Renzi accepted the fishy-smelling surcoat and boarded the smack by the light of one dim lanthorn. 'How exciting!' he made himself say. 'What kind of creatures are abroad at this hour, I can hardly conceive!'
Under easy sail to the night airs, the smack put out into the Swale. The moon came and went behind ragged clouds, and Renzi scanned the night tensely.
A splash nearby startled him. 'Don' never mind him, sir. Jus'a fish out on a frolic'
They met the Medway and paid off to starboard. Still no sign. Then he caught a sudden blackening of the wan glitter of moon on sea. 'What's that?' he asked quickly.
'That? Oh, jus' the Trinity Yacht, sir. Don' righdy know why she's abroad now, don't usually.'
Renzi setded back with relief. It was happening. His part was now finished.
From seaward, the approaches to London beckoned with lights in a confusion of beguiling sea-paths — hundreds of golden pinpricks ashore and afloat, the larger navigation beacons and the Nore light-vessel.
The Thames met the sea in a maze of sandbanks that stretched out to sea for miles, each one marked with the wrecks of countless unfortunate vessels that had strayed from the deep-water channels. No sailing master in his right senses would attempt to enter or leave without thankful reference to the buoys and lights set and maintained by the brethren of the Corporation of Trinity House, whose ceaseless work continued even in wartime.
On this night, Trinity House began a different task. To the seamarks of the Whiting, Rough and Gunfleet to the north, Girdler, Shivering Sand and Pan in the centre, and the Blacktail, Mouse and Sheers, their vessels converged under the command of Captain Philip Bromfield.
The Trinity Yacht, purpose-built for buoy lifting and heavy cable work, slipped through the night to her first rendezvous. She was fitted with a massive capstan and particular cathead to starboard. Her decking was of Danzig deal for laying out buoy and ground tackle, but her captain did not rig for buoy lifting. Instead, the buoy was hove short and the night's quiet was broken by the sound of men wielding axes and hammers, smashing into carefully crafted staves, wrecking tightly caulked seams. Then the buoy was let go, to disappear into the black depths.
One by one the seaward buoys that the buoy warden of Trinity House had dedicated his life to preserve were sunk without a trace. The work continued through the night, as quietly as possible, as they approached the Nore and the mutinous fleet.
By morning it was complete, carried off during the only night when there was any chance of success — a daring feat that so easily could have gone wrong. To seaward not a buoy or beacon remained: the Nore fleet was trapped, unable to get out across lethal sandbanks now lying concealed under an innocent sea.
Kydd found Parker forward, right in the eyes of the ship, alone. He was gazing out across the smooth, unblemished sea to the hard grey line of the horizon, his face a picture of grief.
'Why? Why do they force my hand in this way?' Parker mouthed.
Kydd mumbled something, but his own mind was in a chaos of feeling. Just hours ago they were dictating terms to the King himself, now they were trapped in their own impregnable lair. He could see nothing but the blackness of defeat ahead. Their mighty fleet was impotent - they would rot in place until...
Kydd forced himself to the present. 'What was that ye said, Dick?'
Parker turned to him with an intense expression of noble suffering. 'My friend, by their stubbornness, stupidity and malice they have forced me into the position where there is only the final sanction, the last move in the game. They insult us to think we would carry the fleet over to the enemy, for they've shown by their actions last night that this is their concern. Very well, this is barred to us. But this we can do. I have ten thousand men and a thousand guns at my command. At the expiry of our ultimatum, if the King is led by false advice to deny us our right, then we sail, up-river, to the capital. There we shall demand our due, and if not we shall with broadsides reduce the City to utter ruin.'
'Yer mad bastard, ye've lost y'r mind!' shouted the Lancaster delegate.
'Damn yer blood, c'n ye think of a better?' snarled Hulme.
Kydd put down his pen. In the violent discussions nothing was being decided. 'Mates, do we have t' fire on London t' get our way? Is this the only thing t' do?'
'Shut yer face, Kydd, you ain't a delegate,' snapped Blake.
Hulme added, 'An' yeah, if it saves our necks, cully.'
'I don' like this a-tall,' MacLaurin, delegate of Lancaster, said. 'Can't be right, firin' on our own, like that. There's kitlings 'n' all ashore, like t' stop a ball. I tell yer, we—'
Kydd was nauseous, his head ready to burst. He excused himself, went to the captain's sea-cabin and pulled out the victualling list. Some ships were running far short of proper rations.