The Privateer's Revenge

by Julian Stockwin

  To the starboard rear there was a medium-sized ship-rigged merchantman, probably hailing from the Caribbean and with no particular attraction other than that she had a modest stern quarter and bulwarks to lessen the dangerous climb aboard. She would be his kill.

  “Mr Cheslyn, we board!” There was an instant response. He had no need to make bracing speeches: they all knew the stakes—and the reward.

  Sheering over to starboard he let the Witch have her head. She rapidly overhauled the merchant ship and set her bowsprit to pass down the vessel’s outer side. This was no time to check on the frigate’s actions for now they were committed and there was no turning back.

  Puffs of smoke appeared from along the afterdeck and were joined by others coming from the tops. A swivel banged, and another. Kydd heard the vicious whip of bullets overhead and felt their thump through his feet as they slammed into the hull.

  The gap of water narrowed. “Fire!” he bellowed. Their six-pounder crashed out, its hail of musket balls sleeting across and, with a hoarse roar, the coehorn mortar joined in, throwing grena-does among the defenders who scattered wildly.

  The two vessels came together with a crash, sending Kydd staggering; men stood to hurl grapnels—one collapsed as he took a ball to the chest but others secured a hold and hauled the ships together while the boarders gathered, brandishing their weapons in a bloodthirsty show.

  However, there were cool and brave heads on the other ship and seamen darted out and hacked at the grapnel lines with axes and the vessels drifted apart again.

  They had to act or it was all over. “Wi’ me!” Kydd shrieked at Cheslyn, in the crazy noise, and raced forward, throwing over his shoulder at the helmsman, “Take her in!”

  On the foredeck Kydd looked frantically about for the fall of a line from aloft, found one and slashed through it; then, as though he were a seaman atop a yard aloft, he ran out on the bowsprit, which was swinging towards the other ship, clamping the coil of line under his arm.

  He felt Cheslyn behind him, and others as well—they had moments only, for their impetus through the water would translate to a deflection out by the shock of impact. He reached the cranse iron at the tip of the bowsprit and paused, passing a hurried bowline around the fore topmast stay, conscious of the racing water below and, in the other ship, the men tumbling down from the low poop to meet the sudden threat, and then the long spar was arcing over the enemy deck.

  Instantly he dropped. There was only one thing he had to do now but would he live long enough to do it? Then he heard Cheslyn’s roaring battle-cry above—followed by the man’s body knocking him askew, others dropping by him.

  Kydd heaved himself to his feet and felt the line tug away from him. Ignoring the ring and clash of arms around him as Cheslyn parried and thrust to protect him, he threw himself at a kevel-head and passed turns round the thick timber belaying point. The schooner’s bowsprit was now fastened to its victim and was thus a bridge into the heart of the other vessel. In minutes it was all over, the defenders falling back in panic at the stream of screeching privateersmen flooding aboard.

  Kydd stood apart, watching Cheslyn urgently dispatch men into the rigging and along the deck—then raised his eyes to seek out the frigate. With a lurch of his heart he saw it had skilfully driven the brig clear to leeward, then had worn about instantly and was now beating back ferociously.

  They had bare minutes to take possession. Having seen the masterly handling of the frigate Kydd knew it was impossible. Still under full sail, still within the convoy, they had to fight their way out—but to do this they needed to learn enough about the rigging operations of a strange ship to put about without a mistake and there was not the time.

  The last of the defenders scuttled out of sight—he was master of the deck but with a hostile crew still unsubdued below. He forced his mind to an icy calm. One thing was clear: this prize was heavy with cargo and would never achieve the swift manoeuvres he needed—and all the time the frigate was thrashing closer.

  Defiantly he looked back at the wheel. One of his men held it firmly, not daring to vary the ship’s heading until he could be sure of the sail handling. The body of an unknown sailor lay sprawled at his feet.

  Then Kydd had it. “Steady as she goes!” he bawled at the helmsman, and hurried over to stand by him. Cheslyn looked aft questioningly. He had groups of men positioned at the base of each mast but Kydd knew that to go about now was simply too risky. Even missing stays would have the frigate right up with them and

  . . . He shook his head vigorously and concentrated.

  They had just this chance. “Follow m’ motions!” he croaked at the nervous helmsman. As a square-rigger, they were sailing directly before the south-westerly, which gave them their only advantage—they had a wide angle of possible courses ahead.

  “Steer f’r th’ Frenchy frigate,” Kydd ordered. The helmsman gave a frightened glance but complied, and the ship swung ponderously until it was headed directly towards the ship beating up towards them between the two columns of the convoy.

  The man-o’-war did not change its course and Kydd guessed there would be frenzied discussion on her quarterdeck. They stood on stubbornly, but Kydd knew that the frigate captain had only one object—to lay them aboard. He would do his best to oblige.

  “Shake out that reef!” he hailed Cheslyn. Sails had been trimmed to achieve an even speed in convoy. Loosing the main and fore-course would give them speed in hand.

  The frigate’s track did not vary in the slightest and, head to head, the two ships approached each other. Everything now depended on the timing and the placements: Kydd’s eye took in not only the menace of the French frigate but the convoy—especially the next-ahead vessel—and he made his calculations deliberately, passing his orders quietly for fine corrections of heading.

  Their advance downwind was drawing the next-ahead perilously near, and somewhere on her inner beam there would be a meeting. One or other of the closing ships must give way.

  The frigate slashed ahead, straight for them, with no sign of yielding way—but this was not Kydd’s concern for at the last possible moment he gave orders to fall away to starboard. Instead of coming to a confrontation their ship instead passed to the outer side of the next-ahead and so close that the pale, shocked faces of the men at the wheel were clear and stark as they bucketed by.

  In one move Kydd had placed this ship between him and the frigate as they passed in opposite directions—but the best was yet to come. Enraged by Kydd’s bold escape the frigate captain made to bear away closely round the next-ahead’s stern, but in his eagerness to grapple gave insufficient allowance for the strength of the fresh winds. In a chorus of splintering smashes, twangs and screams of indignity the frigate made close acquaintance with the vessel’s stern quarters and, recoiling, fell off the wind, helpless.

  Quickly, Kydd had his new prize angling off into the open sea with Witch of Sarnia close beside.

  Outside the Three Crowns Kydd stood in a maze of happiness. He was gazing at a poster on a pillar proclaiming boldly:

  FOR SALE BY THE CANDLE

  At three crowns tavern, St Peter Port, on Monday the next by Ten o’ clock in the Forenoon, The Good Ship héros de guadeloupe, burthen about 400 Tons, lately taken by the witch of sarnia, Letter of Marque, Thomas Kydd, Captain. A remarkable sailer, well found and calculated for the Caribbee trade and may be sent to sea at a Trifling Expence . . . after the Sale, the entire cargo now landed will be set to Auction, inventories may be viewed at . . .

  And this was only the first of his two prizes. Hearings had taken place immediately and the evidences of French ownership sent to the Admiralty Prize Court had resulted in swift condemnation as prize, and the vessel was now in the process of being sold at auction.

  “Mr Kydd, is it not?” a well-dressed man asked politely, removing his hat. “I believe the heartiest congratulations would be insufficient to express my sense of admiration at your late action. And another prize to your name?”
>
  “Aye, there is, sir,” Kydd answered warily.

  “Magnificent! Just as in the old days! Oh, might I introduce myself? Robert de Havilland.” He handed Kydd a card. “As you may see, I’m a banker and it did cross my mind that should you see fit to favour us with your financial interests then I’m sure that we would be able to offer very advantageous rates to a gentleman as distinguished as yourself. A line of credit against your captures, perhaps? Sovereign investment in Consols at above market—”

  “Why, thank ye, Mr de Havilland,” Kydd came back politely, “but I’m not ready t’ change banks at th’ moment.” It was truly amazing how many new friends he had made in the few days since his return from sea.

  Curious to see proceedings he entered the tavern. It was stifling, packed with merchants watching while the auctioneer droned away on the fine qualities of the vessel under the hammer. A stir went through them when he had finished and an assistant brought a lighted taper.

  “Are ye ready, gennelmen? Light th’ candle!”

  The bids were low at first, then from all sides the serious ones came in. “One fifty t’ you, sir—two hundred? Mr Mauger? Two seventy . . .”

  Kydd had no idea of the value this represented but was content to let it wash over him. The bids petered out but all eyes were fixed on the candle and Kydd saw that it was burning down to where a blackened pin with a ribbon had been inserted. As the flame neared, the bids redoubled until there was a staccato hammer of shouts before the pin dropped clear, and the highest bidder was declared the new owner.

  Turning to go, Kydd was stopped by the auctioneer, who had spotted him. To general acclamation he announced that they had been honoured by the presence of the victorious captor. Kydd blushed and made a hurried escape outside to an unseasonably warm sun.

  He strolled along the parade, nodding to respectful passers-by, and pondered the change in life’s direction that had brought him so much. He recalled the smugness of Zephaniah Job at the wind-up meeting, the almost fawning attention of Robidou, the ledger figures that told of his restoration to fortune.

  Then there was the respect he seemed to have won from Cheslyn and the crew of the privateer at paying-off time. He chuckled aloud to recall a bold and swashbuckling Pookie stepping ashore playing the corsair to the limit as she took home her plunder to present to her mother.

  Would Renzi believe how things had changed? His friend’s selfless toil in Jersey to keep him going was now no longer necessary. He would ask him to return but without telling him of his great change in fortune, simply say he was due for a surprise. Yes, he must write him a letter . . .

  Kydd then remembered a promise, which he would soon be in a position to keep. He planned to take one of those grand and very comfortable mansions in Grange Road.

  A celebration, a great dinner occasion—and the only ones invited would be those who had stood so nobly by him. As he hurried along to set it in train he imagined the room resounding to Richard Samson’s Shakespearean declaiming, the extravagant gown that Griselda Mayhew would flaunt, the studied nonchalance of Carne, who would probably complain at the waste of a good flyman. It would be a splendid evening.

  CHAPTER 16

  RENZI WAS ON HIS WAY BACK to Guernsey and to Kydd. He had kept his word and stayed with d’Auvergne until it was obvious there was no more to be done, and then, accepting only what he was owed in wages, he quit the place.

  It had been a catastrophe—not for want of courage: there had been every reason to expect a different conclusion but for the treachery of Querelle. The head of the secret police, Fouché, had moved rapidly and, with bloodshed and torture, the conspiracy to kidnap Bonaparte had been comprehensively crushed.

  Georges had been taken after a gigantic struggle, the old soldier Pichegru dragged from his bed to the Temple prison. Troops had been sent across the Rhine to arrest the Duc d’Enghien and orders poured out of Paris for apprehending lesser names.

  Bonaparte’s vengeance was savage: arrests, trials and executions followed swiftly one on another. Georges was guillotined with eleven others, bellowing, “Vive le Roi!” even as the blade fell. The Duc d’Enghien was imprisoned and put on trial for his life while Pichegru was found strangled in his cell with a stick and necker-chief, some said to prevent unwanted disclosures at the trial.

  It had been a searing experience: Renzi knew he looked haggard and drawn, and that it would take some time to emerge from the darkness of tainted violence. To see his friend again was now all he asked; he remembered the last letter, the reference to his “surprise,” and hoped it would allow some small leavening of Kydd’s existence—what means he himself had been able to bring back was not as much as he had hoped.

  St Peter Port was unchanged, the waterfront as active as ever. He checked the address on Kydd’s letter. Off Fountain Street to the south: quite up to the fringes of respectability—was this his surprise? He found the house easily enough, a somewhat decayed dwelling but of some size.

  “Oh?” The strikingly featured woman who answered the door seemed disconcerted at his appearance.

  “Madame,” Renzi said, with an abject bow, “I have no wish to intrude. My recent understanding is that Mr Thomas Kydd is in residence here.”

  “Ah!” she said. “You’re naught but a bailiff come after the poor lamb!”

  “Indeed I am not,” Renzi said, with the first smile for many weeks. “I am his friend.”

  “You’re not Mr Renzi?” she said, incredulous.

  “I am.”

  She took him by the arm and said warmly, “Why, do come in! I’m Rosie—he’s not living here any more but you’ll have such a surprise when y’ hear what he’s a-doing now.”

  An hour later, warmed by a stiff tot and the odd group’s open regard for him as a friend of Kydd, he stood in the street outside, bemused at the turn of events. Kydd was the talk of the town and, to a fair way of thinking, a rich man—a privateer captain of all things—still out on his third voyage but expected daily.

  Renzi wandered down to the foreshore where they had last walked together. By all accounts Kydd’s days of penury were well and truly behind him, and his own little contributions would no longer be needed—in fact, the new address he had been given was up on Grange Road, one of the imposing villas that looked down haughtily on the bustling seaport.

  It would be a quite different man he would shortly be seeing. Their time together in Teazer was over, of course, however brief in the larger span of life. He’d wedge himself no longer in his tight little cabin, musing on mystical paradigms and vaulting theories while the sea tossed about their sturdy barque—and he would be so much the poorer to have to develop his thoughts in some dingy shorebound building.

  Renzi shook off his selfish concerns. Now their ways would necessarily diverge, given their utterly different courses in life, and with Kydd busy amassing a fortune as a privateer captain there would be little point in lingering in Guernsey waiting for his infrequent returns.

  No, it was time to part. The bleakness returned, threatening to become a desolation. He cast about for something to fasten on to. Was there anything perhaps he could give Kydd to show him how much he had appreciated his friendship? Given his circumstances, it would have to be a forlorn sort of present.

  Then a thought struck. There was one last service he could do for his friend.

  With the prospect of increasing wealth and Kydd’s consequent high standing in society, there was little doubt that he would now see any resumption of his attempt to clear his name as irrelevant. Renzi had heard from Rosie of Kydd’s naïve plan to unbribe the perpetrators. It had no chance, of course, but if he himself by other means was able to get to the bottom of it, it would be a satisfying thing indeed to offer his friend.

  • • •

  Renzi strode purposefully along the Pollet to Smith Street and made his way up to the headquarters of the commander-in-chief. “Renzi,” he snapped at the guard. “Confidential secretary to Commodore d’Auvergne of the Jersey Squadron
. If you please—Mr Jessop, high clerk to Sir James.”

  Being of such stature, the man maintained his own office; Renzi entered, then made play of closing the door behind him and testing the latch. Then he intoned gravely, “Renzi, sir. We have corresponded on occasion.”

  Mystified, Jessop rose to shake hands.

  “Sir. I have come on a matter of some delicacy. You are aware, are you not, of the commodore’s other responsibilities?”

  “Um, if you are referring to his activities of a clandestine nature arising from his connections with . . . yes, Mr Renzi, as high clerk to the commander-in-chief I am generally made cognisant—”

  “There is no necessity for details at this time, Mr Jessop. The matter under privy investigation at this time merely requires an indication only concerning a possible breach of confidentiality. It may or may not be necessary to take the issue further but for now a simple response will answer.”

  Jessop frowned and waited.

  “Within the last several months has any communication of a covert or unusual nature been received by this office from the admiral commanding at Plymouth? Do please indicate with an affirmative or negative only.”

  The man’s face cleared. “Absolutely not. As you must be aware this is a commander-in-chief’s station and does not have anything operationally to do with a subordinate admiral in another station. Therefore we have had nothing from Admiral . . . Lockwood, isn’t it? Apart from the routine and mundane, that is.”

  “You can be quite certain that nothing touching on covert operations or deployments—”

  “Sir. You can rest assured that anything of such a nature must pass across my desk and there has been no such.”

  “Nothing that can require a secret deviation from operational orders, perhaps?”

  “Mr Renzi, I myself make up the order packs for captains and there have been no secret orders issued a commander on this station these last six months. As you must know, such operations as might be classed as covert are generally attended to by Commodore d’Auvergne. Of course, Cerberus frigate was once diverted—”