Caribbee (23 page)

They began with St Nicholas Mole, an old French port going back to the 1600s and well known in the past as a nest of corsairs, but immediately ran into difficulties. The casualty reports they were working to had in nearly every instance the actual position of capture only loosely defined. That a ship had sailed on this date, bound for a given port, had simply not arrived on schedule, the bracket of dates producing an unworkable margin of error.

‘Unfortunate. We shall have to think our way to another solution, Mr Wilikins,’ Renzi muttered.

A variation, perhaps, with the range of uncertainty represented by a line, a strip of paper, which could be overlaid one over the other for a visual match?

By evening they had gone over the permutations of only four of the possible harbours and there were many more to cover. The willing clerk offered to work on, but Renzi needed time to think and took his leave.

The next day he redoubled his efforts but, by the end of the afternoon, could see that he was not going to arrive at a computed solution. But what else was there?

With sympathy, Wilikins saw Renzi rub his eyes. ‘There’s one thing we may try, my friend,’ he offered hesitantly. ‘But it’s only my humble idea.’

‘Say on, my dear sir,’ Renzi said, eager for anything that could break through the morass facing him.

‘I’ve heard it answered in the days of the great Admiral Rodney.’

‘Please go on.’

‘Well, there were bad losses from privateers in those days. So many that, faced with ruin, Lloyd’s insurers sent an investigator from England to determine the facts. He came and immediately offered a great reward to any who could uncover their nest, their
locus domesticus
. In fact, one of their own came forward privily and informed, claiming the reward, which allowed the admiral to mount an operation to extirpate them.’

‘Umm. The power of venality to overcome loyalty is never to be scorned, sir.’

‘Unhappily I fear we have not the time to petition Lloyd’s, Mr Renzi.’

‘Ah. You may leave that to me, Mr Wilikins. I do believe we shall pursue your idea, sir. And not a word to a soul, remember.’

The clerk brightened. ‘Of course not. So gratified to be of assistance, Mr Renzi.’

‘An irregular proceeding, sir, most irregular!’ Dacres sat back and frowned. ‘In the character of a Lloyd’s man you’ll be offering a reward for the uncovering of a nest of privateers? What has this to do with a naval fleet operation?’

‘You’ll grant appearances will be much the same, sir. Some curious soul will have seen such – a quantity of vessels issuing from and arriving at a place they have no right to be, large amounts of victuals being shipped in, numbers of country ships at anchor and—’

‘Yes, yes. But where the devil am I going to find the cash for this reward, I’d like to know, sir?’

‘Others may well point out that Admiral Rodney found his way to funding it and believed the happy outcome more than recompensed him.’

‘Humph. Well, now persuade me how you’ll not be flammed by a rogue claiming to know and doesn’t.’

‘Sir, I’m to tell you I’m not unacquainted with the arts of dissimulation. Were Commodore d’Auvergne to be present, he would speak warmly of my conduct on his behalf, er, at significant events for this country of a clandestine nature.’

‘You’re admitting you’ve been acting as agent in some species of hugger-mugger operation.’

Renzi winced. ‘Not as if I’d wished to have it known, sir.’

‘Of course not, no employment for a gentleman, I can understand that. Your secret’s safe with me, Renzi.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘And I’ve a mind to see this through – anything that has any sort of chance of ridding us of the vermin. What do you propose?’

Several days later,
L’Aurore
was due to sail within forty-eight hours, and Renzi found himself making for the Shipp Inn on Queen’s Street in Port Royal. Here, all those years ago, he had roistered with one Tom Kydd and his shipmates, who had found themselves unaccountably crew of
Seaflower
cutter – it was a warm thought. It would be awkward, of course, if he was recognised, but in an old-fashioned wig and spectacles he didn’t think it likely.

It had changed little and he couldn’t help but give a tiny smile as he took up solitary residence in the snug, which he had hired for the night. He sat, with an untouched pewter of stingo, and waited.

Reward posters had been pasted up all about the town, proclaiming the existence of a Mr Smith from Lloyd’s of London come to investigate the recent losses. It seemed he was offering a large reward of an undisclosed sum for information leading to an uncovering of the privateers’ nest. All dealings in the strictest confidence and prompt payment in bright silver dollars assured.

It was an outside chance, and if he came away empty-handed it would probably mean the end for his prospects of revealing the plot – if it existed. His logical mind, however, came back stoutly with the observation that, while there was at the moment no evidence in support, it did explain things better than any alternative.

At the front of the tavern sailors roared with laughter as they downed rum punch but this was to the good – he didn’t want to be overheard in his dealings.

As the evening wore on, the happy noise began to get on his nerves. He saw off four hopefuls, transparently ignorant, then called for a pie and soup, as much for a change as to fend off hunger. The pot-boy brought in the food, curious about the strange gentleman sitting alone and sober in a haunt that in former days had seen many a pirate plotting a voyage of plunder.

It was soon approaching midnight; Renzi had to conclude that if there was a clandestine base apparently no one had seen it. The idea of a secret fleet, however attractive in logic, remained just that – an empty theory.

The tavern quietened as the revellers departed. Renzi decided he’d give it until twelve and then leave. At a few minutes to the hour the pot-boy entered hesitantly, wide-eyed and holding out a folded note. ‘I’m t’ give you this’n.’

Renzi found a coin and the lad disappeared quickly.

The note was roughly written and in block capitals: ‘
I HAVE THE GRIFF YOU WANTS. ITS BIGGER THAN YOU KNOW. I’LL HAVE ALL MY COBBS TONIGHT, OR NOTHING. IF YOU WANT TO PLAY, SHIFT INTO THE OTHER SEAT
.’

Instantly, Renzi came to full alert, his heart thudding. This was near professional – in some way he was being put under observation as he read. Carefully he rose and went around the table to the chair he had out for visitors. It had its back to the door.

He glanced again at the rest of the note. ‘
THEN DONT LOOK ROUND OR YOUR A DEAD MAN.
’

He sat and waited for the blindfold. He heard the door open and soft paces, then dark cloth was fastened around his eyes. More paces around the table and the scraping of a chair.

‘Right, cully. Now we talks.’

The voice was low and had a West Country burr. The man had evidently waited until the tavern was nearly clear of customers before he had made his move.

‘I’m Mr Smith of Lloyd’s Insurance,’ Renzi said neutrally. ‘Do you have information on a privateers’ nest as will interest me, Mr … er?’

‘No names.’ He paused. ‘I’ve surely got something as will blow ye out of y’r seat, never doubt it. What I want t’ see first is the colour o’ your money.’

‘Very well.’ Renzi felt inside his waistcoat and brought out a soft hide purse, clinking it suggestively before pouring out the contents in a little stream, sliding the silver towards himself where he could see it through chinks directly down from under the blindfold.

‘That?’ the man said in disbelief. ‘Won’t buy a monkey his mort o’ joy-juice. Have to do better’n that.’

‘I can,’ Renzi said levelly. ‘Much more. I have it close by – no need to tempt a man to slit my throat and run with it. How much depends on what you can tell me.’

‘I’ve more t’ tell ye right enough. But what’s to stop ye runnin’ off without payin’ after I tells yez?’

‘What’s to stop you slitting my gizzard after I hand over the silver, just to keep your secret safe?’

The man chortled. ‘Seems we’ve come to a chock-a-block.’

Renzi was quick to pick up that he was a seaman: his reference to the state of a tackle, when the lower block has run up against the upper, stopping the hoist, had given him away.

‘Not necessarily,’ Renzi said carefully. ‘This you shall have when you’ve satisfied me with your information. The rest comes only after a runner takes a note containing the information to one of my colleagues, who will countersign it, and returns to me here with this evidence that the secret is secure in our hands.’

‘An’ you’ll be waitin’ here, o’ course.’

‘As will you, my friend, and the money.’

There was a heavy silence while this was digested.

‘No tricks!’

‘You have my word.’

Renzi got straight to the point: ‘So then, where is this privateers’ nest, at all?’

‘Ha! This is where you’re on the wrong course entirely, Mr Smith. ’Cos they’s not privateers, not at all. We’re talkin’ Navy, French Navy, as has a whole fleet as they’re controlling from the one place.’

Renzi felt a wash of relief mixed with elation but fought it down. He put out his hand for the coins, neatly divided them in two and pushed one pile across. ‘Which place?’

He felt the man reach across and draw the remainder to him but didn’t try to stop it. He was in too much of a fever to hear the rest.

‘Curaçao.’

In a rush of insight, Renzi saw how this could be all too possible and cursed himself for not considering the island before.

It was small and lay on the other side of the Caribbean, not far off the continental land mass of South America and of trifling importance in trade. However, it was still a tiny remnant of the Dutch empire, and the Hollanders, under a puppet government of Napoleon, would certainly do as they were told. Renzi’s pulse raced. ‘You’ve seen them yourself?’

‘Last voyage we did. Sees ’em come an’ go at a trot in the Schottegat, as is within Willemstad.’

‘You can’t tell me anything else?’

‘Well … the admiral cove is a right Tartar an’ he’s ashore in a big place at Parera, can’t miss him. Heard his name was Duperré or such.’

‘Is the island fortified? Do they have ships-of-the-line there?’

‘Why you askin’ me this? I’ve told you all I saw. Now, let’s see the rest o’ the rhino!’

Mind racing, Renzi tried to think. With the location of the base now known, it was really up to Dacres how he acted. Further questions could wait. The main thing was, he had what he wanted.

‘This does appear satisfactory information. You will have your reward once the runner returns. If you would be so good as to stand behind me as I remove my blindfold to write … there.’

He scribbled the bare facts on the back of a poster. Curaçao – the French Navy, Duperré in command. Then a request to countersign.

Handing it over his shoulder and being careful not to turn, he said, ‘Do get a messenger to take this at once to a Mr Wilikins.’ He gave the address and added, ‘He is not expecting this. Nonetheless the messenger is to be insistent he be called to sight and sign it.’ He hoped the confidential clerk would forgive being roused from bed but he would quickly realise the import of the paper.

Time passed. Renzi, blindfolded again, sat uncomfortably. The man discouraged conversation, and when the pot-boy returned, he snatched the paper and slapped it on the table, resuming his position behind.

‘Look at it!’ he demanded, as the blindfold was again lifted.

It was duly signed.

‘Where’s these cobbs close by, then? I’ll get ’em now.’

‘Do I get a name? In case I have more questions.’

‘No. Find them dollars.’

Renzi felt inside his waistcoat on the other side. ‘I did say close by,’ he said lightly. Drawing out a similar hide bag he spilled out the coins in a noisy cascade. A hand immediately came out and swept them up, then roughly pulled down the blindfold again.

‘Don’t take it off for a count o’ fifty, cuffin.’ There was a scraping of the chair and the door closed.

The admiral’s eyes gleamed. ‘Curaçao! The devils – let’s take a look.’

He crossed to the table and spread out a chart of the Caribbean. ‘Ah! You see?’

The island was at the south point of an inverted triangle where the northern base was Jamaica to one side and the Leeward Islands to the other, each spaced equally apart – a near perfect sallying point.

‘A rapid descent would—’

‘Your success in the intelligence line is well remarked, Mr Renzi. Matters of naval strategy may be safely left to myself.’

‘Only that a delay would allow our losses—’

‘This is out of your hands now, Renzi. There are higher matters to consider, touching as they do on strategicals of an international significance.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘For instance – how do I act in this? We’ve not had the smallest difficulty from the Hollanders in this war but any move against the French there would be an intolerable provocation.’

He frowned, steepling his fingers. ‘So this compels me to make a decision in which there can be no middle ground. To be obliged to leave them to their depredations – or mount a full-scale invasion with all the consequent expense and peril.’

‘Sir, they cannot be left to it.’

‘An invasion of any enemy territory, Renzi, is not to be contemplated lightly. We must be assured of success, else we shall be put to scorn by the world.’

‘Quite, sir.’ The words chosen were revealing: Dacres was seriously contemplating a direct assault in depth by himself and was not inclined to share the glory with the larger Leeward Islands command. If the latter were brought in they would necessarily take control and credit, but would therefore also take the odium in the event of failure.

For several moments Dacres remained wrapped in thought, then said sharply, ‘And we only have the word of this unknown common seaman as to what’s afoot – and, come to think of it, providing me with the only evidence thus far that your theory is not some wild fantasy.’

He glared at Renzi as if it were entirely his fault that his day had turned so complicated.