Tenacious (32 page)

As he strolled along in the sun with Renzi on the road to Mahon, Kydd brooded; no doubt there would be other opportunities for dash and initiative but unless a similar conspiracy of circumstances came up how was he to be noticed? Duty was not enough: he must show himself of different timbre from the others.

They had landed below George Town, Es Castell as it was now known. From there it had been a precipitous pathway to the top—the harbour of Port Mahon was a great ravine in a high pla-teau, opening to a capacious sea cove three miles long. The town of Mahon was perched along the top, the skyline an exotic mix of medieval casements, churches, windmills and several inclined roadways to the water’s edge.

A pleasant two miles of open country lay ahead. Wearing plain clothes in deference to the sensibilities of the inhabitants, they passed through Es Castell, a relic of past English occupation, still with its parade-ground four-square in the centre, and found the road west to Mahon.

“So grateful to the spirit,” Renzi mused. At sea there was a constant busyness; even in the most placid of days the flurry of waves, the imperceptible susurrus of breeze around the edge of the sails and the many random sounds of a live ship were a constant backdrop to life aboard. It was only on land, where a different quietude reigned, that its absence was noticed.

Kydd’s naturally happy temperament bubbled to the surface.

“S’ many windmills—you’d think it Norfolk or Kent.”

“Yet the soil is poor and difficult of cultivation, I think,” said Renzi, as they passed tiny garden-like plots and endless dry-stone walls. A little further on the wafting scent of orange groves filled the air. “But there could be compensations . . .”

In front of each white stone farm there was a distinctive gate of charming proportions, an inverted V, probably made from the ubiquitous wild olive wood. The road wound round the end of a deep cleft in the cliffs, a sea cove a quarter of a mile deep with buildings on the flat ground at its head. Kydd recognised it as the chief watering-place, Cala Figuera—English Cove. The English ships,
Tenacious
among them, were clustered there.

Mahon could be seen ahead, past a racket court in use by two rowdy midshipmen, the houses by degrees turning urban and sophisticated. The two nodded pleasantly to local people in their pretty gardens; Kydd wondered how he would feel if conquering officers passed his front door. Nevertheless there was more than one friendly wave.

Several paths and avenues led from the one they were on and it became clear that they needed directions. “Knock on th’ door?”

Kydd suggested.

23

After some minutes they heard,
“¿Que quiere?”
A short man wearing round spectacles emerged suspiciously.

“Ah, we are English officers, er,
inglese,
” Kydd tried.

Renzi smiled. “Your Italian does you credit, my friend, but what is more needed now—”

“Goodness gracious me!” Both turned in astonishment at the perfect English. “So soon! But—dare I be as bold—your honourable presence is made more welcome by your absence, these sixteen year.”

Kydd blinked. “Er, may we ask if this is th’ right road f’r Mahon?”

“Ah! So many years have I not heard this word! Only the English call it
Marn—
the Spanish is
Ma-hon,
but we Minorquin call it
Ma-ó,
you see.”

“Then—”

“You are certainly on the highway to
ciudad Maó—
forgive me, it has been many years . . . Sadly, though, you will now find Maó in the comfortable state we call
siesta.
”

He drew himself up. “But, gentlemen, it would be my particular honour to offer you the refreshments of the road.”

“You are too kind, sir,” Renzi said elegantly, with a bow.

They were soon seated in an enchanting arbour in a small garden at the front of a Mediterranean white house, all set about with myrtle, jasmine and vines and with a splendid view down into the harbour. The man withdrew and they heard shrill female protests overborne with stern male tones before he reappeared.

“My apologies. I am Don Carlos Piña, a merchant of oil of olive.”

The officers bowed and introduced themselves. A lady wreathed in smiles appeared with a tray, murmuring a politeness in what Kydd assumed was Mahon-ese. On the tray he recognised Xoriguer and there were sweetmeats that had him reaching out.

23

“Ah! Those are the
amargos.
If they are too bitter, please to try the
coquinyales
here.” Piña spoke to the woman, who coloured with pleasure. “My wife remember what you English like.”

The crunchy anisette indeed complemented the gin and lemon cordial but Kydd had to say what was on his mind: “D’ ye please tell me, sir, why you are not offended at our bein’ here?”

Piña smiled broadly. “Our prosperity is tied to the English—

when you left in ’eighty-two our trade suffer so cruel where before we trade with the whole world. Now by chance it will return.”

“I’m sure it will,” Renzi contributed.

Piña flourished the Xoriguer. “I toast
His Majesty King
George—
King George th’ Three! I hope he enjoy good health?”

he added anxiously.

“He is still our gracious sovereign,” Renzi replied.

“Please! Gentlemen, you may toast to the return of Lady Fortune to Minorca!”

Renzi asked earnestly, “Sir, this is such an ancient island. The Moors, Romans, Phoenicians—surely they have left their mark on the land, perhaps curious structures, singular artefacts?”

“There is no end of them,” Piña said brightly, “but there are also the
navete
of the Talaiot—before even the Roman, they build boats of stone! No man know what they are. We never go near.”

He crossed himself fervently, bobbing his head.

“Excellent!” said Renzi.

“And if you are interested in Minorca, good sir, I recommend to your attention the town of Migjorn Gran, in which you will find many learned in the ancient ways of our island.”

Kydd put down his glass. “And Maó is not far ahead?”

“I’m delaying you!” Piña said, in consternation. “Before you leave, the
abrazo!
” To Kydd’s embarrassment he was seized in an embrace. “So! Now you are for us the
hermanito,
our ver’ good friend!”

240

Julian Stockwin

• • •

Noble churches stood among a maze of busy streets; an ancient archway glowered at the top of one, and there were shops of every sort between lofty residence with balconies. Kydd was charmed by the little town, which had in parts an almost English reserve. On impulse, he stopped as they were passing a handi-crafts shop. “Nicholas, I’d like t’ take something o’ Minorca back to m’ mother as a remembrance. A piece o’ lace?”

They entered the quiet interior of the shop. It took a few seconds for Kydd’s eyes to adjust to the gloom after the glare of the sun but then he saw the girl behind the counter. “Er, can I see y’ lace—for m’ mother . . .” He tailed off, seeing her grave attention.

But she gave a delighted squeal. “You are Engliss?
Que suerte
haberte conocido!
I always want to meet an Engliss gentleman, my mother she say—”

“If we are to make the cloisters by angelus we must step out,”

said Renzi, sharply.

“Cloisters?” said Kydd, distracted.

“We have much yet to admire, brother.”

Tenacious
was first to be warped across the harbour to the dockyard for survey: she had suffered at the Nile with her lighter framing, and a worrying increase in bilge pumping was possibly the result of a shot taken between wind and water.

It did not take long to find the cause: two balls landing not far apart below the waterline had damaged a run of several strakes.

They would have to be replaced. With the ship canted to one side by capstans to expose her lower hull she was barely inhabitable and, with the prospect of possibly months at the dockyard, her officers quickly realised that lodgings ashore would be much more agreeable. The best location was evident: Carrer San Roc in the centre of Mahon, where fine town-houses in the English style were to be readily engaged.

A small but comfortable establishment with quaint furniture from the reign of one of the previous Georges met the bill, and Kydd and Renzi moved in without delay. It was a capital headquarters for further exploration of the island.

Renzi laid down his
Reflections on the Culture and Antiquity of
Iberia.
“It is said that the western Ciudadela is of quite another character,” he mused, nursing his brandy. “Suffered cruelly from the Turks but still retains splendid edifices—but the people are of the Castilian Spanish and have no love for an Englishman.”

Kydd picked up a dog-eared newspaper and settled into his high-backed chair. “An’ I heard fr’m one o’ the midshipmen that t’ take away a boat and sail around the island would be prime—

there’s snug coves an’ beaches all up the coast.”

“Where, then, is your warlike ardour, your lofty aspirations to laurels?”

“With our ship in dock? Little chance t’ find such . . . but there are compensations,” Kydd said, with a private smile and raised his paper again.

“Oh?” Renzi said.

“Nicholas, I saw
Love’s Labour’s Lost
is t’ be staged tonight.

Do ye fancy t’ attend at all?”

“Well, if we—”

“Unfortunately the captain wants t’ sight m’ journals, I must complete ’em. But do go y’self, I beg!”

“Actually, this volume is an engrossing account of your
242

Hispanic in all his glory. I rather fancy I shall spend a quiet evening here.”

“Nicholas, m’ friend, you will do y’r eyes a grievous injury with all this readin’. In th’ big church they’re presentin’ a concert o’ music especially t’ welcome the English. Why not go an’ enjoy this? There’s all y’r favourite composers, er, Pergylasy and—”

“I see I must,” Renzi said flatly, and Kydd coloured. Later, leaving for the concert, he nearly collided with someone walking in haste. He had last seen her at the lace counter.

Kydd had to admit the forced idleness was not altogether an imposition. He was seated at a table in a small
taberna
with Renzi, enjoying a good bottle of red wine and the fine view from their position at the top of the cliff-like edge of the town into the glittering emerald length of the harbour. “Y’r good health, Nicholas,”

he said complacently, raising his glass.

“A most underrated and priceless gift,” Renzi murmured, lifting his glass and staring into it.

“Er, wha—?”

“Robust health, in course, brother. Worth more than diamonds and rubies, this can never be bought with coin—it is always a gift from nature to man, which never asks aught in return.”

“Just so, Nicholas. But do you mark that barque comin’

around th’ point? She’s English.” This was a welcome sight in the Mediterranean that, before Nelson’s victory, had been cleared of English flagged vessels. “A merchantman,” Kydd said lazily, and pulled out his little spyglass. “Cautious master, fat ’n’

comfortable—wonder what she’s carryin’.”

The vessel went into the wind, brailing up and coming to a standstill. Lines were carried ashore by boat and in one movement the ship was rotated seaward again and brought alongside the landing-place near the customs house, just below where they sat.

Curious, Kydd focused on a colourful group on her after deck.

From attentions given they must be passengers, and important ones at that: the brow was quickly in place for their disembarkation before the sailors had even begun snugging down to a good harbour furl.

Something about one of them, however, caught his attention: unconscious cues in the way she walked, the movement of her hands, which he knew so well . . .

“Nicholas—I’d swear . . . It must be!” He jumped to his feet.

“I’m goin’ down. It’s Cecilia!”

A narrow inclined pathway zigzagged to the water and Kydd hurtled down it, then finally emerged on to the busy wharf.

“Cecilia, ahoy!” he shouted, waving furiously, but an open-topped carriage drove away just as he came close.

He stared after it foolishly but a woman’s voice behind him squealed, “Thomas! Is that you?” He turned to see his sister flying towards him. “My darling brother!” she said happily, embracing him. When she released him, her eyes were glistening.

“Cec—what are y’ doing
here?
”

“We’re to establish in Minorca, Thomas. Lord Stanhope is to treat with the Austrians to—But why are
you
here?”

Kydd pointed across the harbour to where the ugly bulk of
Tenacious
’s hull lay on its side. “This is now th’ home of the Royal Navy in the Mediterranean, Cec, and
Tenacious
is bein’

repaired.”

A disgruntled wharfinger touched his hat with one finger.

“Where’m they ter take yer baggage, then, miss?”

“Thomas—I have to go. Where can I see you again?”

“An’ it’s a shillun an hour ter wait for yez.” The arms were folded truculently.

“Here, sis.” Kydd pulled out one of his new-printed calling cards. “Tonight it’s t’ be a rout f’r all hands—an’ you’re invited.”

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Julian Stockwin

• • •