Julian Stockwin - The Privateer's Revenge

If at the flag office there had been no secret orders and in Teazer there were—there could be only one conclusion: that Prosser had himself inserted them or knew of the act.

Prosser! But what possible motivation could he have had for the deed? Vain, insensitive and no leader of men, he was much more likely to have been led by another. Standish? There was no way of telling. Prosser would never risk his career in admitting anything—he had now his acting lieutenancy. And the principal in the affair would have ensured that all tracks had been been well and truly covered.

It was unfortunate but there was no way forward. As a failed commander Kydd would therefore be for ever under a cloud and—A wave of rage roared through Renzi, shaking him with its intensity. It moved him, as nothing else had, that the gross world of deceit and treachery had reached out and touched his friend.

Renzi knew that unless he did something he would . . . but then . . . he realised he could.

The devil that was in him spoke seductively through the storm, plotting a course of action that in its very symmetry was beguiling and deeply satisfying. If the virtuous were to be brought low by an immoral and felonious act, then the wicked should be likewise: in one stroke he could turn the world he despised against itself and at the same time achieve justice for Kydd at last.

Feverishly he assembled a plan. He would need accomplices who wouldn't talk—with his inside knowledge of the shadow world of spies and assassins that would be easy. Vipère and Hyène would now be available; he brought to mind their saturnine, grave-robbing features. Yes, they would do admirably.

Next, a suitable location. What better than the old sail-loft in which Kydd had spent so much time recently? Excellent. Then let the game commence . . .

Sitting at the single table in the dank and empty space, Renzi trimmed the one candle. It shone up with a trembling flame illuminating his face from below with a malevolent gleam. The table was bare, save an open razor in the centre.

He waited calmly. At the appointed hour there was a scuffle outside; a struggling body was forced within and flung to the ground before him, the pinioned arms splayed immovably sideways, the gagged and blindfolded head desperately turning this way and that.

The struggles eventually ceased and Renzi nodded; first the gag and then the blindfold were removed and a terrified Prosser looked about wildly. He tried to rise but was held down. "For God's sake, Renzi, what's happening?" he choked out.

Renzi watched him writhe. He had no pity for the man's ordeal, called from the warmth of the Mermaid Club on a pretext, then rapidly bundled away blindfolded into the night.

"What're they doing?" Prosser shouted, terror rising. Vipère cuffed him to silence.

Renzi contemplated the creature who had brought Kydd down and who was now trembling uncontrollably, his 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.