Binney smiled. 'Is Jarge going for the post this morning?'
'Eys, 'ee be saddlin' up thikky donkey.'
Binney glanced triumphandy at Kydd. 'Nothing changes in the country - we'll be riding to Ivybridge.'
Sitting on the end of the farm trap with legs dangling as it ground bumpily over the country track, Binney was youthfully spirited, nervous tension working with pleasure at the unexpected return to his roots.
It was not far to Ivybridge. They passed two tiny villages on the well-worn road to the north and suddenly reached a crossroads. They dropped to the road from the trap, dusting down, and let the mystified farmer continue on his way.
Binney took a deep breath. 'The London Inn — over by the river. The Exeter mail should be along by ten.' A soft whispering on the morning breeze strengthened until they reached its cause, the Erme river, a crystal clear boisterous rushing over moss-green rocks.
The beauty and settled loveliness of the tiny hamlet reached out to Kydd; it seemed to belong to another world, one without blood and war, without the unthinkable threat of a fleet mutiny. His mind shied at the very notion — could it be, perhaps, just one of those endless wartime rumours?
They tramped up the road beside the river towards a remarkably pretty humped bridge, set among a profusion of oaks and chestnuts and dappled with sunlight. On the left were some well-kept and dignified mansions; he glimpsed the name 'Corinthia' on one and wondered who could have had the fortune to live there in such a place of peace and beauty.
They reached the London Inn on the other side of the dusty Plymouth turnpike; a smithy was already in industrious activity beside it, and osders readied horses in the post stables.
'Mr Kydd, I'd be obliged should you wait for me here,' Binney said, his tone low and serious. 'If I do not return before evening, you are to return to Achilles and tell the captain.'
'Aye aye, sir,' Kydd acknowledged. Without his naval officer's uniform Binney looked absurdly young for such a risky enterprise and all traces of his earlier animation were now gone. They remained standing awkwardly together under the gaudy inn-sign, the occasional passer-by curious at the presence of such a pair so out of keeping with Ivybridge.
The coach finally came wheeling down the turnpike, and stopped with a brave crashing of hoofs and jingling of harness; snorting, sweaty horses were led out of their traces and fresh ones backed in, the horsy smell pungent in Kydd's nostrils.
Binney climbed inside the coach, his grave face gazing out of the window. With hoarse bellows from the driver, the whip was laid on and the coach jerked into motion. Kydd had an urge to wave, but at the last instant made a sketchy naval salute. The coach clattered over the bridge and was gone.
Kydd stood irresolute: it was hard to remain idle while others faced perils — it was not the navy way. He let the morning sun warm him, then sat on the bench outside the inn and felt the tensions seep away as he listened, with eyes closed, to the cheep and trill of country birds, the rustling of breezes in the hayfield close by, myriad imperceptible rustic sounds.
His thoughts tumbled along: only hours before he had been at sea, now in longed-for England — but in such circumstances! Where was Renzi? Should he do something? Restless, he opened his eyes and got to his feet. It was getting towards noon and he was hungry. Perhaps he should take a meal.
In the dark interior of the inn, all glinting brass and pewter, there was only one other, reading a newspaper in the corner. Kydd left him to it and settled in a high-backed bench, relishing the rich sickliness of ale on sawdust.
'Bliddy blackguards!'
As there was no one else in the room, Kydd leaned round. 'I beg y'r pardon?' he said mildly.
'Thikky mut'neers, o' course,' the red-faced man said, shaking the newspaper for emphasis. His appearance suggested landed folk. Kydd caught the 'mutineers' through the round Devon accent and tensed. There was now no question of rumour, it was actuality. 'They'm maakin' fresh demands, tiz maize.'
'Demands?'
'Eys zertainly, where've 'ee bin th' last couple o' weeks?' the man said suspiciously.
'Out o' the country,' Kydd said quickly. 'C'n I take a quick look, friend?'
The man paused, then passed the paper across. 'Leave it yer when you be vanished, I'll zee 'ee dreckly avter.'
Kydd snatched up the paper, The Times of London. The front page was all advertisements — 'A patent Oeconomic machine ...' and 'Marylebone Cricket Club, Anniversary Dinner . . .' Impatiently he turned the page. He wanted to see with his own eyes words that would tell him the navy was in revolution.
'... the Jacobin papers have turned all their speculations ... to the meeting at Portsmouth .. .'
'.. . notwithstanding all the idle and ignorant reports detailed in the Morning Papers of the day of the discontents at Portsmouth having been rapidly adjusted, we are sorry to say that no such good news has been received .. .'