The Privateer's Revenge

Lockwood himself came stalking out to the waiting room but halted in surprise at the sight of Kydd's ashen face. News of the tragedy had apparently not yet reached him. 'I'm astonished you have the temerity to cut short your cruise, Mr Kydd. There are matters, it seems—'

'Sir, I beg t' report m' full success in y'r mission.'

Lockwood blinked.

'Teazer's report,' Renzi said, handing over the details of Kydd's twin victories— success against the notorious Bloody Jacques, the renegade privateer who had terrorised the Devon and Cornish coasts, and the unmasking of Zephaniah Job as the man behind the smuggling ring.

The admiral flicked through the papers. 'I, er . . . it would appear I must offer my congratulations, Commander,' he said, and looked up, but Kydd had left.

When the news was broken at number eighteen Durnford Street, the residence Kydd and Renzi shared, a pall of silence descended. Shocked, Mrs Bargus, the housekeeper, cast about for things to do that might in some little way comfort her employer. A cheerful fire was soon ablaze and the cook was set to prepare his favourite braised duck. Becky, the maid, came in timidly to light the candles but departed quickly, leaving Kydd and Renzi alone.

'If there's anything . . .' Renzi started hesitantly, but stopped as racking sobs seized his friend.

He waited patiently until they eased.

'I never reckoned it could hurt s' much,' Kydd choked.

'Yes, brother,' Renzi murmured.

'Rosalynd's gone. F'r ever. So innocent an' young, an' she—she never knew—'

'I have to return to the ship, Tom,' Renzi said gently. 'There's things will need . . . arranging.' Unless someone was there to head off troubles arising in a temporarily captainless vessel chaos might ensure: the ambitious Standish would probably not see it as in his best interest to take a firm hand.

'Do remain here, dear fellow, and I'll be back when I can.' Renzi found the brandy and placed a glass before Kydd.

It was no easy matter but a flow of fictitious captain's orders relayed by Renzi saw the larboard watch stream happily ashore and a suspicious Standish set to turning up the hands for restowing the hold. It was dark before Renzi could make his way ashore again, and he hurried to Durnford Street.

Mrs Bargus answered the door, flustered and apprehensive. 'Oh, Mr Renzi! I'm s' glad you're here! It's the captain—he's in such a state! All those things he's saying, it's not right, Mr Renzi . . .'

Kydd was slumped in the same chair in his shirtsleeves, gazing fixedly into the fire, the brandy bottle nearly empty beside him. He jerked round when Renzi entered. 'Ahoy there, ol' shipmate!' he called bitterly. 'Bring y'r arse t' anchor an' let y'r logic tell me why—why scrovy bastards like Lockwood still strut abou' while my Rosalynd . . . while she's . . .' His face crumpled.

Renzi went to him and touched his arm. 'I'm going to the apothecary, my friend. He'll have much more efficacious medicines for your pain.' It was chilling to witness: never in all their years together had he seen Kydd in such a condition—save, perhaps, in the early days in the old Duke William.

'No!' Kydd's hoarse cry pierced him. 'St-stay wi' me, Nicholas.'

'Of course, brother.' Renzi stoked the fire and drew up his chair. With a forced laugh he went on, 'You should have no care for Teazer, old fellow. There's half the ship's company rollicking ashore and Kit Standish believing you gravely concerned with the stowage of the hold.'

Kydd took no notice. Instead he turned to Renzi and said hollowly, 'It's—it's that I can't face it, Nicholas—life wi'out her.' His hands writhed. 'I saw all m' days in the future wi' her, plans an' course all set fair, an' now—there's . . . no point.'

Carefully, Renzi replied, 'Not at all! I see a fine officer who is captain of a ship that needs him, one with the most illustrious of sea careers to come.'

Kydd grabbed his arm and leered at him. 'Don't y' see, Nicholas,' he slurred, 'it's th' sea right enough. It's taken m' Rosalynd as it can't abide a rival!'

'What? Such nonsense.'

Kydd slumped in his chair. 'I knew ye'd not unnerstan' it,' he said, almost inaudibly, and closed his eyes before Renzi could continue. 'No point,' he mumbled, 'no point a-tall.'

'Tom, I have to slip out for a space,' Renzi said. 'I'll be back directly.'

For a long minute Kydd said nothing. Then, with his eyes still closed, he said, with intense weariness, 'As y' have to, m' frien'.'

'Why, Nicholas! What a surprise!' Sensing the gravity of the visit, Cecilia added hastily, 'Do come in. Mrs Mullins is engaged at the moment—the drawing room will be available to us, I believe.'

Renzi followed Kydd's sister into the home of her old friend, whom she was visiting. She turned to face him. 'It's Thomas, isn't it?'

'Yes . . .' Renzi hesitated. 'I'm truly sorry to have to say that Rosalynd . . . has been taken from us. She was drowned when a packet boat overset on the way to Plymouth.'

Cecilia gasped. 'No! It can't be! And—and poor Thomas. He— he must be feeling . . .'

'I rather believe it is worse than that. His intellects are perturbed. He's not seeing the point of life without Rosalynd and I fear for his future.'

'Then I must go to him this instant, poor lamb. Pray wait for me, sir, I shall accompany you presently.'

'No! That is to say, it might not be suitable, Miss Cecilia. You see, he is at this moment, er, disguised in drink and he—'

'He might be, um, flustered, Nicholas, but he needs us. I shall go to him,' she said, with unanswerable determination.

The night was cool as they hurried through the streets, but when they reached number eighteen they were met