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The Privateer's Revenge(51)

By:Julian Stockwin


Renzi said nothing further and regarded Kydd gravely.

"You're sayin' we're t' be gone fr'm the islands, return t' England?"

"It would seem the time has come, brother."

Kydd looked away. "I'm stayin', Nicholas."

"Where—"

"I'm goin' t' the sail-loft. Th' old fisherman as offered it me has no use f'r it. That's where I'll be."

"Dear fellow, that's—that's no living for a gentleman. Why, you might well be taken up for a vagrant. It will not do at all."

Kydd gave a tigerish smile. "I'm seein' it through. That chousin' toad only has t' say one word out o' place an' I'll have him."

It was a piteous image: a fine seaman, and honourable, reduced to rags and the shuffling hopelessness of the poor with the canker of vengeance sapping his life spirit.

"Of course," Renzi said calmly. "Then I do suggest we begin taking the rest of our worldly goods thence. For myself, there is no question that I burden myself on you further. Instead I'll, er, find somewhere to lay my head. Yes! I have a mind to visit Jersey."

"Jersey?"

"A Channel Island not twenty miles to the south-east, which, I might point out to you, is larger in area than this present isle and its opportunities as yet untried. Any news I have will be made available to you at St Peter Port post office."

"Then—then this is y'r farewell, Nicholas," Kydd said, in a low voice, "an' I'd wish it were at a happier time."

"For now, dear friend. When the one meets with fortune I dare to say the other will share in it. Do take care of my manuscripts, I beg. And at any time you will have need of your friend, make it known at the St Helier's post office."





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CHAPTER 9


IT WOULD BE EASIER SAID THAN DONE. Carrying a bundle for his immediate needs, Renzi stepped ashore in St Helier, the chief town and port of Jersey, with the pressing goal of finding employment, however humble, that might serve to keep both himself and his friend from starving while Kydd's all-consuming quest spent itself before they returned to England.

Preoccupied, he had not particularly noticed the castle set out into the approaches to St Helier, which was of considerable antiquity. Other defensive works of a more recent vintage briefly caught his eye: the massive crenellations of a fortification along the skyline above the town, gun towers and signal posts. Jersey had a definite edge of siege-like tension about it. St Helier itself was less steep than St Peter Port but appeared busier.

The mariner in Renzi noted the immense scatter of granite reefs that crowded in on the port and would make it a lethal trap if the wind shifted to the south, unlike St Peter Port, which had handy escape routes north and south. He shrugged: there would be precious little sea time for the near future—he had to secure tolerable employ.

Renzi found a coffee-house and went in. Seated in a quiet corner he secured a dog-eared copy of the Gazette de Jersey and scanned it—much about the tenor of existence, economic health and the general happiness of folk could be gauged from the profundity or otherwise of the concerns expressed in a newspaper.

Here, it seemed, there was feverish anticipation of an imminent assault by Bonaparte, but otherwise the usual run of vanities: theatre, gossip, confected moral outrage. But there was also a sense of boundary, between the incomers and the established residents. Not so different from any society in similar constricted circumstances, he reflected, but without the requisite introductions, nearly impossible to penetrate socially—or for the purpose of gentlemanly employment.

Renzi sighed and put down the newspaper. He had come across just one avenue. There was a naval presence here, considerably smaller than in Guernsey but apparently rating a junior commodore. It might be possible by deploying his experience as a ship's clerk to make himself useful somewhere in the establishment.

He called for writing materials and crafted a polite note offering his services to the commodore's office in whatever situation might prove convenient, sealed it and carefully superscribed it in correct naval phrasing. He had provided no return address, begging that any reply might be left poste restante at the St Helier post office, then sat back to finish his coffee.



In the early morning he emerged stiff and shivering from beneath an upturned fishing-boat where he had spent another night on the beach. Trudging into the deserted town his nose led him to a bakery; and for the price of some amiable chatting Renzi went away with half a loaf of stale bread. Around the corner he fished out a hunk of cheese, pared some off with his penknife, then wolfed his breakfast.

The town was coming to life and he wandered through the streets. Like St Peter Port, this was not a poor community—in fact, it, too, showed signs of wealth.