This was the climax, Renzi told himself, as they pressed forwards down the path. Not only for the process of clearing his reputation but for the elimination of the biggest threat that existed to the British holdings in the Caribbean, the largest source of revenue to a country locked in war against a world-toppling tyrant.
He led the way; Curzon hurried close behind. He’d taken care before to register that the villa lay in a particular fold in the hills slightly to the north-east, which they were now descending.
He stopped. The faded orange tiles of the roof were visible through the foliage below.
Now for the final act.
‘I believe their attention will be on our fleet and the landings and they are not troubling to look behind them,’ he told Curzon and Clinton. ‘They’ll be considering their position, whether to abandon now or wait until the situation is clearer. I do believe they’ll remain for a while longer – to destroy such a successful operation unnecessarily would be a sad mistake for them.’
Scouts returned with the welcome news that, but for watchers on the balcony, there seemed to be no sign of anything approaching a frenzied defence.
They had the luxury of time to prepare.
‘Your suggestions, gentlemen?’ Renzi invited.
Clinton began crisply, ‘A file of men to each side, out of sight. L’tenant Curzon with the remainder at the ready here. The two files meet and advance with me from the front. The instinct of the defenders is to break for the rear, where we will give them due welcome.’
‘Then I will be with you, Mr Clinton,’ Renzi said firmly.
‘Oh – no, sir. We’ve brought you here now and Mr Kydd was most insistent that-’
‘We cannot delay further, sir.’
‘Very well, Mr Renzi,’ Clinton said, with a lopsided grin. ‘Sar’nt Dodd – the right-hand side.’
Stealthily they threaded down past the villa to the road. Clinton watched for Dodd’s signal that his group was ready, then the two broke into a run, approaching each other and turning to take position. With shouts of dismay, the balcony cleared on an instant.
Renzi paused, letting first one then the other squad enter the garden, firing as they went. Three men burst out from the house but were dropped with musket fire before they had made a few yards. Dodd raced for the door and took position to one side. Musket butts smashed it inwards. Dodd and three others disappeared inside.
Unable to contain himself, Renzi hurried to join them. In the disorder he heard shouts and a single shot, followed by running feet. Then came a smell of burning. He knew where it had to be and motioned to a marine to deal with the door to the operations room. It flew open and inside he saw a man bent over a small fire trying to burn papers. He jerked up in despair. Renzi knocked him aside and stamped on the flames.
Everything was in a chaos of disarray, documents and empty drawers, with office paraphernalia scattered about the floor.
‘Secure the room!’ Renzi ordered loudly.
He picked up a singed paper. With rising exultation he saw it was an order on a vessel to assume a specified position to take the English trading ketch Sunrise. Another was a return on goods seized on a prize, signed by an illegible hand.
‘Sah!’ It was Dodd, fighting down a broad smile. ‘Mr Curzon’s compliments an’ could you attend on him, out the back, like.’
‘Very well. Nothing to be touched here, if you please.’
Curzon was in the garden. Two lines of marines and seamen grinned triumphantly at a huddle in the centre of nearly a dozen individuals, some in uniform.
‘Ah, Mr Renzi,’ he drawled. ‘I’d like to introduce the former owners of this villa who thought to run. None got away, o’ course, so you have the entire gang here for your inspection.’
Renzi gave a short bow. It was the end of a perfect day. From them he would learn just how the operation functioned: where the fleet was located, its system of communication, intelligence … So many things needed answers to draw a line under the whole incredible enterprise.
Kydd stopped and held up his hand. ‘Quiet!’ he hissed. They heard shots from the general direction of the ridge selected for the joining up.
‘Forward!’ he growled. ‘And watch your front.’
The path wound along the contour on the flank of the hill, but until they were fully around, whatever was happening was obscured.
A little further on, they came to a ravine and a small wooden bridge.
‘Stop!’ He heard popping on the other side of the hill where he guessed the ridge must begin. If that was so, Tyrell was in some kind of engagement – but this bridge would make a classic defensive position that could stop an army.
He debated whether to send men on to it to see if they drew fire, then took it upon himself. ‘Cover me,’ he muttered, and stood up to make his run.
The first shot knocked his cocked hat into the ravine, another plucked viciously at his sleeve. He dropped down again immediately.
‘We’ve got to get to Cap’n Tyrell,’ he said, more to himself than anyone in particular. ‘Give me that,’ he told a seaman, and took his musket, slinging it at his back, before securing the belt pouch of ammunition.
‘Sir, what are you-’
But Kydd had already moved out, slithering through the undergrowth until he found the bridge supports. He launched himself forward and up, grasping one of the timbers and using it to swing up and under the roadway. The musket was a clumsy and weighty hindrance.
The criss-cross of struts was child’s play to a seasoned topman and he went rapidly from one to another, the floor of the ravine, with a gushing river far below, nothing for one at home a hundred feet up in wildly heaving rigging.
He reached the other side and unslung the musket, cautiously rising to face where he’d seen the enemy gunsmoke. Something moved and he fired at it.
Dismayed by the sudden appearance on their side of the ravine of an attacker they rose to fire down at him – but half a dozen muskets crashed out from the British seamen and two fell; others ran for their lives.
Kydd finished reloading and pulled himself up. Without waiting for the others, he plunged ahead, musket at the ready.
Within yards he found himself at the edge of a clearing. It was the ridge above the town, and there was Tyrell, lying full-length just below the crest.
‘Captain Tyrell, ahoy!’ he shouted, and went towards him.
Tyrell did not look around, lying oddly still. Uneasy, Kydd quickened his pace, then broke into a run.
‘Rufus!’ he called, but in his concentration on the scene he tripped on a tussock and fell. The musket went off into the ground with a muffled report. Shame-faced, he retrieved the still smoking weapon and went up to Tyrell.
Stunned, he saw that he was dead. Kydd stared down at the body of the one who had done so much to hurt him, now no more.
Suddenly a man was beside him – he hadn’t heard him approach. Startled, he swung round. It was Hinckley, the army captain, who knelt beside Tyrell to examine the wound, then rose slowly, looking at Kydd with an odd expression.
‘If you please, sir,’ he said formally, holding out his hands.
Puzzled, Kydd passed him the musket. Without taking his eyes off Kydd’s he delicately smelt the muzzle, then lowered it.
‘You have a difficulty, Captain?’ Kydd asked with irritation. They had to complete the joining for the final push on Grand-Bourg without delay and there was no time for whatever army silliness this was.
‘He was shot from behind.’
‘He …?’
‘Not from the front.’
Then it dawned. ‘You – you think I killed him?’ Kydd said, incredulous.
‘That is not for me to say, sir.’
Renzi asked that they step inside, to the biggest room of the villa. Taking a comfortable chair, he watched while they filed in and stood in line before him.
There were nervous clerks, stolid functionaries and military men, warily eyeing the Royal Marines who stood smartly at the doorway. Renzi went up to the dark-featured individual he’d first seen in Curacao. ‘Duperre – this is you, sir?’