Winds of Folly (35 page)

He sighed, for he knew himself too well. ‘My name is Nathaniel Turner,' he said. ‘I am an American citizen and I have told you why I am here. I demand to speak with the American Consul.'

He was not sure why he said this. It was part foolishness, of course, and pride. A stubborn resolve not to be intimidated. But perhaps there was a more reflective view that he should hold the truth back for when he really needed it, for when the torture became unbearable and the need to convince them became pressing.

The Devil, too, sighed. Then he spoke to Nathan's guards. He spoke in the Venetian dialect but either because it so closely resembled Latin or because something in his tone and gesture spoke for itself, Nathan understood him to say: ‘Take this thing and dispose of it.'

Nathan tried to resist but he was stiff from his ordeal in the cell and weakened by the blows he had already received. And there were four of them. They threw him to the ground and tied his hands behind him. Then they dragged him away. Along another passage, through a door and down a flight of stairs. He saw lights reflected in water. He looked up and saw the night sky. Stars. His universe. Not the courtyard, either. They were beside a canal. He could see the Bridge of Sighs to his right. And at his feet there was a boat of the type the Venetians called a
mascareta
, very like a British dory. A shove in the back told him he was to climb into it.

‘Where are you taking me?' he asked them, in French and Latin, even in English. No reply. Instead, they thrust a gag into his mouth. It was only when they forced him to the deck and tied an anchor to his feet that he had his answer. They were taking him to the Canale Orfano – the Canal of the Orphans.

He remembered what Kyrgyakos had said when they had first moored here.

‘It is said that they still dispose of certain prisoners in this fashion. Political prisoners. Those who might cause them some embarrassment if they were hanged in public.'

He kicked out and strained at his bonds, but it was useless.
Now, if anyone had asked him, he would have told them everything. But no one did, and nor could he have replied with the filthy rag in his mouth. He raged at his own stupidity for not telling Cristolfi the truth, for coming to Venice in the first place, for not heeding Spiridion's words of warning.

‘If you offend against their authority and their own narrow sense of order, they will look to the Devil for redress. And the Devil will dispose of you, my friend, in the most convenient manner that is available to him.'

They glided out from the little canal into the Basin of St Mark. Even lying in the scuppers Nathan could see the lights of the Piazza and of the shipping moored in the Basin. Somewhere out here was the schooner
Angelika
. If only he could shout they might hear him. But it was useless to even think about that.

They left the lights behind them. Now all he could see were the stars. He concentrated on them, trying to pick out the constellations. He identified Lyra, Aquila and Cygnus. The moon had set, but August was the month of the meteor showers known as the Perseids and he looked for them greedily, not having seen them before. It seemed only fair that he should see them before he died, or perhaps just one, as if it was his starship cruising through the heavens, waiting for him to join it.

These whimsical reflections were disturbed by a more practical consideration, for it suddenly occurred to him that the steel hook on the anchor might provide a means of freeing him from his bonds. He squirmed around in the bottom of the boat but his contortions only succeeded in lodging the anchor rather painfully in his buttocks. He was trying to manoeuvre it into a more suitable position so that he might chafe the rope on it, when there was a sudden shout from one of the oarsmen and another boat loomed up out of the darkness on their starboard side. There was a confused moment – and then with
a crunch of oars and a splintering of timbers the two boats collided.

Nathan was sent rolling around the scuppers but he took the opportunity to rub his bonds even more vigorously against the steel hook which was now more or less embedded in his rear. It was only when a large body landed on top of him and there was the flash and report of a pistol that he realised this was no accidental collision. Then the boat was full of struggling figures, fighting with cutlasses and cudgels. Nathan struggled to sit up. Was it the launch from
Angelika
? Had Gabriel discovered what had happened to him and prevailed upon Kyrgyakos to attempt a rescue? Another pistol report and one of his guards fell across him with half his head blown off. Another went overboard. And then it was over. Laughter now. Hands reached down for him, the gag was pulled from his mouth.

‘Capitaine Turner?' It was not a voice or a face he recognised.

‘Yes. I am Captain Turner. Would you mind getting this anchor out of my arse?'

‘Venez avec nous, s'il vous plaît.'

Well, he had no objection to going with them, given the alternative, but who were they and why had they come for him? And, rather more to the point, where were they taking him?

‘Be at ease, Citizen,' one of them assured him when Nathan put these questions to them. ‘You are in the hands of the French Army – the glorious Army of Italy. And we are taking you to General Bonaparte.'

N
athan was not naturally inclined to the optimistic. Some of his intimates had, unkindly, accused him of being overly inclined to the reverse. He was the kind of man, they said, who would have subjected the Good Samaritan to searching enquiry before accepting his offer of a soothing massage and assistance to the nearest inn. So although there was an immediate improvement in his circumstances – he was relieved of the anchor that was to have been his tombstone; they cut the ropes that bound his wrists; they handled him into their own boat with care, as if he was a frail old gentleman and not the Captain of an English frigate; they settled him comfortably in the sternsheets and gave him water to drink and even a flask of wine – he could not help but wonder why the glorious Army of Italy should put themselves to such incon venience for one insignificant prisoner of the
Serenissima
.

He did not, of course, believe he was being taken to General Bonaparte. But clearly someone in French headquarters had taken an interest in him, and doubtless at some time in the
near future the reason would be explained to him and he would be exposed to new forms of torment.

But in the meantime, being unable to do anything about it – and being, by his own estimation, a cheerful pessimist – he settled himself in the sternsheets with his flask of wine and watched with satisfaction as his rescuers stove in the timbers of the
mascareta
and let it sink to the bottom of the lagoon taking the bodies of his former tormentors with it. Having accomplished this with an efficiency that persuaded him it was not the first time they had performed such a task, they hoisted sail and headed off into the darkness of the lagoon.

Nathan took stock of his new accommodation, which appeared to be a broad-beamed sailing barge with a simple lateen rig and a leeboard, not unlike the Dutch
skutsje
. The eight or nine men who crewed it did not look like French soldiers, they looked like smugglers, and after a few moments Nathan concluded that most of them were. They clearly knew what they were about, even at night and at low tide, expertly manoeuvring their way through the shoal waters and mud banks of the lagoon and making steady progress towards the mainland.

It was not a part of the coast that Nathan knew at all well, even from his study of the charts, and it appeared to be devoid of human habitation. But as they approached the shore, one of the crew exposed a lantern in the bow, and after a few moments an answering light appeared in the darkness ahead of them, a little to starboard. They altered course towards it and then lowered the sail and proceeded inshore with the help of a pair of sweeps until, with a gentle jolt – and still some fifty yards or so out – they grounded.

‘From here, I am afraid you must walk,' Nathan was instructed.

The water was warm and no more than a couple of feet deep, and he was glad of the opportunity to wash away some
of the slime and stench of the
Pozzi
. But it was only when he reached the shore that he realised no one else had accompanied him. His rescuers had already shoved off from the mud bank and were heading back towards the distant lights of Venice.

And waiting for him on the secluded shore was the real French Army.

He heard them before he saw them. The jingle of harness. The snort and stamp of horses. And dimly in the darkness, a little back from the waterline, he discerned a troop of horse and a coach and four. A figure detached itself from the group and came forward to greet him. He wore a riding cloak and a military shako but all Nathan could make out of his features was a moustache and the white of his eyes. His voice sounded young.

‘Citizen, I have the honour to command your escort, if you will be so good as to follow me.'

He led the way to the coach and a trooper leaped forward to open the door. Nathan glanced into the dim interior. ‘I am very wet,' he pointed out doubtfully, in consideration of the upholstery.

‘That cannot be helped,
monsieur
,' replied the officer firmly. ‘We will find you some dry clothing at the first stop.'

‘Are we going far?' Nathan enquired.

But his new guardians appeared even less inclined to enlighten him than those who had preceded them. The officer inclined his head towards the interior of the coach. ‘Please,
monsieur
, we must not delay.'

Nathan climbed into the coach. The officer closed the door and slapped his hand sharply on the side. As the vehicle lurched off into the darkness, Nathan was left to contemplate an uncertain future. He consoled himself with the thought that at least he had one.

*

They jolted for about a mile along a dirt track but soon reached a more substantial road which enabled them to set a reasonable pace, even in the darkness. Nathan stuck his head out of the window and looked back to see his escort riding some little way behind, but not so far as to permit any serious thought of escape. Besides, even if he could have leaped from the coach without injury and made a dash for the trees, what was he to do next? He had no money, no knowledge of the language and no idea where he was. Better, he thought, to wait for daybreak and see what fortune it brought.

They seemed to be travelling through a pine forest but at times he caught glimpses of a river and some fine villas through the trees to the left which suggested they were following the course of the River Brenta eastward towards Padua. But the British Ambassador had said the French were further east than that, at Vicenza and Verona.

Nathan thought again about the reference to Bonaparte. It was possible, he supposed, that his presence in Venice had been reported by one of the French agents in the city, but it seemed unlikely that it had been brought to the attention of the General himself, and even more unlikely that after nine months and almost as many battles, Bonaparte would remember who he was. But if it
had
been brought to his attention, and he
did
remember, then it could only be because it had crossed his mind that the mysterious Captain Turner, the erstwhile associate of his time in Paris, was not who he said he was, and that instead of being an American merchant mariner in good standing with the Revolutionary authorities, he was in fact a spy for the British. Nathan's sudden disappearance from the French capital could only have reinforced this view, and so he had instructed his minions to extract the truth from him before placing him in front of a firing squad.

But this, admittedly, was a pessimistic view.

They were coming to a halt. Nathan looked out of the window. A coaching inn. Apparently the ‘first stop' the officer had mentioned. But when Nathan tried to alight he was politely requested to remain in the coach. It was too dangerous, the officer informed him. ‘These Italians, you cannot trust them. They rob you and slit your throat.' They brought food and drink out to him, however, and the promised change of clothing – nothing like as elegant as he had chosen for his visit to the Convent of San Paolo di Mare and about two sizes too small, but it was clean and dry and he changed into it without complaint. Then he sat gazing out of the window, drinking his wine and eating his bread and cheese, while they changed the horses.