Tyger (21 page)

“So, no French. You sail now,
hein?
”

“Perhaps later. My orders are to let the flag of His Majesty be seen by any of his subjects in Archangel as a comfort and support in a foreign land.”

“None. No Ingliss here.” Swift looks were exchanged between the two others.

It had to be a lie: somewhere in the trading community there would be seamen or merchants. Was Popov too anxious for them to leave?

“And, of course, after such an arduous voyage my ship requires repairs, water, victuals.”

“You get—you go.”

“My men will be grateful indeed to take liberty ashore,” Kydd enthused. “To spend their hard-won coin on the simple pleasures.” He got no response beyond a glower. “I do believe I’ll take rooms for a day or two and enjoy a promenade around your beautiful town.”

Popov looked as though he would object but fell to muttering. He rose to his feet. “Season nearly finish. Ice come, you trap!” he said, through gritted teeth.

“Thank you, I’ll bear that in mind.”

It wasn’t hard to locate the usual seafront hostelry catering to ship’s captains that could be found in every port. Dingy, reeking of the ever-present cabbage and tobacco, it would serve.

Kydd sent Bowden back with instructions to the first lieutenant to award liberty to half a watch under the direst penalties for behaviour. He knew Bowden was intelligent enough to let slip that offenders taken in riot by the locals would find themselves choked up in a Russian gaol as
Tyger
sailed. It would give pause to the most dedicated joyster.

It was not simply a humane gesture on Kydd’s part. In this hostile and uneasy place he wanted men within hail about him—those who, like Stirk, could be trusted to see that the hot-headed were kept in check.

He had a duty to complete his mission, as unpromising as it was turning out to be. The alternative was to return with nothing. And he supposed he should find any Englishmen here and let them know they were not forgotten.

In the absence of a British consul how was he going to locate them? In any other port the sheer presence of a smart frigate anchored offshore would signal his presence, but
Tyger
was well out of sight.

Then he remembered an offhand remark by Russell’s flag lieutenant while rounding up the paperwork: it was not impossible that the venerable Muscovy Company might still have representation there.

He sent Dillon out to enquire, and his secretary returned quickly. “Still here, Sir Thomas, but at a remove.”

They set out for the southern part of the town, an older but more picturesque district of quaint timber dwellings with sharply inclined roofs and parquetry eaves, tradesmen’s workshops and tiny vegetable plots.

Set back from the muddy road, a larger dark-timbered building had seen better days—but over the low doorway there was a sign with a faded shield that incorporated a galleon with an inscription in Latin.

Inside they found an Aladdin’s cave of goods piled here and there in glorious confusion in the gloom, with a pungent whiff of hides, raw mahogany and the dust of ages.

A man emerged from behind a counter to come to a stop, wide-eyed.

“You—you’re English!” he managed. Elderly, he was in a well-worn long frock-coat, breeches and an old-fashioned wig.

Dillon stepped forward. “Sir Thomas Kydd, captain of His Majesty’s Frigate
Tyger
. And you, sir?”

The man bobbed hurriedly and spluttered, “Jeremiah Blunt, proprietor.”

“Of?”

“Oh, the Muscovy Company of Merchant Adventurers Trading with Russia.”

“The very man we seek,” said Kydd, encouragingly. “I’d be obliged should you tell me of the British in Archangel as you know of them, sir.”

Blunt ushered them to a back room as cluttered as the store and flustered about until a tea samovar appeared, borne by a curious beady-eyed woman in traditional dress.

Sipping black tea, Kydd knew there was no hurrying the man and sat back to listen.

Most improbably, Archangel had been founded not by the Russians but by the English. In 1551, in the last few years before Elizabeth I came to the throne, two courtiers, Willoughby and Chancellor, had set up an enterprise: the Mystery and Company of Merchant Adventurers for the Discovery of Regions, Dominions, Islands, and Places Unknown. The first voyage selected was to uncover a trade route to northeast China and a small fleet had duly sailed to the top of the world.

Only Chancellor reached safe haven, here in the maze of muddy channels where the green of larch and willow beckoned, while Willoughby, beset in ice, froze to death.

Alert for any mercantile possibilities, he saw that the lucrative fur trade was being hauled south overland all the way to Moscow, and knew that here was an opportunity. He made the journey himself, arriving to great astonishment at the court of Ivan the Terrible, introducing himself as an ambassador from Queen Elizabeth of England. Chancellor left the tsar well satisfied with a sea route now to Russia, and when he returned home he was granted a monopoly on the market. The Muscovy Company was born.

Apart from one distraction, when Good Queen Bess had unaccountably declined Ivan the Terrible’s proposal of marriage, the Muscovy Company went from strength to strength, dealing in furs, English wool and other profitable lines.

But when in the next century it was heard that Charles I had been executed the then tsar expelled all English merchants, except those in Archangel. Into the vacuum stepped the Dutch, who by the end of the century had toppled the British monopoly.

It was the establishment early in the eighteenth century of Tsar Peter the Great’s grand Baltic port of St Petersburg, open to all, that finally relegated Archangel to a backwater.

Where before the bashaws of Elizabeth’s day had held court, now all that remained was a little emporium of knick-knacks from Britain’s industrial enterprise. The Dutch held the town, with the still considerable timber trade and the White Sea Company whaling concern, and did not welcome outsiders.

“For our gewgaws we take by return seal skins, walrus tusks and down of the eider duck. Some flax and hemp, a trifle of tallow, on occasions wax and pine resin.”

“And furs?”

“Ah, the sable and ermine,” sighed Blunt, “and, of course, your glorious Arctic fox. Grey-blue over-hair, soft and deep, much prized by the knowing. In times past Archangel shipped the best there was, but now …”

“Finished by over-hunting?”

“I’m supposing so. There’s been none at all shipped from here for some years, even if the prices in London are beyond a prince’s commanding. In these dolorous times of revolution and the mob, you might think such fine trappings would be frowned upon but, no, they must have their—”

“Mr Blunt, I really came to discover whether Archangel today possesses subjects of His Majesty as would welcome the sight of the flag at all.”

“Very few, and those only of a quality not to be noticed.”

“Then I thank you for your—”

“Ah, there is one. A respectable merchant on a failed venture here. A Mr John Bellingham of Liverpool, a factor in timber and iron.”

“Where might I see him?”

“In the Solombalsky prison.”

“Did you say …?”

“Yes. A difficult man,” Blunt came back, “not to say vexatious. Yet he has reason. He defied the Dutch cabal and paid for it. I cannot tell of the details. In truth I feel sorry for him—he has a wife and little ones who even now are in St Petersburg praying for his release, and I visit him when I can. If you could find it in your power to show that he’s not forgotten it would be a mercy.”

“I shall do so. I thank you for your hospitality, sir.”

On the way Dillon expressed reservations at visiting a Russian prison, but as a civil debtor, the man was apparently entitled to a better class of confinement.

“Mr Bellingham, I believe?” Kydd said mildly, as they were ushered in. The small room had a window, high and barred, that shed light on worn furniture and faded carpet.

“Good God! I never thought to see you!” A painfully thin man scrambled to his feet, his face working. “They’ve heard my petition? That damned crew of politicals finally moved, did they? Justice at last—”

“Mr Bellingham, I’m sorry to say I’m not here to attend your release.”

“Then why did you come?” The fevered eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t be here without you had a reason. Who are you?”

“Sir Thomas Kydd,” Dillon intervened. “Captain of
Tyger
, frigate, of his own good will come to visit an Englishman in reduced circumstances, sir.”

“Ah, but what’s he doing here in Archangel?” Bellingham leered. “Never seen hide nor hair of any nob worried about this arse-hole of a place.”

“I’m in this port to assure myself that the interests of His Majesty are respected, sir,” Kydd said stiffly.

“Ha! Then you’ve found the Dutch-run Archangel—precious little interest left to His Knobbs hereabouts.”

“I see my presence is not welcome to you, sir. I’ll take my leave if I may.”

“You’re like ’em all, aren’t you, Sir T?” he sneered. “Come here, see nothing of notice and get out as fast as you can.”

Kydd made to go.

“Wait! I know what goes on here, all of it! And there’s something afoot as I can tell you of!”

“What is it?”

“Ah, well. Come here, we don’t want to be heard now, do we?”

Kydd sat reluctantly at the small table as Bellingham leaned across. “Archangel, the town’s run by the Dutch, in with the mayor and all on ’em.”

“I know that.”

“What you don’t know is that it’s a cesspool of corruption. They run fancy schemes between ’em and split the cream.”

“What’s this got to do with—”

“The whole town is in on it. All of ’em!”

“Mr Bellingham, this has gone far enough. You—”

The little man gave a confident smile, which turned into a smirk. “Nobody knows, but I do!”

Kydd got up to leave.

“They’re trading with Napoleon Bonaparte hisself!”

“What did you say?” Kydd said sharply.

“Knew that’d get you! Yes, indeed. See, I know what they’re doing.”

He leaned back and cocked his head to one side. “Ever wondered why the fur trade dried up? Great shame—some of those blue-fox pelts would sell for their weight in gold, should they ever get to London. Why, ermine at—”

“Yes, sir. I know about this,” Kydd said, with heavy patience.

“Don’t you feel for the lords and ladies, paying a ransom for their precious furs? They do, you know. Smuggled in from the continent, prices that’d set your eyes to watering.”

“So what are you telling me?”

“That the fur trade is never better! I heard it from the timber loggers—they’ve seen cartloads of furs heading here. Don’t it tell you something?”

“Well, Mr Bellingham?”

“The Dutch have cornered the market, taken the lot, none left. They’re shipping ’em out to their kin back in Holland and making a hill of money outfitting Boney and his crew! Any that’s left over he lets go over the Channel to the fools in England who can be relied on to pay any price. See?”

If this were true it would be at a prodigious loss to the City traders and a serious breach of Britain’s blockade, let alone the wealth being diverted to Bonaparte’s coffers.

“How do they do this?”

“As I said, the whole town’s in it together, the mayor and all the officials, and they keep it secret, all to ’emselves.”

“So you don’t know.”

“I didn’t say that. What I can tell you for certain is, the furs arrive here, they’re stored and then get shipped out.”

“How can you be sure?”

“One of my runners thought it proper to tell me of furs he saw stowed in a shed. I went there on the sly and saw for myself. Next day they were gone. They never came on the market—and there’s no sense sending them back to where they’d come from, so they must be shipped out.”

“Where is this shed?”

“Hard by the whalers. There, it stinks so much nobody’s going to wander by ’less they have to.”

“Did you spy furs being loaded aboard any ship?”

“And let the world see what they’re up to? I tell you, they’re all in it, mayor, Customs, military—all of ’em taking a share. Stands to reason they want to keep it out o’ sight.”

“It only happened the once?”

“More. When they’ve got a shipment, it goes quickly. None o’ my business, o’ course, but it’s been several times this season I’ve seen ’em at that shed. Like I said—”

“Thank you for your information, Mr Bellingham. I shall look into it. Good day to you, sir.”

“Sir, the man is unhinged. Surely you’re not going to—”

“I’m not, Mr Dillon. Even if what he told us is true, this is Russia, their laws, and we would have to show there’s been a crime committed against us personally for them to act.”

“I see, sir.”

“And if the town is all hugger-mugger together, how far do you think we’d get? No, we let it go.”

“All the same, it’s—”

“Here’s my lodgings. You’ll want to wander abroad. Pray do so, if you wish.”

The little room with its plain furniture was dreary, as was the view of the flat marshland through the grubby window.

A wave of depression began to settle. This last venture before he relinquished
Tyger
had turned out bleak and pointless. Archangel was humid, midge-ridden and not in the least an exotic destination.

The voyage had failed: he had shown the flag but found few English subjects to encourage. On the other matter of opening up the port to rival the Baltic, with the natural conditions he had seen, it was a lost cause.

And there had not even been the rumour of French activity in these remote parts, no prospect of action or excitement. But given what was in the future for him he wanted to spin out the remaining time as long as he could.

He threw off his coat and boots and lay on the wooden bed.

The first men on liberty would be arriving soon—the least he could do was stay another day to give the other watch a chance to go on a frolic. Then he would have to leave.

As if in rebellion his mind began casting about for a reason to delay.

What if Bellingham was right, that there was in fact clandestine fur smuggling going on? It would be a fine thing indeed to put a stop single-handedly to the business, return with something of real value achieved. But here in Russia he was powerless to interfere.