Pender nodded, rushing to obey as the whistles blew and a guard was mounted to welcome the visitor in the gaudy barge. Several officers and midshipmen, in a worse state than their captain, lined the deck to receive him, and the poor victualling agent, still ignored, was pushed aside to stand, with the Ludlows, out of the way. Harry looked down at the barge as it glided alongside, noting that the crew’s livery, as well as the gilding on the boat itself, appeared a good deal less gorgeous close to. Yet it was clearly the conveyance of someone important, for he had an escort of soldiers as well. Harry glanced at the marines lined up on the quarterdeck. They, at least, were sober and properly turned out, their white belts stark against the bright red of their uniform coats.
The object of all this fuss was sitting in a velvet-covered armchair at the rear of the barge, immaculately attired in a coat of dark blue silk, his face hidden by a large tricorn hat fringed with short white feathers. A junior officer leapt aboard to apprise them of their visitor’s rank, and Barnes was sent for immediately. The captain came on deck still hauling on his full-dress uniform coat.
‘Who have we here?’ said James, looking over the side.
‘A senior officer, I imagine,’ replied Harry, looking at the flag at the rear of the barge. It bore the red crossed shield of the Genoese Republic, and the right to fly that on any boat implied the presence of an admiral at least.
Sure that all due ceremony was being observed, the junior officer indicated that the important visitor should come aboard. The man left his chair and climbed the ladder on the ship’s side with practised ease. Pipes blew, and as he swept off his hat, in a salute to the quarterdeck, Harry was at last able to see his face.
Middle aged and dark skinned, even for an Italian, with jet-black hair tied with a red silk queue. He had a full face, and the skin, severely cratered, bore the unmistakable signs of smallpox, the marks even more pronounced on his prominent nose. Barnes raised his hat to return the salute, and welcomed his guest aboard. The visitor spotted the victualling agent, and called him over. They exchanged a few rapid sentences in Italian. Harry thought he saw the visitor’s head turn in their direction. Barnes spoke sharply to the victualling agent, who had pulled a sheaf of papers from his pocket, before taking his newly arrived guest off to his cabin. The victualling agent walked towards them, papers in hand, looking somewhat crestfallen.
‘Custom demands that he offer his visitor some refreshments,’ said Harry. He was wondering what prompted him to apologise for Barnes, especially to his brother.
‘Then he’d better confine his offer to his guest,’ said James. ‘Or the conversation will be one-sided.’
Harry abruptly introduced himself to the victualling agent, now standing quite close. The man was slightly thrown, his mind on other things as Harry continued. ‘And this is my brother, James.’
‘Santorino Brown.’ The plain English surname made the first name seem outlandish. He was used to a surprised reaction to the coupling of these names, since the brothers barely had time to react before the man had added that his father was English, his mother Genoese.
‘It must be a fine occupation, victualling agent to the British fleet,’ said Harry, in a hearty tone perfectly suited to addressing a total stranger.
‘This ship is my first, Signor.’ Something in the genial look of the Ludlow brothers’ faces must have made him aware that they were different. Or perhaps he had understood the lack of regard for Barnes, for he’d observed Harry’s last conversation with the captain. Whatever, he wanted to confide in someone. He spoke softly, leaning forward to avoid being overhead. ‘Are British officers all so difficult?’
‘Captain Barnes has abused you most shamefully, Signor Brown. Yet I do sincerely assure you that he is the exception.’
James graced Harry with a rather jaundiced look at that remark, but he said nothing to contradict him.
‘Your first ship, Signor Brown?’ said Harry. ‘Have you not had the responsibility for others?’
The word responsibility threw the poor man completely. James, more patient than his brother, explained.
Brown responded with a very Latin gesture, throwing up his hands. The words tumbled out, something of a mixture, with the odd French word thrown in. Too many words, delivered too quickly, for either Harry or James to interrupt his tale and tell him they already knew.
The previous agent, a natural-born Englishman, had absconded, and not only had he disappeared but the funds entrusted to him for the purchase of stores had gone too. And here he was on a British ship for the first time, faced with a captain who was not only drunk, but seemed incapable of informing him of what it was he required in the way of stores.
Once afforded the opportunity to speak, he did not stop there. He had cattle waiting to be slaughtered and salted. A water hoy ready to come out and fill the Swiftsure’s casks so they need not be shifted out of the hold. Bakers ready to bake biscuit, a warehouse full of wine and fresh vegetables, and a dockyard ready to provide spars, cordage, and sails as required. How could he, a poor landsman, be expected to know if the ship needed such things? And all must be signed for, and checked aboard. Pender returned, and taking no part in the conversation, he stood aside, amused at the looks of polite enquiry the brothers were forced to display as they listened to this tirade.
Santorino Brown could not have spoken for less than five minutes, the whole thing accompanied by a multitude of increasingly violent gestures, before Harry finally ran out of patience and interrupted. ‘Signor Brown, spare us, for this is none of our concern.’
Brown clasped his hands together, and his animate face suddenly collapsed. The apologies poured out in the same uninterrupted flow. Harry stepped forward, a look of deep concern on his face, grabbed the portly Italian by both shoulders, and shook him firmly. It was obviously a language the man understood, for he fell silent, returning Harry’s look with an agonised one of his own.
‘My friend,’ said Harry. This reassured the man even more. Pender couldn’t help himself. His laugh rent the air, and he was treated to a look from Harry that would have felled a lesser man. Pender swallowed quickly, but it was not easy for him to contain himself, for beyond Harry he was looking straight into the face of James Ludlow, who was in worse straits than he, and he was only saved from a grave piece of insubordination by the fact that James was so incapable of holding back his laughter that he had to turn away and lean over the side of the frigate.
‘Perhaps you can be of service to me,’ said Harry, and gave Pender another glare. ‘Should I require stores, I shall most certainly come to you.’
Brown was not the man to let a sympathetic ear down. He threw open his arms. ‘Signor.’
Harry was somewhat at a loss for what to say, since his intervention had been spontaneous, and in some way related to his own need for stores should he sail from Genoa. But it took little reflection for him to realise that he would open himself up to something worse than he had already endured, if he hinted that he needed supplies. Instead, he turned, and indicated the privateers’ ships in the northern part of the port.
‘I believe the gentlemen over there, my fellow countrymen, are doing good trade. Do you supply them as well?’
Brown looked confused, and Harry had to explain that he was alluding to the English privateers. No smiles accompanied growing comprehension. Instead his face took on a worried look, and he shook his head.
‘It is business I not care to get.’
Harry was intrigued, despite his fear of another pleading litany from Brown. ‘Why, Signor? I hear they are doing well, and all ships need stores.’
‘They their stores obtain from contractors different, Signor. Me even approach them would mean …’ He ran his hand, flat across his throat.
‘Beside,’ he continued, shrugging his shoulders, ‘I know not where they get money from to buy.’
Harry probed further, and slowly, with many corrections, it emerged that the English privateers landed no cargo and sent in no captures for s
ale in Genoa. Yes they had money, so they were successful. But what they captured, when, and where they took it was a mystery.
‘How can this be, Signor Brown? Your Republic is not known around the world for commercial generosity.’
‘They pay, Signor. But not Republic.’
‘Who?’ asked James, curious in spite of himself. It was an obvious question, but patently an unwelcome one, for Santorino Brown shook his head violently, waved his papers as if to indicate a prior duty, and moved away.
Harry watched his back as he retreated, clearly intrigued by what he’d heard. James gave the side of the ship another impatient thump, before pulling his book from his pocket. He flicked from page to page, looking up every so often, as if to relate some landmark to what he’d seen on the page. Harry trained his telescope on the French sloop. A tall angular man, dressed entirely in black with a tricolour sash around his waist, appeared from under the shade of the awning. He seemed to be staring straight at the telescope in Harry’s hand, as if seeking to etch his face in the mind of the man watching him. The lips were thin and colourless, the skin grey, and the eyes hooded. The face was not so much lifeless as soulless. The image of Captain Howlett, swinging on a rope, came into Harry’s mind, and he wondered if he was looking at the man who had instigated it.
He had every intention of getting his exemptions from Hood. But, in truth, he was at something of a loss to know how to go about it. Questions abounded, yet who to ask them of remained a mystery. Enquiries about Genoa and the patterns of power and authority tended to get more byzantine the further you looked. And what was the point of asking if you could not be sure that the reply was genuine? Few in these parts openly declared any of their allegiancies, for to do so casually could see your throat cut. All would be secret, with no man prepared to divulge too much, either about his business dealings or his party.
He didn’t even know if the admiral had the right of it. And if someone with Hood’s pre-eminence couldn’t get an honest answer out of the locals, what chance did he stand? Harry looked at his brother and smiled to himself. James hadn’t mentioned the matter since their talk with Hood. He had a point, of course, when he said it was none of their business. But Harry was curious. Worse than that, he was also anxious to reclaim his exemptions. James knew well that this represented a dangerous mix, and his deliberate silence on the subject was an attempt to defuse it.
Harry swung his glass back to the northern part of the harbour. He was not precisely sure which of the ships were English and which belonged to local captains. They flew no national flags. The victualling agent’s words echoed again in his mind. They brought nothing into Genoa, ships or goods. Then he smiled fully, earning an enquiring look from his brother, who’d put his book aside when he’d observed the object of Harry’s attention. They must have someone in their pocket. Someone powerful. So powerful that they could evade the local excise duties. If anyone knew what was going on in this part of the world, these English privateers would. Their survival would depend on it.
‘You have observed something that pleases you, Harry?’ asked James.
Harry debated whether to share his ideas with his brother. But he decided against it. For one, it was a thought half formed. Besides, James would only seek to dissuade him. ‘You know me, brother, I’m always content to be looking at ships.’
Harry and James were still in the same place, half a glass later, when Barnes reappeared with the Genoese admiral. The obligatory tour of the ship would now take place. The only non-naval personnel on deck, and obviously gentlemen by their dress, Barnes could not avoid an introduction, which he carried out in heavily accented French.
‘Admiral Stefano Doria, allow me to present the Ludlow brothers, Harold and James.’
Doria gave a slight bow, but his dark brown eyes never left their faces. ‘Welcome to the Republic of Genoa, gentlemen. Your first visit?’
‘It is, but my brother has been to Italy before.’
‘By land,’ added James.
Was it that response which prompted the next question, for the eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Might I enquire if your visit is for the purposes of pleasure or business?’
‘Pleasure certainly. But possibly business as well,’ replied Harry. He would have preferred not to say, but the presence of Barnes made any other reply impossible.
‘You bear a famous name, Admiral Doria,’ he said quickly. Barnes had looked set to say something and he wanted to change the subject. Barnes, either by accident or from malice, spoke anyway.
‘These are the two I was telling you about, Admiral. They intend to purchase a ship, and no doubt join that nest of privateers that plague your fine harbour.’
If Barnes had hoped to see his tone of disapproval mirrored in a fellow sailor’s face, he was disappointed. Doria smiled, showing even white teeth, which contrasted strongly with his dark-skinned face.
‘Then I hope I may be of assistance to you, gentlemen. Please feel free to call upon me for advice.’
‘You are most kind, sir,’ said James.
‘We live by trade, Signor Ludlow. That is why you will be made welcome. You may call upon me at the Customs House.’ He indicated the round fort that the barge had come from.
‘Thank you,’ said Harry. Doria nodded and walked off with Barnes.
‘A prescient fellow,’ said James.
‘I wonder. I think he asked Santorino Brown about us when he first came aboard. And who knows what Barnes has said.’
As they were rowed away from the ship, they could see that things had slackened very little on the lower deck. The ports were open, and through them, quite clearly visible in the well-lit interior, the hands continued with their pleasures, though more sparingly since most of them had long since run out of money or the ability to remain upright.
Doria’s barge was way ahead of them, well lit as it raced back towards the fort. All around them boats full of laughing women were being rowed along in the most lubberly way, with much screeching and derisive laughter at what Harry surmised were the physical shortcomings of the Swiftsure’s crew. He could also hear, quite clearly over the still water, the clink of coinage, fruits of the day’s labours.
Their boat, rowed by two silent and swarthy Genoese boatmen, swiftly left these doxies and their craft behind, leaving the ring of light created by their lanterns. They seemed to be heading for a darkened part of the harbour between the fort and the dockyard, a part occupied by fishing boats, rather than the bustling, well-lit quayside to the north. Harry spoke to one of them, pointing where he wanted to go. First the man tilted his head, as though deaf. Harry repeated his injunction and the man shrugged, rowing all the time and carrying them closer inshore. Harry tried in French with the same result, pointing energetically. James intervened with a few words of Italian, badly spoken, but seemingly enough to convince the man of his proficiency in the language. He was thus treated, for his pains, to a uninterruptable barrage of the local dialect, which seemed to be neither truly Italian or French, accompanied by many gestures from the oarsman’s shoulders. This sufficed to bring them right through the bobbing boats and they were delivered alongside the quay, which was in pitch darkness, still protesting. Pender had used a lantern to load the boat, and was fortunate to have it still. He lit the way up the steps as the two boatmen unloaded the single sea-chest they had brought with them. Harry had already paid the men, and once he was ashore they immediately dropped their oars and, with powerful strokes, headed out into the harbour looking for more custom.
‘Follow me,’ said Harry, taking the lantern out of Pender’s hand and setting off along the dark quayside towards the better-lit area in the centre of the port. The only sound was their footsteps echoing on the cobbles, and it was only by pure luck that Harry was looking in the right direction when the first of their assailants rushed into the arc of light cast by the upheld lantern.
CHAPTER SIX
HARRY swung the lantern as a pure reflex, catching the leading attacker a sharp crack around
the head, and plunging them all into darkness at the same time. He yelled to the others, and as the light went out he saw that Pender’d had the sense to drop to his knees. James, shocked and unprepared, stood open-mouthed, his hand fumbling for his sword. Harry lunged towards him, careering into another assailant intent on skewering his brother. His sword was out, and he threw it in front of James’s silhouette, faintly outlined in the moonlight, to protect him against any other thrusts. He heard a grunt behind him, and the curse that came from Pender told him that he had successfully dealt with his first adversary.
Shadowy figures milled around the trio, now standing together with weapons in their hands, facing what they hoped was the whole number of their enemies. Even in the faint moonlight, there was no making out their features. Harry realised that their faces were blackened, that they were numerous, and that they were silent—a very professional bunch of cut-throats. And that silence meant that they were intent on murder as a prelude to robbery. No offer was made for them to hand over their valuables as a way of avoiding a worse fate. The best escape would have been to jump into the water, but Pender lacked the ability to swim.
‘Come on you no-good bastards,’ yelled Pender at the top of his voice. ‘Shout, your honour. If we don’t attract someone’s attention we’ll never get out of this.’
Harry started yelling, shouting ‘Swiftsure’, which would attract men from the frigate. It was just possible that Barnes had posted some guards ashore to catch deserters. Both his shouts and Pender’s were met with total silence. Several of the shadowy figures lunged forward, and in unison the brothers and their servant swiped at their heads causing them to hesitate. Harry knew that such a defence could not be sustained for long. They must attack. He rushed forward, calling for the others to assist, and had the satisfaction of feeling his short naval hanger make contact with something. Pender was not so lucky, tripping on the cobbles in the dark, and going down heavily.
Dying Trade Page 6
