The Privateer's Revenge(13)

The shore rose steeply behind, buildings crowding along irregular streets, and directly at the fore, a long and busy waterfront lined with tall warehouses that took in goods directly from the ships alongside. The port was remarkably busy, the flags of a dozen nations visible from the many ships now settling on the mud. This was no maritime backwater.

He was left at North Pier and, remembering the directions he had been given, pushed past the noisy porters and wharfingers and squeezed up the narrow passages between the buildings to emerge on the main street.

He looked about. Here was a quality of building that would not disgrace Bath or Weymouth. The shops of a perfumier, a stay-maker and an importer of carpets from London, all evidence of a level of society on the tiny island that was no stranger to wealth, a diverting ethnographical study. Was it purely economics at the root of their success or was it true there were other aspects to their culture?

High Street was choked with people, carts and carriages in rowdy contention. He found his way to Smith Street, a steep road that led him up to quite another purlieu: imposing new buildings that looked out above the hurly-burly of the town to the sweeping prospect of the harbour, castle islet and distant islands.

He found the government offices easily enough and it took minutes only to complete his duty, but as he wandered back down to High Street and its lively crowds he felt reluctant to return to Teazer straight away. He decided to walk the length of the thoroughfare, revelling in the riotous sounds and smells after so long in the small ship with its bleak atmosphere. At the end was a church and, beyond, a rookery of decaying medieval houses crowded on the steep slopes above boatyards on the strand.

He turned to go back; but on noticing a raised level with the crush and animation of a market, he was drawn irresistibly to the cheerful din. At the far end was a noble arch, and to the right a stone building with, in the upper storey, the unmistakable lofty windows of an assembly hall.

Renzi crossed to admire it; on the end wall there were posters, theatre notices and, to one side, a beautifully handwritten one. He bent to read: "The Cists and Dolmens of Ancient Sarnia newly considered. A public lecture to be given at the Royal College of Elizabeth . . . Revd Dr Carey, MA Oxon etc., etc. . . ."

Dolmens! Of course! Were these in any way related to the cromlechs of Brittany? What manner of mysterious peoples had created those great stone monoliths? Had their civilisation wilted and crumbled from the immense effort—or had they failed to meet some overwhelming economic challenge and subsequently disappeared from the face of the earth?

His excitement mounted. What fortune to have come ashore the very day it was to be delivered. A wave of guilt rushed in: he had vowed to stand by Kydd in his grief and travail. But at this particular time he was not so immediately needed, and this lecture, given by a passing savant, would not be repeated.

He would go! He had plenty of time to discover the whereabouts of the Royal College as the event would take place this evening so until then he could wander the narrow streets agreeably and possibly the rocky shore. His means did not extend to a meal but there were sights enough for an enquiring mind. Feeling like an errant schoolboy, he set out.



With evening drawing in Renzi topped the rise above the town, footsore and hungry, looking for the ancient college. The town was giving way to country; on the left-hand side, for some distance, he saw a series of newer, more handsome houses, and on the right, open fields and a dilapidated structure of uncertain antiquity.

Where were the college and the people flocking to the lecture? He stopped a passing tradesman. "Elizabeth College? Ye're looking at it!" he was told.

It was an academy of sorts, much decayed but still in possession of extensive grounds and with only one glimmer of light showing. Renzi entered hesitantly.

"Welcome, welcome! Do come in, sir!" The broad room was musty with age and gloomy with dark panelling. There were but six sitting among the rows of school chairs facing the lectern from which a diminutive cleric beamed at him.

He settled in the second row. Chairs scraped and coughs tailed off in the silence until it became evident that no more would arrive. The man picked up his papers and introduced himself; the talk was pleasantly delivered and competent, the material stimulating. At the conclusion Renzi applauded enthusiastically but he subsided at the thin handclaps from the rest of the stolid audience.

Renzi offered a question or two, which were gratefully received, then the meeting concluded, most quickly making for the door—all but one gentleman. "A good evening to you, sir," he said, "and I do not believe I have seen you before."

"Mr Renzi, er, of the Navy. Just visiting."