The Privateer's Revenge

eyes staring at Renzi's cruel mask of a face.

'You played Mr Kydd false with your poisonous secret orders. You'll tell me why.'

'I—I didn't do it! It wasn't me, I swear!'

Icy anger seized Renzi. 'I've the blood of far better men than you on my hands,' he snarled, with the conviction of perfect truth. 'Yours will not cost me a moment's pause.' He was shaking now at the sudden insight that he really meant it. His hand slid to the razor and, picking it up slowly, he tested its edge.

'You—you're mad!' Prosser gasped, hypnotised by the weapon's gleaming menace.

Renzi rose suddenly, shifting his grip on the razor to a workmanlike underhand. The two others yanked Prosser's head back by the hair.

'No!' Prosser screamed. 'I beg you!'

Renzi paused and the man fell limply. 'H-how did you know?' he said weakly. 'He said no one would ever discover us.'

It all came out. Such a simple, foolish act, conceived in jealousy and hatred but with such consequences—it had been Carthew. When he had seen his position as senior commander and favourite threatened by Kydd, and aware of Saumarez's strict moral code, he had bribed a smuggler to land the chest and persuaded Prosser to tamper with the orders.

There had been no one else. Carthew had promised Prosser that on this remote station Standish would get the ship and he himself would achieve his long-sought lieutenancy. He had been right— and, but for Renzi, he would certainly have got away with it.

But Renzi could see no path forward. Without evidence, without witnesses, there would be no happy ending. In lieu, should he put an end to this reptile's life? He moved forward—Prosser shrieked as the razor went straight to his throat. It stayed poised while a tiny nick beneath exuded a trail of scarlet. 'Your life is now forfeit,' Renzi said levelly. 'My dearest friend has been ruined by your acts. Can you give me any reason why I should not end it?'

He waited for the hysterical babble to trail off, having discovered to his intense satisfaction that Prosser had not trusted Carthew and had stealthily retrieved the actual secret orders, which he still had in his possession.

Renzi pretended to ponder. 'I see—to be produced in court at the proper time.' He reflected further. 'You will observe,' he said, as though to a lecture audience, 'how trivial a task it has been for one in my position to arrange the abduction and death of any I choose. Should you fall in with my demands you may yet escape with your life—but if you fail me I will give orders that will find you out wherever you are and extinguish your miserable existence. Do you understand?'

'Y-yes, Mr Renzi.'

'Then this is what you shall do. First bring the orders to me, with your written confession. Afterwards you shall stand up and testify against Carthew—and only then will you stand quite discharged of your obligations. This is now your choice, sir. How will you proceed?'

'I—I'll do it, Mr Renzi. Whoever you are . . .'

It had been a stiff walk out of town, up by Elizabeth College to Grange Road, and a little farther to the Kydd residence, a fine house with many rooms set back discreetly from the road. He passed the gardener, who touched his hat to him as he reached the ornate front door and found the bell pull.

A bewigged footman regarded him disdainfully. 'Sir?'

Fighting down a sense of unreality he said, 'I'm Nicholas Renzi. I saw that Mr Kydd's ship is now in port. Is he at home at all?' He had seen the wicked black lines of the privateer schooner as she had returned to a joyous welcome on the quayside but, for some reason, had refrained from joining the crowds.

The footman seemed unimpressed and held out his hand.

'Oh, er, I have no visiting card on my person,' Renzi said uncomfortably, 'but I assure you I am his good friend and sanguine he will offer me welcome.'

He was shown into a receiving room adjacent to the door by the disapproving flunkey. Renzi settled into a comfortable chair and picked up a Gentleman's Magazine to avoid gaping at the splendours of decoration to hand.

It was hard to believe that this was now the residence and home of the young, credulous quartermaster's mate who had sailed with him in Artemis frigate on her legendary voyage round the world;

the master's mate who had stood with the seamen in the great Nore mutiny, then spurned an admiral's daughter for a country lass at ruinous social cost.

Kydd's sea sense had made him a natural predator and he was clearly reaping its rich rewards. Three voyages now. He was a figure of admiration in an island with a long history of privateering and could command the fawning attention of any he chose—and this was only the beginning.

Had it altered him? Was the open-hearted sailor now a hard-nosed businessman? When each cruise was adding massively to his private fortune, would he deign to go back to life in a humble sloop like Teazer? The more Renzi thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed.

Most of all, a gulf now separated them that could not have been greater: Kydd had found himself and would go on to great things, while he could only dream of achieving something in the philosophical line, not a path likely to lead to such riches.

With a sudden stab he realised as well that, as Kydd and his family rose in the world, Cecilia might be placed for ever beyond his reach. His despondency turned to fear.

The gritty rolling of wheels outside told him that soon he would know the worst. Sitting quite still, his pulse quickening, he heard the cries of an ostler and the jingling of harness—then a deeper voice of authority, probably the major-domo greeting his master: 'A pleasant voyage, sir?'

Then the blessed sound of Kydd's hearty voice: 'Not s' pleasant, but a mort profitable, I'd have t' say.'

'Oh, er, there's a gentleman in the receiving room,' the voice went on. 'He gave no card but claims to be an acquaintance of yours. Will you see him or . . . ?'