The Privateer's Revenge(100)

The boat nudged into the sandy beach and Renzi scrambled out. It disappeared rapidly into the night and he was left standing at the edge of a wood sloping down to the water's edge. With every nerve stretched to breaking point, he listened. Night sounds, the soughing of wind in the trees, creatures in the undergrowth. And blackness.

At that moment he was in as much mortal danger as ever in his life: the letter sewn into his coat felt like fire, a document of such towering importance that, if he were captured, would result not in his simple execution but in the deadliest torture the state could devise to rip his secrets from him. Then merciful death.

With shocking suddenness a hand clamped over his mouth from behind and his arms were seized on each side. A voice close to his ear whispered, in French, "A sound and you die!"

Renzi nodded and the hand left his mouth but his arms were held as he was frogmarched into the woods. Unseen sharp forest growths whipped across his face as he stumbled along in the grip of at least two men, others following behind.

Panting at the unaccustomed effort, he was relieved when they reached a small glade and paused. The rickety outlines of an old woodcutter's hut appeared before them. Low words were exchanged, then he was brought forward. The door opened, slammed shut behind him and the impelling arms fell away.

Sensing the presence of others in the hut he kept still. There was a tapping of flint and steel and a single candle sputtered into life, to reveal a large man standing behind a table, silent shadows all around.

"Qui êtes vous?" the man said mildly. The accent was metropolitan—Parisian. A poignard blade jabbed impatiently at his throat.

Mustering his best French, Renzi replied, "Nicholas Renzi, a British naval officer."

"We were expecting another."

"Le vicomte was detained by his wounds. I come from him with a letter." Renzi drew back his coat far enough for the scarlet-heart insignia of the Chouans to be seen. A rustle went through the others as they bent to see.

"And here is his token." He held out his hand, which now bore d'Aché's signet ring.

The blade stayed unwavering at his throat.

"So you robbed le vicomte of his ring as well?"

"As a show of his trust in me, he desires further that I should say this to you."

He took a breath, and in the ancient French of seven hundred years ago the noble lines of "La Chanson de Roland" echoed forth in the old hut:



Tere de France, mult estes dulz pal's, Oi desertét a tant ruboste exill! Barons franceis, pur mei vos vei murir, Jo ne vos pois tenser ne guarantir . . .



The blade fell away. "Robert always did relish his civilisation. I am Henri. You told that well, Englishman. Are you perchance a scholar?"

"You were late," Renzi snapped.

"It is the situation, mon brave—soldiers, gendarmerie, they are in unrest, they stalk the woods. It is menacing outside, m'sieur."

The candle flickered as another entered the hut and muttered something to Henri. He nodded, with a frown, then turned to Renzi. "A letter, you said."

"Sir, I've come to deliver assurance from His Britannic Majesty's Government that all possible support shall be given to you in this decisive hour." He relieved the man of the poignard that had recently been at his throat and, with swift, savage strokes, slashed open the lining of his coat.

A sigh went round the hut as he passed over an elaborately sealed parchment. Henri broke it open and held it up to the candlelight. "This is from a Sir Saumarez," he said accusingly.

"It is," said Renzi, with a haughty sniff. "Commanderin-chief and admiral. He owes his allegiance directly to London and his word may be accepted, I believe. Would you rather we delayed by requiring a reply all the way from there?"

"It speaks of aid and assistance but with no detail, no numbers."

"Sir! You can hardly expect a high commander to concern himself in the kind of specifics a quartermaster might deal with." The hut was warm and close; Renzi was perspiring but it was more from the knowledge of the colossal stakes behind his every word than the lack of air.

Peering intently at the letter, Henri spotted d'Aché's scrawl across one corner. He looked up suddenly. "Robert commends us to accept this letter. But we have the biggest decision still. If we—"

"If you rise up and triumph in your plan, where is the certitude that there will be ships and men to join with you in consummating your achievement?"

"Exactly."

There was only one way to go forward now. "Sir," Renzi said, "it is I who have been charged with the responsibility of ensuring that vessels will be there to receive the tyrant—and, of course, any who wish for any reason to quit France at that time. And I have seen with my own eyes the apartment in the castle of Mont Orgueil that is at this moment being prepared by the Prince of Bouillon for Napoleon Bonaparte. Sir, if you have any anxieties on this matter be pleased to address them to me that I might answer them."