Mutiny (15 page)
The warmth of the
evening fell away in layers, and the cold reality of a grey, sea-tossed world
penetrated even this conviviality, drawing him back. Reminiscences, hard
memories pushed themselves into his consciousness, building a pressure of
unresolved forces that he knew he must face.
‘Cara Lucrezia, ti voglio
appassionatamente, but I fear I'm no fit companion this night...'
'I understan' this,
Niccolo.' She regarded him closely. 'What diavolo rides on your back, God
know.'
'Lucrezia,
can we talk somewhere?'
'Th' gondola,' she
responded, and they rose and left. The gondoliers were on hand, as if by magic,
and the chill of the night was kept at bay within the comfort of the cabin.
'You have changed,
Niccolo — I don' know,' she said tenderly, plucking at his waistcoat as if in
doubt of its exotic origins. A wave of feeling broke: he would tell everything,
whatever the cost.
He said the words and,
looking into her eyes, saw pity, compassion — and insight. She did understand —
the transformation of a careless youth to a morally sensitive adult through the
harrowing suicide of the son of a farmer, ruined by an Act of Enclosure
enforced by his family; the conviction and, more importantly, commitment to a
course of action in atonement.
'My sentence is exile
from my world, at sea. The problem lies in that since then I have grown to
respect, admire and, if you can believe it, in some ways prefer the purity of
the brotherhood of the sea.'
Renzi had found
opportunities for the deepest considerations of the intellect in the long
watches of the night, and he could bring to memory many a conversation with
Kydd that he would never admit" had settled his own doubts as much as his
friend's.
Her hand crept out to
seize his. 'But this is not your world, Niccolo,' she whispered.
A lump rose in Renzi's
throat. 'I know it. There are times—' How could he show how much he was torn?
The sturdy honesty of deep-sea mariners, their uncomplicated courage and direct
speaking had to be contrasted with their deep ignorance of the world, their
lacking of subtlety to the point of obtuseness. But such a degree of
friendship, won in adversity and tested in perils, was never to be found on
land where daily trial of character was not a way of life.
He tried to explain - her intent
expression encouraged him. He went on to describe the satisfactions: the change
in world-view when the horizon was never a boundary but an opportunity, not the
same daily prospect and limit but a broad highway to other lands, other
experiences. And the different value for time at sea, when discourse could be
followed to its own true end, the repose of mind resulting from the realisation
that time aboard ship would not be hurried, varied, dissipated.
The harsh conditions of his exile
compared with his privileged upbringing were not the primary concern — a monk
would understand the self-denial involved. In fact, as he examined it,
explained it, there came a clarifying and focusing.
Kydd. Without any doubt, Kydd's
friendship had saved his sanity and made possible the enduring of his sentence.
Renzi knew his own mind needed nurture and satisfaction or it would suffer a
sterile withering, and he had found both in Kydd's intelligence and
level-headed thinking. And they had shared so much together — what they had
shared!
But when Kydd had been
in another ship he was robbed of this: he was in an island of himself, no one
to relieve the days with insight and an acquisitive mind. It was in those dull,
repetitive times that the full hardship of what he had taken on was brought to
bear. The lower deck of a man-o'-war was plain, unadorned, uncomplicated, but —
and this was the cruel, plain fact - it was not the place for an educated and
sensitive man.
'Lucrezia, pray help
me. My sentence of exile is for five years, and its course is nearly run. So do
I — must I — return then to my family? Leave the sea and my friends — my true
friends . . .' It was harder to bear, now it had been given voice.
The gondola rocked gendy
in the calm of the lagoon, Lucrezia watching him calmly. But she had no
hesitation: 'Niccolo, ragazzo, you know th' answer to that,' she said gently,
stroking his hair. 'You have serve your sentence, you can be proud, but you are
a gentleman, not low-born. Go to your family an' start life again.'
It was devastating —
not what she had said, which was unanswerable, but the discovery that he should
have known it would have to finish in this way. A great upwelling of emotion
came, sudden and deluging. He covered his face as sobs turned to tears - but in
the hot rush a cool voice remained to tell him that this was a final,
irreversible decision: before the end of the year he would no longer be in the
harsh world of the common seaman.
Kydd picked himself up, more
dismayed than hurt. He had always admired his friend's fine intellect, but now
he had serious doubts about the balance of his mind. Yet to look for him in
this libertine madness was not possible — more to the point was how to steer a
course back to their lodgings.
He remembered the big marble bridge.
'Th' Rialto, if y' please,' he asked passers-by, and in this way soon found
himself on familiar territory. A quick hunting about found their doss-house.
The Swede looked up
curiously. 'Where's Renzi?' A swirl of smoke and coarse shouting eddied from
the dark recesses inside, but Larsson was content to stay with his garba.
'He's comin' back,' Kydd snapped.
*Renzi knows his duty, ye'll find.' That much would be certain: if anything in
this world was a fixed quantity it was that Renzi would fulfil his duty.
But Renzi did not
return that night. Kydd waited in the dark loft, hearing the strange sounds of
the Venetian night. He slept fitfully.
Minutes before their
due reporting time to Lieutenant Griffith, Renzi returned. He gave no
explanation, but seemed far more in control — yet distant, unreachable, in a
way Kydd had never seen him before.
'We meet the agent at the Rialto,' Renzi
said, leading them down to the steps close to the bridge. Amati was waiting for
them, and did not reply to their greeting. A gondola threaded through the water
towards them, its cabin closed. They stepped aboard and it pushed off to the
middle of the Grand Canal.
'Report!' The order came from the
anonymous dark of the cabin.
'All quiet, sir,' was Renzi's cool
reply, 'but I have heard reliably that the French are at the approaches to
Venice, no more than a few miles. It is to be reasonably assumed, sir, that Sir
Alastair has been unfortunately taken in trying to get through their lines.'
'Where
did you hear this?'
'From
... I have no reason to doubt my source, sir.'
There was no immediate
reply. Then, 'Venice is a sovereign republic — the French would never dare to
violate her territory. We are safe here for the moment. We shall wait a little
longer, I think.'
Renzi frowned. 'Sir,
the French commander, General Buonaparte, is different from the others. He's
bold and intelligent, wins by surprise and speed. I don't think we can
underestimate—'
'Renzi, you are
impertinent — this is not a decision for a common sailor. We stay.'
'Aye
aye, sir,' Renzi acknowledged carefully.
'You will report here
at the same time tomorrow. If you get word of Sir Alastair, I am to be informed
immediately.'
'Sir.'
The
gondola reached the landing place, and they disembarked. With barely a muttered
excuse Renzi was gone - who knew where? Kydd found himself growing resentful
and angry. They were on a mission of considerable importance, they were in
danger, and Renzi had deserted them.
He growled at the gawping Larsson to
keep with him as they headed back to their quarters, then saw what he was
looking at. In a chance alignment of the dark streets, the bright outer lagoon
was visible, and at that moment a vision was passing, surrounded by a swarm of
lesser craft, a great vessel of dazzling gold and scarlet, moving trimly under
the impulse of fifty oars.
‘Il Bucintoro!’ a passing onlooker said,
with pride, noticing their fascination.
The galley glided
grandly out of sight, leaving Kydd doubtful that he had actually seen what his
senses told him he had.
Undoubtedly there were
more such sights and experiences lying in wait all around, enough to have his
shipmates lost in envy when he later recounted his adventures. But the French
were allegedly just a few miles away, and their duty was plain. He turned
reluctantly towards their noisome lodgings.
The next morning Renzi
arrived to meet them at the appointed place, this time with serious news.
'Friuli is invaded. Buonaparte has stormed into Carinthia to the north, and his
troops have bypassed Venice to strike south.'
'Then we are
surrounded,' a low voice said cautiously from the gondola's dark cabin. 'Where
did you hear this?'
'From
traders that have business in the interior, sir. And you may believe they are—'
'That will be all, Renzi.' 'Sir—'
'We leave. Now.' There was decision and
relief in the officer's voice. 'Sir Alastair has obviously been taken. We must
depart, our duty done. Mr Amati, do you please engage passage for the four of
us out of Venice immediately? You men muster abreast the Rialto bridge in one
hour with your dunnage.'
This time Renzi stayed,
fetching his small sea-bag from the loft and waiting in the shadows with them.
'May I know where you've been, Nicholas?' Kydd said gravely.
'No.' Renzi's eyes were
stony and fixed on the opposite side of the Grand Canal.
'I'd take it kindly
should ye tell me more o' this grand place, m' friend.'
There was no response
from Renzi. Then his eyes flicked to Kydd and away again. 'Later,' he muttered.
Kydd brooded.
Something was seriously troubling his friend. They should be in no real danger
— the French wouldn't dare to interfere in such a noble city so all they had to
do was leave. But they would run from Venice and return to Gibraltar without
the glory of a daring rescue . . . He tried to bring to mind Emily's face, but
it was shadowed, overlain by the incredible events and sights he'd so recently
witnessed. His wandering thoughts were interrupted — a piece of paper had been
passed to Renzi.
'This is from L'tenant
Griffith. We are to report to this warehouse at once.' He led the way towards
the waterfront. Just before they emerged on to the quay area they stopped.
Renzi stepped forward and banged on the decrepit door of a small warehouse. It
opened cautiously and they were pulled inside.
As their eyes grew used
to the dark, they saw Dandolo, pacing nervously up and down. There were two
others, sitting on the floor, heads down, exhausted. Kydd's nose tickled at the
pungent scent of the warehouse, which lay heavy on the air — ginger, spices,
tobacco.
'Where iss your officer?' Dandolo
pressed. As if in answer, there was a rattling at the door and Griffith stepped
in, breathless.
'Sir Alastair?'
'The same,' whispered one of the
men on the floor. 'Good God! Sir, you must be — but we have you in time.'
Dandolo intervened. 'We
agreed . .. ?'
'Indeed.' Griffith fumbled in his coat,
and withdrew a cloth-wrapped cylinder. He handed it to Dandolo. It was broken
open expertly and a spill of dull gold coins filled Dandolo's hand. He grinned
with satisfaction. 'We are leaving Venice. Do you wish to claim the protection
of His Majesty also?'
Dandolo's eyes creased.
'No. I have my plans.'
'Is there a way to
inform Mr Amati where we are?' Griffith asked.
Dandolo paused. 'If
that iss what you wan'.'
Griffith crossed to
Leith. 'Sir, Lieutenant Griffith, third of Bacchante frigate, and three seamen.
We are sent to remove you from Venice.'