The Privateer's Revenge(84)

He called for the mates' book. The practice in every country was that the first mate of a ship was responsible for stowing the cargo and maintaining a notebook of where each consignment was placed, generally on the principle of first in last out. Against the bills of lading Kydd now checked off their stowage for suspicious reversals of location while Calloway jotted down their actual declaration for later.

Conscious all the time of Pedersen's baleful glare, Kydd knew that under international law he was as entitled as any warship to stop and search a neutral and took his time. But he spotted nothing.

"Port clearance?" This was vital: clearing a port implied the vessel had satisfied the formalities in areas such as Customs, which demanded full details of cargo carried and next destination. For the alert it could reveal whether there was an intention to call at another port before that declared as destination and perhaps other incriminating details.

It was, however, consistent. A hard-working trader on his way from the neutral but unfriendly Spain, voyaging carefully through the sea battlefield that was the Channel to the Baltic before the ice set in.

No prize? He wasn't going to let it go. There was something— was it Pedersen's truculence? If he had the confidence of a clear conscience he would enjoy seeing Kydd's discomfiture, sarcastically throw open the ship to him as other innocents had done before.

No—he would take it further. "I'd like t' see y'r freight, Captain. Be s' good as t' open y'r hold, sir."

Pedersen frowned. Then, after a slight hesitation, he nodded. "Ver' well." He got up heavily and they returned on deck.

While the master threw his orders at the wary crew, Kydd called Calloway to him. "We see if what we find squares wi' what's on the manifest," he whispered. "Check off y'r details—any consignment not on y'r list he's t' account for, as it's not come aboard fr'm some little Frenchy port on the way."

"Or any as is missing," murmured Calloway, "which he could've landed . . ."

Kydd chuckled. "Aye, ye're catchin' on, m' boy."

The thunderous cracking of timbers and goods working in the lanthorn-lit gloom and the dangerous squeeze down amid their powerful reek to the foot-waling below did not deter the experienced quartermaster's mate Kydd had been and he clambered about without hesitation.

Muslin and linen, cased oranges, Spanish wine in barrels; each was pointed out by the mate and accounted for, Kydd's sharp-eyed survey omitting no part of the hold, no difficult corner.

Nothing.

It was galling. There was something—his instincts told him so. But what? There was no more time, two ships lying stopped together might attract unwelcome visitors.

Kydd was about to heave himself out of the hold when a glimmer of possibility made itself known. He paused. This would be one for Renzi—but he wasn't here . . .

Slithering down again he worked his way back to the tightly packed wine barrels. He held the lanthorn above one. "Tinto de Toro, Zamora" was burnt crudely into its staves. He sniffed deeply, but all he could detect was the heavy odour of wine-soaked wood.

On its own it was not enough, but Kydd suspected that inside the barrels was not cheap Spanish wine but a rich French vintage. He squirmed over to the casks closest to the ship's side and found what he was looking for—a weeping in one where it had been bruised in a seaway or mishandled.

He reached out, then licked his finger: sure enough, the taste was indisputably the fine body of a Bordeaux—a Médoc or other, perhaps? He was not the sure judge of wine that Renzi was but, certainly, a cheap Spanish table wine this was not. And he could see how it had been done: they had left Bilbao with Spanish wine on the books as a welcome export, passed north along the French coast, crept into a lonely creek and refilled the barrels before setting sail once more.

He had them! Exultant thoughts came—the most overwhelming being the vast amount the prize would bring, with the sudden end of his immediate troubles, but cooler considerations took hold.

The only "evidence" was his nose; was this sufficient justification for him to bring his boarding party swarming over the bulwarks and taking the grave action of carrying the vessel into port? The ship's papers were in perfect order and any trace of a quick turn-aside would be difficult to prove.

He returned to the saloon. "Ship's log!" he demanded. Kydd ignored Pedersen's thunderous look and flipped the dog-eared pages: he wanted to see the dates between sailing and rounding Ushant. It was scrawled in Swedish, but again the shared culture of the sea allowed him to piece together the sequence. Light airs from the south when leaving on the tenth, veering to a fresh seven-knot south-westerly within the day—but not to forty-five degrees north before another two days.