They stepped off to the stares of labourers and nearby stallkeepers, heading for the long white building, Gostiny Dvor, or Merchants’ Court, that Dillon had been assured was every captain’s first port of call.
Kydd was thankful he’d thought to wear sea undress uniform without star and sash: with their naval accoutrements they stood out enough already. But then they quickly discovered to their dismay that everywhere was a sea of dark-brown mud.
There were no paved avenues-only roads laid with timbers along which carts with tinkling bells jolted and swayed. Peasants trudged by with impossible loads and a boy in bare feet driving geese stopped to stare at them.
It was a strange, forbidding place.
Their entry into the Merchants’ Court stopped the hum of activity and half a hundred eyes stared at them from behind tall, ancient writing desks.
“Tell ’em it’s Sir Thomas Kydd of the Royal Navy come to pay his respects to their mayor.”
The man Dillon addressed looked at him in consternation, then let it be known that Mayor Vasiliy Popov was not to be troubled on minor matters as he was a figure of some consequence in the town.
Kydd explained that he was in Archangel on matters touching on trade and would appreciate a little of his time.
Doubtfully, the man got up and went to an office at the back. There were angry words and suddenly at the door stood a giant of a man with a monstrous black beard.
“Come!” he roared, beckoning to Kydd. “You’re Ingliss?” he said, in a voice of thunder. “Vot you doing here?”
After an elaborate courtly bow, Kydd suggested they discuss matters further in a more private situation.
Popov hesitated, then pushed past and led them to a low room with dark, varnished panels and smoke-grimed portraits. It smelt of boiled cabbage and strong tobacco.
They sat at an old-fashioned meeting table and Popov boomed something unintelligible out of the door, then closed it and took his seat.
“Now. You come in man-o’-war? Why?”
Kydd explained their mission to uncover any French threat, careful to refer to him as our good Russian ally.
The door opened and two others entered, glaring suspiciously at Kydd as they sat opposite. Close behind, a servant came, bearing a coarsely made brown glass bottle and small glasses.
“No French here,” rumbled Popov, leaning back to let the servant pour out the colourless liquor before each man. “None since the peace finish. So?”
He glared about him, growling, “Za zdorovje,” and downed the contents of his glass in one savage gulp.
Kydd was not going to be caught out and took just a sip of the rough potato liquor.
“Drink!” Popov demanded, miming a full toss.
Kydd replied, “Sir, this is far too good a potion to down carelessly,” peering up at his glass as if it were a rare claret. Bowden and Dillon followed his lead.
“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.