The Privateer's Revenge

CHAPTER 1


HIS MAJESTY'S BRIG-SLOOP TEAZER eased sheets and came round prettily for the last leg of the short passage from Polperro eastwards to Plymouth Sound. The ship's clerk knocked softly at the captain's cabin door. There was no reply so, from long friendship, Nicholas Renzi entered quietly. Commander Thomas Kydd was sitting rigid at the stern windows staring out. He turned, his face a bleak mask. "Tom, dear fellow? I've brought you this," Renzi said, proffering a glass. "The natives hereabouts do swear by its power to lay demons and recruit the spirit."

Kydd accepted the offering but it remained untouched in his hand. "Fine nor'-westerly blow," Renzi went on brightly. "We should raise the Sound on this tack, I'd venture." There was no response from the fine and ambitious sea officer, who had made the incredible journey from the fo'c'sle to the quarterdeck, then achieved his own command, now brought so low.

It had been so sudden. Returning triumphant after a rousing cruise, Kydd had decided to snatch a few moments in Polperro, the home of his newly betrothed, Rosalynd. There, he had learned of her tragic death, just days before.

Renzi drew a chair close. There was little to be said—grief was such a private thing, but in this Renzi knew guilt. His closest friend had stood alone when he had followed his heart and asked a country lass to be his bride, not Persephone Lockwood, the admiral's daughter. There had never been a formal understanding between Kydd and Miss Lockwood, but society—and Renzi—had been outraged nevertheless.

"You should know this, dear friend, I—I own myself shamed by my actions, you must understand," Renzi said, in a low voice. "It was unpardonable not to recognise that it was—that your sentiments sprang from the noblest and purest . . ."

His words went unheard but he vowed that whatever lay ahead for Kydd he would be at his side. Especially when he tried to reenter the world that had turned its back on him. But there were more pressing concerns now. "We dock in so little time I have to ask, shall you prepare to take the deck again?"

Kydd's face turned slowly. His eyes filled as he tried to speak and his fists clenched.

Renzi knew for the sake of the future that Kydd should be the one to take Teazer to her rest. "You are the captain still, and duty is a stern mistress. Shall I . . . ?" He let it hang.

As the words penetrated, Kydd rose from his chair like an old man and made his way to his inner cabin. After a few minutes he emerged and took a last long look through the windows at the receding wake.



"I have th' ship, Mr Standish," Kydd mumbled to his first lieutenant, and stood alone, face set and pale, staring ahead. Rame Head passed abeam; Teazer hauled her wind for the Sound and home. Hands went to stations for mooring ship and she came gently to single anchor at Barn Pool.

The early autumn sunshine had a fragile, poignant quality as the sloop's gig pulled across the short distance to the dockyard; at Kydd's side, Renzi held ship's papers. The boat nuzzled into the landing stage and Kydd stepped out, seeming lost and bewildered. "This way, old fellow," Renzi said, glaring at passers-by, who stopped to gape at the subject of the so-recent scandal.

It was not far to the offices; the flag-lieutenant hurried away to inform the port admiral of their arrival. Lockwood himself came stalking out to the waiting room but halted in surprise at the sight of Kydd's ashen face. News of the tragedy had apparently not yet reached him. "I'm astonished you have the temerity to cut short your cruise, Mr Kydd. There are matters, it seems—"

"Sir, I beg t' report m' full success in y'r mission."

Lockwood blinked.

"Teazer's report," Renzi said, handing over the details of Kydd's twin victories—success against the notorious Bloody Jacques, the renegade privateer who had terrorised the Devon and Cornish coasts, and the unmasking of Zephaniah Job as the man behind the smuggling ring.

The admiral flicked through the papers. "I, er . . . it would appear I must offer my congratulations, Commander," he said, and looked up, but Kydd had left.



When the news was broken at number eighteen Durnford Street, the residence Kydd and Renzi shared, a pall of silence descended. Shocked, Mrs Bargus, the housekeeper, cast about for things to do that might in some little way comfort her employer. A cheerful fire was soon ablaze and the cook was set to prepare his favourite braised duck. Becky, the maid, came in timidly to light the candles but departed quickly, leaving Kydd and Renzi alone.

"If there's anything . . ." Renzi started hesitantly, but stopped as racking sobs seized his friend.

He waited patiently until they eased.

"I never reckoned it could hurt s' much," Kydd choked.