In sombre mood, Parker and Kydd rejoined the Parliament in the Great Cabin. 'Reports,' Parker ordered.
Davis, looking cast-down and ill, opened: 'We now has Espion an' Niger in th' dockyard wi'out the red flag. I have m' doubts on Clyde and San Fi as well. They wants out, we know. Th' fleet istl, they don' know what ter do, an' when they gets noos of th' stoppin' of vittles ...'
'Brother Bellamee?'
This fo'c'sleman, a shrunken gnome of a sailor, spent his time ashore, listening and observing. He waited until it was quiet. 'Shipmates, th' sojers, they're on th' march, hundreds on 'em, an' all marchin' this way. They got this
Gen'ral Grey with 'em, an' he's a tartar. Got 'em all stirred up, settin' guns across the river to th' north, an' I heard he has clouds more of 'em all over in th' country —' 'Thank you, Mr Bellamee.'
— an' he's goin' ter put two whole reggyments inter the fort. Dunno where they'll kip down, mates. Word is, we can't go ashore any more, 'less we has a pass an' a flag o' truce.'
The mood became black: it didn't take much imagination to picture a country in arms against them, relentlessly closing in.
'I was in Mile Town, mates, an' there was a sight.' Kydd had never heard MacLaurin of Director speak before. 'See, all the folks think we's goin' to riot or somethin' fer they're all in a pelt, women 'n' children an' all, a-leavin' town, carts 'n' coaches — anythin' to get away.'
Parker shot to his feet. 'My God,' he choked, 'what are we doing?' His anguished cry cut through the murmurs of comment. Astonished, all eyes turned to him. His head dropped to his hands.
'What's wi' him?' Hulme demanded.
Blake's eyes narrowed. 'Could be he's a-gettin' shy, mates!' Growls of discontent arose — there were many who still distrusted Parker's educated tones. 'We doesn't have ter have the same president all th' time, y' knows.'
It brought all the talking abruptly to a stop.
'I votes we has an election.'
In the first possible coach, a villainous unsprung monster of a previous age, Renzi headed away from Rochester. Time was critical. The coach wound through fields and marshland, across the Swale at King's Ferry and on to the island of Sheppey. Then it was an atrocious journey over compacted, flint-shot chalk roads to his destination - the ancient town of Queenborough, just two miles south from the dockyard but unnoticed since Queen Anne's day.
There was only one inn, the decrepit Shippe. With much of the population on the move away, there was no questioning of the eccentric merchant with the fusty wig who chose to take rooms just at that time.
'I'm an abstemious man,' Renzi told the landlord. 'It's my way to take the air regularly.' He was particularly pleased with his affected high voice, and he had taken the precaution, for local consumption, of laying out a reason for his presence — he was a merchant hoping to do business with the dockyard, waiting out the tiresome mutiny at a safe distance.
The oyster-fishermen at the tiny landing-hard were curious, but satisfied by Renzi's tale of gathering sketches for a painting, and for a generous hand of coins agreed to show him many wonderful views, the events of the Nore permitting. They had no fear of the press-gang for the oyster-fishers of Queenborough carried protections whose rights dated back to the third King Edward.
Renzi strolled along the single bridlepath that led to Sheerness. Behind his smoked glasses, his eyes darted around — angles, lines of sight, coven the undulating marsh grass was possible, but not easy.
The road ended at the intersection with that of Blue Town on the way out of the dockyard. He turned left — his business was with the authorities.
A stream of people were leaving: old women, fearful men with family possessions on carts, stolid tradesmen at the back of drays — and in the other direction troops of soldiers were on their way to the garrison.
Renzi clutched his bag to him as though in alarm, and shuffled towards Red Barrier Gate. This was now manned with a sergeant and four.
'I've been asked to attend upon the captain,' Renzi squeaked. The sentry gave him a hard look, then let him through. Renzi passed the hulks, then the public wharf, which was perilously crowded by those begging a passage on the next Chatham boat.
The entrance to the fort was also well guarded. A moustached sergeant was doubtful about his stated mission and compromised by providing an escort. They set off for the commissioner's house, the seat of operations.
At the door, Renzi instantly changed his demeanour; now he was in turn wordly and discreet, knowing and calculating. He bowed to the flag lieutenant. 'Sir, I desire audience with Captain Hartwell at your earliest convenience. I may have information . ..'
Chapter 10
No hard feelin’s, Mr Parker,’ said Hulme, after the vote.
'None that a mort more trust wouldn't cure,' Parker said stiffly, reassuming his seat. The interruption, however, had allowed him to regain countenance, and he leaned forward in the old, confident way. 'It's clear that the soldiers are deploying to deny us the shore,' he said crisply. 'They have reinforced the garrison, and we've had reports from Pylades that there are parties of militia splashing about in the mud the other side of the Thames.'