THE WRECKING STORM
The second Thomas Tallant Adventure
Michael Ward
For Jamie, Rachel and Sophie
© Michael Ward 2021.
Michael Ward has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2021 by Sharpe Books.
Table of Contents
Prologue
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
Endnote
Prologue
The River Thames
May 9th 1641
A chill wind blew upriver as the dawn struggled into life. London was waking to a dank, grey day, the overnight rain still pulsing fitfully, peppering the water’s surface.
A wherry edged from its landing stage on the northern bank of the Thames. As the boat cleared the dock, small waves slapped against its side, making the lantern in its prow bob up and down, a solitary movement on the black, silent expanse of water.
Francis Cavendish shuddered and gathered his thin cloak around his shoulders.
Sitting at the back of the wherry, he was chilled to the marrow, but didn’t care. He had finally escaped from the suffocating hole in the wall that had been his hiding place for three weeks.
He studied the broad-shouldered man on his right sharing his seat. Francis did not know his name, where he came from or who he was. And yet he was trusting this swarthy stranger with his life.
Instead of fear, he experienced an intense elation. Two days ago he was within inches of discovery, certain torture and a bloody death, only to escape! In that moment, he knew the Lord still had work for him.
His throat tightened and nausea returned at the memory of that priest hole – the shouts on the stairwell, the tramp of boots and then hammering on the wall outside his hiding place. Voices yelling, wood splintering, excited shouts of discovery turning to curses and oaths, and then silence. Francis, a cloth rammed into his mouth to stifle the sobs of panic convulsing his body, straining his every fibre to be still, and all the time the murmur of voices inches from him, disappointed, bitter. And, finally, the desultory clatter as his armed pursuers walked away, disappointed. He had escaped discovery by the thickness of an oak panel. His ‘hide within a hide’ had deceived his pursuers as intended. It was a miracle.
Francis was transferred that night to an old warehouse by the river, and there he remained until his rescuers arrived in the early hours of this morning. Now he was afloat, heading to safety.
A ragged cormorant emerged from the gloom and scudded past the wherry in full flight, only feet above the water’s surface. The man on his right yawned and coughed. Silence had been critical when they left the warehouse but now they were approaching mid-river. The man stretched and nodded towards the priest’s head, looking quizzically. ‘Why have you kept it?’
Francis touched his shock of red hair and grimaced. ‘I usually dye it black but I had to leave my last refuge in something of a hurry.’
‘Mmm, that’s a pity. You don’t want to stand out and be remembered.’
Francis nodded. He studied the man’s face in the improving light. His leathery skin was ravaged by smallpox scars, his lank, straw-coloured hair tucked behind his ears, revealing piercing blue eyes.
The stranger had arrived at the old warehouse with two others. Francis had been wary but, despite his fierce appearance, the man was calm and respectful. He provided much needed food and drink and joined him in prayers before eating. Francis noted the stranger’s care in avoiding discovery as they left the warehouse, and his conviction grew that he was in safe hands.
But why was their progress now so slow? Francis longed to be away from London and, as the gloom lifted, he could see the other two men in the wherry more clearly. Only one was rowing, while the other sat in the prow holding the lantern.
The man next to him rummaged in his cloak and pulled out a leather flask, which he opened and offered with a smile. ‘Here, brother. Take a drink of this. It’ll give you warmth as the Lord gives you strength. Now we’re away from the shore, we can talk more freely. My name is Dancer, Jack Dancer, and it’s my honour to provide safe passage for yourself, a member of the blessed Society of Jesus, away from this benighted and godless country. Our plan is to row downriver to Gravesend where we’ll meet up with a sailing barque bound for France when the tide and winds are right.’
Francis coughed as he swallowed the rough brandy, then savoured its warmth spreading across his chest from his throat. ‘Thank you, Jack,’ Francis said, returning the flask. ‘God bless you for arranging my escape. I have recently seen the Lord still has important work for me.’
‘Amen to that,’ Jack replied, crossing himself. ‘The work of the Jesuit brotherhood is a wonder and solace to all of us who follow the true faith. It must make great demands and take you to many different parts of the world.’ Francis smiled. Once they knew he was a Jesuit, fellow Catholics would always press him, eyes alight, for accounts of his missions to foreign lands and success in converting lost souls. It was the first thing they wanted to hear and it appeared that this man Jack, even in their current parlous situation, was no different.
So, as the oars creaked and they inched their way down river, Francis recounted his last mission in New France in North America, converting Algonquin natives. After three years, he returned to Paris with a burning wish to spread the Catholic faith still further in the New World.
But he was forced to grapple with the sin of personal disappointment when, instead of a return to North America, he was sent to England. Mass must be held by a priest but to do so publicly in England now invited discovery and punishment by the authorities. He was one of several Jesuits spirited into the country to provide secret support. However, he had not expected his movements to be so restricted, and now felt unfulfilled.
He spent much of his time in hiding, moved from house to house by his persecuted hosts. He despaired of ever doing God’s work again and then, last week, the Lord had saved him from the jaws of his enemy. He was still part of God’s plan. Suffused with the inner glow of his rediscovered conviction, Francis’s heart filled with joy. Had Jesus saved him for this? A return to the Algonquin?
Jack listened intently, not asking questions. Eventually he turned to Francis. ‘That is most interesting and uplifting brother. And did your missionary work take you elsewhere, say, eastwards towards the Indies and the Orient?’
‘No, not all, my future lies with the Algonquin, I am sure. But I believe we have other brothers doing God’s work in Goa, and Macau.’ The conversation petered out and soon Francis became increasingly aware of the cold and his aching bones. He prayed he was not coming down with ague.
Jack moved away and carefully stood to view the way ahead. Gripping Francis’s shoulder to help him balance, he leaned forward and spoke quietly into the ear of the man rowing the wherry. The m
an nodded and Jack returned to the stern seat, next to Francis.
‘Are we making good progress?’ Francis asked. ‘I fear my aching joints tell me I’m becoming too old for these adventures.’
Dancer twisted in his seat to face Francis. ‘Yes, almost journey’s end.’
Francis experienced a painful punch in his lower chest and looked down, bemused, at his shirt and leggings, now soaking in his own, warm blood. Jack gripped his shoulder, pulling him closer while he pushed the knife in, up to its hilt. He gazed into the priest’s eyes, which were staring back, wild with shock.
‘As I said Francis, I am honoured to be your fellow traveller on your final journey. Hold me tight, brother. I am the means of your deliverance.’
In the midst of his disbelief, Francis frantically sought certainty. I am called to Jesu? Why now? But there was no time left for answers. His inner body was collapsing, his mind not far behind. His senses were draining away, all conscious awareness narrowing to a pinhole of light in the enveloping darkness, and a final, echoing word: ‘why?’
Dancer gently removed the long blade from the Jesuit’s chest and placed it carefully on the floor of the wherry. Still holding him close, he pulled back his hood, stroked strands of ginger hair from his victim’s face and kissed his forehead.
‘It is a mercy I have delivered, Francis. You had no future, hunted to extinction like a rat. Now you have died in the glory of presumption, believing you have been called.’
Dancer’s companion manning the oars had paused to witness the murder. The young man laughed and sneered: ‘Sacrifice? They’re all beggin’ for it, you know that Jack. You do ‘em a service.’
Jack Dancer put his finger to his lips to silence the man, shaking his head gently in admonishment. ‘That’s enough of that, Billy Boy. Have some respect. Now hand me the necessary.’ The young man passed a heavy sack to Dancer, who chose several large rocks from within and filled the priest’s cloak pockets, before effortlessly lifting his corpse and slipping it silently into the Thames.
Within seconds, the mortal remains of Francis Cavendish slid beneath the surface of the Thames and disappeared, without a bubble or a ripple.
Chapter 1
The Tallant warehouse
Thomas Tallant leaned back in his chair and studied the woman sitting in front of him. ‘So, you are, or rather were, married to Josh Wilding?’
The woman’s face was buried in a rag, which muffled her weeping. She nodded her head vigorously between sobs, but her makeshift handkerchief stayed in place. Tom looked past the woman and through the open loading bay, to the Thames beyond. The grey cloud had lifted, revealing a clear blue sky which silhouetted her hunched figure. Lord, he’d rather be on the river this fine spring day.
He returned to his visitor. ‘In that case, I’m sure you can give me a description of his features?’
Once more she dissolved into a bout of sobbing but moved the rag sufficiently to mumble a few words: ‘I be too upset to talk about it’.
At this point, the tall distinguished figure of his father Sir Ralph Tallant, entered the room. He nodded at Tom and went to stand at the back, his arms folded.
Josh Wilding had crewed on their recent sailing to Amsterdam, a short voyage but on the way home he’d slipped off the rigging in heavy seas and hit the deck hard. News of his demise came with the ship’s return to dock three days ago.
‘Well perhaps you could tell me his hair colour. Could you manage that?’
There was a long pause. Then a mumbled reply. ‘He be fair, well fair-ish. Maybe closer to brown.’
Tom sighed and stood up. ‘Enough. This show is over.’ This produced further muted protests from the woman. He lost his patience and pulled the cloth out of her grasp, to reveal an angry, dry-eyed face.
‘What d’you think you’re about, treating a poor widow like this,’ the woman shouted. ‘All I want is his wages from his last trip. That’s mine by rights and you know it! Shame on you, with all your money, trying to cheat a poor widow, and with four hungry children to feed. The money’s mine, and I have the proof!’ and she pointed at the table in front of her.
Tom picked up a dirty, creased scrap of paper. A last will and testament in the name of Josh Wilding, in a handwritten scrawl, leaving all his worldly goods to his wife Anne.
‘There it be, in black and white. Everything left to Anne. That’s me, that is.’ And she pushed her chin out in indignation.
At least she’s trying, Tom thought. More than the others. ‘Well Anne, if that’s your name, Josh Wilding’s hair was as black as coal. He used to say it came from the Irish side of his family. That’s something we’d expect his wife to know, isn’t it?’
Anne sat in her chair and gave him a murderous look. He frowned. This was becoming increasingly common, and tiresome. When a ship docked, news of a death on board spread quickly. Thieves would use any means to discover the name in question, and the next day they’d be at the warehouse door, will and testament in hand, the ink barely dry.
Before they sailed, some crew informed owners exactly who to pay if they didn’t return. Wilding was a lively, carefree character. A bit of a rascal but likeable enough. Not the will-writing kind, of that Tom was sure. So he felt a duty to ensure the true next of kin received their due.
‘Right, you’ve wasted enough of my time.’ He shouted to the next room. ‘Isaac, escort this woman from the building.’ His warehouse manager emerged from the parlour to take the woman’s arm.
‘Don’t touch me,’ she snarled and leapt up, jabbing her finger at Tom.
‘Think you’re so high and mighty don’t you, mister. Sitting here, surrounded by all your money. What difference would it make to give me a shilling or two? God knows I need it. So, you caught me out. Very clever. But mark my words. Times are changing for me and my type, and we’ll be back to get our fair share of the money swimming around your warehouse, and this city. And next time, we won’t come cap in hand!’
‘Right, call the constable,’ Tom ordered, but the woman was already striding from the room, leaving her ‘proof’ on the table. He shook his head. ‘Do we know if Wilding had family?’
‘No,’ Isaac replied. ‘We got him from the press. Sailed ordinary with us a couple of times and gave a decent account of himself. I’ll ask around in the Swan and see if I can track his kin.’
Tom stood and walked to the parlour fire, warming his hands on the sea coal burning red hot in the grate. His father joined him.
‘We’ve had two previous claims this week for the wages of young Wilding,’ Ralph confided. ‘Yesterday, it was someone professing to be his destitute old father. He stank of ale and could not even get his son’s name right under my questioning.’
‘But why do they do it? They must know we will check?’
Ralph took a mug of ale offered by Isaac and eased his six foot frame into the seat vacated by the woman. ‘Not all owners do, so they think it’s worth a try. Many are desperate. Tempted to London by tales of easy money, they find there’s nowhere to live, food they can’t afford and pestilence everywhere. But did you notice her sense of entitlement, of grievance? - ‘we’ll be back to get our fair share?... Times are changing.’ The people are getting bold, Tom, starting to revolt. I’m told there were thousands this morning, swarming like flies around the gates of the Royal Palace, calling for the head of the Earl of Strafford. They’re over-stepping the mark. Retribution will follow, you can be sure’.
‘I see John Pym’s work here,’ Ralph continued, ‘and the Puritan MPs he leads against the King. He’s like a puppet master, with Parliament in one hand and the mob and their rumours in the other, working them in harness to pressure the King. But Pym’s picked the wrong fight this time, trying to bring down Strafford, and it's been over six months since he was impeached. He’s the King’s right hand man and Charles has promised the Earl he will be safe. The King can’t afford to lose him, or his authority.’
‘Anyway, let us turn our mind to more pleasant matters. I
had the most stimulating discussion with young Elizabeth Seymour yesterday that has left my mind quite spinning.’
Tom knew the feeling only too well. He had met Elizabeth on his return from India nineteen months ago. He had been completely smitten and now they were rarely apart.
‘Yes, she was talking to me about the moons of Jupiter and how timing their orbits, in theory, can be used to calculate longitude. And, as you know, that is what we’re all looking for.’
Ah yes, Tom thought, longitude - the merchant philosopher’s stone. Measure that and you could plot your position on any sea in the world, an incalculable commercial advantage.
‘Elizabeth tells me Galileo came up with the idea some thirty years ago,’ Ralph continued. ‘But he couldn’t take accurate sightings with his telescope on board a moving ship. You also need an accurate clock and there have been advances in these since his experiments. Elizabeth wants to try again and wondered if she could use one of our ships…’
He was interrupted by a shout from the back of the warehouse and, seconds later, their apprentice Sam Barnes ran into the room. ‘Master Tallant, you have…oh good day Sir Ralph, I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation, but you must see this.’
The Tallant warehouse was located off Thames Street, near the river. Access was through a ginnel – a small arched tunnel that ran between and under the houses on the south of Thames Street, straight into the yard at the front of their premises.
Sam ran out of the warehouse, across the yard, and into the ginnel, Tom and his father following closely. The passage - wide enough for a two horse cart – was the route for all cargo from the Tallant warehouse to the busy streets of London. It was cold and damp and Tom coughed at the overpowering smell of piss. Their footsteps echoed along the cobble floor and arched ceiling but, as they approached the ginnel’s end, the sound was drowned by the cacophony of street noise ahead.
The Wrecking Storm Page 1