From somewhere within his febrile brain
came memories of a quite different time and place: the sun-blessed waters of
the Caribbean, a hurricane, and a fearful open-boat voyage. It was a slim
chance, but he had no other: he would seek out Lord Stanhope, whose life and
mission he and Kydd had secured together.
Stanhope would never
stoop to using his standing with the government for such a cause, but he could
give Renzi valuable inside knowledge of the wheels of power, perhaps an insight
into how... But Stanhope was beyond reach for a mere mortal. Dejection returned
as Renzi thought through the impossibility of gaining access to a senior
government figure in a wartime crisis.
Then another flood of
recollection: a crude palm hut on a Caribbean beach, an injured Stanhope and a
promise exacted from Renzi that if Stanhope were not to survive, he should at
all costs transmit his intelligence to a Mr Congalton, at the Foreign Office.
Renzi hurried back to
the White Hart. The landlord provided writing materials, and in his tiny room
he set to. It was the height of gall, but nothing could stop him now. The form
of the letter was unimportant: it was simply a request for a hearing, through
Congalton to Stanhope, shamelessly implying a matter of discreet intelligence.
He folded the letter
and plunged out into the night, scorning the offer of a link-boy. Without a
long coat and sword he would not be worth the attention of robbers. The Foreign
Office was well used to late-night messages passed by questionable figures, and
he slipped away well satisfied.
A reply arrived even while he was
at an early breakfast - 'Hatchard's, 173 Piccadilly, at 10 a.m.' He forced his
brain to an icy calm while he rehearsed what he intended to say, and in good
time he made the most of his attire, clapped on a borrowed hat and appeared at
the appointed place.
It turned out to be a
bookseller recently opened for business, well placed in a quality district and
just down from Debrett's. No stranger to books, Renzi eyed the packed shelves with
avarice. Bold tides on political economy and contemporary analysis tempted, as
well as tracts by serious thinkers and pamphlets by parliamentary names.
Engrossed, he missed the activity around the carriage that drew up outside.
'You would oblige me by the use of your
back room, Mr Hatchard.'
Renzi wheeled round. It
was Stanhope, the lines in his face a little deeper, the expression more
flinty. Renzi bowed and was favoured by a brief smile.
'If you please, my lord.' An assistant
took Stanhope's cloak, then led the party up a spiral staircase to a
comfortable upper room at the rear, where they were ushered to the high-backed
chairs before the fire.
'Coffee,
my lord?'
"Thank you, John,
that would be welcome. Renzi?' The interval, as the assistant served, allowed
time for Renzi to compose himself.
'A long time, my lord,'
Renzi said, his heart hammering. There was now no one else in the room. The
chandelier threw a bright, pleasing light over several reading desks arranged
to one side.
'You have not asked me
here on a matter of intelligence,' Stanhope said shortly, his voice just loud
enough to be heard.
'Er, no, my lord,'
Renzi said. He knew enough of Stanhope to refrain from dissimulation: it would
help nobody to delay.
'Then
... ?'
Renzi took a deep breath. 'Your
advice is solicited, my lord, in a matter which touches me deeply.' 'Go on.'
'A very dear friend has
been unfortunate enough to be caught up in the recent mutiny, and I am
concerned how to extricate him.'
'The
Nore?'
'Just
so.'
'Therefore he has chosen not to avail
himself of the King's gracious pardon?'
'It
would seem that is the case.'
Expressionless,
Stanhope steepled his fingers and said, 'You realise, of course, I can have no
influence on the course of this unhappy affair once it has reached its climax.
It is completely within the jurisdiction of the Admiralty courts, his only hope
of mercy lying in the King's express forgiveness. I rather suggest that in the
circumstances of the King's known hostility to the mutineers' actions this will
not be a likely prospect. I advise you, Renzi, to resign yourself. Your friend
unhappily has nothing but the gallows to reflect upon.'
'Nothing?'
'I
think I made myself clear?' Stanhope frowned.
'Yes,
my lord, but—'
'There is no hope,
either at law or in the machinations of politics — no one would be fool enough
to put himself forward in the cause of a mutinous seaman at these times, no
one.'
'I understand, my
lord,' Renzi said quietly. He paused, then continued softly, 'Sir, the man is
Thomas Kydd, whom you remember perhaps from the Caribbean.'
Stanhope looked up
sharply. 'You may believe I am grieved to hear it.'
'He has taken the
plight of his seamen brothers to heart. My lord, he has the ardour of youth
compelling him to rash acts, but still has the love of his country foremost.'
Staring
into the fire, Stanhope said nothing.
'His would be a great
loss to the sea profession, but a greater one to myself.'
Still no response. Then
a stirring. 'Mr Renzi,' Stanhope said, his voice sad and gentle, 'there is
nothing I crave more than to be of service to this young man, nothing. But my
eminence is as nothing compared to the forces he has caused to be raised
against him. I am in truth powerless.'
Renzi felt hope die.
This was the end for his friend. He looked at the floor through misted eyes.
There was a discreet
cough. 'I said that there was nothing I could do. This is certain. But if the
Admiralty found that they had good reason to spare him, even to pardon his
crimes . . .'
'My lord, Kydd could never find it in
him to inform on, to delate upon his shipmates. This is an impossible course.'
Renzi's head dropped again.
'Then there is one final action that may
answer.' 'My lord?'
'You will forgive the
elliptical speech — my conscience is a hard master, as I know is yours.' He
considered carefully. 'I can conceive of a circumstance that would have the
same effect, result in the same happy conclusion. This will require an act of -
of imagination by one devoted to the subject's well-being, yet at the same time
be kept from his knowledge at all costs. Renzi, I am speaking of—'
'I conceive I penetrate
your meaning, my lord. Am I to understand you mean this, er, associate to
establish a proxy connection to—'
'Precisely.'
It was a chance; it was also uncertain
and dangerous, but it was a chance — if he had the will and necessary guile.
In the stillness steps
could be heard coming up the stairs.
An austere man in grey
entered with books for the reading desk. 'Frederick, dear fellow!'
'Ah, the country burns and you are at
your Grecian odes, William. Might I present Mr Renzi, visiting London. Renzi,
this is Baron Grenville, Mr Pitt's Foreign Minister.'
'My lord.' Renzi managed an elegant leg,
noticing Grenville's polite curiosity. He guessed that few of Stanhope's
mysterious acquaintances would merit an introduction.
'I understand you have further business,
Renzi, I won't detain you.'
*
* *
The coach left from the Blue Boar's
Head at two; he had time. At the Fleet market at Holbourn he found a well-used
and capacious periwig, and an old-fashioned lace-edged frock coat of the kind
more likely to be seen on supercargoes in an East Indiaman; these he bundled
into a bag with a pair of pattens — clogs to raise the shoes clear of mud.
A spectacle shop on
Cheapside provided an old silver pair of smoked glasses, like those needed by
persons with weak eyes. A heavy ^woc-silver-headed cane and a large body-purse
completed his outfitting.
After a weary and
impatient journey he was finally in Rochester. Firmly locking the door to his
room, he tried on his gear. It would do, but much hung on its effectiveness.
Wig powder - he loathed
it for the inevitable dusty droppings on his high coat collar, but it was essential
for appearances. His face was too healthy, tanned and weather-touched; ladies'
face powder would subdue it to an indoor appearance. There was nothing more he
could do that night so he took a modest supper and went to bed.
He couldn't sleep. It was a perilous
undertaking, and Stanhope had all but declared that he would be on his own. If
he failed — if he was discovered, then . ..
Too hot in the strange
bed, he threw off a blanket. In theory it could just work, but it would mean
personal peril, patience and, at the right time, Kydd doing exacdy — to the
letter - what was asked of him.
At the Nore the weather had not
improved. Rainy, gusty, and raw off the North Sea, it was Sheerness at its
bleakest.
As
usual, Kydd's first morning task was to assemble the day's victualling
requisitions. He relied on the other ships to render their lists of
requirements: sides of beef, lemon juice, small beer in the cask, dried pease
and, this being harbour routine, bread. When the requirements had all been
consolidated, he would send these ashore.
That duty done, he went
to see Parker, who was finishing a letter. 'Good day, Tom, we have to call an
assembly of the Parliament, you'll agree. Then it's my intent to tour the fleet
and speak to the men. I'll wait until we've the stores under hatches, though.'
It would be a critical meeting. If their
united front broke under the strain of competing loyalties it would be a
merciless end for them all — but if they held staunch there was still a chance.
On deck they waited for
the boats to thrash out to them. In these racing seas they would be making
heavy weather of it, but Kydd had told the other ships to ensure they were not
short of provisions for just this eventuality — he knew the dockyard hoys would
put discretion before the bellies of sailors when it came to filthy weather.
The wind whipped
at Kydd's oilskins, sending a shiver down his backbone. How was it that
Sheerness weather had a quality that made the town seem the rawest, most
desolate spot in the kingdom?
'I spy our cutter,' Parker said, in some
puzzlement, pointing to where a boat with the distinctive old-fashioned lug
mizzen projected over the transom made its laboursome way towards them. The
crews were there to supervise the loading of the hoys, and for some reason were
returning early.
The petty officer in charge came up
the side quickly.
'We bin flammed, Mr Parker. The
shonky bastards, they've stopped vittlin'.'
'What - gave ye no stores? None at all?'
Kydd couldn't understand it.
'None!'
Parker looked at Kydd.
'I fear, Tom, you and I must get ashore and see what's afoot. Fetch your
papers.'
The victualling storekeeper was not
helpful: it was a matter of authority, and for that they had to see a clerk of
the cheque. They trudged across the dockyard, aware of the changed atmosphere.
No longer the cheerful processions and hands waved in comradeship. Now it was
in a sullen, hostile mood.
'You see?' The clerk's
finger stabbed at the requisition form. 'The signature. We have no authority to
issue against this.' It was Parker's signature.
'And
why not? You have before.'