'Port clearance?' This was vital: clearing a port implied the vessel had satisfied the formalities in areas such as Customs, which demanded full details of cargo carried and next destination. For the alert it could reveal whether there was an intention to call at another port before that declared as destination and perhaps other incriminating details.
It was, however, consistent. A hard-working trader on his way from the neutral but unfriendly Spain, voyaging carefully through the sea battlefield that was the Channel to the Baltic before the ice set in.
No prize? He wasn't going to let it go. There was something— was it Pedersen's truculence? If he had the confidence of a clear conscience he would enjoy seeing Kydd's discomfiture, sarcastically throw open the ship to him as other innocents had done before.
No—he would take it further. 'I'd like t' see y'r freight, Captain. Be s' good as t' open y'r hold, sir.'
Pedersen frowned. Then, after a slight hesitation, he nodded. 'Ver' well.' He got up heavily and they returned on deck.
While the master threw his orders at the wary crew, Kydd called Calloway to him. 'We see if what we find squares wi' what's on the manifest,' he whispered. 'Check off y'r details—any consignment not on y'r list he's t' account for, as it's not come aboard fr'm some little Frenchy port on the way.'
'Or any as is missing,' murmured Calloway, 'which he could've landed . . .'
Kydd chuckled. 'Aye, ye're catchin' on, m' boy.'
The thunderous cracking of timbers and goods working in the lanthorn-lit gloom and the dangerous squeeze down amid their powerful reek to the foot-waling below did not deter the experienced quartermaster's mate Kydd had been and he clambered about without hesitation.
Muslin and linen, cased oranges, Spanish wine in barrels; each was pointed out by the mate and accounted for, Kydd's sharp-eyed survey omitting no part of the hold, no difficult corner.
Nothing.
It was galling. There was
Kydd was about to heave himself out of the hold when a glimmer of possibility made itself known. He paused. This would be one for Renzi—but he wasn't here . . .
Slithering down again he worked his way back to the tightly packed wine barrels. He held the lanthorn above one. 'Tinto de Toro, Zamora' was burnt crudely into its staves. He sniffed deeply, but all he could detect was the heavy odour of wine-soaked wood.
On its own it was not enough, but Kydd suspected that inside the barrels was not cheap Spanish wine but a rich French vintage. He squirmed over to the casks closest to the ship's side and found what he was looking for—a weeping in one where it had been bruised in a seaway or mishandled.
He reached out, then licked his finger: sure enough, the taste was indisputably the fine body of a Bordeaux—a Medoc or other, perhaps? He was not the sure judge of wine that Renzi was but, certainly, a cheap Spanish table wine this was not. And he could see how it had been done: they had left Bilbao with Spanish wine on the books as a welcome export, passed north along the French coast, crept into a lonely creek and refilled the barrels before setting sail once more.
He had them! Exultant thoughts came—the most overwhelming being the vast amount the prize would bring, with the sudden end of his immediate troubles, but cooler considerations took hold.
The only 'evidence' was his nose; was this sufficient justification for him to bring his boarding party swarming over the bulwarks and taking the grave action of carrying the vessel into port? The ship's papers were in perfect order and any trace of a quick turn-aside would be difficult to prove.
He returned to the saloon. 'Ship's log!' he demanded. Kydd ignored Pedersen's thunderous look and flipped the dog-eared pages: he wanted to see the dates between sailing and rounding Ushant. It was scrawled in Swedish, but again the shared culture of the sea allowed him to piece together the sequence. Light airs from the south when leaving on the tenth, veering to a fresh seven-knot south-westerly within the day—but not to forty-five degrees north before another two days.
'There!' Kydd said, stabbing at the entry. 'Seven knots on a fair wind an' it takes ye three days to cover fifty leagues!' He snorted. 'If'n it does then I'm a Dutchman. Ye put in t' Bordeaux country an' took a fill o' Frenchy wines, as I c'n prove below.'
Pedersen's expression did not change. 'Ef wine are not Spanish, ze merchant iss cheat—not vorry for me,' he snapped. 'An' m' time?' he went on frostily. 'I lost by privateers inspect me there,
'An' may we see, then, y'r certificates?' Kydd shot back sarcastically. These had to be issued by the examining vessel on clearing any vessels boarded, that any subsequent boarding could be waived—and none had been shown to Kydd before he began his inspection.
'An' they'm be French?' Pedersen came back with equally heavy sarcasm. The French did not issue such certificates.
It was no good; the man was lying through his teeth and had been trading with the enemy, but he could not take the ship prize with this hanging over it. At the very least there would be lengthy litigation, which would cost his investors dearly. He had to let it go.
At his desk the day wore on for Renzi. First there was the matter of the arms shipment. It would arrive soon in a store-ship. To preserve secrecy it would be better to make rendezvous and trans-ship at sea to the lesser vessel that would be making the dangerous run into France. This would probably mean smoothing the offended sensibilities of the master and mate, who would be expecting the formalities of clearing cargo in the usual way, and the crew, who would resent the need to open the hold and rig special tackles in an open seaway.
Then there was the task of finding a vessel suitable for the final dash. D'Auvergne had suggested employing a privateer as their season was drawing to a close and one might be tempted to an extra voyage. They were well armed and not afraid of fighting if the need arose and, of course, had the carrying capacity, but Renzi had a naval officer's healthy dislike of the breed: it would mean haggling with near-pirates.
His attention turned to the details of the currency shipment: this would be coming from England in a cutter and there would be no alternative to the flummery associated with the movement of bullion. It would necessarily be
