Artemis lay in harbor to two anchors. Her sails were thoroughly dried, naked topmasts sent down. Communication was set up with the shore for a daily supply of victuals, and soft tack was on the table for the first time since England. With the frigate as trim and shipshape as could be found in any top naval port it was time to step ashore.
The leafy sweep of the Praia Grande gave the appearance of some comfortable Iberian town but for the fact that the majority of the population was not European. Besides the ubiquitous Chinese there was the black of Negro slaves, the varying shades of brown of half-castes, and only occasionally the short, dark, compact figure of a Portuguese.
The gaudily colored buildings were Portugal transplanted, and Pinto’s eyes glistened with emotion. He stopped a Portuguese striding past and babbled to him, a curious thing for his shipmates to witness. The man looked at him contemptuously and gestured eastwards into the crowded city. “He say all sailor go to Solmar to get hickey,” Pinto said happily.
“So we claps on all sail ’n’ shapes course for th’ Solmar!” Stirk said, to general approval.
“Perhaps we will join you later, Toby,” said Renzi diplomatically, catching Kydd’s arm, and they plunged into the unknown inner city. The streets were steep and impossibly crowded. It was as if every square inch was valuable, and they were soon lost in the maze of ancient shops and anonymous structures seething with humanity.
They emerged suddenly from the press toward the top of a rise at the stone face of a cathedral, glowering down the hill at them, it seemed to their Protestant sensibilities. From the dark interior a priest emerged, a neat goatee beard flecked with gray on his sensitive lined face. He paced down the hill toward them, clearly in deep thought.
“S’il vous plaît, aidez-nous, mon Père!” Renzi tried, his Portuguese nonexistent.
The man’s head jerked up in astonishment, and his hands fluttered in noncomprehension. “Non, er, non!” he said, his voice high-pitched and agitated.
Renzi tried again. “Bitte helfen Sie uns, Hochwürden” The language of Goethe would be an unlikely acquisition for a Portuguese, but Renzi felt that his Latin would not be equal to the strain, and he was now at a loss.
“Do you have any English” the priest asked hopefully, his eyes darting between the two of them.
“Ah, sir, then you are a scholar?” Renzi said politely.
The priest flashed a quick look at him and smiled. “Where there is trade, you find the Englis’ and there is much trade here.”
“Then, sir, if you could assist me in a small way, we seek Camões, the soldier-poet of the last age. Is there trace of him still?”
The priest’s face turned from astonishment to bewilderment, and then satisfaction. “You, sir, are then the scholar!” He shot a speculative glance at Renzi and ventured carefully, “ …”
“Aristotle—prophecy in sleep? Sir, I am no friend to his position, but I will gladly debate the matter at—”
He could go no further. The priest grasped his arms and held him at length. “Meu Deus! You are sent to me on this day of days. Pray walk with me to my residência and we will sup together the lunch.” Recollecting himself, he turned to Kydd. “You gentlemen are mos’ welcome, and you shall see the casa of our Luis de Camões presently.”
Kydd sighed. Neither the prospect of a discussion on Aristotle nor the inspection of this revered casa article was maintaining his spirits, which had looked forward to tasting the more direct pleasures of these foreign shores. Still, it was kind of the old fellow, and they did need something now, at noon. In any event, he had an hour or two to think of a ploy to raise the state of play to a more satisfactory level.
The priest’s modest cell was close by, and they entered the cool room, tastefully set off by the hand-painted blue and white tiles covering one entire wall. The furniture was commodious, in the Chinese style. The chairs were tall and square-backed in dark wood, with a carved central panel. Across one corner of the room was a beautiful black and gilt screen fully six feet high, with an iridescent shell inlay of butterflies and bamboo.
Seated at the round table, sipping their green tea, they waited respectfully. The room smelt of the layered odors of untold centuries, and was redolent of peace.
The priest smiled at them. “My name is Nuñez—my flock call me Honrar. It has been my good fortune to follow in the shadow of Matteo Ricci and Adam Schall here in the College of Sao Paolo for thirty-eight years. You are sailors, no?”
“From the British frigate Artemis” said Renzi.
“Macao is very old, very set in her ways,” he said seriously. “We Portuguese, it must be faced, have now passed the time of our greatness. For us, history has ceased.”
Renzi made a gesture, but the priest was looking at Kydd. “But you, the British, are a race that has found itself in these troubling times, and greatness lies waiting before you.” His face was difficult to read. “Thus you will pardon me if I make myself clear. Do not expect us to like you. Your manners are turbulent and thrusting, you are impatient with the old ways, you are confident—very sure—and we are afraid of you.”
Renzi stirred. “But surely you can see that as a nation we trade, we do not conquer?”
“Trade always brings a domination in its wake!” Nuñez did not smile, and the two sailors sat uncomfortably.
“We do not allow any of your trading hongs to own land or dwellings in Macao, only to rent. This is because, as you will surely see, you British are rich and powerful and we—are not. You are growing restless at your lack of a trading port and may seize our own.”
Hesitating, Kydd spoke awkwardly. “Sir, I’m only a seaman, but I c’n see that Macao is too small for y’r deep-sea vessels—we saw a rattlin’ good place for a port over the other side, Heung Kong its name.”
The priest’s eyes glimmered. “A bare rock on which you will have to build houses, docks, roads—I don’t think even the British would do that if there is another for the taking.” Unexpectedly, he got to his feet. “But I am ungracious! Perhaps it has been so long since—excuse me.”
He swiftly left the room, his dark gown swishing. Kydd turned to Renzi, but at his look did not speak. The priest returned with a bottle and three glasses. “I hope you will join me at wine, cavalheiros”
It was a musky Sercial, mellow and gentle. From somewhere inside the house floated a tantalizing odor of food, but even in its richness there was nothing they could identify.
“We eat in the Chinese style. It is cheaper and more convenient,” Nuñez said apologetically. The odor took form and strength, of a potent but mouthwatering character. “Oh, yes, I hope you do not mind, but it is my regular practice in this season to offer hospitality to another at noon—she will join us soon.”
Renzi seemed not to have heard. His face grew in intensity and leaning forward he asked, “The soul-stealers of the Kao Hsuang! Can it be that they have overthrown the sacred precepts of Confucius, or do they bend him to their philosophy?”
“Ah! You know of these?” Nuñez asked, in amazement. “Your answer is that in their deviltry they have their own philosophy, and it is based on the Janus-faced sayings of Hsun-tzu, who teaches that—”
The door opened and a figure appeared, limned in the sunlight from outside and therefore difficult to see.
“Oh—Honrar! You have guests. I …” It was a young woman’s voice.
“No, no, child, you are welcome. Please come in and take your place.”
The door closed and Kydd watched a young lady unlace her bonnet to let her auburn hair tumble down in lazy waves. She stood uncertain, a petite but self-assured girl of less than twenty years, with an elfin face and large eyes. She looked directly at Kydd. She was pretty rather than beautiful but the strength in her features and the sharp sculpted curving of her face had its effect on Kydd—a sharp and uncomfortable sensual shock.
Gracefully she sat down at the table, next to Kydd, managing to do so without looking at him again.
“Minha, cara, these a
re my guests,” Nuñez said. “They are sailors from the British warship …”
“Nicholas Renzi and Thomas Kydd, from Artemis frigate,” Renzi offered. Kydd caught his look of interest in the girl.
“Miss Sarah Bullivant,” she said, sitting straight-backed, her hands firmly in her lap. “I trust your visit will be a pleasant one,” she added, her eyes falling carefully between the two of them.
“It could prove a lengthy one by all events,” said Renzi. Kydd thought that his manner was unnecessarily unctuous.
She looked up. “Pray, why will that be?”
“Why, I stand amazed the world does not know of it—His Britannic Majesty’s envoy Lord Elmhurst awaits a reply from the Viceroy of Canton touching on his mission to the Emperor in Peking.”
“Then be assured, sir, the wait could well be a protracted one.” The coy flutter of her eyelashes as she engaged Renzi in conversation did not escape Kydd.
“It suggests that the British are attempting a separate agreement as to trade,” Nuñez agreed.
Just inches from her body, Kydd felt his own respond, and a betraying dull heat crept up his neck. At sea, with not the slightest femininity to trigger sexuality, desire subsided, a quiescence not troubled by ribaldry or images, but the first woman encountered ashore, by her sensual proximity, provoked an immediate awakening. Kydd could detect Miss Bullivant’s faint scent, and sensed her body outline beneath her dress.
“Not the odious opium trade, I do sincerely pray.” She dabbed at her generously curved lips.
There! Kydd exulted. Her face was still turned toward Renzi, but her eyes had flicked sideways.
“I am in full accord with you, Miss Bullivant,” Renzi said elegantly. To Kydd’s savage delight his slight pause was not rewarded by a bidding to continue. “Yet there are some who point out that we English regularly consume opium without ill effects—laudanum, your Godfrey’s cordial. Could it possibly be that the Chinese character is weaker, less in control?”
As the food arrived, Nuñez grunted. “It is well known, saving your presence, that the English have long sought a species of trade that can balance the books for all the tea they must have—and they care not for its origin.”
There was an uncomfortable silence, the clatter of crockery sounding overly loud. Nuñez handled the chopsticks like a native; Sarah was capable but without elegance, and Renzi fumbled. Kydd surveyed the cluster of little dishes and resolutely abstracted the flat-bottomed spoon from a dark sauce dish, which he then proceeded to wield on everything.
“Ah, yes, my friend!” Nuñez turned to Renzi. “The Casa Camões.” He laid down his chopsticks on their little rest. “It lies within the grounds of a residência, which is let to Mr. Drummond, of your East India Company.” He smiled. “I do believe that were a young lady to desire entrance then you would more readily gain admittance. Sarah, would you …”
Sarah’s face tightened. “Sir, it is not my practice to be observed in public with sailors.”
Kydd flushed. But there was no avoiding it—a woman with Jack Tar ashore had only one purpose.
Nuñez’s face creased in amusement. “In that case, let me be of assistance. I have … what do you say? The walking-out clothes. They are perhaps unfashionable in these days, and are in the older style, but they would fit you, sir,” he said, looking at Renzi.
They did indeed. Renzi, in double-breasted waistcoat and many-buttoned buff-colored coat together with cream breeches, elegantly flexed his rather skinny legs. This set off peals of laughter from Sarah. Kydd sat morose and overlooked in the corner.
“M’lady,” Renzi said, sweeping the tall royal-blue tricorne down in an elegant bow. It was too small, but that only seemed to amuse Sarah the more. He offered his arm, which Sarah took with a gracious nod. Kydd got to his feet. Sarah looked at Renzi uncertainly.
“Miss Bullivant,” said Renzi softly, “it would oblige me greatly if Mr. Kydd were to accompany us.”
She glanced back at Kydd. Her eyes dropped to his lower body, and Kydd’s pulse quickened. “Very well,” she said coolly, looking directly at him. “Providing he follows on behind at a distance.”
Kydd boiled over. “Be damn’d to you!” He thrust toward the door. Outside, he took several deep breaths and set off for the waterfront.
* * *
The gloomy berth-deck of Artemis was almost deserted, its clear sweep fore-and-aft interrupted only by a few hammocks. Kydd sat under one of the few lanthorns hung this late in the evening.
He had gone to the Solmar, which was packed with Artemis sailors, but they were all far gone in drink and no proper solace for wounded pride and unslaked lust. Briefly he had toyed with the idea of finding a woman to spend the night with among the throng, but something in his Methodist upbringing and a personal aversion to giving his body to a harlot stopped him.
Thus, in the way of sailors, he had returned to the bosom of his ship. For some reason he had pulled out the sea chest he and Renzi shared. Here it was, mellowing with age and sea use and carved with a mermaid cartouche that Renzi had contrived in the long days in the Indian Ocean before Calcutta.
With an unformed wish for repudiation of their friendship Kydd rummaged through its contents, each piece evoking lengthening memories. Neatly stacked along a good quarter of the chest were Renzi’s books.
At random he picked one up. These were the real source of Renzi’s success, his readiness with words, his effortless authority on all things. Kydd felt a stab of fury at the ease with which he had charmed Sarah. It was now past evening and well into the night—what was he doing to her now? Rage made him choke but with a force of will he crushed the thoughts. If Renzi had succeeded with Sarah, then that was his good luck. He would have done the same. The matter at hand was to get himself to the same level if it were possible—and he would damned well make it so.
Here in his hands was the key. He opened the book. The type was tiny and difficult to read in the guttering lanthorn light; the title page was flowery and embellished with intertwined pictures of animals. “D. Diderot—On the Interpretation of Nature” it read, together with a flurry of cursive French. Kydd leafed slowly through it: it seemed to deal in unbelievable wordiness with reason and observation, but if this was what gave Renzi the ability to speak, he would ingest it too.
He settled down at the beginning, and read haltingly, disturbed neither by the noisy arrival back on board of drunken and querulous seamen nor the raucous teasing of his shipmates. His eyes grew heavy, the words more difficult, and when Renzi finally returned on board all he could do was remove the book gently from Kydd’s slumped figure and shake his head wonderingly.
Almost alone at their breakfast burgoo, Kydd and Renzi ate silently, avoiding each other’s eyes. When they finished, neither rose from the mess table.
“Wish y’ joy of—”
“I’m to tell you—”
Breaking off in embarrassment, their eyes met. A tentative smile spread over Kydd’s features, which was quickly returned by Renzi. “The Portugee priest wishes to see me again,” said Renzi, with a sigh. “A disputatious wretch, yet I will indulge him a little further, I believe.”
“And does Miss Bullivant …”
“The young lady unaccountably wishes to be remembered to you,” Renzi replied neutrally.
Kydd’s voice thickened. “Last night—”
“Last night I had the felicity of debating the nature of the Chinee, the solemn imperatives of their beliefs and the impervious nature of their society with as erudite a colleague as ever I could wish.”
“But …”
“Miss Bullivant was obliging enough to conduct me to the casa garden of Camões, where I looked on the rocks of his inspiration.”
“She …”
“On conclusion, she bade me farewell, and returned with her maid, who accompanied us throughout,” Renzi said flatly.
Kydd fiddled with a piece of bread, but refused to give Renzi further satisfaction.
A twisted grin surfaced
on Renzi’s face. “I am desired to inform you that she has been able to procure some suitable long clothes. She hopes you will find these satisfactory enough to be able to accompany us this afternoon on a visit to São Tiago.”
A leaping exultation transformed Kydd’s spirits. So he had not been mistaken about those glances!
Something of his feelings must have been visible, for Renzi continued, in a lazy, teasing voice, “Of course, I did inform her that you were desolated, that your watch on deck in this instance takes precedence—” He broke off at the dangerous flare in Kydd’s eyes, then continued, “Of course, they are the clothes of a dead man.”
For all Kydd cared he would strip the body himself, but he waited.
“Who died of the bloody flux—before he could accept them from the tailor’s,” Renzi finished lamely.
Eight bells at noon could not come fast enough. Liberty was granted from then until daybreak the next day in this relaxed “river discipline.” Kydd and Renzi hurried off and soon were welcomed into the old residence.
The feel of silk stockings against his legs after the freedom of a sailor’s trousers was odd. The nankeen breeches and the soft royal-blue coat added to the strangeness, and to Kydd it was a reminder of the flabbiness of shore life. Nevertheless, he rotated proudly before the mirror. The strong muscular definition of his body did peculiar things to the hang of the garments, but with his black hair in a neat club he made a striking figure.
He sniffed as though bored, and turning, made an awkward bow to Sarah. It brought no amusement as Renzi’s had, but the sudden lift of her chin and averted eyes told him that he had her attention.
“Milady?” he said, with satisfaction.
* * *
“Ah Lee is curious,” Sarah said. They were sitting in the outdoor garden of the Sol Dourado waiting for their tea. “She now has a quantity of gossip for her friends, I think.” The little black and white Chinese amah with the twinkling eyes and long queue said little, but Kydd had felt the darting glances during the walk when she had followed respectfully behind.
Artemis Page 17
