'This is particularly agreeable to the spirit, Tom,' Renzi said. They walked on in the warm sun in perfect silence but for the sough of the breeze, an occasional murmur of busyness from the distant town below and their own progress along the dusty ground.
The quiet was calm and companionable. Presently they came to a flowered area with a fine orange tree in the centre and a rustic wooden seat round it, a view of the harbour at their feet.
'Utterly peaceful — the work of man, yet supernal in its effects.' Renzi sat and stared at the view, then closed his eyes. Kydd's mind was alive with distractions of the present. Was Emily's letter a delaying tactic while she reviewed her feelings? Should he press his case more clearly, perhaps?
'A lady?' Renzi's lazy murmur cut through his rush of thoughts.
Kydd glanced suspiciously at him, but Renzi's eyes were still closed. 'Er, y'r in the right of it - but I beg, tell me of y'r battle. I heard it was a thunderin' good drubbing f'r the Dons.'
Renzi opened his eyes and stared into space. 'Little enough to say. It was a hard-fought encounter and they had overweening forces, but we prevailed.' He looked at Kydd with a sardonic smile. 'You would have been diverted by the sight of their Santissima Trinidad — a four-decker of a hundred and thirty guns, a leviathan indeed.'
As far as Kydd knew, the largest ship in the Royal Navy only had a hundred guns and three decks, so such a monster a third bigger should have made a devastating impact. 'Did she — who should say — get among our ships—'
'We took her.'
Kydd's eyes gleamed.
'Then we forgot about her, so she rehoisted her colours and retired from the field.' 'But Nelson, did he not—'
'The man is a genius of the sea war — daring and courageous with it. He will either die young or find great glory, nothing less.'
Kydd fell silent. While great deeds were happening on the open sea, he was wasting his life in port, going nowhere.
Renzi shifted position awkwardly. 'Somethin' pains you?' Kydd asked.
'Only a pinking from a splinter across my chest.' He turned to Kydd. 'You made mention of a lady.. .'
'Er, yes. Her name's Emily.'
'A fine name,' said Renzi drily.
'She's very beautiful.'
'I have no doubt she has shining parts,' Renzi prompted.
'There is somethin' that is stoppin' her showin' her true feelings.'
'She believes you are from an inferior station in life?'
'No. That's to say, this is not where the problem lies.' He struggled with what had to come next, feeling a chill of doubt for the first time. 'You see, Nicholas, right at th' moment. .. she is married.' Kydd blushed, then muttered protestations of love.
Renzi's expressionless mask did not change. Then, suddenly, he came to his feet, and paced round the small garden with his hands behind his back, once, twice, then returned to Kydd and stood before him. 'It seems to me the lady does not appreciate your true worth, my friend. She probably has cognisance only of the army life, never the navy.' He paused for effect, then announced gravely, 'I have a plan.'
'Yes, Nicholas?'
'You shall be known for a daring, dangerous and romantic sea feat that will have the whole of Gibraltar talking. She will regard you as her adoring hero, her Galahad.'
' Ye're chousin' me! Achilles is not goin' to sea, there's no chance o' that.'
'No, but Bacchante is, and she needs men.' Renzi leaned forward. 'I'm quite certain that the frigate is bound for the eastern Mediterranean. It is not talked about, there is a smothering secrecy, but the application of a little logic suggests much. The master has taken in certain charts of the area, the vessel is under some kind of Admiralty orders, we are a private ship. The Mediterranean is now without a single English sail — why would the Admiralty risk a single valuable frigate in a sea so hostile?' Renzi paused. 'It is because they wish to rescue someone, a grandee, perhaps, but one of some consequence.'
The romantic possibilities of an audacious rescue of a notable were easy to see.
Renzi went on, 'We have abandoned our ports and bases and retreated to Gibraltar, the princes, governors and such ilk long retrieved. No, this is somewhere that is lately under threat, and for that we can discount the petty fiefdoms of the Levant, the decadent Ottomans, the Barbary coast — none would rate any personage of importance. Italy — now, the French have been pressing them from over the Alps, they have overrun much of the north. Austria is inviolate — for the moment — and I believe it is to Italy we are headed.'
A smile broke through; Kydd waited.
'None of the northern kingdoms of Italy has much in the way of diplomatic representation, so my conclusion is that our dignitary is stranded in the nor'-east after fleeing over the Alps and finding that the English are no longer there, having evacuated the Mediterranean entirely.'
'Er, what do we find in th' nor'-east?'
Renzi rubbed his chin. 'Well, there you will find the wild Balkan shore, Ragusa, but also Trieste - and Venice.'
Chapter 3
Kydd spun the wheel experimentally - there was no doubt that Bacchante was a sea witch. Responsive and eager to the helm, she was like a racehorse — and nearly brand new — as sweet a lady as had ever come down the slip at Buckler's Hard. His practised eye flicked up to the leech of the main topsail, and he inched the helm over until the hard edge of the sail began a minute flutter. Satisfied, he checked first against the dog-vane in the shrouds giving the wind angle, then the compass.
A broad grin broke on his face, and he caught an amused look, tinged with respect, from the officer-of-the-watch. 'Damn fine sailer!' he muttered defensively. It had been a few years since he had last held the helm of a top frigate, and that had been the famous Artemis. Unable to suppress a sigh of the deepest satisfaction, he reluctantly surrendered the wheel to the duty helmsman, who was waiting patiently; Kydd had shipped in a vacancy of quartermaster and had the overall responsibility of Cockburn the conn, his rate of master's mate willingly put aside temporarily.
'Fletcher on th' helm, sir,' he called, as was his duty to the officer-of-the-watch, the courteous Griffith.
'Thank you, Kydd.' The officer resumed his pacing on the weather side, leaving Kydd to drink in the sheer pleasure of having a live, moving deck under his feet, the sweet curving of deck-lines set about with drum-taut rigging, the urgent hiss of their progress.
Renzi had been right: it had been announced that they were heading deep into the Mediterranean on some sort of venture to bring off a distressed but unknown worthy hiding somewhere on the other side of Italy. Kydd had jumped at the chance to volunteer for the voyage, even though for them every ship that swam must be hostile — and it was not certain they would survive to return.
'Do I find you in spirits, then, brother?' Renzi murmured, from behind him.
Kydd turned to him happily. 'Aye, y' do.' A chance to be involved in a romantic rescue, the prospect of weeks at sea with Renzi before they returned to Gibraltar, and all happening in this lovely frigate. 'A spankin' fine ship!'
'Larbowlines have the last dog?' Renzi's question was necessary, for as master's mate his watches conformed to the officers' while Kydd was back with the traditional two watches of the men. He was hoping he and Kydd could spend a watch companionably together, as in the old times.