by Jan Needle
Bentley said, “They watch Jack Ashdown, too. Have you seen the bruises on his face? I believe that’s them, although Ashdown won’t admit it. What know you about that, Bosun?”
Taylor was dismissive.
“A bloody Irish from the bog,” he said. He laughed. “Christ – just hear me! As was my father, and his brothers too! No, but he sticks to his heathen tongue, and for certain gives them hell in it. Oh, I don’t know. If he is scared of them, he shows it bloody funnily. Maybe he likes to fight. Men do, from County Limerick.”
“Is that where he hails from, Limerick?” asked Holt. And Taylor smiled.
“An Irish answer, sir. If you want him to; then so he does. In fact, I think he came from County Cork.”
At table in the great cabin, a proper meal with everybody washed and back in smarts, Kaye carried on his test of Gunning blatantly. Black Bob, in his deep velvet suit and white silk ruffles at his neck, produced and served up bottles in variety, which Dickie babbled over like a nouveau riche. Fine, they were, of torrid vintage, chosen and laid down for him by his father’s cellar man at home. To start, a crispish white, slightly pétillant in the best French manner, that danced upon the tongue (he said) and cleared the mouth out for each new morsel of awaited food. He conjured up, unwittingly, a vision of one-leg, one-eye Geoff, hopping among his cauldrons while spitting tobacco at the range, but no one laughed. The fish, indeed, was good, straight from the river outside that morning, shit-fed but none of the worse for that.
“Well, John,” said Kaye to Gunning. “You must be sorely tempted, sure? Just one small glass ain’t going to kill you, is it?”
But Gunning, who had been working like a slave all morning, was untempted and untemptable.
“Not what I’m used to, any case,” he said. “Red Biddy was my vintage in the normal run. Washed down with coal-oil, if the notion took!”
“You should be coming with us, then,” said Kaye. “Our new Purser looks like a man who wouldn’t know the difference. Out in the wild Atlantic he’d tease your palate sure. What say you to it, Mr Surgeon? Is this fine blonk to your taste? Or is it medicinal?”
So far the scrawny surgeon, Grundy, had spoken no word, except to grunt a sort of greeting as he’d entered in. He turned his thin face up towards the captain, reached for his glass, and took a cautious sip. He pursed his lips.
“Aye, sir.” His voice was harsh, a little squeaky. “It strikes pleasant enough. In the normal run, however, I eschew the demon drink. I have seen it… it can lead men into degradation. Can it not, sir?”
Kaye eyed him. In fact his eyes glowed with distaste.
“Good Christ,” he said, point-blank. “Thou’rt not a nonconformist, art’a?”
A normal man, thought Will, might have collapsed into confusion under such attack. Grundy did not. The lip-purse was accentuated.
“I believe in our dear Lord, sir, as you and all men must. The wine is pleasant, that is all I know. Pleasant and therefore to be avoided, to excess. You must not think me rude, sir, if I take no more beyond this glass.”
Gunning was in tucks of laughter.
“’Fore God, Kaye! You’ve got yourself a sawbones and a sexton there, rolled into one! Do you preach, sir? A preaching man is good on a long voyage! Give ’em clysters with the one hand, and suck their souls as well! There see, Dickie, that’s your reason I ain’t coming with you! He’d try conversion and I might confess! And then the Lord would strike me dead; he’d have to with my multitude of sins! Next he’ll be blessing biscuits and calling ’em God’s bod!”
“That is Romish, sir!” squeaked a voice. Not the surgeon’s, though; it was Rex Shilling, midshipman. His cold grey eyes, for once, were hot with anger, his pale face reddening. “Mr Gunson, or whichever way they call you, this is a Christian ship, and an English one! My kinsman, I am certain — ”
He was cut off by Kaye’s sudden movement and his furious indignation. The captain stood upright in the cabin — and could, so high the refit men had raised the poop above his head — and slammed one large fist down onto the table. Bentley, Holt, and Grundy stiffened, keeping their counsel very close. Shilling gaped, and Gunning renewed delighted laughter.
“Midshipman!” bellowed Captain Kaye. “You do forget yourself! Your kinsman, is it? Your bloody kinsman? I am your captain, sir. My name is Captain Kaye! Do not forget it, sir!”
“And I am Gunning,” boomed John Gunning. “Not Gunson, Gunport, or Gunbreech-hole and wiping paper! Jack Gunning with a gentleman’s commission, brand, spanking new! Romish, kiss my arse; it was straightforward blasphemy! Dick, I won’t sail with you, but will you sail with him! He is a mealmouth nun-fucker!”
Shilling, without permission, stood. Pale to begin with, he was paper-white. He was shaking, and his small mouth worked.
“So now you stand, do you?” roared Kaye. “Who gave you leave, you popinjay? You may sup alone, sir!”
“But he insulted me!” The voice was trembling. “Sir. Captain. He — ”
“Dismissed!” said Kaye. Nobody moved. He waved a hand impatiently. And then he smiled, his anger, it would seem, entirely evaporated. “Go on, Groat, go sup alone. Mayhap Bob will bring you something, if he ain’t learned his lesson of being kind to you. Don’t stand there, sir, just go.”
Humiliation. You could smell it in the air, mixed with discomfort from some of the viewers of the scene. Will noted that Rex Shilling’s eyes had tears in them, nearly overflowing. A little boy, he thought. Fourteen. As he walked out, Gunning laughed again, without restraint, and Captain Kaye joined in.
It was a lubricated do, this mealtime, although both Bentley and Sam Holt held back as far as possible. But each of them had more than they desired, because crossing Slack Dickie in this mood was not good sense. Gunning did though, with humour and impunity, and a familiarity that argued he and Kaye had done much together in the months since they had sailed out on the Press. The harder Kaye spoke up for a certain wine, the firmer were Gunning’s refusals; while Grundy was quite frankly forced. At last, and suddenly, he went white, clapped his napkin to his lips, and entreated, with his staring eyes, to be excused. More laughter rang out as he left, and Kaye later sought to know if he had vomited. Grundy had not.
Gunning, though, had passed a test. When all the food was gone, and he was clearly restless to be back in dungree clothes and working, Kaye put to him a proposition that left his officers exceedingly surprised. He had to go ashore, he said, and do a journey up to Hertfordshire with his two lieutenants. Jack Gunning, if he chose, could stay on board of Biter, in command, and carry on the readying for sea. Gunning, sober as a judge, near blew the window glass out with his laughter, which Will and Sam, though not amused at all, could understand.
“What?” he shouted. “And can I keep Midshipman Pissface with me to dole out Navy discipline and blows? By God, Capting, maybe you should lay off the beggar-brew yourself!”
Kaye said mildly: “Well, you are off it, John, and you have proved it so. Who knows, if I give you this chance of being in command you’ll get the taste for that instead, and come across with us to the West Indies. I know you for a master seaman, friend, and now a soberton as well. You know the ship, you know half the men, you have an exactitude of all that must be done. I shall return tomorrow, or the next day at the latest, and essential time is saved if you should oversee for me. What do you say?”
Gunning shook his head, not in refusal, though. He allowed it to be rather fun, and profitable as well (he hoped; Slack Dickie nodded). The two lieutenants, who were mighty dubious at thought of leaving ship themselves, not least because there was so much that they could learn from this big man, knew better than to carp. They wondered what the hell was going on, and they wondered how Taylor and his boatswain’s mates would take to it. They wondered also, from their sharp experience, how long Gunning’s dry spell would last. He was a man of droughts and tidal surges, and always had been. Mayhap, when they returned, the Biter would be gone, be sunk, or be a floating gay-hous
e or bordello. They wondered also, and most vigorously, why they were off to Hertfordshire with Kaye. It was where his family seat was, certainly, but beyond that, they had no idea. It disturbed them.
EIGHT
The captain, although he still did not put their minds at rest, waxed almost lyrical on the road to Hertfordshire. He had sobered himself since trough-time, washed down, dressed up, and had the little black boy iron every ruffle and smart panel he could find. He wore a fresh fine coat of Navy blue, a brand new wig, a pair of shoes that one could see one’s face in. A boat’s crew hoyed them up to London in the dandy skiff, where a coach from home had come to meet them, and Cox’n Sankey told off two beefy oarsmen to half-lift Kaye across the mud to keep all bright and clean. He did not bring Black Bob to do the normal looking after, and in the coach, in an excess of friendly openness, he told them why.
“This house we’re going to,” he said. “My father’s house, my lord’s. Well, there are servants there enough to pull my boots off, ain’t there? Why bring the little nigger, eh? In any way, Sankey’s up on the box, and he don’t care too much for Bob; he might have tossed him off into the gutter. My Dad, God bless him, might have asked awkward questions ditto, doncha know?”
Bentley shared a glance with Holt. The coach blinds were down to keep them from the common gaze of London, so not much could be seen of the outer world. Kaye belched noisily, and they hoped he would speak more.
“Not awkward, not to be exact,” he continued, after some short while. “But he don’t like blacks around the house, he thinks they bear the mark of Cain. Now Sankey, when a lad, well he was my… procurer, I suppose. You know? Will, your land’s in the country, ain’t it? Walt Sankey used to set the maids up for us lads. I’ve got two brothers, did I say? Both bigger, and both demons for the quim. Same for you was it? Or similar?”
In the shady warmth, both his juniors smiled secretly. My land’s in the country is it, thought Will. Another kind of country, yes indeed…
“Not being rich, I was procured by a friendly milkmaid,” Holt laughed. “Not even vice versa! Since then I’ve paid for it, of course!”
“Ah, the fair Annette,” said Kaye, “Aye, I’ve shagged her too, at Marigold’s. Lovely and skinny, old Annette, ain’t she? Just like a little boy.”
Sam’s smile was a shade less warm. But he nodded, quite judiciously.
“Can’t say I’ve seen it that way, sir,” he said. “But then… well, little boys ain’t never been my bent.” A pause; a moment. “Don’t know what I’m missing, would you say?”
Kaye lifted his wig off and mopped his shaven skull. He sighed.
“They don’t talk back,” he said, “that’s one advantage. Double with Black Bob; he don’t talk anyway. But Sankey don’t approve. He never did back home in Hertfordshire, when we was spunky little kids. Any maid, no problem, no charge, no argument. He gave me all his sisters, one, two, three. But when I got in a hayrick with his cousin Harry, his mouth was like a sucked lemon. He never dared to say owt, though; he wasn’t stupid even as a youngster. I’ll make him pull my drawers off tonight — that’ll show him! Bloody prig.”
Subtle form of blackmail, Will thought. He grabbed a handle as the big coach lurched. The driver bellowed, briefly and obscene. Through a gap in the slatted blind, he saw green fields, and water.
“It’s enough to make you seasick, this contraption,” he said. “It’s like a boat that don’t go with the waves. How long is it? To your country… estate?”
“Oh God, not far,” said Kaye. “Not above another hour or so I guess.” He reached across and dragged the blind open. “A river there. Don’t know it, though I ought to, I suppose. But it can’t be too long. This coachman keeps a cracking pace. Charlie he’s called; I think I’ve got that right. Go it, Charlie, I’ve got an aching arse!”
Sam, who like Will found the motion quite unpleasant, sought distraction. He asked a question he did not expect to get an answer to.
“Why are we going, sir? Good man though Jack Gunning is, ah… well…”
“Well nothing, Holt!” snapped Kaye, but with good humour. “I know what you really mean, and you are wrong, I tell you. In the time since your disaster I have got to know him, and I have not a little faith. We go to see my father in a way not unconnected, and I will wager all I have that Jack will see all well. Without him selling me the Biter — or to their lordships, in actual fact, thus saving me the dollars — this expedition could not have happened, and the pity is he thinks to not come with us. Well, as for that — nay, profit lies out there for taking, and mayhap his mind will still be changed. We are going to my father, Holt, to talk of profit. Wait, and you will see!”
The talk of profit, if in the air, was yet a long time coming. By the time they pulled up the enormous driveway to the house near Ware, the conversation was at an end on any subject. Neither Will nor Samuel, in private, could say they liked their commander much, and his topics outside the Navy and its ships were not ones they would have chatted over in the usual run. Opulent though his father’s coach was, also, it still gave aching rear-ends to men more used to standing up than sitting. Their feelings, as they approached the monumental steps to the front doors, were mixed; with relief at journey’s end uppermost. The reception part, however, made them nervous.
The duke was there, Kaye’s father, with a kind of dowager who was his Lady Ma. A butler and four footmen, and a little girl of twelve or so, called Arabella, though that was hidden in some sort of title that neither Will nor Sam could fully catch. Behind the leaders, trying to be lost apparently, was a tall, skinny maiden that Will thought very ugly, with a big hooked nose and lanky ringlets. Called forward by her father, she looked down at Will’s face with cold politeness, hardly any social warmth at all. She offered him her hand, also, unlike any maid he’d ever met before, and shook his with an extremely solid grip.
“My gracious lady sister, Felicity,” said Kaye, with strange effusiveness. “She… she plays the clavichord extremely well.” At which the long-nose demoiselle actually snorted, unladylike in the extreme, and her father roundly told her off. Bentley, whose experience of high society was small, had to school his mouth firmly to stop it gaping. ’Fore God, he thought, I wish I was at sea! I am at sea!
It was many hours of such discomfort before the purpose of them being there was finally vouchsafed, by which time William was almost desperate to be gone. They endured tea and dainties with the duchess, a tour around the nearer splendours and the ornamental lakes, an introduction to all the many horses, one by one, by Lady Arabella, who loved them more than life and ten times more than humans. Sam, who lied daringly and said he hated them, except with carrots as a roast, was furiously dismissed and went off, unchaperoned, with Lady Felicity amid gusts of noisy laughter. Will, under the iron thumb, watched them striding out like long-limbed cranes with some sort of envy, although Felicity could have been no man’s companion out of choice. Chaperone, he thought. Hah! No necessity.
At last though, the four men found themselves alone, full of mutton and good wine, feet on the fender of a gigantic pile of crackling aromatic logs, supping port and brandy ad libitum, and smoking clays. The duke waxed lyrical about the current wars, in fact the whole succession fought in the Indies in recent years, and the wonderful new tobacco tastes they had brought to “good old England.”
“Even the Cuban snuff I’ve took the taste for,” he said, “although Lady Arabella and her mama hate me for it and say it ruins all me clothes. I sometimes think,” he added, eyes on son Richard, “that we should forget the cane idea and go for Hispaniola. Sugar is to comfort maids and lower orders when all’s said, but tobacco is a solace fit for kings.”
Sam, who found it much easier than Will did to fit in with mighty men (or any other sort, to tell the truth of it) scraped his shoes along the fender rail, and laughed vulgarly.
“Oh come now, sir! We fight the French already out there, and I’m told the Guarda-Costa attack our ships although we ain’t at war
with Spain. If they did join in again with Johnny Crapaud, it would be hot as Hades. According to the captain here, the planters on our islands shit themselves for breakfast every day, and they’ve got a squadron guarding them already!”
The duke was very like his son to look at — bulky, rather clumsy in his build — but his face was keener. He was very sharp.
“Aye, perhaps you’re right, Lieutenant,” he replied. “In any way, they grow tobacco with free labour, not slaves, so I believe. Perhaps the profits ain’t so good, at that. Guarda-Costa. Your accent is correct. Do you speak Spanish? Richard here does not.”
He turned a look on Kaye that Bentley recognised too well; the disappointed-father look. Kaye blinked, discomfited, and Bentley felt for him. It occurred to him there might be hidden depths to Dickie’s disaffection with his family, which might be the reason he refused to use his title in the Navy. He was an earl or marquess, Will had heard it rumoured, but would only use his simple name, eschewing courtly pomp. A great loss to him, possibly, this title he’d been born with: Slack Dickie was quite short of natural advantages.
“A few words only, sir,” said Sam. “More French. They taught me at the Christ’s Mathematical.” He caught the look, half laughing. “Aye, I am a jolly pauper, sir. I was orphaned at an early age; my family went to Virginia where they died. Do I take it you are planning a plantation, sir? Jamaica?”
“Father…” Kaye began, looking anxious.
“Oh fiddle-faddle, Dick! Of course we have to tell them!” He turned to Will. “Gad, sir, what must fathers do with sons? Lieutenant Holt’s a jolly pauper, and Richard is a miserable one. Oh yes, Dick, pauper is the word, for let’s not mince it. You might take money to the Indies, but whose? But mine, sir. It is an act of trust alone that I should risk it with you.”
Will and his gallant captain were both robbed of social speech by this, although Sam still managed half a smile. The duke, aware belatedly that he had been too sore, sought for a softener.