by Jan Needle
“Where is your master?” Gruff, but kind. The child of Africa did not reply. “Don’t tell him — nay, that’s no matter.” Sam’s voice dropped away, and he pulled the curtain back across. There was a bottle on a table, half drunk, which he picked up. To Will he said: “Let’s go outside. The air is pleasanter. Poor lad.”
The moon was setting, but the stars were out, the clouds completely gone. They leaned on the rail, lords of everything, and watched the water flowing black below them. Will told Samuel of his feelings when he’d struck the man, of the months of brutishness he had endured on the Welfare. He had had to do it, he had known he had to, because the man would have killed or crippled him. And then the man had smiled.
“Oh, Sam,” he said. “It is so impossible, this question of good men and bad. Once I believed all were evil, all the common people we had foisted on us, then I learned that was not so, at all. Then mayhap I went the other way, but then again…”
He stopped, and Sam, instead of helping him, drank deeply from the bottle’s neck.
“And then he smiled,” said William. “I saved my life or eyesight, and I smashed his mouth, and he was amused by it. We burst in there like dervishes, and they enjoyed the roughhouse. We were there to rob them of their liberty, but — ”
Sam interrupted.
“But they escaped. Surely no wonder they — ”
“Not all! We took seven to the hulk. Seven men were put in chains by Coppiner. And the ones who did flee might not have done if we’d been luckier! God, Sam, that man has lost some teeth and blood! To what end? For what purpose?”
Sam let the passion take its course. He took another drink. Then he wiped his mouth and tossed the empty bottle overside.
“I doubt the seven men in chains will be there after their breakfast,” he said, drily. “You don’t see it, do you, yet? The young one has a passport or I’m a Spaniard. The others are too old or useless to bother with. They were in seamen’s clothes though, and could have scuttled like the rest if they’d been minded to — perhaps they need a ship on account of aged or infirm. At least they’ll get a bounty, if they volunteer; who knows, Captain Anderson of the Claris might even pay wages up in front, it has been known, it is the law.”
Tiredness and drink had William fuddled.
“Are you saying…?”
Sam gave a snort.
“I’ll say this, friend: we have to get a certain tally, or Lieutenant Kaye in his new-found smartness will have our balls for baubles. Sometimes, as you’ll find soon enough, Press work can be vile and bloody and abominable. When we get the chance, let’s play like Christians, shan’t we? The one man we hurt tonight was smiling, so you say. Well, very good, say I.”
On which note, Sam suggested — a piss into the river, and so to bed. Which they did.
TEN
It was gone midday before the Surveyor General arrived at Langham Lodge — much trouble on the road from London, he told Sir Arthur over a glass of tea. The day was fair, the double windows open to the rolling lawns, and gentle breezes blew. It did not take him long, however, to notice his host’s state, and to comment on it. They were not close friends, but had had dealings over many years. In one way, Sir Peter Maybold was responsible for the rise of Charles Yorke within the Customs service.
“Fisher,” he said, “now spit it out, man. What precisely worries you? I should be surprised, in fact, if you had heard from our friend Yorke.”
This was disingenuous, and both men knew it. Sir A had sent express to Customs House the day before precisely because he had heard nothing, nothing for days. Which meant he had expected to. He stared at the florid face across from him with a little perturbation.
“Let us not beat about the bush,” he said. “Yorke is my nephew. Whether I am meant to know or not, he and Charles Warren are on a secret mission in Hampshire or the Hampshire/Sussex border. They passed through here on their way down, and I have had intelligences since. I have not dragged you all this way upon a whim. Please take the matter serious.”
The fat man had been cold in his carriage, a problem with breeze through the bottom board across his stockinged shanks. Now, with tea in hand and Sir Arthur’s keen eyes on him, he started to get hot. He blew his cheeks.
“Hhmph,” he went. “I take it bad in you you do not think I am. Blood, I would not traipse all down here for anyone, you know. On a horse it’s bad enough, but I’m too fat for horses now, except across the park. I can’t tell you nothing, sir!”
Petulant, Sir A observed. His heart sank. Maybold was Surveyor General of the Riding Officers, but it was a grace and favour rank in many ways. His wife Laetitia had young lovers, it was held, and so Sir Peter dabbled in his offices to keep his mind engaged, instead of leaving all the hard business to his juniors, more competent by age and brain. On the other hand, if he knew anything, it should be winkleable, so to speak.
“I beg your pardon,” he replied. “Forgive me, Maybold, I do not mean to be insulting. You know my feelings on the wicked trade, you know it touches me both as a merchant and a man. Indeed, you know the debt I owe you for the hand you have put behind my nephew, the fillips you have vouchsafed him in his calling. Of course you take it serious, and I am truly grateful. Your perception, sir, was exactly nice: I am beside myself with worry. I beg you; reassure me.”
The fat pink face was wreathed in smiles. Sir Peter thrust his chubby legs out, nodding. As he did so, he shook his jowls.
“I was right, you see. A good judge, is my dear wife’s opinion. But Fisher, I really cannot tell you anything that you do not — naughty, but I’ll forgive you! — that you do not seem to know. Let us say that I confirm for you that the Charleses Yorke and Warren are “under the cloak” on this one. Well, if they are, then what of it? They’ve gone to ground, let’s say, they’ve taken cover. They are both stout men, sir. Charles Warren has for many, many years been acting as a… well, let’s say below the parapet, shall we? Fisher — Sir Arthur — do not worry, sir, I beg you.”
Sir Arthur sipped his tea, and tapped his nail, and worried. Sir Peter was a foolish man, he thought; but then, what in this instance could he give away? Yorke had spoken of a bold new undertaking, an uplifting of violence being brought in to the Hampshire trade, and said that he and Warren were to win some confidences, get close in with some dangerous, ruthless men. He had also given notice of a “final meeting,” and promised news of it, good or bad. Both men had horses at the Lodge — Warren was quite mad for horses — and papers, too, and spare clothes and everything. If they failed, they’d said, they would retire here — a place of secret safety — to regroup.
All this he thought about, but did not say. After some long moments, he tried another tack.
“Sir Peter, you are an honourable man, and I count you as a friend. My feeling is, your men are overdue. They marched into danger and — for whatever reason — they have not come back. The Collector at Portsmouth is not unknown to me, nor is the man at Chichester, and I have other people further west. I must tell you, I will contact them.”
The eyes narrowed in their fat. Sir Peter Maybold sighed. He made a gesture of acceptance, which meant, Sir Arthur guessed, that he would learn little going “directly to the servants,” so to speak. He dropped a name.
“Lord Larcher has his nose in every pie down this neck of the woods. Especially when it comes to Customs business. Perhaps if I asked him? We have been… very close.”
It was a lie. Embarrassment as blackmail was the ploy. Lord Larcher was a model of vapid indiscretion, whom Sir A had only ever heard of, never met. He’d heard, specifically, that he had rogered Maybold’s wife. Yorke, much amused, had told him that. The eyes slid downwards, to the chubby lap. Sir A said quietly: “It is not a lot I ask. Reassurance would be the best of it. But if they have gone missing… well, that would have to do. They have gone missing, have they not?”
Sir Peter Maybold sighed once more, more heavily. He nodded, and his eyes were sad.
“We have by no means
lost our hope,” he said. “Charles Warren is well versed in this life, very well, and Yorke — your Charles… well, he is stout indeed, a stalwart officer. We have brought in men from Dorset and the Isle of Wight, we have informants, we have people on
the seek. I may guarantee, in two days or three, well…”
He stopped. Outside they heard a bell, a small bell, tinkling. It was a signal from Mrs Houghton to Sir A that a luncheon was ready, if he should want to share it with the visitor. Sir Arthur’s heart was heavy. Guarantee what, that was the question. Just what could Maybold guarantee? He did not wish to share his food with him. He wished him to begone, begone and do some good for Charles and Warren.
“There is some luncheon, sir,” he said. “Something light and cold. I wish that you could find the time to take some with me? You have been very kind and generous.”
“Well quickly, then,” replied Sir Peter. “I must stir myself betimes. But Fisher, let me promise this. I will keep you in the picture, if I can. Indeed I will, sir.”
“You do me honour, sir,” Sir Arthur said. “My gratitude is boundless.”
*
The Biter, when Sam Holt and Bentley had arisen that morning, was little changed, and little like a fighting vessel, still. When Kaye returned before the forenoon watch was ended, she swarmed with dockyard men, while Taylor and his seamen worked desultorily at shipkeeping tasks the two midshipmen found for them. Kaye seemed little interested in any progress they had made, and hastened to his cabin and Black Bob. It was not until an hour later, when the men were eating, that some smartness entered in with the arrival from upriver of Swift.
He did not come on board. His men hung on their oars while he spoke to William, the penetrating power of his voice transfixing all on deck. It was suggested that his nephew come with him immediately — put on a coat beforehand — as he had urgent business between the pair of them. William, whose body was for use of his commander, not his uncle, was in a quandary, until Kaye’s door came open to reveal Black Bob, nodding vigorously.
“He’s saying go,” Samuel said, quietly. “Here; your coat. You’ve smudges on your face; wipe ’em.”
In the pinnace, which Swift, he said, had borrowed with its crew, William sat uncomfortable for some while. His uncle’s face was pale, as if from drink, and his mood appeared extremely brittle. William, even after all the years and all the thinking he had gone through, knew that he was afraid of this man, and guessed he always would be. He considered him as relentless, ruthless, cold; and feared the most of all that he had been his hero and his aspiration.
“Well,” said Swift, at last, “how do you find your new ship? You have settled in?”
It was a loaded question, its barbs well hidden. Glancing at his uncle’s face, he could only guess at what the answer should be, to be correct. But he knew, he thought he knew, the high opinion Swift held of Richard Kaye.
“She shapes up, I think,” he tried. “Of course, the dockyard hands are slow, and there is much to do, but — ”
Swift made a noise, dismissive, aggravated.
“She is a tub. She is filthy, slow, and ancient. One good blow and her bottom would drop out, with everybody in her. What of Kaye, then? What do you think of Kaye?”
They were pulling down the river, and the tide was low and slack. The acres of exposed mud, black and green, exhaled a rich and pungent vapour. Christ, thought William. What sort of truth?
“I hardly know him well, sir. He has a very… a very easy condition with the company.”
Slack Dickie. What would his uncle make of that? He caught the stroke oar’s eye, which slid away immediately. But not before Will had sensed a gleam that could be humour. Swift, to make him suffer, maintained his silence.
“Mr Holt, my fellow, rates him highly. He…” Oh blush for shame, he thought. To misuse Samuel so, to play for time. He said, decisively, “Nay, uncle. How should I know? He is well bred, a pretty talker, he pleases their lordships, else how would he command? I have seen him doing nothing that would let me form opinions, and if I had it would not be my place. When we go downriver, when we get stuck in whatever we are looking for, why, then I’ll tell you!”
Swift smiled, for the first time. He was very handsome, in his face and in his body, and the smile lit him like an angel. His eyes were clear and grey.
“Between us, my boy, he needs attention. He is extremely rich, his family is of the very highest quality. He commands that ship because he — ” The grey eyes narrowed, and Will caught their direction. Stroke oar, once more, let his eyes glide away. But Swift harrumphed, and took a different tack.
“No matter. We are heading for a yard now, and more of that later. These men are good men, nephew, but they are not mine, I’ve got the loan of ’em. For all I know they’ve ears that flap like turkey wings, and gobs like seven bells. Ain’t that so, mister?”
The stroke oar smirked, and pounded on. Next bend, across the mudflats, Bentley saw a village and some yards with vessels on the stocks. His uncle nodded, and ten minutes later they came ashore. While the boat’s crew found grass to sit or lounge on — some chasing crabs, barefoot in the muddy shallows — the two of them approached the keel and timbers growing on the slip. It was a vessel of a certain rakishness, or would be. She had a good slope to her stem, was narrow at the entry, and the stern was shaping slim.
“She should be fast,” said William. “But whose is she, sir? May I guess Lieutenant Kaye’s next craft?”
Swift threw back his head and barked. There were men inside the timbers, who looked at them, then returned indifferently to their tasks. Still no one had approached the Navy officers.
“Lieutenant Kaye pays charter for the Biter,said Swift. “She is well matched to his task. Why think you he should want a ship like this?” “Well, sir… Well, you said he was rich, and commanded her because… And then you stopped. If he is rich…”
Swift nodded.
“A fair assumption. But no, she is not Kaye’s, she is mine. Mine and… certain others’. Well, yes, I suppose it might turn out that Kaye will buy a share, but I doubt that. I have other things in mind for Kaye.”
William knew better than to try and probe. His uncle was of uncertain temper, and his affection for his nephew was itself uncertain, now. Swift blew air out from his open throat, a sort of sibilant indication of moving on.
“Oh, my boy,” he said, as if tiredly. “I can’t tell you the half of it, it is not meet at present. Listen — I was a private ship, you know that, don’t you? My frigate was attached to nobody, these eight months I’ve been away. I had a good voyage — you know my meaning there, I trust? — and I amassed a good amount from it. I thought to stay in England for at least a while, to oversee this building among other plans, but their lordships want me at the Straits to join a squadron; so I must go. It has been precipitate, too precipitate, and leaves me with some ends not rove. Frankly, Kaye is one of them.”
He locked his eyes on William’s, almost a glare. This was more like old times, and he felt a tiny tremor of discomfort, some frisson he did not completely understand. Blood will out, he thought disconsolately.
“In many ways,” said Swift, “he is a very fine young man, our Richard Kaye. He does not need the Navy, he has no need of anything for that matter, he is exceeding rich. But he has ambition, nephew, he desires most extremely to be post. Now — frank again — this cannot, at the moment, come about. His father’s name and power is not, for historic circumstances, with the Admiralty. Their lordships have opinions and they cannot, seemingly, be swayed. I have connections, as you know; massy ones. I have heard Kaye described, my boy, as this: a playboy, a fool, and lazy. As feckless, foolish, weak, corrupt. There. What think you of all that?”
This was mischievous, the cue to be amused, which William acknowledged with a nod. There were questions he could ask, but he thought it safer, still, to wait. Swift pulled a timepiece from his fob, flicked it open, then shut and pocketed it all in a movement.
“What
I want from you is this,” he said. “You are my sister’s flesh and blood, if wayward, and you have grown up very cool. Also, I believe you conscientious, with the air and mien and the makings of a seaman. You know discipline, you can make men jump to do your bidding. Listen — this war will not last for ever, do you take my meaning? We must have other irons in the fire, for the peace. Influence. Interest. Power. Those are the vital things, my boy; the vital things.”
No reply to this, because there was none. William composed his face, hoping for elucidation. Captain Swift shrugged impatiently.
“When Kaye is post,” he said, “his rise becomes inevitable. We have shared interests, he and I, I will put it at no greater pitch than that. With our help, with your talents and encouragement, with your backing shall I say, we’ll put some fire in his belly, and some iron in his soul. Then, when he rises, and his wealth is matched by power — why then, he’ll help us in his turn. He will be admiral, nephew. Once on the rungs the way is only up, and his father is a duke who has a million and more. Wars do not last for ever, Will. Do you read my meaning now?”
Bentley did, and it occurred to him, as it had occurred before, his uncle might be slightly mad. But his uncle did have interest in the higher echelons of the service, the highest echelons, and if anyone could get a dough-head promoted above his abilities, then surely it was he. To become an admiral in his turn! The first sea lord, mayhap?! God, thought William, with a sudden chill, why did his uncle feel he needed such insurance?
“He’s not a coward,” said Swift, suddenly. “I would not give a shit for him if so. He’s not a booby even, very much. With good officers, the Biter will do very well. The Press is considered greatly important in these times, and will get more so. What sort of man is that tall one, Holt is it? He seemed not of the very best, more like a blessed pauper than a gent, too damn familiar with the people. I’ll have Kaye make you up over him, if you wish.”