Larcum Mudge (Alexander Clay Series Book 8)

by Philip K Allan

  ‘My thanks, but no,’ said Clay. ‘I had heard tell of the Peregrine, but I thought her reported lost with all hands in a storm last year. Somewhere in the Leeward Islands, if I remember rightly.’

  ‘I am sure you understand such matters best, Captain, but the ship’s name is set out quite plain,’ said Rashford, tapping the note.

  ‘Doubtless all will be made clear,’ said Clay, putting on his hat. ‘Kindly have those posters sent across to my ship. Ask for Mr Taylor, my first lieutenant, who will attend to them. I must go to the George directly, or I small miss the London coach.’

  ‘Ah, orders for you waiting at the Admiralty, I don’t doubt, now that your ship is out of the dockyard. They have done a tolerable job at repairing her bow,’ said the printer.

  Clay looked at him aghast. ‘How in all creation do you …’ he spluttered.

  ‘Oh, take no notice of me, sir,’ chuckled Rashford. ‘This is Plymouth, after all. The affairs of the navy are our business. Half the town supply it and the rest serve in it.’

  ‘Is that so?’ sniffed Clay. ‘Well, I bid you a good day, Mr Rashford. I must go and collect those orders you speak of, unless, perchance, you know their content already, and can save me the trouble of my journey?’

  ‘Ha ha, very witty,’ laughed the printer, ‘although I should have your purser lay in some warm-weather slops, if I were you.’ He touched the side of his nose, leaving a fresh smudge of ink. ‘Have a prosperous voyage, Captain.’ Rashford held out a filthy hand, and after a moment of hesitation, Clay took it.

  *****

  ‘Earl St Vincent is ready to see you, sir,’ said the elderly clerk, bobbing his wigged head at the mention of the First Lord of the Admiralty’s name. ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to follow me?’ Clay placed his glass of madeira down on the table beside his chair and rose to his feet.

  ‘Thank you, Higgins,’ he replied. He followed the older man down a long, panelled corridor, lined with the portraits of previous First Lords. Eyes stared down at him from both sides, seeming to follow him as he walked. Some were figures from an earlier age, their faces framed by cascades of curling hair, while others he recognised from his own career. There was Lord Keppel, his sunken cheeks hinting at the empty gums they concealed, every tooth lost to the scurvy he contracted as a midshipman. Next to him was Lord Howe, his honest blue eyes set deep beside his prominent nose. Last of all was Earl Spencer, dressed in the very height of fashion, just as Clay remembered him from his last visit to the Admiralty the previous year. Now there was a new incumbent in the office.

  ‘How do you find labouring under his lordship?’ asked Clay.

  ‘Labouring is the very word, sir,’ said the clerk. ‘In truth, his lordship does seem in a perishing hurry to change all that his predecessor set in train.’

  ‘I daresay there was much that need changing,’ suggested Clay. ‘Some of the naval contractors’ practices would make a highwayman blush.’

  ‘Aye, that may be so, sir,’ conceded Higgins. ‘But it goes far beyond that, as you will see for yourself, presently.’ He knocked on the large double door, and without waiting for an answer, held it open for Clay, who walked into an office that had been transformed from his last visit.

  Gone was the thick pile carpet underfoot, stripped away to reveal oak floorboards that looked to have been scrubbed that morning. Gone too were the gilt framed landscapes that had lined the walls of the room in Earl Spencer’s time. In their place were large maps painted on sheets of canvas showing the various oceans of the world. Behind the desk sat the brooding frame of Admiral John Jervis, Earl St Vincent, even stouter than when Clay had last seen him. His square, jowly face was as mirthless as he remembered. The strands of grey curly hair that framed it were thinner than before, but the eyes that watched Clay’s approach were the same intense, china blue.

  ‘Don’t you approve of my taste in furnishings, Captain?’ demanded the admiral.

  ‘Eh, it is not really my place to voice approval or otherwise, my lord,’ said Clay. ‘But I confess I was a trifle taken aback by the changes since your predecessor’s time.’

  ‘That coxcomb Spencer?’ snorted St Vincent. ‘Aye, he left very little behind him that has met with my approval.’ He stood up and gripped Clay’s hand. ‘It is good to meet with another fighting man, among all these scraping clerks and bowing flunkies. Pray be seated.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ said Clay. ‘Do I collect you are minded to reform the service?’

  ‘Not the sailing part, but matters ashore,’ explained the First Lord. ‘We are at war, yet what do I find? Criminal sloth and corruption in every place I care to look. Emoluments here, perquisites there. I tell you, Captain, left unchecked, the rogues would swallow up all the means of the country, to the ruin of us all.’

  ‘I am pleased to find the navy in such capable hands, my lord.’

  ‘This a fighting service, Captain,’ said the First Lord. ‘A fact that seems to have been forgot in this building. If oak underfoot is good enough for our ships, then it will serve for me. Do you know that Spencer even had a mirror concealed in that alcove there, so he could check upon his countenance like some damned harlot, the popinjay!’

  Clay looked towards the place beside the desk. He remembered the oval mirror that had hung there. In its place was a long glass barometer and a brass tell-tale disc with an arrow to relay the wind direction from the weathervane on the Admiralty roof. When he returned his attention to St Vincent, he saw those appraising blue eyes were on him again.

  ‘I see you are a senior post captain now,’ he said, his gaze resting on the second epaulette that lay on Clay’s left shoulder. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘I shall be three and thirty presently, my lord.’

  ‘You have done well, to have obtained such a rank at your age, without the benefits of preferment,’ said St Vincent. ‘War is a good time for finding the able and exposing the indifferent.’

  ‘And in which camp would you place me, my lord?’

  ‘The able, for the present,’ said the admiral, making the compliment sound like a threat. ‘Which is why I have sent for you. Is that Griffin of yours repaired?’

  ‘Just returned from the dockyard,’ said Clay. ‘A week or so of work will have her ready for sea.’

  ‘Good, because I have chosen you for a particular service. I had thought that we had dealt with the blight of mutiny back in ninety-seven, but I was wrong. It would seem that the crew of one of our ships has forgotten their duty to their king and risen in bloody rebellion.’ He brought a fist the size of a modest ham down on the desk, causing his writing stand to jolt.

  ‘Would that be the crew of the Peregrine, my lord?’ asked Clay. ‘There were posters seeking them when I left Plymouth.’

  ‘Quite so,’ confirmed St. Vincent, blotting up a little spilt ink. ‘She was on patrol off Hispaniola last July but failed to return to Antigua. Sir George Montague, who commands the Leeward Island squadron – you know him, of course?’

  ‘I served under Sir George two years back, in the Indian Ocean, my lord.’

  ‘So you did,’ said the admiral. ‘He was unable to institute an immediate search, on account of poor weather. A damned savage hurricane passed through the Leeward Islands the following month. When it had gone, there was no trace of the Peregrine. Montague assumed she had foundered, and reported the same. There the matter might have rested, but the ill deeds of the wicked always come to the surface in time, Captain.’

  St Vincent pulled a page of notes towards him and consulted them. ‘The Cyclops captured a French privateer off Cork last month,’ he continued. ‘Captain Fyffe grew suspicious concerning four of the crew, who were plainly not Frenchmen. Fyffe is a shrewd cove, so he questioned them apart. They all confessed to being Royal Navy deserters, sharp enough, but none of their stories bore much scrutiny. One claimed to have run from the frigate Thames, for example, but couldn’t name her officers correctly. The privateer had papers signed by the governor of Guadeloupe
, yet two of them swore blind that they had never been near the Caribbean. Captain Fyffe threatened to string the deceitful vermin up, and when the first of them felt the hemp about his throat, he resolved to tell all.’

  The First Sea Lord rose to his feet and walked across to the window. It opened onto the courtyard below, where clerks and naval officers passed to and fro. ‘It is a truly dreadful tale, Captain,’ he continued, towards the glass. ‘The hands had become enraged from a combination of stolen rum and imagined grievances. First Captain Daniels was murdered. Then they searched through the ship for the officers, butchering them as they went, and tossing their bodies into the water. None were spared, not even the midshipmen, the youngest of whom was but fourteen. He was found cowering beneath a table. Even Lieutenant MacDonald of the marines, who was certain to die in any event from the Yellow Jack, was dragged up from the sick berth and killed.’

  ‘Were there no loyal hands, my lord?’ asked Clay.

  ‘If there were, they were too frit to oppose the rebellion,’ said St Vincent, returning to his desk. ‘The mutineers made it plain that none who stood against them would survive the night. Those who led them on were damned shrewd. When the Peregrine was in their possession, they sailed south into open water and waited for the start of the season of hurricanes. Once they were certain our cruisers would have been obliged to withdraw, they headed to Guadeloupe. Of course, the damned Frogs welcomed them as brothers, agreed to purchase the ship, and not to crow about our loss.’

  ‘So does the Peregrine remain in their hands then, my lord?’ asked Clay.

  ‘I believe so, Captain, although doubtless they will have changed her appearance and name. I have found a steady cove who served on her long before all of this, whom I shall transfer to the Griffin. He is a boatswain’s mate by the name of Andrews, who was six years aboard, so he should recognise her. I take it you are still short-handed?’

  ‘We suffered badly at Copenhagen, but I have my officers out seeking volunteers, and I have hope that the press will supply the rest, my lord,’ explained Clay. ‘What is it that you would have me do – track down the mutineers?’

  ‘You can leave them to me,’ growled the First Lord. ‘Now I am aware what they are about, they will not long escape vengeance. Every agent and officer in our employ will be hunting for them. The wages of Judas will tease them out, I make no doubt. No, it is the stain of the ship itself that I need you to expunge. While it remains in French hands, it will be a constant affront to the dignity of our king.’

  ‘I believe I understand, my lord. What are my orders to be?’

  ‘Complete your preparations for the Griffin to depart by the end of the month,’ said St Vincent. ‘You will come under the command of Sir George in Antigua. Is your brother-in-law not serving there?’

  ‘Captain Sutton? Yes, he commands the Echo. It shall be good to see him once more.’

  ‘I doubt you will have much occasion for fraternising,’ rumbled the First Lord. ‘Peace is coming, Clay. The government is broke, the land tax can go no higher, and the last harvest was very indifferent. Addington is minded to ask for a truce, and from what I hear, Boney wants the same. I need that ship recaptured or destroyed while we are yet at war. Go and wipe that stain on our honour clean.’

  *****

  A lively crowd was milling through West Street in Tavistock. It was market day, and the warm Devon sunshine had done much to empty the surrounding villages and crofts. Shepherds had driven their spring lambs down from the purple hills of Dartmoor that loomed above the town. Tradesmen and entertainers had been arriving up the Plymouth road since long before dawn. Both sides of the street were lined with booths and trestles, all laden with wares. One stall had a display of buttons and coloured ribbons, the next a collection of farming implements. A little farther along the road a queue had formed beside the tented enclosure where Mistress Certainty promised to use her fortune-telling powers to predict the weather to farmers, the sex of the unborn to wives, and the faithfulness of lovers to maidens.

  Halfway along West Street was the Queen’s Head tavern. In front of the building stood a Royal Marine officer with dark hair and magnificent black sideburns, contemplating a poster that had been pasted on the wall beside the entrance. Behind Lieutenant Thomas Macpherson’s back, his scarlet tunic and trim figure were attracting admiring glances from the passing milkmaids and serving wenches. Standing close beside him was a respectful group of four men. Their shirts were richly decorated, and they all wore the high-waisted trousers and short jackets of sailors. On their heads were wide-brimmed hats, each crown encircled by a band of dark material with the word Griffin painted on it.

  ‘Are we certain this wee flyer will be seen from yon thoroughfare?’ mused Macpherson, in his gentle Highland drawl. He eyed the narrow gap that had been left in the row of stalls in front of the inn.

  ‘If your honour is worried, like, we could take our ease out here, sir,’ suggested Sean O’Malley, a wiry Irish sailor with curly dark hair. ‘Some jacks in shore-going rig in this dump will be certain to cause a stir. Half the colleens have been giving me the eye this last hour or more.’

  ‘Regrettably there is not much call for your female admirers in the navy, O’Malley, but having you four out in front of the alehouse is a worthy suggestion,’ said the marine. ‘Very well, Sedgwick, you’re in charge. Bring any suitable volunteers through to me in the snug.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said a heavily built, handsome man with dark hair and eyes, and an air of authority about him. Once Macpherson had gone inside, the sailors brought up chairs and sat back in the sunshine.

  ‘Ain’t this the life,’ said O’Malley, placing his hands behind his head and rocking backwards. ‘It beats scrubbing decks afore dawn, with Harrison breathing down our fecking necks, to be sure. You lads can owe me for suggesting it.’

  The others settled in a row along the sunlit wall beneath the poster, and tilted their hats over their eyes against the light as they watched the market crowd drift by. One figure soon detached himself from the mass and approached to read the poster. This appeared to be a troublesome task for him. He leant across and ran a large, none-too-clean finger beneath each word, his lips mouthing them as he did so. He was a solid-looking young man, in his late teens with wild, straw-coloured hair and the start of a little golden fluff where a beard would one day grow. His leggings and smock marked him out as a farm labourer. He reached the end of the poster and turned to the sailors.

  ‘You be recruitin’ for thar navy, like?’ he asked, his accent pure Devon. One of the seamen, who had a long blond pigtail and clear blue eyes, rose to his feet, removed the clay pipe he had been smoking and held his hand out. ‘That we are,’ he replied. ‘My name be Adam Trevan, and I be a sailor aboard the Griffin.’

  ‘Oh, you be Cornish!,’ exclaimed the labourer.

  ‘Aye, there be a few of us as is jacks,’ confirmed Trevan. ‘A good few from Devon, an’ all. You been to sea, like?’

  ‘Oh lord, no!’ exclaimed the potential recruit. ‘Watering the cattle in thar Tavy and taking a plunge in Farmer Guthridge’s duck pond be the most water I’ve come by. No, I ain’t never set eyes on it, although I hear tell it be mighty large.’

  ‘Only a touch bigger than you’re accustomed to,’ conceded O’Malley, joining the conversation. ‘But a man as has endured Guthridge’s pool will have nothing to fear from the fecking ocean.’

  ‘Ain’t the navy burdensome?’ continued the local. ‘With floggin’ and storms an’ the like?’

  ‘Burdensome?’ queried the Irishman. ‘Will yer look at the fine specimens of manhood afore yous?’ He jerked a thumb towards the fourth sailor, a colossus, six foot six tall and built like the prize-fighter he had once been. ‘Feast your eyes on your man Sam Evans there, standing as tall as a fecking elm. Goliath ain’t in it! Would you believe that he was shorter than me not six year ago, when he left the slums of London town to go to sea.’

  ‘He do seem uncommon large,’ agreed the potent
ial recruit.

  ‘Come close, and I’ll tell you his secret,’ whispered O’Malley, drawing the youngster to him with an arm around his shoulder. ‘He gives me his grog every day and downs a draft of seawater in its place.’

  ‘Do he now?’ marvelled the labourer, running a hand over his chin. ‘I’d like to be so lofty.’

  Sedgwick disentangled O’Malley’s arm from around the youngster, and took him to one side.

  ‘Don’t you a go heeding Sean, overly,’ he advised. ‘He’s after making game of you. Nor what be marked down on recruiting posts, neither. I’m Able Sedgwick, coxswain to our captain, and I’ll tell you how it is, straight. Our Griffin’s a happy enough ship, and if you works hard and follows the rules, you’ll do fine. The pay’s fair, and we does alright for prize money and vittles. It don’t signify if you ain’t been to sea. Sam there was a proper lubber when he joined, and I’m a run slave from Barbados. We ain’t done so bad.’

  ‘Ah, that’ll explain you looking like a Moor,’ said the man.

  ‘You’ll encounter stranger folk than me on the lower deck, lad,’ continued Sedgwick. ‘Including some as is proper Moors. Now, just you attend to the stuff as ain’t so fine. Listen with care, for once I take you to make your pledge before Mr Macpherson, that’ll be that. You can only leave the ship when the Grunters let you; if you’re slack you’ll be started with a rope’s end; the captain can flog you if he be so minded; and you’ll be away from home for months, maybe years at a time. All of that, and the odd battle to be fought, an’ all.’