Seaflower (21 page)

It
had been a pleasant, if crowded passage; the tedium of a sea voyage without
duties brought Renzi an unexpected pang of sympathy for the passengers he had
previously scorned. More immediately useful was the information he had gleaned
from casual talking with the Admiral's staff. In the West Indies there was
wealth, more millions than he had ever suspected, a river of silver and gold
heading back to England from trade and its support, but above all from sugar.
The plantation society, the plantocracy, had high political significance in
London and lived like lords, if the tales of high living were to be believed,
but with the great wealth there was another of corrupt and unscrupulous
conspirators who infested every class.

He
had met the First Clerk, Mr Jacobs, a dry but astute man who weighed and
measured each word before it was uttered. From him Renzi learned that they
would be going not to the capital, Kingston, but further inland to Spanish
Town, the administrative centre of Jamaica, and would be involved primarily in
the necessary dealings of the navy with the civil administration. It was not a
prospect that pleased Renzi.

Morning
saw the two ships proceeding sedately westward to the entrance of Kingston
harbour. On the sheltered inner side of a low encircling spit of land miles
long was the Jamaica station of the Royal Navy: a mighty 74-gun
ship-of-the-line, four frigates, sloops of war, and countless brigs and
schooners.

The
Admiral had transferred to the frigate during the night in order to make his
arrival with all appropriate ceremony, and in the light airs of the morning,
clouds of smoke eddied about the anchored 74 as her salute crashed out at the
sight of the frigate's bunting.

The
packet followed humbly in the wake of the frigate, but when the bigger ship
went to meet her brethren, it passed across the bay to bring up noisily into
the wind opposite a wharf at the end of a street in Kingston town. A heaving
line sailed across and they were pulled alongside.

The
hot, sandy streets were alive: drays filled with the trade goods of two
continents, merchants concluding deals in the broad piazzas, processions of
traders with their slaves following behind. The cheery green and white of the houses
was complemented by the gardens, which differed wildly from the calm neatness
of English cultivation: here there were fruit-trees, coconuts, tall palms and a
riot of colour from vines.

There
was little time for Renzi to stand and stare. Mr Jacobs was clearly
discontented with the arrangements for transport. The ketureens — the
ubiquitous Jamaican gig sporting a gay raised sunroof on rods — offered
insufficient security against possible rain for the two chests of
correspondence. When this had been settled, with dozens of negroes walking
beside and an overseer riding ahead to clear the way of wagons and carts, they
set out on the flat road to Spanish Town. After passing a great lagoon with
vast reed beds, they stopped at the Ferry Inn to refresh and change horses
before the final run to the old town.

'It
is of an age, I believe,' Renzi said to Jacobs, as they wound along among the
outer streets of Spanish Town.

'It
is. Founded by Christopher Columbus, and settled by the Dons. Captured by us in
1655.'

Renzi
would have to be content with that bare information, but his mind expanded
upon it: two centuries of Spanish indolence and fixed ways, eventless years
that were in stark contrast to the tumults in Europe. Then the English had
flooded in, upsetting the staid times with their thrusting, mercantile
rudeness, turning the old, comfortable social certainties on their head.

The
procession ground into a large square with imposing buildings that would not
have been out of place in far Castile. One notable exception was a
distinguished white marble edifice set between the two largest structures. They
disembarked in its shadow and, to his surprise, Renzi saw that it was a splendid
colonnaded statue of an undeniable sea flavour — cannons, rope and the sterns
of fleeing enemy ships.

‘Rodney,'
explained Jacobs.

Of
course. Renzi remembered. Admiral Rodney had fought the French de Grasse to a
smashing defeat in a great fleet action some ten years earlier off Guadeloupe;
as
a result, Jamaica had been saved from French colonisation.

He
looked around the square: it had a slightly offended air, as of an older
gentleman put out by a younger man not fully recognising his dignity. But the
cool, ochre-painted stone of the government offices was real enough. There he
would see out his working life for the immediate future. These were his
prospects. He could envisage only a dreary vista of daily sameness in the
months ahead.

The
work was easy enough: the endless round of returns, reports, minutiae of the
Fleet, now lying at anchor. It had to be victualled, clothed, repaired,
administered. As Renzi dealt with his tiny part of the steady stream, he grew
increasingly respectful of the scale of the operation: tens of thousands of
men, the Fleet as big as a county town, a moving town that might be anywhere,
yet needing the same flow of all manner of goods.

In
the main Renzi was left to himself. He often caught flashes of suspicion from
Jacobs, but realised that these were because of his reserved, indeed secretive
nature. His, however, was a circumstance of endurance, of serving a sentence,
and he had no care of what his interim fellows supposed. His thoughts strayed
to Kydd. By now he would probably be a lonely corpse in up-country Guadeloupe,
or a prisoner-of-war in a French vessel on his way to incarceration, anything.
In the absence of any knowledge, logic was useless, and in sadness he forced
his mind to other things.

The
Admiral did not live in Spanish Town: his mansion was out of town in the
cooler hills north of
Kingston, and after several weeks
Renzi was summoned there.

Admiral
Edgcumbe received him at his desk, leaving him standing respectfully. 'What do
ye think o' that?' he said, thrusting a newspaper at him and jabbing a blunt
finger at the top of one column. It was a copy of the
Moniteur
from Paris, not three months old, and the article
about the unstable, now executed Robespierre was interesting and significant.
Renzi hesitated — what was he being asked to do? Had the Admiral sent for him
merely to ask his opinion on a newspaper article?

'By
this, sir, I believe we find that the Thermidor coup has established itself.
Robespierre overstepped himself, the Committee felt threatened, combined to
overthrow him, execute him, and then—'

'Belay
all that, what does it mean?'

Renzi
resumed carefully, 'It means that the Terror in Paris is spent. The revolution
is now controlled.' He paused, the Admiral's intense eyes on his. 'It would be
reasonable to suppose that their attention is no longer distracted by the
fratricide, that they are now able to turn their attention outward to the
larger considerations of the war, perhaps even—'

'Enough.'
The Admiral sat back with a loud grunt. 'And now be so good as to tell me who
in Hades you are, sir.'

A
fleeting smile forced its way on to Renzi's face. 'May I sit, sir?'

'You
may.' The flinty eyes did not spare him.

Deliberately,
Renzi relaxed. He crossed his legs and clasped them over the knee, languid and
confident, a

London
beau manque. 'You may believe I am a gentleman,' he said, in tones he had last
used in the company of the Duke of Norfolk. The Admiral said nothing, but his
gaze did not alter. 'And you may also know that I have done nothing of which I
need be ashamed — you have my sacred word on that' There was a 'Humph'.

'My
beliefs include a devotion to the Rationalist cause, I do not care for the
comforts of the old thinking.' He straightened and fixed the Admiral with a
level gaze. 'Sir, if I am to say more, I must ask for your word, as a
gentleman, that this will go no further than yourself.' He held his breath.
This was, on the face of it, a preposterous impertinence from a lowly clerk to
a blue-blood admiral.

'You
have it.'

Renzi
gathered his wits. The only course was to tell the truth: any less would be
detected instantly. 'Sir, my philosophies compel me to satisfy their moral
demands in a way that others might consider — eccentric. I find them
sufficiently logical and consistent. Therefore, when faced with a matter
bearing on my personal moral worth I must answer for myself.

'My
father procured an Act of Enclosure — there was grief and suicide occasioned by
it. For the sake of my conscience, sir, I am undertaking an act of expiation. I
sentenced myself to five years' exile, not to a foreign shore, but to the lower
deck of a man-o'-war.'

At
first it seemed there would be no response. Then the Admiral's quarterdeck
expression eased, and a glimmer of a smile appeared. 'A glass of Madeira,' he
growled, and reached for the decanter. Renzi accepted thankfully.

The
Admiral looked at him speculatively. He felt for a key and unlocked a drawer,
extracting a closely-written piece of paper. 'Cast y' eyes over this,' he said.

Renzi
took it and scanned quickly. 'This is a letter, from a Monsieur Neuf. It is to
his son, I think.'

The
Admiral nodded. 'Just so. We took it fr'm a brig that thought it was going to
France.' He smiled thinly. 'And now it is not. What I am exercised with is just
how to spread half a dozen ships o' force over a thousand miles of sea.'

Renzi
met his ferocious stare equably - but his heart sank. He could see now where it
was all leading, and wanted no part of it. 'Sir, I am a perfect stranger to
dissimulation, deceit and the other necessary qualities to make a spy, and must
decline in advance any such service.'

The
Admiral's eyebrows shot up. 'What do you mean, sir? I wish you merely to
exercise your intellects in the reading of any chance material bearing on
intelligence the fates throw our way — see if you can sight any clue, any
unguarded slip o' the pen, you know what I mean. That is, if y’ morals will
allow of it.'

Renzi
found himself quickly removed from the vast hall filled with labouring
quill-drivers and sharing an upper-floor room with two others. To his satisfaction,
they were uncommunicative and self-absorbed, and he found he could work on
without interruption.

Each
morning, a locked box would be opened in their presence and each would receive
a pack of papers of varying size. On most days Renzi received nothing and then
he would assist one of the others. Occasionally the Admiral would call for him,
and he would find himself reading a letter, pamphlet or set of orders - there
was a pleasing sense of discretion in the proceedings that considerably eased
his mind at the odious act of violating the privacy of another.

It
was a strange, floating and impermanent existence; and above it all hung the
knowledge that at any time he could be brought into confrontation with his
past, to mutual embarrassment. When it happened, there was not a thing he could
do.

'Renzi,
blue office, if y' please.' This was where petitions from the populace were
initially heard. He was generally included where matters touching the navy were
involved, taking notes in the background and making himself available if
explication were needed. He sat at his little table to one side, readying his
paper and ink, leaving the bigger desk to Jacobs.

'Mr
Laughton,' called the usher from the door.

Renzi
froze.

The
man came striding in, looking past the lowly Renzi to Jacobs, who assumed an
oily smile.

'Another
loss!' Laughton snapped. 'This is insupportable, sir!'

'Sir,
you will recollect that the navy is much committed in the Leeward Islands—'

'Damn
your cant! Without trade this island is worthless, and with these losses you
will soon have none.'

Renzi
kept his head well down, and scratched away busily, taking his 'notes'. The
talk ebbed and flowed inconclusively, Jacobs stonewalling skilfully. Laughton
snorted in frustration and rose suddenly. 'So, that is all you have to say,
sir?' He turned and stormed out without a glance at Renzi, who sat back in
relief.

A
few seconds later the door flew open again, and Laughton's voice sounded behind
him. 'Be so good as to direct me to the Revenue office,' he said, in a hard
tone.

'Mr
Renzi,' Jacobs asked mildly.

There
was now no further chance of evasion. For the space of a heartbeat or two Renzi
stared down at his paper, savouring the last moments of an uncomplicated life.
"This way, sir,' he said softly, holding his head down to the last moment.