by David Starr
THE KING’S SHILLING
OTHER BOOKS BY
DAVID STARR
The Nor’Wester (2017)
Golden Game (2017)
Golden Goal (2017)
From Bombs to Books (2011)
THE
KING’S SHILLING
David Starr
RONSDALE PRESS
THE KING’S SHILLING
Copyright © 2018 David Starr
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher, or, in Canada, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright (the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency).
RONSDALE PRESS
3350 West 21st Avenue, Vancouver, B.C., Canada V6S 1G7
www.ronsdalepress.com
Typesetting: Julie Cochrane, in Minion 12 pt on 16
Cover Art & Design: Nancy de Brouwer, Massive Graphic Design
Paper: 55 lb. Enviro Book Antique Natural (FSC) 100% post-consumer waste, totally chlorine-free and acid-free
Ronsdale Press wishes to thank the following for their support of its publishing program: the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada, the British Columbia Arts Council, and the Province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Book Publishing Tax Credit program.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Starr, David, author
The king’s shilling / David Starr. — First edition.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-55380-526-7 (softcover)
ISBN 978-1-55380-527-4 (ebook) / ISBN 978-1-55380-528-1 (pdf)
I. Title.
PS8637.T365K56 2018
jC813’.6
C2018-900532-7
C2018-900533-5
At Ronsdale Press we are committed to protecting the environment. To this end we are working with Canopy and printers to phase out our use of paper produced from ancient forests. This book is one step towards that goal.
Printed in Canada by Marquis Printing, Quebec
for Sherry
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank my parents Ken and Yvonne Starr for their support and love throughout the years. I would also like to acknowledge all members of my family, past and present, who served in the armed forces of the United Kingdom, especially those who gave their lives in defence of their country. Finally, I would like to thank Ron and Veronica Hatch for their continued support of Canadian writers telling stories that matter to Canadian readers.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter 1
LIVERPOOL, APRIL 1809
The scent of creosote, salt water and sewage fills the Merseyside air as I disembark from the Caroline.
We sailed from Quebec City four weeks ago, the crossing uneventful. We avoided icebergs, storms, French warships and any number of other hazards that plague travel on the Atlantic, and as we dock I say a grateful farewell to the captain who brought me home safe and in one piece.
I climb down the gangway onto the wooden decking of the Liverpool dock then pause for a minute, remembering bitterly the last time I stood here.
Not two slips down from this very spot, my sister Libby sacrificed her freedom to save me, at a price I can only guess as I hid on board the migrant ship the Sylph, sailing away to Canada while Libby was taken away by red-coated soldiers. I owe her my life. I must find her.
I pick up my bag and walk. I know where I’m going, have been here before, and when I round a corner to see the same warehouse where Tinker, the man whom we trusted, betrayed us, my heart races.
I scan the waterfront, half expecting to find the treacherous little man and his pony cart, but there is no sight of him. A fortunate thing for Tinker. Goodness knows what I would do if I ever saw the villain again.
I compose myself and am about to head into the city and begin my search when I’m stopped by an old woman standing against a post. “Spare a penny, Sir?” she asks politely, holding out a small tin cup.
“Aye, of course,” I say, depositing a coin into her cup. Between my wages from my three years in the wilds of North America and the leftover coins from my passage back to Liverpool, paid by the North West Company, I can easily afford a copper or two.
“Thank you, Sir,” she says, flashing a toothless smile as she ambles off down the dock.
“I’m glad to see you’ve learned a little something about charity since the last time I saw you, lad,” says an unexpected voice from behind. I turn quickly to see the same legless sailor I’d met the day I left Liverpool, leaning against a crate. I hadn’t thought of him for years, but I recognize him at once.
John his name was, an old sailor who lost his legs fighting the Spanish at Cape St. Vincent with Admiral Nelson. He was there, on that day we were betrayed by Tinker, the day I escaped and Libby was captured by the soldiers.
John shuffles towards me, inching his legless frame along. “You’re older now and with that goose down on your chin you could almost pass for a man. The lass you were with gave me money. You weren’t happy about it, from what I recall.”
“Aye, that was my sister. I’m trying to find her. The soldiers took her away.”
“They did at that,” he says. “You caused quite the commotion that day, you pair. I must say I’m surprised to see you again, lad. I heard you were lost at sea, went down to Davy Jones’ locker. That’s what the papers said anyway.”
“Papers? What are ye talking about?” I try to suppress my panic. I’ve not been back in England twenty minutes and already here is someone who knows I’m alive.
“Don’t you worry about old John,” the sailor says, as if he can read my mind. “The Old Bailey pronounced you dead at her trial, so far be it from me to contradict the courts. Let the dead stay dead, that’s what I say. I won’t be telling the authorities you’ve come back from the grave.”
“Trial? What trial?” I demand. First he speaks of papers and now a trial. “Do ye ken what happened to Libby? Please, tell me.”
“Do I know what happened?” he chortles. “The entire country knows what happened. All the newspapers in England wrote about your sister, told her story to every man, woman and child in the kingdom, they did!”
“What do ye mean her story?” I grab the man by the shoulders, my heart filled with a desperate hope this man knows where I can find my sister.
“Easy, lad!” the crippled sailor protests. “I ain’t the one who took her!”
I let him go. “I’m sorry,” I say, struggli
ng to control my emotions. “Please, tell me if ye ken where Libby is.”
“What’s it worth to you? You was most kind to that old lady; I wouldn’t mind seeing your new-found generosity once more.”
I quickly give the man a small silver coin. “Tell me all ye ken and ye’ll have another.”
John eagerly takes the money. “’Twas a most remarkable thing,” he begins. “What a brave little lassie she is! Like I said, newspapers across the land told her tale. I can’t read meself of course, but one or two of the brighter lads here can. We all followed her adventures, down on the waterfront. Even tried to help her escape I did, after she was taken by the soldiers. A right good little trick; you hiding on that old coal boat and her sending the hounds after the wrong fox as it were.”
I remember it well. When I was hidden on the Sylph I could hear the redcoats taking Libby away, heard her say I had sailed on another ship. The Leopard it was called, a ship destined to hit an iceberg off Newfoundland and sink with all hands.
“Aye, boy, your sister’s plight was even talked about in the House of Commons!” John says. His voice drops to a whisper, as if he is about to tell me some great secret. “Some even say she talked to the prime minister himself, but who’s to say if that ain’t just a fairy tale?”
“Please,” I beg, “fairy story or no tell me everything ye can. I’m desperate fer news.”
For the next ten minutes or so the old sailor relates to me all that he knows. If only half of it is true, the most awful, remarkable things have happened to my sister.
“She was supposed to swing from the gibbet at Newgate Prison,” John says, my heart nearly beating out of my chest as I listen. “That was her sentence after all, for helping you skip the country, but then that woman stepped in.”
“Woman? What woman?” I demand.
“Elizabeth Fry, one of them famous Quaker do-gooders who helps the convicts. She’s the one who took your sister’s story to the newspapers. Saved her life she did, managed to get her sentence changed to transportation.”
“Transportation? To where?” The crippled sailor can’t speak quickly enough for me.
“Oh lad,” John says. “Your sister was to be shipped off to Australia with all the other convicts.”
“Australia? She went to Australia?” I can’t imagine that Libby is gone, shipped to the very bottom of the world just as I finally reach home.
“Well that’s the thing of it, ain’t it?” he tells me. “It was round about then your sister disappeared. Vanished, she did, into thin air.”
I give the sailor two more coins. “Is there anything else ye ken? I need to find her! Tell me, quickly!”
“Sorry, lad, that’s all I know,” says John, though he still pockets my coins, “so if I were you I’d go to London and find Elizabeth Fry. She knew your sister best. She may even know where she is — if she’s even still alive.”
Chapter 2
It is one small piece of luck that Elizabeth Fry is in London. After all, I have pledged to carry one more letter for the North West Company, and that message must be delivered to the capital.
For a handful of shillings I buy passage on the mail coach from Liverpool to London. It is a considerable amount of money, and at first I contemplate walking, or perhaps even buying my own horse and riding there, but the crippled sailor advised against both before I bid him farewell.
“’Tis a dangerous journey to London by yourself,” John had told me. “Brigands and highwaymen are everywhere. They’d slit your throat for the gold in your purse, or even the hope of it. Travelling in the safety of numbers is a far better idea.”
It isn’t that I’m afraid of bandits. After crossing North America from Quebec to the Pacific Ocean and back, I’ve come to know danger and how to take care of myself. Rather, my concern is the time it would take me to get to London. To walk the nearly two hundred miles would consume the better part of a week, and that is time I desperately need.
Travelling alone on horseback holds little appeal either, if truth be told. In New Caledonia I spent some time with horses along Fraser’s River when the water was too turbulent to paddle. I rode across the grasslands at Red River as well, I remember sadly, with the Métis girl Louise Desjarlais and her massive black horse, Kavalé. It has been more than two years since she died, but Louise’s memory is still a raw sore in my heart.
Cost or not, the mail coach is my best option. There’s a daily service between Liverpool and London, and the coach has room for passengers as well as the post. It has fast become a popular means of travel and I secure the last seat on board.
The mail coach leaves at sunrise so I rent a room in a small inn off the waterfront for the night. After nearly two months at sea I’m desperate for a good meal, and so I treat myself to roast lamb and a glass of ale as well. A man can eat dry pork and biscuits for only so long, and the thought of warm bread, fresh meat and a cool drink makes my mouth water.
The innkeeper delivers my food and I eat alone, deep in thought by a large fireplace that crackles merrily as I sip slowly on my beer. I’ve not developed a taste for the rum favoured by the Nor’Westers back in North America, nor for the gin consumed in vast amounts by the poor of England. Beer is palatable, however, and far safer than drinking water straight from the River Mersey.
I retire to my room before the sun goes down. I’m tired but there’s work to do before I sleep, work I need to do in private without any prying eyes. Once I’m in my room and the door is safely locked behind me, I take out my knife, a gift from my friend Tom on the Sylph.
The edge is as sharp as a razor. It has seen its share of blood as well, most noticeably that of the Nor’Wester La Malice, dead at my hands on the bank of Fraser’s River after he tried to murder Simon Fraser, the leader of our expedition. And me.
I put the knife to a less deadly use right now, slicing open the lining of my cloak and the waistband of my trousers. I need to safeguard my money, my wages for three years in the wilderness, as well as the bonus paid me by Mr. McGillivray for delivering the confidential message I am carrying to the War Office in London.
I feel inside the deep pocket of my cloak for a small oilskin pouch. Within that pouch is a sealed secret letter for the secretary of state for the colonies himself, and for no other. It is not the message McGillivray had wanted to write, however. The leader of the North West Company’s dearest hope had been to let the Empire know that the Columbia River was in British hands and the Nor’Westers had found a navigable route to the Pacific.
Instead, McGillivray must inform London that the river we travelled was not the Columbia, but another one now named after Simon Fraser, its currents far too dangerous for any commercial undertakings.
I leave a few coins in my pocket for expenses over the next week or so, tuck the rest into the lining of my clothes then sew up the slits. My money is safer hidden within my clothes than in a bag in my pocket, easily stolen by highwaymen or lost on a bumpy road.
I haven’t slept on firm ground since leaving Quebec, and as I lie in my bed, tucked in under a warm blanket, it is difficult at first to fall asleep without the rocking of the boat on the waves beneath me.
Soon my eyes grow heavy, however, and I start to drift off. Before I fall asleep, I think of my sister. Libby is out there somewhere, and I won’t stop looking until I find her. Libby saved my life, the debt I owe her long overdue.
Chapter 3
I rise before the sun, eat a slice of bread and a piece of cold lamb left over from supper then pack my few belongings into my bag and make my way to the mail coach. “Welcome, boyo,” says the driver as I give him my ticket. “You can ride inside or outside beside me. It’s all the same to me.”
“Beside ye if I may. I’d prefer the fresh air.”
“Then climb up and take your seat,” he says. “We leave in ten minutes, and up here you’ll have all the fresh air you need.”
The man who will take me to London is a small Welshman named Evans, with black curly hair and a mus
ical lilt in his voice. I do as he says, greeting the four passengers who travel inside, two older couples by the looks of things, men and women who seem indifferent to me at best.
“Right then,” Evans says. “Time to go.” He clicks his tongue, snaps the reins and the coach moves forward with a jolt as the eager horses pull away. “Within two days we’ll be in London and with that bloke along, the highwaymen won’t bother us,” Evans tells me as we canter through the streets of Liverpool.
The him the coach driver refers to is the last person on the coach I see, a man in a scarlet-and-gold uniform who sits alone in the seat behind me, a dangerous-looking blunderbuss in his arms, a brace of pistols in his belt. “Royal Mail guard,” the coachman explains, “sworn to keep the post safe. Good at his job but not much of a conversationalist, are you, Fred?”
“I let this do the talking, Evans,” the guard says curtly in response, looking at his blunderbuss.
It is a nasty piece of business, the blunderbuss, able to fire a load of shot or a large lead ball. It is a smaller, hand-held version of the swivel gun Simon Fraser took with us on our trip down his river but just as lethal at close quarters.
Evans grins. “A full sentence! He’s chatty today, our Fred. I’ve made the trip to London and back with Fred here two dozen times and I can count the number of words he’s said to me on one hand.”
“Guid morning,” I say to the guard, though I am not as fortunate enough as Evans to get a reply. Instead the man gives me a suspicious look and a cursory tip of his head.
Nobody sits by the Royal Mail guard. He doesn’t talk much to Evans either, just sits there on his seat, eyes scanning the road ahead as we leave Liverpool, the coach and leather harnesses creaking, traces jingling as we move.
“Tough bugger, that Freddy. All the Royal Mail guards are. No matter what the danger or the weather they stay in their perch, the mail locked in the trunk at their feet all safe like. They won’t go inside even when the snow comes and they get covered in it. You wouldn’t believe what some winters are like on the mail coach.”