It was dreamlike in the early morning to be passing from the vastness and power of the open sea to the enfolding quiet so close to the depths of the lovely English countryside, the farmland, grazing animals, orchards - and in a ship's boat. The smell of wild flowers, cows, cut hay and sun-warmed soil turned Kydd's mind irresistibly to memories of his youth and past summers in Guildford. It was difficult to reconcile where they were to the actuality of what they were doing.
'Damn,' muttered Binney; the boat had touched sand. Poynter poled off with the boathook. The wind localised, becoming fluky and light; the sails were doused and oars shipped. Later the sand turned to flecked silt and then to dark mud, and it was at this point that Binney put the tiller over and brought their inland voyage to an end.
'Yarnink Nowle,' Binney announced, coming up to a decaying timber landing place. It took Kydd some moments to realise that the words meant the place, not an order. It was a quiet wood down to the water's edge; a rough path headed steeply up out of sight into it. 'Kydd, with me, you men stay with the boat.'
Kydd climbed over the gunwale and for the first time since Gibraltar had the good earth under his feet. They trudged up the steep, sinuous path, Binney leading and dressed in nondescript coat and breeches, while Kydd followed in as non-sea rig as he had been able to find.
They left the wood to cross deep green fields with curious sheep, and Kydd looked at Binney, worried. 'The crew'll hear of th' mutiny fr'm the folks hereabouts.'
Binney flashed a grin. 'Not here they won't. They know the navy and the press-gang in this part o' the world — they'll keep well away.' Kydd thought of the hard-faced Poynter, and grinned back.
They crossed another field, ignoring a gaping milkmaid, and arrived at the back of a thatched-roof farmhouse. A dog barked once, then approached to nuzzle at Binney; a leather-gaitered yeoman appeared at the noise and stopped in surprise at seeing Binney. 'Well, whot be doing yer, Maister Binney?'
Binney smiled. 'Is Jarge going for the post this morning?'
'Eys, 'ee be saddlin' up thikky donkey.'
Binney glanced triumphandy at Kydd. 'Nothing changes in the country - we'll be riding to Ivybridge.'
Sitting on the end of the farm trap with legs dangling as it ground bumpily over the country track, Binney was youthfully spirited, nervous tension working with pleasure at the unexpected return to his roots.
It was not far to Ivybridge. They passed two tiny villages on the well-worn road to the north and suddenly reached a crossroads. They dropped to the road from the trap, dusting down, and let the mystified farmer continue on his way.
Binney took a deep breath. 'The London Inn — over by the river. The Exeter mail should be along by ten.' A soft whispering on the morning breeze strengthened until they reached its cause, the Erme river, a crystal clear boisterous rushing over moss-green rocks.
The beauty and settled loveliness of the tiny hamlet reached out to Kydd; it seemed to belong to another world, one without blood and war, without the unthinkable threat of a fleet mutiny. His mind shied at the very notion — could it be, perhaps, just one of those endless wartime rumours?
They tramped up the road beside the river towards a remarkably pretty humped bridge, set among a profusion of oaks and chestnuts and dappled with sunlight. On the left were some well-kept and dignified mansions; he glimpsed the name 'Corinthia' on one and wondered who could have had the fortune to live there in such a place of peace and beauty.
They reached the London Inn on the other side of the dusty Plymouth turnpike; a smithy was already in industrious activity beside it, and osders readied horses in the post stables.
'Mr Kydd, I'd be obliged should you wait for me here,' Binney said, his tone low and serious. 'If I do not return before evening, you are to return to Achilles and tell the captain.'
'Aye aye, sir,' Kydd acknowledged. Without his naval officer's uniform Binney looked absurdly young for such a risky enterprise and all traces of his earlier animation were now gone. They remained standing awkwardly together under the gaudy inn-sign, the occasional passer-by curious at the presence of such a pair so out of keeping with Ivybridge.
The coach finally came wheeling down the turnpike, and stopped with a brave crashing of hoofs and jingling of harness; snorting, sweaty horses were led out of their traces and fresh ones backed in, the horsy smell pungent in Kydd's nostrils.
