Kydd 09 - The Privateer's Revenge by Julian Stockwin

Author:Julian Stockwin
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-11-24T21:42:21+00:00

Chapter 10

Kydd trudged up the steep steps. Without noticing, his path had taken him to another level of the town. It was more densely settled and had an indefinable rakish air, which focused round a theatre. Idly he went up and read the billboard: “The Much Adored Griselda Mayhew as The Princess Zenobia and the Magnificent Richard Samson as Count Dragonheart in Carpathia, or, Cupid’s Trust Rewarded.”

He turned to go but his eyes were caught by another notice un-derneath: “Stagehands required: none but those able to go aloft and haul ropes heartily shall apply.” If this was not work for a sailor then what was? A week or so of jolly theatricals and then he could claim as much as—as a whole mutton pie, with the full trimmings, of course, and swimming in lumpy gravy. His stomach growled as he entered the theatre.

A short, sharp-eyed man appeared from nowhere. “Where you off to, m’ lad? Performance not until seven. Not until seven, I say!”

“Oh, er, th’ notice said as how stagehands are required.”

“You?” The man stepped back to take his measure. “Done it before? A flyman, I mean?”

Goaded, Kydd looked up: two somewhat faded ornamental gold cords descended each side of the audience entrance from a single ringbolt in the lofty ceiling. With a practised leap he clutched the leftmost one and swarmed effortlessly up to the bolt, then launched himself into space for the other and slid down, hand over hand, much as in the distant past he had found a backstay to reach the deck all the quicker.

“I see,” the man said, affecting boredom. “An’ we’ve had sailors before an’ all. Wages ’re two livres cash on th’ nail each performance, no liquor during, find y’r own prog. Er, can y’ start now?”

Kydd feigned reluctance. “A livre as earnest.” He sniffed, holding out his hand. He had forgotten how much it represented but guessed it must be worth a shilling or two.

“Be off wi’ your impertinence! Y’r impertinence, I say!” Kydd turned on his heel, but the man caught his arm. “One livre, an’ I’ll know y’ name, sir!”

“Tom Cutlass, m’ shipmates call me,” he answered slowly. “An’ yours?”

The man puffed up his chest. “Mr Carne t’ you! I’m th’ stage-master. Stage-master, I say!”

Kydd took the money. “When do I—”

“Be here at five sharp. Y’ late, an’ that’s all ye get.” Renzi found d’Auvergne at the battlements, staring moodily out to sea, his greatcoat streaming and whipping in the autumn bluster.

Renzi followed his gaze and saw a sail against the far-off Brittany shore, then spotted the gaggle of vessels in chase.

The French coast was a distant smother of white from the pound-ing of the westerly with white flecks of waves vivid in the stretch of water to the dull-grey coastline. It was a hard beat into the fresh gale and the drama played out slowly before them, the hunted craft clawing desperately against the wind, first on one tack, then another, the others straggling astern as it eventually stretched out towards safety.

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