Some time into the dark hours the wind shifted northerly and at the same time the barometer sank below twenty-nine inches. “Time t’ turn an’ run,” Cheslyn said pugnaciously to Kydd.
“In this dark? What codshead would go a-beam in these seas without he knows what’s a-comin’ at him fr’m windward? We’re safe as we go, an’ we stay this way.”
The next day dawned on a cold, grey waste of heaving, white-streaked seas and sullen cloudbanks, but no sign of the broken and racing scud of a coming storm. “It’ll blow itself out,” Kydd said confidently. Cheslyn merely stumped below.
There were no sun-sights possible but despite the dirty weather they seemed to be making good progress. With a whole clear ocean ahead they would pick up their position in time. For now, however, Kydd must estimate the extent of the set to leeward caused by the weather coming at them.
The constant motion was wearying, the bracing against anything solid taking its toll of muscle and strength. He sent Calloway to round up the ship’s boys, then start a class of how to pass bends and hitches and the working of knots; possibly it would take their minds off the conditions.
They were now well out into the Atlantic and the weather had eased more westerly again. The underlying swell was long and languorous, which might mean anything, but the wind was back in the south-west as a strong breeze streaming in, fine sailing weather for a schooner.
Night drew in with little in the evening sky to raise concern and Kydd read his Compendium with interest before turning in. He fell asleep almost immediately; any worrying about just where in this vast desert of sea he might find prey could wait for the light of day.
At some time in the night he came suddenly to full wakefulness and lay in the dark knowing something was amiss but unable to pinpoint it. There was nothing, no sudden shouting, no change in the regular pitching and heaving of the ship. The feeling intensified, and a sense of preternatural dread stole over him. He rolled out of his bunk, threw on the grego over his nightclothes and hurried up on deck, his eyes straining into the blackness.
The watch-on-deck looked at him in astonishment. “Cap’n, sir?” said one with concern, approaching. Kydd tried to make sense of his feelings. The rollers showed white in the darkness, seething past as usual, and the overcast made reading the sky conditions difficult. But something was . . .
Then he had it. An almost indefinable continuous low roar at the edge of hearing beneath the bluster of the wind but, once detected, never fading. He froze in horror: a memory from long ago, burned into his soul burst into his consciousness—one night perilously close to the dreaded Cape Horn and . . .
He threw himself at the wheel as he had done then, knocking the helmsman aside, and spun on turns. The little schooner seemed reluctant and frantically Kydd willed it on for otherwise they had but seconds to live.
The roar became audible to the others on deck, who looked at each other in terror as Kydd shrieked, “Hold! Hold on f’r your lives!”
Then the wind died. In not much more than a breath of air Witch
of Sarnia came round into the calm whisper and started canting up—the angle increased sharply and the nearness of a monstrous presence beat on Kydd’s senses. “Hold!” he howled, as the schooner reared higher still and from within the vessel he could hear anonymous thuds, crashing and terrified cries.
The roaring was now overwhelming and suddenly it became a reality. The foaming peak of a rogue wave of mountainous size rolling down on them out of the night like a juggernaut, its feral presence mind-freezing.
Now all depended on whether Kydd’s action had been quick enough. As the schooner’s bow buried itself in the boiling white of the crest, the wind, which had been cut off by the sheer bulk of the wave, resumed with shocking force—but she was now in the eye of the gale and it blasted equally both sides of the fore and aft sails. By that one fact the Witch had been saved from being slammed sideways, to die rolling over and over broadside at the teeth of the wave.
The deluge took possession of the deck and came rushing aft; at the same time the naked, dripping bow emerged spearing skywards before the vessel fell with a sickening crunch into the back of the great wave. Then the rush of water thinned and disappeared over the side before it reached them.
They were through! But at what cost? Men boiled up from below in terrified incomprehension; above the bedlam Kydd could hear Cheslyn’s roar, then saw his bear-like shape forward as he restored order with his fists.
The man handed himself aft, his heavy face streaked with wet hair, eyes red. “The barky’s well shook up below, Mr Kydd,” he said hoarsely. “You keep th’ deck, sir, an’ I’ll take some hands below an’ do what we can till day.”
“Very well, Mr Cheslyn—an’ thank ye.”
There was a glimmer of a smile, then he left abruptly.
• • •
First light showed much the same bleak seascape: white-streaked waves to the horizon, advancing on them energetically, but there had been no worsening during the night. The barometer holding steady confirmed Kydd’s estimate that it was but the North Atlantic exercising its age-old right to nastiness. He faced the wind: the centre would be some six points or more out there on his right hand. If he shaped away more south of west he would avoid the worst of the blow and still be on course for the Azores and their hunting ground.
With a sigh of satisfaction he retired to his cabin; they had survived remarkably well, considering, almost certainly because of their new fit of rigging. Between decks the mess was still being cleared away but nothing vital had suffered.
He was peeling off his sodden clothes when the door flew open and a cabin boy raced in shrieking, “An’ it’s a sail!”
It was pale against the east horizon, and of some size. Excitement swept the Witch, even though Kydd knew the chances of it being prize-worthy were not great, given they had not yet reached their hunting ground.
Nevertheless the privateer prepared for a chase, setting topsails abroad in earnest for the first time since St Peter Port and laying her course to intercept. As if scenting the thrill of the hunt the Witch lay down under her full sail and slashed along in exhilarating style.
Feverishly Kydd brought his new-won knowledge to mind for if there were to be word-grinding arguments he would be ready now. And if the ship resisted their examinations they would earn a whole-hearted boarding.
Strangely, the vessel did not shy away downwind but held her course under the same light sails and in perfect confidence.
“A gun, if y’ please, Mr Perchard.” As the powder smoke whipped along the decks the Witch of Sarnia broke her colours at the masthead—the Union Flag of Great Britain.
Their intent must be obvious: Why, then, did it not take action? As they drew nearer it became even more perplexing with the ship continuing steadily on, not once varying her eastward course. For some reason her upper rigging was full of men. Putting his telescope down Kydd was certain now that this was a Martinico-man, a French Caribbean trader and therefore an enemy; nearly twice their size, yet not making any manoeuvre to meet the threat.
Cautiously Kydd allowed their courses to converge; then a tricolour rose swiftly up the halliards and instantly up and down the deck-line guns opened with stabs of flame, the smoke carried swiftly to leeward. The lively seas made any kind of accuracy impossible but it was clear to Kydd that they were badly outclassed in weight of metal—any boarding could end up bloody.
Still the stubbornly held course and few sails. Kydd made to pass under her stern at half a mile range—and when the big vessel failed to wheel about to keep his guns bearing on them Kydd understood. “He’s taken th’ same wave as we,” he laughed in relief, “an’ is higgled in the top-hamper.” It was the cruellest of luck for the ship, weakened beyond manoeuvring in masts or yards. Witch of Sarnia had sighted them before they had found time for a jury-rig to the injured spars. Kydd thought guiltily of the men who had worked through the night as they had, and when blessed daylight had come, so had their
nemesis.
But this feeling did not last long: a surging happiness flooded him as he went through the motions of criss-crossing the unfortunate ship’s helpless stern until the point was taken and the flag fluttered slowly down. Horne’s Compendium would confirm that this was rightful prey and, being enemy, he could fear no lengthy legalities before she was condemned as prize. The venture was made, Witch of Sarnia had made her first kill—and it had taken minutes only.
CHAPTER 15
AS THEY GLIDED CLOSE INTO THE SHORE, Renzi felt the calm of the night, an utter stillness broken only by the occasional animal cry and the slap of playful waves on the side of the privateer. “Here!” the captain grunted, squinting into the anonymous darkness.
“Are you sure?” Renzi asked quietly. The man nodded. By this time there should be two lights showing out to sea, one above the other, but nothing interrupted the uniform blackness of the shoreline. A tantalising scent of autumn woodland and fresh-turned earth wafted out to them.
“Then they’ve had trouble with the lanterns. If you’ll set me ashore now, Mr Jacot?”
“I don’t reckon on it, Mr Giramondo.”
“Why—”
“Done this afore. Ain’t good t’ second guess ’em. If they’s found trouble . . .”
An hour passed, and more. Although keyed up with the appalling tension, Renzi mused that this would be his first step on the soil of France since those inconceivably remote days when Kydd and he as common seamen had made their desperate escape following an abortive landing.
Kydd! What was his friend doing now? So true and honourable, one of nature’s gentlemen who did not deserve his fate—any more than others in the chaos of war. And he had sworn to stay by him, yet here he was—
“There!” Jacot said, with satisfaction. Two lights had finally appeared in the right place. The captain looked at him questioningly and Renzi realised he was waiting for a decision.
Had this signal been delayed by lantern trouble or had it been made under duress after capture to lure them in? Should he seize courage and proceed, or cancel the mission? “I’ll go ashore,” he said, as calmly as he could. There was no alternative.
The boat nudged into the sandy beach and Renzi scrambled out. It disappeared rapidly into the night and he was left standing at the edge of a wood sloping down to the water’s edge. With every nerve stretched to breaking point, he listened. Night sounds, the soughing of wind in the trees, creatures in the undergrowth. And blackness.
At that moment he was in as much mortal danger as ever in his life: the letter sewn into his coat felt like fire, a document of such towering importance that, if he were captured, would result not in his simple execution but in the deadliest torture the state could devise to rip his secrets from him. Then merciful death.
With shocking suddenness a hand clamped over his mouth from behind and his arms were seized on each side. A voice close to his ear whispered, in French, “A sound and you die!”
Renzi nodded and the hand left his mouth but his arms were held as he was frogmarched into the woods. Unseen sharp forest growths whipped across his face as he stumbled along in the grip of at least two men, others following behind.
Panting at the unaccustomed effort, he was relieved when they reached a small glade and paused. The rickety outlines of an old woodcutter’s hut appeared before them. Low words were exchanged, then he was brought forward. The door opened, slammed shut behind him and the impelling arms fell away.
Sensing the presence of others in the hut he kept still. There was a tapping of flint and steel and a single candle sputtered into life, to reveal a large man standing behind a table, silent shadows all around.
“Qui êtes vous?” the man said mildly. The accent was metropolitan—Parisian. A poignard blade jabbed impatiently at his throat.
Mustering his best French, Renzi replied, “Nicholas Renzi, a British naval officer.”
“We were expecting another.”
“Le vicomte was detained by his wounds. I come from him with a letter.” Renzi drew back his coat far enough for the scarlet-heart insignia of the Chouans to be seen. A rustle went through the others as they bent to see.
“And here is his token.” He held out his hand, which now bore d’Aché’s signet ring.
The blade stayed unwavering at his throat.
“So you robbed le vicomte of his ring as well?”
“As a show of his trust in me, he desires further that I should say this to you.”
He took a breath, and in the ancient French of seven hundred years ago the noble lines of “La Chanson de Roland” echoed forth in the old hut:
Tere de France, mult estes dulz païs,
Oi desertét a tant ruboste exill!
Barons franceis, pur mei vos vei murir,
Jo ne vos pois tenser ne guarantir . . .
The blade fell away. “Robert always did relish his civilisation. I am Henri. You told that well, Englishman. Are you perchance a scholar?”
“You were late,” Renzi snapped.
“It is the situation, mon brave —soldiers, gendarmerie, they are in unrest, they stalk the woods. It is menacing outside, m’sieur.”
The candle flickered as another entered the hut and muttered something to Henri. He nodded, with a frown, then turned to Renzi. “A letter, you said.”
“Sir, I’ve come to deliver assurance from His Britannic Majesty’s Government that all possible support shall be given to you in this decisive hour.” He relieved the man of the poignard that had recently been at his throat and, with swift, savage strokes, slashed open the lining of his coat.
A sigh went round the hut as he passed over an elaborately sealed parchment. Henri broke it open and held it up to the candlelight. “This is from a Sir Saumarez,” he said accusingly.
“It is,” said Renzi, with a haughty sniff. “Commander-in-chief and admiral. He owes his allegiance directly to London and his word may be accepted, I believe. Would you rather we delayed by requiring a reply all the way from there?”
“It speaks of aid and assistance but with no detail, no numbers.”
“Sir! You can hardly expect a high commander to concern himself in the kind of specifics a quartermaster might deal with.” The hut was warm and close; Renzi was perspiring but it was more from the knowledge of the colossal stakes behind his every word than the lack of air.
Peering intently at the letter, Henri spotted d’Aché’s scrawl across one corner. He looked up suddenly. “Robert commends us to accept this letter. But we have the biggest decision still. If we—”
“If you rise up and triumph in your plan, where is the certitude that there will be ships and men to join with you in consummating your achievement?”
“Exactly.”
There was only one way to go forward now. “Sir,” Renzi said, “it is I who have been charged with the responsibility of ensuring that vessels will be there to receive the tyrant—and, of course, any who wish for any reason to quit France at that time. And I have seen with my own eyes the apartment in the castle of Mont Orgueil that is at this moment being prepared by the Prince of Bouillon for Napoleon Bonaparte. Sir, if you have any anxieties on this matter be pleased to address them to me that I might answer them.”
Would this suffice?
In the light from the single candle, Henri’s eyes seemed to glow—with satisfaction or suspicion? Holding up the letter he pronounced, “By these writings the British Government has implicated itself in the greatest threat to Bonaparte he has ever experienced. In all the chancelleries of Europe it will be seen that perfidious Albion reaches out to topple its foes by cunning and clandestine means and all might tremble that they are to be next.”
Renzi held rigid. He had done all that could be expected of him and now the verdict on his efforts was to be made plain.
Henri looked directly at him. “Sir, this letter is a gunpowder keg for your government. That they have seen fit to trust it to our keeping is all the assurance we desire.” He held the sheet to
the flame. It caught and flared until it was consumed and the ashes fluttered to the floor. “In forty-eight hours you shall have our date and places.”
Renzi could find no words and gave a simple bow. A scatter of applause and excited talk was halted by Henri, holding up his hands. “I would that we were able to extend to you the hospitality you deserve but, alas . . .”
He cocked his head to one side and listened intently. Then Renzi felt an irregular thumping in the ground, a jumble of drumbeats out of synchrony.
“Dragoons!”
The door burst open. “Les soldats! Nous sommes trahis!” The hut turned to bedlam and in the rush for the door Renzi heard Henri bellowing orders. Outside in the Stygian darkness there was a crashing of vegetation as the conspirators scattered in every direction.
Renzi’s arm was seized and he was forced to one side. “Stay with me!” a woman’s voice urged, as she propelled him across the glade into the woods and they plunged deeper into the wilder depths flying over bracken and fallen tree boles. Shots popped behind them and the squeal of horses pierced the night air.
Mercifully the terrifying sounds lessened and, panting uncontrollably, they stopped at the edge of a meadow, still and serene in the beginnings of a moonrise. Renzi was confused: they were certainly no closer to the sea but the drumming hoofbeats were going away. “My brother, he draws them from us,” the woman said brokenly.
“He—he is a brave man,” Renzi said, affected.
“Is his duty,” she sobbed. “We must go.”
The mad scramble resumed; Renzi, however, now saw that they were going in a wide sweep along the edge of the woods to reach the landing place. Everything depended on his endurance in overcoming pain and exhaustion.
But what if the privateer, hearing the shots and commotion, had considered that this was none of his business and left? Renzi could tell now that a body of dragoons had entered the wood on its far side, not far from where they were.
He stumbled on, aware of the woman’s agonised breathing. Then the wan glitter of the sea showed through the trees and they reached the shore. “This way,” she gasped, urging him to the left.
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