'We throw a blockade on London.'
There was an appalled silence, then everyone spoke at once. Parker leaned back in his chair, a smile playing, while he waited for quiet. 'Indeed. We have the power to clamp our hold on the richest trade gateway in the land. No one would dare touch us while we stop every merchantman, arrest everything that sails. Trade comes to a standstill, the mills of industry stop for want of materials, companies fail for want of exports — the City collapses, the government falls.'
'No!' Kydd burst out. 'This is madness! T' bring y'r country to its knees? We can't sink s' low we'd do this t' England.'
'It would work.' Parker's reply was flat and final.
Returning to Queenborough along the bridlepath, Renzi's mind was preternaturally alert in a cold race of logic and action. The rhythm of walking helped focus his thoughts, and he settled to the task: to review and test the rationalisations that had brought him to this.
At base, the principle of deception, his pose as a merchant, with an interest in an early resolution to the mutiny who was prepared to use agents of commercial intelligence to that end, was successful; Hartwell had been covetous of a clearly first-grade reliable source in place of the usual illiterate ramblings from disaffected sailors. The harder part was to make the intelligence convincing, without jeopardising either Kydd or doing violence to his conscience.
His ground rules were settled: first, the overriding objective was the saving of Kydd, but only in so far as it did not require betrayal of his country. The next was harder: he would transmit nothing that could not be concluded by any intelligent observer for themselves, a hard thing to make convincing. And, finally, no names of individuals would go forward.
They seemed sound, and Renzi lightened. For the immediate future he must acquire intelligence to establish his credentials. He had already found a suitable observation post: there was an elbow in the sea-wall going away from the fort, which obscured him from both the fort and the mile houses.
He slid down the wall into the marsh grasses at the water's edge and watched the fleet's movements through a small brass telescope. If he was caught with the instrument he could well be taken up as a French spy, but there was no other way.
But he had to get closer. 'Good day to you, gentlemen,' he greeted the oyster-fishermen. 'Do you think today is a good day for seeing the sights?' He fumbled absentmindedly for some shillings, squinting at the silver.
'But o' course it be,' the nearest said. 'Where'd ye like t' go?'
'Oh, do you think we might go past the, er, fleet in mutiny?' he asked breathlessly.
The fishermen grinned. 'Thought ye might. Why, o' course, they don't worry th' likes of us.'
The oyster smack was a gaff-rigged cutter, decked in with hatches and reeking of shellfish. Renzi sat doubtfully on one side, then allowed himself to slide down the deck with a cry of alarm when the boat took the wind, and had to be hauled up to windward by an amused deckhand.
They rounded Garrison Point and shaped course towards the end of the fleet. Renzi sat open-mouthed, apparently admiring the formidable display of naval might, but his eyes were moving furiously behind his dark glasses. All yards were crossed, topmasts a-taunt, the ships in an impregnable double-crescent formation.
His eyes strayed to the biggest; there, in Sandwich, Kydd would be now with Parker and the Parliament, probably discussing some grave move. 'Could we go a bit closer, do you think?' he asked, only just remembering his high voice.
The two crew exchanged doubtful looks, but closed with the nearest two-decker. 'Jem — over yonder!' one said urgently. It was a naval pinnace emerging from round the stern of the ship and foaming towards them.
Tiller hard over, the smack went about, but only to end in the path of another. A musket was wielded in the boat astern, a puff of white appeared and a ball slapped through their mainsail. 'Give over, Jem, they'll do us, mate!'
The pinnace came up quickly once their sails were doused. 'What're yez doin' here, then?' Renzi thought he recognised a boatswain's mate and shrank. No mercy would be shown an officer's spy.
The older crew-member spoke up. 'Well, mates, y' know us t' be honest oyster-fishers, fr'm Queenboro'. An' this is a merchant cove wants t' do business wi' the dockyard,
