Free Mutiny by Julian Stockwin Page A

from over the Alps,
they have overrun much of the north. Austria is inviolate — for the moment —
and I believe it is to Italy we are headed.'
    A
smile broke through; Kydd waited.
    'None of the northern kingdoms of Italy
has much in the way of diplomatic representation, so my conclusion is that our
dignitary is stranded in the nor'-east after fleeing over the Alps and finding
that the English are no longer there, having evacuated the Mediterranean
entirely.'
    'Er,
what do we find in th' nor'-east?'
    Renzi rubbed his chin.
'Well, there you will find the wild Balkan shore, Ragusa, but also Trieste -
and Venice.'
     
     
    Chapter
3
     
    Kydd spun the wheel experimentally -
there was no doubt that Bacchante was a sea witch. Responsive and eager to the
helm, she was like a racehorse — and nearly brand new — as sweet a lady as had
ever come down the slip at Buckler's Hard. His practised eye flicked up to the
leech of the main topsail, and he inched the helm over until the hard edge of
the sail began a minute flutter. Satisfied, he checked first against the dog-vane
in the shrouds giving the wind angle, then the compass.
    A broad grin broke on
his face, and he caught an amused look, tinged with respect, from the
officer-of-the-watch. 'Damn fine sailer!' he muttered defensively. It had been
a few years since he had last held the helm of a top frigate, and that had been
the famous Artemis. Unable to suppress a sigh of the deepest satisfaction, he
reluctantly surrendered the wheel to the duty helmsman, who was waiting
patiently; Kydd had shipped in a vacancy of quartermaster and had the overall
responsibility of Cockburn the conn, his rate of master's mate willingly put
aside temporarily.
    'Fletcher on th'
helm, sir,' he called, as was his duty to the officer-of-the-watch, the
courteous Griffith.
    'Thank you, Kydd.' The officer resumed
his pacing on the weather side, leaving Kydd to drink in the sheer pleasure of
having a live, moving deck under his feet, the sweet curving of deck-lines set
about with drum-taut rigging, the urgent hiss of their progress.
    Renzi had been right:
it had been announced that they were heading deep into the Mediterranean on
some sort of venture to bring off a distressed but unknown worthy hiding
somewhere on the other side of Italy. Kydd had jumped at the chance to
volunteer for the voyage, even though for them every ship that swam must be
hostile — and it was not certain they would survive to return.
    'Do I find you in spirits, then,
brother?' Renzi murmured, from behind him.
    Kydd turned to him
happily. 'Aye, y' do.' A chance to be involved in a romantic rescue, the
prospect of weeks at sea with Renzi before they returned to Gibraltar, and all
happening in this lovely frigate. 'A spankin' fine ship!'
    'Larbowlines have the last dog?' Renzi's
question was necessary, for as master's mate his watches conformed to the
officers' while Kydd was back with the traditional two watches of the men. He
was hoping he and Kydd could spend a watch companionably together, as in the
old times.
    'First dog-watch.' The forms would have
to be observed: while all the ship knew Kydd's origins, he must now wear the
blue short jacket and white trousers of a seaman, while Renzi must appear in
the coat and breeches of a warrant officer. Kydd would address him as 'Mr
Renzi' on watch, and would take his orders, which, in the immutable way of the
navy, he would do without question.
    They strolled together
to the lee side of the ship, Kydd automatically checking the yeasty foaming of
the wake as it slid aft to join with the other side in a perfectly straight
line into the far distance - the helmsman would hear from him if there were any
betraying dog-legs.
    'It would seem we are set on a course to
round Sicily and enter the Adriatic, but the captain is under orders to keep in
with the coast of Africa to avoid being seen.'
    Kydd was acquainted
with the charts of the Mediterranean and understood the dangers of such a
precaution.