The Revenge of Captain Paine pm-2

by Andrew Pepper

  Pyke stared down the barrel and said, ‘Hasn’t anyone ever told you that the wig makes you look like an overgrown spaniel?’

  The very considerable wealth that Sir Horsley Rockingham had plundered from his sugar plantation and the exploitation of African slaves was on display from the moment Pyke entered the wrought-iron gates of his country estate and approached the huge Queen Anne mansion from the carefully manicured gardens. Beyond the mature oak trees, Pyke could see stables and a paddock where a young woman with blonde hair was riding a chestnut-coloured gelding. Straight ahead, the house, constructed from Portland stone and glistening in the midday sunlight, was four storeys high and twelve windows long. Pyke dismounted from his horse and tied it to a handrail. At the top of the steps, he passed through a pair of Ionic columns and swept uninvited into the entrance hall, where a flustered servant tried to enquire about his business. In the hall, oil paintings by Titian, Van Dyck, Rubens and Gainsborough hung on the walls alongside oriental tapestries.

  Pyke found Rockingham eating lunch alone in the dining room. It was an opulent room with high ceilings, rich cornices and ornate gilding. The old man had a white napkin tucked into his collar and was slurping claret from a crystal glass. He greeted the intrusion by spluttering red wine on to his beefsteak.

  One wouldn’t have known from looking at him that Rockingham had spent much of his life in the West Indies. Wrinkled with age, his skin had developed a translucent hue that recalled a cadaver rather than a sun-kissed expatriate. Hunched over his food at one end of a long polished table, he cut a frail figure, eaten away from the inside by his own bile, and his eyes, as hard as acorns, darted nervously between Pyke and the servant who had followed him into the room.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this interruption?’ He addressed the servant rather than Pyke. ‘Can’t you see I’m eating my lunch, boy?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but this gentleman wouldn’t permit me to ask him his business…’

  ‘Stop bleating, man! Tell this blackguard to leave me in peace and learn some damned manners.’

  Pyke wandered across to the polished table and spied the condiments. ‘Perhaps I could pass you the pepper, Sir Horsley. I hear you enjoy smearing it into bloodied flesh.’ Taking the ceramic shaker, he shoved it along the polished surface of the table in the old man’s direction. He made no effort to stop it and the vessel flew off the end of the table, smashing on the wooden floor.

  ‘Go and fetch the magistrate and his men,’ Rockingham barked at the servant. ‘Damnation, man, didn’t you hear me?’

  ‘Are you quite certain you want to be left alone in this man’s company, m’lord?’ The servant seemed puzzled, doubtless trying to work out whether Pyke’s smart clothes indicated benevolent intentions.

  ‘Do you imagine I’m intimidated by this specimen?’ Rockingham shuffled across to where Pyke was standing. ‘I lived for fifteen years among three-hundred-odd niggers, all of whom fantasised about killing me.’ He rubbed his finger against Pyke’s cheeks and peered down at it. ‘I reckon you might have some nigger blood in you.’

  Hesitating, the servant looked again at Pyke and turned to depart the room, afraid to disobey his master.

  ‘Before the magistrate’s men arrive and toss you out on your ear like a whipped dog, perhaps you might enlighten me as to the purpose of your unsolicited visit.’

  Pyke wandered around to the other side of the table and filled a glass with claret from the decanter. Sitting down on one of the horsehair chairs, he took a sip of the wine and proffered an approving nod. ‘I’m afraid we might be here for quite a while. It would appear that Yellowplush’s ruffians are tied up in Huntingdon. Haven’t you heard? There’s going to be some trouble there involving the navvies.’

  Rockingham gave him a peculiar smile. ‘What do you expect if you permit hordes of barbarians to roam around the land on a whim?’

  ‘I thought they were here to work.’

  ‘More like piss their wages against the wall and infect our women with the French disease.’

  ‘In my experience venereal diseases are the gift of the aristocracy.’ Pyke stood up and walked over to the large Venetian window that looked out on to the lawn at the rear of the building. ‘It explains why most of your lot are effete twits who can’t tie their own shoelaces.’

  That even drew a chuckle from the old man. ‘I like you, boy. You’re spirited. But a spirited horse won’t always become a champion. That takes discipline and courage. I’d enjoy breaking you in, of course, but I don’t think you possess those qualities. In the end, you’d end up in the slaughterhouse like the rest of the also-rans.’

  ‘Since you seem to appreciate blunt talking, I’ll try and make this as clear as I can. The Grand Northern Railway will be built across your land whether you like it or not.’

  ‘You’ll see to it personally?’ Rockingham’s voice was light, even mocking.

  ‘Flatterers tried to convince Canute he could command the waves to go back but he only attempted to do so in order to ridicule them. You could learn a thing or two from him.’

  ‘Is that so, boy? Perhaps you don’t know as much as you seem to think.’

  Rockingham shuffled over to the fireplace and stood there for a moment, his back to Pyke, while he fumbled at his breeches. Pyke heard the splashes and saw some steam rising from the fire before he realised what was happening. When he’d finished, the older man buttoned up his breeches and turned to face him.

  It was an act designed to insult and shock but he let it pass without acknowledging it. Still, Pyke felt his long-held prejudices against the aristocracy rise up inside him like a knotted ball.

  ‘I’m guessing it was that old fool Morris who sent you here.’ Rockingham belched loudly. ‘Just imagine it, giving up your title to join the ranks of the plebeians. What right-thinking Englishman would contemplate such a prospect?’

  ‘If a right-thinking Englishman would fuck a Negro woman and then, nine months later, strangle his own progeny in front of her, Morris might be better described as wrong-thinking.’

  Rockingham regarded him coldly. ‘I’d be very careful how you address me, boy.’

  ‘If it was up to me, I’d make sure the railway cut through the middle of this house and then I’d build a station in the great hall.’

  That drew a leering smile. ‘You’re actually quite an amusing sort.’ He looked at Pyke, as though inspecting a slab of meat. ‘Whatever Morris is paying you, I’ll double it.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Tempted, eh?’ Rockingham grinned, blood rising in his wan cheeks. ‘To leave me in peace so I can finish my lunch.’

  ‘I’m waiting for you to tell me how a headless corpse came to be dumped in the river flowing directly through your land.’

  This seemed to take Rockingham by surprise. ‘It didn’t have anything to do with me.’

  ‘But it was found in the river just downstream from the edge of your estate.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So it implies that you were somehow involved.’

  ‘Did the magistrate tell you that?’

  When Pyke declined to answer, Rockingham’s mood seemed to improve. ‘I didn’t think so.’ But it suggested that he wasn’t as certain of Yellowplush’s support as Pyke might have expected.

  ‘It was just coincidence, then?’

  ‘Dammit, boy, if I’d killed a man or paid someone else to do it, why would I have cut off his head and thrown him into a river near my own land?’

  A moment passed between them. More on a whim than anything else, Pyke said, ‘So what are you trying to hide?’

  ‘Hide?’ Rockingham spluttered, unable to contain his rage. ‘I’m not trying to hide a damned thing.’

  ‘It doesn’t look that way from where I’m standing.’

  Rockingham wiped spittle from his chin and waited until he was calm. ‘It’s time you left. This conversation is finished.’

  ‘The young girl I saw outside in the paddock, riding one of your chestn
ut horses. Is she your daughter or granddaughter?’

  Rockingham’s outrage was confined to his trembling hand. ‘I won’t be talked to in such an outrageous manner in my own house, sir.’

  ‘If you make any further attempts to impede the construction of the railway across your land, I’ll smear the bloodied carcass of her favourite animal across the marbled floor of the entrance hall while she watches.’

  ‘Are you threatening my family?’ Rockingham asked, still trying to adjust himself to the shock.

  Unbuttoning his trousers, Pyke relieved himself on the remains of Rockingham’s steak while the old man looked on in horror.

  ‘Do you really think you can come into my home and insult me?’ Rockingham’s eyes glowed with humiliation. ‘I have powerful friends, in London as well as Huntingdon, and I won’t stand for your impertinence. You hear me, boy? I’d watch your back if I were you.’

  As he reached the front steps, Pyke looked up and saw two figures approaching the house across the lawn. The young woman with the blonde hair carried a riding hat. Her companion, a smartly dressed young man, walked by her side. He was leading the chestnut gelding.

  In the morning sunlight, the whiteness of their clothes set against the manicured green lawn might have made for a pleasant sight and their happy demeanour, reinforced by the fact they were walking so close together, implied a blossoming romance. But Pyke could not bring himself to acknowledge them or their happiness. Perhaps they had no idea that their idyll had been purchased with the crack of a slaver’s whip, but their innocence was not something he wished to contemplate.

  Rockingham had followed Pyke outside, however, and approached him as he was preparing to leave. He called over the young couple, took the reins of the horse from the man and, without making any introductions or acknowledging Pyke’s presence, asked them to leave.

  ‘He’s a beautiful animal, isn’t he?’ Rockingham said, gently stroking the animal’s head. ‘But in a race at Newmarket last week he missed his footing and was beaten into third place.’

  Pyke didn’t see the pistol in the ex-slaver’s shaking hand until it was too late. The first blast caught the startled beast between the eyes and the second hit him in the neck as he stumbled, the hind legs buckling first. On the ground, the stricken animal quivered and snorted in front of them, and then died.

  ‘Perhaps now you know what kind of man you’re dealing with,’ Rockingham said, staring down at the slain animal without sentiment.

  Hearing a noise from behind them, Pyke spun around and saw that Rockingham’s daughter had witnessed the scene from the top of the stone steps, but her expression was composed and her stare was empty, as though the shooting had not happened or she had failed to see it.

  SEVEN

  In daylight, and now that it was no longer raining, Huntingdon might have looked like a pretty market town with its Norman church, well-proportioned houses and lush meadows. In fact, for a few hours at least, the sun-dappled river, though it had broken its banks just past the old bridge, seemed almost peaceful. But it was also hard not to see the town in the light of its watch-house and jail, the workhouse that was being built, and the efforts of its inhabitants to arm themselves in the face of an enemy who had done them no wrong. Pyke had seen similar attitudes in other small provincial towns. Strangers were to be tolerated only if they did not stay, change was to be feared, tradition and superstition predominated, and men’s fears were easily played upon by those with the power. It wasn’t surprising that the coming of the railway had provoked unrest, especially as it threatened people’s livelihoods. But Pyke suspected that some people were whipping up generalised anxieties for their own selfish interests.

  Situated on the Godmanchester side of the old bridge, the navvy encampment was set back from the muddy track and partly hidden by a tall hedge that circled the field.

  ‘Hey, fella, what do you want?’ From the other side of the gate, a man peered at him and scowled. He was holding what looked like a musket.

  ‘I want to talk to whoever’s in charge.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘The name’s Pyke. I’ve been sent here by the chairman of the railway company in London.’

  That drew an ironic laugh but the gate swung open and he was met on the other side by three burly men with muskets slung over their shoulders, wearing velveteen coats covered in mud.

  ‘We’ll need to search you,’ one of them muttered. ‘In light of the current situation, I expect you’ll understand.’

  Pyke nodded but wondered what situation they were referring to. Did they know that the townsmen were already preparing for trouble?

  Although it was afternoon, there was a chill in the air and darkness had begun to gnaw at the edges of the sky, while giant pillars of dark forbidding cloud massed on the horizon.

  The word camp was perhaps too grand a description for what greeted Pyke. It was little more than a few canvas tarpaulins hoisted over low-lying tree branches and a single turf shanty built out of caked mud which sat on slightly higher ground away from the banks of the river. As he was led across the field, the stares of the navvies bore into him. He had to duck his head to enter the shanty and inside it took him a few moments to adjust to the gloom. One of the men introduced him as a company man from London. A fire burnt in a makeshift grate, the smoke drawn upwards by a small hole in the thatched roof.

  There were three men sitting on tree stumps around the fire and Pyke realised he already knew one of them, though it took him a few moments to work out how and where from.

  Julian Jackman looked as surprised as Pyke but tried to conceal it behind the same easy smile he had deployed in their first meeting at the Brick Lane beer shop. This time, Pyke scrutinised his features more closely — his smooth complexion, his piercing green eyes and his thick, bushy hair — and realised, to his disappointment, that the radical was indeed attractive.

  ‘In what capacity are you here, Pyke? I take it not as your wife’s keeper?’

  Pyke stepped forward as if to strike him and watched, with pleasure, as Jackman flinched slightly.

  ‘You know him, then?’ Perched on a tree stump, a navvy took off his white felt hat and scratched his carrot-coloured hair.

  Jackman nodded. ‘I met him a few days ago in London. He’s married to Emily Blackwood, the campaigner. Maybe you’ve heard of her?’ It was odd to be described as Emily’s husband and Pyke wasn’t sure he liked it.

  The redhead frowned. ‘Can we trust him?’

  Jackman stood up. ‘I don’t know, Pyke. Can we trust you?’ Turning to the navvy, he added, ‘By profession, Pyke’s a banker.’

  The navvy seemed amused. ‘A capitalist, eh? Is that right?’ He looked up at Pyke for the first time.

  ‘Who I am or what I do for a living doesn’t matter. What I’ve come here to tell you does matter.’

  ‘Well, sir, we tend to take folks as we find ’em.’ The navvy broke into a grin. ‘My name’s Red and this here is Billygoat.’ He pointed at the shaven-headed man next to him. ‘It seems you already know our friend from London so I won’t bother introducing him.’ He put on his felt cap and turned up the brim. ‘So what is it you’ve got to tell us?’

  ‘Did you know that the magistrate has been swearing in some of the townsmen as special constables and arming them with machetes and brickbats?’

  Red scratched his stubble, digesting this news, but his expression remained calm. ‘And why d’you think we’d be interested to hear this?’

  Pyke glanced across at Jackman. ‘They say to be forewarned is to be forearmed.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Red broke into a smile. ‘Is a gentleman banker such as yourself on our side now?’

  ‘I came here to investigate claims that a landowner has been conspiring to obstruct the progress of the railway across his land.’

  ‘Conspiring with whom?’

  ‘That’s what I’m here to find out.’

  Red regarded him with interest but said nothing.

  �
�You mean to tell us that you haven’t been sent up here to keep an eye on radical activity?’ Jackman shot Pyke a sceptical look.

  ‘Personally I don’t give a damn whether you join a union or drink yourselves into an early grave.’ This time Pyke directed his remarks at Red.

  ‘And does the central committee of the Grand Northern Railway company feel the same way?’ Jackman asked, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Pyke folded his arms. ‘I haven’t asked them.’

  Red glanced over at the radical. ‘So you wouldn’t have any objections to us taking these oaths and then, say, striking for higher wages and better workin’ conditions?’

  ‘If that’s what you want to do, be my guest,’ Pyke said carefully. ‘Of course, if you took these oaths and declared a strike before other navvy crews had done likewise, it would put you in a weak position. That’s the thing about labouring jobs. There are always men willing to take your places.’

  Red seemed to enjoy this remark. ‘I’d say you weren’t accustomed to the toils of being a navvy. Fact of the matter is, there ain’t too many folk are cut out for it.’ But Pyke could see that he had already considered this point.

  ‘Look,’ Pyke said, impatiently, ‘there are upwards of a hundred men waiting on the other side of the bridge with brickbats and pick handles and the magistrate seems to think you’re about to attack their town. My question is, where has he got that idea from?’

  ‘That would be because we are.’ Red’s expression was so calm that it took Pyke a few moments to comprehend what he’d said.

  ‘You’re going to attack the town?’

  Jackman shot Red a worried look. ‘You think it’s wise to tell him about our plan?’

  ‘He ain’t going anywhere till we make our move, so what’s the difference?’

  ‘I still don’t understand,’ Pyke said, looking around the room. ‘Why attack a place that you know is very well defended? Why attack it at all?’

  ‘Come. I’ll show you.’ Red stood up and motioned for Pyke to follow him outside to the back of the shanty, where a body was laid out under a tarpaulin on a tatty hemp mat. It belonged to an old woman, and it looked as if she had been badly beaten before she died. Her neck was very much discoloured, as if her windpipe had been violently squeezed, and someone’s fingernails had clawed the skin over her trachea. Her breasts were purple with bruises and her face looked as if it had been attacked with a hammer. These injuries alone marked it as one of the most brutal beatings Pyke had ever witnessed, but this wasn’t even the worst of it: scarcely an inch of her body was free from contusions, but it was the marks around the old woman’s vagina which turned Pyke’s stomach and forced him to look away. He shared a brief look with Red. There didn’t seem to be any other conclusion that could be drawn. Before she had died the woman had been raped.