Blood Will Out

by David Donachie

  ‘What is it?’ Cocky asked softly, now kneeling in the tall grass.

  ‘Hawker.’

  ‘Ye sure?’

  ‘I am. There’s a cart with men ahead and a party followin’ too.’

  ‘Out on the hunt for the captain?’ Peddler suggested.

  ‘Not in the dark, mate.’

  ‘Happen he’s in the cart. But where would they be heading?’

  ‘It ain’t goin’ to be hard to find out.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘You must understand, Mr Cottin, Captain Brazier is not on the Downs establishment and even if he was, not being in command of a ship in my area of responsibility, I’m not sure I would know of his whereabouts.’

  ‘Admiral Braddock, he is resident here, is he not?’

  ‘On a temporary basis, yes. Couldn’t leave him to fend for himself, having his place of residence burnt down. Least a fellow salt could do was to give him somewhere to lay his head.’

  A knock at the door allowed for the entry of the clerk Braddock had sent to the guest suite, to see if Brazier was there, who’d returned previously with a negative answer, only to be despatched to the quarters set aside for the lower ranks.

  ‘Found Captain Brazier’s servant, sir, though no sign of the others you mention. He’s waiting downstairs for your visitor.’

  ‘Mr Cottin,’ Braddock said, eyebrows lowered to the papers on his desk, an obvious invitation to depart.

  ‘If I could see him in here, sir? I have some questions to which I require an answer.’

  ‘I think not, Mr Cottin,’ was imparted in a gruff tone, as Braddock began to shuffle said papers, though the sheriff didn’t think this had any real purpose. ‘Wouldn’t be fitting, at all, common seaman in my office. Everyone has their place, what?’

  Cottin responded by standing up and retrieving his hat. ‘Then I can only thank you for your cooperation.’

  The parting got a sharp look from a naval officer ever wary of being practised upon. Nothing in Cottin’s arch expression diminished the deliberate sarcasm, which to him, after a trying day, was appropriate, Braddock having been as helpful as everyone else he’d spoken to, which was to say not at all. His trawl of the drinking dens of Deal, normally in any town a sure source of information, had produced naught. Added to which, he couldn’t be sure if the silence and blank looks to which he’d been subjected were prompted by ignorance or folk being evasive, while any admission of his office seemed to have no effect; he could have been the Cham of Tartary for all being the High Sheriff dented the willingness of anyone to speak to him.

  They would not admit to there having been a riot at all, never mind what subsequently came from the disturbance. Cottin would have been even unhappier had he known what his enquiries set in motion. A message ran quickly through the town, sometimes even ahead of him, one simple to impart and suited to the inhabitants, especially those − and there were a high number − who’d been part of the mob at the torching of Quebec House: ‘Tell the sod owt and the Lord help anyone who blabs.’

  Following the clerk down the stairs, Cottin sensed something amiss by the way the man’s head spun from side to side as he came in sight of the wide hallway.

  ‘I told him to wait here.’ After a confused look, he added, ‘Perhaps he’s returned to his quarters. I’ll go and see.’

  Tempted to say ‘Don’t bother’, Cottin held his tongue, his suspicions confirmed as the shame-faced clerk returned to admit the fellow was nowhere to be found.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have his name?’

  ‘No, sir. But he’s a blackamoor and they’re not numerous round these parts.’

  Walking out through the main doors of the headquarters, into the gloomy dusk, Cottin passed under a pair of huge lamps, fired up to illuminate the portico. Thus, Joe got a good sight of him, being himself well hidden by a pillar.

  ‘Marked you, mate,’ was his conclusion, having no idea who he was: the clerk hadn’t said.

  He’d only been told there was an official waiting to question him regarding the whereabouts of the officer upon whom he attended. To Joe Lascelles, anyone looking for Edward Brazier, outside a half-dozen people known to be friends or well disposed, could only wish him harm.

  Zachary Colton came in from his daily toil, carrying a basket and a pail, to find his patient sat on the cot, head on his chest, with the feet-spread pose of a man needing such to maintain his upright position. The noise of arrival did slowly raise the head, so he was examined by bloodshot eyes, in an unshaven countenance, devoid of colour.

  ‘You should be resting, sir,’ he remarked, as he put aside the items he carried, before taking a lantern off a hook, this opened and lit by a taper applied to a tallow wad, one which was kept going throughout the day, replaced each morning from the embers of the fire or flints if they had gone out. ‘No good will come to you of moving afore you are fit to do so.’

  ‘Who are you?’ was a rasp.

  ‘It matters more who you are, sir. Just as it matters you having a musket ball in your shoulder and some knowledge of how it came to be there.’

  ‘A name?’ was to avoid answering the question.

  ‘Zachary, sir.’

  ‘There must be another?’

  ‘Colton is how I’m known. Few use the one with which I was labelled, the name of the man who first bought me.’

  ‘How do I come to be here?’

  ‘By the Lord’s good grace, sir, which you would do well to thank with a prayer.’ The oil lamp now flaring, Zachary came close. ‘Would you permit, sir, I examine the wound?’

  Edward Brazier did nothing to acknowledge the request. As a wave of pain shot across his back, he dropped his head again, unable to stifle the slight moan which escaped through his lips.

  ‘It saddens me, sir,’ was imparted from above his lowered head, ‘I have no more laudanum to gift you. I had some left, but it was a small amount and soon dispensed.’

  The reply came through gritted teeth, ‘I thank you for what you’ve done.’

  Brazier could feel the fingers gently working their way round the seat of his pain, the lantern placed so close to his flesh he could feel the heat.

  ‘Ugly, sir, for which I say sorry, but I think it is on the way to healing clean.’

  ‘The musket ball?’

  ‘Removed, sir.’

  ‘By you?’

  This got a wide smile and a look around the room. ‘I live here alone.’

  ‘Being black, added to what you said about your name, I wondered …’ The obvious was left unsaid.

  ‘My master is no longer with us and, since he brought me to a place where no man can be a slave, I give him the title out of habit. Now I will heat you some milk fresh from my cow and make you a posset. Then I suggest, sir, rest would be best.’

  Brazier sat in head-bowed silence as his saviour went about the task of lighting the fire, which took some time to reach a decent flame. Zachary was moving around, doing what, the man to whom he administered had no idea, the latter’s mind being very much elsewhere. He was back at Cottington Court, finding himself caught off guard, mentally reprising the sneers of Henry Tulkington, knowing as he listened and for the second time that he’d failed in his aim to get Elisabeth away from her brother’s clutches.

  The low groan emitted was not caused by physical pain but by the other thoughts which crowded in, producing many questions and no answers, not least how had Tulkington known of his plan? Was it because of it being altered from the original, due to Dan Spafford’s insistence on trying to get his son back, and how had that worked out? He’d seen Daisy Trotter raise the pistol to point at Harry’s face and had heard it go off, but to what effect? His aim had been to get clear, not to find out.

  Would it have worked out any better had he and his crew been alone, as originally intended? Probably not was the conclusion, which was a bitter pill to swallow, made worse by the feeling he was at a stand in how matters could be altered. The bowl placed below his nose smelt strongly of
cinnamon, while he offered little resistance as a tender hand lifted his chin so he could drink, tasting milk, which had been soured with ale and heavily spiced.

  ‘Are you in need of food, sir?’ A slow shake of the head. ‘Then when this is gone, I say you should lie down.’

  The sipping was slow, the feeling of internal warmth welcome, as were the large hands easing him back, to lie face down again with his mind full of whirling hopes and dashed dreams. Sleep soon followed.

  Joe Lascelles stood across the road from the Old Playhouse, the ditty bag containing his few possessions slung over one shoulder, wondering if it would be wise to enter on his own. The faces of the two mean-faced toughs employed to guard the entrance did nothing to inspire. Stood under flaring torches, they were charged to prevent entry by those too drunk for peaceful enjoyment. Nor were they given to smiling on the sober; everyone passing got a glare, regardless of their condition.

  In part, the caution was inspired by his background as a one-time slave; he had a caution regarding risk, which, having been bred into him as a boy, was never absent. To transgress was so simple and no slave was ever sure of what boundaries it would be unwise to cross; these lay at the whims of a master and his overseers, which took no account of the arbitrary impulses of the owner’s family and even visiting friends. He’d escaped from the plantation in which he’d been a houseboy by swimming out to a ship dropping anchor not far offshore. He had no idea of the nature of the vessel he was trying to reach, only that it might provide salvation. It turned out to be HMS Diomede, fresh to the Jamaica Station, waiting for a tide before entering harbour, and commanded by Edward Brazier.

  The captain, in his dark-blue coat with twin gold epaulettes, turned out to be a rare creature for a British naval officer, a fact this escapee only established later. He evinced no inclination to return Joe to his owner, more impressed with his courage than mindful of the property laws of the Sugar Islands, and the courage was real: the waters off Kingston Harbour were home to sharks. Added to the risk of being eaten, there existed a set of variable tides which ran strongly whatever the time of day; Joe had been lucky to find one helpful − a contrary tide and he would certainly have drowned.

  Fetched out of the water by a ship’s boat, given his colour and the desperate nature of the task he’d set himself, it was natural he’d be questioned as to why he’d run; there was no need to say he was a slave. Joe had declined to be open, to admit he had struck the son of the house in which he served, a fellow close to his own age, drawing blood. For such an offence he could expect to be lashed to a pulp and might even die.

  ‘I got sick of seein’ to the needs of others, sir. Fetchin’ food and clearin’ what they left.’

  Brazier had asked, seemingly not put out by a garbled and unconvincing explanation, ‘Been at it long?’ Joe had held out a low hand to indicate the height at which he’d begun his duties. ‘Then it will serve if you attend upon me and, given this is a vessel of the Royal Navy, subject to the laws of the realm, no man aboard can be held in bondage.’

  On Diomede he had stayed, mustered as a volunteer in the ship’s logs, going on to prove the standards of domestic service in which he had been trained ran well ahead of anything provided by the navy. This got him prime place in the great cabin pantry, especially when he applied the knowledge he’d gained from being a constant pest to the plantation kitchen, not just wishing to endlessly pick at what they prepared, but keen to absorb the methods by which they went about their creations.

  In time he found out why he’d been so readily taken aboard. He’d replaced a long-time servant from a previous Brazier command, one who’d decided, with peace coming after the American War, he was free to go ashore and stay there, declining to rejoin his captain when he was commissioned into a new frigate. He also heard Brazier was, due to his own experience, a man to abhor the trade in human flesh, from which sprang a happy association with only one restriction: Joe could never go ashore until he was paid off in Portsmouth.

  Adjustment to such freedom had taken time; he was inclined to look over his shoulder for a looming threat, or see in the cast of an eye the desire to take him up and return him to bondage. What set him in motion now was the sight of a group of sober-looking Lascars being let through the door, men probably fresh off an incoming East Indiaman. Likewise steady in his walk, he drew little attention, so passed by easily. Once inside, Joe guessed instinctively the Card Room was not for him, nor did he feel he could ascend a staircase closed off by a chain.

  So he made his way across the hallway to a set of double doors, which opened to reveal the main chamber: a large, packed and fug-filled space, with a stage at one end, on which an illusionist was performing sleight-of-hand magic. Finding a place to sit was far from easy, nor, when he’d done so, was it easy to think about a way to proceed, given the raucous din of catcalling and whistling as each trick was performed. Sat with his back to a wall, he peered through the clouds of pipe-driven smoke to observe the clientele. Sailors made up the bulk of the custom, while there to keep them company, as well as encourage their spending, were a matching number of females, well dressed and comely, with smiles which never slipped.

  There was no sign of Saoirse Riorden and no way he could just sit there and wait to see if she came by. What did come his way was a buxom serving girl with tankards hooked at her waist, carrying a large jug of ale, only proffered when he declined to take either rum or brandy. Fishing out the means to pay, recalling how little he had in the way of coin, drove home just how much he would be on his uppers if Brazier wasn’t found alive. He was halfway through his tankard, which had been well nursed, when Saoirse appeared, sweeping through the door to cast a roving eye on proceedings.

  Any hope the gaze, alighting on his, might check with recognition was soon dashed. This left no option but an approach, held in check as she dealt with the many who wished to call upon her attention. Nor did his face seem to register when he finally caught her eye, forcing Joe to close and use the captain’s name. This got no smile, merely a jerk of the head to make his way out the double doors, with her not following, leaving him to kick his heels until her round of the room was complete. Nor was he happily greeted when she emerged, which rendered Joe’s explanation, even to his own ears, unconvincing.

  ‘A High Sheriff, no less?’ was her mystifying comment.

  ‘So I was told, ma’am, so I reckoned it best not to hang about, which means …’

  ‘You lack a place to lay your head.’ Joe nodded as she added, ‘And no word from your shipmates, who would be well advised any return to the Navy Yard might be unwise.’

  ‘Their dunnage is there.’

  ‘Which won’t amount to much, to be sure.’

  In this she was acknowledging what had been lost in the fire at Quebec House. If Edward Brazier had replaced necessities, he lacked the ability to do so for any kind of prized possessions. They’d lost everything barring what they stood up in and, if spare clothing could be provided once, it could be found again and at little cost in Deal: when visiting sailors began to run out of money, it was the first thing they sold.

  ‘I’d say it’s best you keep watch on the yard gate to make sure they don’t just walk in.’ Observing the face crease with uncertainty, she added, ‘Not tonight, but come morning. As for now, pass up the stairs and tell my maid Dottie to find you a place to lay your head. Now go, for I have my affairs to attend to.’

  ‘Can’t help wonderin’, ma’am, if Dutchy and the others have had any luck.’

  ‘Wondering will do you no good. If they’d found anything they would have come back by now.’

  What Dutchy had found was a mystery to him and the others. Following Hawker’s party brought them to an isolated farmhouse. Given what he knew of the location – admittedly not much – he wondered whether it was the same one they’d visited the night before, home to Spafford and his gang. It was impossible to tell in the dark and they’d never clapped eyes on it in daylight at any time, but there was strong rea
son to see it as a possibility.

  They watched, although it was far from clear even with the torches still lit, a party of five souls being harried indoors with musket butts, plus another half-carried, clearly unable to make his own way. More worrying was the sight, minutes later, of two sack-encased loads being lifted off the back of the van, likewise taken indoors, after which everyone disappeared and with them the torchlight, leaving them in darkness and with much uncertainty.

  ‘What now, Dutchy?’ asked Peddler.

  ‘Don’t rightly know, mate.’

  ‘Could get close and ha’ a gander through a winder.’

  ‘Hawker and his men, Cocky? First sniff of us and they’ll use those muskets they had slung.’

  ‘Won’t hold back, right enough,’ Peddler added. ‘Them bundles carried in looked a mite like bodies.’

  ‘Think I saw that too, mate, but it don’t tell me what to do about it.’

  ‘Are we goin’ to admit what we’re all thinkin’ it could be?’

  ‘Could be the captain, right enough,’ came reluctantly from Dutchy, ‘but I’m half-guessing it might be from what happened last night. The Trotter cove couldn’t miss, nor with what came about as we began to run would he have likely survived. Every musket was aimed at his back.’

  ‘All but one,’ Peddler added, gloomily.

  ‘Tryin’ to do owt in the dark is not a notion I’m fond of. Best we draw off and find a safe place to kindle a fire, which will serve as long as we have sight of the road. Can’t see anybody leavin’ till sunup. If they was, they’d be goin’ by now.’

  ‘So we have to be back watchin’ by then.’

  ‘An’ fed,’ Cocky insisted. ‘Christ, that’s the first time I’ve ken’t you no tae go on aboot yer empty belly, Peddler.’

  ‘If’n Jesus can go forty days and nights without, mate, then so can I.’

  ‘Come on,’ Dutchy ordered, as he began to inch backwards. ‘Let’s find a place for comfort.’