He rose, went to the side cabinet and found glasses, poured a generous measure into each and handed one to Renzi. ‘Thank you for your candour, but there’s one thing you must accept in me: whatever you think his motives, a higher purpose is being served. I still honour him for his vision of seeing the Spanish humbled and His Majesty’s arms glorious, and while he leads I will think it my duty to follow.’
‘In hazard of your reputation?’
‘If so be it.’
Renzi nodded gravely. ‘Very well. Then although I must beg to differ in my views, I shall say no more.’
‘Handsomely, y’ bastards!’ The boatswain’s ire was directed to the party swaying aboard stores, who had good reason for their impatience – hazing from the first lieutenant and their knowledge that at last L’Aurore would be at sea, on her native element, once more, and their penniless liberty would be transformed into an active sea life.
Kydd watched the loading for some moments. Preparation for the expedition had raced ahead and Cape Town seethed with rumours, but with the Navy as one behind Popham and with the military in high feather at the expectation of a strategic master-stroke there was no stopping the momentum. But what if-
He forced the thought away but it kept returning. What if he and all the others had been gulled into supporting a private dash for plunder? What if he was unwittingly being used in adding his name to a scheme to give it credibility?
And Renzi’s prediction of disaster? Success was based on one central belief: that the inhabitants were so disaffected by Spanish rule that at the appearance of the expedition they could be relied on to rise in rebellion and together they would prevail. A dangerously simple presumption – and the only word they had to back it was that of Popham’s shadowy Miranda, and Waine, the American trader.
Were they sailing to catastrophe? The more he considered the possibility the more uneasy he became. How, a world away from the South American continent, would it be possible to gauge the mood of that population? It had to be a risk that-
A thought came to him. The artist up on Table Mountain. What was his name? Serrano, yes. He was some sort of recent exile from the region and no doubt he could tell him the truth of how the people felt.
‘I’m stepping ashore for a space, Mr Gilbey. Call away my barge, if you will.’
In the autumn greyness there was no likelihood that the artist would be up Table Mountain but he had the man’s card. ‘Vicente Serrano’ at ‘150 Buitengracht’ – not a smart address: he seemed to remember it was the area at the edge of the old part of the town.
The artist’s place of work was a shop with a powerful odour of pigment and oils, dust and canvas and a diverting array of finished works around the walls. ‘Mr Serrano?’
He appeared from behind an easel, wiping a brush. ‘El capitan!’ he greeted Kydd, when he had recognised him. ‘My honour! Can I do you service, sir?’
‘I’ve a need for ornament in my cabin, Mr Serrano. I was thinking of, say, Table Mountain from another view. From Blaauwberg strand, perhaps? A capital sight indeed!’
‘Would thees be in nature of commission, sir, or th’ ready found?’ Serrano’s deep-set dark eyes were unsettling in their intensity.
‘Why, if you have something ready, of this size, perhaps.’ Kydd indicated a modest landscape.
The artist crossed the room and selected a painting. Kydd noted the short, stabbing strokes that contrasted with extravagant sweeps across the scene to arresting effect. ‘Er, yes, this will do. What is your price?’
In rixdollars it was little enough. ‘Um, do you enjoy to live in Cape Town, Mr Serrano, you coming from so far?’
‘Ees home to me, now.’ He wrapped the painting, drawing the string around it and cutting it off.
‘And here we are, both in the southern hemisphere – it must be autumn as well in Montevideo. Is it so cool and windy there?’
‘The same,’ he answered, without further comment. ‘Your painting.’
Kydd tried another tack: ‘You said before that the Spanish are making trouble for you. Does this mean you will never return to South America?’
His gaze piercing, Serrano replied slowly, ‘Not never. One day . . .’
‘Yes? Do you mean to say that if the Spanish are . . . overthrown in some way you will be able to return?’
‘How they be overthrown? By we? No es posible.’
‘Tell me – are there many as you, who would take joy should the Spanish be replaced by . . . others?’
‘Many – many! An unspeakable herd from all the town, all the country will give praise for thees! Old, young, ever’one – if they’s porteno, they want! Any give to them, they bless for ever and ever!’
‘Then it will not take much to start a rebellion to throw out the Spanish, I’m thinking.’
But Kydd saw that Serrano had retreated into himself. He turned to go, just catching as he left, a ferocious whisper: ‘One day – one day, these peegs will taste the people’s justice. Only then we be free.’
Kydd walked slowly back to the boat. There was no doubting the passion of the man. It seemed it would take little to spark a revolt, and in a town the size of Montevideo or Buenos Aires even a small proportion supporting a rebellion would start something near impossible to stop.
But there was still the question of Popham’s motives.
Was it credible that he was manipulating others for his own venal cupidity? In effect employing His Majesty’s armed forces for personal gain, to make a grab at the fabulous source of the Spanish silver before retiring with fame and wealth? All Kydd’s dealings with the man to date made him rebel at the thought – and as well, why was Popham taking such trouble to attend to the securing of a strong foothold and the opening of trading links? This didn’t sound like the action of a freebooter on a quick raid.
Yet Renzi had painted a very different picture, one of a man who took chances, was comfortable at the boundaries of moral conduct and dangerously plausible. Popham was intelligent and clever to a degree – were these merely tales told by lesser men against the gifted?
No: there was no going back – he would be loyal and supporting to the commodore until and unless he saw with his own eyes that Popham was unworthy of such. Resolved in his decision, he came aboard L’Aurore and energetically set about completing preparations.
When the expedition sailed, the sulky autumn wind had settled to a low, hard blow, keen and cold and directly from out of the west. It kicked up white caps that rode and seethed on a long swell that had made taking aboard last-minute stores and water a wearying and dangerous effort. Kydd’s experience in the region told him that there was every likelihood it would get worse before it got better.
There had been no question of riding it out until it improved. Apart from the risk of losing their opportunity, every hour they lay at anchor the troops would be consuming vital provisions and water. These would be needed in the thousands of extra miles occasioned by the northerly arc that their course demanded to fall in with the big driving winds of the open ocean.
‘Shorten sail when two miles to wind’d,’ Kydd ordered, feeling the lengthening restlessness of the deep Atlantic coming in. Detailed off as shepherd to keep a wary eye open, he took in the magnificent panorama under leaden skies of the audacious little force setting out on its voyage to destiny.
There were the two sixty-fours – the flagship Diadem with Raisonable and then the fifty-gun Diomede recently joined in line and forming the core of the fleet, with the cockle-shell Encounter gun-brig falling in astern. The transports sailed loosely on either side – only five compared to the many that had accompanied the Cape Town expedition but aboard were the doughty Highlanders of the 71st Regiment, who had made such a name for themselves at Blaauwberg. The frigate Leda was hull-down out to sea on distant watch, and Narcissus was manoeuvring to take up the rear when the fleet had properly formed up. Their own station would be to range far ahead and fall back the instant any enemy were sighted.