Julian Stockwin - The Privateer's Revenge

"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 taken aboard and signed for in the flagship, then released upon signature into the delivering vessel—it was the right of the captain of any naval vessel carrying bullion to claim a "freight money" percentage and did this apply to the flagship captain? How were the receipt and delivery to be accounted for in a form acceptable to the Treasury? Who would make the clandestine conveyance? Another privateer?

And all the while he worked on these details, he knew desperate men were risking their lives. Wearily, Renzi picked up another sheet from the growing pile on his desk.

Days passed: the area was not proving as productive as Kydd had hoped. Possibly the autumn weather was thinning the flow or another privateer at work in the vicinity might be frightening off their rightful prey.

It gave Kydd time, though, to make another attempt on sea discipline, but he quickly discovered that, without well-tested naval command structures in place, it was really to no purpose—there was no interlocking chain of responsibility linking the seaman on a gun through gun captains, petty officers, warrant officers and so on to the commanding officer, such that at any point his will was communicated in ready understanding straight to that seaman.

But then he was finding that a merchant sailor was in some ways more independent and expected to perform his seamanlike functions on his own; the ship-owner would not outlay good money on layers of command that were only vital in the heat and stress of combat.

He had to make the best of it: his was a merchant ship prettied up with a pair of nine-pounders and gun-crews of untrained amateurs. Enough to overawe small fry but if any showed real resistance . . . He kept his thoughts to himself and focused on where to find that prey. All too aware that every day without a return was draining capital, Kydd kept the deck from first light until dark—and then their luck changed.

Anchored overnight in the lee of a convenient sweep of rocky headland, Bien Heureuse was greeted in the chill of the morning by the astonishing sight of another vessel no more than a few hundred yards away. In the darkness it had unknowingly chosen the same shelter as they and was still firmly at anchor when it caught sight of them— and the boat thrashing across that Kydd had instantly in the water, with Rowan at the tiller.

It was hardly a ship, more a low, floating barge that was easily recognisable as a store-ship for the Brest dockyard. As the boat drew close, the crew abandoned their efforts to weigh anchor and hastily took to their own boat to escape ashore.

With satisfaction Kydd watched Rowan go alongside and board, his men fanning out fore and aft on the deserted vessel. He had only to select a prize-master and crew and Bien Heureuse had one in the bag.

Rowan returned quickly. "A prize, t' be sure. Dried fish 'n' potatoes f'r the garrison in Brest." No complications with papers and international law, this was an enemy that was now rightfully theirs.

Kydd sent Tranter away as prize-master, glad to see the back of him; the new captain wasted no time in hoisting sail for the run back to Guernsey, ribald shouts of encouragement echoing across the water. Kydd's chest swelled. Their first prize!

Turning his gaze to sea, his eyes focused on a sail, a good three miles away but an unforgivable lapse in lookouts whose attention had been diverted. Square-rigged, she was hove-to and alone out to sea. Uneasy, Kydd sent for his glass as Bien Heureuse won her anchor.

A brig-rig, the workhorse of coastal shipping: she could be anything, but there was something . . . Then, as he watched, the ship got under way again, laying over as she took the wind . . . and he knew for a certainty that it was Teazer.

It affected him deeply, this sudden encounter with the ship he'd loved, his first command, where he had experienced the joys, insights and anxieties that went with the honour of being a captain. And the one where . . . Rosalynd had never come aboard Teazer, had not seen where he slept, never had the chance to . . .

He crushed the thoughts, but when he lifted his telescope he found his eyes stinging and his glass not quite steady. He forced himself to concentration as she altered her course—and headed inshore towards them.

Kydd had no wish to make contact and snapped at Rowan to hasten the unmooring, but Teazer arrived as they were getting under way. Her colours broke at the mizzen shrouds in unmistakable challenge and Kydd had to decide: to attempt a break to the east or await events?

"Luff up," he ordered, resigned to the inevitable.

Teazer rounded to, backing her fore topsail. "Bring to, I'm coming aboard of you, Captain!" It sounded like Prosser with a speaking trumpet, giving the same orders that he himself had used. As it came closer Kydd saw an officer in the sternsheets.

He stood back as the man came aboard. It was Prosser, stiff in his new lieutenant's uniform. He looked about him importantly, then stumbled in shock when he saw Kydd. "I, er, I've been sent b' Commander Standish t' examine y' vessel, um, Mr Kydd," he said uncomfortably.

"Here's m' Letter o' Marque. As ye can see, it's all in order," Kydd snorted. The brailed-up sails banged and slatted overhead impatiently.

Prosser took it, then looked up awkwardly. "He means y' full papers—where bound, freight an'—"

"I know what an examination means," Kydd said cuttingly. "I now need y' reason why m' vessel is bein' detained after I've proved m' business."

"It's not like that, sir. Mr Standish is hard on them who don't carry out his orders t' satisfaction, an' he said—"

"Then tell Commander Standish as I'm a private ship-o'-war and may not be delayed in m' tasking without good reason. Good day, L'tenant." He stalked to the ship's side; Prosser's boat was bobbing off the quarter, the men at their oars.

"Boat's crew!" Kydd roared, and gave the straight-armed up and down signal of the naval order to come alongside. A plump midshipman he did not recognise swivelled round in astonishment. "This instant, damn y'r eyes," Kydd added.

Hesitating, the young man gave the order and the boat came to hook on at the main channel, the midshipman looking reproachfully at Kydd and his officer by turns.