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?'
There was a disbelieving silence. Griffith recovered first. 'Tell him that a British frigate at this moment lies to seaward, and we have but to reach her — and tell him too, damn it, that his offer is handsomely accepted.'
The hours passed in a fever of waiting. They had been warned that when the time came they were not to delay an instant: there could be no turning back. But they were safe where they were —
