Julian Stockwin - Mutiny

By late afternoon, it was obvious that something was seriously out of kilter. And Renzi had not come with their food.

'We have to know what is afoot. Pray stand by me, you men.' Leith crossed to the doors and shook them sharply for attention.

'Sir, the woman—'

'We must be ready to take action - of any kind.' There was no response from the outside. Leith shook the door again. Kydd tried to squint through the cracks, but could see no one.

'Her men have gone. We are forgotten.'

Griffith stood suddenly. 'We have to move. Kydd, climb aloft to the upper storeroom and see if there is an exit for us there.' Kydd swung up into the darkness of the partitioned loft above, but found that the warehouse was proofed against thieves and had no discernible openings.

Larsson was tasked to look for a sizeable timber for use as a battering ram on the stout doors. Then the chain rattled on the outside. It fell away and Renzi thrust himself in, pulling the door to hastily.

'The gravest news!' He was breathless and looked weary. He let a bundle fall, which Kydd recognised as his sea-bag.

'We have hours only before the worst and — I — I cannot believe what has taken place!' Renzi's expression struck a deep chill in his listeners.

'And that is?' Leith's tone was steely.

Renzi turned. 'Venice is no more! A thousand years of civilisation gone! Finished!'

Griffith snorted. 'Get on with it, you ninny, make your report.'

Renzi ignored him, staring at Leith, whose grave face suggested that he knew what was to come. 'The people have been betrayed. The Council of Ten - the Doge — have failed their citizens. They have been deluded, bullied. It is all over for Venice.'

He paused and looked away. 'The true situation has been concealed. What has happened is that the French general, Buonaparte, has cleverly turned an enemy, Austria, to an ally. How? He cannot strike southward into Italy until he has pacified this hostile country in his rear. So he pacifies it in another way. He gives it Venice.'

'Venice is neutral.'

'This Buonaparte is truly a genius at war, but as ruthless and unscrupulous as the very devil himself. Yes, Venice is neutral, but he has taken every excuse to paint her the aggressor, the tyrant. Just two weeks ago his commander, Junot, apparendy stormed before the Council of Ten with a personal letter from him containing unacceptable demands. Today—' Renzi's voice changed almost to a whisper. 'Today the Doge Lodovico called a Grand Council. It was the first the people knew of the danger — they believed themselves neutral in this war. A new letter was read out from General Buonaparte. In it he said that the old ways were to be swept away, a new age of revolution was upon them, and if they objected, he would not be held accountable for the consequences.

'While they deliberated, a despatch was received from their own consiglieri militari that there is French artillery, many guns, ringing the lagoon and ready to reduce Venice to a ruin. The Doge asks for a final vote of submission to the French and suicide for the Venetian state. What he did not reveal was that their spies had reported that, not two weeks earlier, a secret peace was signed at Leoben between Austria and France. The price asked was Venice and her decrepit empire.'

Renzi continued quietly, 'The vote was taken in indecent haste, passed, and the nobiluomi of Venice fell over each other to get away, turning their backs on their birthright and abandoning their noble obligations to save their skins. Gentlemen, the Serenissima is no more!'

The brooding quiet lay heavy and ominous. When the people of Venice had digested the events, there would be a reaction. Even now far-off shouts could be heard. The French would be forming up to march in, whether to civil chaos or a humbled populace it didn't matter: the end was the same. They only had hours to decide what to do.

'You seem very well informed, Renzi, for a foremast hand,' snarled Griffith.

'The lady Carradini, whom I knew — before, is well placed in the highest of the land. You can be assured there are few secrets she does not know.'

'And tells you?'

Renzi's wintry smile was weary. 'She has a tendre for me. This is not for us to debate. What is more at issue is the next few hours.'

'Have a care, Renzi, you are still under discipline, even here.'

'Sir.'

Leith stirred. 'I care not for your nautical niceties, gentlemen. Now, are you about to leave us again, Mr Renzi?'

'No, sir.'

Kydd realised the implication of the sea-bag: Renzi might have had a chance to get away but he had chosen to see things through with his friends. 'Thank ye, Nicholas,' he said softly.

The dusty silence was broken by a tiny sound, a wispy slither. The pale edge of a paper appeared under the door, but when Kydd reached it there was no sign of anyone. 'Here, m' friend, it's all Dutch t' me,' Kydd said, passing it to Renzi.

'Thank you. It says we are to stay here until after dark. Then we will receive a visitor, whom we may account a welcome one. I recognise the hand,' Renzi added gravely.

'We wait?' Griffith ignored Renzi, addressing Leith directly.

'Have you an alternative in mind, sir?'

As evening approached the gloom in the musty warehouse deepened. Muffled shouts and random disorder erupted at intervals, a scuffle breaking out not far from the door. The situation was apparently resolved with a grunting, despairing cry, then silence.

There was a feeble oil lantern in the spaces by the wall, but it served to keep the darkness at bay.

Kydd could hardly bear the inactivity, the inability to do anything. He yearned for the lift and fall of a deck under his feet, but realised that, with the stranglehold now established by the French, it was probable he would never again know the sensation.

The darkness outside was absolute when their visitor arrived. A hurried double knock and hoarse, 'Il giramondo — ehi!’ Dressed in a black cloak, the man kept his face averted in its hood. 'Dove il ufficiale di marina inglese?’ he asked tensely, the eyes glittering within the hood.

'He wants the English naval officer,' Renzi said.

Griffith stepped forward to a quarterdeck brace and said crisply, 'I am Lieutenant Griffith of His Britannic Majesty's frigate Bacchante'

The man hesitated, then seemed to come to a decison. He threw off his hood and snapped smartly to attention. 'Tenenfe di vascello Bauducco - Paolo Bauducco.'

'Lieutenant Paolo Bauducco,' Renzi murmured, and in turn made an appropriate introduction of Lieutenant Griffith.

'Prendendo in considerations la grandest della marina inglese . . .'

'The stream of passionate Italian appeared theatrical in the drab confines of the warehouse, the weak lanternlight picking up the occasional flash of rank and decorations under the cloak.

Renzi held up his hands to pause the flow, and tried to put across the officer's plea. 'Er, it seems that, in deference to the regard he has for the Royal Navy, he wishes to put forward a proposition.'

Griffith frowned, but Leith showed instant interest. Bauducco resumed, his ardour transparent.

'Ah, he is a loyal Venetian, and today he was profoundly ashamed of the perfidy of the Doge and his ministers. He learned as well that the Arsenale, the famous naval dockyard and all the ships of Venice, are to be turned over to General Buonaparte.'

Bauducco's voice swelled in anger.

'This is intolerable. It seems ... if I understand him aright, that there are many men in the Venetian service who feel as he does.' Renzi cocked his head, as if in doubt of what he was hearing, and continued carefully, 'He goes on to say, sir, that this night he and his men intend to rise up against his captain and carry his vessel to sea. Would he be right to put before them that his vessel — a xebec only, but well armed — would then be taken into the sea service of Great Britain against the French?'