“If it does not pain you.”
“No, the pain is past.” He glanced at Kydd, feeling drawn to the intensity in the strong, open face.
“However, be so good as to bear with me for a space…” He paused for a long moment, then continued, “For philosophical reasons, which appear sufficiently cogent to me, I am denied the felicity of the company of my peers. This is not the result of a criminal act, I hasten to assure you.”
Kydd could see that Renzi was having difficulty speaking of his burden and wondered if it had anything to do with his peculiar beliefs. “Then, sir, I will not speak of it again.”
Renzi said nothing but Kydd saw the pain in his eyes. The deeply lined face spoke of complexities of experience at which he could only guess.
A silence fell between them. Sounds from the watch on deck faintly carried up to their eyrie.
“I beg you will tell me more of this philosophy, er, Mr. Renzi,” Kydd said.
“Upon a more suitable occasion, perhaps, Mr. Kydd.”
“Tom.”
“Nicholas.”
The cutter went about around their stern and came smartly up into the wind bare yards away, the brailed-up mainsail flogging violently. A heav ing line shot up and was seized; canvas-covered despatches followed quickly. Mission performed, sail was shaken out again and the despatch cutter bore away.
“All the haaands! Hands lay aft!” The pipe came within the hour – it did not need much imagination to guess that something was afoot.
Salter was quite sure. “The Frogs have signed a peace, and we’re on our way home.”
“Nah – pocky knaves like that, they want ter bring us down first. It’ll be the rest o’ the Fleet comin’ to help.”
Stirk was more skeptical, but ready to listen. “Let the dog see the rabbit, Doggo,” he said, elbowing him to one side.
The Captain stepped forward to the poop rail. “We have been entrusted with a mission.” He paused, looking around him, delicately touching his mouth with a fine handkerchief before replacing it in the sleeve of his heavy gold-laced coat. “A mission that could see the beginning of the end for that vile gang of regicides.”
There was quiet. A mission did not sound like something that could end the war – that would take a great battle involving the rest of the Fleet – but anything that offered a break from the monotony of sailing up and down on blockade duty would be welcome.
“We, together with Royal Albion and Tiberius, have won the opportunity to dart a lance into the very belly of the enemy. We are going to join with true Frenchmen who will rejoice to see their nation restored to its former glory – and make our landing together on the shores of France.
“You will all have heard how the wretches murdered their officers and govern their affairs by citizens’ council. The rabble will retire in confusion under our disciplined advance. We will thrust deep into the heart of France, sweeping all before us, and bring to an end this squalid regime.”
A restless muttering rippled through the men crowded on deck and in the lower rigging. An armed descent on the mainland of Europe?
“Mr. Tyrell leads our contribution, which will be two hundred men. He will be assisted by Mr. Lockwood and Mr. Garrett. They will be protected by the marines, for we shall be landing four guns, complete with equipment. As I speak, a strong force of Royalists is marching from across the Cherbourg peninsula to join with us. Our objective will be to free the great old town of Rennes and, having established our position there, we will be reinforced for the big advance to Paris – and victory! But by then we will long be returned on board. You need have no fear that you will be turned into redcoats.
“Now I am asking for volunteers – and might I add that they will certainly share in whatever spoils of war Providence brings.”
Significant looks were exchanged. This was far more to the point than grand strategy.
“Volunteers may approach the First Lieutenant after dinner. God save the King!”
“Damn right I’m going. Not set foot ashore in eight months.” Whaley’s eyes gleamed.
“Want to clap eyes on them French women – wouldn’t repel boarders should a saucy piece lay alongside!” declared Doud, his lewd gestures leaving no doubt as to his meaning.
Claggett did not join in. “Might be things are different to what you thinks,” he said.
Howell sniffed. “What d’ye mean?”
Claggett leaned over. “I went in with the boats at Los Cayos and we suffered somethin’ cruel. Moskeeters, stinkin’ heat, an’ never a morsel o’ meat one day’s end to the next. Cruel, I tells yer – you’ll see.”
Howell sneered. “Anyways, no chance o’ that where youse are going! Just goin’ to get yerselves separated from yer head by this here gillo-tin!”
“What about you, Tom?” Whaley said, tapping a piece of hard tack.
“Could do with a stretch o’ the legs,” Kydd said casually.
“Ye’re all bloody mad,” said Howell. “Mantrap and Shaney Jack both – it’ll be seven bells of hell for all hands wi’ them two. I’m stayin’ aboard, where they won’t be at.”
At supper, Kydd eased into place opposite Renzi. “We join up with the Fleet in the morning, I’ve heard,” Kydd said to him.
Renzi responded slowly, “Yes, I believe we shall.”
“You volunteered.” Kydd had been just as surprised as the others.
“As did you.”
Renzi looked away, then back. “In the dog-watch it is my pleasure to take a pipe of tobacco on the fo’c’sle, should the weather prove tolerable.”
Kydd’s father smoked a long churchwarden pipe, but he had never taken up the habit. “I don’t take tobacco m’self, but were you to need company…”
“Then I should be honored.”
The fo’c’sle deck in the dog-watches was a place of sanctuary for the seamen. Out of sight of the quarterdeck, sailors chatted in ones or twos, spinning yarns and making merry. Some sat on the deck reading or sewing. Right at the forward end of the squared-off deck, before the massive carved work of the beakhead dropped away below, was a splendid place to be. On either side the busy wash of the bow-wave spread as the great bluff bow shouldered the waves arrogantly aside. Sliding aft, it rejoined the other side past the ornate stern to disappear into the distance in a ruler-straight line over the gray Atlantic. The jibboom thrust out ahead, the headsails soaring up to the tops and beyond, taut and eager. They dipped and rose with great dignity, it seemed to Kydd.
The vista seemed to please Renzi too. “There is a certain harmony in some works of man which I cannot but find sublime,” he said, as they stood together above the beakhead. From inside his jacket he found his clay pipe, which he filled from an oilskin pouch.
Kydd waited until Renzi had his pipe drawing well, using the flame of a lanthorn swinging in the shrouds. He settled on the deck next to him.
“Have you thought, dear fellow, that tomorrow we could well be fighting for our lives?”
Renzi spoke so quietly that Kydd thought at first he was talking to himself. “Er, not really, no. But I’m sure that His Majesty will triumph over his enemies,” Kydd added stiffly.
“Of course. Have you ever seen a battle?” The pipe was giving Renzi much satisfaction – he held it delicately by the stem near the bowl, luxuriating in the acrid fragrance.
“Not as one might say a battle,” Kydd answered. The excitement of the militia being turned out to quell an apprentices’ riot would probably not count.
Renzi inspected his pipe. “Then pray do not wish it – a battle. It must be the most odious and disagreeable occupation of man known.” He caught something of Kydd’s suspicions, for he hastened to add, “Yet some must be accounted inevitable – desirable, even.”
“Does this mean that you – do not -”
“It does not. I will not seek glory in battle, but the rational course for personal survival is not to be found in turning one’s back. You will not find me shy, I think.”