Caribbee (28 page)

So what would
he
do if he were the commander of a clandestine naval operation needing to keep its secret secure? Presumably anything: if it were knocked out, so would be the nerve-centre of the planned predation. How would he go about this? It would seem reasonable to take every care to seal tight the headquarters so none could possibly suspect its existence, the consequence of discovery being so catastrophic.

Yet that didn’t fit with what he had seen. That was not how it had been in Curaçao: the building was not properly guarded and, in any case, while the Dutch were French allies and vassals, they were proud and independent, and it would be a questionable thing indeed to rely on them allowing a covert operation on their sovereign territory.

But he had overheard with his own ears naval talk, the name Duperré and so on. In complete agreement with what he had heard from his informant. It made no sense at all unless …

A new thought took shape, one that, wildly improbable as it was, brought together these mutually conflicting elements and went on to explain everything.

He sat up, energised. It would of course imply a brilliant mind, one with organisational skills well beyond the ordinary, whose grasp of the shadowy world of undercover operations was nothing short of masterly – for he was considering that the entire business with Curaçao had been nothing but a charade, aimed squarely at himself.

This great mind had heard of Renzi’s theory of a fleet controlled and deployed centrally against Britain’s Caribbean trade, probably from some public indiscretion by the dismissive Dacres. He had realised that someone had stumbled on the truth and needed to move instantly before any steps were taken to uncover and neutralise his base.

The move Duperré – if that was his name – had taken was breathtaking, a perfect solution. Comprehensively discredit Renzi and thereby his theory.

The result would be no more talk of searching for a mythical secret base: the Royal Navy would go on to become spread impossibly thin in endless vain patrols.

And, damn it, Duperré
had
succeeded: thanks to the clever failure at Curaçao, there was not the slightest chance of Renzi’s theory ever being revisited or any other explanation listened to.

Masterly.

But Duperré had had necessarily to yield one vital point. As a result of his subterfuge, he could not help but provide Renzi with a priceless piece of knowledge: by going to such lengths he had confirmed that what Renzi had come up with was the reality. He had been right after all.

The realisation came in a releasing flood that begged for action. He scrambled to his feet and began pacing up and down, reviewing what had happened.

Orders must have gone out to send a clever agent whose task it would be to contact Renzi and give him information that bore out what he already believed, while at the same time dispatching men and orders to Curaçao to set up the dummy base in accordance. Really quite simple and, being prepared to accept anything that supported his theory, Renzi had fallen for it. A stickler for detail, this canny mastermind had been so thorough in his orders that not the tiniest scrap or indication would be found – the careful replacing of rubbish and other forlorn detritus of a long-deserted house was nothing short of artistic.

Then how would the fleet operation work? The crucial element was communications. To achieve such rapid response to both threat and promise there had to be an incredibly speedy method of passing on information and orders.

Renzi’s pacing quickened. To get intelligence out implied a network of spies relaying news of planned trading-ship movements, however it was done. That would result in orders to the nearest predator, wherever concealed, to lie in wait for it.

Then there was intelligence of naval movements. Much more difficult but not impossible. Knowledge of patrol lines, the known habits of individual captains – an astute and imaginative mind could make much of this. Then the word would go out for redeployment and the other half of the equation was fulfilled.

Finally, a central headquarters was required from which this controlling genius could operate his chessboard.

That
had
to be how it was.

Renzi’s first reaction was to tell Kydd – but he would then, very reasonably, demand proof. And there were so many unanswered questions. If the base was not at Curaçao, then where was it? As he’d reasoned before, there were very few places that met the conditions for a secret lair.

A network of spies spread throughout the islands was a cumbersome and expensive proposition – and, above all, why had the Navy not intercepted at least one of the fast advice-boats or whatever was used in the tight communications system with them? Equally, how was a naval fleet, even of smaller ships, able to stay so long at sea without returning to port?

He had to find an answer to each question before he broached the subject to anyone – but how?

L’
Aurore
had her orders by the time he returned on board. They were to take passage for Antigua to the dockyard at English Harbour for a minor refit, then relieve one of the inshore frigates in blockade of Guadeloupe.

‘It’s been a long time, old friend,’ Kydd said softly.

Renzi gave a wry smile, bringing to mind adventures ashore and afloat there when they had been common seamen together. Kydd had been a healthy young man in a lusty environment and there were things that he would not necessarily wish to be reminded of. ‘Yes, indeed, dear fellow. Conceivably the master shipwright will never penetrate your disguise in your lofty elevation.’ He laid down his book and chuckled companionably.

In the event it was quite another who came aboard in Antigua with the survey party, a genial and competent officer who let slip that Caird and his daughter had returned to England years before. And there would be no nostalgic reunion with the copper and lumber house where Kydd had first met a dark temptress, Sukey, or the little house he had lived in as Master of the King’s Negroes. Now that he was a post-captain, this was far out of sight in his past.

The survey was quick but thorough. ‘Naught but what can’t be put right in a brace o’ shakes,’ was the pronouncement. The ship would stay at moorings with her crew quartered ashore.

For her captain, there was no question of remaining in the coarse surroundings of the dockyard. It was expected he would take residence in the north, at St John’s, where the admiral’s shore headquarters was situated.

‘Shall we take carriage for the capital, Nicholas?’ Kydd said lightly, as Tysoe laid out his best clothes. ‘I do believe the society there will be quite up to expectations.’

Renzi hesitated. ‘Brother, if there’s anything I crave more than peace and quiet at this time I’m at a loss to think it. I have for companionship my books and my thoughts and, while your doughty mariners are on shore, my solitude.’

‘Of course, old chap, I do understand,’ Kydd came back.

With captain and officers heading north and the crew streaming ashore, there were only the standing warrant officers and three hands left aboard with Renzi. The frigate seemed to have grown larger, the echoing spaces and stillness broken only by the chuckle of water and the odd creak.

But this was an unmissable chance to take up his studies again. A considered comparison of the new German school of ethnics with the French encyclopedists would be a refreshing start, and in his cabin he pulled down the requisite tomes.

Within the hour he found it impossible: his head was so full of recent events that he knew he would get no rest until they had been settled to his satisfaction.

But how could he pursue the threads until all had been exhausted? As a mental exercise it would lead only to frustration, for a logical syllogism without sure data was nothing but a futility. However, to get data he would need to venture out into the field and acquire it. Was he prepared to do this when he had always declared he scorned and detested the practice of spying?

He laid down his pen, resolved.
If
the goal was sufficiently worthy, he would do whatever it took …
Was
he mad? He would set out not as an agent of a nation’s secret service but on his own account, a freelance amateur without direction, following his own instincts.

Yet it had powerful advantages: he could beg leave from
L’Aurore
and go anywhere he wished, do anything he wanted, for he owed nothing to any higher authority. He need tell no one so there would be none to criticise if he failed. And his fate if he was caught would be the same whether he had been an accredited spy or otherwise.

Excitement flooded Renzi. The overall objective was clear: to find the genuine base and bring back proof so persuasive it would be impossible to ignore. Then he would be vindicated. Triangulating from known positions of the losses to pinpoint it had proved inconclusive. But as he reflected on his earlier conclusion about the degree of risk and unreliability of setting up a covert naval base in a dominion out of their direct control, he realised that, if this was to be accepted, the converse must therefore be true: the only safe location was on French sovereign territory and, if that was so, the odds shortened considerably.

There were only two islands of significance still in French hands, Guadeloupe and Martinique. Putting aside all other concerns, it narrowed the search immensely – he had only to reconnoitre those.

He’d start with Guadeloupe, so conveniently close and— What was he thinking? He was known, a marked man. There was no way he could move about enemy territory even in some form of disguise: he’d likely be recognised on the spot.

His hopes died. If he could not get the proof there was no point in going on.

In despair he slumped back. But then …

The thought of Guadeloupe had triggered another memory from the past, from even earlier in the war when Kydd and he had been part of the ill-fated assault that had been thrown back when revolutionaries had landed and wreaked a bloody revenge. They had escaped, along with any royalists who could. Among them had been the gentle and wistful Louise Vernou.

The last he had seen of her was here in Antigua, at St John’s. Presuming she was still here, could she have kept up some form of connection with her family or friends in Guadeloupe? It was worth a try, at least to gather information or even clues. For all he knew, it might develop – a secret correspondence with those on the island in a position to know, trusted by reason of being her family?

Kydd accepted his arrival with well-concealed surprise. He was staying in a country villa within sight of the light-yellow-brick church and the well-remembered harbour. ‘Why, Nicholas, you’re joining me for the season?’

‘For some reason, dear fellow, I feel restless, not to say out of sorts. I’m persuaded a change of air from that to be found in the bowels of a frigate will answer.’ He had determined that he would tell Kydd nothing until he had his proof.

‘Then do consider this your home while you’re in the north, m’ friend.’

The next day, on the pretext of taking the air, Renzi set out. It could not have been easier. Recalling that Louise Vernou had taught French to English officers in the past, he enquired at the admiral’s headquarters and found a list of teachers. Among them was her name.

Memories flooded back: he and Kydd had been billeted on the family and grown close. Then, when the revolutionaries had triumphed, he had escaped Guadeloupe in a merchant brig with her, leaving Kydd with the last defenders. On the way they had been mauled by a hurricane but had made St John’s and then had parted.

He remembered her gentle smile, quiet dignity and old-fashioned politeness, which had stayed even as the insanity of revolution and bloodshed had reached out to engulf her world.

Her teaching rooms were near the waterfront, a small but tidy house with a neat garden, her sign discreetly in the front window. As he walked to the door he paused, hearing a sturdy masculine voice chanting irregular verbs, then soft encouragement from her.

For a long moment he remained standing there, unwilling to have the memory of years stripped away to a harder present.

The chanting stopped, there was a murmur of voices and the door opened to let out a young redcoat officer, who flashed an embarrassed smile at Renzi and left quickly.

‘Is there anything I can do for you, M’sieur?’ Louise Vernou asked softly.

She had hardly changed. She was wearing a modest but elegant blue dress, and the touch of grey in her hair he’d remembered had barely advanced. That direct, almost intimate gaze held his without recognition.

She waited politely.

‘Madame Louise Vernou, I believe,’ he said gently, in French.

It came to her then. Her hand flew to her lips, and her eyes opened wide. ‘
Mon Dieu
– can it be …? It is! M’sieur Renzi!’

She swayed for a moment before Renzi caught the glitter of tears. Then, with a sob, she flung herself at him.

He let the emotion spend itself, holding her slight body tenderly as she connected once again with the fearful events of years before.

She pulled away, dabbing her eyes. ‘I do apologise,’ she said in English. ‘I forget your country does not value the open expression of feeling as do we. Please to come in, M’sieur.’