The Privateer's Revenge

Kydd's head lifted. 'You?' he said, and smiled.

Renzi treasured the look for the memory of shared times now past, but said wryly, 'The character of a Norman townsman might well be beyond my powers, I fear.'

The light died in Kydd's eyes more and he slumped back. 'I shall think on it,' he said finally. 'Tell Mr Queripel t' present himself with his charts, if y' would.'

Shortly, HMS Teazer got under way from where she had been lying hove-to and made away to the west, yet another frustrated English man-o'-war thwarted in her mission to uncover Bonaparte's secrets. No doubt there were those in Granville seeing her fade away over the horizon who were blessing the port's odd topography for repelling the foe so easily.

But among the islands of Chausey Teazer ceased her retreat and rounded to in a channel east of the larger. Renzi and Standish waited at the conn, the rich stink of seaweed drifting out from the scatter of rocky islets. A desolate cluster of sod huts was the only sign of life.

'It sounds a right madness,' Standish said sullenly. Renzi fore-bore to reply, for Kydd had been curt and unfeeling: he alone would carry out the plan. Any other conversation was stilled by Kydd's arrival on deck.

'Sir, you've given thought to what this means for the customary usages of war?'

'Yes.' Kydd was apparently in no mood to discuss matters. 'Ye have y'r orders, Mr Standish. Mind you fail me not, sir,' he added grimly. 'You have th' ship.'

The lieutenant stepped forward. 'Aye aye, sir.'

The yards came round and, taking the pleasant wind on her quarter, 'Teazer's forefoot chuckled contentedly as she began to circle the forlorn group of rocks. Before long she found what she was looking for.

'It'll do,' Kydd said shortly. 'Mr Andrews, go below an' find a notebook,' he told the young midshipman. 'I'll be telling ye what to write.'

The white-faced lad hesitated. What Kydd contemplated was causing consternation round the ship. Renzi motioned the lad to one side. 'I do believe, sir, that any clerkly duty belongs rightfully to me,' he said to Kydd. 'And, as it happens, my notebook is ready by me.'

The little fishing-boat bobbed disconsolately under Teazer 's guns while the pinnace pulled out to it. By common consent in wartime the fisher-folk were left alone to go about their business but now Kydd had seen fit to capture one. If it resulted in reprisals and the sea fisheries of Britain suffered . . .

The three-man crew had little choice: they were relieved of their rank-smelling fishing smocks and headgear and sent back to Teazer while Stirk and Renzi set about acquainting themselves with the rigging of the little two-master that reeked so of eel and shellfish.

It was a simple but effective lugsail rig, the Breton chasse-maree, a 'tide-chaser' that was fast and agile in these shallow waters, but Renzi had a considerable sense of foreboding. Trespassing in French waters out of uniform they could be taken up as spies—and the French would stop at nothing to prevent information about their invasion preparations getting out.

And the only way their stratagem would work was if they sailed right up to the entrance, ignoring the heavy cannon of the fort and the gunboats at readiness inside. He swallowed and glanced at Stirk, who sat impassively forward next to the foremast stepped so close to the stem. There were distinct advantages to those not cursed with a vivid imagination, he thought ruefully.

The frayed brown sails fluttered then tautened and the boat leaned willingly into the wind, heading back to Granville and its home while Renzi wedged himself against the gunwale. All depended on things having settled down after the English ship had been seen to give up. But was Kydd to be trusted in his judgements? It was so troubling, his obsession with duty. Did his headstrong daring mask carelessness with others' lives?

Cape Lihou loomed ahead; sail were dotted here and there, issuing out from between the pier-heads, free to continue their coastal voyages. Renzi was aware that locally their little craft would be well known, and with strangers seen aboard, to answer a friendly hail might result in alarm and disaster.

They were close enough now to make out the embrasures of the fort at the tip of the peninsula, the long, defensive walls along the old town and the high stone piers extending well out, a perfect concealment.

Faint shouts came from over to starboard—another chasse-maree, waving for attention. Instinctively Renzi ducked and began to throw odd bits of gear to Stirk, who quickly caught on, busying himself industriously at nothing. Kydd remained stolidly at his steering oar, concentrating on the approach.

The ruse of being too occupied to talk seemed to satisfy: with several final derisory yells, the fishing vessel passed across their stern and away. The afternoon light was mellowing to early evening, but if they made it to the entrance soon, they would have no difficulty in seeing into the port. A coaster emerged and, loosing topsails, made off to the south; they were now less than a mile from the entrance. Under his fishing smock Renzi readied his notebook and pencil—they would have minutes only. He dared a glance at Kydd. His concentration was intense.

Angry voices came from astern: a French advice boat making importantly for the entrance as well. Kydd fell away from the main track to let it by. Renzi busied himself once more and caught glimpses of faces, some bored, others staring down the worthless fishermen as they overtook to make the sharp turn to pass within the piers.

'On m' mark,' Kydd whispered savagely. Their lives depended on what happened in the next few minutes. The twin pier-heads, each with the figure of a sentry atop, were now barely hundreds of yards distant, the nearer one drawing back with their advance. In seconds they would know everything.

The pier-heads drew apart and there within was what they had risked so much for—Renzi had time only for a quick impression of an inner harbour all of a quarter-mile in size and crammed with small craft before Kydd leaned on the steering oar and the boat turned sharply towards the entrance.

'Now!' Kydd rapped. Renzi was holding a bucket on a rope over the side as though scooping water but at the command let it go. Under its drag the boat lurched to a snail's pace and Kydd began his count.

'I see six—no, a full dozen o' chaloupes canonnieres,' he hissed urgently, 'No—make it a score. An' more'n I can count o' bateaux canonnieres—say twenty, thirty?' The piers were approaching slowly and steadily, and if they allowed themselves to be swept inside they would be trapped.