Betrayal

Chapter 4

Renzi tucked into the lamb silently. Kydd was getting used to it, the faraway look, the air of distraction, the sudden scribbling in a pocket notebook; it was not the Renzi he knew. Gone was the languid observer, the courteous gentleman, in his place a man oblivious to the world.

‘Nicholas,’ Kydd began carefully, ‘the master-at-arms is complaining that he sees light in your cabin in the silent hours contrary to ship’s standing orders and must beg you put it out time and again.’

‘Oh, er, yes. Pray understand, dear fellow, that the muse is not to be commanded by mere mortals. There are times when-’

‘You put him in a hard situation, he not being of a mind to make a charge against you, but he has his duty by me and the other officers. If-’

‘Yes, yes – very well, I’ll try to remember.’ He bolted some bread and made to rise.

‘Do stay, Nicholas, and tell me how it’s all going, this writing o’ yours.’

With a sigh Renzi took his seat again. ‘There’s not much to say. I’ve reached the point where Il Giramondo has left home for he’s fatally taken by Jenny, a pretty milkmaid.’

‘Il Giramondo?’

‘My hero, if you’ll remember,’ Renzi said acidly. ‘I rather think I should be getting back to work. This talking is to no end.’ He stood abruptly.

Outside the voices of passing seamen at their work came to them. ‘I bin t’ Monty-wi’-dayo, cuffin. Rare time there, be good t’ see them Spanish biddies again.’

Renzi froze.

‘Aye, but we’s having t’ fight afore we gets t’ see ’em this time.’

The voices faded.

Renzi turned on Kydd: ‘You’re making that attempt at South America! And it needs a common sailor to tell me!’

‘Well, I was going to brief the officers later,’ he said weakly, ‘but Jack Tar already seems to have it from somewhere.’

Renzi sat down slowly. ‘Do you mean that at this very moment there’s an expedition afoot to raid the Spanish Americas?’

‘To make a landing in the River Plate, yes.’

‘And am I right in thinking that the projector is Commodore Popham?’

‘As being the only one of spirit and dash who puts attacking the enemy before all else.’

Renzi bit his lip. ‘What does Baird think of this?’ His voice was steel-edged.

‘In course he’s persuaded that the conditions are right for the assault and is providing troops and supplies for the expedition.’

‘Good God,’ Renzi said slowly. ‘He’s going to do it!’

Kydd frowned. ‘Nicholas. I don’t want to say it, but this is really none of your business. You go back to your writing – I’m sanguine we’ll be sailing within a week. There’s nothing more to discuss.’

‘Yes, there is,’ Renzi said intensely. ‘Depend upon it!’

‘This is a military expedition, my friend, and in case you’ve overlooked it, you have no part in it and therefore have no cause to fret,’ Kydd said irritably.

‘You can’t see it, but the man’s a popinjay, a slippery toad and a damned cunning fellow.’

‘Hold your tongue, sir!’ Kydd barked. ‘This is our commander you’re referring to. Anyone else, they’d be in bilboes this instant for those words.’

‘They are not only my words,’ Renzi came back. ‘I could add others, but I will not.’

‘You’ll keep your opinions to yourself or I’ll swear I’ll have you removed from this vessel.’

‘As is your prerogative, but I’ll not keep silent at this mountebank’s contumacious-’

‘Sentry!’ Kydd roared.

The marine posted at his outer door entered quickly. ‘Sir?’

Renzi, his face pale and set, looked at Kydd. ‘I think it better for us both should you allow me a little time to explain myself,’ he said quietly.

‘Wait outside,’ Kydd snapped at the sentry.

He turned to Renzi. ‘Ten minutes, and damme, you’d better find good reasons, or . . .’

‘For reasons not unconnected to the duty of politesse in a gentleman -’

‘Belay that catblash! I want an explanation o’ your conduct, sir.’

‘- until now I’ve refrained from mentioning certain facts, not necessarily to the credit of your commodore.’

‘Which are?’

‘Understand that I tell you with the utmost reluctance, it not being the act of a gentleman to delate upon another, still less in an atmosphere of blind loyalty.’

‘This had better be good,’ Kydd said dangerously.

‘Then this is the substance. While you were closely engaged with him on the American’s submarine boat I had occasion to visit Count Rumford in London. Both he and Fulton being American, both being fellows of the Royal Society, I pressed the count as to Popham’s character and he laid before me this: that in fashionable society he presents as a money-getter, a restless man of insinuating manners and too sharp by half – an excess of cleverality, as I remember the term.’

‘This is worthless! Society gossip and jabberknowl! You’ll need to do better than this, sir.’

‘I did not accept this alone. I determined to investigate for myself. And confirmed that unhappily there were good reasons for this view. A hydrographer of the first rank, inventor of the first telegraphic signal code and other matters – how do you believe he’d be received at the Admiralty?’

‘Honoured for it, o’ course.’

‘I found the first lord, St Vincent, in utter loathing of the man. The same with his secretary. Why? It seems that by personal manipulations he went from being a lieutenant on half pay through to commander and then to full post-captain – without once commanding a naval vessel, let alone a ship-of-the-line in battle.’

‘Be damned to it, that’s because he was too busy with his inventions and things. I heard he was the only man who could persuade the Russians to come in with us in Flanders – knew Tsar Paul himself. No mystery there. And manipulations? How can he-’

‘He has himself elected to a rotten borough in the Tory cause so he has the ear of the highest, Pitt himself. This he’s used on many occasions – the most favourable description I’ve heard of him is “incurably plausible” in his schemes. Are you aware that he’s deep in litigation with the Admiralty Court in respect of a personal venture, a ship whose master was none other than himself, trading under the Tuscan flag illegally with Bengal? He was caught by a British frigate trying to land smuggled goods in Ostend and his Etrusco seized as a prize of war.’

‘Any naval officer on half pay may with Admiralty permission trade to his own account,’ Kydd said hotly.

Renzi smiled thinly. ‘His first and only command before his present, Romney, was caught in a monsoon and needed repairs. Instead of consigning this to the naval dockyard at Calcutta he mysteriously had it completed at a minor commercial yard in Bombay.’

‘So?’

‘On his return a committee of inquiry in Chatham found that he’d overstated the real costs by many thousands. Proceedings against him are even now under way. And you’ll find there’s every kind of pamphlet in public circulation that accuses him of other defalcations and defects of moral character that would make you stare.’

‘Jealousy! And I’ve never heard any o’ this before – why should I believe it now?’

Renzi went on, ‘You might this hour determine the truth of it all, merely by interrogating Curzon closely. His family is tolerably well placed to know the matter.’

‘He’s not-’

‘I’ve spoken to him sharply in private that this is not a matter for public debate in the gunroom, which he’s honoured since.’

Kydd glowered but said nothing.

‘Dear fellow,’ Renzi said, ‘why do you think I should risk our friendship by this talk?’

‘You tell me, Nicholas – why?’

‘For the sake of your future. The man is in debt to his eyebrows, no prize money for him, of course, and no prospects of it on this remote station. He sees the immense fortunes won by captains who’ve seized the Spanish treasure ships and has a cunning idea. Why not make a descent on the source of the wealth itself – in effect, to sack the River Plate and carry off the silver?’

‘You’re out of your mind!’

‘I don’t think so. Why the haste to move on the Spaniards unless it’s to preserve a position of commanding authority that will ensure his direction of events and ultimately the greater share in the plunder? Any proper expedition from England will, of course, displace him as commander and no doubt change its object entirely.’

‘And you tell me all this for my sake?’ Kydd snorted. ‘Guesswork and envy! Why should I-’

‘I cannot stand by and watch you destroy your career when the world believes that you’ve put yourself in league with such a one. Can’t you see? The expedition will end in disaster and a vengeful government will want to find villains to put to the stake and you’ll be up there with him. He’s quitting station without leave – that’s a certain court-martial for a start, let alone-’

Kydd cut him short: ‘Yes, yes. I hear what you’re saying, for God’s sake.’

‘It’s – it’s only my regard for you, brother, that makes me speak in this way.’

‘So I’m to be beholden to you for your concern?’

Renzi remained silent as familiar shipboard sounds slowly asserted a degree of calm on the charged atmosphere.

Kydd finally spoke again: ‘I’ve much to think on, I believe.’ He stared blankly out of the stern windows. Then his expression softened. ‘I spoke hastily and out of order to my friend, and I’m truly sorry for it, Nicholas.’

He rose, went to the side cabinet and found glasses, poured a generous measure into each and handed one to Renzi. ‘Thank you for your candour, but there’s one thing you must accept in me: whatever you think his motives, a higher purpose is being served. I still honour him for his vision of seeing the Spanish humbled and His Majesty’s arms glorious, and while he leads I will think it my duty to follow.’

‘In hazard of your reputation?’

‘If so be it.’

Renzi nodded gravely. ‘Very well. Then although I must beg to differ in my views, I shall say no more.’

‘Handsomely, y’ bastards!’ The boatswain’s ire was directed to the party swaying aboard stores, who had good reason for their impatience – hazing from the first lieutenant and their knowledge that at last L’Aurore would be at sea, on her native element, once more, and their penniless liberty would be transformed into an active sea life.

Kydd watched the loading for some moments. Preparation for the expedition had raced ahead and Cape Town seethed with rumours, but with the Navy as one behind Popham and with the military in high feather at the expectation of a strategic master-stroke there was no stopping the momentum. But what if-

He forced the thought away but it kept returning. What if he and all the others had been gulled into supporting a private dash for plunder? What if he was unwittingly being used in adding his name to a scheme to give it credibility?

And Renzi’s prediction of disaster? Success was based on one central belief: that the inhabitants were so disaffected by Spanish rule that at the appearance of the expedition they could be relied on to rise in rebellion and together they would prevail. A dangerously simple presumption – and the only word they had to back it was that of Popham’s shadowy Miranda, and Waine, the American trader.

Were they sailing to catastrophe? The more he considered the possibility the more uneasy he became. How, a world away from the South American continent, would it be possible to gauge the mood of that population? It had to be a risk that-

A thought came to him. The artist up on Table Mountain. What was his name? Serrano, yes. He was some sort of recent exile from the region and no doubt he could tell him the truth of how the people felt.

‘I’m stepping ashore for a space, Mr Gilbey. Call away my barge, if you will.’

In the autumn greyness there was no likelihood that the artist would be up Table Mountain but he had the man’s card. ‘Vicente Serrano’ at ‘150 Buitengracht’ – not a smart address: he seemed to remember it was the area at the edge of the old part of the town.

The artist’s place of work was a shop with a powerful odour of pigment and oils, dust and canvas and a diverting array of finished works around the walls. ‘Mr Serrano?’

He appeared from behind an easel, wiping a brush. ‘El capitan!’ he greeted Kydd, when he had recognised him. ‘My honour! Can I do you service, sir?’

‘I’ve a need for ornament in my cabin, Mr Serrano. I was thinking of, say, Table Mountain from another view. From Blaauwberg strand, perhaps? A capital sight indeed!’

‘Would thees be in nature of commission, sir, or th’ ready found?’ Serrano’s deep-set dark eyes were unsettling in their intensity.

‘Why, if you have something ready, of this size, perhaps.’ Kydd indicated a modest landscape.

The artist crossed the room and selected a painting. Kydd noted the short, stabbing strokes that contrasted with extravagant sweeps across the scene to arresting effect. ‘Er, yes, this will do. What is your price?’

In rixdollars it was little enough. ‘Um, do you enjoy to live in Cape Town, Mr Serrano, you coming from so far?’

‘Ees home to me, now.’ He wrapped the painting, drawing the string around it and cutting it off.

‘And here we are, both in the southern hemisphere – it must be autumn as well in Montevideo. Is it so cool and windy there?’

‘The same,’ he answered, without further comment. ‘Your painting.’

Kydd tried another tack: ‘You said before that the Spanish are making trouble for you. Does this mean you will never return to South America?’

His gaze piercing, Serrano replied slowly, ‘Not never. One day . . .’

‘Yes? Do you mean to say that if the Spanish are . . . overthrown in some way you will be able to return?’

‘How they be overthrown? By we? No es posible.’

‘Tell me – are there many as you, who would take joy should the Spanish be replaced by . . . others?’

‘Many – many! An unspeakable herd from all the town, all the country will give praise for thees! Old, young, ever’one – if they’s porteno, they want! Any give to them, they bless for ever and ever!’

‘Then it will not take much to start a rebellion to throw out the Spanish, I’m thinking.’

But Kydd saw that Serrano had retreated into himself. He turned to go, just catching as he left, a ferocious whisper: ‘One day – one day, these peegs will taste the people’s justice. Only then we be free.’

Kydd walked slowly back to the boat. There was no doubting the passion of the man. It seemed it would take little to spark a revolt, and in a town the size of Montevideo or Buenos Aires even a small proportion supporting a rebellion would start something near impossible to stop.

But there was still the question of Popham’s motives.

Was it credible that he was manipulating others for his own venal cupidity? In effect employing His Majesty’s armed forces for personal gain, to make a grab at the fabulous source of the Spanish silver before retiring with fame and wealth? All Kydd’s dealings with the man to date made him rebel at the thought – and as well, why was Popham taking such trouble to attend to the securing of a strong foothold and the opening of trading links? This didn’t sound like the action of a freebooter on a quick raid.

Yet Renzi had painted a very different picture, one of a man who took chances, was comfortable at the boundaries of moral conduct and dangerously plausible. Popham was intelligent and clever to a degree – were these merely tales told by lesser men against the gifted?

No: there was no going back – he would be loyal and supporting to the commodore until and unless he saw with his own eyes that Popham was unworthy of such. Resolved in his decision, he came aboard L’Aurore and energetically set about completing preparations.

When the expedition sailed, the sulky autumn wind had settled to a low, hard blow, keen and cold and directly from out of the west. It kicked up white caps that rode and seethed on a long swell that had made taking aboard last-minute stores and water a wearying and dangerous effort. Kydd’s experience in the region told him that there was every likelihood it would get worse before it got better.

There had been no question of riding it out until it improved. Apart from the risk of losing their opportunity, every hour they lay at anchor the troops would be consuming vital provisions and water. These would be needed in the thousands of extra miles occasioned by the northerly arc that their course demanded to fall in with the big driving winds of the open ocean.

‘Shorten sail when two miles to wind’d,’ Kydd ordered, feeling the lengthening restlessness of the deep Atlantic coming in. Detailed off as shepherd to keep a wary eye open, he took in the magnificent panorama under leaden skies of the audacious little force setting out on its voyage to destiny.

There were the two sixty-fours – the flagship Diadem with Raisonable and then the fifty-gun Diomede recently joined in line and forming the core of the fleet, with the cockle-shell Encounter gun-brig falling in astern. The transports sailed loosely on either side – only five compared to the many that had accompanied the Cape Town expedition but aboard were the doughty Highlanders of the 71st Regiment, who had made such a name for themselves at Blaauwberg. The frigate Leda was hull-down out to sea on distant watch, and Narcissus was manoeuvring to take up the rear when the fleet had properly formed up. Their own station would be to range far ahead and fall back the instant any enemy were sighted.

It was a magnificent undertaking – or insanity: a tiny force to set against the vastness of a whole continent, smaller by far even than the one that had so narrowly seized the Cape. But the circumstances were very different, Kydd reminded himself. Here they would be welcomed as liberators, the catalyst that would set Montevideo aflame with rebellion and end Spanish rule for ever.

That they had left before formal orders had been received was of concern, of course, but once word of their bold stroke reached Pitt, the prime minister who had steered England successfully through the worst that Bonaparte could do and who had originally agreed to the expedition, then it would be quickly made up with the Admiralty.

This was precisely what the exercise of sea-power was all about. Kydd’s heart lifted. ‘Sheet in – we’re off to war, Mr Kendall.’

L’Aurore responded with a will, and as the others came round ponderously to their course of north-west by north he went below to deal with the inevitable paperwork that the purser had laid out for him.

During the morning the wind had hardened and backed more to the south, the sure sign of a blow in these parts. After his customary turn around the decks at dawn Kydd stopped to peer out at the distant sails of the fleet. All were down to topsails and making heavy weather of it, tiny bursts of white appearing continually and the ships spread well apart. He felt a pricking of sympathy at what the soldiers must be enduring packed below, and then remembered they themselves had forty-five redcoats and a dour lieutenant squeezed on to their single mess-deck. But there was nothing he could do; they would all have to live with it.

He went to his cabin for breakfast. Renzi was at the stern windows, braced in a chair and reading the last newspaper obtained in Cape Town.

He looked up and offered, ‘Buenos dias, Senor.’

‘Er, I didn’t quite catch that, Nicholas.’

‘Oh – um, como es el clima. Vamos a tomar el desayuno?’

‘You’re vexing me with your classical lingo, you dog!’

‘Not at all. I’m learning the Castilian of Cervantes and Mendoza, that noble language of far Hesperia.’

‘As I said.’

Renzi sighed. ‘It is the Spanish, dear fellow, which you will have cause to require before long, I’d hazard.’

‘I suppose so – the prisoners, of course.’

‘Or worse.’

Kydd lifted his chin defiantly. ‘If you’re not to be warm in the cause then I’d thank you kindly to keep your opinions to yourself.’ He caught himself and then asked, ‘Er, but why . . . ?’

Renzi adopted a pained expression. ‘In all conscience there’s little enough I can offer to my friend at this time.’ Before Kydd could reply he added, ‘And then again, the acquiring of another Romance language is always to be applauded.’

This brought a grin from Kydd. ‘I thank you for the thought, m’ friend. It could be damned useful at the capitulation.’

‘Er, yes. So now you are safely to sea on this . . . crusade, shall you wish to know the latter adventures of Il Giramondo? I rather fancy I’m in a flow of sorts and am quite exercised to know if others do see it as I.’

‘Why, er, I’m rather pressed at the moment, old chap. I will when I can, never fear.’

The day wore on, the unremitting wind bringing a dirge-like drone in the rigging and reefs in the topsails, with an uncomfortable corkscrew sea on the quarter demanding rolling tackles to the yards and an eye to nearby handholds. A pall of blackness lay out to the south-west with startlingly vivid white rain squalls hanging before it as it drifted towards them. Prudent measures were put in train to meet the unpleasantness, for although Kydd was confident that they had won their offing there was no sense in taking risks.

Sail was shortened in conformity with the blow, which was now flat and hard, its whistling moan rising in pitch as spindrift torn from wave-crests filled the air with the tang of salt. Kydd glanced across at the flagship. Diadem was a wet ship, a fluke of design seeing her bows buried in the rollers for much of the time, then reluctantly rising to shed the seas each side like a waterfall. Working headsails in her would be dangerous; it was not for nothing that sailors often called the bowsprit ‘the widowmaker’.

There was no signal from the commodore, however, no order to lie-to or scud; Popham was anxious to avoid loss of time and the little fleet kept on course, the winds nearly abeam. In a way this was merciful for while they were still under sail the force of the blast was dampening the roll, but things could change quickly.

And not only for the worse: it was just as conceivable that they might be crabbing across the worst of the gale to emerge to calmer conditions the other side.

‘Life-lines,’ Kydd ordered, before leaving the deck to Curzon.

It was a customary Atlantic gale of this time of the year but the knowledge didn’t lessen the hours of moving from hand to hand, the muscle-bunching brace against the deep heaving and the endless vigilance against a violent squall coming out of the blackness of night or a wild wave rearing up to smash, surge aboard and snatch the lives of any whose attention had grown careless.

Morning brought a seascape of white – long combers, spray lazily curling from their crests, the air alive with driven spume and the near horizon a broad blur of white. But it was becoming clear the bluster was easing.

As the forenoon wore on the horizon moved out, and from the mist a light-grey phantom hardened – another ship, one of the transports gamely heading on course with them.

It became possible to allow their soldier passengers on deck, solitary figures dragging themselves to the ship’s side, draped hopelessly as they ‘cast their accounts at the court of King Neptune’, soon joined by others. They were tended with rough kindness by the watch-on-deck but by nightfall there were substantial numbers needing to be shooed below.

There was always the cheerful time after every storm when the galley fire could safely be lit and the first hot victuals issued. Ravenous after days of hard tack and cheese, the seamen wolfed theirs, their captain no less appreciative as his was served after the men had eaten. ‘Rousin’ good scran,’ Kydd mumbled to Renzi. ‘Never thought I’d lust after a hand o’ mutton so.’

His friend dabbed his mouth with his napkin. ‘The very pinnacle of the art,’ he murmured in satisfaction. ‘As it-’

A tentative knock broke in: it was the master-at-arms, his usually impassive features creased in bafflement. ‘Sir, we’s got a bit of a puzzler. See, there’s a man bin found as we don’t know who ’e is, like.’

‘You’re not being clear, Master.’

‘Why, when th’ watch went below, an’ took them who was seasick t’ put ’em in their hammick, there’s one who couldn’t say where he slings it. He bein’ sick, like, we got no sense outa him. We asks about, an’ no one pipes up t’ claim him.’

‘Where’s he now?’

‘On the uppers still. Won’t let go an’ get his swede down, so I left him wi’ the bosun’s mate, sir.’

‘You did right to inform me. Ask the officer-of-the-watch to look into it and report, if you please.’

Gilbey was down in minutes. ‘An’ I stand well flammed, sir. It’s our artist cove, the one in Cape Town we commissioned our ornament pictures off.’

Serrano! ‘When he’s of a condition to talk, bring him here.’

Kydd guessed their destination was an open secret and assumed that Serrano had wanted to be at the scene of action when the hated Spanish were humbled. He had gone about it intelligently, insinuating himself aboard, then insisting he was of the other when questioned by either a sailor or the military. It had only gone wrong when he had been laid low by seasickness.

Or was he a spy, ready to slip ashore the moment they arrived to ingratiate himself with the Spanish? It didn’t seem likely, though, not with the depth of feeling Kydd had personally heard.

The weather eased and a wan sun had given heart to the sufferers when the artist was brought before Kydd in the coach.

Shooing out the midshipmen at their workings, their estimates of the ship’s position by calculations, he demanded, ‘Now then, sir. Your actions are both foolish and unlawful. I’ve to decide what’s to be done with you. What have you got to say?’

Serrano was in rumpled, soiled clothes, his eyes empty and slack. Kydd felt there was little prospect of getting much out of him. Inevitably, it meant that he must be held prisoner, fastened with leg irons in the bilboes outside the gunroom, like a common malefactor, until things were resolved.

But there was a defiant stirring, his eyes trying to focus while he croaked, ‘This is heestory. I be there, I see my home free. Libertad para el pueblo . . .’ The words trailed off weakly but there was stubbornness and pleading in the ravaged expression.

‘I understand, Mr Serrano, and you have my sympathy, but this is a ship of war and may bear no civilian passengers. My proper course is to keep you confined until we touch at St Helena and then land you in custody.’

‘No! I mus’ be there! Meester Kydd, you must understand, sir!’

Kydd softened. ‘There is a way. If you shall enlist to serve under English colours I can promise you’ll be there.’

‘I – my family, they are patricios, sir. I cannot.’

‘Then . . . ?’

‘Er, may I not be your interpreter, your man of trust as will talk with los espanoles, can treat wi’ the patriots, what they want?’

Kydd could see times when delicacies of conduct would be needed in dealing with proud revolutionaries and the like, and Serrano would presumably know them.

‘And, sir, while the ship guns do roar an’ your army storms the citadels, as witness I will paint for you such a scene as your gran’children will for ever admire!’

‘Why, that would be well appreciated, Mr Serrano. Let me see . . . you shall be assistant to Mr Renzi, who is my secretary, to perform such duties as he bids you to do.’ This would place him in Kydd’s personal retinue, rather than on the books of the Navy, and therefore answerable to him alone. It would also keep him under eye.

‘You will berth in steerage and mess with the gunroom. Your wages will, um, be decided.’ He went on more sternly, ‘Do mark what I say, Mr Serrano – by so doing you place yourself under ship’s discipline, to obey all lawful commands of myself and my officers. Do you so agree?’

Kydd took a muffled groan as an assent and shortly told a curious Renzi, ‘You may use him how you will, old trout, but he’s mine when we raise the River Plate.’

Soon Renzi’s assistant was another being. Taken in hand by the gunroom steward, he had been instructed in the art of slinging a hammock and his little bundle of possessions had been safely stowed in Renzi’s cabin. His appearance at table provoked good-natured curiosity but he kept to himself, saying little, remaining polite but watchful.

For Renzi his presence was gratifying. At any time he chose he had on hand a Spanish tutor and linguist sparring partner, who was both interesting and challenging to the intellect.

Of a noteworthy family, it seemed, he had been a student in philosophy and letters at the National University in Buenos Aires and, having been less than discreet in his writings, had been imprisoned twice before his expulsion. In the simmering atmosphere of discontent the Spanish had been merciless and he had fled for his life having been caught up in a hotheaded street rising.

‘You are not acquainted with the sainted Locke? Then, mi compadre, for the sake of your soul you will cast in the purest Castilian the paragraphs I will mark out in his An Essay Concerning Human Understanding.’

‘Si, maestro, lo hare con encantado.’