The Privateer's Revenge

Carthew leaned back, his expression unreadable.

'I will do it, sir,' Kydd said.

Renzi squinted closer at the congested typeface and brought the little brass Argand lamp nearer. It guttered for a moment: the disadvantage of having his tiny cabin so close to the main hatchway was, however, more than offset by the relief it gave from the 'tween-decks fetor and he resumed his study.

The small volume in German, in turgid Hochdeutsch dealt with the Perfectibilists, who were urging the reclamation of modern society from its sordid roots, not through gross revolutions but the perfection of human nature through rigorous moral education.

On the other side of the thin partition the mess-decks were in full cry after issue of grog and the talk eddied noisily round. It did not penetrate Renzi's thoughts for he was well used to it. He was much more interested in how a source for this moral education could be found, given that Weishaupt had specifically proclaimed the abolition of all religion. Yet the Illuminaten could not be lightly dismissed: it was said to be a secret society of freemasonry with Goethe himself a member and—

Suddenly he became aware that the mess-deck had gone quiet, but for one deep-throated voice holding forth nearby. Despite himself he listened: it was Mawgan, petty officer and captain of the foretop, an older man and steady—Renzi could visualise the scene beyond the thin bulkhead, the others listening raptly to him.

'No, mates, I ain't! An' this is fer why. He's got th' mark about 'im. I seen it before, done somethin' evil an' has t' pay fer it. First he loses his doxy an' then it's his ship an' we with it, afore he finally goes down ter his just reward.'

There was indistinct murmuring and Poulden came in, troubled: 'Y' can't say that, mate. He's had a hard beat t' wind'd since losin' his sweetheart, bound t' bear down on 'im, like.' There was increased muttering, which did not sound like sympathy.

'There's one thing as gives me pause t' think.' Renzi knew it to be the voice of the sharp-faced Gissing, gunner's mate. 'Yer've all got him on th' wrong tack. He's not a death-or-glory boy, not he. No, it ain't that a-tall— an' I'll tell yez fer why.'

Renzi held still. Kydd's call for volunteers on his return from a council-of-war had been met with a stony silence and his own offer curtly dismissed. No more eloquent testimony was needed for the loss of moral authority that Kydd was now facing.

'Go on, cully, then tell us—why's our Tom Cutlass not a-tryin' t' top it the flash hero?'

There was a moment's pause, then Mawgan said, ''Cos he's not int'rested.' Shouting down the disbelieving cries, he continued, 'He's not int'rested fer a clinkin' good reason. He's got th' death-wish.'

'Yer what?' A horrified quiet spread through the mess-deck.

'A death-wish, yer iggerant lubber. That's when y' grief is so oragious y' can't see as life's worth th' living. Y' doesn't care if yer lives or dies, an' then y' feels as if bein' dead might just be th' medicine t' cure all y'r pain . . .'

This was clearly a new and deeply disturbing thought for straight-thinking sailors to dwell upon. Renzi hesitated. If he intervened, his overhearing their private talk would be revealed and his position become impossible. But at the same time he could recognise the signs: in the absence of insight and enlightened leadership from Kydd, the malignancy of unreason and superstition was spreading among the unlettered seamen and it would not take much . . .

'So he's going t' be careless with his life—an' I ask ye this. Will he be any different wi' us?' There was a dismayed silence and he finished flatly, 'There's a-going t' be them as leaves their bones here, mates, take my word on't.'

Teazer had made one pass along the coast north with Kydd at a telescope, and as the evening was drawing in she was heading south once more. To an appalled Standish on the quarterdeck, Kydd had loudly declared that in the absence of men of spirit he was going on the mission alone. It had brought astonishment and grudging admiration but no volunteers.

Now, as the time was approaching, there was a fearful expectation about the ship: landing on an enemy coast under arms to act the spy was utterly alien to the kind of courage a seaman was normally called upon to display.

When lights began twinkling ashore and a hazy darkness descended, Kydd came up on deck, dressed in dark clothing, his face pale and set. 'Sir, may we know your intentions? If—if you—' Standish stammered.

'I shall be landin' at th' neck o' the peninsula,' Kydd said coldly, 'an' will cross quickly to th' other side, which if ye'll remember is a beach along fr'm the harbour. They won't be expectin' any t' approach fr'm the inside direction.'

'Sir.' Stirk touched his hat respectfully but remained impassive. 'Boat's alongside.'

Poulden and three seamen were in the gig; their role would be confined to taking him ashore, perilous though that would be. 'Ready t' land, sir,' Stirk reminded.

'You have th' ship, Mr Standish,' Kydd said stiffly, and crossed to the side, looking neither to right nor left. Renzi held still, watching silently.

'Sah!' Sergeant Ambrose emerged from the main hatchway, followed by three more marines, each with blackened gaiters, signifying imminent action. 'Y'r escort present 'n' correct, sah!'

Kydd hesitated and turned to Ambrose, who saluted smartly. 'Sergeant—do you . . . ?'

'We'll be with ye, sir.'

'Thank 'ee, Sergeant, but—'

'Th' men are volunteers too, sir,' he said crisply.

There was a stirring among the men and Midshipman Calloway stepped across the deck. 'I'll come if y' wants me, Mr Kydd,' he said, twisting his hat nervously in his hands.

Stirk growled something at him but he held his ground.

'Yes, lad.' No emotion could be seen on Kydd's face.