‘Pick that up, taffy!’ shouted Samuel.
From sheep to roaring lion in an instant. Stupid! Bad, indulgent, mistake! The sudden change of tune might undo all.
Trevan needn't have worried. The Welsh racketeer put his puzzlement down to mishearing or the brandy.
‘Pardon, Mr Trevan?’
‘Nothing. It's just... I wondered…. Are you sure the demands won't go up and up? I've heard of such things.’
The visitor smiled down on him. ‘Not with us, boy. We're an old firm - had time to learn. Geese and golden eggs and all that.’
‘Oh good.’
‘If you do have problems, we may be contacted at the 'Arthur' in Newport, just across the water. We are patriots, not blackmailers, Trevan-Seasneg. Value for money will be given if necessary. The rent can go to the same address. Do you understand? I don't want to have and come and see you again. You will be in touch, won't you?’
Samuel's reply could at last contain plain truth, though he had to address the floor in order to mask his grin.
‘Oh yes, Mr Glendower,’ he said meekly, all the while trying to prevent his shoulders from shaking, ‘you may depend on it.’
U[U[U[U[U[U[U
************
ARCHBISHOP OF LONDON'S LIBRARY - WHITEHALL CITADEL.
RESTRICTED
'A BRIEF GUIDE TO SOCIALLY-HOSTILE, IRRELIGIOUS OR IMPIOUS GROUPINGS.
(For the perusal of officers new to his Majesty's Secret Service or fresh arrived in United England from elsewhere in Christendom. Thoroughly revised November, the year of our Lord 2020 AD).
[on cover, in hand-script]
To: The Dean-Temporal's Librarian and Remembrancer's department - and such others as may be interested.
From: The Dean Temporal's National Intelligence Department. 19/01/21.
Dear Helmut.
Do we want this on file? They send it to me every year. Our own stuff is much better informed. Happy New Year by the way.
Yours in Christ (and haste)
Alfred
[below, in another hand]
Dear Alfred.
We may as well I suppose. Copies made and distributed. Thanks. How are Persephone and the children? God bless....
Yours
Helmut. 06/02/21
… RED DRAGONS: the collective term, formally in use since the 18th century, for the armed protagonists of that section of WEST ENGLAND aspiring to independence and statehood. The title is drawn from the formless chaos of early 'Welsh' legend wherein such a mythical beast is taken to symbolise the (equally mythical) nation.
Initially applied to the regular forces of infantry and some light cavalry maintained by the Caernarfon statelet, and then, after its final extinction in the Christmas campaign of 1995, to the irregulars and terrorists who dispute that settlement. Fleeing their pacified 'homeland', the latter came to wield some influence in the southern commercial towns such as Cardiff, Swansea and Newport, as well as extending tentacles further afield. The Hibernian agricultural joint-stock companies were also much disrupted by their activities amongst the bonded workforce. See, for instance, files available on the 1980's 'Gower Rising' and resultant 'Father Oakley's Campaign'.
However, in a dispiritingly short time they then acquired the manner of a criminal conspiracy, and the material wealth that always flows to men unfettered by compassion or fear of Divine judgement. Political activity, aside from the purely rhetorical, waned in favour of the pursuit of profit. Accordingly, for present purposes they are a grouping more of interest to constabulary forces than ourselves.
Nevertheless, a minority faction still adheres in more than just sentiment to 'the armed struggle': sponsoring assassinations and gunpowder-outrages [q.v. The Fishguard Assizes atrocity 2008]. It strives in occasionally bloody feud against the business-orientated majority. If their fortunes perchance improve so as to merit attention, his Majesty's agents then ferment strife amongst them by sowing suspicions of treachery or feigning fraud. By these means our work is generally done for us, and in the directest manner, by knife and by garrotte.
Therefore, it should rarely be necessary to make arrests amongst the 'Dragons' but, if so, be aware that speakers of their own tongue will be required, both for the interrogation and in applying inducements. The names, ages and habitations of all their 'High Council of the Round Table' [our own agents and informants flagged either † or ‡ respectively] are as follows....
************
EXTRACT. The 'DAY DIARY' of The Wisbech and Spalding Regiment of Foot.
… no sign of the boots left for repair with the cobbler ABBOTT in BLANDFORD FORUM and promised faithfully for today. Cornet GRIFFITHS ordered forth to pursue same. ITEM: re hire of pack-horse and provision of bread and beef for GRIFFITHS - £0/10/6d.
Friday 1st August 1997. Embarked on College of Temporal Trade Privateer 'HABAKKUK' and her 2 sister transports to CAER-DIFF / CARDIFF. Rest and then evening's forced march.
Saturday 2nd August 1997. We continued to NEWPORT, arriving privily at 0600 hours, demanding the town gate be surrendered. As General MOTT directed, destroyed entirely were:
ITEM: 1 public house. 'The ‘ARTHUR'. Hung from the Inn sign: 1 publican and 2 impertinent customers.
ITEM: 1 Fire engine. That the townspeople may have even more cause to rue our return.
ITEM: 1 Town fishing fleet, save one boat which hastily set sail and anchored beyond cannonshot.
ITEM: 1 Town cannon, whose crew meanwhile refused to fire on said boat, and who lost an eye each in consequence.
ITEM: Sundry fishing nets, lobster pots and oyster-draggers.
ITEM: The town powder supply, employed upon:
ITEM: 1 Stone and timber Quay. Brand-new built and thus sundered much to the lamentation of the townsfolk.
N.B. The zeal of the attached civilian advisor, TREVAN, was with difficulty restrained. He was for the drowning of the obstinate cannoners, claiming the General's authority. Our Colonel BRAGG countermanded him.
N.B. The separately listed 'DRAGONS' or sympathisers, to the number of one score, were all taken in their beds or seeking escape in night-clothes. They now accompany the Regiment in the provost-marshal's wheeled cage.
Sunday 3rd August 1997. En route to LLANTHONY Camp. Cornet GRIFFITHS rejoined us without the boots....
U[U[U[U[U[U[U
cHAPTER 31
20/07/97. Galen House. Lewes. Sussex.
My dearest, gentle Samuel.
I will not hide from you that Father's rage is unabated. If he should discover our sporadic, covert, correspondence, I would have to box with him to save my hide from his riding crop. At least Father Omar is no longer implicated in our intercourse, for I have a new channel to you. Our scullery-maid (who terms herself a ‘romantic’ and thus my ally!) now takes these missives to the post in South Malling where she nightly returns home. I should not mock her simple presumptions, for she risks her position and reference on our behalf. When things are aright again we must see her well rewarded....
... the deceptions and now outright lies I must employ against father rend me, Samuel, for I would have you believe that he is at heart a kind man, and by nature the source of half of what I am - which you ever tell me you so admire. He now proposes alternative matches, which I must, of course, decline. That little sweetens him to your memory, for he hears, second-hand, the gibes against me of 'old maid'. But let such sour souls flap their tongues: I shall not be the one to break our understanding. Be assured I nightly fall to my knees and pray for some miracle to change minds and circumstances. If only you would unclench your heart to copy my example, it might be that our joint prayers would be answered.
... Father Omar has been unwell, for even a giant must submit to the afflictions of age. But rest easy since he is now recovered and almost fully himself. The orphanage gateman, who well recalls you, says he will still continue to hold your letters to me for my collection. And since I speak of those, I must charge you that of late your news is sparse. I gain no ide
a of what you do or how you fill the hours. Be sure to keep busy (innocently so) lest idleness tempts you into bitter and angry thoughts. Write more often and tell me what you do.
I await your obedience to my command.
Your faithful love, Melissa
************
The weather had held for him; it was a lovely day to be on the beach.
Samuel hacked at the quay with zest, imagining the faces of his enemies below each pickaxe blow. Red Dragons, Mr Farncombe, His Holiness the Pope, and a host of others all got it in the mush as the hole grew wide enough to take a barrel of powder.
He was just one of many such workers in a line down Newport beach, right to the water's edge. Invisible but very audible teams mirrored the work over on the other side of the great stone structure. Though not strictly his place to lend a hand, it was all part and parcel of entering into the spirit of the day. He'd had a wonderful time so far, dishing it out for once, rather than the usual opposite.
The plaintive wails and pleas of locals lining the front competed with the thud-crack-thud of the picks. Smoke drifting from the inferno of the 'Arthur' varied the music with a few coughs. The multitude had been gathered up to witness their quay, that fruit of years of scrimping and public subscriptions, the sure foundation of the Town's livelihood, ascend to heaven in fragments. For General Mott required that all the stories he span end in an abundantly clear moral, told to the widest possible audience.
A renewed keening of distress greeted the arrival of the powder barrels, borne on slings between pairs of bluecoats, and each trailing a prepared fuse. Much the same noise had preceded the destruction of the fishing boats and nets: to just as much avail.
Samuel's request to the Sicarii had caused much consulting of files. What they read only confirmed state suspicions. Even if Newport was no 'Dragon town' it had tolerated their presence. It would do as an exemplar. Traitorous indifference to the eternal struggle between Crown and subversion must be seen to bring only poverty and woe as its reward.
Samuel exercised his self-discipline muscles by not stopping to see the harbour and quay go up. That was scheduled for twilight and thus maximum visual effect. He decided there were better things to do, and besides, the explosion would only worsen his perpetual headache. He'd had his holiday and revenge, his grand getting-it-off-your-chest session. Enough was as good as a feast. His heart felt the better for it even if his head didn't.
He left the foreshore-strand and climbed the not-long-for-this-world harbour steps to where a bluecoat was holding his horse. He felt tiger-ish and on top of things: once again there was no limit to what he might achieve, so long as he put his mind to it.
For starters, there was an important letter to reply to. That shouldered its way to the top of the list. Samuel gave it serious thought.
Dusk should see him at the chartered yacht moored off Chepstow. Then, with a fair wind and using the spur once ashore, he could be back, bright and early, for work tomorrow. That would surprise those relishing a holiday from his all-seeing eye. If he also resisted sleep during the crossing…, yes, he reckoned on having time and energy enough to answer Melissa's loving enquiries.
************
Though he'd searched Newport most assiduously for 'Owain Glendower' Samuel never found him. He had to be content with leaving a note, prominently addressed and nailed to the market cross. It read simply:
'Dear Mr Glendower and Red Dragon associates.
St Paul's letter to the Galatians, ch. 6 vs. 17:
'I want no more trouble from anybody after this.'
Yours, pointedly.
Samuel Trevan Esq.'
Nor was there; not from them.
U[U[U[U[U[U[U
cHAPTER 32
‘So, who did do it then? The Elves?’
The mining engineer fazed Samuel by taking the suggestion seriously. Down in the West Country they had less grounds for flippancy about mankind's secret cousins.
‘Could be, Mr Trevan, could be. The old miners always said they heard the 'knockers' working in hidden tunnels alongside them.’
Samuel passed a hand over his furrowed brow. Then he looked again at the vellum map of the drained levels they'd revealed. The other team leaders and main players gathered in the works cabin wondered what inspiration he'd find in all that blocked progress.
Time and close contact had grafted a name onto the engineer. Trevan thought he'd venture the personal approach.
‘Well, don't think I'm not grateful, Wulfstan; but how much further does that theory carry us? In your vast experience have these 'knockers' ever come out to play?’
His ebbing patience was again depleted by the engineer making a meal out of mere sarcasm.
‘Not face to face as such,’ came the eventual reply. ‘But thereagain I've seen some hellish funny things below ground - like when-....’
Samuel's dinner-plate hand stopped the flow.
‘No. No, you'll oblige me by skipping the anecdotes. Let's keep our finger-grip on specifics for once. Have you ever known anything foul a pump like that?’
‘Nope!’
Wulfstan the engineer didn't appreciate having his wealth of stories disparaged. They were the ornaments to a long career and evidence of his steep climb out of churl-status. Slow-burning anger made him taciturn. The next stage, though still a way off, would be berserk fury and Samuel knew enough to be wary. That was the trouble with educating pure-blood Saxons....
‘Nor me,’ chipped in Jimmy Smith, Trevan's old artisan-lieutenant from Whitechapel days, ‘and I shan't be choked if I don't see the like again. The engine's buggered well and truly. You can't even get people near enough long enough to clear it!’
‘Then what's to be done, Jim-boy?’ Samuel didn't mind putting himself in the experts' hands so long as they kept it short - and cheap. He was to be disappointed in one respect.
‘Give up on it,’ said Smith, surprising all. ‘Give up and 'eave 'er down the shaft: Easton and Amos or no. Stuff the expense. You'll never get the cack and taint off her. I spewed my guts after just a few minutes having a go. It's disgusting: not natural. Pitch it down and put in another.’
Samuel frowned. That was a way out, not a solution. They were no nearer solving how their below-ground pump had come to be clogged with what appeared and smelt and felt like Satan's spittle. Parts of the machine had obscenely folded in on itself like (in both looks and usefulness) a wax frying pan.
He didn't so much mind providing a new secondary pump - Mott and the Exchequer were providing, after all - but it went against the grain to move on without first holding the duff item to account. It felt weak and... wasteful. He hadn't had his full two-penneth out of the old engine yet.
‘But then have the replacement guarded,’ added Jimmy, who knew his master well. ‘Let's not lose that one too.’
‘Hmmn,’ 'agreed' Samuel. It was as much a growl of resignation as affirmation, but the nearest they were going to get. ‘See to it then.’
‘Sorted,’ Jimmy informed the meeting, narrow competence personified. ‘I'll away to Bideford then. I warehoused the makings of one there against such a turn-up.’
‘Pity you didn't foresee it then,’ was all the thanks he got from Samuel. General opinion said Trevan was getting sourer by the day.
‘Still getting the headaches are you?’ asked Jimmy, brightly, unoffended. He had leeway that other employees didn't - but was pushing it even so.
‘Only when I talk to you. Sod off to Bideford before I repent of my generosity.’
Jimmy did so, sadly shaking his head once out of sight. All the redeeming humour was gone out of the boss: the man was becoming mean as well as tough. For a moment it had looked like he'd order another useless go at restoring the befouled engine, just for devilment and because he could. Jimmy pondered on that. In the old days Trevan & Co. was like being on the gash, but now…. Maybe serving the Sultan and a decko at the Sphinx would have been his best bet after all.
Back in the conference, Samuel f
orced himself to consult the fat wizard. The man had been daydreaming the distasteful meeting away, doodling pentagrams and desired dinners with his inkstick.
‘If we might presume to shake you awake, Mr magician? What's your opinion?’
‘About what, Mr Trevan?’
It was deliberate, all this casual disdain. Samuel's only response to it so far was lost tooth enamel, ground off in biting back replies - but the Wizard should have seen the letter to Mott awaiting launch in Trevan's office safe.
‘Concerning the vile and corrosive guck adorning our secondary pump, if you please.’
‘Oh, that. You should specify.’
To his credit, the Wizard had been one of the first down the shaft when the discovery was made. He'd probed and tested the substance closer than anyone, and been sicker in consequence.
‘I can't say,’ he concluded, ‘never having encountered its like before, either in life or in reference. Stomach bile from Mother Earth perhaps?’
‘Then I reckon she spits it dead accurate,’ scoffed Wulfstan. The rest of them didn't know what to make of that fair point. There was the undying rumour that some Saxons still had secret regard for Nerthus, their original 'Earth Mother' goddess.
‘Maybe she does,’ agreed the Wizard. ‘Who knows? I only make the suggestion because there is nothing sorcerous to the substance. It is, hard as it may be to believe, natural - in a rebarbative, unnatural, way.’
Trevan’s fist clenched on empty air. If he hadn’t needed to speak his teeth would have done likewise.
‘And just happens to drape itself in and over my pump and nowhere else, eh?’
‘Exactly,’ nodded the Wizard, firmly, as though Samuel were a slow pupil who'd at long last got there. ‘And before you ask, I did indeed delve amongst the shadows of the recent past in the vicinity. There were only the echoes of our footsteps and hard work.’
The Two Confessions Page 17