The Privateer's Revenge

chandlery on the waterfront near the harbour and still smelled of the century of sea stores that had once been there. He looked up from a broad desk set under old-fashioned windows with a view out to sea. 'I think it only proper t' tell ye what's to happen afore we can think t' fit out our craft for cruising.'

An elderly clerk scratching away against the wall murmured something but Robidou cut him short. 'No, Samuel, those figures must be presented tonight—we'll not disturb ye.' He took Kydd into another room and said gravely. 'He's preparing our case as will be put t' the investors. It has t' be a fine rousin' one or they'll not hazard their capital.'

Kydd felt a sudden chill: his hopes might yet be turned to dust.

'Don't concern y'self, Mr Kydd, that's business for me. But after we've got agreement we must appoint the officers.'

'The officers?' Surely this was his prerogative?

'Why, yes! I shall be made ship's husband, o' course, but there's the business house in London. We'll need a bond agent—Paul Le Mesurier I'd trust. We has t' find a proctor an' notary public, and there'll be insurance and legal agents t' appoint. But ye won't be interested in this-all, you'll want t' hear about drawing up th' articles of agreement and shares.'

'I do, Mr Robidou!' Kydd said, as heartily as he could.

'Well, curb y' impatience, sir, all in good time. Now after this is signed, we have the venture. I'll be collectin' the subscriptions an' establishin' our credit wi' the Priaulx house—they owns privateers but they'll handle fittin' out for us in return we gives 'em commissions of appraisement an' such on our prizes. When I've done that we can go lookin' for a ship for ye.' Robidou chuckled. 'Then ye has t' find a crew as will follow, an' then finally take out y'r Letter o' Marque!'

It was an intoxicating thought: there was every reason to hope that soon he could be once more at sea and, miraculously, as captain! 'When do we—That is, m' ship. Do we . . . ?'

Just how did one go about acquiring a privateer vessel? Go to a builder of privateers? Look in the newspaper advertisements? Impatience flooded Kydd.

'Your ship? A mite impetuous when we hasn't yet an agreement, sir.' Robidou relented with a grin. 'Why don't ye take a walk along the harbour? If'n there's a saucy craft as takes y'r eye, it's possible we'll make an offer. Havelet Bay an' St Sampson, the builders' yards there, might have something t' interest ye.'

Kydd lost no time. There was every conceivable vessel in St Peter Port harbour. Stately barques, nondescript luggers, and at anchor in the Great Road large merchantmen sporting a surprising number of guns a side.

But where were the privateers? Would he recognise one? Those he had come upon at sea were a mixed bag indeed, from large three-masters to the swarms in the Mediterranean not much bigger than boats. There was probably not a single type of vessel that could be classed definitively as a privateer.

His pace slowed. This would not be easy. Were vessels purpose-built to be privateers? If so, what would their characteristics be? Fast craft, probably sharp in the hull with sparring to take a cloud of canvas—but those were the very kind whose sea-keeping was so poor they would have to retire at the first sign of a blow. And as well, in the confines of a sharp-built vessel, where were the prize-crews going to find berths? And stowage for stores to keep the seas for any length of time? Then again, if he were the prey, a smart, rakish predator lifting above the horizon would instantly have him sheering away for his life, and it would be a tedious and costly stern chase to go after every prize.

It was something to which he had never before given thought. He looked at the ships working cargoes: what would be their perspectives on the matter? As prey at sea, they would be as wary as any wild animal fearing a fox ranging nearby, so if the privateer seemed one of them on its lawful occasions they would not take much notice of his approach or any manoeuvre that would otherwise seem threatening.

Yes! A ship of respectable size, probably brig-rigged, as so many traders were. Then a sudden unmasking of a goodly row of guns to convince even the stoutest heart that resistance would be futile. This would have the additional benefit that there would be no gun-play to damage prize or cargo. A ship, in fact, not so very different from Teazer . . .

There were several that might qualify: as he surveyed the busy harbour one in particular stood out. A black- hulled brigantine of two or three hundred tons, sitting handily on the mud in the tidal harbour to reveal her sweet underwater lines. There were few about her decks; her hatches were on, probably awaiting her cargo—or she was in idleness.

His heart beat faster. Was this the ship that would take him to wealth and respectability—to adventure in the unknown? Casually, he walked round the harbour wall until he was up with her. Close to, she appeared well cared- for, the gear tautly bowsed, lines from aloft properly tarred, decks priddied. All this was a good indicator of her condition below.

He sauntered past to peer at her stern. Cheval Marin was painted there in ornate yellow lettering. Seahorse: a fine name. A ship-keeper gazed up at him curiously. Kydd walked on: he knew now what he wanted—if the investors came to an agreement.

Renzi and d'Auvergne fell quickly into a working relationship based on mutual respect. Together they reviewed the plot, the heroic lengths to which Georges and his compatriots were going merely to maintain themselves at the centre of Napoleon's capital. They traced the route out of Paris that the fleeing carriage and its prisoner must take—west through the meadows and beech forests of the Orne, into the uplands and to the rugged coast, to a secluded but accessible place where the final delivery of the would-be emperor to the waiting vessel could be effected in secrecy and at speed.

That done, it was now necessary to prepare the ground. The secret records of La Correspondance— d'Auvergne's underground network dating back to the days of the Revolution, to the doomed risings in the Vendee with all their desperate valour and treachery— these would hold what was needed.

Renzi placed his candle on the bare table, oppressed by the stifling atmosphere of the ancient dungeon, and crossed to the iron chests. The heavy keys were awkward and the lock wheezed reluctantly, but then he had them: deeds of heroism never to be told to the world, letters of pleading ended briefly in another hand, bald receipts for gold and arms—and the names of those living quietly in the peace of the countryside who had to be informed that service and sacrifice were now asked of them.

He stuffed the ones he needed into his satchel, relocked the chests, closed the grim door and left the room to the dust of centuries.

While Renzi's first requisition was being readied he started on the hundreds of messages that were to go out. Each missive, reaching to villages and farmhouses in a long line to the capital, had to be carefully phrased to avoid