questioning of the eccentric merchant with the fusty wig who chose to take rooms just at that time.
'I'm an abstemious man,' Renzi told the landlord. 'It's my way to take the air regularly.' He was particularly pleased with his affected high voice, and he had taken the precaution, for local consumption, of laying out a reason for his presence — he was a merchant hoping to do business with the dockyard, waiting out the tiresome mutiny at a safe distance.
The oyster-fishermen at the tiny landing-hard were curious, but satisfied by Renzi's tale of gathering sketches for a painting, and for a generous hand of coins agreed to show him many wonderful views, the events of the Nore permitting. They had no fear of the press-gang for the oyster-fishers of Queenborough carried protections whose rights dated back to the third King Edward.
Renzi strolled along the single bridlepath that led to Sheerness. Behind his smoked glasses, his eyes darted around — angles, lines of sight, coven the undulating marsh grass was possible, but not easy.
The road ended at the intersection with that of Blue Town on the way out of the dockyard. He turned left — his business was with the authorities.
A stream of people were leaving: old women, fearful men with family possessions on carts, stolid tradesmen at the back of drays — and in the other direction troops of soldiers were on their way to the garrison.
Renzi clutched his bag to him as though in alarm, and shuffled towards Red Barrier Gate. This was now manned with a sergeant and four.
'I've been asked to attend upon the captain,' Renzi squeaked. The sentry gave him a hard look, then let him through. Renzi passed the hulks, then the public wharf, which was perilously crowded by those begging a passage on the next Chatham boat.
The entrance to the fort was also well guarded. A moustached sergeant was doubtful about his stated mission and compromised by providing an escort. They set off for the commissioner's house, the seat of operations.
At the door, Renzi instantly changed his demeanour; now he was in turn wordly and discreet, knowing and calculating. He bowed to the flag lieutenant. 'Sir, I desire audience with Captain Hartwell at your earliest convenience. I may have information . ..'
No hard feelin’s, Mr Parker,’ said Hulme, after the vote.
'None that a mort more trust wouldn't cure,' Parker said stiffly, reassuming his seat. The interruption, however, had allowed him to regain countenance, and he leaned forward in the old, confident way. 'It's clear that the soldiers are deploying to deny us the shore,' he said crisply. 'They have reinforced the garrison, and we've had reports from Pylades that there are parties of militia splashing about in the mud the other side of the Thames.'
It brought laughter: if the intention was to surround them with troops, then there would be a lot more cursing, mud-soaked soldiers floundering about in the marshlands.
'But we have to face it,' Parker continued. 'Ashore we're in danger anyway — they could cut us off and have us in irons in ho time. We're much safer snug on board in our fleet.'
'Damme,' rumbled Blake, 'an' I was gettin' ter like th' marchin' up an' down wi' our red flag in front of th' ladies.'
Parker's rejoinder was cut off by a piercing hail. 'Deck hooooo! Ships — men-o'-war, ships-o'-the-line — standin' toward!'
There was a general scramble for the deck. The lookout in the maintop threw out an arm to the open sea to the north-east. On the horizon was a fleet - no modey collection of vessels, but a first-class squadron of ships-of-the-line in battle order. It was upon them: there was no more time to debate, to rationalise the fighting of fellow seamen — a decision had to be made.
''They're flyin' the red flag!'
'The North Sea squadron! They've come across, joining! Two, five, six — eight of
