The Privateer's Revenge

'Then buoyage an' lighthouses—surely Trinity House can't be expected—'

'But they do an' all! Ye've probably seen our Casquet light— remarkable thing! Three towers, an' Argand oil wi' reflecting metal—'

Kydd stood up. 'Aye. Thank ye, Mr Collas. Good day t' ye.'

Renzi waited patiently in the foyer of the imposing red-brick building on St Julian's Avenue. The clerk appeared again, regarding him doubtfully. 'Mr Belmont is very busy, but c'n find you fifteen minutes, Mr, er, Renzi.'

A thin and bespectacled individual looked up as he entered. 'Yes?'

The man was irritable in his manner but making an effort to be civil, so Renzi pressed on: 'Sir, at the moment I'm to seek a position in Guernsey that will engage my interests and talents to best advantage.

'My experience in marine insurance will not be unknown to the profession—the barratry case of the Lady of Penarth back in the year 'ninety-three, in which I might claim a leading role, has been well remarked.' It would probably not help his case to mention that at the time he had been a common foremast hand in the old Duke William with Kydd.

'Since those days I have occupied myself as an officer in the King's service, lately invalided out, and it struck me that I should perhaps consider turning my experience to account and—'

'Tell me, sir, what is your conceiving of a contract of indemnity?'

'Why, sir, this is nothing but that which is defined in the deed.' It was a fair bet that anything and everything would be covered in any good watertight policy.

'Would you allow, then, rotted ropes in an assessment of common average or would it be the particular?'

'Sir, you can hardly expect me to adjudicate in a matter so fine while not in possession of the details at hand.'

Belmont sighed. 'Might I know then if you have written anything?'

Renzi brightened; he had passed the initial test and now they were enquiring after his common literacy. As to that . . . 'Sir, since you so kindly asked,' he began warmly, 'I am at the moment consumed in the task of evolving an ethnographical theory that I do hope will be published at—'

'I was rather referring to policies,' the man rasped sarcastically, 'and, as it happens, I'm desolated to find that there is no opening in this establishment for a marine gentleman of your undoubted talents. Good day to you, sir.'

In the evening, footsore and thoughtful, it was time to review matters. Kydd's attempts had led nowhere, although he now had the solace that in Guernsey society it seemed his crime was regarded more as bad luck than anything else, the pursuit of profit by trade a worthy enough endeavour whatever the nature of the enterprise.

Renzi's manners and evident breeding had created suspicion and distrust and, apart from a doubtful offer as a proof-reader and another as assistant to a dancing master, whose duties appeared to be nothing more than making himself agreeable to lady students, there was nothing.

'I'm to go to St Sampson tomorrow,' Kydd said. 'There are several yards as build fine schooners an' brigs there, an' they'll be sure t' need a projector o' quality, one who knows th' sea an' has met fine men o' standin' in strange parts o' th' world,' he added unconvincingly.

Renzi hid a smile. Kydd engaged in hard selling to thick-skinned mercantile interests was unlikely, to say the least. 'One moment, and I'll jot our ideas down,' he said.

He found paper, but then in irritation turned on Kydd: 'Brother, I have mentioned before that the silver-lead pencil is a fine but expensive piece, and is for my own studies and not for the, er, general use. Where did you leave it, pray?'

Kydd glowered back. 'An' I've heard above ten times o' this wonderful pencil, but f'r now I'm not guilty o' the crime.' He hunted about briefly. 'It'll turn up.'

Renzi paused at the sound from below of a shouted argument reaching its climax in a crash. 'Possibly we should be considering a more aggressive approach to securing our existence.'

'What?' Kydd grunted.

'Why, er, we have not yet consulted the newspaper.'

They sauntered into the nearest coffee-house. Renzi engaged a bewigged attendant in amiable conversation while Kydd sat on a bench and looked around as though waiting, carelessly picking up a recent La Gazette. When he was sure no one was watching he folded the newspaper, slipped it into his waistcoat and left, his face burning.

It was a substantial publication in keeping with the prosperous island economy and its study justified the opening of their last claret, for the light was fast fading and, with a single candle at the table, all Renzi would allow, there were many pages of closely printed columns. They set to, trying to ignore the distant squalling of infants and the reek of burned fat and cheap tallow rising to the upper storeys.

It was depressing reading: without appropriate introductions of the usual sort, access to the more gentlemanly occupations was barred, while without experience even the lower trades would not be open to them.

'There's a situation here that may interest you,' Renzi said.

'Oh?'

'Indeed. I see here a vacancy as a shopman for an antigropelos draper, no less.'

Kydd gave a lop-sided smile. 'Being?'

'Well, a seller of waterproof leggings, of course,' Renzi answered lamely. They both tried to laugh, and Kydd reached for the foul-weather flask; there should be some of the precious spirit left from the last stormy deck watch.

'Where's that bedamn'd flask gone to?' grunted Kydd in annoyance, rummaging about. Suddenly he stopped and raised his eyes to meet Renzi's. 'A poxy snaffler!'

'It has to be—but where's a sneak thief going to get in while we're out?'