Mutiny Read online

  Renzi caught her eye. “As it’s said, ‘Venetians don’t taste their pleasures, they swallow them whole’!”

  She giggled, then sobered again. “Niccolò—don’ you trust anyone, not anyone!”

  “Not even you?” he teased.

  “You must trust me,” she said seriously. Then she cupped her chin in her hands and looked up at him. “Il giramondo—you are ver’ strong now, I feel it.”

  The warmth of the evening fell away in layers, and the cold reality of a gray sea-tossed world penetrated even this conviviality, drawing him back. Reminiscences, hard memories pushed themselves into his consciousness, building a pressure of unresolved forces that he knew he must face.

  “Cara Lucrezia, ti voglio appassionatamente, but I fear I’m no fit companion this night …”

  “I understan’ this, Niccolò.” She regarded him closely. “What diavolo rides on your back, God know.”

  “Lucrezia, can we talk somewhere?”

  “Th’ gondola,” she responded, and they rose and left. The gondoliers were on hand, as if by magic, and the chill of the night was kept at bay within the comfort of the cabin.

  “You have changed, Niccolò—I don’ know,” she said tenderly, plucking at his waistcoat as if in doubt of its exotic origins. A wave of feeling broke; he would tell everything, whatever the cost.

  He said the words and, looking into her eyes, saw pity, compassion—and insight. She did understand—the transformation of a careless youth to a morally sensitive adult through the harrowing suicide of the son of a farmer, ruined by an Act of Enclosure enforced by his family; the conviction and, more important, commitment to a course of action in atonement.

  “My sentence is exile from my world, at sea. The problem lies in that since then I have grown to respect, admire and, if you can believe it, in some ways prefer the purity of the brotherhood of the sea.”

  Renzi had found opportunities for the deepest considerations of the intellect in the long watches of the night, and he could bring to memory many a conversation with Kydd that he would never admit had settled his own doubts as much as his friend’s.

  Her hand crept out to seize his. “But this is not your world, Niccolò,” she whispered.

  A lump rose in Renzi’s throat. “I know it. There are times—” How could he show how much he was torn? The sturdy honesty of deep-sea mariners, their uncomplicated courage and direct speaking had to be contrasted with their deep ignorance of the world, their lacking of subtlety to the point of obtuseness. But such a degree of friendship, won in adversity and tested in perils, was never to be found on land where daily trial of character was not a way of life.

  He tried to explain—her intent expression encouraged him. He went on to describe the satisfactions: the change in worldview when the horizon was never a boundary but an opportunity, not the same daily prospect and limit but a broad highway to other lands, other experiences. And the different value for time at sea, when discourse could be followed to its own true end, the repose of mind resulting from the realization that time aboard ship would not be hurried, varied, dissipated.

  The harsh conditions of his exile compared with his privileged upbringing were not the primary concern—a monk would understand the self-denial involved. In fact, as he examined it, explained it, there came a clarifying and focusing. Kydd. Without any doubt, Kydd’s friendship had saved his sanity and made possible the enduring of his sentence. Renzi knew his own mind needed nurture and satisfaction or it would suffer a sterile withering, and he had found both in Kydd’s intelligence and level-headed thinking. And they had shared so much together—what they had shared!

  But when Kydd had been in another ship he was robbed of this. He was in an island of himself, no one to relieve the days with insight and an acquisitive mind. It was in those dull, repetitive times that the full hardship of what he had taken on was brought to bear. The lower deck of a man-o’-war was plain, unadorned, uncomplicated, but—and this was the cruel, plain fact—it was not the place for an educated and sensitive man.

  “Lucrezia, pray help me. My sentence of exile is for five years, and its course is nearly run. So do I—must I—return then to my family? Leave the sea and my friends—my true friends …” It was harder to bear, now it had been given voice.

  The gondola rocked gently in the calm of the lagoon, Lucrezia watching him calmly. But she had no hesitation: “Niccolò, ragazzo, you know th’ answer to that,” she said gently, stroking his hair. “You have serve your sentence, you can be proud, but you are a gentleman, not lowborn. Go to your family an’ start life again.”

  It was devastating—not what she had said, which was unanswerable, but the discovery that he should have known it would have to finish in this way. A great upwelling of emotion came, sudden and deluging. He covered his face as sobs turned to tears—but in the hot rush a cool voice remained to tell him that this was a final, irreversible decision: before the end of the year he would no longer be in the harsh world of the common seaman.

  * * *

  Kydd picked himself up, more dismayed than hurt. He had always admired his friend’s fine intellect, but now he had serious doubts about the balance of his mind. Yet to look for him in this libertine madness was not possible—more to the point was how to steer a course back to their lodgings.

  He remembered the big marble bridge. “Th’ Rialto, if y’ please,” he asked passers by, and in this way soon found himself on familiar territory. A quick hunting about found their doss-house.

  The Swede looked up curiously. “Where’s Renzi?” A swirl of smoke and coarse shouting eddied from the dark recesses inside, but Larsson was content to stay with his garba.

  “He’s comin’ back,” Kydd snapped. “Renzi knows his duty, yell find.” That much would be certain: if anything in this world was a fixed quantity it was that Renzi would fulfill his duty.

  But Renzi did not return that night. Kydd waited in the dark loft, hearing the strange sounds of the Venetian night. He slept fitfully.

  Minutes before their due reporting time to Lieutenant Griffith, Renzi returned. He gave no explanation, but seemed far more in control—yet distant, unreachable, in a way Kydd had never seen him before.

  “We meet the agent at the Rialto,” Renzi said, leading them down to the steps close to the bridge. Amati was waiting for them, and did not reply to their greeting. A gondola threaded through the water toward them, its cabin closed. They stepped aboard and it pushed off to the middle of the Grand Canal.

  “Report!” The order came from the anonymous dark of the cabin.

  “All quiet, sir,” was Renzi’s cool reply. “But I have heard reliably that the French are at the approaches to Venice, no more than a few miles. It is to be reasonably assumed, sir, that Sir Alastair has been unfortunately taken in trying to get through their lines.”

  “Where did you hear this?”

  “From … I have no reason to doubt my source, sir.”

  There was no immediate reply. Then, “Venice is a sovereign republic—the French would never dare to violate her territory. We are safe here for the moment. We shall wait a little longer, I think.”

  Renzi frowned. “Sir, the French commander, General Buonaparte, is different from the others. He’s bold and intelligent, wins by surprise and speed. I don’t think we can underestimate—”

  “Renzi, you are impertinent—this is not a decision for a common sailor. We stay.”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” Renzi acknowledged carefully.

  “You will report here at the same time tomorrow. If you get word of Sir Alastair, I am to be informed immediately.”

  “Sir.”

  The gondola reached the landing place, and they disembarked. With barely a muttered excuse Renzi was gone—who knew where? Kydd found himself growing resentful and angry. They were on a mission of considerable importance, they were in danger, and Renzi had deserted them.

  He growled at the gawping Larsson to keep with him as they headed back to their quarters, then saw
what he was looking at. In a chance alignment of the dark streets, the bright outer lagoon was visible, and at that moment a vision was passing, surrounded by a swarm of lesser craft, a great vessel of dazzling gold and scarlet, moving trimly under the impulse of fifty oars.

  “Il Bucintoro!” a passing onlooker said, with pride, noticing their fascination.

  The galley glided grandly out of sight, leaving Kydd doubtful that he had actually seen what his senses told him he had.

  Undoubtedly there were more such sights and experiences lying in wait all around, enough to have his shipmates lost in envy when he later recounted his adventures. But the French were allegedly just a few miles away, and their duty was plain. He turned reluctantly toward their noisome lodgings.

  The next morning Renzi arrived to meet them at the appointed place, this time with serious news. “Friuli is invaded. Buonaparte has stormed into Carinthia to the north, and his troops have bypassed Venice to strike south.”

  “Then we are surrounded,” a low voice said cautiously from the gondola’s dark cabin. “Where did you hear this?”

  “From traders that have business in the interior, sir. And you may believe they are—”

  “That will be all, Renzi.”

  “Sir—”

  “We leave. Now.” There was decision and relief in the officer’s voice. “Sir Alastair has obviously been taken. We must depart, our duty done. Mr. Amati, do you please engage passage for the four of us out of Venice immediately? You men muster abreast the Rialto Bridge in one hour with your dunnage.”

  This time Renzi stayed, fetching his small seabag from the loft and waiting in the shadows with them. “May I know where you’ve been, Nicholas?” Kydd said gravely.

  “No.” Renzi’s eyes were stony and fixed on the opposite side of the Grand Canal.

  “I’d take it kindly should ye tell me more o’ this grand place, m’ friend.”

  There was no response from Renzi. Then his eyes flicked to Kydd and away again. “Later,” he muttered

  Kydd brooded. Something was seriously troubling his friend. They should be in no real danger—the French wouldn’t dare to interfere in such a noble city, so all they had to do was leave. But they would run from Venice and return to Gibraltar without the glory of a daring rescue … He tried to bring to mind Emily’s face, but it was shadowed, overlain by the incredible events and sights he’d so recently witnessed. His wandering thoughts were interrupted—a piece of paper had been passed to Renzi.

  “This is from L’tenant Griffith. We are to report to this warehouse at once.” He led the way toward the waterfront. Just before they emerged on to the quay area they stopped. Renzi stepped forward and banged on the decrepit door of a small warehouse. It opened cautiously and they were pulled inside.

  As their eyes grew used to the dark, they saw Dandolo, pacing nervously up and down. There were two others, sitting on the floor, heads down, exhausted. Kydd’s nose tickled at the pungent scent of the warehouse, which lay heavy on the air—ginger, spices, tobacco.

  “Where iss your officer?” Dandolo pressed. As if in answer, there was a rattling at the door and Griffith stepped in, breathless.

  “Sir Alastair?”

  “The same,” whispered one of the men on the floor.

  “Good God! Sir, you must be—but we have you in time.”

  Dandolo intervened. “We agreed …?”

  “Indeed.” Griffith fumbled in his coat, and withdrew a cloth-wrapped cylinder. He handed it to Dandolo. It was broken open expertly and a spill of dull gold coins filled Dandolo’s hand. He grinned with satisfaction. “We are leaving Venice. Do you wish to claim the protection of His Majesty also?”

  Dandolo’s eyes creased. “No. I have my plans.”

  “Is there a way to inform Mr. Amati where we are?” Griffith asked.

  Dandolo paused. “If that iss what you wan’.”

  Griffith crossed to Leith. “Sir, Lieutenant Griffith, third of Bacchante frigate, and three seamen. We are sent to remove you from Venice.”

  “Thank you,” Leith said equably, “and this is my man. He has stayed with me since the other side of the Alps. What is the situation, if you please?” Before Griffith could answer, Leith added, “Be aware that the French are advancing with celerity and all the determination of a strong sea tide. There is no time to be lost, sir.”

  “Our evacuation is in hand as we speak, sir. Our agent is procuring passage for us by any means, and I expect him back by the hour.”

  “Very good. I will not speak of food and drink—these can wait until we are on board. Now, if you please, be so good as to allow us a period of sleep. We are sorely tried.”

  “Sir.”

  There was nothing to do except wait for Amati in decorous silence. Renzi lay on a sack and closed his eyes, but Kydd could not rest. It was expecting a lot of the agent to delay his own hopes of safety for their sake, however high his expected reward. Perhaps he had already slipped away, leaving them to wait in vain for their passage out.

  It seemed hours, but Amati returned. Kydd felt for the little man as he slipped in noiselessly. “I can no’ find a passage,” he said defiantly.

  “What?” Griffith jumped to his feet.

  “My dear sir, the man returned, did he not?” Leith said wearily. “Pray tell us, what is the difficulty?” he asked Amati.

  “The French, they take Chioggia, Malamocco. Now they ha’ control all gate to th’ lagoon. No ship can lif. None.” He looked up wearily. “No one wan’ to try.”

  Griffith stared at Amati. “So, we have a problem.”

  No one spoke.

  Renzi’s expression eased to a half-smile, and in the breathless hush he said, “Sir, you are mindful that we are English—”

  “Of course I do—you try my patience, Renzi!”

  “—and therefore we shall probably be yielded up by the Venetians as a placating move to the French—”

  “Enough! Hold your tongue, you impertinent rascal!”

  “—who will without doubt understand us to be here as spies, to be executed perhaps?”

  At his words there was only a grim silence. It was broken by a dry chuckle from Leith. “Just so. Nothing less than the truth, I would have thought.” He glanced keenly at Renzi. “Please go on.”

  “Sir. Our logical course is to hide among the people but, sadly, I fear we would make poor Italians. Disguise is impossible—we would be discovered out of hand. I feel we must find another solution.”

  “They gotta catch us fust. Let ’em come!” Larsson challenged.

  “With no weapons of any kind?” Everyone present knew that an armed party discovered ashore in Venice would have been an intolerable provocation to the Serene Republic. “No. I fancy we are at hazard to a degree.”

  A rattling started at the door. Kydd and Larsson hastily took position at each side, ready for the final act. The door opened, but instead of soldiers there was a small figure, fetchingly arrayed in a Columbine costume, her face hidden by a white mask.

  “What in heaven—” spluttered Griffith.

  “You fools!” Lucrezia said, dropping her mask and sparing Renzi a withering look. “Why you still ’ere?”

  Leith picked up on the look. “Your acquaintance, Mr. Renzi?”

  Renzi ignored the expression of sudden realization on Kydd’s face. “Signora Lucrezia Carradini, Sir Alastair Leith.”

  She acknowledged him warily, sizing up the little party. Her eyes rested on Amati. “’Oo is zis?” she demanded. Renzi began to explain, but Amati’s muttered Italian seemed to satisfy her.

  She looked away for a moment. “To hide all you, zis will be deeficult. It may be long time, the French will no’ go away soon.” It seemed natural that she was taking charge of their fate. Her strong features and resolute bearing made it so.

  The men waited. She looked once toward the door, then spoke decisively. “Here I say I store my cargo, a ver’ valuable load, to wait the ship. I send men to guard it, no one interfere wi’
you now.”

  Her mask went up as she prepared to leave. “I will fin’ you a ship, jus’ be patient. And never show yourselfs.” She turned to Renzi. “You are ze compradore, you worry of its safety, you come back an’ check on it many times. But now you mus’ come wi’ me.”

  The spicy rankness of the warehouse bore on the spirit but, sailor-fashion, the men turned to, making the best of it. Hammocks were fashioned, screens were rigged and a “mess area” squared away as clean as possible. They tried to ignore the sounds from outside, the chains drawn across the door, the unknown muffled words.

  Renzi returned at nightfall with food and drink concealed in a chest, as if an addition to the cargo. He did not volunteer conversation, and the others did not press him. He left quickly.

  Leith spent his time with the naval officer, leaving the two sailors to themselves. There was not much conversation in Larsson, and Kydd found himself on edge.

  After a restless night and a quick dawn visit from Renzi they had no choice other than to resign themselves to another day of tedium. It was well into the morning when Kydd’s senses pricked an alert. “There’s somethin’ amiss,” he said. “Listen …”

  “I hear nothing,” said Griffith irritably.

  “That is m’ point, sir. There’s nothin’ going on—everythin’s stopped.”

  “He’s right,” said Leith.

  The troubling stillness continued into the afternoon.

  “One o’ their papist festivals cleared ’em from their duties” was Griffith’s opinion.

  Dryly, Leith disagreed. “I rather fancy they’d make more noise, more bells and crowds.”

  “Then maybe the French have entered?”

  “Without protest, cannon fire? Their soldiers would certainly have let the world know if they had, I can assure you.” Leith stood up and paced about, the first sign of unease Kydd had seen him display. “I don’t like this—at all.”

  By late afternoon, it was obvious that something was seriously out of kilter. And Renzi had not come with their food.

  “We have to know what is afoot. Pray stand by me, you men.” Leith crossed to the doors and shook them sharply for attention.