by Jan Needle
“Oh dear,” he said. “A magistrate. A magistrate whose wife has rotten teeth. Did she say how far from here? Did she know? Is there anyone would fill that bill, think you, Mrs Houghton? Any rumour?” Mrs Houghton pursed her lips. She was not about to assume the mantle of the local gossip. Sir Arthur Fisher sighed.
“Well, keep them comfortable, if you please,” he said. “Nay, I know your excellence in that department, it is a form of words only. Tell them that they are safe with us, explain that Tony has a dozen men. Oh dear, poor maidens, to have been brought to such a pass. How old, Mrs Houghton? Did they vouchsafe?”
She shook her head.
“The one that speaks, the one that can speak, says seventeen or thereabouts. Knock off a year or two, I’d say. They’re grown, but still quite slight.”
“Children,” said the baronet. “God’s blood, let’s keep them safely if we can. Tell them that, please, Mrs Houghton. Tell them I’ll keep them safe until they are fit to move, and then I’ll transport them safely wherever they might want to go.”
“Which is where?” asked Samuel, oddly. “They come from the north if I know accents. Who will get them home again? You cannot guarantee them that far, sir, surely no one can? You cannot give all people succour in every circumstance.”
It hung strangely like a jibe. Mrs Houghton gazed at Samuel a long moment before she spoke.
“Aye, from the north,” she said. “Hatter girls from Stockport way. They ran off from home as young folk do, and were saved or preyed on by this mountebank, whose name is Marcus Dennett, she believes. Oh, they have folks in London, that is their story, as it most always is. Friends of last resort, if they could ever find ’em! Sir, I will do my best. At the very outside we can keep them safely here. The hurt one may need a surgeon, if her gums go bad; they sometimes do, when teeth are ripped. I’ll go to them.”
When she had retired, Sir A mulled over details of such transactions, such “monetary extractions,” repeating several times that he had come across such awful things before, by hearsay if not in concrete. But he was deeply affected, muttering of “dark times, foul times” distractedly, and grinding his wig down on his skull. Then, suddenly, he turned from the fire to face them, an expression of grim frankness on his face.
“You see, I think I know the man,” he said. “I cannot be sure, but…”
“What? A neighbour, sir?” cried Holt. “But… but surely no magistrate would… He tailed off, reddening. Bentley’s expression remained stolid. Sir Arthur noted it.
“You do not seem surprised, young man,” he said. His tone was peculiar. “Is this sort of outrage rife, where you hail from?”
It was William’s turn to flush.
“I have never heard of such a thing before, sir,” he replied. “Indeed I scarcely can believe it happens. It is only that I…”
He faltered. There was a weight of history on him, that he did not wish to make a song of. His history he preferred kept under boards. It was his, not anybody else’s.
Sam Holt spoke lightly, but somehow he made the words sound like a mild rebuke once more.
“William is a midshipman, sir,” he said. “Younger than myself a shade, but the action he has seen has been a good deal hotter. He was in the Welfare, sir. His uncle was her captain, Daniel Swift.” To lighten it, maybe, he added: “He is a Hampshire man. Near Petersfield. They are not noted, as I’ve heard it, for their bestiality.”
Sir A’s gaze did not falter, but his stance was modified. He nodded gravely, everything explained. He made no comment, for which William was grateful. Over the intervening years, where ships were talked about, the Welfare’s fate was always known, his uncle was a bogey or a hero, nothing in between. Bentley, from interlocutors or acquaintances, craved indifference.
“A Hampshire man,” the baronet responded. “I have a man in Hampshire this very day. Do you have dealings with the Customs down your way?”
Strange question. Down his way? Perhaps Sir Arthur did not know the geography.
“The Portsmouth men, sir? Unfortunately not, it is near twenty miles distant from my house. I… my dealings with the Navy have been rather slight these last years.”
“To say nothing of the Navy’s with the Customs!” said Holt, amused. “You know how well those two fine bodies rub along together! This man, though, sir? Would that be Charlie Yorke?” He smiled at William. “Sir A has a… well, not a son, precisely.”
Sir Arthur nodded.
“I am his uncle, but to me he is a son,” he said. “Sam understands it very clearly. Yes, it is Charlie; he is a riding officer, sir. Or rather, he is down there on Customs House business, he and another man.” A cloud passed across his face. “It is near two weeks since I heard news of them. It is a desperate venture they have undertaken.”
William looked expectant but polite. Sir A shook his head, as if to clear it. There was no more forthcoming, apparently.
“It is a wicked thing, the trade,” he said. “Are you bothered with it, where you live? Petersfield is on the London road, I think?”
Will nodded. He did not want to talk of smuggling; that brought back hard memories, also.
“My father’s house is off the beaten track, sir. We are not bothered by it nearly. It is quite small beer thereabouts, I do believe, being the distance to France is great and the Lowlands greater. Not the wild armies that I’ve heard of to the east.”
“Ah,” said Sir Arthur. But he let the thought die off, as if he’d changed his mind. He cleared his throat. “And why are you young gentlemen along this road tonight? Are you for London or going for the coast?” A smile at William. “Young Mr Holt could tell me more about his engagements but no longer cares to, do you see? Own life to lead, eh Samuel? Own life to lead!”
Samuel smiled stiffly.
“Not a bit of it, Sir Arthur, it is just I have been busy for a month or two.” To Will he said: “Sir A has done much for me, in times gone by. If it were not for him — ”
“No!” said the baronet quite sharply; but his eyes were kindly still. “Samuel, you have made your way, not I. I did my bit when you were younger and had some small need of it, now I’ll hear nothing more. Mr Bentley, Samuel will pass for lieutenant whenever he is called to be examined, and his only course is up. If you are to be shipmates with him, you are lucky. You will never find a better man.”
It was handsome, but Sir A avoided possible embarrassment by begging their presence for a late supper and then a bed. What business, he demanded, could get them out upon the road once more, at this late hour? Nothing!
But there was, and Holt was determined they must go about it. The matter with the maidens had cost a good two hours, and at the very briskest pace, he said, they could not reach London till well past midnight, even given clear roads and no more excitements. Their horses would be rested, they were fed and full of inner comfort from the glass, and they must off. He added, with a strange shyness, that he had collected William from his home to join him to a ship in Deptford, where they would indeed be shipmates.
“Then how well I know you, Sam,” said the baronet. “For I wagered that you’d go, whatever blandishments I tried to offer. You will not take your horses, they are blown, so Tony has prepared two for you from my stable. Young man, be so good as to tug that bell-pull, will you?”
“But, sir, our hacks,” William began, to be silenced with a gesture. He jerked the bell-pull.
“There is a coach-inn five miles away,” Sir Arthur said. “Your hacks can go there in the morning, and you can lodge mine at the Bear’s Paw near the bridge, you’ll go to Deptford down the river, yes? I’ll have a man or two in London in the week, it’s normal traffic in my line. What ship is she? The one you’re going to?”
Involuntarily, the young men swapped a glance, and on the instant Will Bentley understood at least some part of Samuel’s reticence. He did not want to name the vessel because, quite clearly, he thought Sir A would know her and her line of duty. Like William, it now became apparent, he fe
lt it keenly as a sort of shame. Strangely, this reaction reassured Will. New warmth towards his friend-at-arms coursed through him.
However, Samuel did not shirk for long. He turned a clear eye on Sir A, although his lips were tight.
“She is called the Biter, sir. Lieutenant Richard Kaye, commanding. He is expecting us by the hour.”
Sir Arthur Fisher may have looked askance, but William did not know his face with sufficient intimacy to read his thoughts from it. There was a pause though, a thinking pause; then he made a hum.
“Mm. The Impress Service, eh? Well, boys — very necessary, very. These bloody, bloody wars. Samuel, how find you Kaye? I know of him.”
Holt’s answer was slow coming, and Sir Arthur turned a polite look on William.
“I have interests in the ship direction,” he said. “Mayhap Sam has told you?” He chuckled, not with clear humour in it. “I have some certain dealings with the Press, from time to time.”
“I find my captain…” started Sam. “I find him as a midshipman should. We have as yet seen little action. I have been on board of her but seven week.”
“Seven weeks? No action? Hhm.”
“She has been at the dockyard, sir, for some of it. She is… not a young ship, sir.”
“Press tenders rarely are. The Biter was a collier, unless I mistake me. North-eastern built, on cat lines. Big and slow and roomy. Well.”
“Aye,” said Samuel. “Well. But beggars can’t be choosers. Can we?” It had got uncomfortable, but they passed it off. Tony took them to the horses shortly, with Sir A making his farewells from his fireside, tall and dignified and full of kindness and good words for the road. Outside it was dry, although still cloudy, and their outer riding clothes were warm and fire-steamy. Tony had already tied Will’s dunnage next his saddle — his chest was due to come up later with a carter — but before they kicked off he handed each a narrow canvas bag. Horse pistols, with powder horns and balls.
“From my master,” he said, in his country accent. “There’ll be a lot abroad up London way, Mister Sam. You can shoot the buggers, can’t’ee?”
He laughed and smacked a rump. The horses, wistful at leaving home so late at night, set off without enthusiasm.
FOUR
William thought of Deborah, while Samuel thought of God knew what. For the first half-hour he did not even stay close to his companion, making it quite plain that talking was not his pleasure or intent. A pity, William found that, for he was keen to explore the attitude to being in the Press that he figured had been hinted at in Sir Arthur’s parlour. To Samuel, earlier, it had seemed a laughing matter, to be spoken lightly of in the manner seamen had when talking of their ships. With Sir A, though, Will had sensed a touch of shame.
The knowledge that the ship he’d been put down for was a tender had filled him with a heavy gloom, when the news had come. His mother, even, had responded with excuses, and a delighted “la” that had spoken little of delight. His father, with whom William spoke hardly anything on Navy matters, had merely grunted.
“What does it mean?” had trilled little sister Martha. “The Impress Service? The Biter is a fine name for a fighting ship though, Will!” “Hah!” had said his father, quietly. “A fighting ship indeed.”
“Lord, sir!” had said his mother, lightly. “It is a ship! You’re off to sea once more, William. You will make the best of it, as you always do.”
His older sister Lai, who was exceeding sharp, had winced imperceptibly at this, and touched his hand.
“Near waters, though,” she’d put in gently. “If she lies at Deptford, where will you… ply your trade? Surely not far from London River? We will see you home sometimes. Why, perhaps you will even come into Portsmouth. Then we shall all go on the ship and visit him, Martha! Won’t that be fine?”
“What is the trade, though?” asked Martha. “Won’t nobody tell me? It sounds… impressive. William! Lai! Mama! It sounds impressive. A jeu de mot!”
They had laughed, save father, who had left them for his study when the news was fairly broke, and it eased the matter till William, too, could escape the womenfolk to stand at his open window and watch the light across the home copse trees. Later, both girls had sought him out alone, and cried, but not because he was in the Impress Service, just because he was going to leave. Lai, further, because she feared for him. She could still remember her brother before he’d gone to join her uncle’s ship. Bright, bumptious, uncaring and a joy. While he had recovered afterwards, in his bed, she had often come to sit with him, and talked, and talked, and never seemed to mind the lack of answers.
Out of the blue, breaking his reverie, Samuel spoke. He had slowed and dropped astern, with William hardly noticing. He muttered, gruff and bitter, but it came through pretty clear.
“If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,” he said. “And here we are on horseback, eh? What made you of Sir Arthur Fisher, Will? My benefactor?”
There was a pause before the “benefactor.” Holt’s voice was loaded with a type of aggravation.
“Sam, I do not know the man,” said Will, most carefully. “I stood and steamed for him in his fine parlour, but that is all. He is rich, he is courteous, and he is very kind — we ride his horses, do we not? Am I to leap to condemnation?”
They jogged along quite fast. The highway was wide hereabouts, well made, and the blackness of the night had diminished as the clouds had faded, although the moon was almost down. Will hoped they could not be far from London’s villages, at least.
“Nay,” said Samuel, after some thought. “Nay, not condemn him. Sir A is a good man, I believe, a very good one. It is just — oh, somehow he oppresses me, I almost hate him. Beggars can’t be choosers, I said to him just now, and I know he had my meaning. He saved me from despair and poverty, without him I should be a tinker now myself, like that man Dennett, or more likely a cadaver, in an unmarked grave. My father went to Virginia, I have told you that already, I believe. My mother and two small boys died shortly after him, of scurvy or the bloody flux, and I was left with Christ’s, a pauper-scholar and scarce enough to dress myself. One day he visited, not grand but kind, and took me up in some way.” Holt paused, looking across between the horses, his expression neutral. “Not for my arsehole, neither, which is what a lot of gentlemen expect for such advancement. Nay, it was my mind Sir A was after. Let’s say — my soul.”
He lapsed. They jogged. Sir A’s face was not that of a lecher, Will had noted that himself. But the talk of soul he found…
Samuel must have shared the thought. He grunted, half amused.
“Nay, I make it sound like playhouse flummery,” he said. “Sir A was lonely, true, he is a lonely man, but he seeks to help young men, not have them, in whatever way. He has made a habit of it, I cannot find a better word instanter. Three or four have benefited, and some are easier with it than I. Most, indeed, I guess. Perhaps I should feel shame about myself, I cannot tell for certain, but I find it… hard. I want to be my own man, Will, not beholden. So I play the ingrate, refuse to see him almost unless forced, go against his wishes and advice. And end up — off my own pig-headedness — in the Impress Service, which the baronet so dearly, clearly thinks despicable, as who does not, these days?”
To this line, William could say nothing, when denial or acceptance equally would cost his dignity. Samuel spoke plain, and Samuel accepted the Impress as an inferior situation. Will Bentley must keep mum.
He did say, “Why so lonely, though? He is rich, his house and lands enormous. Why bother with young men at all, indeed? We’re ingrates all, if you believe my father; it is in the bone!”
The jest eased him, but Samuel stayed dour.
“He had three sons, all dead years ago. He is a shipper, his wealth comes from the East, he is connected with John Company, I believe. One day he sent his sons out to Batavia, a passage from Calicut, and they were dead within a week, from the ague. Then three months later, when she heard the news back home in Langham Lodge, his wife
went, oh horrors, very quickly, not above five days I think. Mrs Houghton, the housekeeper, once named it as a broken heart and who could argue, in this case? She sat there in her room, and gave up food, and drink, and everything. And life.” A pause. “He is a good man, William. I can despise the rich, it was my father’s training, although one day one wants to be up with them, I suppose. But Sir A is neither pig nor toad, venality and corruption touch him not. One day, perhaps, I’ll reconcile myself, stop being my own man or trying to so hard. But first there’s the Biter, eh? After the Welfare you should eat her, Will! By God, though, she will not make you rich on prize money, nor me neither. Lieutenant Kaye is rich already, so he don’t need to try!”
Samuel’s mood, perversely, had lifted at the prospect of the ship he dearly hated and the service he, like his would-be benefactor, so despised. This time, when Will asked him leading questions, he would honestly respond. The Biter was the sort of ship his sort of officer — men without interest — went to as if by natural law, he said. She was dirty, vile and poky, with a crew so low they would not have pressed themselves, even, if they’d come upon themselves blind drunk in the gutter one dark night. Sir A had known her name by her reputation, which was why Sam had hoped to get out of the house without vouchsafing it. Sir A had known that he must be in her not out of choice, but out of sheer necessity. He should have passed for a lieutenant long ago, and been called to greater things, but he had clashed with the baronet with monotonous frequency when he’d thought string-pulling had been mooted. He was a prig and fool, it served him right to end up on the Biter; there was no argument about it, none at all.
William was discomfited to his soul. And what, he wondered, must their lordships think of him to place him on this ship? He asked feebly: “But if she is dirty, Sam, is there no one who will see her clean? Surely Lieutenant Kaye…?”