Larcum Mudge (Alexander Clay Series Book 8)

by Philip K Allan

  The path was lit by lanterns hanging from metal rods driven into the bank, and as it wound its way upwards the scrub on the lower slopes steadily gave way to trees, bushes and flowers until, almost without noticing the transition, they arrived at the top in the midst a tropical garden. An expanse of manicured lawn ran away from them towards the square house. In the evening light they could see it had pale yellow walls and a broad, pitched roof. This extended out to cover a veranda that surrounded the building, lined with white classical columns. The doors facing towards the garden were thrown open, and from within came the buzz of animated conversation.

  ‘What a fine dwelling Sir George has the benefit of,’ exclaimed Faulkner. ‘What, pray, is the name of this place, Corporal?’

  ‘Clarence House, sir,’ barked the soldier who had led them up the hill.

  ‘Clarence House,’ repeated Faulkner, eyeing the building with renewed interest. ‘Would there be some association with His Royal Highness?’

  ‘What, with Sailor Bill?’ queried Blake.

  ‘He is a prince, not a petty officer, John,’ corrected the purser with a sniff. ‘Sailor Bill, indeed!’

  ‘Aye, the house were built for him, sir,’ continued the marine. ‘Back afore the war, like, when he were captain of the Pegasus and stationed in these parts. Now the admiral has use of it.’

  ‘Not a bad wee life, is it?’ said Macpherson, ‘being an admiral on a foreign station.’

  ‘Nor being a captain with a king for a father,’ added Clay.

  ‘If you will excuse me, sir, I needs to return to my duties,’ said the marine. ‘One of them flunkies will attend to you,’ he added, pointing to a pair of black footmen who stood nearby, beneath a palm tree. With a bow and an extended arm, the officers were shown across the darkening garden into the well-lit interior of the house.

  The room they entered was big, stretching across the whole rear of the house. On the walls hung portraits of various naval officers, some with hands resting across globes, others lounging against conveniently placed anchors. The light of numerous candles was caught in the richly polished wooden floor underfoot. Although the Griffins were on time, as the chimes from a tall clock that stood against one wall confirmed, they found that many of the guests were already there. Scarlet-coated officers from the garrison or the marines were mixed with the blue of the navy. Dotted among them were a few dark-coated civilians, each paired with a white-gloved wife.

  ‘Ah welcome, Captain Clay,’ beamed Montague, resplendent in his rear admiral’s uniform.

  ‘Thank you for inviting us, Sir George,’ said Clay. ‘May I reacquaint you with my officers? Most you will remember from our time together in the Indian Ocean.’ He was quite certain that a man as aloof as the admiral would have remembered none of them, so he introduced them each by name.

  ‘Splendid, gentlemen,’ said Montague. ‘You have my sincerest gratitude for coming to the assistance of the poor old Stirling, in such a timely fashion. Another five minutes, and she might have needed a new commander.’ He drew Captain William Thompson forward, his bald pate glowing red in the warmth of the room, and his left arm pinned across him in a sling.

  ‘My dear sir, I had no notion you had been hurt?’ exclaimed Clay.

  ‘Nothing more than a scratch, I assure you,’ he replied. ‘The last Frenchman I fought had some skill with the small sword.’ He indicated the sailing master’s matching sling. ‘I see that Mr Armstrong may have come across the same cove.’

  ‘A glass of wine, sir,’ murmured a footman, holding a laden tray towards the new arrivals. Other servants converged on the group, some bearing drink, others plates of food.

  ‘May I leave you in Thompson’s company, Captain,’ said Montague. ‘My duty as host summons me away.’ He indicated a new arrival, a large florid man in a heavily decorated red coat.

  ‘Of course, Sir George.’

  ‘Were you injured badly, Captain?’ asked Thompson, noticing the dressing around the hand that held the wine glass.

  ‘A small cut, no more than that,’ said Clay. ‘Alas, the same cannot be said for my best scrapper. It was shot through by a musket ball. That is another four guineas Boney owes me for its replacement. I trust our peace negotiators are battling hard on my part.’

  The group laughed at this, just after Preston had accepted some food proffered to him by one of the servants. He filled his lungs to join in the laughter, and felt a morsel lock into the top of his wind pipe.

  ‘Something deuced similar happened to poor Lieutenant Spotswood, over there,’ explained the captain of the Stirling. The officers of the Griffin turned to look at the tall, thin officer on the far side of the room, and away from Preston, who was gaping wide as he tried to dislodge the blockage. In his mind he was calling for help, but as in a nightmare, no sound came from his mouth.

  ‘What happened to him?’ asked Taylor.

  The noise in the room was growing to a steady roar in Preston’s ears, and colours were becoming brighter. The back of Macpherson’s tunic glowed like a fire as he stumbled towards him. He found himself wondering if a hanged man saw the world like this, in the moments before his neck snapped.

  ‘He was struck in the throat by a pistol ball during the battle,’ continued Thompson. ‘Fortunately, it was spent when it reached him, having come from some distance. The broadcloth of his coat took much of the impact, and his neckcloth the rest, but the poor man still lost the power of speech for a good while. Even now, he has a curiously distorted address. I dare say it will pass.’

  The others were all busy commenting on this, while Preston grabbed at Macpherson’s arm, spilling the marine’s drink as he desperately sought help. He pointed with his lone hand towards his throat, and directed a look of wide-eyed panic at his fellow officers.

  ‘By Jove!’ laughed Thompson, pointing at him. ‘That is exactly it! Bravo, sir. Why, it is as if you were Spotswood himself!’

  Fortunately, the noisy levity of the group had attracted the attention of others. This included the recently arrived surgeon of the Griffin, who had come directly from the dockyard hospital, where he had been helping tend to the wounded. He took in the blue lips and desperate gaze, and hurried across the room.

  ‘Upon my word, what are you all about?’ demanded Corbett, moving beside the stricken lieutenant, and gesturing for him to lean forward. ‘Can you not see this man is expiring before you for want of air?’ He struck him fiercely between the shoulder blades with his balled fist, and with the third blow, a piece of something flew out of his mouth. With a gasp like a surfacing diver, Preston stood back upright and colour flooded his face.

  ‘What must you think of me, Mr Preston,’ exclaimed the Stirling’s captain. ‘Rattling away like that, while you were in such distress. Can you ever forgive me?’

  ‘Pray do not mention it,’ said Preston, more embarrassed than harmed now that he could breathe again.

  ‘Bring a chair!’ Blake ordered to one of the footmen.

  ‘Should Mr Preston not return to the ship?’ asked Clay, a hand on the lieutenant’s arm.

  ‘I am quite recovered, sir,’ insisted the young officer.

  ‘Just as well,’ scolded Macpherson. ‘Consider your intended, awaiting your return? I struggle to conceive how we would have explained your demise to wee Miss Hockley.’ He pantomimed the scene for the benefit of the others. ‘Eh, no, it was not at the hands of the wicked French that he succumbed, but rather to vittles, consumed with injudicious haste.’

  ‘Do not fuss, gentlemen, and kindly take away the chair,’ said Corbett. ‘Distressing as a blockage to the trachea can be, recovery is swift, once access to life-giving air is restored. Eat no more tonight, Mr Preston, and be moderate in the matter of drink, and I see no reason why you should not remain as one of the party.’

  Once it was clear that Preston was feeling better, the officers in the group began to disperse into the room. Macpherson was called over by his fellow marine commanders of the Daring and Stirling to discuss the b
attle. Armstrong took Taylor, Blake and Preston away to introduce them to an acquaintance he had spotted, and Faulkner and Corbett excused themselves from the two captains’ company.

  ‘How is your ship, Captain?’ asked Clay.

  ‘William, please,’ corrected Thompson. ‘Now we have fought together, there is surely no need for formality. Would you find it presumptuous of me to call you Alexander?’

  ‘By no means. So how then is your ship, William.’

  ‘Sadly buffeted,’ reported its captain. ‘Several frames have been shot through. The dockyard declares the best they can manage is to patch the poor girl up so we can sail for Jamaica. They have a dry dock there. And yours?’

  ‘Much less gravely wounded,’ said Clay. ‘I fear the Centaure reserved her fullest attention for the Stirling.’

  ‘While but for a few powder smudges, young Camelford’s Daring might not have been there at all,’ said Thompson.

  ‘Where is Captain Camelford?’ asked Clay. ‘He arrived at the jetty ahead of me, yet I cannot see him anywhere. I have something urgent to discuss with that young man.’

  ‘He is sulking,’ said his companion. ‘I am afraid that is my fault, Alexander. I sought to make game of him, saying how refreshing it was to see him arriving ahead of time, for once. Sir George gave him a roasting for his failure to come to the aid of the Stirling when we were boarded.’

  ‘Perhaps he was unaware of the gravity of the situation?’

  ‘Too dull to realise, more like,’ scoffed Thompson. ‘You detected our urgent need, with a whole deuced ship of the line betwixt us. The Daring was a biscuit toss off our stern!’

  ‘Perhaps that was ill done,’ conceded Clay. ‘So where do you suppose him to have gone? He surely will not risk further censure from Sir George by abandoning his gathering altogether?’

  ‘I have no notion. He simply stormed off when others laughed at my jest.’

  Clay waved over one of the footmen.

  ‘Yes sir,’ enquired the servant.

  ‘Tell me, does Clarence House have a library?’

  ‘Indeed it does, sir. A very fine one. It lies through that door and at the far end of the corridor. Was it a particular volume you wanted to see?’

  ‘No, I seek another guest,’ said Clay. ‘Would you excuse me, William? I believe I know where he may be found.’

  One of the library’s double doors stood ajar, a bar of darkness at the end of the lamp-lit passage. Clay stepped through the gap into the room beyond, closing the door behind him. The distant chatter of voices from the back of the house vanished as the heavy wood swung into place. In the dimly lit room, Clay could see that books lined all the walls, while the centre of the library was scattered with comfortable-looking chairs and a small table. A glow of flickering light came from off to one side, where the figure of Camelford stood close to a wall of leather-bound spines, with a branched candelabra in his fist.

  ‘Who is there?’ demanded the Daring’s captain, turning from the shelves. The flat glow of the candlelight could not disguise the look of annoyance on his face.

  ‘It is me, Captain,’ replied Clay. ‘I thought I might find you in here.’

  ‘I came to escape that bore Thompson, and his damned insinuations, sir,’ said Camelford, coming over. ‘Cleland's Memoirs of a Coxcomb,’ he explained, hefting the book he carried. ‘You can tell a lot about a man from his taste in literature, I always hold. This seems decidedly racy for old Sir George. I would have said dusty old Gibbon was more his style, but perhaps I have misjudged the hound, what?’ He placed the candelabra down on the table, and turned to face Clay. ‘Why were you looking for me, sir?’

  ‘I shall be returning to England soon, Captain, and there is a matter I need to discuss with you before I depart,’ said Clay, sitting down in one of the chairs.

  ‘You go so soon?’

  ‘I shall, once the Griffin has been repaired. With the Peregrine destroyed, the orders that brought me to the Leeward Islands have been fulfilled.’

  ‘Your friend Sutton will be disappointed to find you absent when he returns from patrol, sir.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Clay. ‘But perhaps with all this talk of peace, I will soon have the leisure to enjoy more of his society.’

  ‘I dare say that is so, sir,’ said Camelford, taking the chair opposite. ‘Was it something in particular you wished to discuss?’ The flickering light made his expression hard to read, but the younger man sat very upright in his chair, with both arms folded.

  ‘I have completed most of my report for Sir George,’ continued Clay, ‘but I have some supplementary observations I intend to include. I wanted to give you the opportunity to comment on them.’

  ‘How intriguing! And what do they chiefly relate to, sir?’

  ‘Sugar, for the most part.’

  ‘Sugar!’ exclaimed Camelford. ‘I am not sure that I have the pleasure of following you, sir. What concern might that be of mine?’

  ‘Let me share my observations with you, and perhaps matters will become clearer,’ said Clay, watching the other man’s face with care. ‘They name it “white gold” in these parts, do they not? Antigua produces it, of course, although not in as impressive a quantity as Guadeloupe. I have heard that many of the planters on that island made considerable fortunes for themselves. But that was before revolution in France, and war with Britain. Suddenly they must have found themselves with no end of the stuff, and few means to get it off their island.’

  ‘Serves the Frogs back for the aid they gave to those damned rebellious Yankees,’ commented Camelford. ‘Was that what you wished to tell me, sir?’

  ‘No, I wanted your assistance with a few matters that I find hard to explain,’ said Clay. ‘They relate to when we were both off Pointe-à-Pitre.’

  ‘I will do my best, sir. Such as what?’

  ‘Such as why, when we first approached that port in the Daring, I could clearly see men engaged in cutting cane in the fields. I believe I pointed it out to you at the time. To what end do you think French plantation owners would still be harvesting sugar, on an island unable to export its product?’

  ‘Perhaps they are preparing for the peace that all speak of, and the resumption in trade that must follow, sir.’

  ‘Maybe, Captain, although that does not explain the very illuminating revelation of your two young midshipmen when they came down from the masthead.’

  ‘Yes, the presence of a ship of the line was quite a shock, sir.’

  ‘It was,’ agreed Clay, ‘but I was more interested in their description of the port itself. I have the note Mr Thorne wrote for me on that day here with me.’ He pushed a hand into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a folded sheet. ‘Let me see now. Yes, here is the passage. “Five sail of schooners and a brig, all warped in close to the quayside.” And a little latter, “plenty of activity there”. Plenty of activity,’ repeated Clay. ‘Does that not strike you as strange, for a place that has been under Royal Navy blockade for some years?’

  ‘Frankly, sir, I don’t have an opinion on the matter,’ said Camelford. ‘How the dashed Frogs chose to waste their time, is surely their affair.’

  ‘Unless they were not wasting their time.’ Clay held Camelford’s gaze for a moment. The light of the candles threw a huge shadow of his hunched form onto the wall behind him. Even in their flickering glow he could sense the other man’s face colour.

  ‘What are you damned well implying, sir?’ he demanded.

  ‘Why were you so determined that the Peregrine would not be found in Pointe-à-Pitre when we first met?’ asked Clay.

  ‘To save you from what I thought would be a damned fool’s errand, sir!’ Camelford rose to his feet. He slammed down the book he had taken from the shelf, setting the candle flames to dance.

  ‘And yet there she was, not so concealed that a man who knew his duty would not have seen her,’ said Clay. ‘Which got me pondering if the true reason you want me to stay away had nothing to do with the Peregrine, and every
thing to do with what else I might discover.’

  ‘Have a care!’ warned Camelford, wagging a finger towards him. ‘I have killed a man for saying less!’

  ‘The game is up, Captain,’ continued Clay. ‘The owner of that French schooner we captured was good enough to explain the whole arrangement to me. For a suitable cut of the profits, you have permitted ships like the Saint Christopher to bring French sugar into Antigua, where it is sold on as the product of this island. You have neglected your duty to your king. Why, you are little more than a damned smuggler!’

  ‘I shall want satisfaction for that!’ spat Camelford, both his fists clenched in fury.

  ‘Satisfaction!’ exclaimed Clay. ‘Pray don’t be so ridiculous. Sit down man, I am not going to fight you. A duel implies a meeting between men of honour. It is a privilege you put aside when you chose to line your pockets with the enemy’s coin. I would also warn you that the Articles of War are quite clear on challenging a superior officer, as you have just done. It is a court martial offence, punishable by death.’

  ‘Hah! I might have expected you to hide behind the King’s Regulations! But then you’re no gentleman, Clay! You’re little more than the mewling brat of a country parson!’

  ‘Mewling brat of a country parson, sir, if you please, Captain,’ said Clay rising to his feet to confront the furious officer. ‘I wanted to grant you the opportunity to explain your conduct, before I lay the matter before Sir George. Now that I have done so, my duty is clear. I shall expose you for the traitor that you are. Good evening to you.’

  Clay was braced for a blow, but instead a smile spread across Camelford’s bulging red face. ‘Best of luck with that, sir! In all your damned interfering, did you ever stop to consider why it was always my Daring that was stationed off Guadeloupe, and never that choirboy Sutton?’