called away by Admiral Edgcumbe again’ he said, and hastened away. If he was quick, he could ride on the noon mail and be at the naval dockyard in an hour or two.
The boat skimmed over the spacious harbour, on its way from Kingston town to the naval dockyard at the end of a seven-mile sandy spit of land, the Palisades. This was Port Royal, the notorious pirate lair that had been destroyed spectacularly by an earthquake a century before. But Renzi had no eyes for this curiosity. Furious with himself for his impulsive and unreasoned act, he was yet in a fever of expectation and hope that had no foundation in logic — just a single name on a piece of paper.
He waited impatiently while the boat came alongside the wharf, then swung himself up and strode ashore. Ignoring the close-packed victualling storehouses, he followed the road through the sprawling ruins of the Polygon battery, the odd grey-flecked sand of the spit crunching loudly underfoot.
As he passed the stinking pitch-house and the bedlam of the smith's shop he had no real idea how to find his quarry — the employment return had merely said that this man was a dockyard worker, no indication of what type. It would be useless to ask any of the dockyard men about a new arrival: no one would know him. Over there was a rickety row of negro houses — Renzi had found that, generally, sailors got on well with slaves so perhaps .. .
He stopped dead. An unmistakable figure was coming round the corner at the dockyard wall with his head down. Kydd. Renzi stood still, noting the droop of the shoulders, the preoccupied air. He called softly, 'Avast there, brother! Spare an old friend a glance.'
Kydd stopped as though struck in the face. Incredulity, then joy lit his features. He hurried over and shook Renzi's hand until it ached.
'Do ye leave me my hand, Tom. It is the only one I have left on the right side,' Renzi said.
Port Royal town was old, a sea town with a gaudy past, and its superfluity of sailor taverns gave pleasing choice for their reunion. The early hour of the afternoon ensured they would not be disturbed, and they selected the Shipp Inn on Queen Street: it had a table in a bay window overlooking the calm of the inner harbour.
'You are safe — preserved!' Renzi said, with great feeling.
Kydd looked up, surprised. 'Oh, yes. Twas nothin', really. L'tenant Calley told us t' march out to Putty Borg on Bass Tair, but there they had th' fever, so we went to t' other side, Fort Mathilda, an' were picked up b' Trajan'
Renzi had shared too much with Kydd to believe that this bare account was all there was to tell, but it could wait. 'You're in the dockyard line now?' he asked.
'Aye,' said Kydd, his brow creased, 'but I'd give a bag o' guineas t' get back t' sea.' 'How—'
'Trajan was surveyed 'n' condemned, I had th' chance f'r a spell in a reg'lar-goin' dockyard.' 'And—'
'An' I ran afoul of a blue-light shipwright. Seems m' spirits were too — who should say? — ardent with the ladies,' Kydd explained, without rancour.
Renzi contemplated this. He knew that Kydd was not a concupiscent and signalled to the pot-boy. 'The punch here is considered of the first class,' he offered.
'Thank ye, no. I had th' yellow fever not a month past. Lost m' taste f'r grog lately.'
'Then we have your lemonadoes, rap, cacao-drink—'
'A small beer will answer,' Kydd said.
It was indeed satisfying to see Kydd again, and once more Renzi realised that here was his only true friend. He dreaded the parting that must come. Rebellion forced itself on his consciousness, but he conquered it. 'What are you about at the moment?' he asked, unwilling to confess to his impulse in coming.
'Scullin' about - seems I have t' wait for assigning,' Kydd said moodily. 'What're you doin' for y'rself?'
'Oh, somewhat in the character of a clerk. My small French is of value here, it seems. I labour in Spanish Town.' It was depressing, the very thought. 'Shall
