They were all en route to the Port of London and a new life ploughing the Mediterranean; the 'lucky' pick of those spared. London Wall and a change of captors was just a respite on their long road down. They squatted on their heels or lay flat out as the formalities were performed, reflecting silently on utter defeat.
All the names and ages and professions had to be recorded; the more disabling wounds seen to. Likewise, even heretics and galley-fodder required a certain basic feeding and watering and voiding. Some wanted to recant and be shriven, so statements needed to be noted and a priest fetched. Meanwhile, one upped and died on them. He got 'conditional absolution' and then the communal pit.
There were, in short, all manner of things to do. Samuel saw to the lot of them. He saw to everything.
First and foremost he saw that the skilled craftsmen were put to one side. He interrogated them - and none too gently either, with cuffs and cudgel taps. It struck him as important - even as he struck them - that they should start as he meant to go on. He found three adaptable to his needs and set them discreetly by.
They, like the others, were in a state of shock, unreconciled to survival of battle and the rout which followed. There was a certain base level of gladness at just being alive, and growing realisation that there might be more days for them. However, selection for galley service wasn't something you could celebrate for long. When rational thought returned notions of a quick death might grow in appeal. Fortunately, Trevan had caught them at just the right moment, dictating terms in a seller's market. Any argument or pleading being answered by a musket-butt, negotiations went very smoothly.
Samuel spent a guinea he couldn't afford arranging a colleague's blind eye at the right moment. Devotion to duty suddenly forgotten, he then left early with his catch.
Renting the workshop in the most sordid part of Whitechapel (which was saying something), and buying just the bare minimum of tools and raw materials, had taken everything Samuel could scrape together or borrow. Father Omar's invested gift was used as security for loans. The rates of interest arranged were monstrous, leaving little margin in which to sink or swim. He had nothing spare, not even enough to buy tomorrow's breakfast, but didn't mind in the least. Tomorrow would have to sort itself out: Samuel Trevan was arranging the longer term.
He shoved the former - and future - musket-makers into their new home.
‘This is where you'll work,’ he told them.
They looked at the Spartan benches - and the leg-irons and coils of chain attached.
‘Hard,’ Trevan added. Needlessly.
U[U[U[U[U[U[U
cHAPTER 10
To: Samuel Trevan Esq. Proprietor.
C/O St Philip Howard Firearms and Munitions Manufactory.
Whitechapel.
The eastern part of London.
In the County of Middlesex.
From: Mr Melville Farncombe. Surgeon and medical practitioner.
Galen House.
Keere Street.
Lewes.
In the County of Sussex.
Dispatched this Wednesday, the 23rd day of March, the year of our Lord 1994.
My dearest Samuel.
Your recent sojourn in Lewes and attendance on my family was, as always, most welcome. My lady wife directs that I convey her effusive thanks for the bolt of Cathay silk and Kernow rose plants. Both will add to the adornment of the Farncombe household very shortly I am sure.
I also write to communicate the intelligence that, two weeks hence (Deo volente), Mrs Farncombe and I will celebrate the 25th anniversary of our nuptial day. Accordingly, mindful of G*d's blessings, we intend to mark the occasion with a Mass at St Pancras Priory Church, followed by a small social gathering 'at home' for family and close friends. It would add to the pleasure of our day if you should find time to be present.
In fact, I shall speak plain. We have, I feel, danced long enough around a certain matter which is, I am now satisfied, the closest to your heart. What, therefore, could be a more timely and auspicious moment than a commemoration of the sacrament of marriage to resolve said matter?
It is, of course, for you to speak first, but you may entertain a degree of confidence in obtaining a sympathetic hearing from me.
My daughter Melissa is at Lyme visiting her maternal aunt and taking the seawater cure. Were she here I have not the slightest doubt she would send you her warm regards. As do I.
I have the honour to remain, young man, your good friend:
Melville Farncombe
Surgeon of the Ancient and Proficient College of St Luke, Winchester.
************
‘So, Samuel, what is it that is so special about these... rifles?’
Mr Farncombe didn't really want to know that: he was actually enquiring where Trevan's wealth came from. That was just his nature - and also fair enough. The man was thinking of investing his only daughter, so any contract had first to be exhaustively quizzed. The fruits of Samuel's wealth: the clothes, the confidence, were only too evident; but, it being such a suspiciously swift grown thing, the roots needed a little probing.
‘The answer is, sir, that they cost more!’
In company, Samuel was careful to speak slowly. His elocution tutor said a modicum of care should soon mop up the stubborn churl tones and earthier bits of vocabulary. This caution with words gave him an air of profundity, and married to the ever sparkling innate force, it was a great success - just like Samuel himself. People listened to him. Even Lewes people listened to him. They hadn't been there to witness Samuel scouring the ruins of Reading for salvageable gun-stuff; him going hungry whilst hiring and terrifying Whitechapel's lowest of the low - the poorest Hebrews, stateless Moriscos, and Croats fresh off the boat. They hadn't seen him scrabble around sinking his teeth into those first, elusive, £s, just to keep things going and buy himself out of the Watch.
‘And,’ he added humbly, ‘so long as people will pay more for quality, then both sides prosper and I'm content.’
The little group around him nodded and smiled at so much wisdom atop such young shoulders. Business and tradesmen of the higher sort, they well appreciated the joy of pricing high to an avid market.
‘The explanation,’ Samuel continued, when the approbation ceased, ‘is that they shoot better. One doesn't pretend to understand it though. I dare say my newest apprentice knows more than me - leastways he'd better if he wants to keep his position! No, gentlemen, I merely sell the finished item. One gets by....’
So they'd heard. Again they signalled approval. A bit of humility from this youngster was very welcome. Rumour said he was a man of account in his own world, an employer of hundreds and worth all his audience put together. There was the potential for older, less lucky, noses to be put out of joint by that. For a few decades it would still be open for the ill-disposed to say 'at least they knew where they came from - and it wasn't from some orphanage or the ranks of the London Watch either.’ Samuel was painstaking in not giving any cause for that. The first few steps of the social ladder were the least forgiving of slips.
‘I'm told,’ he said, seeing the audience were still waiting for more, ‘that there's something to putting seven three-quarter turns down the barrel. The bullet flies further and more true by virtue of the spin imparted. Though quite why that should be so....’
Mr Farncombe prided himself on his keen local patriotism and knowledge of Lewes' more famous sons. Samuel had feigned ignorance with that in mind.
‘The blessed Isaac Newton pursued that puzzle whilst resident at Southover,’ Farncombe informed them. ‘I recall some treatment of it in his 'The Atmospheric Mechanism' - it's little read now of course, overshadowed by his works of revelation.’
No one was in a position to dispute it. With 'magic' readily to hand (or for hire) few inquiring minds - and none of the more practically inclined - took much note of 'the lower sciences'. Interest in them was associated with the well-to-do with nothing better to do. Even the wide ranging intellect of the great Newton
himself, once informed of the 'Universal Ether' in which all things moved and were interconnected, had speedily abandoned study of the merely material world.
Ever after, his 'discovery' was taught, however sketchily, in every sort of school, and all but the shepherding classes had heard of it. Accordingly, vaguely remembered notions of a seamless robe of being, an unbroken linkage between man and the Deity itself, arrived to dampen conversation. They were being listened to, their words recorded, and thus it didn't do to be too worldly-wise.
In the lull, a hired-for-the-day footman accosted the group with a tray of Sussex white wine. Samuel declined, as was his invariable custom. The only alcohol ever to cross his lips was that dispensed at Mass. At all other times he was a strict abstainer. Mr Farncombe noted it approvingly. Life in ‘Babylondon’, where temptation beckoned night and day, and all things went to pot, had left no - visible - stain on Trevan's good character.
‘One hears,’ resumed the owner of the 'Lewes Times & Pious Intelligencer', ‘that you are well in with the military. Guaranteed trade with big spenders, eh?’
‘I have my contacts,’ Samuel confirmed, politely enough but not willing to give the man claw-purchase on a 'story'. ‘They spread as word spreads....’
‘Really?’ asked another man. ‘How so?’
They wanted more and wouldn't be satisfied otherwise. And Samuel was happy to oblige them - in non-specific fashion - till the cows came home.
‘Well, to give an example: a colonel of Foot recently expended his own cash to rifle arm his best company, and achieved great results, so he tells me, in the Welsh bandit country. Similarly, a ship's captain who equipped his marines from me cleared the rigging of a Greenland privateer before it even got to musket range. These people talk amongst themselves of course, and, if you're liberal with discounts, they can be loyal friends to a businessman.’
‘Like keeping the Trade Guilds off your back, I dare say!’ chortled the holder of the local salt monopoly - who had no such problems.
That was a sore point, and doubtless chosen as such. A lot of Samuel's profits went into that particular noisome pit. He'd learnt that even supposedly respectable organisations, half a millennium old and Church approved, could be as rapacious as any blackmailer.
‘What's a Trade Guild?’ he riposted cheerfully - and got a laugh out of it.
The select gathering in Galen House's suntrap orangery had gotten to be most convivial. Midway between the pieties of Mass in the vast priory church (bigger than Chichester Cathedral itself!) and anticipation of a happy announcement to come, people were enticed into edging - just slightly - out of their protective shells. There was ideal spring weather, a bearable number of industrious bees, and unstinted refreshments. This was a good spell, a stable era, conducive to trade, accumulation and long perspectives. They were happily unaware that Charles IV's long reign would end in the 'Commotion Times'. For them, at present, all was well.
‘Love the gig-and-two, by the way,’ said a portly man, a speculator in horse stock from over Glynde way. ‘Always look out for it when you're visiting. Very flash.’
Samuel saw the chiding, protective glance that comment earned from Farncombe. Clearly he didn't like the familiar tone. Samuel rejoiced. It showed he was in.
‘Not too much, though,’ the man swiftly added, mending fences. ‘Befits your new station - lets Lewes folk know the score - like it a lot!’
‘Aha!’
Mr Farncombe had spied a new arrival in the room and suddenly became hyperactive host and circus ringmaster rolled into one.
‘Right! Now, gentlemen, have I shown you all my latest purchase? A square of Roman mosaic pavement lately uncovered at... where was it, Samuel?’
In his campaign to woo the whole family, Trevan had noted Mr Farncombe's antiquarian interests and diligently made himself knowledgeable in the field. In the smarter circles it was becoming almost expected for a gentleman to pursue a non-remunerative hobby. This one suited Samuel as well as any other.
‘Fishbourne, sir,’ he answered, tonelessly. ‘Near Selsey.’ His attention was unmistakably elsewhere.
‘Young Trevan authenticated it for me,’ said Farncombe. ‘Alas, these dealers can be such fakers and rogues. The pattern is near complete over the space of a yard! I intend to mount it on my study wall. Come....’
His cronies and contacts obediently followed, though the horse-trader lingered for a final friendly word with Samuel.
‘I'd sooner look at your latest acquisition,’ he confided softly. The man was known to be a voluptuary; his house as well stocked with human fillies as his stables were with the equine sort. But it was delivered in a fatherly rather than salacious fashion and acceptable as such. Fortunately, he judged his audience enough to forego the intended follow-up about 'which he'd sooner mount as well….’
Then Samuel and Melissa Farncombe were alone - for only the second time ever. A lot had happened since that first encounter in Church Twitten – and all of it directly related. There was a promising symmetry about now risking everything on a sequel.
Previous visits to Galen House had been closely chaperoned, not to mention minutely monitored (as was only proper). It genuinely hadn't occurred to Samuel to attempt anything more venturesome. Whatever his ways in the snakepit of 'business', this was one asset where nothing less than proper title would do.
She was in a summer dress of yellow and blue. Her bonnet matched. He found it hard to meet her glacier coloured eyes. If he did there was the danger of imagining her spread-eagled on his bed - or the floor of the orangery, or anywhere at all right now - in front of him. He couldn't afford that distraction. Otherwise though, so long as lust did not intrude, he was all single-minded and steely. He just wished the erection would go away.
‘Well then...,’ she said. Her voice was deep, always provoking mild surprise.
Samuel couldn't be doing with small talk: he wasn't up to it. Never had been and never less than now. He'd primed himself for this, rehearsed to the point of weariness and polished words till they wore out. Rejecting them accordingly, he’d then hit on pretending he was negotiating a trade deal of infinite import. Somewhere in his London office there was now a decision-tree drawn up, a tangly thicket of contract-breaker evasion detours and multiple fallback positions. He’d not needed to bring it with him: long acquaintance had burnt every tightrope line deep into his brain.
In short, none of Trevan’s rifles had ever been so carefully loaded. And now he instantly forgot the lot.
‘Has he spoken to you?’ he asked her. His tenseness made him sound blunt.
‘Has who?’
‘Your father,’ Samuel snapped. ‘Who d’you think?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
So now they were almost at the precipice; the real deal. One step more and the consequences went on forever. Samuel didn't waver, but strode boldly to the very edge.
‘And?’ he asked.
Melissa shrugged her shoulders.
‘What else can I say? I'm a dutiful daughter.’
She almost never maintained a stare; her wicked eyes usually flitted to and fro. People often grievously mistook her for a nervous type. But not now. She and Samuel locked glances. They couldn't disengage without one or the other somehow losing... something. His insides were knots of ice.
‘That's not enough,’ he said.
The tone was commendably strong - and a fraud. He’d forced himself to speak. There was no need for it; he'd won what he wanted. Yet he also wanted more. Just this one time, in this one case, he desired free agreement rather than a conquest. That wish was overpowering. He'd offered his throat to fate's razor the once and survived. Now there had to be a second pass. Utter ruin started its run-up.
‘Isn't it?’ she shot back. He didn't know if that was a real question or if she was playing with him - whilst she still could. He'd have his revenge, he swore it.
‘No, not enough,’ he said. ‘Not for me. Not in... this instance.’
Melissa nodded gr
avely and looked down, breaking the confrontation. Samuel felt like a bull with a musket, or some thick-fingered giant fumbling with delicate clock innards. The pit was calling to him and he imagined what life-long descent into its blackness might be like. Falling for ever and ever. Into absolute cold. A tomb before the tomb.
Melissa was looking at him again, but this time he couldn't meet her gaze.
‘I assumed you knew, Samuel.’
He shook his head: it occupied years.
‘Obviously not. Humour me.’
Melissa smiled.
‘I fully intend to, from now on and forever. You’re for me, Samuel: I’m for you. Father pushed at an open door. I'd far rather have a gentle man than any gentleman....’
He felt... nothing, surprisingly - but was confident the full carnival and fireworks would arrive in due course, once feelings fought off the paralysis of fear.
‘I... I shall always be careful,’ he said, reaching out to take her small hand. She consented to it. ‘And kind. I shall always be kind - to you.’
************
He'd added those final two words because he was in many ways an honest soul. Samuel knew full well he couldn't promise to be kind to everyone. That hadn't always been possible in the last few years: nor was it the way of the world, whatever its Creator might command. It would be enough - and more than most ever attempted - to be continually kind to one beloved at least.
He drove back to London at the crack of dawn. The April day rose especially golden, to Samuel's eyes anyway. It wouldn't last, this suffusing of the world with glee, but he made the most of it. At East Grinstead, en route, pausing to dine, he gave a ragged Walsingham pilgrim a guinea. Enough to get him there in lordly style!
In Whitechapel that free and generous spirit had to be put back in the box to await more suitable surroundings for an outing. There were production targets to be checked and slacking to be sniffed out. He’d hired some good foremen but things only went at their best when everyone felt the terror of his breath on their necks.
The Two Confessions Page 7