. He sat, with an untouched pewter of stingo, and waited.

  Reward posters had been pasted up all about the town, proclaiming the existence of a Mr Smith from Lloyd’s of London come to investigate the recent losses. It seemed he was offering a large reward of an undisclosed sum for information leading to an uncovering of the privateers’ nest. All dealings in the strictest confidence and prompt payment in bright silver dollars assured.

  It was an outside chance, and if he came away empty-handed it would probably mean the end for his prospects of revealing the plot – if it existed. His logical mind, however, came back stoutly with the observation that, while there was at the moment no evidence in support, it did explain things better than any alternative.

  At the front of the tavern sailors roared with laughter as they downed rum punch but this was to the good – he didn’t want to be overheard in his dealings.

  As the evening wore on, the happy noise began to get on his nerves. He saw off four hopefuls, transparently ignorant, then called for a pie and soup, as much for a change as to fend off hunger. The pot-boy brought in the food, curious about the strange gentleman sitting alone and sober in a haunt that in former days had seen many a pirate plotting a voyage of plunder.

  It was soon approaching midnight; Renzi had to conclude that if there was a clandestine base apparently no one had seen it. The idea of a secret fleet, however attractive in logic, remained just that – an empty theory.

  The tavern quietened as the revellers departed. Renzi decided he’d give it until twelve and then leave. At a few minutes to the hour the pot-boy entered hesitantly, wide-eyed and holding out a folded note. ‘I’m t’ give you this’n.’

  Renzi found a coin and the lad disappeared quickly.

  The note was roughly written and in block capitals: ‘I HAVE THE GRIFF YOU WANTS. ITS BIGGER THAN YOU KNOW. I’LL HAVE ALL MY COBBS TONIGHT, OR NOTHING. IF YOU WANT TO PLAY, SHIFT INTO THE OTHER SEAT.’

  Instantly, Renzi came to full alert, his heart thudding. This was near professional – in some way he was being put unde
r observation as he read. Carefully he rose and went around the table to the chair he had out for visitors. It had its back to the door.

  He glanced again at the rest of the note. ‘THEN DONT LOOK ROUND OR YOUR A DEAD MAN.’

  He sat and waited for the blindfold. He heard the door open and soft paces, then dark cloth was fastened around his eyes. More paces around the table and the scraping of a chair.

  ‘Right, cully. Now we talks.’

  The voice was low and had a West Country burr. The man had evidently waited until the tavern was nearly clear of customers before he had made his move.

  ‘I’m Mr Smith of Lloyd’s Insurance,’ Renzi said neutrally. ‘Do you have information on a privateers’ nest as will interest me, Mr … er?’

  ‘No names.’ He paused. ‘I’ve surely got something as will blow ye out of y’r seat, never doubt it. What I want t’ see first is the colour o’ your money.’

  ‘Very well.’ Renzi felt inside his waistcoat and brought out a soft hide purse, clinking it suggestively before pouring out the contents in a little stream, sliding the silver towards himself where he could see it through chinks directly down from under the blindfold.

  ‘That?’ the man said in disbelief. ‘Won’t buy a monkey his mort o’ joy-juice. Have to do better’n that.’

  ‘I can,’ Renzi said levelly. ‘Much more. I have it close by – no need to tempt a man to slit my throat and run with it. How much depends on what you can tell me.’

  ‘I’ve more t’ tell ye right enough. But what’s to stop ye runnin’ off without payin’ after I tells yez?’

  ‘What’s to stop you slitting my gizzard after I hand over the silver, just to keep your secret safe?’

  The man chortled. ‘Seems we’ve come to a chock-a-block.’

  Renzi was quick to pick up that he was a seaman: his reference to the state of a tackle, when the lower block has run up against the upper, stopping the hoist, had given him away.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Renzi said carefully. ‘This you shall have when you’ve satisfied me with your information. The rest comes only after a runner takes a note containing the information to one of my colleagues, who will countersign it, and returns to me here with this evidence that the secret is secure in our hands.’