Caribbee (13 page)

After politely summoning him, Kydd asked formally, ‘Mr Renzi, would you be so good as to tell us your appreciation of the situation obtaining in Hispaniola at present?’

His friend paused, marshalling his thoughts. ‘Not an easy task, sir, and one only explicable with a little history. The French colonised the western third of the island a century or more ago, the eastern two-thirds being Spanish since the days of Columbus. In 1795 the Spanish, at war with ourselves, saw it as impossible to continue to govern and yielded up the whole island to the French.’

‘So it’s French.’

‘Not so easily answered. The slaves of the French heard of their revolution with
liberté
,
égalité
,
fraternité
for all, assumed it applied to them and, duly disappointed, rose in rebellion. They had a masterly general, one Toussaint L’Ouverture, who remarkably prevailed and made treaty with the authorities to abolish slavery in return for the former slaves remaining loyal to France. This was granted. When Napoleon Bonaparte came to power he first agreed to this, but then changed his mind and sent General Leclerc to restore slavery. Not Boney’s most intelligent plan, I’m persuaded. L’Ouverture fought Leclerc to a standstill, even with France free to pour in reinforcements while we were at peace between the wars. So the French turned to treachery, offering to parlay, then kidnapped L’Ouverture and took him to France where he died in chains. With their great enemy removed, did they then triumph? Not at all. This betrayal inflamed the slaves beyond reason and under a singularly brutal leader, Dessalines, they flung themselves into as savage a war as any to be seen in Christendom. The burning alive of prisoners in village squares was the least of it, bestial conduct on both sides the rule.

‘The result – stark catastrophe for the French, who in their efforts to bring back slavery lost fifty thousand soldiers and no fewer than eighteen generals, a far worse beating than ever we’ve been able to achieve over them.’

‘That’s all very well, Renzi,’ Gilbey said, with irritation. ‘We’ve heard most of that. What we want t’ know is who rules now?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Then—’

‘The French were ejected from the whole of Hispaniola. Dessalines has proclaimed himself Emperor Jacques the First, over a new-conjured nation he calls Haiti, and inaugurated his rule with a general slaughter of all white settlers. Bonaparte has vowed not to rest until it’s recovered for his empire, while Spain makes no secret of its desire to take back their eastern realm. Gentlemen, given this clash of claims, I would declare that the sovereignty of this island remains … unclear.’

‘Excepting they’re each and all our enemy,’ Curzon came in smugly, ‘Therefore we can feel free to act as we will.’

‘Not so,’ Renzi replied, ‘as we have since made common cause with Dessalines, whom it would be folly to antagonise.’

Holding up his hand at Gilbey’s exasperated outburst, Kydd asked, ‘Then what should we conclude at all? What are the practicals in the matter?’

Renzi gave a brief smile and replied simply, ‘There is a species of mob rule and most grievous corruption abroad in this benighted island. There will be no Spanish garrison, still less French, for our good emperor detests any and all foreigners, including our own selves. Therefore we may fear no impregnable castle, frigates in harbour, or any sudden threat. I leave the rest to you.’

Kydd nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Renzi. Well put and clear. We sail tomorrow with confidence!’

Heeling to the fine north-easterly trades,
L’Aurore
made good time to Cape Beata; every man who could be there was on deck, eagerly scanning for prey. It was rumoured that their captain had second sight as regards privateers, and all expectation was that their arrow-straight passage was for a purpose.

‘Get up there, Mr Buckle,’ Kydd said, handing over his own pocket telescope. ‘I want you to report from the masthead any vessels – at anchor or under way. If they flee, don’t you dare lose ’em – keep them under eye. Clear?’

‘Right, sir!’ The enthusiasm of the reply brought a smothered cheer from nearby seamen but the third lieutenant had already swung nimbly into the shrouds.

A morning haze, however, lay along the coast and in its delicate pearl mistiness it was impossible to make out detail, but as they neared it began to lift.

Almost immediately there was a cry from the masthead. Buckle was peering with fierce concentration towards the firming sight of an offshore island, the mainland still lost in mist.

‘What is it?’ Kydd called up, in an impatient bellow.

‘Er, sail, I think, sir. No – I’m sure!’

‘Explain yourself, damn it!’

‘Well, I saw him at first but I can’t now.’ He craned forward, searching frantically in all directions with the telescope.

With a splutter of rage, Kydd hauled himself into the shrouds and mounted up to join him with a speed that had even the topmen looking thoughtful. ‘Now, Mr Buckle, what the devil are you trying to say?’

‘Over there, sir. Next to the big island – he’s gone now.’

Kydd snatched the glass and scanned the coast carefully.

The emerging headland itself was unimpressive, leading down in a tame finish for a forty-odd-mile cape to end in flat, pinkish rocks. Offshore there were two islands. The nearest to the cape, Isla Beata, was a five-mile triangle and was separated from it by a channel. The other, much smaller, was further out still, a single island less than a mile across.

And not a sail in sight.

‘You’re sure you saw something, Mr Buckle?’

‘I did, sir!’

‘Did
you
?’ Kydd snapped at the posted lookout.

‘No, sir, can’t say as I did.’

Kydd twisted about and shouted to the other mast, ‘Main top lookout, ahoy! Did you sight sail?’

‘None!’

Kydd swung out and down the shrouds. Before he made the deck, his mood had calmed: given the conditions, any sail could well have vanished into the mists closer inshore. ‘He’s between the large island and the cape. Take us in, Mr Kendall.’

They came more by the wind as they changed course and began to open up the channel between. The master pursed his lips – the tell-tale white of sub-sea reefs was becoming visible in the two-mile gap. ‘It’s shoal water in there, an’ a strong current hereabouts, Mr Kydd. I don’t reckon—’

‘I’ve seen enough. Take us south-about then.’ He’d had an unobstructed view of the channel and there was nothing in it. They’d pass by the island to its other side, and if it was innocent of vessels, he’d have to admit he’d been wrong in his intuition.

Renzi stood by him silently as
L’Aurore
quickly passed the tip of the island.

‘Nothing but empty sea,’ Kydd said woodenly.

‘Still one place you haven’t looked, dear fellow.’

‘Oh?’

‘The outer island. Small, but enough to conceal. Should we put up our helm now we might profitably circle the island by wearing about it.’

‘We’ve seen three sides of it, no sign of anything.’ Alto Velo was only seven or eight hundred yards long, with a lofty conical peak.

‘What have we to lose?’

‘Very well, Nicholas. To please you. Mr Kendall, we wear about Alto Velo.’

They fell off downwind but the fourth side was as bare as all else.

‘Resume course, Mr Kendall.’

‘To?’

‘It’s the Mona Passage for us, I’m sorry to say.’

The frigate paid off to return on its eastward course, the expectant groups of men breaking up and going crestfallen about their business.

‘Um, I could swear …’

‘What’s that, Nicholas?’

‘Nothing, really. Just that I thought I saw a fleck of white and now it’s red, is all.’

‘On the island?’

‘Well, at the end, near the waterline, as it were.’

‘Now, don’t
you
start seeing things – I’ve enough with Mr Buckle.’

But a thought, a long-ago memory, gradually took form and coalesced into a single idea. A sailor’s yarn during some long-forgotten watch in the Pacific. Something about …

‘Heave to! This instant, if you please.’ The differing motion on the ship brought the curious back on deck.

‘Get a boat in the water, Mr Curzon – and from the opposite ship’s side to the island.’

Curiosity turned to astonishment.

‘Er, and hail aft Mr Saxton.’

The master’s mate arrived, wide-eyed and expectant. When Kydd explained to him what he wanted, he broke into a wide grin and went away immediately to find a boat’s crew.

L’Aurore
got under way again, shaking out sail as though she meant to circle the island once more. But she had left her gig behind – the smallest boat on board, which, with bows towards land and its crew hunkered down out of sight below the gunwale, was near invisible from the shore.

For long minutes it lay bobbing to the waves until a hoarse cry came from forward. ‘She’s away.’
L’Aurore
had disappeared behind the green slopes of the island.

‘Out oars,’ Saxton ordered crisply.

They were only five: himself, gunner’s mate Stirk, and the seamen Doud, Wong and Pinto.

‘Give way together,’ Saxton rapped. ‘Silence in the boat, fore ’n’ aft!’

He was concentrating on the landing: there was a fringing beach with few rocks and the greenery was resolving into palm trees and the deep green verdure of a Caribbean island. He picked out the likeliest spot and conned the little boat in.

It hissed to a stop at the water’s edge, the rich odour of the land welcoming them in a wall of warmth.

‘Doud ’n’ Pinto, away to the right. Stirk ’n’ Wong, to the left,’ he ordered.

Doud eased the pistol in his belt and headed out with Pinto to follow the water’s edge around.

Saxton went off along the beach behind Stirk and Wong. Then he realised that if
L’Aurore
was in that direction their quarry would be at the other end of the island – in fact, close by.

‘Stirk!’ he called urgently. ‘Go ahead and spy out the lay.’

The big man loped quickly out of sight. Shortly afterwards his head bobbed above the bushes and he beckoned.

Heart in his mouth, Saxton joined him. Stirk pointed. No more than fifty yards away a black man sat on the beach, staring intently at
L’Aurore
far off to the right. Beside him were two large flags on sticks, one red, one white.

Stirk tapped Saxton on the arm and pointed again. Nearly out of view in the opposite direction around the point was a low-lined schooner, her sails loose in their gear.

That old yarn that Kydd had recalled had saved the day: in the American war the South Sea whaler
Amelia
had avoided capture by a privateer by the simple ruse of dodging about an island, a man ashore signalling to it the whereabouts of the other so that it could keep to the opposite side, always out of sight. It had been in effect the childhood game of chase in which a frustrated pursuer could never catch any quarry who made it to the fat trunk of a tree.

The watcher did not hear their tiptoe approach along the soft sand. They loomed up beside him and the man jerked around in fright. Then, from the other direction, Doud and Pinto appeared.

‘So what do we do wi’ the bastard?’ Stirk asked mildly, fingering his weapon. ‘I can give him the frights, should ye need to ask him his code.’

‘No need,’ said Saxton, smugly. ‘I’ve got it figured!’

‘Oh?’ said Stirk.

‘Simple. He stays in sight o’ both, and signals where
L’Aurore
is by saying she is to my left or right, larboard or starboard. That’s red or green at sea – he can use red but green won’t be seen, so he uses white. See?’

‘I reckon,’ Stirk said, in admiration.

The rest was easy. Leaving Wong to keep the man company, they took the flags and went to a point of rock.
L’Aurore
was approaching from the right – so Saxton took the red flag and furiously waved it to and fro as if in the utmost urgency.

There was an immediate response: the schooner hauled in on her tacks and sheets and got under way as soon as she could, rounding the point under a press of sail – directly into the open arms of the frigate.

‘A splendid catch,’ Gilbey said, admiring the fine lines of their prize. An island schooner of about eighty tons, low and with a roguishly raked mast, she was built for speed over cargo capacity, as might be expected of a privateer.

Her crew, disconsolate on the main deck of
L’Aurore
, were not many, which implied men away in prizes. The captain, a bitter young man of South American origin, demanded to know who had betrayed them.

‘His papers, if he has any. If none, I’m desolated to have to inform him that he and his crew shall swing as pirates,’ Kydd told Renzi, whose Spanish, since their actions at Buenos Aires, was now more than adequate.

‘He shall fetch them, if he is at liberty to do so.’

Returning with Curzon, the captain stiffly presented a folded parchment. It was a Spanish letter of marque for the schooner
Infanta
on a privateering voyage in the north Caribbean and appeared to have been issued under the hand of the viceroy of New Grenada in Venezuela.

‘Very well, they’re spared the rope. Get them below,’ Kydd grunted.

Curzon waited until they had been escorted away, then said, in an undertone, ‘I suspect you’d be interested in other articles I relieved them of.’

Kydd called Renzi and, in the privacy of his cabin, they went through the haul. Innocent papers, such as would be found on any working ship: invoices for stores received, goods landed, repairs completed. Nothing to raise suspicion – except that the sea-port common to all was Puerto de Barahona, some fifty-odd miles further to the north.

‘Aha! We have his bolt-hole, the devil,’ Kydd declared, with satisfaction. Any privateer needed a repair base, supplies to stay at sea and, even more importantly, a safe haven to which it would send back its prizes.

‘You’re not thinking …’

‘I am.’

‘Then I’m obliged to remind you that this port lies in Santo Domingo – or should I say Haiti? – and by this we should be violating its sovereign neutrality.’

Kydd hesitated. ‘Good point, Nicholas, but there’s another side to it. I know privateering, and to put a private cruiser to sea needs funds and backing. I’ll wager it’s a joint venture of the port, and if this is so, then Haiti won’t want to know of it or they’d be obliged to admit they’re allowing military operations by a foreign power on their soil.’