The Privateer's Revenge

by Julian Stockwin

  “No officer?” Kydd came back testily. Even a junior lieutenant would be better than none for no one in Teazer could talk soldier lingo enough to take charge.

  “None. But you’ll find a Royal Marine is different from your regular soldier—more initiative, more reliable on his own.” He leaned back. “I’ll find you a long-service sergeant you might rely on, Commander. As for the men, it takes some two hundred Royal Marines to get a ship-o’-the-line to sea and I rather fancy you’ll have to be satisfied at this time with near a dozen.

  “Have no fear, sir, the men will be found. The barrack-master will need the details, of course, and I’m assuming you have made application for complement in the usual form. Our quartermaster will kit them for service and you shall have them before you sail. Good luck and good day to you, sir.”

  “Our marines at last, thank God,” Standish muttered peevishly, spying Teazer’s longboat putting out from Stonehouse Pool.

  “I rather think they would wish to be referred to as Royal Marines, Mr Standish,” Renzi murmured, watching the boat full of red coats approach.

  “Lobsterbacks,” Standish said. “Well, as long as they’re inboard and victualled in by noon we’ll be in a fair way of putting to sea before dark. Our lord and master is in a right taking, I tell you—wants to up hook and bowting the briny without losing a minute.”

  “You’ve applied for a removal out of Teazer,” Renzi said quietly.

  Standish looked at him sharply. “Who told you that?” His gaze swung back to the boat. “But it’s true enough. Since he’s crossed the admiral’s hawse there’s no hope o’ Teazer being put in the way of a good fight and chance of distinction—the Channel Islands, I ask you!” He continued moodily, “And it’s got to be said, since his dolly had the bad grace to get drowned he’s been knocked athwart and no use to any. I fear our Mr Kydd’s appetite for glory has gone, and with it any desire I have to stay in this ark of misery.”

  Renzi did not reply. The rot was setting in. Only the previous day they had lost Boyd, one of their only two midshipmen. There had been a rambling letter from his father about a fortunate placement in a ship-of-the-line but the real reason was obvious: society was unwilling for their sons and heirs to learn their officer-like qualities from someone of Kydd’s reputation. And none had come forward to take Boyd’s place; this was unfortunate for a midshipman counted as a petty officer and, among other things, could stand a watch in harbour under the mate-of-the-watch. It would not improve Prosser’s attitude.

  From his tiny cabin Renzi could not fail to overhear mess-deck conversations: at the moment the men were generally understanding of their captain’s grief but he would quickly lose sympathy if he could not soon come to himself and give the ship and her company the attention they deserved.

  Word was passed of the marines’ imminent arrival, then Kydd appeared and stood motionless with a look of inward distraction. Renzi noted the resulting movement of officers and men: they were crossing the deck to keep their distance, not out of respect.

  The boat’s coxswain hooked on abreast the side-steps. Renzi moved unobtrusively to watch. After the sergeant and corporal had swung themselves inboard less than half seemed confident in their movements boarding a ship-of-war. However, the sight of so many identical red-coated uniforms was striking beside the individual dress of the seamen.

  When the men had been drawn up to satisfaction by the corporal, the sergeant swung about and marched down the deck. He had strong, confident features with an easy cheerfulness. “Sar’nt Ambrose, sah! Corporal Jay, sah! An’ twelve privates come t’ join,” he reported.

  “An’ not before time, Sergeant,” Kydd said. “We’re t’ sea directly.”

  “With only one midshipman?” murmured Renzi beside him. “A mort hard on Mr Prosser, I believe.”

  “Do him good, th’ lazy villain!” Kydd flared. But he knew this was no minor quibble: the lack of a midshipman in the opposite watch was going to affect more than just the watchkeepers for in any kind of action they were effective in standing between officers and men.

  He rounded on Renzi: “So, if y’r polite society doesn’t see Teazer a fit berth f’r their sons, why, I’m th’ captain, an’ it’s m’ right to set on the quarterdeck as midshipman any I please!” he retorted. He turned back with a sardonic smile. “Send Able Seaman Calloway aft, if y’ please.”

  Teazer put to sea on the tide and stood out into the Channel. Seen from the rolling green hills of Devon, there was nothing to suggest that this was anything other than one of the many small men-o’-war going about their vital business in great waters. Her spars and rigging properly a-taunto, her pennant streaming out, sails trimmed to perfection, she was a picture of grace and warlike beauty—but on her quarterdeck, with the marks of grief and misery on his face, a figure stared astern over the widening seas at the receding coast.

  Renzi watched Kydd unnoticed. It would be long months before England was sighted once more. Was there a chance that his friend could heal, away from the memories? He made his way below, guiltily aware that for himself the exile would not be wasted: he had heard enough of the Channel Islands, with their neither truly English nor certainly French character, to be looking forward keenly to his time there. An earnest guidebook was waiting on the bookshelf and opportunities in the future for exemplary ethnical comparisons would be limitless.

  At daybreak they raised the south-west of Guernsey and, with the customary pilot aboard for entry into harbour, rounded the south-eastern tip. The island itself was only a few miles long, but a dismaying number of vicious rocks, reefs and islets were visible in the approaches to the harbour, scores of black fangs waiting on every hand.

  St Peter Port was guarded by the brooding mass of Herm offshore, and closer to, a squat castle on a rocky islet before an inner harbour. Between, there was a broad expanse of clear water, sheltered from the prevailing westerlies. There, upwards of thirty ships were moored, including three warships riding to anchor.

  “Ye’ll be wantin’ the two-decker, o’ course,” the pilot said respectfully. “Diomede, an’ flagship o’ y’r admiral.” She was only a 50 but boasted a splendid gallery with a real, old-fashioned stern-walk. Teazer’s small swivel cracked in salute as six marines—all that could be found room for on the afterdeck—were drawn up and, with much stamping and slapping of muskets, brought proudly to attention.

  “Away the gig.” Kydd, in full dress uniform, stepped gravely into the boat. Renzi watched it stroke smartly away for the flagship. The twittering of pipes carried over the water as Kydd mounted the side and was gone.

  “I’ll be below,” Standish announced, a bored look on his face. He clattered down the hatchway, leaving Renzi with the pilot, whose work would not be done until Teazer had anchored safely.

  “This is Admiral Saumarez,” Renzi pondered aloud to the pilot.

  “Aye, it is.”

  “And something of a hero, I believe,” Renzi added. “Was it not Orion at St Vincent and the Nile? And, of course, Algeciras . . .”

  “A Guernseyman first an’ always,” the pilot said stoutly.

  “This is his fleet?” Renzi said, gesturing at the other two ships, both frigates of some maturity. Even the small flagship Diomede was of an obsolete and derided class, not big enough to fight in the line of battle or fast enough to stay with frigates.

  “Well, an’ there’s another two frigates out on a cruise, like,” the pilot said defensively. “Plenty an’ enough for Sir James t’ see away Johnny Frenchman, I’ll believe.”

  To Renzi it was unsettling: at a time when England stood in such peril why consign one of Nelson’s band of brothers, a proven leader and experienced admiral, to be a full commander-in-chief of a tiny island or two and a handful of frigates?

  He held his doubts, but that didn’t stop the boatswain pressing the case: “As it may be, cully, but it don’t say why such a right copper-bottomed fightin’ man as him tops it the admiral-in-chief here when a little one’ll do, does it?”


  The pilot drew himself up. “No mystery, m’ friend. He’s a Guern’, as I said, an’ he’s come back t’ stand by his people in their time o’ need. Anything y’ can see wrong wi’ that?”

  • • •

  Kydd returned, his face set. “Great Road, astern o’ Cerberus ,” he ordered Standish, who had come back on deck and was awaiting the order to moor. “Mr Renzi, please t’ attend on me,” he added, and disappeared below.

  There was a marine on duty outside the captain’s cabin. As a naval officer, Renzi had been accustomed to due obeisance but as a ship’s clerk he was not to be noticed; Kydd, however, received the respect of a musket clash as they passed into Teazer’s great cabin.

  Kydd emptied his dispatch case of papers. “I’d be obliged if ye’d see t’ these. Orders o’ the station as will touch on Teazer’s standin’ orders, forms o’ the sort as y’ will see bear on our new standing.”

  “New standing?”

  “Aye,” Kydd snarled. “As second t’ Cerberus 32. Attached t’ her for victuals an’ stores, f’r duties as her captain will fr’m time t’ time direct.”

  “Attached? This will—”

  “It means no cruisin’ on our own any more.”

  Renzi frowned. Apart from the obvious loss of independence, the natural assumption of honours for the senior in any combat that might eventuate and the halving or less of any prize money, there would be little chance now for challenges and diversions to lift Kydd from the pit of despair. “My commiserations, dear fellow. How shall you—”

  Kydd’s expression was hard. “I shall do m’ duty, as will you, an’ every man aboard this barky. Those orders t’ be transcribed directly, an’ the purser t’ lay aft now.” Kydd’s eyes gleamed fiercely, his drawn features bleak and forbidding—almost callous in their estrangement from the world. Renzi felt deep disquiet.

  The papers complete, Kydd left for Cerberus to make his number with her captain. He returned quickly, without comment, in time to receive the seven local men coming aboard who had volunteered. Unlike the general run of seamen in England they could be sure that service would be in their home waters, defending their own kith and kin.

  At six bells Mr Queripel, a small but well-built man in nondescript old-fashioned dress, arrived aboard. His certificate showed him approved by the commander-in-chief to act locally as a form of on-board permanent pilot, insisted upon by Saumarez for all non-native naval vessels in his command. Renzi saw Dowse, their own sailing-master, take wary measure of him.

  Standish turned to Kydd. “Sir, might I ask—”

  “When Cerberus puts t’ sea, so does Teazer,” Kydd grated. “Until then we remain in attendance at anchor. Is that clear?”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Standish said sulkily.

  That night there was no invitation for Renzi to dine with the captain; he supped with Standish and the others in what passed for a wardroom, the cramped space outside the cabins below.

  “Tut, tut,” the master said, after the meal had advanced sufficiently for tongues to be loosened. “Where are our spirits? Why are we cast down? Th’ chances are we’ll soon have our heart torn out on some Godforsaken rock and out o’ this ’un quick enough.”

  “Mr Dowse! F’r shame!” said the boatswain, Purchet. “Could be th’ Frogs are out an’ then—”

  “And then they fall on these pawky islands?” Standish sneered, from the head of the table. “I don’t think so, Mr Hellfire Bosun. No, if they’ve got a handful of hours to crowd across the Channel, they’ll not waste time here.” He tossed back his wine.

  “Then why’s his grandevity Sir James o’ Algeciras sent here?” Dowse asked. “Must be f’r a very good reason.”

  “Ha!” Standish came back instantly. “You really can’t smoke it? He’s here for just the same reason as we are.” He glanced quickly at Renzi, who had taken no part in the discussion, then went on, “In course, he’s run afoul of some higher and sent here to keep the natives quiet!” He went on strongly, “Stands to reason, dammit—commander-in-chief of an island four miles thick and not a ship-o’-the-line in his command? What other reason than he’s been exiled too?” he said bitterly.

  “What’s your opinion, if y’ please, Mr Renzi?” Dowse asked politely.

  By now, in this company, Renzi had been accepted for what he was—an enigma, but no threat. He had kept to himself, scrupulously careful never to take anyone’s part, his relationship with Kydd seen as that of an eccentric and needy scholiast taking advantage of the free board and lodging due a ship’s clerk. A quiet and amiable manner, however, had ensured him the warmth of these men. “Why, I’ve seen nothing so far that might lead us to suppose there has been some form of alienation, but this presents a mystery. I fear that without facts I’m as much at a loss as you are.”

  Standish snorted. “If you insist on making it a mystery, sir, I do not.” He banged down his glass. “Rather more to the point is our predicament.”

  “Our which?” said Renzi, mildly. Over time they had come to see that he did not carry tales to Kydd and were increasingly open in his presence. With his ear to mess-deck gossip and to the confidences of the commander, he was in a unique position—which might well end in an impossible situation if he did not tread circumspectly.

  “You do not call this a predicament that we’re to spend the rest o’ the war flogging up and down this coast while all the victories are won elsewhere? I have my hopes of a sea career, gentlemen, as won’t be found here. Remember, out of sight, out of mind. We’ll not be noticed in this pawky scow.” He took a savage pull at his wine. “And,” he paused for breath, “I asked to be appointed into

  Teazer because I’d heard Tom Cutlass was to be her owner and we’d ride to glory together in some famous mauling. In just six months he’s thrown the lot away! In with the admiral’s daughter and set fair to be made post into a frigate for his trouble, me as his premier, and he takes up with some country milkmaid!”

  The table remained silent. “And the worst is, the looby lost the wench and has clearly taken leave of his wits, been touched in the headpiece. God knows what he’ll do next—do you?” he threw at Renzi.

  Renzi cleared his throat. “The man is to be pitied at this moment, I believe. He confided to me something of his feelings for the young lady and his present state is perfectly understandable, given—”

  “So we must all suffer while he comes to his senses.”

  Dowse stirred uncomfortably. “Er-hum. Them’s strong words, sir,” he said quietly. “Th’ man only needs time.”

  “Which we ain’t got!” Purchet came in unexpectedly. “I don’t mind sayin’ it before yez all but I’m afeared. He’s comin’ down hard f’r no reason an’ unsettlin’ the hands, then forgets things as are needful. If he is, um, not as who should say, square in his reason, then God help us if ever we come up wi’ a Frenchy.”

  A day later a lieutenant from Cerberus brought orders for sea: a neutral had sighted two French corvettes heading west. To the open Atlantic—or Brest? Either way, Saumarez wanted this immediately investigated by Cerberus to the south and another frigate to the north, to sail without delay.

  Throughout Teazer there was a quickening of pace, a lightening of spirit. A corvette would be easy prey for a frigate but the other must be theirs. It would be a rare match and hard fought—unless Cerberus’s bird tamely gave in the fight early and Cerberus turned to claim both.

  There was point now to the mindless cleaning and blacking of guns, the make-work tasks of a ship in harbour. Kydd could be seen everywhere about the decks, and when Cerberus’s signal to unmoor was bent on, Teazer was ready. The hoist went close up, and at the midships capstan men placed themselves at the bars, seamen and marines both.

  “Stir those mumpin’ dawdlers!” Kydd bawled down the deck to Standish. “If we’re still hook down when Cerberus weighs, I’ll—I’ll make ’em rue it!”

  To the reedy sound of a fife and the stolid thump of a drum they set to the task with renewed determi
nation. Well before the frigate won her anchor, Teazer’s was clear of the seabed and coming in rapidly. Renzi, on the quarterdeck at the ready with his notebook, pursed his lips. They must now throw sails aback to keep from running down the still-tethered frigate; on the more senior ship, would this be seen as a brazen attempt to do them down?

  Eventually the Union Flag at the jack of Cerberus whipped down to indicate her anchor was aweigh and, with a flurry of flapping and banging, Teazer set her sails loose to the wind and settled to follow in her wake.

  “Two cables astern, until th’ open sea,” Kydd told Standish. The low coast slipped past but more of the appalling rocks showed until it seemed they were surrounded by them. For the moment they would be in no danger, in the wake of the experienced bigger ship.

  Queripel came forward and stood next to Kydd. “It’s not th’ rocks ye should be most concerned of,” he began, “y’ can see ’em. It’s the tide set an’ currents round ’em that c’n vex even th’ most experienced. When th’ tide state is—”

  “Stand down, Mr Queripel,” Kydd said. “Ye’re not required.”

  The man’s eyebrows rose but he said nothing and retired to the wheel. Renzi knew better than to interpose and concentrated on the low sea coast to larboard and the endless dark crags and fissures that protruded from the water on all sides.

  Clear of the Brayes the vessels stood on out to sea northward, taking advantage of the steady west-north-westerly. Standish made much of trimming sail, demanding a foot of fore-tack here, checking out a main-topsail sheet by two feet there, until Teazer’s bowsprit rose and fell dead in line with Cerberus’s stern and at the required distance.

  Kydd did not interfere, and when the activity had died away he left the deck, to Standish’s clear relief. However, he returned almost immediately, carrying his octant. He paced deliberately to the foredeck, braced, and sighted with the instrument, bringing the main topmast truck of Cerberus to the waterline. Then he strode aft and confronted Standish. “Our orders are t’ take station two cables clear, as well y’ know, sir. What’s this, that you believe it t’ mean a full twenty yards closer?”