Inferno (11 page)

Eventually a great weariness descended on Kydd and he had to make his excuses – even the merriment in the taphouse below failed to prevent a fathoms-deep sleep.

T
o foil any crafty attempt to follow them, it was given out that they would sail with the tide at ten. Instead
Aileen
and
Maid
set off while it was still dark. With the same feint to the south-west, they raised the Skerryvore at daybreak and were comfortably moored by the wreck at an early hour.

The barrel was readied and Kydd was impatient to start again. He knew exactly what to expect and where he would resume the search. At the seabed he quickly found his place. The early daylight entered at an angle, and eerie patterns of light shafted down, leaving the underwater reaches to the cavern in a baleful gloom. But, caught up in treasure-hunting, he had no time for gawking – he had to make every minute count.

The diving engine was well designed for the work. Unlike a diving bell, where men sat about its edge with long-handled tools hoping to fish things up, he was actually on the sea-bottom feeling and manipulating with his hands.

He turned up more finds: a scatter of bullets, a small bucket and an object of intricate contriving that was so
corroded as to be impossible to make out. The cannon would be too heavy to be washed down the slope and were probably buried where they had fallen, beside the wreck.

After refreshing for air and giving the usual instruction for a move of a further six feet he descended again and, almost immediately, spotted the outline of a crucifix and many small personal items of a quality that Kydd felt could only have come from the captain's cabin. He probed carefully, waving aside clouds of silt and wielding his pick on anything likely-looking. There was an oval framed miniature portrait, much corroded silverware – and an attractive marble statuette, only a foot or more long but barely affected by centuries under the sea.

A little further on a small triangular protrusion took his eye. He hauled himself over and prodded around it, an easy task as it was immersed in a depression of silt. It grew bigger – and Kydd breathed deeply in a wash of shock as he stared at the corner of what any captain could identify instantly, then chipped away to expose its iron straps and antique bronze locks.

It was the ship's strongbox – and of substantial size. Kept in the captain's quarters, it would contain all the official valuables the ship possessed.

Kydd dug away feverishly until it lay exposed in all its muddy glory.

They had done it!

He forced a calm to his thudding heart.

Noting exactly where it was located he signalled a refresh.

On the surface he told Stirk to prepare a double strop to go down with him. Back at the box he eased a rope over either end and bowsed them tight, with turns for a doubly
secure hoisting tackle. Then he signalled another refresh: he wasn't going to miss the great event.

Stirk's face broke into a broad grin when Kydd demanded to be released and helped out.

With a squeal of protesting sheaves the load was hauled in – and for the first time in centuries the coffer was kissed by daylight.

‘B' Jesus, ye've done it!' yelled McFadden, snatching at the line to bring it inboard.

‘We're rich!' squealed Jeb, flailing his arms like a madman.

Stirk swayed it in, to land with a satisfying thump on
Maid
's fore-deck.

Then they heard the voice of Meares – loud, strident and demanding. ‘Open it! Get it open –
now
!'

‘No, wait—'

‘
Stand clear, y' bastards!
' Jeb yelled, wildly swinging an axe. They fell back as it struck the old fastenings with savage, smashing hits.

‘That's enough!' roared Stirk, as the lock disintegrated and skittered over the deck. He bent over the chest and heaved at the lid, without result.

‘Give it some more – at th' hinges, bugger it!'

Nothing could stand the fury of the attack for long. Suddenly a black line appeared all along the line of the crusted lid. It was free.

Meares pushed past and reverently knelt to open it.

‘G
o on, Thomas! What was in it – do tell!' the Countess of Farndon urged, proffering another dainty sweetmeat to her brother.

‘You really want to know?' Kydd teased.

‘
Tell us!
'

‘Do please, old chap,' Renzi added.

‘Well …'

‘
Pleeease!
'

‘Then I'll reveal all. It was the captain's strongbox right enough. But inside was naught but some seals, a small bag of silver coins and a couple of gold ones. No treasure.'

‘
Oh, no!
None?' Cecilia exclaimed.

‘Not worth the name. You see, it was truly an Armada bark but not like your Tobermory galleon, only one of the lesser sort as didn't carry a pay-chest or other.'

‘Ah. So nothing for your efforts, then.'

‘No, not really. Saving the adventure, of course.'

‘Oh dear,' Cecilia said. ‘Then your friends are sadly inconvenienced in the article of investment, poor souls.'

‘Yes, it was a wry crew returning to their welcome at Dunlochry. Jacob Meares insisted they first take him and his diving engine back to Tobermory and disappeared without so much as a thank-you.'

‘And the village would be much cast down.'

‘They were. I couldn't help but conceive it my fault for giving them false hope in the matter, to put up their hard-won means in the enterprise and lose it all.'

‘I'm desolated to remark it, brother, but it does rather seem you did.'

Kydd nodded gravely, then rose, saying he must go to his room. He returned shortly with an object in his hand. ‘This is what we found earlier.'

It was the marble statuette. He passed it across to Renzi. ‘I was able to tell them that while we may not have raised treasure, this find is valuable enough to recompense each and every one to his full amount.'

‘But—'

‘I assured them with extravagant enthusiasm that I recognised it and knew a gentleman of an insatiable habit of collecting who would pay much for it. I promised them they would get a good price and I would remit the proceeds back promptly.'

‘But, dear fellow, this is only your common santos as may be seen in any Papist shrine.'

‘Nicholas, I know. I fancy my fur-salvage money will be a trifle lighter for the experience.'

H
is Grace the Duke of Portland paused between the two Corinthian pillars at the entrance to the Cabinet Room. His waiting ministers rose in a massed scraping of chairs. Supported by a footman, the prime minister of Great Britain made his way to his place at the centre of the long table. Although old and in failing health, he was arrayed in state robes and a full-bottomed wig.

‘I trust Your Grace is taking well of his Ward's drops,' murmured a tall, nearly bald man. The remaining hair at the sides of his head was ridiculously dressed, but no one in the room would say as much to George Canning, the imperious foreign secretary.

‘I thank you, sir, but it does not answer, I'm grieved to say,' Portland replied, in a thin voice.

Canning allowed a shadow of concern to appear. ‘Your Grace, I'm persuaded I speak for all present in wishing you speedy relief from your bodily trials.'

‘That is kind in you,' the prime minister answered, with a civil nod.

Further down the table an intense-featured man, handsome in a distant, patrician manner, muttered, ‘As we have been here assembled to do business of the realm, let us not waste time in flatteries.'

‘My lord Castlereagh,' Portland said, to the secretary of state for war, ‘be assured, we've come to discuss the gravest of matters. Do set aside your differences, I beg of you, in the face of this peril.' He looked around the room, then paused to collect his thoughts.

Spencer Perceval, a pale individual, the able and principled chancellor of the exchequer, prompted, ‘Meaning Bonaparte's Continental System, Your Grace?'

Perceval had performed heroics to fund Britain's lonely stand against Bonaparte without ruinous taxation imposts and stood outside the poisonous feuding between the power-hungry Canning and the gifted Castlereagh.

‘Quite, quite. Gentlemen, it doesn't need me to remind you that this has been a truly momentous development. When Bonaparte issued his Berlin decree, prohibiting any from trade with this country, we were not to know that within months almost the entire continent would be closed to us. His master-stroke has been to hurt us grievously without ever a shot fired in battle.'

His cabinet stirred restlessly. It was the fate of the most talented government for a generation to be led by a frail figure of the past – the previous administration, following Pitt's inspired leadership and then premature death, had been called the Ministry of All the Talents but had collapsed in ignominy. The Tories had returned to power, but under this enfeebled figurehead leadership.

‘For the sake of clarity in our deliberations I would call upon you severally to state your opinion as to our position
from your perspective as a minister of state. Foreign Secretary, would you outline to us how you believe we stand in these parlous times?'

Canning pursed his lips. ‘Easily laid out, Your Grace. Napoleon Bonaparte has devoured most of the civilised world. This leaves us with precious few friends. To the east of France, Austria is tottering and Prussia is being overrun as we speak. At the present time, sir, the only nations in the whole of the continent not under the tyrant's boot are Denmark, which as ever remains strictly neutral, Sweden, with its eccentric king, Gustavus, and Russia. As this last is ruled by the ambitious but dim-witted Tsar Alexander, we can be sure of nothing. To the west of France there is only Portugal, our last and most loyal friend. And a pitifully vulnerable liability.

‘In sum, Boney and his puppets hold a vast empire stretching from the Russian border to the shores of the Atlantic. There is nothing left, I'm grieved to say, and it must be faced that the entire European seaboard, save Denmark and Sweden, now girdles his private fiefdom.'