The Privateer's Revenge(101)

Would this suffice?

In the light from the single candle, Henri's eyes seemed to glow—with satisfaction or suspicion? Holding up the letter he pronounced, "By these writings the British Government has implicated itself in the greatest threat to Bonaparte he has ever experienced. In all the chancelleries of Europe it will be seen that perfidious Albion reaches out to topple its foes by cunning and clandestine means and all might tremble that they are to be next."

Renzi held rigid. He had done all that could be expected of him and now the verdict on his efforts was to be made plain.

Henri looked directly at him. "Sir, this letter is a gunpowder keg for your government. That they have seen fit to trust it to our keeping is all the assurance we desire." He held the sheet to the flame. It caught and flared until it was consumed and the ashes fluttered to the floor. "In forty-eight hours you shall have our date and places."

Renzi could find no words and gave a simple bow. A scatter of applause and excited talk was halted by Henri, holding up his hands. "I would that we were able to extend to you the hospitality you deserve but, alas . . ."

He cocked his head to one side and listened intently. Then Renzi felt an irregular thumping in the ground, a jumble of drumbeats out of synchrony.

"Dragoons!"

The door burst open. "Les soldats! Nous sommes trahis!" The hut turned to bedlam and in the rush for the door Renzi heard Henri bellowing orders. Outside in the Stygian darkness there was a crashing of vegetation as the conspirators scattered in every direction.

Renzi's arm was seized and he was forced to one side. "Stay with me!" a woman's voice urged, as she propelled him across the glade into the woods and they plunged deeper into the wilder depths flying over bracken and fallen tree boles. Shots popped behind them and the squeal of horses pierced the night air.

Mercifully the terrifying sounds lessened and, panting uncontrollably, they stopped at the edge of a meadow, still and serene in the beginnings of a moonrise. Renzi was confused: they were certainly no closer to the sea but the drumming hoofbeats were going away. "My brother, he draws them from us," the woman said brokenly.

"He—he is a brave man," Renzi said, affected.

"Is his duty," she sobbed. "We must go."

The mad scramble resumed; Renzi, however, now saw that they were going in a wide sweep along the edge of the woods to reach the landing place. Everything depended on his endurance in overcoming pain and exhaustion.

But what if the privateer, hearing the shots and commotion, had considered that this was none of his business and left? Renzi could tell now that a body of dragoons had entered the wood on its far side, not far from where they were.

He stumbled on, aware of the woman's agonised breathing. Then the wan glitter of the sea showed through the trees and they reached the shore. "This way," she gasped, urging him to the left.

They rounded a small point of land—and there was a boat, ready afloat and bows to sea. Renzi's relief nearly overwhelmed him and it took his last ounce of strength to reach it. "You waited!" he panted wildly to Jacot.

The man looked puzzled. "Why, in course I wants th' other half o' me money, Mr Giramondo."

Almost spent with emotion Renzi urged the woman, "Quickly, into the boat!"

"No." She wept. "I stay with Henri."

"Get in." Jacot pulled Renzi aboard. "We has t' leave now, Mr Giramondo." When Renzi looked back, no one was there.



Kydd sent Gostling as prize-master of the Martinico-man; an English port was only several days' easy sail to leeward. The mood aboard was exultant but Kydd knew they had been lucky—the next could well be hard-fought and he insisted on serious practice with cutlass, pike and musket, a difficult task on a pitching deck.

Flores, the farthest flung of the Azores, was raised as planned, the distant blue-grey peak of Morro Alto reminding him of other times. Having arrived it would now be nothing but hard work; searching, waiting, lurking—Kydd had chosen the area because he knew that merchant masters, at this time of the year, from both the East Indies and the Caribbean, converged north of the island group to pick up the reliable south-westerly trade winds to speed them into Europe.

On the other hand, without fighting-tops his single lookout in their tiny crow's-nest on the foremast would have a height-of-eye of only some forty feet, say seven miles to the horizon. Any number of ships at that very moment were certain to be passing either side as they sailed, perhaps only a dozen miles or so away, perfectly hidden.

"Keep y'r eyes open there!" he roared up at the lookout. He had impressed on them time and again that a prize could appear from anywhere—ahead or just as easily approaching from the beam or even crossing astern.