Julian Stockwin - The Privateer's Revenge

"Then they've had trouble with the lanterns. If you'll set me ashore now, Mr Jacot?"

"I don't reckon on it, Mr Giramondo."

"Why—"

"Done this afore. Ain't good t' second guess 'em. If they's found trouble . . ."

An hour passed, and more. Although keyed up with the appalling tension, Renzi mused that this would be his first step on the soil of France since those inconceivably remote days when Kydd and he as common seamen had made their desperate escape following an abortive landing.

Kydd! What was his friend doing now? So true and honourable, one of nature's gentlemen who did not deserve his fate—any more than others in the chaos of war. And he had sworn to stay by him, yet here he was—

"There!" Jacot said, with satisfaction. Two lights had finally appeared in the right place. The captain looked at him questioningly and Renzi realised he was waiting for a decision.

Had this signal been delayed by lantern trouble or had it been made under duress after capture to lure them in? Should he seize courage and proceed, or cancel the mission? "I'll go ashore," he said, as calmly as he could. There was no alternative.

The boat nudged into the sandy beach and Renzi scrambled out. It disappeared rapidly into the night and he was left standing at the edge of a wood sloping down to the water's edge. With every nerve stretched to breaking point, he listened. Night sounds, the soughing of wind in the trees, creatures in the undergrowth. And blackness.

At that moment he was in as much mortal danger as ever in his life: the letter sewn into his coat felt like fire, a document of such towering importance that, if he were captured, would result not in his simple execution but in the deadliest torture the state could devise to rip his secrets from him. Then merciful death.

With shocking suddenness a hand clamped over his mouth from behind and his arms were seized on each side. A voice close to his ear whispered, in French, "A sound and you die!"

Renzi nodded and the hand left his mouth but his arms were held as he was frogmarched into the woods. Unseen sharp forest growths whipped across his face as he stumbled along in the grip of at least two men, others following behind.

Panting at the unaccustomed effort, he was relieved when they reached a small glade and paused. The rickety outlines of an old woodcutter's hut appeared before them. Low words were exchanged, then he was brought forward. The door opened, slammed shut behind him and the impelling arms fell away.

Sensing the presence of others in the hut he kept still. There was a tapping of flint and steel and a single candle sputtered into life, to reveal a large man standing behind a table, silent shadows all around.

"Qui êtes vous?" the man said mildly. The accent was metropolitan—Parisian. A poignard blade jabbed impatiently at his throat.

Mustering his best French, Renzi replied, "Nicholas Renzi, a British naval officer."

"We were expecting another."

"Le vicomte was detained by his wounds. I come from him with a letter." Renzi drew back his coat far enough for the scarlet-heart insignia of the Chouans to be seen. A rustle went through the others as they bent to see.

"And here is his token." He held out his hand, which now bore d'Aché's signet ring.

The blade stayed unwavering at his throat.

"So you robbed le vicomte of his ring as well?"

"As a show of his trust in me, he desires further that I should say this to you."

He took a breath, and in the ancient French of seven hundred years ago the noble lines of "La Chanson de Roland" echoed forth in the old hut:

Tere de France, mult estes dulz pal's, Oi desertét a tant ruboste exill! Barons franceis, pur mei vos vei murir, Jo ne vos pois tenser ne guarantir . . .

The blade fell away. "Robert always did relish his civilisation. I am Henri. You told that well, Englishman. Are you perchance a scholar?"

"You were late," Renzi snapped.

"It is the situation, mon brave —soldiers, gendarmerie, they are in unrest, they stalk the woods. It is menacing outside, m'sieur."

The candle flickered as another entered the hut and muttered something to Henri. He nodded, with a frown, then turned to Renzi. "A letter, you said."

"Sir, I've come to deliver assurance from His Britannic Majesty's Government that all possible support shall be given to you in this decisive hour." He relieved the man of the poignard that had recently been at his throat and, with swift, savage strokes, slashed open the lining of his coat.

A sigh went round the hut as he passed over an elaborately sealed parchment. Henri broke it open and held it up to the candlelight. "This is from a Sir Saumarez," he said accusingly.

"It is," said Renzi, with a haughty sniff. "Commander-in-chief and admiral. He owes his allegiance directly to London and his word may be accepted, I believe. Would you rather we delayed by requiring a reply all the way from there?"

"It speaks of aid and assistance but with no detail, no numbers."

"Sir! You can hardly expect a high commander to concern himself in the kind of specifics a quartermaster might deal with." The hut was warm and close; Renzi was perspiring but it was more from the knowledge of the colossal stakes behind his every word than the lack of air.

Peering intently at the letter, Henri spotted d'Aché's scrawl across one corner. He looked up suddenly. "Robert commends us to accept this letter. But we have the biggest decision still. If we—"

"If you rise up and triumph in your plan, where is the certitude that there will be ships and men to join with you in consummating your achievement?"

"Exactly."

There was only one way to go forward now. "Sir," Renzi said, "it is I who have been charged with the responsibility of ensuring that vessels will be there to receive the tyrant—and, of course, any who wish for any reason to quit France at that time. And I have seen with my own eyes the apartment in the castle of Mont Orgueil that is at this moment being prepared by the Prince of Bouillon for Napoleon Bonaparte. Sir, if you have any anxieties on this matter be pleased to address them to me that I might answer them."

Would this suffice?

In the light from the single candle, Henri's eyes seemed to glow—with satisfaction or suspicion? Holding up the letter he pronounced, "By these writings the British Government has implicated itself in the greatest threat to Bonaparte he has ever experienced. In all the chancelleries of Europe it will be seen that perfidious Albion reaches out to topple its foes by cunning and clandestine means and all might tremble that they are to be next."

Renzi held rigid. He had done all that could be expected of him and now the verdict on his efforts was to be made plain.

Henri looked directly at him. "Sir, this letter is a gunpowder keg for your government. That they have seen fit to trust it to our keeping is all the assurance we desire." He held the sheet to the flame. It caught and flared until it was consumed and the ashes fluttered to the floor. "In forty-eight hours you shall have our date and places."

Renzi could find no words and gave a simple bow. A scatter of applause and excited talk was halted by Henri, holding up his hands. "I would that we were able to extend to you the hospitality you deserve but, alas . . ."

He cocked his head to one side and listened intently. Then Renzi felt an irregular thumping in the ground, a jumble of drumbeats out of synchrony.

"Dragoons!"

The door burst open. "Les soldats! Nous sommes trahis!" The hut turned to bedlam and in the rush for the door Renzi heard Henri bellowing orders. Outside in the Stygian darkness there was a crashing of vegetation as the conspirators scattered in every direction.