"Ah—there is one way!"
"Nicholas?"
"At night. We don't batten down all hatches while we're asleep, do we?"
"The scrovy swab! If I lay my . . ." Kydd smiled grimly. "Bear a fist, Nicholas. I'm going t' rig a welcome as will see us shakin' hands with th' villain b' morning."
It was easily enough done: the odd length of wood, pieces of string led along the floor, a cunning door wedge. Then they pulled down their beds to retire.
Renzi did not sleep well. It was becoming clear that they were headed into unknown waters: possibly useless penury, certainly life on the fringes of society. He would bear his lot without complaint but now a moral question was arising.
Was he right in acquiescing to Kydd's forlorn search to clear his name? If Lockwood was at the back of it the implication was that he would not rest until Kydd's personal ruin was seen to be accomplished. Therefore even if by some miracle Kydd achieved his exoneration Lockwood would find some other way to secure his revenge. Renzi knew well the lengths to which vindictive men in high places could go if vengeance was their purpose.
But he had vowed to stand by his friend whatever the situation. Therefore, in logic, he must remain.
The bed with its wire frame creaked and twanged as he turned restlessly, but sleep did not come. His mind wandered to his studies: his theory was proceeding well, coalescing about responses to primal needs in differing cultures, but he needed more data. Much more. If only he could lay hold of Baudin's journal, but the French explorer had died in Mauritius and his data was now separated by the unbridgeable gulf of war. Where else could—
Cecilia. Would she wait for him? The thought shocked him into full wakefulness as he reflected on his failure in Australia to forge a life there as a free settler. He had wanted to create an Arcadia of his small landholding for her. Now, his grand plan to complete his first volume for publication to present to her before he felt morally able to seek her hand—where was this, now that his entire endeavour was at an indefinite standstill? What if she—
"Hssst! Nicholas!" Kydd whispered, but Renzi had heard it too. The door-handle was squeaking softly. He lay still. There was just enough wan moonlight to make out gross shadows so the two of them should well be able to handle one—but if there were more?
The door scraped open and stayed for a space. Then the floorboards creaked but Renzi could not see any bulking figure. Instead, to his surprise, he next heard movement from well within the room.
Kydd yanked the string hard. The door banged to and the wedge slammed into place with a triumphant finality. The intruder whirled about and made for the door but it was jammed tightly shut. "Strike a light, Nicholas, an' we'll see what we've snagged," Kydd said, with satisfaction, getting to his feet.
The candle flickered into flame, revealing a slight figure trapped against the door. "Well, now, an' what's y' name then, y' young shicer?"
There was no answer. Two dark eyes watched warily as they approached. The figure was in leggings, a short jacket and a bandanna.
"Answer me, y' scamp, or I has ye taken in b' th' watch."
The muttered reply was inaudible.
"Speak up, 'scapegallows!"
"P-Pookie."
A female child-thief? Caught off-guard in his nightgown Renzi took refuge in frowning severely. "Pookie what, pray?"
Defiantly the boyish figure stayed mute.
"We c'n easily find out b' takin' you t' each o' the families in th' buildin' t' see who owns ye."
"Pookie, er, Turner."
Kydd looked at Renzi in exasperation. The harsh penal system demanded transportation to Botany Bay for the theft of a handkerchief and the gallows for a few shillings. Children as young as nine had gone to the scaffold. What had possessed this ragamuffin to take such risks?
"Get rigged, Nicholas, I'm gettin' satisfaction fr'm th' father."
But there was none, only a listless, irritated mother who screamed threats at the child. "Only twelve year she has an' all, sir, an' s' help me the bastard ain't even mine!" she whined. It seemed they would not be seeing their possessions again.
"Listen t' me, an' mark well what I say," Kydd growled, in a fierce quarterdeck manner. "If'n I catch this scut skulking about our rooms again it's th' beak on th' instant. Compree?"
The coins clinked one by one as Renzi let them drop to the table, his face in shadows from the single, evil-smelling rush dip.
"So bad?" Kydd asked uneasily. He was trying to toast the last of a stale loaf on a brown-coal fire.
At first Renzi did not reply. Then he turned. "Despite domestic economies of such austerity as would quite put Mistress Hannah Glasse to the blush, it would seem that the end must come soon and with no appeal."
"Th' end?" Kydd said apprehensively.
"Suffice it to say that on Friday we shall be unable to render her due to our termagant landlady. It should be quite within prospect that our immediate quitting will be demanded."
"Then . . ."
"Yes."
Renzi said nothing further and regarded Kydd gravely.
"You're sayin' we're t' be gone fr'm the islands, return t' England?"
"It would seem the time has come, brother."
Kydd looked away. "I'm stayin', Nicholas."
"Where—"
"I'm goin' t' the sail-loft. Th' old fisherman as offered it me has no use f'r it. That's where I'll be."
"Dear fellow, that's—that's no living for a gentleman. Why, you might well be taken up for a vagrant. It will not do at all."
Kydd gave a tigerish smile. "I'm seein' it through. That chousin' toad only has t' say one word out o' place an' I'll have him."
It was a piteous image: a fine seaman, and honourable, reduced to rags and the shuffling hopelessness of the poor with the canker of vengeance sapping his life spirit.
"Of course," Renzi said calmly. "Then I do suggest we begin taking the rest of our worldly goods thence. For myself, there is no question that I burden myself on you further. Instead I'll, er, find somewhere to lay my head. Yes! I have a mind to visit Jersey."
"Jersey?"
"A Channel Island not twenty miles to the south-east, which, I might point out to you, is larger in area than this present isle and its opportunities as yet untried. Any news I have will be made available to you at St Peter Port post office."
"Then—then this is y'r farewell, Nicholas," Kydd said, in a low voice, "an' I'd wish it were at a happier time."
"For now, dear friend. When the one meets with fortune I dare to say the other will share in it. Do take care of my manuscripts, I beg. And at any time you will have need of your friend, make it known at the St Helier's post office."
CHAPTER 9
IT WOULD BE EASIER SAID THAN DONE. Carrying a bundle for his immediate needs, Renzi stepped ashore in St Helier, the chief town and port of Jersey, with the pressing goal of finding employment, however humble, that might serve to keep both himself and his friend from starving while Kydd's all-consuming quest spent itself before they returned to England.
Preoccupied, he had not particularly noticed the castle set out into the approaches to St Helier, which was of considerable antiquity. Other defensive works of a more recent vintage briefly caught his eye: the massive crenellations of a fortification along the skyline above the town, gun towers and signal posts. Jersey had a definite edge of siege-like tension about it. St Helier itself was less steep than St Peter Port but appeared busier.
The mariner in Renzi noted the immense scatter of granite reefs that crowded in on the port and would make it a lethal trap if the wind shifted to the south, unlike St Peter Port, which had handy escape routes north and south. He shrugged: there would be precious little sea time for the near future—he had to secure tolerable employ.
Renzi found a coffee-house and went in. Seated in a quiet corner he secured a dog-eared copy of the Gazette de Jersey and scanned it—much about the tenor of existence, economic health and the general happiness of folk could be gauged from the profundity or otherwise of the concerns expressed in a newspaper.