Julian Stockwin - The Iberian Flame - Thomas Kydd 20

Kydd could see that much thought had gone into this: one on the inside, close to the Frenchmen who would generate the bids, and those on the outside making the vital local arrangements, each depending on the other.

The last question was the most important.

‘Who then is your master, your principal?’

Morton said mechanically, ‘French gent, Marceau. Navy officer.’

It hit Kydd like a blow from a fist – but who better to draw in from the circle of French officers than those about him he knew could afford to abscond, and possibly even those who couldn’t? And Nott had mentioned Marceau handled private remittances for his brother prisoners. His high talk about standing true by his word of parole: was that nothing more than keeping himself in post as organiser, and adding to an increasing fortune?

But it didn’t ring true, given what he’d seen of the man. It was more likely that he was undertaking it like a military operation, setting up and carrying through actions that would result in valuable officers restored to French service, an object that he had reasoned transcended old-fashioned ideas of honour among gentlemen.

Or it could be that Morton was saying whatever came into his head – but he would gain nothing by it.

Kydd had to get proof, and there was one sure way of finding it.

It wasn’t difficult. A cart came, stopping at the London Inn for the empty tonic wine bottles, and while the carter was refreshing himself, Kydd went to the row he’d been told about. Neatly spiralled in a thick brown bottle was a message. He took it, felt about and found four more.

Each was headed with the name of a bird: kingfisher, shrike, swallow, others, clearly a code for the right recipient. In the body was further writing – numbers, times, references to ‘hedgehog’ and ‘stoat’, no doubt referring to others down the line. It didn’t matter: he had proof.

Nott was impressed, as much by Kydd’s reasoning as the unmasking of the conspiracy. ‘I’m to arrest the villain this instant. Shall you come, sir?’

‘I will.’

But Kydd found he was strangely reluctant to be witness to the final step. This distinguished and intelligent naval officer was destined for the misery of the prison hulks as a direct result of Kydd’s acts – and it had been his original actions that had made him a prisoner in the first place.

‘He’s not at home,’ the prim landlady of Marceau’s lodging said, with heat. ‘As he went out before ever it was morning and he leaving his rooms all ahoo.’

It was plain there’d been a hasty departure: scattered clothing and oddments spoke of a hurried selection of articles. With a pang Kydd saw on top of the dresser the bone ship.

Could he have been played for a fool? It would not be beyond Marceau’s organising genius to have devised a communication method to keep him in contact with his ship’s company, written it down as he had the bottle messages and concealed it in the sweetmeats. The ship model would be their way of relaying back to him that the channel was understood and open. And in both cases Kydd had been the unwitting courier.

‘Our bird has flown,’ Nott said sorrowfully, standing down the two constables. ‘I’ll send descriptions but I fear he’s now gone.’

For a moment Kydd was glad he’d vanished.

No doubt Marceau, like himself, was willing to take chances for a larger goal. And if he was as true to his ship’s company as Kydd was to Tyger ’s, it raised some interesting questions. Would he callously leave them to their fate while he took advantage of his own escape arrangement? He doubted it.

Then did this mean he would do something about it? His pulse quickened.

In his place what would he do?

The Preussens were securely in the Millbay prison. It had been built to house American captives, and its location had been chosen to make it a short and easily guarded march from the docks up and through the massive gate. If he were contemplating any kind of escape or break-out there couldn’t be a better place: the gates thrown open by some means, then a storming run down to the wharf, crowding aboard a waiting ship and putting to sea before anybody thought to move.

This was far-fetched, but quite in keeping with Marceau’s intelligence and his undoubted bravery.

The thought wouldn’t go away.

Then a more serious one began to take shape. If Marceau was going to take his men with him when he made his break, it had to be soon, before he was recognised and arrested.

Kydd’s imagination filled in the rest. An urgent notification to the prisoners and another to the ship to come alongside and he would be at this very moment flying down to Plymouth to join them. It might be highly improbable but Kydd couldn’t take the chance – he had to go and see for himself.

Chapter 9

Plymouth was in its usual crowded bustle and Millbay was no exception, boats a-swim, the docks working, cargo and carts of all description hurrying in every direction. Along the waterfront the sailors’ taverns were alive with jollity.

A short distance up the hill was the grim face of the prison. It was all too easy to conjure the sight of those big double gates bursting open and a flood of men racing down the short distance to the ships.

He had to do something. Go to the authorities? With what? A carefully planned uprising in the prison would have to be kept concealed at all costs. If he went to them with his hypothetical tale of mass escape he’d be taken for a madman.

Kydd’s mind raced. If he was right, a ship nearby would be prepared for the break – and almost certainly Marceau would be getting himself aboard in readiness.

He had to find that vessel. In dismay, Kydd looked around at the vast body of shipping. It would be impossible for him to search every one. He needed help.

At a run he made for the nearest tavern, the Mermaid. Still in his comfortable country breeches and gaiters he threw open the door and bawled, ‘A Tyger! Any Tyger, ahoy – I need a Tyger!’

The noise fell away in astonishment then Brewster, a foretopman, pot in hand, called from the rear, ‘Aye, Cap’n – what can we do for ye?’

‘Where’s gunner’s mate Stirk take his noggin?’

‘Why, the China Gate, just along, sir.’ There was growing incredulity as it spread about who was asking. Several sailors got to their feet to see better as Kydd waved an acknowledgement and left hurriedly. Some spilled out into the street in curiosity.

The China Gate was an old but well-favoured establishment. It was no stranger to King’s men wanting to be away from the usual haunts in dock.

He found Stirk in the snug with Doud and Pinto. They looked up in bewilderment at seeing their captain before them. ‘Toby, can ye bear a fist?’ Kydd said breathlessly, unconsciously falling back into seaman’s lingo.

It took him just minutes to set out the situation and then, with a whoop, they hurried outside, quickly joined by others.

‘A ship o’ size, high in the water – no freighting but outward bound.’ Kydd was guessing but it was a reasonable assumption. ‘Probably a neutral.’

With a dozen or more men spreading out it wasn’t long before there was a brisk hail from Pinto, pointing at a barque, Marie Cristobal of Bremen. With no sign of handling cargo, not only was she sea-ready with sail bent onto the yards, but significantly her lines ashore had been singled up, boats in the water ready for hauling off.

And a lack of crew was telling: just one figure on her poop looking down in dismay. She could easily be crewed by the fleeing captives.

It fitted.

Kydd ran up the brow, Stirk close behind. ‘In the King’s name!’ he roared at the quaking ship-keeper, who rapidly stepped aside. ‘Get below, see if you can rouse up the Frenchy,’ he told Stirk.