Caribbee

by Julian Stockwin

  ‘Wine with you, sir!’ The youthful sloop commander just along was looking at him with something uncomfortably like hero worship.

  He graciously complied, realising a little self-consciously that there was every reason for the attitude. Not only with the legendary Nelson at Trafalgar, he had service going back as far as the beginning of the last war, during the dark days of the French Revolution. And now he was a proven frigate captain roaming the seas …

  The feast had been cunningly prepared with old favourites but, in deference to the climate and setting, many a Caribbean delicacy as well. He tucked into more jerk pork and idly listened to Bolton, two down, weave a complicated yarn about Fisgard and the North Sea.

  There was no doubt now, he was succeeding in life. The Curaçao action would be noticed in England and he had been a principal in the affair. And, of course, with the taking of two significant-sized warships with little damage and three minor there would be useful awards of prize money to look forward to.

  And in society – there was no mistaking the gleam in Miss Amelia’s eye and the envious looks of her sister. There had been a casual invitation from her father for an at-home in the near future, whatever that meant …

  Yes, things were looking rosy for him, he concluded. As long as this vexing threat hanging over them was dealt with.

  The spirited hum of conversation slackened as the cloth was drawn, and blue smoke spiralled up as the brandy came out. Several officers left to ‘ease springs’, leaving their places empty.

  Kydd allowed his thoughts to wander agreeably as he relaxed back in his chair.

  Suddenly aware that a figure had taken the vacant chair opposite, he refocused and prepared to engage in easy conversation.

  It was Tyrell.

  ‘You! Um, Kydd, isn’t it?’ The man’s voice was thick with drink but it still held a steely hardness.

  ‘It is.’ He was enjoying the evening too much to have it affected by a bitter and aggrieved sot. He would indulge the man for a few minutes, then make his excuses.

  ‘Damn it, man! I’ve seen you afore, sir, and I’d like to know where.’

  Kydd’s warm feelings drained away.

  If this ghost from his past was intent on laying bare those raw memories of his brutish rite of passage into the Navy, he would resist. Yet the feral presence before him of the one whose terrifying figure had most haunted his existence then still had the power to unnerve.

  ‘If you must, Rufus, it was I who saw you home the night of the levee if you’ll recall.’

  ‘Not that, y’ fool. Years past, some time in the last war. Long time back. Where did I see you? Answer me, sir!’

  Kydd took a breath, then steadied. He replied coolly, ‘Why, the London season, perhaps. Vauxhall Gardens by night is not to be missed and—’

  ‘Never trifle with such tommyrot! Popinjays prancing up and down like ninnies, gib-faced dandies with fusty tomrig in tow – I’ve forbidden my wife to attend ever, against her fool wishes I’m sorry to say, and I’m surprised you see fit to show your face at such – such folly!’

  ‘Then I’m at a stand, sir,’ Kydd drawled carefully. Wanting to strike back at the apparition from his past, he forced himself to muse artlessly, ‘In the sea service – were you at the Nile at all? I was a lieutenant in Tenacious, as I recollect, and—’

  ‘No!’

  ‘At Trafalgar, then. I was at the time in my present command and had the honour—’

  Tyrell’s face reddened. ‘Neither!’ he retorted. ‘I’ve always been disappointed in m’ hopes for a fleet action of merit. No, sir, I’ve a notion it’s to be years before … and somewhere …’

  ‘Then at the theatre? Do you favour Miss Jordan at all? Much faded now but an actress of fine parts, I’m persuaded.’

  Tyrell thumped the table angrily. ‘I never forget a face, sir,’ he grated. ‘As many a deserter who thought to hide can testify. No, Kydd, I’ll have your number and won’t be denied.’

  Just south of the Garrison Savannah Renzi had found a small, perfectly formed beach, which, with its arc of offshore reefs, was not favoured by the fisher-folk or, it seemed, by others. His mood was black and he didn’t want company.

  He went to a gnarled tree overhanging the glistening white sand and sat in its shade, gazing out over the translucent green seas, waves lazily creaming in at regular intervals. The hot smell of sun on sand was soothing and he felt his mood gradually ease.

  He had some thinking to do. It had been a humiliating and embarrassing experience, not only for his standing with the admiral, which was not so important to him, but more for his friendship with Kydd. Did Kydd really believe that he had made up a story about stealing into a secret base to cover the failure of his logical theory? If so, it was difficult to blame him, for there was not a shred of independent evidence that such did in fact exist.

  He realised he had now to face a disturbing, frightening possibility. Was it all a species of dream, of ardent wish-fulfilment, generated by a fevered brain to …

  To what? As far as he was aware, there was no mental instability in his family, no incidents in his past to lead him to doubt his senses now. Even so, he was no medical man and it had to be considered.

  Two possibilities. Either he was mad, deluded and not responsible – or he was not.

  Take the first. There was nothing he could do about this and presumably he must wait for the inevitable spiral into madness. So, do nothing.

  The other. If he was not, then … it had really happened. And therefore he must find an explanation consistent with the facts as reported by his own perceptions.

  Fact: he had heard from the informant directly, one who had without prompting confirmed his theory and told him where to find the base.

  Fact: he had acted on this and duly uncovered it. While there, the experience had been entirely what he would have expected, given the circumstances.

  Fact: a short time later, at the taking of Curaçao, the self-same house had been utterly without any sign that it was his secret base, and the losses had continued. It was beyond reason to imagine that a complex operation conducted there and hastily vacated would have left no traces whatsoever.

  He heaved a sigh. It would take a heroic effort of imagination to reconcile these.

  After cudgelling his brain for as long as he could bear it, he lay back in the sand, looking up through the gently waving branches to the immense bowl of innocent blue sky, and let his mind wander.

  So what would he do if he were the commander of a clandestine naval operation needing to keep its secret secure? Presumably anything: if it were knocked out, so would be the nerve-centre of the planned predation. How would he go about this? It would seem reasonable to take every care to seal tight the headquarters so none could possibly suspect its existence, the consequence of discovery being so catastrophic.

  Yet that didn’t fit with what he had seen. That was not how it had been in Curaçao: the building was not properly guarded and, in any case, while the Dutch were French allies and vassals, they were proud and independent, and it would be a questionable thing indeed to rely on them allowing a covert operation on their sovereign territory.

  But he had overheard with his own ears naval talk, the name Duperré and so on. In complete agreement with what he had heard from his informant. It made no sense at all unless …

  A new thought took shape, one that, wildly improbable as it was, brought together these mutually conflicting elements and went on to explain everything.

  He sat up, energised. It would of course imply a brilliant mind, one with organisational skills well beyond the ordinary, whose grasp of the shadowy world of undercover operations was nothing short of masterly – for he was considering that the entire business with Curaçao had been nothing but a charade, aimed squarely at himself.

  This great mind had heard of Renzi’s theory of a fleet controlled and deployed centrally against Britain’s Caribbean trade, probably from some public indiscretion by the dismissive Dacres.
He had realised that someone had stumbled on the truth and needed to move instantly before any steps were taken to uncover and neutralise his base.

  The move Duperré – if that was his name – had taken was breathtaking, a perfect solution. Comprehensively discredit Renzi and thereby his theory.

  The result would be no more talk of searching for a mythical secret base: the Royal Navy would go on to become spread impossibly thin in endless vain patrols.

  And, damn it, Duperré had succeeded: thanks to the clever failure at Curaçao, there was not the slightest chance of Renzi’s theory ever being revisited or any other explanation listened to.

  Masterly.

  But Duperré had had necessarily to yield one vital point. As a result of his subterfuge, he could not help but provide Renzi with a priceless piece of knowledge: by going to such lengths he had confirmed that what Renzi had come up with was the reality. He had been right after all.

  The realisation came in a releasing flood that begged for action. He scrambled to his feet and began pacing up and down, reviewing what had happened.

  Orders must have gone out to send a clever agent whose task it would be to contact Renzi and give him information that bore out what he already believed, while at the same time dispatching men and orders to Curaçao to set up the dummy base in accordance. Really quite simple and, being prepared to accept anything that supported his theory, Renzi had fallen for it. A stickler for detail, this canny mastermind had been so thorough in his orders that not the tiniest scrap or indication would be found – the careful replacing of rubbish and other forlorn detritus of a long-deserted house was nothing short of artistic.

  Then how would the fleet operation work? The crucial element was communications. To achieve such rapid response to both threat and promise there had to be an incredibly speedy method of passing on information and orders.

  Renzi’s pacing quickened. To get intelligence out implied a network of spies relaying news of planned trading-ship movements, however it was done. That would result in orders to the nearest predator, wherever concealed, to lie in wait for it.

  Then there was intelligence of naval movements. Much more difficult but not impossible. Knowledge of patrol lines, the known habits of individual captains – an astute and imaginative mind could make much of this. Then the word would go out for redeployment and the other half of the equation was fulfilled.

  Finally, a central headquarters was required from which this controlling genius could operate his chessboard.

  That had to be how it was.

  Renzi’s first reaction was to tell Kydd – but he would then, very reasonably, demand proof. And there were so many unanswered questions. If the base was not at Curaçao, then where was it? As he’d reasoned before, there were very few places that met the conditions for a secret lair.

  A network of spies spread throughout the islands was a cumbersome and expensive proposition – and, above all, why had the Navy not intercepted at least one of the fast advice-boats or whatever was used in the tight communications system with them? Equally, how was a naval fleet, even of smaller ships, able to stay so long at sea without returning to port?

  He had to find an answer to each question before he broached the subject to anyone – but how?

  Chapter 10

  L’Aurore had her orders by the time he returned on board. They were to take passage for Antigua to the dockyard at English Harbour for a minor refit, then relieve one of the inshore frigates in blockade of Guadeloupe.

  ‘It’s been a long time, old friend,’ Kydd said softly.

  Renzi gave a wry smile, bringing to mind adventures ashore and afloat there when they had been common seamen together. Kydd had been a healthy young man in a lusty environment and there were things that he would not necessarily wish to be reminded of. ‘Yes, indeed, dear fellow. Conceivably the master shipwright will never penetrate your disguise in your lofty elevation.’ He laid down his book and chuckled companionably.

  In the event it was quite another who came aboard in Antigua with the survey party, a genial and competent officer who let slip that Caird and his daughter had returned to England years before. And there would be no nostalgic reunion with the copper and lumber house where Kydd had first met a dark temptress, Sukey, or the little house he had lived in as Master of the King’s Negroes. Now that he was a post-captain, this was far out of sight in his past.

  The survey was quick but thorough. ‘Naught but what can’t be put right in a brace o’ shakes,’ was the pronouncement. The ship would stay at moorings with her crew quartered ashore.

  For her captain, there was no question of remaining in the coarse surroundings of the dockyard. It was expected he would take residence in the north, at St John’s, where the admiral’s shore headquarters was situated.

  ‘Shall we take carriage for the capital, Nicholas?’ Kydd said lightly, as Tysoe laid out his best clothes. ‘I do believe the society there will be quite up to expectations.’

  Renzi hesitated. ‘Brother, if there’s anything I crave more than peace and quiet at this time I’m at a loss to think it. I have for companionship my books and my thoughts and, while your doughty mariners are on shore, my solitude.’

  ‘Of course, old chap, I do understand,’ Kydd came back.

  With captain and officers heading north and the crew streaming ashore, there were only the standing warrant officers and three hands left aboard with Renzi. The frigate seemed to have grown larger, the echoing spaces and stillness broken only by the chuckle of water and the odd creak.

  But this was an unmissable chance to take up his studies again. A considered comparison of the new German school of ethnics with the French encyclopedists would be a refreshing start, and in his cabin he pulled down the requisite tomes.

  Within the hour he found it impossible: his head was so full of recent events that he knew he would get no rest until they had been settled to his satisfaction.

  But how could he pursue the threads until all had been exhausted? As a mental exercise it would lead only to frustration, for a logical syllogism without sure data was nothing but a futility. However, to get data he would need to venture out into the field and acquire it. Was he prepared to do this when he had always declared he scorned and detested the practice of spying?

  He laid down his pen, resolved. If the goal was sufficiently worthy, he would do whatever it took … Was he mad? He would set out not as an agent of a nation’s secret service but on his own account, a freelance amateur without direction, following his own instincts.

  Yet it had powerful advantages: he could beg leave from L’Aurore and go anywhere he wished, do anything he wanted, for he owed nothing to any higher authority. He need tell no one so there would be none to criticise if he failed. And his fate if he was caught would be the same whether he had been an accredited spy or otherwise.

  Excitement flooded Renzi. The overall objective was clear: to find the genuine base and bring back proof so persuasive it would be impossible to ignore. Then he would be vindicated. Triangulating from known positions of the losses to pinpoint it had proved inconclusive. But as he reflected on his earlier conclusion about the degree of risk and unreliability of setting up a covert naval base in a dominion out of their direct control, he realised that, if this was to be accepted, the converse must therefore be true: the only safe location was on French sovereign territory and, if that was so, the odds shortened considerably.

  There were only two islands of significance still in French hands, Guadeloupe and Martinique. Putting aside all other concerns, it narrowed the search immensely – he had only to reconnoitre those.

  He’d start with Guadeloupe, so conveniently close and— What was he thinking? He was known, a marked man. There was no way he could move about enemy territory even in some form of disguise: he’d likely be recognised on the spot.

  His hopes died. If he could not get the proof there was no point in going on.

  In despair he slumped back. But then …

  The
thought of Guadeloupe had triggered another memory from the past, from even earlier in the war when Kydd and he had been part of the ill-fated assault that had been thrown back when revolutionaries had landed and wreaked a bloody revenge. They had escaped, along with any royalists who could. Among them had been the gentle and wistful Louise Vernou.

  The last he had seen of her was here in Antigua, at St John’s. Presuming she was still here, could she have kept up some form of connection with her family or friends in Guadeloupe? It was worth a try, at least to gather information or even clues. For all he knew, it might develop – a secret correspondence with those on the island in a position to know, trusted by reason of being her family?

  Kydd accepted his arrival with well-concealed surprise. He was staying in a country villa within sight of the light-yellow-brick church and the well-remembered harbour. ‘Why, Nicholas, you’re joining me for the season?’

  ‘For some reason, dear fellow, I feel restless, not to say out of sorts. I’m persuaded a change of air from that to be found in the bowels of a frigate will answer.’ He had determined that he would tell Kydd nothing until he had his proof.

  ‘Then do consider this your home while you’re in the north, m’ friend.’

  The next day, on the pretext of taking the air, Renzi set out. It could not have been easier. Recalling that Louise Vernou had taught French to English officers in the past, he enquired at the admiral’s headquarters and found a list of teachers. Among them was her name.

  Memories flooded back: he and Kydd had been billeted on the family and grown close. Then, when the revolutionaries had triumphed, he had escaped Guadeloupe in a merchant brig with her, leaving Kydd with the last defenders. On the way they had been mauled by a hurricane but had made St John’s and then had parted.