The Privateer's Revenge(85)

"There!" Kydd said, stabbing at the entry. "Seven knots on a fair wind an' it takes ye three days to cover fifty leagues!" He snorted. "If'n it does then I'm a Dutchman. Ye put in t' Bordeaux country an' took a fill o' Frenchy wines, as I c'n prove below."

Pedersen's expression did not change. "Ef wine are not Spanish, ze merchant iss cheat—not vorry for me," he snapped. "An' m' time?" he went on frostily. "I lost by privateers inspect me there, two time!"

"An' may we see, then, y'r certificates?" Kydd shot back sarcastically. These had to be issued by the examining vessel on clearing any vessels boarded, that any subsequent boarding could be waived—and none had been shown to Kydd before he began his inspection.

"An' they'm be French?" Pedersen came back with equally heavy sarcasm. The French did not issue such certificates.

It was no good; the man was lying through his teeth and had been trading with the enemy, but he could not take the ship prize with this hanging over it. At the very least there would be lengthy litigation, which would cost his investors dearly. He had to let it go.

At his desk the day wore on for Renzi. First there was the matter of the arms shipment. It would arrive soon in a store-ship. To preserve secrecy it would be better to make rendezvous and trans-ship at sea to the lesser vessel that would be making the dangerous run into France. This would probably mean smoothing the offended sensibilities of the master and mate, who would be expecting the formalities of clearing cargo in the usual way, and the crew, who would resent the need to open the hold and rig special tackles in an open seaway.

Then there was the task of finding a vessel suitable for the final dash. D'Auvergne had suggested employing a privateer as their season was drawing to a close and one might be tempted to an extra voyage. They were well armed and not afraid of fighting if the need arose and, of course, had the carrying capacity, but Renzi had a naval officer's healthy dislike of the breed: it would mean haggling with near-pirates.

His attention turned to the details of the currency shipment: this would be coming from England in a cutter and there would be no alternative to the flummery associated with the movement of bullion. It would necessarily be taken aboard and signed for in the flagship, then released upon signature into the delivering vessel—it was the right of the captain of any naval vessel carrying bullion to claim a "freight money" percentage and did this apply to the flagship captain? How were the receipt and delivery to be accounted for in a form acceptable to the Treasury? Who would make the clandestine conveyance? Another privateer?

And all the while he worked on these details, he knew desperate men were risking their lives. Wearily, Renzi picked up another sheet from the growing pile on his desk.



Days passed: the area was not proving as productive as Kydd had hoped. Possibly the autumn weather was thinning the flow or another privateer at work in the vicinity might be frightening off their rightful prey.

It gave Kydd time, though, to make another attempt on sea discipline, but he quickly discovered that, without well-tested naval command structures in place, it was really to no purpose—there was no interlocking chain of responsibility linking the seaman on a gun through gun captains, petty officers, warrant officers and so on to the commanding officer, such that at any point his will was communicated in ready understanding straight to that seaman.

But then he was finding that a merchant sailor was in some ways more independent and expected to perform his seamanlike functions on his own; the ship-owner would not outlay good money on layers of command that were only vital in the heat and stress of combat.

He had to make the best of it: his was a merchant ship prettied up with a pair of nine-pounders and gun-crews of untrained amateurs. Enough to overawe small fry but if any showed real resistance . . . He kept his thoughts to himself and focused on where to find that prey. All too aware that every day without a return was draining capital, Kydd kept the deck from first light until dark—and then their luck changed.

Anchored overnight in the lee of a convenient sweep of rocky headland, Bien Heureuse was greeted in the chill of the morning by the astonishing sight of another vessel no more than a few hundred yards away. In the darkness it had unknowingly chosen the same shelter as they and was still firmly at anchor when it caught sight of them—and the boat thrashing across that Kydd had instantly in the water, with Rowan at the tiller.

It was hardly a ship, more a low, floating barge that was easily recognisable as a store-ship for the Brest dockyard. As the boat drew close, the crew abandoned their efforts to weigh anchor and hastily took to their own boat to escape ashore.