Larcum Mudge (Alexander Clay Series Book 8)

by Philip K Allan

  *****

  The Griffin was brought alongside the dockyard wharf early the following morning. Then the boatswain’s calls echoed through her decks, summoning her crew for a day of toil under the hot Antiguan sun. Before the frigate could be repaired, she had to first be stripped of everything she had on board. Lines of men heaved away on blocks and tackles, swaying each ponderous gun or huge barrel from out of her cavernous hold. More modest items were carried down the gangplanks by relays of ship’s boys, each holding a single cannon ball or a mess stool. The warehouses that lined the quayside began to fill with weapons and tools, barrels and boxes, sails and coils of rope, each item carefully recorded by the anxious officer responsible for that part of the ship. Steadily, as the men toiled away, the frigate’s hull rose from out of the sapphire-blue water, exposing a broad stripe of gleaming copper and the crudely filled holes smashed into her by the Centaure. By evening, the task was complete and the exhausted men stared in disbelief at the mounds of gear they had created, wondering how such a vast amount had ever been able to fit into a single frigate.

  Antigua was a small island, the crew of the Griffin were a settled company, and all of them were owed a considerable sum of prize money from the capture of the Centaure. These were factors that reduced the risk of her sailors deserting to close to nil. Having weighed all this up with the caution for which he was known, Lieutenant Taylor decided to grant shore leave, for once, to any who asked. As it transpired, there were only a few who still had the energy to venture out of the walled dockyard to explore what delights English Harbour had to offer. Most were content to find the nearest grogshop, but a more determined party set off in the opposite direction, taking a road coated in silver dust that wound its way out of town. On one side it was overshadowed by palm trees, their roughened trunks curving in gentle arcs against the evening sky; and on the other side by a patchwork of small fields and allotments.

  ‘How far is this place, Sean?’ demanded Evans, who was trailing behind the others. ‘Coz I’m bleeding knackered, and me throat’s drier than a Turk’s sandal.’

  ‘Then you’ll like Brannigan’s Puncheon House all the more,’ said the Irishman. ‘’Tis just ahead, in Cobbs Cross. There’s no fecking grog to match a mug of punch, after a day of thirsting as we’ve just had.’

  ‘What manner of draft be this punch, then?’ asked Trevan.

  ‘Rum, for the most part, cut with sugar and juice and the like,’ explained O’Malley. ‘Each tavern mixes their own, and guards the fecking secret like a brooding hen, but none is as fine as Brannigan’s.’

  Their path bent inland for a stretch, towards a collection of low wooden buildings with thatched roofs. At the heart of the settlement, where the road they followed was crossed by another, stood a shed-like building. A wooden hitching post had been set up outside, at which a pair of horses were tethered. Lamplight spilt out through the open door, together with the buzz of talk and tendrils of tobacco smoke. At these encouraging signs, the sailors hurried towards the entrance.

  Inside was a single room, filled with tables and benches. Perhaps a dozen rough-looking men sat in various groups. Close by the entrance, a lively game of cards was in progress, each player with a pile of coins before him. At the next table sat a pair of customers dressed in the leather aprons of smiths, quietly talking with an earthenware jug and two mugs before them. Through the haze of tobacco smoke other groups could be seen, deeper into the room, while opposite the entrance stood the establishment’s owner, a florid man with a pair of bushy sideburns framing an almost entirely bald head. The level of sound dropped as the sailors appeared at the door and customers turned to stare at the new arrivals. It vanished altogether as Sedgwick stepped in.

  ‘God bless every fecker under this roof,’ said O’Malley, in the resulting silence.

  Only the tavernkeeper seemed to react, with a broad smile spreading across his face. ‘Why, that’s a Leinster greeting, so it is, or I’ve never fecking heard one!’ he exclaimed, coming over and grasping O’Malley’s hand.

  ‘You’ll not be remembering me, Mr Brannigan, but I was out here some years back, on the old Mars. I certainly remember your punch, well enough, and how it can ease a terrible thirst.’

  ‘You remembers it?’ queried his fellow Irishman. ‘Sure, I must have been going easy on the rum that day. Will you take one of the tables there, and I’ll bring you over a jug?’

  ‘Are you serving bleeding negros now, Brannigan?’ demanded a voice from deeper in the room. ‘I didn’t have you down as a damned Abolitionist.’ The speaker was one of three wiry-looking men with heavily tanned faces.

  ‘Hush your noise now, Rob Buckley,’ said Brannigan. ‘Your man’s not one of them fecking slaves on that plantation of yours. Can’t you see how he’s just a regular jack, at all?’

  ‘I’m happy to talk with any bleeder as don’t want my shipmate drinking here,’ said Evans, glowering around the room. ‘Outside, like.’ The overseer called Buckley looked at the huge sailor for a moment, and then returned to his drink. Evans re-joined his friends.

  ‘There we go, lads,’ said Brannigan, bustling over with a laden tray. ‘I’ll give them three a little shot on the house. There’s no call for a fecking riot, on a hot night like this.’

  Slowly the noise level increased as the card game resumed, and the locals returned to their conversations.

  ‘It ain’t quite as satisfying as a draft of proper ale,’ commented Evans, after he had drained his first mug, ‘but that weren’t half bad.’

  ‘Wasn’t I after telling yous, it was worth the fecking stroll?’ said O’Malley, wiping his mouth on a sleeve. ‘Best punch in the Caribee.’

  ‘Shame Larcum ain’t with us to try it, mind,’ said Trevan, lighting his pipe from the lamp. ‘Or be his name Jack now? I still ain’t entirely certain.’

  ‘No more than a mug of water for him this night, and a longer neck tomorrow, poor fecker,’ said O’Malley. ‘That’s English justice for yous.’

  ‘Mind, he did go and join a mutiny, the stupid arse,’ said Evans.

  ‘And wouldn’t you, with a brute for a captain, and a certain flogging for every fecking error?’ said O’Malley. ‘I hear that Peregrine was a cursed, shot-rolling ship.’

  ‘Rising up’s one thing,’ said Evans, folding his arms. ‘But then they gone and done all manner of stuff, from what I heard. Murdering nippers and the like. That ain’t right.’

  ‘Aye, but you reckon our Larcum would have done any of that?’ queried Trevan. ‘He don’t seem the type, to me. Remember how upset he were, when the sawbones cut away young Charlie’s leg? He probably saved that lad’s life, an’ copped it from Fletcher for his pains.’

  ‘True, but he shot that fecker on the prize we took, swift enough,’ said O’Malley. ‘Back when we was coming out here.’

  ‘That’s right, the bastard!’ exclaimed Evans. ‘On the bleeding Happy Maggie! Deserter, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Or a fellow mutineer, about to grass on him,’ offered Sedgwick. The others all stared at him. ‘It makes sense, if you think upon it,’ he continued.

  ‘Bleeding hell, you’re right!’ said the Londoner. ‘Weren’t the prize crew from a privateer out of Pointy Point? That turncoat must have skipped off the Peregrine, and taken up with the Frogs, in which case the filthy bastard had it coming!’

  ‘Right. So now you’re not after stringing Larcum up?’ queried O’Malley. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Eh, well … No, least ways …’ stuttered Evans. ‘Oh, I don’t bleeding know.’

  ‘Harte were saying as how Pipe were going to stand by Larcum,’ offered Sedgwick.

  ‘Is he now?’ marvelled Trevan. ‘Maybe that, and the peace as all say be in the offing, will save him. I does hope so.’ The sailors were all quiet for a moment, contemplating an alien future without war.

  ‘Bleeding peace!’ marvelled Evans. ‘I wonder what that’ll be like? We been fighting them Frogs since I were a nipper. What do you reckon you lads will do, whe
n we all gets paid off, like?’

  ‘Back to my Molly and baby Kate,’ said Trevan. ‘I never knew my lad Sam afore the pox took him, what with being away whaling, and then the war an’ all. Be right good to spend some time with them. Maybe take up fishing. The sea be all I rightly know, but least that be a calling as has you home most nights. What about you, Sean? Didn’t you have some wench as you was sweet on, in Ireland like?’

  ‘Aye, back when we was on the old Titan,’ he snorted. ‘I doubt if she’ll have waited, an’ her Pa was a mean old fecker. He was after breaking my crown with a cudgel, last time I was there.’

  ‘Only after he found you and his daughter in the hay!’ exclaimed Trevan.

  ‘True enough,’ conceded the Irishman. ‘Perhaps it’ll be safer to stay as a sailor.’

  ‘I ain’t got a clue as to what I’ll be doing,’ said Evans. ‘Clobbering folk is what I chiefly know, but I daresay I’m too bleeding old for the ring now. Besides, getting what wits I has left punched out ain’t much of a life. How about you, Able?’

  ‘Have no fear on his part,’ offered O’Malley. ‘A fecking scholar with his letters, and that book he wrote, an’ all. He’ll be doing the best of us all!’

  ‘I ain’t so sure about that, Sean,’ said the coxswain. ‘Least you all has places to return to. What have I got? My home has long since gone. Since I cut free from that damned plantation, the only place I’ve truly known has been the navy. Only now they won’t be wanting the like of me.’

  Chapter 14 Home

  This time the clatter from the dockyard chapel’s bell was joined by more distant ones, in the parish churches of Falmouth and Liberta, lost among the rolling hills of Antigua. They had been ringing for a good half an hour, and showed no sign of stopping. Clay clambered up from the stern sheets of the Griffin’s cutter and onto the little jetty that served Clarence House. He paused for a moment, taking in the grinning sailors manning the oars, and the signs of jubilation on board the Daring, moored farther out in English Harbour. Many of her crew had climbed part-way into her rigging, and were waving hats and neckcloths towards the crowds that thronged the quayside.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ said the same marine who had greeted him on his last visit. ‘I give you joy of the peace.’

  ‘Thank you, Corporal,’ said Clay, returning his salute. ‘It is indeed most welcome. Sir George should be expecting me.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied the soldier. ‘Would you care to follow me?’

  The path that looped its way up the hillside was different in the fierce tropical sun. The surface glared white, forcing Clay to narrow his eyes, and the bushes on either side throbbed with the drone of insects. It was a relief to step onto the veranda and enter the cool interior of the building after his hot climb. An orderly was waiting to take over from the marine; he took Clay’s second-best hat from him and then led him towards a polished door close to the library.

  He knocked, and then went in without waiting for an answer. ‘Captain Clay is here to see you, Sir George,’ he announced.

  The room was cool and shady. Wooden slatted blinds had been fixed across the open windows, allowing the sea breeze and a few lines of sunlight to enter. The clang of pealing bells filtered in, together with the sound of birdsong from the garden.

  The admiral rose from behind his desk to shake Clay’s hand. ‘Delighted to see you, Captain, on this most propitious of days,’ he said with a smile. ‘Would you care for a glass of madeira to celebrate?’

  ‘Thank you, Sir George. That would be most welcome.’ The admiral waved his visitor to his seat, while the orderly brought over the drinks. Clay was surprised to see the glass was beaded with condensation.

  ‘This wine is chilled, Sir George,’ he observed.

  ‘My residence has an excellent icehouse in the grounds, and a fresh delivery has arrived from New England,’ explained his host. ‘Deuced odd to think of it snowing there while we broil down here, what? To the peace, and God bless the king.’

  ‘The king,’ echoed Clay, sipping the delightful cool liquid. ‘When did word arrive?’

  ‘Just this morning,’ said the admiral. ‘The peace treaty was signed in Amiens, wherever that may be. It is a damned wretched deal, mind. The Hollanders have the Cape returned to them, Spain gets Menorca, but as far as I can see the only thing the Frogs are giving up is the deuced Papal States.’

  ‘Why did we agree to such poor terms, Sir George?’

  ‘Well, sending that fool Cornwallis to negotiate with a snake like Talleyrand won’t have helped,’ explained Montague. ‘But our hands were cruelly tied. The mob wants peace and the government is broke.’

  ‘A case of the beggar taking what alms are on offer, Sir George?’

  ‘Quite so, Captain,’ confirmed Montague. ‘Still, it does mean I can send all the prisoners from the Centaure packing back to Guadeloupe. Regrettably, that is not the only transfer I am required to do. The first priority of the Admiralty now is urgent economy. Along with intelligence of the peace came a list of ships to be returned home at once and taken out of commission. It includes almost my entire command.’

  Clay felt a churn of emotions within him. The dread of what he knew was coming, surrendering his frigate and laying aside the profession that had dominated his life since he was a boy. But also the joy of returning home, to Lydia, young Francis and the unknown baby that should have arrived by now. ‘I take it the Griffin is among those ships?’ he asked.

  ‘I am afraid so, Captain,’ Montague confirmed. ‘So, this will also be adieu for us. Is she ready to depart?’

  ‘She is not fully repaired yet,’ said Clay. ‘Perhaps a week more will see her restored, less if you can instruct the dockyard to allocate more workers to the task.’

  ‘I shall see what can be done,’ said the admiral, adding a note to a neatly written list by his elbow. He returned his pencil to its place on his ink stand and then adjusted its alignment with the tip of one finger. ‘Camelford and the Daring will sail first thing tomorrow, so if any of your people wish to write home with word of their return, that will be their opportunity.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir George,’ said Clay. ‘Might I speak with you with regard to Captain Camelford? In private.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said the admiral. ‘Leave us please, Sainsbury.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Clay turned in his chair and waited for the orderly to depart. When the door clicked shut, he began speaking. ‘Something has been troubling me for some time, which I thought you might be able to help me with, Sir George.’

  ‘Happy to oblige if I can, Captain.’

  ‘On my way from Plymouth to join your command, I had the good fortune to fall in with a trading brig, outward bound from Antigua with a cargo of sugar,’ said Clay. ‘She had been taken by a French privateer.’

  ‘Indeed, the Margaret Harmony,’ said Montague. ‘As I recall, you very handsomely recaptured her. I remember my regret that, as you had yet to join my command, I would not receive my admiral’s share of the prize money when she was condemned. What of her, Captain?’

  ‘Only that on my arrival in English Harbour, you and every planter I met with told me that the cane fields here had been devastated by a recent hurricane,’ said Clay. ‘Which set me to wondering where her cargo could have come from, Sir George.’

  ‘Good grief, Captain, I have no damned idea,’ protested the admiral. ‘The responsibilities of the commander of the Leeward Islands squadron are certainly varied, but they don’t extend to the intricacies of the sugar trade, what?’

  ‘True, and it was but a small matter,’ said Clay. ‘A nagging thought, if you will, at the back of my mind. Perhaps her cargo had come from another of our islands, I told myself, in the schooners that seem to infest these waters.’

  ‘Doubtless that will be the explanation,’ said Montague, glancing past him at the case clock that rested against the wall. ‘So how, pray, does this relate to Captain Camelford?’

  ‘Because I have subseque
ntly discovered that he has been permitting French sugar to be smuggled into Antigua.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Captain! What on earth has given you that impression?’

  ‘Oh, it is much more than an impression, Sir George. It first came to my attention during the Griffin’s operations against the Peregrine. I even had a French sugar planter offer me an inducement to permit the practice to continue. It is quite certain that French sugar has been smuggled from Guadeloupe to Antigua with the connivance of Camelford and the Daring. Doubtless it is this contraband that formed the basis of the Margaret Harmony’s cargo. I have set down the particulars of the smuggling operation for you in a separate report.’ Clay reached into his coat pocket and produced a thick bundle of paper, sealed in a package. He placed it on the desk.

  After a pause, Montague leant forward and pulled the letter towards him. ‘This is a very grave accusation you make, Captain. Against a brother officer, to boot. I would urge you to consider with care what you say next.’

  ‘I say nothing to you that I have not said directly to Camelford, Sir George. I had the opportunity to lay my charges before him in your library.’

  ‘That was brave,’ said the admiral, his eyes watchful. ‘I dare say he was furious.’

  ‘He wanted to call me out,’ said Clay. ‘But he became much more sanguine when I said I would be taking the matter to you. In fact, he found the thought amusing, and implied that you were involved. That you had sanctioned his actions.’

  Clay had expected Montague to be angry. To leap from his chair, and demand that Clay retract what he had said. To shout and rant. To pace the room. Instead he calmly picked up the unopened report, tapped it against the palm of one hand, and looked appraisingly at his visitor. In the silence that followed, Clay realised that the bells had stopped outside.

  ‘I don’t believe you will be acquainted with my wife, Lady Montague?’ asked the admiral, placing the report back in front of him, the long edge square with the rim of the desk.

  ‘Pardon?’ queried Clay. ‘What the devil has Lady …’