14-Caribbee: A Kydd Sea Adventure

by Julian Stockwin

  Still there was no movement and Tyrell’s face turned red. ‘To hell and damnation with you for a scurvy crew who know no discipline! If I have to go alone I’ll do it – d’ you hear there?’

  He hesitated for a few moments more. Then, with a roar of frustration and with drawn sword, he raced forward across the seventy yards or so of clear ground ahead. There was no firing, and he made the ridge safely, flopping down at its crest. ‘Move, you chicken-hearted shabs!’ he yelled, beckoning urgently back at them. ‘Forward, or fry in Hell for ever after I’ve hanged the lot o’ you!’

  There was a stirring but not one broke cover to join him.

  Bowden’s every instinct was to urge them on to go up with him but where did his real duty lie? His own men were still on their way and his place was with them.

  He turned and raced back to call for Hinckley’s soldiers.

  This was the climax, Renzi told himself, as they pressed forwards down the path. Not only for the process of clearing his reputation but for the elimination of the biggest threat that existed to the British holdings in the Caribbean, the largest source of revenue to a country locked in war against a world-toppling tyrant.

  He led the way; Curzon hurried close behind. He’d taken care before to register that the villa lay in a particular fold in the hills slightly to the north-east, which they were now descending.

  He stopped. The faded orange tiles of the roof were visible through the foliage below.

  Now for the final act.

  ‘I believe their attention will be on our fleet and the landings and they are not troubling to look behind them,’ he told Curzon and Clinton. ‘They’ll be considering their position, whether to abandon now or wait until the situation is clearer. I do believe they’ll remain for a while longer – to destroy such a successful operation unnecessarily would be a sad mistake for them.’

  Scouts returned with the welcome news that, but for watchers on the balcony, there seemed to be no sign of anything approaching a frenzied defence.

  They had the luxury of time to prepare.

  ‘Your suggestions, gentlemen?’ Renzi invited.

  Clinton began crisply, ‘A file of men to each side, out of sight. L’tenant Curzon with the remainder at the ready here. The two files meet and advance with me from the front. The instinct of the defenders is to break for the rear, where we will give them due welcome.’

  ‘Then I will be with you, Mr Clinton,’ Renzi said firmly.

  ‘Oh – no, sir. We’ve brought you here now and Mr Kydd was most insistent that—’

  ‘We cannot delay further, sir.’

  ‘Very well, Mr Renzi,’ Clinton said, with a lopsided grin. ‘Sar’nt Dodd – the right-hand side.’

  Stealthily they threaded down past the villa to the road. Clinton watched for Dodd’s signal that his group was ready, then the two broke into a run, approaching each other and turning to take position. With shouts of dismay, the balcony cleared on an instant.

  Renzi paused, letting first one then the other squad enter the garden, firing as they went. Three men burst out from the house but were dropped with musket fire before they had made a few yards. Dodd raced for the door and took position to one side. Musket butts smashed it inwards. Dodd and three others disappeared inside.

  Unable to contain himself, Renzi hurried to join them. In the disorder he heard shouts and a single shot, followed by running feet. Then came a smell of burning. He knew where it had to be and motioned to a marine to deal with the door to the operations room. It flew open and inside he saw a man bent over a small fire trying to burn papers. He jerked up in despair. Renzi knocked him aside and stamped on the flames.

  Everything was in a chaos of disarray, documents and empty drawers, with office paraphernalia scattered about the floor.

  ‘Secure the room!’ Renzi ordered loudly.

  He picked up a singed paper. With rising exultation he saw it was an order on a vessel to assume a specified position to take the English trading ketch Sunrise. Another was a return on goods seized on a prize, signed by an illegible hand.

  ‘Sah!’ It was Dodd, fighting down a broad smile. ‘Mr Curzon’s compliments an’ could you attend on him, out the back, like.’

  ‘Very well. Nothing to be touched here, if you please.’

  Curzon was in the garden. Two lines of marines and seamen grinned triumphantly at a huddle in the centre of nearly a dozen individuals, some in uniform.

  ‘Ah, Mr Renzi,’ he drawled. ‘I’d like to introduce the former owners of this villa who thought to run. None got away, o’ course, so you have the entire gang here for your inspection.’

  Renzi gave a short bow. It was the end of a perfect day. From them he would learn just how the operation functioned: where the fleet was located, its system of communication, intelligence … So many things needed answers to draw a line under the whole incredible enterprise.

  Kydd stopped and held up his hand. ‘Quiet!’ he hissed. They heard shots from the general direction of the ridge selected for the joining up.

  ‘Forward!’ he growled. ‘And watch your front.’

  The path wound along the contour on the flank of the hill, but until they were fully around, whatever was happening was obscured.

  A little further on, they came to a ravine and a small wooden bridge.

  ‘Stop!’ He heard popping on the other side of the hill where he guessed the ridge must begin. If that was so, Tyrell was in some kind of engagement – but this bridge would make a classic defensive position that could stop an army.

  He debated whether to send men on to it to see if they drew fire, then took it upon himself. ‘Cover me,’ he muttered, and stood up to make his run.

  The first shot knocked his cocked hat into the ravine, another plucked viciously at his sleeve. He dropped down again immediately.

  ‘We’ve got to get to Cap’n Tyrell,’ he said, more to himself than anyone in particular. ‘Give me that,’ he told a seaman, and took his musket, slinging it at his back, before securing the belt pouch of ammunition.

  ‘Sir, what are you—’

  But Kydd had already moved out, slithering through the undergrowth until he found the bridge supports. He launched himself forward and up, grasping one of the timbers and using it to swing up and under the roadway. The musket was a clumsy and weighty hindrance.

  The criss-cross of struts was child’s play to a seasoned topman and he went rapidly from one to another, the floor of the ravine, with a gushing river far below, nothing for one at home a hundred feet up in wildly heaving rigging.

  He reached the other side and unslung the musket, cautiously rising to face where he’d seen the enemy gunsmoke. Something moved and he fired at it.

  Dismayed by the sudden appearance on their side of the ravine of an attacker they rose to fire down at him – but half a dozen muskets crashed out from the British seamen and two fell; others ran for their lives.

  Kydd finished reloading and pulled himself up. Without waiting for the others, he plunged ahead, musket at the ready.

  Within yards he found himself at the edge of a clearing. It was the ridge above the town, and there was Tyrell, lying full-length just below the crest.

  ‘Captain Tyrell, ahoy!’ he shouted, and went towards him.

  Tyrell did not look around, lying oddly still. Uneasy, Kydd quickened his pace, then broke into a run.

  ‘Rufus!’ he called, but in his concentration on the scene he tripped on a tussock and fell. The musket went off into the ground with a muffled report. Shame-faced, he retrieved the still smoking weapon and went up to Tyrell.

  Stunned, he saw that he was dead. Kydd stared down at the body of the one who had done so much to hurt him, now no more.

  Suddenly a man was beside him – he hadn’t heard him approach. Startled, he swung round. It was Hinckley, the army captain, who knelt beside Tyrell to examine the wound, then rose slowly, looking at Kydd with an odd expression.

  ‘If you please, sir,’ he said formally, holding out
his hands.

  Puzzled, Kydd passed him the musket. Without taking his eyes off Kydd’s he delicately smelt the muzzle, then lowered it.

  ‘You have a difficulty, Captain?’ Kydd asked with irritation. They had to complete the joining for the final push on Grand-Bourg without delay and there was no time for whatever army silliness this was.

  ‘He was shot from behind.’

  ‘He …?’

  ‘Not from the front.’

  Then it dawned. ‘You – you think I killed him?’ Kydd said, incredulous.

  ‘That is not for me to say, sir.’

  Renzi asked that they step inside, to the biggest room of the villa. Taking a comfortable chair, he watched while they filed in and stood in line before him.

  There were nervous clerks, stolid functionaries and military men, warily eyeing the Royal Marines who stood smartly at the doorway. Renzi went up to the dark-featured individual he’d first seen in Curaçao. ‘Duperré – this is you, sir?’

  The man spread his hands. ‘No, sir, I am desolated to tell you I am not.’

  ‘M’sieur Duperré to step forward, if you please.’

  A blank-faced man of years inclined his head. ‘I am he.’

  Renzi gave a grim smile. This could not possibly be the head of the most insidious and successful naval operation of recent times.

  ‘Er, I’ll see Mme Bossu now, I believe.’

  ‘Bossu?’

  ‘From the kitchens. Do fetch her for me.’

  It took some time to find the little scullery maid hiding under the stairs; Renzi had met her briefly when he had been disguised as Louise Vernou’s porter.

  ‘My dear. Be so kind as to point out M’sieur Duperré.’

  Trembling she indicated a sharp-faced officer, a capitaine de frégate in undress uniform.

  So that was the man. ‘Excellent! My congratulations, sir, on a truly impressive operation.’ Something made him hesitate. How was it that only a relatively low-ranking officer was directing such an enterprise at fleet level?

  He turned to the maid. ‘And who, pray, is in charge here? Who gives the orders?’

  Boldly, she flung out an arm to a somewhat portly gentleman in the dress of a planter, who returned a wan smile.

  ‘I see. Thank you, my dear, you’ve been most helpful.’

  Renzi beamed at the gathering and invited the planter to a nearby study. ‘Do sit, er …?’

  The man did not speak; neither did he take a seat.

  ‘Oh, do not stand on ceremony. We have much to talk of, I believe.’

  The man sat slowly.

  ‘Your naval operation has been truly a wonder and amazement to us – you have my condolences that it is now concluded.’

  No words were forthcoming, so Renzi went on, ‘As will stand to the eternal credit of the French Navy.’

  Suddenly the man’s face broke into a rueful grin. ‘Well, be damned to it but you’ve landed us fair ’n’ square!’ He chuckled.

  ‘You’re American?’ Renzi said, in astonishment.

  ‘Right ’nough. Jonathan Miller’s my handle.’

  ‘You give the orders?’ Renzi said in disbelief.

  ‘I do, an’ I don’t take kindly to this guff about the French Navy takin’ all the credit.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Who’m I talkin’ to?’

  ‘Smith,’ Renzi said neutrally. ‘Nicholas Smith.’

  Miller gave a conspiratorial smile. ‘It’ll do as well as mine, I guess.’

  ‘You were saying?’ prompted Renzi.

  ‘Well …’

  ‘We have the operations room and all the papers,’ Renzi said, ‘largely unburned. It shouldn’t take long to put it all together.’

  With a sigh Miller began, ‘It’s quite a story, Mr Smith.’

  ‘I’ve got time.’

  ‘A splash o’ wine would help.’

  Renzi called for some, then settled back to hear Miller’s tale.

  ‘I’m a businessman from Charleston, where I’m known as one savvy trader, I’ll have you believe.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Miller took charge of the wine and poured a glass for them both, then drank deeply.

  ‘It’s like this. In business when you see an opportunity you go at it with both hands, you know what I mean?’

  ‘Quite. Please continue.’

  ‘The French here, they have a problem. You. So I figure a way out for ’em.’

  ‘You did? This is a naval matter, I’ll remind you.’

  ‘Ha! No, it’s not – it’s a business prospect.’

  ‘Er, I don’t follow.’

  ‘They can’t ship sugar to France on account o’ your cruisers. No sugar, no trade, no revenue. I’m in the business to remedy just that.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Like I said, it’s a business. We work together, partners like. I lay out the cash, supply the necessaries and take care o’ the management and they … well, they stump up the letters of marque.’

  ‘I don’t understand – those are for privateers.’

  ‘Just so! Yours truly has his own fleet of ’em, funded, run and managed by me, but under the French flag.’

  ‘A fleet of privateers?’

  ‘Why not? Have ’em working together, send ’em where the meat is. That’s why I’ve got the French Navy – they do all the operations stuff, signals and such. I concentrate on the money-making.’

  Renzi gave a half-smile. Privateering was a business like any other, with investors and suppliers, profits and losses. By opening up to large scale – a fleet – it would be possible to pool expenses, lay in supplies wholesale and oversee manning efficiencies. When combined with the expertise of a navy in fleet-level deployments, the effects would be – had been – devastating.

  He sat back in admiration. By funding the operation Miller had provided the French with a powerful naval tool and at no expense. It had been a huge capital risk but had no doubt paid him back handsomely.

  It was masterful – and it threw up as many questions as it answered.

  ‘Do tell me, Mr Miller, how did you realise on your prizes? There are no French courts to condemn same that I know of in this part of the world.’

  ‘Ah, well, no harm to tell you now, seeing as it’s all over.’

  He helped himself to another glass. ‘We take only ships we know about, and we plan smart. Make up papers as says she’s an American, new-bought from the English who are too frightened to sail. Papers say as how we’ve been tradin’ with French territory on our own account, as is legal for a neutral. She arrives in Charleston. We’ve a sympathetic Revenoo man who switches papers to show she’s a US trader heading for France under our own dear flag. So – the French madames get their sugar, we split the proceeds and everyone’s happy.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this? You know we’ll take action.’

  ‘’Cos in them papers you’ll not catch my name on a one. And on the other, I’d be a fool to think you British are going to take Boney’s Decree without you do something like it yourselves. So there’s only so long this’n is going to work – I’ve made my pile, time to get out.’

  ‘Well, while you’re in the mood, pray tell me, if you will, how this business works, at all. I’ve a suspicion it’s a very tight operation, well organised, brilliantly run.’

  There was no harm in showing his admiration for this American entrepreneur.

  Miller settled and said expansively, ‘Right. Well, first we has a network. Of business intelligence. Every sugar port in the Caribbee has its wharf lumpers as knows when a ship’s down to sail. They tips my man on the island the wink and we set to work. Our tricksy papers are made up and, with location instructions, sent out to the nearest deployed privateer.’

  ‘I don’t see how you know where they’ll be, and—’

  ‘I’m gettin’ to that. The sugar boat is taken, the prize crew has their papers and off they sail to Charleston. The privateer returns. Now, you were askin’ about the pr
ivateer fleet. Well, we has above a dozen places o’ rendezvous. Here we keep ’em supplied with victuals an’ water such as they don’t ever have to make a port, keeping right out of sight o’ your frigates an’ such. We therefore knows where they is, see?’

  ‘How then do you keep in touch with your fleet? A navy has dispatch cutters, avisos, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Shark-meat fishermen. They’d cross the Caribbean for a dollar in hand.’

  Of course! Like a swarm of mosquitoes off some coasts, their movements would never be questioned. Carrying a pack of papers, instructions – it was brilliant.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Miller, in all our naval patrols we’ve never once caught up with one of your privateers. Why is that, do you think?’

  The American gave a boyish smile. ‘As we have our man in your admiral’s office, o’ course. Can’t tell you his name, you’ll understand, but he’s been mighty obliging in the article of getting your patrol orders to us for a fair fee.’

  In a flash of insight Renzi knew who it must be, and said smoothly, ‘I own I was well flammed by the information about Curaçao. Was that your …?’

  ‘Aye, it was. You was getting too close to the real thing, so I arranged a little show as would discredit your idea.’

  Renzi sat back. It was Wilikins. The only one to know if he’d taken the bait in order for Miller to put it in train. ‘And it worked, I do confess.’

  ‘Um, do you tell me now, Mr Smith, how did you catch on to us at all?’

  ‘I’ll let you know if, first, you tell me something. What became of the crews of the prizes you captured?’

  ‘Oh, well. Had to make it all pay, so had an arrangement with Emperor Dessalines in Haiti. Quite took to the idea of running white slaves.’

  ‘You … sold them into slavery?’

  ‘Don’t take on so. You’ll get ’em back, should you make a ruckus. Can’t be seen to have any kind o’ slavery, his nation founded on the back of a slave revolt.’

  Renzi shook his head in disbelief and admiration. The whole thing could only have worked with meticulous attention to detail, immaculate management and business acumen on a heroic scale.

  ‘Very well. This is how you were dished, Mr Miller.’