The Privateer's Revenge

Chouan risings and what they would mean to the paysan and merchant?'

It was apparent that he was being tested but it was not hard to apply his mind to the social effects of a bloodily repressed rural revolt.

D'Auvergne nodded slowly. 'Very good. You have a natural insight into the human condition and that I like. One moment.'

He rose and crossed to the thick oak door, closed it firmly, then returned and produced a letter. 'Now your opinion of this, if you please.'

Apprehensive, for some reason, Renzi picked it up. The eyes never left him as he began to read. 'Why, this is a letter from . . . It doesn't say.' He looked up. 'Sir, this is a private letter. We have no right—'

'Shall we leave that aside for now? Do continue.'

'From—from someone signing himself 'little cabbage,'' Renzi read out unwillingly. 'It's to another —'belle poule.'' He looked up unhappily. 'This appears to be from a lover to his amante. Sir, is this necessary?'

'Read,' d'Auvergne commanded.

'Very well, sir. We have this person writing—ah, it is to his wife, he mentions the little ones. He is at last to return . . . The time has been hard while they have been separated.' He glanced up in silent protest but at d'Auvergne's stony stare he continued. 'He will treasure the moment he sets foot in the old cottage once more . . . life in a town is not to be compared to a village of Brittany . . . The soldiers of the garrison are arrogant and he has a loathing for what he has to do . . . but he consoles himself that it is for them both, and with his earnings they will close the door on a harsh world . . .' Renzi finished the pathetic scrap. 'Another of Bonaparte's victims, I think. Doing a menial's work in some army town that will pay better than rural beggary. I do so feel for him and his kind.'

D'Auvergne waited but Renzi would not be drawn. This kind of human adversity was being played out all over the world as war ravaged previously tranquil communities. Why was he being shown this particular evidence?

'I honour your sentiments, Renzi. However . . .'

A premonition stole over him and he tensed as d'Auvergne leaned back in his chair and spoke in the same controlled tone: 'It would interest me to know your reaction if you are aware that the town he speaks of is St Helier, the garrison soldiers from Fort Regent and the man, Stofflet, acting in the character of a baker, is passing details of our troop levels to Decres.'

Renzi listened with a chill of dismay as d'Auvergne continued, 'Rather astute, really. He could tell to a man the garrison numbers daily by the size of the bread order. And he plans to return shortly with the capability and firing angles of our defences no doubt carefully paced out and written down.'

'A spy,' Renzi said uncomfortably.

'You have an objection to spies, then?' d'Auvergne asked innocently.

'It—He must be taken up immediately, of course.'

'But the practice of spying?'

'I'm not sure I take your meaning, sir.'

'Well, it would seem to me axiomatic that if a covert act by a single individual could result in the discomfiture of many of the enemy then it is not merely morally acceptable, but his bounden duty towards those who would otherwise be put to hazard.'

'I do not deny the necessity but the practices of spying are repugnant to me,' Renzi said carefully.

'I really do not see where the immorality lies, Mr Renzi. If, as commander-in-chief at the scene of a battle, I receive intelligence that the enemy will come by a different direction, do I alter my dispositions accordingly or refuse to do so on the grounds that the information was gained by a single person working alone?'

Renzi held his silence, wondering if d'Auvergne was trying to provoke him.

'No, of course I cannot, morally or otherwise. My duty as a commander is to build a picture of the forces opposite me in the best way I can—and if an opportunity arises whereby one of my men might move forward, keep out of sight and note the truth of what these are, then I shall be grateful to him.'

As though it were final proof in a mathematical theorem, d'Auvergne concluded, 'Therefore no one can be surprised that this is carried forward by all nations as a perfectly valid and utile means of acquiring intelligence.'

Pulling himself up, Renzi said cuttingly, 'Sir, before now I have had to perform bloody acts that were logically dictated by the situation at the time and I believe I have never shied from the duty. What I find immoral is the deployment of such as an instrument of policy.'

'In a way, you disappoint me, Renzi. You have not considered your position in logic, which I find is the only method to be trusted for laying the thickets of sentiment and false moral positions. Take the spy himself, for instance.'

Feeling a heat of resentment at having his cherished logic brought into such a discussion Renzi reluctantly followed the reasoning.

'The spy is a brave and resourceful man who goes alone and unarmed into the enemy camp. It has often puzzled me,' he said, as an aside, 'just why we admire and value those who on our behalf do so, while those of our opponents with the same qualities are, on discovery, vilified and must invariably suffer death. An odd notion, don't you think?'

He thought for a moment then continued his main thread: 'Is there, I ask you, any difference au fond between ordering a man to stand before the cannon's rage and another who is required to place himself in greater peril within the enemy's territory?'

'It is not in my power to order a man to do anything, sir,' Renzi said, with feeling. 'Let alone—'

'So who in your universe will harvest the intelligence, save you from the guile of the enemy, his conspiracies and malice?' d'Auvergne snapped. 'You have the freedom, bought by others, to walk away from matters of nicety to