"Orders?"
"Aye. His written order that no native-born Guernseyman—as is his own countryman—shall be subject t' th' press. An' everyone aboard is, as they'll swear."
Standish blinked. "Is this right? Sir James has never given me a written order to that effect."
Kydd pulled himself erect. "Then ye'll be tellin' y'r commander-inchief as ye haven't had th' time t' hoist in his standin' orders?"
Somewhere Kydd had heard that a Guernseyman had ancient privileges that allowed him to serve the "Duke of Normandy" rather than the English sovereign, giving him theoretical protection from the press gang. It was unlikely that Saumarez would take kindly to any who trampled the rights of his proud bailiwick—and who would be the one to argue?
"Very well. Mark my words, Mr Kydd. If this is your deceiving, the next time I see you and, er, your private ship-of-war, I will strip you down to the cook, do you hear?" He stalked to the ship's side and signalled to his boat. Impassively Kydd watched him leave.
When the boat was halfway a full-throated shout came from forward in Teazer. "God save ye as a good 'un, Mr Kydd!"
Stirk's shout was taken up in a roar of others. Standish leaped to his feet in outrage, the boat swaying perilously. "Seize that man in irons!" he yelled. "And stop your cackle instantly—d' you hear me, you mumping rogues?—or I'll see the whole lot of you up before me!"
Kydd gave a wry smile. "Loose sail, Mr Rowan. Let's be away!"
CHAPTER 14
THE SPORT WAS THIN. Days later, of three encounters only one had proved fruitful, a tiny but voluble Portuguese with a freight of slab cork that could only have one destination in this part of the world, and time was getting short. Kydd's hopes of wealth were disappearing fast.
Still, he had learned much of the privateering trade and could see that, given certain advantages in the future, there was every chance of succeeding in a handsome way. There would be changes on the next voyage, he would see to it.
Bien Heureuse returned to St Peter Port in the tail end of an autumn gale but the Great Road lay as a welcome triangle of calm away from the port shielding it from the battering of the south-westerly, and the little privateer finally lay at rest alongside the pier.
Kydd made his way smugly to Robidou's rickety top-floor office to receive an appreciation for a good start in the privateering business and to learn when he was to receive his share of the proceeds.
Robidou told him gruffly to wait while he dealt with his clerk and Kydd contented himself with the fine view over the harbour, including his two prizes.
The clerk was then sent away and, with a cold look, he was bade to sit. It unsettled Kydd—he had expected a warmer welcome. Besides, he wanted to get away to tell his theatrical friends of his adventures.
"Ye've disappointed me, sir," Robidou began heavily. Kydd's heart sank. "M' investors did expect much more'n ye found for 'em," he went on remorselessly. "I told 'em as ye was th' proven article as an active an' enterprisin' privateersman."
Kydd's hackles rose. "Only a couple o' weeks at sea? An' two prizes on m' first voyage."
"Two prizes?" Robidou said acidly. "Th' first a store-ship wi' dried fish an' potatoes—how d' ye expect me t' place such a cargo on the market? Potatoes, when we has our own Jerseys that knocks such into a cocked hat? An' dried fish, as is only fit f'r soldiers?"
"The ship?" Kydd tried.
"A store-ship? Worthless! None wants a slab-sided scow as is built t' supply an army. No, sir, this is no prize worth the name."
Face burning, Kydd said tightly, "Th' Portuguee—a freight o' cork as can only be bound f'r the French wine ports?"
Robidou sighed. "He's worse. I'll agree, it c'n only be f'r the French, but the master is savvy, an' knows it's no use t' us. We don't make wine. So he protests th' capture. In course, we must go to t' litigation in an Admiralty court but this takes a mort o' time—and fees. If'n we win, it's only cork we has, not worth a Brummagem ha'penny a bushel, the ship contemptible an' we can't cover the fees. We have t' let him go."
Kydd bit his lip. "Can we not—"
"We lets him go, an' must pay him demurrage f'r the delay t' his voyage, a sum f'r his extra vittlin', harbour dues t' St Peter Port f'r his moorin'—an' if we're not lucky he'll lodge an' affidavit with his consul claimin' consequential damages! No, sir, ye've not had a good voyage."
Shaken, Kydd realised that, without any return from prizes, the voyage was a failure. And the investors had not merely lost their outlay but were faced with liability for heavy unforeseen payments to the Portuguese. "Er, I'm sure th' next voyage'll be capital. Um, I've learned much as will—"
"Mr Kydd. When th' investors hear o' your—success, I wouldn't hold m'self ready f'r a next voyage. Good day t' ye, sir."
Three days later the venture meeting was brief, and Robidou had news for Kydd when he returned the following morning. "Sir, I have t' tell ye, th' investors did not see their way clear t' renewing an interest in a privateer voyage by any means."
It was expected, but it stung all the same.
"If ye'll attend on me just f'r a few hours, we'll finalise th' books an' then you'll be free t' go."
With the paperwork complete, Kydd left, unemployed once more.
"Why, Tom, m' dear!" Rosie discarded her sewing excitedly and ran to meet Kydd, throwing her arms round him with a kiss. "You're back on land. Do tell me y'r adventures—did you seize any treasure ships a-tall?"
Her eyes were wide in expectancy but she frowned when she saw Kydd's long face. "Is—is something wrong?"
"No treasure, Rosie, jus' two prizes as are t' be despised, I'm told." He sprawled morosely in an armchair. "An' they don't see fit t' give me another voyage."
"Oh. So . . . ?"
Kydd looked at her with affection. "So it means, dear Rosie, there's nothing more I c'n do." That was the nub of it, really; he could return to being a stagehand and eke out a few more weeks of existence but to what end? "I'm t' go back t' England now." He sighed. "'Twas a good plan, but I'm not y'r natural-born corsair I'd have t' say now." A wave of depression came, but at least he could console himself that he had given it his best try.
"Don't leave now," Rosie said, stricken. "You will find the wicked dog as did y' wrong, I know it!"
Kydd smiled. "I'm beholden t' ye all for y' kindness but I'll not be a burden any more. I have t' leave."
"Please don't, Tom!" she pleaded, "Give it just a few more weeks, an' then—"
"No. End o' th' week, Rosie."
With dull eyes Renzi took in a report by one Broyeur who was responsible for their security at the Jersey terminus, detailing actions and observations as they pertained to counter-espionage. Endless lines of trailing this or that suspect, suggestive phrases in purloined letters, rumours—and then one word caught his eye: "Stofflet." It was followed by a short entry: "Per order, Friday last. Drowned—no marks."
The epitaph of a kindly man. Who had . . . Renzi's eyes stung. Rushing in came the memory of the little bald baker taking pity on a hungry stranger and finding a tasty loaf, which Renzi had gratefully devoured. He would no longer serve his ovens or see his little ones. And now where was pity? Where was the humanity? With a catch in his throat he felt control slipping. Why could not logic preserve him from the stern consequences of its own imperatives?
He staggered to his feet, sending the table and its papers crashing to one side. Urgently seeking open air he was soon out on the battlements, breathing raggedly. His fists clenched as he sought the sombre night horizon. The salty air buffeted his face bringing with it a sensory shock. The spasm passed, but left him troubled and destabilised. Since his youth he had found reason and logic a sure shield against the world, but now it had turned on him. What was left to him without the comfort of its certainties?