The Privateer's Revenge (4 page)

The table remained silent. “And the worst is, the looby lost the wench and has clearly taken leave of his wits, been touched in the headpiece. God knows what he'll do next—do you?” he threw at Renzi.

Renzi cleared his throat. “The man is to be pitied at this moment, I believe. He confided to me something of his feelings for the young lady and his present state is perfectly understandable, given—”

“So we must all suffer while he comes to his senses.”

Dowse stirred uncomfortably. “Er-hum. Them's strong words, sir,” he said quietly. “Th' man only needs time.”

“Which we ain't got!” Purchet came in unexpectedly. “I don't mind sayin' it before yez all but I'm afeared. He's comin' down hard f'r no reason an' unsettlin' the hands, then forgets things as are needful. If he is, um, not as who should say, square in his reason, then God help us if ever we come up wi' a Frenchy.”

A day later a lieutenant from
Cerberus
brought orders for sea: a neutral had sighted two French corvettes heading west. To the open Atlantic—or Brest? Either way, Saumarez wanted this immediately investigated by
Cerberus
to the south and another frigate to the north, to sail without delay.

Throughout
Teazer
there was a quickening of pace, a lightening of spirit. A corvette would be easy prey for a frigate but the other must be theirs. It would be a rare match and hard fought—unless
Cerberus
's bird tamely gave in the fight early and
Cerberus
turned to claim both.

There was point now to the mindless cleaning and blacking of guns, the make-work tasks of a ship in harbour. Kydd could be seen everywhere about the decks, and when
Cerberus
's signal to unmoor was bent on,
Teazer
was ready. The hoist went close up, and at the midships capstan men placed themselves at the bars, seamen and marines both.

“Stir those mumpin' dawdlers!” Kydd bawled down the deck to Standish. “If we're still hook down when
Cerberus
weighs, I'll—I'll make 'em rue it!”

To the reedy sound of a fife and the stolid thump of a drum they set to the task with renewed determination. Well before the frigate won her anchor,
Teazer
's was clear of the seabed and coming in rapidly. Renzi, on the quarterdeck at the ready with his notebook, pursed his lips. They must now throw sails aback to keep from running down the still-tethered frigate; on the more senior ship, would this be seen as a brazen attempt to do them down?

Eventually the Union Flag at the jack of
Cerberus
whipped down to indicate her anchor was aweigh and, with a flurry of flapping and banging,
Teazer
set her sails loose to the wind and settled to follow in her wake.

“Two cables astern, until th' open sea,” Kydd told Standish. The low coast slipped past but more of the appalling rocks showed until it seemed they were surrounded by them. For the moment they would be in no danger, in the wake of the experienced bigger ship.

Queripel came forward and stood next to Kydd. “It's not th' rocks ye should be most concerned of,” he began, “y' can see 'em. It's the tide set an' currents round 'em that c'n vex even th' most experienced. When th' tide state is—”

“Stand down, Mr Queripel,” Kydd said. “Ye're not required.”

The man's eyebrows rose but he said nothing and retired to the wheel. Renzi knew better than to interpose and concentrated on the low sea coast to larboard and the endless dark crags and fissures that protruded from the water on all sides.

Clear of the Brayes the vessels stood on out to sea northward, taking advantage of the steady west-north-westerly. Standish made much of trimming sail, demanding a foot of fore-tack here, checking out a main-topsail sheet by two feet there, until
Teazer
's bowsprit rose and fell dead in line with
Cerberus
's stern and at the required distance.

Kydd did not interfere, and when the activity had died away he left the deck, to Standish's clear relief. However, he returned almost immediately, carrying his octant. He paced deliberately to the foredeck, braced, and sighted with the instrument, bringing the main topmast truck of
Cerberus
to the waterline. Then he strode aft and confronted Standish. “Our orders are t' take station two cables clear, as well y' know, sir. What's this, that you believe it t' mean a full twenty yards closer?”

The lieutenant remained silent.

“I'll not have
Cerberus
think us laggardly in our duty. I'll trouble ye to fetch y'r instrument. T' save you the figuring it'll be six degrees an' forty-four minutes ye'll set.” He stared Standish down, and an abashed midshipman was sent below for Standish's sextant, which, like many officers, he preferred to the more old-fashioned octant.

Kydd waited until Standish was on the foredeck sighting, then stumped off. As soon as he had gone Standish abandoned the task and returned aft, his face murderous. “Get for 'ard with this, you,” he demanded of Prosser, shoving the sextant at him. “The sooner I'm quit o' this madness I swear, the better.”

Mid-afternoon the signal to tack was thrown out from
Cerberus,
with the amplification that the two would advance in line-abreast by the same distance. Kydd had been expecting this, and from noon had both watches on deck and lines ranged along ready for the manoeuvre. The hoist jerked down—the execute. In frenzied excitement
Teazer
hauled and braced, spinning about handily under her brig rig full minutes before the frigate, surging ahead in a fluster of foam but quickly finding need to brail her courses and idle until
Cerberus
had steadied on her new track.

The waning sun brought with it brisker winds: oceanic westerlies that had a fetch of thousands of miles and a steady pressure that drove unwary sailors staggering across the deck. It was exhilarating sailing—men came from below to watch
Teazer
take the combers on her bow in a crunch of seas, a dizzying swoop and lift, while out there on their beam to windward was the thrilling picture of a thoroughbred frigate snoring along in a smother of white, close-hauled under a full press of sail.

Purchet came aft and touched his hat, leaning forward to make himself heard. “She's like t' wring her topmasts, sir,” he said respectfully. Aloft, every sail was as taut as a board, thrumming with nervous tension and with edges in a mad flutter. The boatswain crossed to a sheet and thumped it with a closed fist. It was as un-yielding as an iron bar. He looked back significantly.

Kydd did not speak at first; his gaze went to the topsails, which shivered on the point of going aback where the apprehensive helmsman was luffing up, spilling wind to avert disaster. “Single reef in th' courses,” he allowed grudgingly.

Out on their beam the frigate was making splendid sailing, her wake racing past and with only the occasional graceful nod and sway in answer to the lively conditions.
Teazer,
however, was now taking the seas heavily forward, the straining impulse of her sails sending her into steep oncoming waves with an explosion of white sea and then the shock of a sudden slowing. Courses were double-reefed and topsails to a precautionary single.

“Signal, sir,” reported a midshipman.
Cerberus
was visibly pulling ahead. “Our pennant, keep better station!” The flags streamed out high and clear. It was, no doubt, something of a sweet revenge for the frigate captain, for as
Teazer
struggled to keep up
Cerberus
increased her lead, all the while keeping the signal flying.

It was not until dusk, and
Teazer
floundering miles astern, that the frigate relented and, with a fine show, brought to until the little sloop could come up.

It had been a fruitless chase, the French long gone and nothing to show.

When they had cast anchor again in St Peter Port, Kydd had been summoned by Captain Selby to
Cerberus;
what had been said Renzi did not know, but Kydd had retired immediately to his cabin, ejecting him. As he left, Renzi caught sight of Kydd slumping in his chair, staring unseeingly out of the stern windows.

Allowing an hour to pass he had returned under some pretence of letters to be signed at the same time as Tysoe, Kydd's servant, had under his advice brought in wine and left quickly. Kydd said nothing but accepted a glass.

“A drollery to reflect that Guernsey is undoubtedly the chief supplier to our smuggling fraternity in Cornwall, and here we are to consider them our charges to protect,” Renzi said lightly.

Kydd stared into his wine.

“And such a singular part of the realm, I've read. The guidebook tells that they still converse in a species of ancient Norman French, which your Parisian would find it a sore puzzle to understand.” He inspected his wine. “A visit ashore should prove most diverting . . .”

“Go, then.”

“I had rather hoped for your company in such an interesting place, as we may talk about at a later time.”

“Understand that I only have th' one interest—
to do my duty, an' no other!
”

Renzi tried once more. “It might prove restorative to the spirit to accept something of the kindness and hospitality that is undoubtedly on offer to the heroes who defend these shores. To taste something of the delicacies peculiar to these climes—it seems the
gâche
alone will reward the asking.”

“I'm stayin' aboard.” Kydd's voice was flat and spiritless.

Standish returned bubbling with tales of St Peter Port and its social attractions; it seemed that, as a colourful landfall, it was fulfilling every expectation.

Renzi was sorely tempted: what he had read so far in the guidebook had been explicit about the remarkable differences in social attributes to be experienced on the island neither a colony nor a contiguous moiety of either England or France. They were stationed here, true, but for how long? Better to snatch a glimpse now.

It was not hard to conceive of an excuse that must take him ashore, two papers needed the signature of the civil authority, and soon he was in
Teazer
's boat heading for St Peter Port, the town above the enfolding arms of a north and south pier set about a tidal harbour.

The shore rose steeply behind, buildings crowding along irregular streets, and directly at the fore, a long and busy waterfront lined with tall warehouses that took in goods directly from the ships alongside. The port was remarkably busy, the flags of a dozen nations visible from the many ships now settling on the mud. This was no maritime backwater.

He was left at North Pier and, remembering the directions he had been given, pushed past the noisy porters and wharfingers and squeezed up the narrow passages between the buildings to emerge on the main street.

He looked about. Here was a quality of building that would not disgrace Bath or Weymouth. The shops of a perfumier, a stay-maker and an importer of carpets from London, all evidence of a level of society on the tiny island that was no stranger to wealth, a diverting ethnographical study. Was it purely economics at the root of their success or was it true there were other aspects to their culture?

High Street was choked with people, carts and carriages in rowdy contention. He found his way to Smith Street, a steep road that led him up to quite another purlieu: imposing new buildings that looked out above the hurly-burly of the town to the sweeping prospect of the harbour, castle islet and distant islands.

He found the government offices easily enough and it took minutes only to complete his duty, but as he wandered back down to High Street and its lively crowds he felt reluctant to return to
Teazer
straight away. He decided to walk the length of the thoroughfare, revelling in the riotous sounds and smells after so long in the small ship with its bleak atmosphere. At the end was a church and, beyond, a rookery of decaying medieval houses crowded on the steep slopes above boatyards on the strand.

He turned to go back; but on noticing a raised level with the crush and animation of a market, he was drawn irresistibly to the cheerful din. At the far end was a noble arch, and to the right a stone building with, in the upper storey, the unmistakable lofty windows of an assembly hall.

Renzi crossed to admire it; on the end wall there were posters, theatre notices and, to one side, a beautifully handwritten one. He bent to read: “The Cists and Dolmens of Ancient Sarnia newly considered. A public lecture to be given at the Royal College of Elizabeth . . . Revd Dr Carey, MA Oxon etc., etc. . . .”

Dolmens! Of course! Were these in any way related to the cromlechs of Brittany? What manner of mysterious peoples had created those great stone monoliths? Had their civilisation wilted and crumbled from the immense effort—or had they failed to meet some overwhelming economic challenge and subsequently disappeared from the face of the earth?