Caribbee(105)

‘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 Curaçao. ‘Duperré – this is you, sir?’

The man spread his hands. ‘No, sir, I am desolated to tell you I am not.’

‘M’sieur Duperré to step forward, if you please.’

A blank-faced man of years inclined his head. ‘I am he.’

Renzi gave a grim smile. This could not possibly be the head of the most insidious and successful naval operation of recent times.

‘Er, I’ll see Mme Bossu now, I believe.’

‘Bossu?’

‘From the kitchens. Do fetch her for me.’

It took some time to find the little scullery maid hiding under the stairs; Renzi had met her briefly when he had been disguised as Louise Vernou’s porter.

‘My dear. Be so kind as to point out M’sieur Duperré.’

Trembling she indicated a sharp-faced officer, a capitaine de frégate in undress uniform.

So that was the man. ‘Excellent! My congratulations, sir, on a truly impressive operation.’ Something made him hesitate. How was it that only a relatively low-ranking officer was directing such an enterprise at fleet level?

He turned to the maid. ‘And who, pray, is in charge here? Who gives the orders?’

Boldly, she flung out an arm to a somewhat portly gentleman in the dress of a planter, who returned a wan smile.

‘I see. Thank you, my dear, you’ve been most helpful.’

Renzi beamed at the gathering and invited the planter to a nearby study. ‘Do sit, er …?’

The man did not speak; neither did he take a seat.

‘Oh, do not stand on ceremony. We have much to talk of, I believe.’

The man sat slowly.

‘Your naval operation has been truly a wonder and amazement to us – you have my condolences that it is now concluded.’

No words were forthcoming, so Renzi went on, ‘As will stand to the eternal credit of the French Navy.’