The Privateer's Revenge

sore heads in the morning after their time ashore. Standish paid his respects warily and was off as smartly, leaving the ship to its evening rest. Renzi waited a little longer, then went up.

Kydd was sitting motionless by the stem windows, gazing out at the shadowed waters. 'I—I'll be stayin' with Teazer for now, Nicholas,' he said stiffly. 'Ye're at liberty t' use number eighteen as y' see fit.'

'Thank you, my friend,' Renzi said quietly. 'But, as you'll know, we've been at sixes and sevens in recent days. I need to take some quiet time to bring things to order. I shall stay aboard.' Without asking, he sat down in the opposite chair.

Kydd stirred and cleared his throat. 'Ship's business? Then do y' care t' share m' dinner?'

It was a cheerless meal: not so much Kydd's halting conversation or his silences but the contrast with what had been before. Kydd's face was drawn, his eyes dull, and there was no light-hearted taking up of Renzi's witty sallies.

As soon as he decently could, Renzi excused himself.

The next day Kydd kept to his cabin. Life aboard Teazer settled to a dreary stasis at her mooring, the entire ship affected by the solitary and melancholy figure in the captain's cabin.

Renzi knew the cause of the flares of temper, the distracted silences: Kydd had seized on duty as salvation—the stern call to a code of conduct that was plain, uncompromising and immediate. A pathway out, which would offer a clear and unthinking course to follow that was sure and secure. And it was denied him while Teazer lay idle.

What would Admiral Lockwood plan for them? he wondered. It was an embarrassment now to have Kydd in his command, despite his recent successful cruise. Another anti-smuggling patrol? Worthy but dull, with possibly the Admiralty questioning continued employment of such a proven asset in this way. It would probably be a vague order to keep the seas as far from Plymouth as could be contrived; in any event, the sooner they got under way the better.

On the fifth day, Standish went ashore to the dockyard and returned with packages. He disappeared into Kydd's cabin and soon the ship was alive with rumour—orders had arrived at last.

The ship's clerk reported with the others. While the cabin filled with animated chatter, Renzi picked up the single sheet: '. . . and agreeable to an Admiralty Order . . . you are detached from duty in the Plymouth Command and shall proceed forthwith to join the Channel Islands Squadron . . .'

Renzi smiled cynically. Not only had Lockwood rid himself of his embarrassment but had even managed to have them consigned to the quiet backwater guarding those lonely English outposts, the tiny Channel Islands near the French coast. He had never heard of any stirring battles in that quarter—in fact, nothing of note in all the years of war. It was exile for Kydd.

He looked again. The date was a good seven months earlier. Lockwood had been asked then to provide a vessel but had held on jealously to his small fleet—until now.

'We're near ready t' sail. What's to do about our marines?' Kydd exploded, as though it was Renzi's fault.

'We'll hear back soon, I'm sure of it,' Renzi responded, although he felt that Kydd had enough on his hands without insisting they ship the complement of marines to which they were entitled since they were now proceeding to a 'foreign' station.

He had himself worded the application, which had been duly acknowledged, but Kydd was in a dangerous mood. 'Don't th' marines barrack in Stonehouse? I've a mind t' go ashore an' stir the idle swabs.'

There was no dissuading him and Renzi found himself hurrying behind as Kydd stalked the short distance from Stonehouse Pool to the massive light grey stonework of the barracks. A sentry snapped to attention and slapped his musket, bringing a lieutenant strolling out from the gatehouse. 'Sir,' he said, saluting smartly, 'what can I do—'

'Commander Kydd, HMS Teazer. An' where are our marines?'

The lieutenant blinked. 'Sir?'

'I've not time t' discuss th' matter. Please t' conduct us to y'r general in charge.'

'The colonel commandant,' the lieutenant said, clearly pained. 'This is irregular, sir. Perhaps the adjutant might satisfy.'

They headed across the parade ground, passing several drill squads of marines executing complex manoeuvres.

Kydd did not waste time. 'Kydd, HMS Teazer. We're t' sail soon an' I've heard nothing of our marines, sir.'

The adjutant steepled his fingers, then glanced up at the ramrod-straight colour sergeant at his side. 'Then I'm to understand that you seek a company of marines to make up the complement of your fine vessel before you sail?'

'Yes.'

The adjutant barked, 'Sar'nt, go outside and find this officer some marines.'

'Sah!' bellowed the man, with a quivering salute, and marched noisily away. In a suspiciously short time he marched back in and crashed to attention with another salute. 'Sah! No marines. Sah!'

'None?'

'No marines a-tall. Sah!'

The adjutant assumed an expression of saintly sorrow. 'There, Commander, you see? We cannot help you— there are no marines left, I regret to say.' Sounds of screamed orders on the parade ground outside echoed in the office.

Kydd took a deep breath. 'You flam me, sir, an' I'll not stand f'r it,' he snarled. 'What are th' men outside? A flock o' goats? If I don't get m' men an' that main quickly, I'll—'

'Commander! There seems to be a misunderstanding!' the adjutant said smoothly. 'We may yet find you some