An Instance of the Fingerpost (59 page)

I was aware, of course, of Matthew’s connections with men of dubious loyalty and opinion, and could not forbear to use him on
occasion to run errands and listen to gossip. In this often distasteful and dishonourable business he was invaluable, for he was both observant and intelligent in his manner. Unlike many of those I was forced to rely on – cut-throats, thieves and madmen for the most part, whose word could never be taken on trust – Matthew soon won my complete confidence. I called him in to me when I was in London, and wrote to him every second day while in Oxford, for I delighted in his company and missed it badly when we were apart as, I hope, he missed mine.

By the time he came to me that morning in 1663, he had been my servant for several years and had grown in stature to the point when I knew I would soon have to find him a permanent position of his own. Already I had delayed too long, for he was rising twenty and outgrowing his tutelage. I could see him straining and knew that if he was not soon released he would come to resent my authority. But I held him to me still, unable to let go. I blame myself for this greatly, and think that his desire to leave me may have made him incautious.

When he told me he was to deliver a package to the private mails on behalf of a group of radicals, I immediately took notice. He did not know what this package was but had undertaken to take it to a merchant who delivered mails on his ships. It was common enough – especially amongst those who did not wish their letters to be read. The unusual occurrence was that someone like Matthew was to perform a task more suited for a child. It was not certain, but he had a feeling that the package might be of significance, especially as the destination was the Low Countries.

For many months now, there had been rumblings all over the country, with shadowy figures flitting about and mutterings of discontent. But there was no form or unity to the collection of reports which allowed me to discern the shape of their plans. Left to themselves, these radicals presented no serious threat to anyone, so great were their divisions and despair, but, should a man of authority and skill organise and fund them properly they could easily become so. Matthew had, I thought, provided the first beginnings of that external correspondence I had long been looking for. As it turned out, he was wrong, but it was the best mistake he ever made.

‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘Bring me the package. I will have it opened, examine the contents and send you on your way.’

He shook his head. ‘Not so simple, I’m afraid, sir. We – they – have learned caution of late. I know I am not suspected in any way but I am to be accompanied from the moment it is put into my hands to the moment I hand it over. It will be impossible for you to have access to it in such a fashion. Not for the time you will need to copy it.’

‘And you are sure it is worth the effort?’

‘I don’t know. But you asked me to mention any communication with the exiles . . .’

‘You did very well indeed. Now, your suggestions? You know I value your opinion.’

He smiled with pleasure at this small token of regard. ‘I assume it will stay in the merchant’s house until it is placed on board one of his ships. But not for long; they want it on its way as quickly as possible. That, perhaps, will be the only opportunity for obtaining it in secret.’

‘Ah. And what is the name of this merchant?’

‘Di Pietro. He is a Venetian and has a house near the Tower.’

I thanked him profusely for his work, and gave him some small money as a reward, then dismissed him to consider what he had said. It troubled me a little, even though it made no obvious sense. For what was a Venetian doing helping sectaries? In all probability he was merely carrying mail for a fee, uninterested in either senders or recipients, but I was mindful that this was the second time the name had arisen. That fact alone made me more determined to examine those letters.

I had some leisure to ponder the problem, but not much: Matthew was due to deliver the package the following evening. Bennet had told me to leave di Pietro alone; but he had also told me to find out about the king’s enemies in England. He had not told me what to do when these two commands were in contradiction.

So I went to Tom Lloyd’s coffee shop, where men of trade were wont to gather to exchange news and organise themselves into better profits. I knew some people in this world, as I would occasionally venture capital in this fashion, and had learnt who was to be trusted and who deserved only to be shunned. Particularly, I knew a man
called Williams, who spent a considerable amount of time gathering up individuals with money to risk and putting them in contact with traders who needed finance. Through him, I had placed to advantage some small part of my surplus funds in the East Indies, and also with a gentleman who captured Africans for the Americas. This latter was by far the finest investment I ever made, the more so because (the captain of the vessel assured me) the slaves were instructed vigorously in the virtues of Christianity on their voyage across the ocean and thus had their souls saved at the same time as they produced valuable labour for others.

I told Williams, when I ran him to earth, that I was interested in putting some funds into the activities of an Italian house called Cola, and wondered whether this man was sound and trustworthy. He looked at me a little strangely, and replied cautiously that, as far as he knew, the house of Cola was funded entirely on its own resources. He would be very surprised indeed to discover that he was bringing in outsiders. I shrugged and said this was what I had been told.

‘Thank you for the intelligence, then,’ he said. ‘Your news confirms what I have suspected.’

‘Which is?’

‘That the house of Cola must be in considerable trouble. Venice’s war against the Turks has devastated his business, which has always been in the Levant. He lost two ships last year with full cargoes, and Venice still cannot prise open markets controlled by the Spaniards and Portuguese. He is a fine trader; but he has fewer and fewer people with whom he can trade.’

‘Is this why he set up here?’

‘Undoubtedly. I believe that without the goods England takes from him, he would not float for long. What, exactly, is this venture?’

I said I wasn’t sure, but had been assured it was of the greatest potential.

‘Probably to do with printed silks. Very profitable, if you know what you are doing, but a disaster if you do not. Sea water and silk do not mix very well.’

‘Does he have his own ships?’

‘Oh, yes. And very well-found vessels they are.’

‘He has an agent in London, I believe. Called di Pietro. What is he like?’

‘I know him only a little. He keeps himself to himself. He doesn’t mix much with others in the trading world, although he is well in with the Jews of Amsterdam. Again a warning for you, for if we go to war with the Dutch, that connection will be worse than useless. The house of Cola will have to choose which side it is on, and will inevitably lose yet more business.’

‘How old is di Pietro?’

‘Oh, old enough to know what he is doing. In his fifties, I believe. He talks occasionally of going back home and living an easier life, but says his employer has too many children who need to be provided for.’

‘How many children?’

‘Five, I believe, but three are daughters, poor man.’

I grimaced in sympathy, even though the man might well turn out to be an enemy. I knew enough to be aware that for a trader, whose lifeblood depended on keeping his capital close by, three daughters could be a killing burden. Fortunately, even though my two sons were both fools, they were presentable enough to be married to women of fortune.

‘Indeed, a grave disappointment,’ Williams continued. ‘Especially as neither of the sons are minded to follow him. One is a priest and – begging your pardon, Doctor – useful only for consuming money rather than creating it. I believe the other plays the soldier; he did so, at least. I have not heard news of him for some time.’

‘A soldier?’ I said with astonishment, for this quite important fact had been entirely missed by the picture dealer, and I made a note to reprove him for his laxity.

‘So I understand. Perhaps he never showed any inclination to trade and the father was too wise to force him. That was why Cola married the eldest daughter to a cousin in the Levant business.’

‘Are you sure he’s a soldier? How do you know this?’ I said, returning to the question and, I could see, arousing William’s suspicions.

‘Doctor, I do not know any more,’ he replied patiently. ‘All I know is what I hear around the coffee shops.’

‘Tell me what you hear, then.’

‘Knowing about the son will reassure you about investing in his business?’

‘I am a cautious man, and believe in knowing everything I can. Wayward children, you must admit, can be a ferocious drain. What if the son is in debt and his creditors make a claim on the father while he has my money?’

Williams grunted, not believing me but willing not to press.

‘I was told by a fellow merchant who tried to open trade in the Mediterranean,’ he explained eventually. ‘By the time the pirates and the Genoese had finished with him, he realised it was hardly worth the trouble. But he spent some time there four years back, cruising around, and once landed a cargo on Crete for the garrison at Candia.’

I raised an eyebrow. It was a brave, or a very desperate, man indeed who would try to run a cargo through the Turks to supply that particular market.

‘As I say,’ Williams said, ‘he had taken losses and was desperate, so he took a chance. A successful throw, it seems, as he not only sold his entire cargo but was allowed to take a cargo of Venetian glass back to England by way of reward.’

I nodded.

‘Anyway, there he met a man called Cola, who said his father was a merchant in the luxury trade of Venice. Now, perhaps there are two Colas who are merchants in Venice. I do not know.’

‘Go on.’

He shook his head. ‘There you have my entire fund of knowledge on the subject. The doings of the merchants’ children are not my concern. I have more immediate matters to worry about. What is more, Doctor, so do you. So why don’t you tell me what it is?’

I smiled and stood up. ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Certainly I know nothing which might help you to a profit.’

‘In that case, I am not in the slightest bit interested. But if ever . . .’

I nodded. A bargain is a bargain. I am pleased to say that I discharged my debt in due course as, through me, Mr Williams was one of the first to know about the plans to re-equip the fleet the following year. I gave him enough forewarning to allow him to buy up every mast pole in the country, so he could sell them to the navy
at the price he named. Between us, we profited handsomely, God be praised.

The merchant he mentioned, Andrew Bushrod, I tracked down in the Fleet Prison, where he had been for several months: his creditors had tired of him when a ship carrying most of his capital had gone down and his family had refused to come to his rescue. This, apparently, was his own fault: when prosperous, he had declined to contribute to a cousin’s marriage portion. Naturally, they felt no obligation to him when hard times came.

So, he was not only in the Fleet, he was also at my mercy as I had sufficient influence to have him released if he did not co-operate; then his sanctuary would be lost, and his creditors would pounce. It took some effort to sift out the dross from what he told me and his accuracy in point of detail was dubious: it is enough merely to contrast his description of Cola with the plump, perfumed dandy that the Italian actually was to see that, even though the circumstances then perhaps affected his appearance. Briefly stated, his account was that in 1658 he had taken a ship into the Mediterranean and to Leghorn to sell a cargo of woollen goods there. The price he gained – he was no businessman – just about paid the cost of the voyage, and he was casting around for goods to bring back to England. At this point he chanced upon a Venetian, who told of a hugely profitable voyage he had just made to Crete, running food and weapons into Candia harbour under the noses of the Turks.

The town and its defenders were so short of everything they would pay virtually any price. For his part, however, he would not go back again. Why not? asked Bushrod. Because he wanted to live into his old age, the man replied. Although the Turkish fleet was incompetent, the pirates were much more effective. Too many of his friends had been caught and a lifetime in the galleys was the best you could expect if you were. The man then pointed out a beggar in the street outside, whom he said was once a sailor in a Candia ship. He had no hands, no eyes, no ears and no tongue.

Bushrod was not brave, and was little interested in saving Crete
for Christendom or for Venice. But he was out of funds, his crew had not been paid and his creditors would be waiting for him when he returned home. So he contacted the Venetian consul in Leghorn, who told him what sort of goods would be required, and then took a fat contract to bring out any wounded who were fit to travel – four ducats for a gentleman, one for a soldier, half for a woman.

They hugged the Italian coast as far as Messina, where they offloaded some pottery, then headed as quickly and directly as possible for Crete. Candia, he said, was the worst experience of his life. To be in a town of several thousand people all of whom expected to die shortly, abandoned by all Christendom, aware that their mother country was tiring of them, and persecuted tirelessly by foes on sea and land, was almost too much to bear. Everything was coarsened and brutal after the longest siege in the history of the world. There was an air of desperation and violence which terrified him into lowering his prices, afraid that the townspeople would otherwise set on him and take everything he had for nothing. He still made a big enough profit to make the voyage more than worthwhile, and then set about preparing for the return journey by advertising for passengers. One of the people who took up his offer was named Cola.