The Revenge of Captain Paine pm-2

by Andrew Pepper

‘Shouldn’t we take our chances and plead our innocence? ’ Morris asked. ‘Perhaps we could hide you somewhere?’

  ‘Where?’

  They looked around the carriage. There were no obvious hiding places.

  Pyke banged on the roof and ordered the coachman to make haste. Sliding the glass down, he leaned out of the window and looked behind them. The carriage was moving quickly now, bumping along the puddle-strewn track. Pyke could just about see them, six men on horseback riding in pursuit. But it was only when they had made up more ground that he saw their scarlet coats. They were soldiers, dragoons probably, skilled horsemen who were closing the gap on them with each passing moment. This time, Pyke opened the door and, clinging on to the iron rail that ran along the top of the carriage, hauled himself on to the roof, where Morris and Bledisloe’s luggage was stowed. The carriage was rattling along at a fair speed, mud and water splashing around them, the crack of the coachman’s whip urging on the team of straining horses. Behind them, the soldiers had closed the gap to a few hundred yards. Pyke took one of the suitcases fixed to the roof and hurled it up into the air. The contents of the case momentarily filled the sky before fluttering down on to the muddy track, the suitcase itself landing just where Pyke had intended.

  The first of the horsemen swerved at the last minute to avoid the obstacle and buffeted the soldier right behind him, the collision sending both horses sprawling on to the track and dismounting their riders. Another two horses were downed in the melee but the two riders at the back managed to avoid the carnage and jump clear. A rifle shot whistled over Pyke’s head. He could hear the panting of the horses, and the rattling of the wheels and harness. There was one suitcase left and he tried the same trick, but this time the riders were prepared for him and easily avoided the intended missile. The two soldiers were less than fifty yards behind them and Pyke could see their determined grimaces. Yellowplush had served in the army, he remembered. Perhaps they had come across his body and were hell-bent on avenging one of their own. But this didn’t explain how they had mobilised so rapidly.

  Pyke could see their crimson uniforms clearly and, with less weight to carry, one of the soldiers had almost caught up with the slower-moving carriage. But it was only at the last moment that Pyke saw the pistol in his hand, heard the blast and flattened himself against the roof of the carriage, narrowly avoiding the ball-shot as it whistled over his head. Rolling over on to his front, he retrieved the rifle Jackman had given him, steadied himself and took aim. It was an easy shot. The bullet struck the soldier in the chest and lifted him cleanly off the horse, sending him crashing to the track, dead before he’d even landed. The other soldier had seen what had happened but didn’t stop to check on his fallen comrade as Pyke had hoped he might. This last remaining soldier had a pistol in his hand but this time the shot missed by some margin, and it gave Pyke a chance to hurl the rifle with both hands in his general direction. The weapon collided with the horse just as it was pulling alongside the carriage and as quickly as it had started the pursuit was over. Both horse and rider went down, and soon there was nothing behind them except trees and an empty track snaking its way across flat, barren terrain.

  ‘You, shut up now,’ Pyke spat at Chauncey Bledisloe, who had been panicking and shouting at Pyke ever since he had killed the soldier. Morris’s assistant flicked his mop of greasy brown hair away from his eyes and folded his arms, sulking. He was the same age as Pyke but that was where the comparison ended: with his wan complexion, bony frame and hunched shoulders, he was every bit the runt of his particular litter. ‘If I hear another word from you before we reach London, I swear, I’ll throw you out of the carriage while it’s still moving. Is that understood?’ Turning to Morris, he added, without changing his tone, ‘Did you know anything about the reception party waiting for me in Huntingdon? I want the truth.’ Pyke wiped his mouth with his sleeve and sat back against the horsehair cushion. They were travelling at a more sedate speed and his nervous energy had abated into a hard, cold anger.

  ‘I had no idea it would come to this. I’m so sorry, Pyke. You have to believe me. It’s terrible, terrible.’ Morris shook his head, colour draining from his cheeks.

  ‘But you knew there was going to be trouble?’

  ‘All I knew was what Peel told us in his office: that some radicals might try to agitate among the navvies.’

  His response drew some of the sting from Pyke’s anger. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh. ‘I shot and killed a soldier. Injured five others. Do you think they’ll just let me walk away from it?’

  Morris stared down at the wet straw on the floor of the carriage. ‘Perhaps the men who chased us weren’t acting on official orders.’

  It was a thought that had crossed Pyke’s mind, too, but he looked up at Morris. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘After Peterloo, the military brass has been much more careful about turning their soldiers on the civilian population.’

  ‘A man’s dead. I killed him. The regiment won’t let it go.’

  For a while no one said anything, the clattering of the horses’ hoofs and clanking of the harness filling the carriage.

  Morris loosened his cravat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘How many of the navvies perished?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Pyke closed his eyes, his mind returning to the events on the bridge. ‘Given the strength of the current, it can’t have been easy for the ones who jumped off the bridge.’

  ‘You have to believe I didn’t know about any plans to attack the navvies, Pyke. I wouldn’t have sent you there if I’d known. I’m not that kind of man.’

  Pyke stared out of the window and thought about the old crone and the drowned navvies. He thought about the glass-eyed man whose assault on Mary had instigated the whole affair and the bloated, decomposing body he’d inspected in the cellar of the watch-house, too. Perhaps Morris was telling the truth. Perhaps he was just as surprised by what had happened as Pyke. But someone, somewhere had planned it, someone with the power or the contacts to call upon six armed dragoons, and when he found them, Pyke intended to make them suffer.

  ‘What will happen to the railway construction now?’ Pyke asked.

  They had eaten supper at an inn south of Bishop’s Stortford and were continuing their journey back to London.

  ‘There will have to be an investigation, of course, and doubtless pressure will be brought to bear on all parties to blame the navvies.’ Morris’s face was haggard and drawn. ‘That’s the reality of the situation. And the construction work will be put back by months. If, that is, it happens at all.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t it happen?’

  ‘I didn’t tell you about the meeting, did I?’ Morris shook his head. ‘It would seem there’s a growing feeling among the proprietors that we should terminate the railway at Cambridge.’

  ‘Not go all the way to York?’

  Morris shook his head glumly. ‘It’s become a straightforward question of money, Pyke. The proprietors are concerned about our stagnant share price, and who can blame them? They look at our competitor, the London and Birmingham Railway, and they see a spectacular success. The Birmingham railway was consolidated at the same time as us and they’ve already contracted eighty-six miles of track; they’ll have the whole line under contract by the start of next year, as well. Meanwhile, we’ve only contracted thirty-eight miles of track — thirty-eight out of one hundred and eighty-six — and we’ve purchased less than a fifth of the land we’ll need to get to York.’

  Pyke could see that this failure weighed heavily on Morris’s mind and decided not to push him.

  ‘Whereas the Birmingham’s shares have more than doubled in the last six months alone, ours are worth less than the proprietors have already paid in instalments. They’re looking out for themselves.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘They couldn’t care less about my tales of woe, the difficulties we’ve been having, problems with subcontractors and the battles with landowners like Rockingham. They just want a section of the r
ailway to be completed as soon as possible so that we can begin to earn freight and passenger income; it’s the only way our shares will ever become attractive to investors.’

  Pyke struggled to grasp the implications of what Morris had told him. ‘And that’s why they want to focus efforts on getting the section of the line as far as Cambridge built before the rest of the work is attempted?’

  ‘If only it were that straightforward. No, I think it’s far worse than that. There’s a faction in the company that would like to see us raise the white flag and make Cambridge our final terminus. Forget about Lincoln and York.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s very simple. As soon as we start to earn money, they’ll begin to receive their dividends.’

  Pyke nodded. He understood the older man’s dilemma. ‘I take it you don’t want to build a railway that terminates at Cambridge.’

  Morris gave Pyke a hollow smile.

  ‘Mr Morris was heroic,’ Chauncey Bledisloe said, interrupting their conversation. ‘ Heroic is the only word I can think of that comes close to describing it. The question of whether we should push on to Lincoln and York came to a vote and Mr Morris here stood and gave a speech that anyone who was lucky enough to hear it will be talking about for years, even decades, to come. What did you tell them, Mr Morris? That if we stopped at Cambridge, we’d miss out on the holiest of holy grails, a route linking London with the great factories and collieries of the Midlands and the North and perhaps one day even with Scotland.’

  Pyke pointed at him. ‘I thought I told you to keep your mouth closed.’

  Turning crimson, Bledisloe flicked hair from his face and slunk to the far side of the carriage.

  Pyke turned to Morris. ‘What happened in the vote?’

  ‘I carried the motion by a single vote.’ Morris rubbed his eyes and yawned. He looked tired and old and his skin had assumed a wan, almost yellowy complexion. ‘But the issue will be debated again in a week’s time by the central committee in London and doubtless another vote will be taken and then another vote and then another vote until the jackals finally win the day.’

  Pyke stared out of the window at the dark, featureless landscape. ‘Of course, if the railway goes no farther than Cambridge, Rockingham will get what he wants.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So do you really think Rockingham could have pulled the strings of the soldiers, the townsmen and the magistrate? ’

  ‘I do know for a fact he’s a ruthless bastard. On the face of it, I’m quite sure he’d be capable of anything.’

  ‘But does his influence extend as far as your own board?’ Pyke glanced across at Bledisloe.

  ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know,’ the older man said, sighing. ‘But I wouldn’t rule it out.’

  Pyke’s dreams were punctuated with images of decaying bodies and burning flesh and when he woke up his back and sides were drenched in sweat. Yawning, he stretched his limbs and looked out of the window. They were approaching the outskirts of the city: the flat, barren landscape had been replaced by red-brick houses, work-shops, clay pits and tile kilns. Morris was fiddling with his watch and staring glumly out of the window while Bledisloe snored quietly in his seat.

  ‘I was thinking…’ Morris hesitated. His skin was slick with perspiration. ‘In the light of your experiences, I’d quite understand if you didn’t want to have anything more to do with me.’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting we have a business arrangement?’

  ‘Of course I haven’t forgotten,’ Morris said indignantly. ‘I just didn’t want to drag you any farther into something you might later regret.’

  ‘Someone tried to assassinate me last night. Don’t you think I’m already part of it now, whatever it is?’

  ‘I just didn’t want you to feel obligated.’

  Pyke cut him off. ‘If you still need the money, the offer of the loan from my bank still stands.’ He waited until Morris looked up at him. ‘I might have walked away from it all but I tend to take it personally when someone tries to kill me and I don’t know why.’ Morris didn’t need to know that Peel was holding something over him, too.

  ‘Then we’ll sign the contracts tomorrow afternoon at the railway’s head office on Threadneedle Street.’ Morris hesitated and rubbed his eyes. ‘As one of the railway’s chief creditors, you’re also entitled to three votes whenever the committee votes on substantial issues. I hope I can count on your support.’

  Nodding, Pyke wound the silver chain from his fob pocket around his thumb and played with the two keys attached to it.

  ‘Actually, Pyke, there was something of a more sensitive nature I wanted to talk to you about.’ Morris glanced across at Bledisloe, who was still fast asleep.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  Beads of sweat pricked the older man’s temples. ‘In addition to the company loan, I’d like to borrow a sum of money from your bank under a more personal arrangement. ’

  ‘What kind of sum?’

  ‘Ten thousand pounds.’

  Pyke whistled involuntarily. ‘That’s a lot of money. Do you mind me asking what you need it for?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell. As I said, it’s a personal matter.’

  ‘Personal as in you can’t tell me or won’t?’

  ‘It’s just personal,’ the older man said, frustration getting the better of him.

  ‘Tell me something, Edward. Are you in some kind of trouble?’

  ‘Trouble? Of course I’m not in trouble.’ Morris seemed unfazed by the question. ‘I merely need to borrow a small sum of money in the short term and according to all the usual practices and procedures.’

  ‘If you regard ten thousand to be a small sum then I truly take my hat off to you.’

  Morris regarded him with a grimace. ‘You don’t wear a hat.’

  ‘It was a figure of speech.’

  A moment passed between them. ‘So will your bank lend me the money or not?’

  ‘What will you put up as security?’

  ‘Cranborne Park. I own it free and clear.’

  Pyke nodded, still turning over the older man’s request in his mind. ‘I assume this isn’t something you’ve discussed with your wife?’

  ‘Since when did men like you and I ever allow our wives to dictate the decisions we make?’

  Pyke allowed himself a brief smile. ‘So how soon do you need this money?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll need a decision at once. I’ll need the money by tomorrow. In notes, if possible.’

  ‘All right,’ Pyke said, absent-mindedly fiddling with his two keys. ‘Bring the deeds to the estate with you to the meeting tomorrow and you have a deal.’

  They shook hands.

  Morris’s face brightened considerably but the strain was still evident. ‘I’d prefer it if no one else knew about this.’

  ‘We’ll need someone to witness our signatures on the loan contracts.’ Pyke waited and said, ‘What about Nash?’ He had first solicited Morris as a customer and they seemed to be on good terms.

  ‘As long as it goes no farther than young Jem.’ He looked across at Bledisloe who was beginning to stir. ‘Look, old boy, I do appreciate what you’ve done for me. I’d really like to invite you and your family to tea at Cranborne Park. You clearly made quite an impression on my wife. She insisted that I ask you: insisted that you bring your family, as well. Perhaps after we’ve concluded our business tomorrow? We could pick up your wife and child on the way.’

  Pyke assured him he would ask Emily and let him know at the meeting the next day. He asked, ‘Do you ever think it odd that we’ve become neighbours and business partners at the same time?’

  ‘Odd?’

  ‘Coincidental.’

  Morris shrugged. ‘Like I told you before, it wasn’t my idea to move to Cranborne Park.’

  Pyke stared out of the window, declining to respond. But it was exactly this point which worried him.

  NINE

  Even by ten o’clock the next mornin
g, barely a shard of daylight had managed to penetrate the asphyxiating miasma of soot and dirt that hung over the warren of narrow alleys and courts around Spitalfields. The stench, too, made Pyke’s eyes water, a pungent odour of discarded, overripe fruit from the nearby market, human excrement and gobbets of putrid flesh from a nearby slaughterhouse where the walls were six inches thick with the blood and fat from slain animals. A long-tailed rat, as large as a small dog, scurried across the street, nimbly darting between ragged cobblestones to join others gnawing on the carcass of a dead cat. Pyke didn’t bother to shoo them away; nor would the rats have taken any notice of him if he’d tried. It had been some time since he had ventured into this territory, and with each passing year it became more alien to him — the sight of out-of-work men dressed in filthy rags, teeth black from chewing tobacco, openly copulating with blowsy women while their bow-legged children ran freely in cess trenches. All of it took him back to his own childhood, but he was no longer able to remember what it had been like to actually live in such conditions. Money had softened him to such an extent that he now felt uncomfortable if he didn’t bathe three or four times a week, eat fresh fish and vegetables off fine china, drink expensive French wines and sleep on good cotton sheets.

  Strangely this anxiety had not prevented him from becoming nostalgic about his own past. A few weeks earlier, he’d walked past the ginnery he had once owned around the corner from Smithfield Market and had been seized by a feeling of such intense desire to be back in his old room that he had tried to gain entrance to the building. Once inside, he had been set upon by a gang of thieves who used it as a flash house and who tried and failed to strip him of his possessions. Afterwards he had attended a charity ball organised by Emily to raise funds for another of her causes, and it had struck him that, as much as he despised the rookeries, despised their dirtiness, their stink of misery and despair and the smoke-blackened rooms where ten or more men and women slept head to toe on flimsy hessian sacks, despised the ubiquity of violence and the imminence of death, he felt more comfortable there than he did attending events alongside the great and the good of society.