The Privateer's Revenge

by Julian Stockwin

  “The minister for police?” Renzi responded. Paris and its deadly state apparatus was not within his remit and he had no wish to know anything of it, but d’Auvergne obviously needed to talk.

  “Secret police—the vile rogue! When L’Étalon was betrayed we had time to get him away, but under Bonaparte’s orders, Fouché arrested his family one by one. That—that noble being gave himself up to spare them, and in course will be guillotined.”

  Renzi avoided the stricken eyes, unable to find words.

  D’Auvergne pulled himself together with an effort. “Fouché is not the problem. He’ll serve whoever it’s in his interest to pander to. It’s Napoleon Bonaparte! This man is not only debasing a great civilisation but drenching the world in blood—to satisfy his own lust for conquest!”

  Sitting up suddenly, d’Auvergne cried in outrage, “Do you know what the contemptible hypocrite plans now?”

  Renzi could only shake his head.

  “That—that monster! First Consul and titular head of the Revolution who overthrew King Louis—he’s having himself declared emperor! Not just king and monarch—but emperor!”

  “No!” Renzi blurted. That the man could so subvert the principles of the Revolution, and the people tamely acquiesce, was a titanic shift in national allegiances. Clearly Bonaparte was taking every last skein of power into his own hands—the majesty of the state of France for his own personal property.

  D’Auvergne’s face was haggard. “Very soon it will be too late, I fear . . .”

  “Too late?”

  “For—for the last remedy.”

  “Sir, I’m not sure I follow,” Renzi said.

  “My dear Renzi,” d’Auvergne murmured, and sat down.

  Renzi waited silently.

  “I’m about to speak on matters of the very direst secrecy.”

  Ignoring Renzi’s protest he went on firmly, “I feel able to do so, for some small time ago I received private intelligence regarding yourself that allows you are a fit and proper recipient, Renzi . . . or is it to be Laughton?”

  Renzi stared at him, taken aback to hear his real name. He had been Nicholas Renzi ever since he had gone to sea those many years ago.

  “A prudent precaution, in my position, you will agree. So you see, sir, I now know of your high-minded self-exile, your distinguished actions at St Vincent and Acre; I learned of the quality of your late studies from Count Rumford himself. Therefore I feel able to treat you as my equal in matters touching the safety of the realm.

  “You may have heard of my not insignificant successes in instigating unrest and rebellion among the Normans. This has been due largely to my network of agents in France, who smuggle out information and carry out acts of bravery as needs must. That was in the Revolutionary War. Since the start of this war, Bonaparte has moved with ruthless speed. The secret police are everywhere. One even needs a passport to travel to another city.

  “This has achieved its object. Nearly all organised opposition to the tyrant is now broken, scattered. There are agents and sympathisers, but they are in daily fear of their lives. The gates of Fortress France are fast closing, and with them any chance to prevent the cataclysm of total war.”

  It seemed so abstract, discussing such a world in an ancient castle with the winds moaning about, but Renzi felt a sense of inevitability as to what would come next. “Sir, you’re speaking of an attempt on Bonaparte’s life!”

  “No.” D’Auvergne gave a rueful smile. “Not his life. His Majesty will not have it. He is to be kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped!”

  “Yes, Renzi, seized and held. It is a previous plan by others feeling as we do and ready to lay down their lives in the attempt.”

  “Does this have the support of London?”

  “At the most secret level conceivable, but with the King’s proviso that Bonaparte shall be brought out of France alive to answer for his crimes.”

  “Sir, may I ask if we are to be involved?”

  “We are central to it! Allow me to lay before you the essence of the plot. It is to waylay his coach as he retires outside Paris with his mistress, as he is wont to do. He is to be spirited instantly through Yvelines and Calvados to the coast—and thence by sea to Jersey.”

  “Here?”

  “Indeed. When I receive word that the plot is to proceed, I shall have an allowance from the foreign secretary to be employed in preparing here at Mont Orgueil an apartment for the reception of Napoleon Bonaparte.”

  Renzi felt unreality closing in. “Um, sir, is the plot well advanced?”

  “Certainly. There are some hundreds of brave souls already in Paris, each with his part to play and practised since the summer. You will, no doubt, recognise the name of General Charles Pichegru?”

  “Pichegru!” He had risen rapidly to the top of the Revolutionary Army, invaded and subjugated Holland, then subsequently crossed the Rhine with his victorious troops.

  “Yes. The only general in history to capture an entire fleet of ships-of-the-line!” It was the stuff of legend: the Dutch battle-squadron had been ice-bound and Pichegru had led a cavalry charge across the frozen sea to seize them all.

  D’Auvergne continued, “He will raise the soldiery, who love him, to take all Paris and declare for the King. In the vacuum that exists at the disappearance of Napoleon, the Duc d’Enghien will be made head of state and regent until King Louis might return to claim his throne.”

  “But—but the organisation, the timing?”

  “I have told you the essence only. There is much more. If you knew Georges Cadoudal, and that for five months he has been in Paris preparing, you would rest your concerns.”

  “Cadoudal?”

  “A man larger than life itself—a Hercules of sublime courage and audacity, and one with an undying reputation in the Chouan risings. I myself have seen Georges hold fast a kicking donkey by its back leg—they sing ballads about him in Brittany.”

  Renzi found himself utterly at a loss for words.

  “There are others too numerous to mention. Chouans who have made the perilous journey from the Vendée to Paris to lie in hiding awaiting the call, those who pass among the people risking everything to bring word of the coup to come. There are even troops of dragoons training in secret in the forests outside the capital.”

  “Then—when shall it . . . ?”

  “It is essential that the rising is supported at a scale where it may succeed. To this end we must await a final commitment from London. In my communications I have stressed the urgency and fading opportunity. We shall hear shortly, I believe.”

  The evening was turning chilly and Kydd was thankful to get inside the theatre. It was now abuzz with excitement and anxious stage-hands hurried to mysterious places past the giant curtain.

  For too long Kydd’s buoyant good nature had been clouded, but the atmosphere of a place dedicated to losing oneself in fantasy was getting to him. Damn it, he vowed, he would enjoy this interlude.

  “Hey, you! You there—Tom, whatever’s y’ name!” Carne’s face came round the curtain and he looked irritable.

  “Aye, Mr Carne,” Kydd called humbly, and made his way hastily past the seats and on to the stage.

  “Come!” The face disappeared, so Kydd pulled back the curtain tentatively and stepped into a dark chaos of props, ladders, improbable scenes painted on vast boards—and an impatient Carne. “This is y’ mate as will teach ye.” Carne snatched a look at a well-thumbed snap-bound book and turned to a wiry man nearby. “And I want t’ block through scene three again f’r Miss Mayhew in ten minutes,” he told him, and left them to it.

  “Tim Jones,” his preceptor said, thrusting out a hand to Kydd. “Look o’ the sea about ye, cuffin!” He snorted, then grinned.

  “Aye,” said Kydd, bemused. “Er, quartermaster’s mate round th’ Horn in the flying Artemis .”

  “Artemis?” Jones said respectfully. “As did fer the Citoyenne in th’ last war? Glory be! Well, I was only a Jack Dusty in Tiger, had t�
�� go a-longshore wi’ the gormy ruddles as ruined m’ constitooshun.” He clapped Kydd on the shoulder. “We’s better be learnin’ ye the ropes here right enough.”

  They left the confusion of the rehearsal for the dark upper eyrie of the fly-loft where Kydd looked down through a maze of ropes and contraptions directly to the stage below. Jones squatted comfortably on the slats, and began: “That there’s Mr Carne, an’ he’s the stage-master who calls th’ show from that book he has. He’s in charge o’ the runnin’ crew, which includes us flymen, an’ that scrovy crowd workin’ below. Now, here’s the griff. When the scene shifts, th’ whole thing fr’m clew t’ earring goes arsy-versy in a very smart way, an’ it’s us as does it. How? I’ll show ye . . .”

  Kydd took in the complexity of ropes and machinery that could change their world of enchantment from a sylvan glade to a magnificent palace and back again. He learned of flats and gauzes, clothes and rigging; and of the special whistles that had as much meaning for the stage crew in the complex operations of a scene change as a boatswain’s call for seamen in the operation of a man-o’-war.

  Carne’s hectoring voice rose above the din, and occasionally Kydd caught sight of an actor in fine robes foreshortened by the height as he strode the boards declaiming into the empty darkness. Excitement gripped him: soon the grand play would open—it seemed impossible that the disorderly rumpus below could calm to the breathless scenes he remembered from his last visit to a theatre. “Will we see Miss Mayhew an’ Mr Samson a-tall?” he found himself asking in awed tones.

  “Y’ might at that.”

  A bellow of “Places! Places!” cut through the confusion. Carne had the company pacing through the new scene arrangement under the director’s critical eye and the flymen were soon hard at work on ropes and flats.

  There was a last flurry of activity before front of house went to their stations, then a tense wait for the play to commence. The echoing emptiness of the theatre now had a different quality: a background susurrus of rustling and murmuring as the first of the audience took their seats while the reflectored footlights threw magic shadows into the upper reaches.

  The noise grew, shouts from rowdier elements mingling with raucous laughter and the animated hum of conversation. The small orchestra struck up with a strenuous overture until anticipation had built sufficiently—and the play began.

  It was hard work and the timing exact, but Kydd had the chance to hear and sometimes see the action. At the interval he descended to help with the flats for the second half but was called across by Carne: “Take Miss Mayhew her refreshment, Tom what’syername.”

  He was passed a single ornate crystal glass on a small lacquer tray with Chinese writing on it. A smell of gin wafted up from it as Kydd carried it to the dressing rooms, past half-dressed nymphs and bearded Magyars, in a stifling atmosphere of heat and excitement, with the unmistakable smell of greasepaint.

  “Enterrrr!” The response to his knock was the same imperious trill he had heard on stage. Griselda Mayhew was at her brightly lit mirror, a vision of a towering wig, flowing gown and caked makeup, but a jolly face with kindly eyes.

  “Ah, thank you, dearie!” she said gratefully. “Put it down there. I’m near gut-foundered.”

  She looked at Kydd shrewdly. “Well, I haven’t seen you before?”

  “Er, new t’night, Miss Mayhew,” he said diffidently.

  “You’re no common stagehand, I’d wager. Gent of decayed fortune, more like. Still, y’ came to the right place. Theatre’s a fine place t’ make your mark. Good luck t’ you, cully!”

  Blushing, Kydd left. The second half went rapidly, and when the play finished he felt an unaccountable envy for the tempest of applause that followed and the several curtain calls that had him sweating at the heavy ropes. And when the audience had streamed out he felt a pang of loneliness. All he had to look forward to, after these bewitching hours, was the squalor of the sail-loft. He finished securing the rigging as Griselda Mayhew’s laughter pealed at Richard Samson’s dramatic flourishes with her coat.

  She looked in Kydd’s direction. “Did y’ enjoy tonight at all?” she called to him.

  “I did that,” Kydd said awkwardly, conscious of his shabby appearance as he approached her shyly.

  She frowned slightly, then touched his arm. “It’s not my business, but have y’ somewhere t’ go to?”

  Put off-balance Kydd mumbled something, but she interrupted: “I understand, m’ dear, we see a lot of ’em down on their luck, like. Well, not t’ worry. Look, we’re travelling players an’ we have t’ take a big enough place for the season. Jem just quit, so why don’t y’ stay with us for a while?” She turned to Samson. “That’s all right, isn’t it, Dickie?” she said winsomely.

  A fiercely protective eye regarded Kydd. “As long as ye don’t smoke a pipe, m’ good man.”

  Staggered by their generosity, Kydd took his leave of Carne, pocketed his coins and followed his new friends out into the night.

  It was heaven to lie in a proper bed and Kydd slept soundly. In the morning he went diffidently down to join the others but found not a soul abroad at that hour. He made himself useful, squaring away after the wind-down party of the previous evening, to the surprise of the maid-of-all-work, who arrived late and seemed to find his presence unhelpful.

  His gear was in the sail-loft and he went out to retrieve those things that would fit into his modest room, reflecting on the strangeness of life that it could change so quickly. When he returned, a young man was holding an angry conversation with a wall and Richard Samson was stalking about in an exotic bed-robe reading aloud from a script in ringing tones.

  “Ah, I thought we’d lost you, Mr Cutlass,” he roared, when he spotted Kydd. “A yen to feel the ocean’s billows, perhaps? Or a midnight tryst with a fair maiden? Do come in and hide those things away.”

  One by one the others appeared, but it was not until after ten that Griselda made her entrance, the men greeting her with exaggerated stage bows while she sailed in to take the least faded armchair.

  “Miss Mayhew.” Kydd bowed too.

  “Oh dear,” she replied. “The others call me Rosie—why don’t you, Tom?”

  “I will,” Kydd said, with a grin. It had been an entertaining morning, rehearsing cue lines from a script for whoever asked it of him and his spirits were high. “Ye’re starting a new play, I hear.”

  “Of course, dearie.” She sighed. “We open every second Friday with new. Guernsey’s not a big enough place we can stay wi’ the same all the time.” She looked at Kydd speculatively. “You’re not t’ be a stagehand for ever. When shall you pick up a script?”

  “Well, I . . .” A famous actor? Strutting the stage with swooning ladies to either side, the confidences of princes and dukes? Folk flocking from far and near having heard that the legendary Tom Cutlass was playing? “I’ll think on it,” he came back awkwardly.

  On the way to the theatre he called at the post office and this time there was a letter to collect. It was from Renzi. He ripped it open and three coins fell out. He scrabbled to retrieve them and eagerly scanned the hurried lines. Renzi had met with unexpected success. Soon after arriving he had made the acquaintance of a Prince de Bouillon, whom Kydd took to be an exiled royalist, and had been fortunate enough to find employ in his household as a private secretary. The enclosed thirty livres Kydd could expect every month from his wages.

  A lump rose in his throat. With this generous gift he was now free to continue with his quest for as long as he . . . But he had already concluded that he was getting nowhere in uncovering the plot and must give up—must he track about hopelessly for ever? He had a life to lead. He could at least still hope for a ship in England and, in any case, as an officer even of declined circumstances there were genteel niches in society . . . But the instant he left the islands it would be the final surrender to his unjust fate—and Lockwood would have had his vengeance. Was there no middle way?

  There were no performances on the Sun
day. Some of the players went to Alderney on a visit while others simply slept. Moodily Kydd went to the deserted front parlour and sprawled on the sofa. Unable to escape his thoughts he laid down his newspaper and closed his eyes.

  The door opened and the swish of a dress made him look up. “Do I disturb you, Tom?”

  “Oh, er, not at all, Rosie,” Kydd said, hauling himself upright. “Just thinkin’ awhile.”

  She looked at him steadily. “You’re not all you seem, m’ friend,” she said quietly. “I’ve seen a few characters in my time an’ you’re so different—you’ve got iron in your soul, a man’s man. And something’s happened. I don’t know what it is, but it’s thrown you down where y’ don’t belong.”

  When Kydd said nothing she came to the sofa and sat beside him. “I may be only a common actress but I know when a man’s without a friend t’ talk with, an’ that’s not natural.” She straightened her dress demurely and continued, “It would be my honour if you’d take me as y’ friend, Tom.” Her hand strayed to his knee.

  Kydd flinched but, not wanting to offend her, stayed rigid. She withdrew the hand and said quietly, “So, there’s a woman at the bottom of it—am I right?”

  “No. That is, she . . . No, it’s too tough a yarn t’ tell.”

  “Tom! We’ve a whole Sunday ahead. Your secret will stay wi’ me, never fear.”

  Kydd knew from his sister that, for a lady, there was nothing so intriguing as a man of mystery; Rosie would worm it out of him sooner or later and, besides, he had to talk to someone. “Well, it’s a long tale. Y’ see . . .” He told her of the Navy, of his rise to success and command of his own ship; of his entry to high society and likely marriage into their ranks and subsequent fall when his heart was taken by another. And finally the terrible revenge a father was taking on him.

  “Dear Lord, an’ what a tale! I had no idea. My dear, how can you keep your wits about you while you’re reduced to—to this?”

  Kydd gave the glimmer of a smile. “So th’ last question is, just when do I give it away an’ return t’ England?”