Blood Will Out

by David Donachie

  ‘My master was not an unkind man, or it would be best to say he did not know when he was acting so, which made my sudden change of owner a blessing.’ The curious look brought another low chuckle. ‘I was lost in a game of cards, sir, or as the Good Lord no doubt intended, saved by a poor wager.’

  Gentle questioning revealed more. The 3rd Regiment of Foot had bivouacked in his original master’s fields in Pennsylvania, the officers billeted in the farmhouse over several days. This included the regimental surgeon, Mr Venables, to whom he’d come as winnings.

  ‘And he brought you back to England when the war was over?’ Zachary, now gutting the bird, acknowledged the obvious, with Brazier tapping the chest on which he was sitting. ‘And this is his?’

  ‘Passed over into the hands of the Lord, two seasons past now. He left me all he owned, as well as livestock and this house, to hold and live by till I join him.’

  ‘No other family?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘The crop?’

  ‘Cherries first, and fine they are too. Pickings of them are over for this year, sir, but the trees still need lookin’ after. Then hops in summer and apples in the autumn. Whatever I grow, God sees fit to try and inflict them with pestilence.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s the devil.’

  A deep laugh. ‘I’d take real pleasure in fightin’ him, sir.’

  ‘Can I say, you seem well educated?’

  ‘I was taught to speak well, like a Yankee gentleman. I would only be educated if I could read and write.’

  Zachary talked on as he cut up some vegetables, potatoes and carrots, finally filling the room with the sharp tang of onions, all his efforts going into a pot, which was hung on a hook above the fire, describing his early years as a slave boy, born in the New York colony, sold on when he began to reach maturity to work the plough, dig the plots and bring in the harvest. There was no resentment in his words, more a seeming acceptance the Almighty, often referred to, had decided how his life would be lived.

  Listening, Brazier could not help but contrast it with what he’d seen of the fate of those violently dragged from their African homes, then packed into ships manned by sheer devils incarnate, chained below decks in vessels of which it was best not to be downwind, so great was the rancid smell. Having boarded one mid-Atlantic and seen the conditions in which the soon-to-be slaves were transported and abused, Brazier never wanted to experience it again. It had also affected his attitude to the institution of slavery: gone was the ignorance which allowed for complacency, to be replaced with deep repugnance, a feeling from which Joe Lascelles had benefited when he was brought aboard. This Zachary had enjoyed the same good fortune.

  ‘You have been lucky.’

  ‘I have been blessed, sir. Now, am I allowed to ask of you?’

  Edward Brazier obliged, but it was a much-filleted explanation of his past and naval career, though he was open about his own father having been a naval surgeon.

  ‘Then it may be we can see each other as brothers, sir, for I think of Mr Venables as a parent to me.’ Seeing Brazier made curious, he pointed to the chest on which he was sitting. Looking closely, the name could be made out. ‘You have no need to tell me of the wound, sir, if you do not choose to.’

  ‘Oh, I shall, but it will make me sound like a fool.’

  By the time he finished a severely edited version of events, which did not name people or places, the chicken was cooked and, as they ate, Zachary took the liberty of agreeing with him.

  Dirley Tulkington went about his task with a growing sense of frustration. The way the candles, which illuminated his efforts, burnt down seemed to reflect the way his present standing was progressing. He only ever worked on these ledgers, related to the family business, when his chambers were closed and everyone else had gone home: they were for the eyes of only him and his nephew. His task was to ensure everything added up: income, expenditure, plus a list of goods outstanding, which required a good head for figures added to the acute memory of a successful King’s Counsel.

  While it was easy to seek certain items be despatched to the East Kent shore, it was not always possible for the French suppliers, due to the number of internal tariff borders in their country, to meet every order in a given time. Every region of France had its own tolls and taxes, which were jealously guarded. A number of these had to be circumvented, depending where the contraband was sourced. This often left much outstanding, which made achieving any kind of ongoing balance a formidable task.

  His quill moved quickly despite his darkening mood, a sharp mind going about a task with which he was utterly familiar. In his head he had discreet and verbal orders for those with whom he had social contact in the capital, many people of wealth and position, even in government, who nevertheless felt disinclined to pay to the Exchequer the impost added as duty. Other outlets, such as hotels, gentlemen’s clubs, dubious establishments from bagnios to brothels – and gender was not an issue – contacts built up over a long time, would drop off discreet coded notes at his home stating their requirements, plus the funds needed to secure delivery. A servant, one unable to read, was sent from Cottington Court to drop off at his chambers what was required in the areas served by his nephew, Kent and Sussex.

  The source of his growing annoyance came from the way Henry had behaved on his most recent visit to London and it could not be explained away by his having too much to drink and a light head. When Dirley’s half-brother Acton passed away, and it was sudden, his nephew, somewhat gauche and never having been fully briefed regarding the family business, lacked the skills necessary to oversee what was quite a complex enterprise. Thus, he’d relied on him for guidance, being properly respectful of the difference which existed between them in both age and experience.

  This had been declining over some time, as Henry’s confidence grew, which was only to be expected, acceptable until they came to what Dirley expected would be an equitable partnership. It was one in which the nephew naturally drew a higher proportion of the profits than the uncle, which to Dirley was only proper: the business had been the creation of his half-brother Acton, building on old Corley’s rather rough efforts.

  It was, however, incumbent on him, to his uncle’s way of thinking, such a disparity remain unmentioned; they were in a partnership and good manners dictated it should be addressed as one of equals. Henry had breached the bounds by the way he’d behaved days past and it continued to rankle, issuing what very much sounded like instructions, if not downright demands, documents to be prepared within hours, as if his uncle had nothing else to do but meet his every whim.

  This was in place of what they should and would have been in the recent past: appropriately submitted requests to which he would have been happy to accede. Other things troubled him, not least, the more he thought on it, the information that his niece, a widow still constrained by her period of mourning for Stephen Langridge, albeit said period was close to completion, had seemingly suffered a coup de foudre, entering into a sudden marriage with a handsome young fellow in a matter of weeks of their first meeting.

  Dirley might be a bachelor, but he’d been witness to many idiocies in the matrimony line, some of which had required clients to be rescued from their own folly. What he was being told did not make sense. If he didn’t know Elisabeth as well as he would like – his illegitimate birth had limited contact with those resident at Cottington Court – he found it hard to see someone he rated as eminently sensible act in such an untoward fashion.

  Who was this Harry Spafford and why was he intent on handing over control of Elisabeth’s Jamaica plantations to Henry, the documents to complete this required in such haste? In her previous correspondence, Elisabeth had stated her intention to sell them due to a dislike of their being worked by slaves. Could this Spafford fellow have so charmed her she would meekly change her mind?

  It was, of course, no longer strictly her decision, there being no entail: on marriage her assets became the property of her husband and he could dispose of
them as he saw fit. Yet there had been something in the explanation provided by Henry which jarred. He maintained Spafford had no head for figures or any interest in matters of business, was fearful of the task of management, so was quite content to pass control of the plantations and the considerable income they produced to his brother-in-law, which would be passed on after expenses were deducted.

  An admired legal brain, Dirley Tulkington was sure he could smoke anyone dissembling in a flash. Henry’s throwaway manner, as he advanced this explanation, had set his hackles twitching. The letter of congratulation he’d sent to his niece was his way of making sure, by inviting her and her new spouse to visit him for two reasons. He wanted to cast an eye over Spafford to ensure he was no mere fortune-hunter; the other was to find out if what he was being told by Henry was the truth.

  He’d not yet received a reply from Elisabeth, which was unlike her. A properly brought up young lady, who had taken assiduous care to regularly keep in touch from the West Indies, would surely reply − and indeed, had done so − from East Kent, his missives responded to by return from there in the past. So why not now? Given his troubled reflections, this decided him, after he’d finished his tasks and locked away the ledgers in his safe, to write to Elisabeth again.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Being up before first light presented no problem for a sailor in the King’s Navy, it was habit given a man-o’-war stood to every morning at such an hour. In time of conflict a warship did so with its entire crew on deck and its guns run out, ready to fire, in case daylight revealed an enemy. Thus, the trio looking for their captain were within sight of the farmhouse as well as the covered van before the sun tipped over the horizon, very likely before anyone within its walls had opened their eyes. Not that it showed them much: all they could do was watch, wait and down the provisions they’d brought along.

  The first sign of life was not from within. A bent-over fellow hauling a handcart stopped by the stoop to leave an urn as well as a basket, the contents unknown. There was no lingering or seeking to make contact with anyone inside; he moved on quickly with a cart heavy from what must be produce yet to be delivered.

  ‘We need a ship’s bell,’ Peddler opined quietly.

  ‘Well we havn’a got one,’ was Logan’s reply.

  ‘Knowin’ the hour don’t matter much, Peddler,’ Dutchy responded looking up at a sky going from pale grey to blue. ‘But it looks like we’re in for a warm ’un and sitting out here with the sun on our heads, with what we’s got left of drink, don’t appeal.’

  ‘Idea tae move wi’ the low sun in yonder sod’s eyes. He’ll hae a job seein’ us.’

  They waited as the sun rose, a bright orb so low in the sky it threw shadows which stretched into infinity. It also lit the red brick walls and thatched roof of the farmhouse, making the dwelling look more attractive than it probably was. Dutchy was up and moving first, heading for a large and ancient oak tree, with well-spread branches in full leaf, which would provide shade. If it was closer and more risky, the trunk was thick enough for the trio to hide behind if they were careful.

  Once in place it was wait and see, again nothing to trouble an ex-tar; half of life aboard a ship was spent looking out at an endless ocean on which nothing happened, never a distraction from the daily tasks which needed to be carried out.

  Dan Spafford passed away during the night without anyone noticing, nor was he mourned by the man who had fetched him there. Hawker had separated the badly wounded leader from his men, so it was Marker, left to guard the door of the room in which he lay, charged to take an occasional look, who told him the news. Rising from the bed, which had once been Dan’s own, he threw open the shutters, blinking in the strong eastern light, which seemed to come straight at him. Before him lay a plate-flat landscape and, had he been able to see anything clearly, it would have shown very little, too much of it being marshland.

  There was cultivation to the north, but such did not show outside the lines of trees and hedgerows, there to mark both the boundaries and tracks by which the farm folk made their way to their fields. The wind, being from the north-east, brought with it the unpleasant odour of the silage with which the farmed ground was being fertilised.

  ‘Trotter and young Spafford are beginning to stink too,’ said Marker when it was noted. ‘So we won’t be thinkin’ silage for long.’

  ‘Someone get my horse ready,’ Hawker rasped. ‘I need to get back to the slaughterhouse.’

  Turning away from the window he noted the look of curiosity on Marker’s face, though there was no desire to accommodate it or explain. He would have to be there when Tulkington showed up, as he was bound to, and it was moot what would come from such a meeting. With three bodies on his hands, two rotting, it seemed to Hawker the sooner they were disposed of the better. If the clear sky held it would presage a night with some moon, perfect for getting across to the long pebble strand fronting Sandwich Flats, on which the Spafford luggers were beached, without attracting attention.

  He knew of old there were no others nearby; a smuggler, whoever he was, did not welcome close neighbours, folk able to observe his comings and goings, more importantly his unloading, unless they were known to be close-mouthed or paid helpers. Thus, Spafford had enjoyed much of the strand to himself, if you excluded small boats for fishing. Most preferred Deal Beach, with taverns close by for when work was slack. Not what Spafford had been about was any secret: everyone around Worth and Sandwich would know of his trade. Again, just like Deal and every town bordering the coast, the folk living had a bond of interest in saying nothing to authority. The benefits, and it behoved a smuggler to be generous to his locality, came from silence not squealing.

  ‘Happen you’d best breakfast before setting out, John. One of Spafford’s boys said they get eggs delivered fresh of a mornin’. Milk too.’

  ‘Enough for all?’

  ‘Enough for us,’ got a rare chuckle from Hawker.

  ‘A day without will not harm Spafford’s lot, lazy buggers have got flesh to spare.’

  Which exposed another problem; what if keeping them here went on? One day lacking food or water they’d have to stand but, if it lasted, they’d have to be fed, supplies would have to be fetched in. Spafford had owned the farmhouse as well as the small fields around, but they were not used to cultivate anything. Likewise, the barns stored no food; they’d mostly been used to house contraband as well as ships’ stores.

  ‘Get our lads fed. I’ll eat later.’

  ‘Saddled horse has been led to the front door,’ Peddler hissed.

  This had the others, who’d been lying in the long, shaded grass, sit up. Taking care to keep the trunk of the oak between them and the farmhouse, they peered round to take a look.

  ‘Has to be Hawker,’ Dutchy said. ‘He was the only one mounted last night.’

  ‘Do we try tae take him?’

  ‘Can’t see how, Cocky. One sight of us and he’ll spur off.’

  Which left in the air a question already raised: what were they doing apart from keeping watch? Dutchy acknowledged they’d had a bit of unseen luck, though they could do no more than guess at what was within the farmhouse. It could be Brazier was one of the men they’d seen hustled inside; the possibility he could have been carried in might be in their minds but it was not mentioned. The only thing they could do was wait and hope for more good fortune.

  ‘Be a notion to follow him,’ Peddler Palmer suggested. ‘An’ if it don’t show up owt, we can at least tell Joe what’s happenin’ out here. The Riordan woman an’ all would want to know.’

  ‘Good chance tae have a feed too.’ Seeing Peddler take offence, Cocky added quickly, ‘Just having a jest, mate, it’s a good notion.’

  ‘Right there, Cocky, but it’ll have to be one of you two, Hawker knows my face.’

  ‘An’ uncommon tall too, Dutchy, one he’d spot.’

  ‘Go on, Peddler,’ Cocky added, knowing Dutchy would leave them to decide. ‘Better than havin’ you oot here all day
moaning aboot an empty belly.’

  ‘Hawker,’ Dutchy spat.

  And there he was, on the step getting ready to mount and talking, probably issuing orders to one of his men, who was then obliged to knee him up into the saddle. A few more words were imparted before he kicked his mount into motion, heading towards the Sandwich Road at a trot.

  ‘He’ll not be expectin’ to be followed, Peddler, an’ if he holds such a pace so can you. But if he kicks on, don’t try to stay with him. An’ take your beer, the sun is going to get hotter.’

  Dressed in his customary black, John Hawker soon became aware of the sun’s heat, which had him, once he was on the road and out of any shade, haul on the reins. Using the stirrups, he stood to remove his coat, which had him turn to lay it over the saddle. Peddler was quick to find a tree as soon as he hauled on the reins, so was now making out he was having a piss, looking idly this way and that like a man thus engaged. This showed others were on the road travelling in both directions, walking or in carts and, well to the rear, one big-looking dark-skinned cove riding towards Deal at no great pace. In what Peddler guessed to be less than half of the glass, they came within clear sight of the ramparts of Sandown Castle, dark and stark against the blue waters of the anchorage, while the roof of St George’s Church rising above the surrounding buildings was visible, a Puritan construct lacking a steeple.

  Little attention was paid by either man to the riders they passed, heading for Sandwich, and there were several, Peddler only noting one, who seemed to be as uncomfortable on a saddle as he was himself.

  John Cottin had never been a true fan of horseflesh and was, at the moment he passed what appeared to be a sailor, on foot and grinning broadly, cursing himself for not ordering a hack to take him to his destination. But the reason not to do so was sound: a conveyance required a coachman, the hiring of which would never stay secret and, since he’d come to suspect the whole population of Deal as unreliable, it would not serve. His discomfort did have him deliberate on what bordered on a near aversion to horses and the constraints it had placed on how he was seen, which had extended through his schooldays and on into adulthood. He was studious, where his classmates were more unruly, bent on games not classroom work, which had not endeared him. In a society where a good seat was to be admired, a poor one was there to be derided and his had been denigrated often enough to render it a form of transport he did his best to avoid.