Larcum Mudge (Alexander Clay Series Book 8)

by Philip K Allan

  ‘Indulge me for a moment, I pray,’ continued the admiral. ‘You have submitted me to a lengthy explanation. Permit me to repay the debt. Marrying Felicity was a considerable coup for my family. The daughter of an earl, with the most advantageous of connections, it has certainly elevated the name of Montague to be one of note in the service, and indeed the land.’

  ‘I give you joy of your marriage, Sir George, but how can this have any bearing on the matter under discussion?’

  ‘Because the daughter of an earl comes with certain obligations,’ explained the admiral. ‘Her upbringing has equipped her with many virtues, but restraint and economy are not among them. She expects a house in town, in addition to an estate in the country. A coach and four, numerous servants, dresses smuggled from Paris, and to entertain in appropriate style. With the land tax set where it is, and the income tax starting to bite, even the remuneration of a rear admiral can prove inadequate.’

  ‘Are you saying that Camelford is right? That you are involved?’ exclaimed Clay. ‘You surely cannot seek to excuse your behaviour by blaming a wife on the far side of the Atlantic!’

  ‘Come, Alexander,’ urged Montague. ‘What ill has been done? The French have always had the largest of the sugar islands. Our blockade means that their warehouses are bursting with the stuff, while thanks to this deuced hurricane, Antigua has none to offer. Meanwhile our former colonies in America and our allies in Europe run short. Who is truly harmed if I have let a little French sugar reach the market, purporting to be from here? Besides, now peace has come, the arrangement is at an end. The damned French can sell their sugar as they choose.’

  ‘But Sir George, the very essence of a naval blockade is that it subdues an opponent by patient strangulation,’ protested Clay.

  ‘We are not speaking of warlike stores here,’ said the admiral. ‘No powder or shot. It is only sugar that has been allowed to pass.’

  ‘At considerable pecuniary gain for yourself and Camelford!’

  ‘Oh dear!’ exclaimed Montague. ‘Do I detect the same, sanctimonious tone from the perfect Alexander Clay that I found so wearying when I commanded you in the Indian Ocean?’

  ‘It is not just a matter of a bit of contraband! What of the Centaure?’

  ‘What of her?’ scoffed the admiral. ‘She has been heroically defeated in battle, much to the credit of us both.’

  ‘But did you stop to think how such a vessel was able to arrive in Guadeloupe unobserved?’ said Clay. ‘The French played Camelford for a damned fool! She must have slipped in while they had paid him to turn his back. Had I not arrived and detected her presence, she would have played Old Harry with the Jamaica convoy. No, my duty is clear, Sir George. I shall be obliged to expose your and Camelford’s behaviour to the Admiralty.’

  ‘I think not, Clay.’ There was steel in Montague’s eyes, replacing the bluff and bluster of earlier.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Sir George?’

  ‘Since you have chosen to reject reasoned argument, let us see if I can find something more persuasive,’ said the admiral. ‘You regard Captain Sutton as more than just a brother by marriage, I collect?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Clay. ‘He was my closest friend long before he wed my sister.’

  ‘Excellent. And what was his relationship like with the late Captain Windham?’

  ‘Poor, as you well know, Sir George!’

  ‘Very poor,’ agreed Montague, ‘and Windham’s people are most influential. Why, they have even contrived to have an East Indiaman named after him to honour his memory.’

  Now it was Clay’s turn to be watchful. ‘I am not sure I follow where this is leading, Sir George,’ he said.

  ‘No, but you shall presently. There was much disquiet in the service when he took his life, an event which, if I recall correctly, I did much to conceal from excessive scrutiny at the time, did I not?’

  The admiral opened a drawer in his desk, without waiting for a reply, and pulled out a leather case. He leafed through the various papers it contained, eventually stopping at a small, folded note. The paper was faded, the surface speckled with points of brown.

  ‘For example,’ he resumed. ‘I have never made public the note he left beside his lifeless body. But I have it still. These marks upon it are Windham’s gore.’

  ‘There was a note!’ exclaimed Clay.

  ‘Indeed, there was. You know, Clay, strange to tell, I came close to destroying it on several occasions, but something has always stayed my hand. So here we are, all these years later, and I find it has suddenly acquired a value I had never imagined.’

  ‘What does it say?’ asked Clay, his throat suddenly dry.

  ‘You will pardon me for not passing it across, I am sure,’ said the admiral. ‘But I will happily read it to you. Here is set down in his own hand, the following. “By this, my final act, I bear witness that Commander John Sutton did murder Captain Percy Follett aboard His Majesty’s frigate Agrius, and furthermore I call on those who come after me to avenge my uncle’s death. Signed N P Windham, Master and Commander.” You and Sutton were both lieutenants on the Agrius, were you not, when her captain was killed, back in ninety-six?’

  ‘These are the ramblings of a drunken madman!’ exclaimed Clay.

  ‘Are they? I note that your protest does not stretch as far as denying the substance of the accusation.’

  ‘As for that, I was not present when Captain Follett died,’ said Clay.

  ‘True, but Sutton was,’ said Montague, his gaze remorseless. ‘Did you never suspect your friend might have played some part in murder? Deep in your soul? And did you report the matter, so that it could be properly investigated, as a dutiful officer should have done?’

  For a moment, Clay was back on the wrecked quarterdeck of the frigate, all those years before. He could almost smell the sulphurous gun smoke as it swirled about him, see the wreck of the fallen mizzen mast, dragging the ship to a halt, and his friend Sutton, drawn sword in hand, peering over the side.

  ‘There was no evidence …’ he stuttered.

  ‘Come sir, pray do not give me such damned lawyers’ talk. The mask of perfection slips a little from your brow, I think. You’re not quite as guiltless as you would have us all believe. Perhaps we are not so very different, you and I?’

  ‘What will you do with that mischievous libel?’ demanded Clay.

  ‘That rather depends on whether you still propose to continue with your ridiculous allegations about me.’ Montague picked up the note in one hand and the envelope in the other, balancing the two documents, as if testing their weight. ‘I propose a simple agreement between two less-than-perfect men, Captain,’ he said. ‘The war is over. You take your damned report away, I shall keep my note, and both of us pledge to never speak of these matters again.’

  Clay rose from his chair and angrily paced the room. Alternate lines of sunlight and shade striped the floor at his feet, like the bars of a cage. Why had Sutton been such a fool, all those years ago, he asked himself, his hands clenching with anger. As he turned, he saw the admiral’s face watching him, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. An urge to wipe that grin away with his fists flashed across his mind, but then vanished as quickly as it came. Montague might have Clay trapped, but he was not without some leverage of his own.

  ‘Distasteful as I find your suggestion, Sir George, I feel minded to accept,’ he said, his voice as cold as the wine he had drunk earlier. ‘On one condition.’

  ‘I am not sure you are in a position to place any demands on me,’ said Montague. ‘Unless you wish to trifle with the life of your friend?’

  ‘A favour, then,’ said Clay. ‘I take it you will be presiding at the trial of the Peregrine mutineers?’

  ‘Of course. Their offence was against one of my ships.’

  ‘When the accused Jack Broadbent comes before you, I would be obliged if you would commute his sentence to flogging. I shall furnish you with a submission as to his good character, and his exemplary con
duct in the destruction of his former ship. That should serve as a justification.’

  ‘You ask much of me, Captain,’ protested Montague. ‘Earl St Vincent will be furious with me for showing such leniency.’

  ‘His lordship’s fury will be as nothing to that which would follow the disclosure that one of his admirals has been comforting the enemy,’ said Clay. He extended a hand across the desk towards Montague, and, after a moment, it was accepted.

  *****

  The farm lay a few miles from the village of Drumgallon, surrounded by small fields, each divided from its neighbour by a thorn hedge and a ditch cut into the rich dark earth. Some contained grazing cattle, their heads low as they cropped the lush grass; others formed a patchwork of growing crops. A line of mature alders screened the buildings from the west wind and the steady, falling rain that it brought. The sailor looked around the little farmyard, searching for any changes that might have happened over the years since he had last been there. The reeds that thatched the roofs wore heavier pelts of moss than he remembered, and there were fewer chickens picking over the manure heap in the hope of a worm. But other things seemed unchanged. The tall barn with its quiet, private hayloft looked the same, as did the rusting hand pump beside the stone water trough. Unchanged, too, was the expression of cold fury that settled on the face of the man who opened the door in response to his knock.

  ‘Well met there, Mr Dougherty,’ said the sailor with what he hoped was a winning smile. ‘Sean O’Malley, back from the wars, an’ all.’ He politely removed his hat and stood in the rain.

  ‘Mary!’ yelled the farmer into the interior. ‘Go fetch the blunderbuss! I need to finish what the French ought to have fecking done by now.’

  ‘Steady!’ protested the sailor. ‘No need for a fecking mill. I’m done with all that fighting. Can’t I come in, so we can talk our differences through, civilised like. That’s a fine peat fire I can smell, an’ I’m awful wet, what with coming all the way from Dunleary.’

  Farmer Dougherty barred the door with one arm, his big fist gripping the lintel. ‘Is that all that fecking stands between us? Differences, as can be settled over a glass of ale?’ roared the farmer. ‘Last time you darkened my door, you ravished my daughter, stole my mare and then disappeared, with the help of that fool of a priest.’

  ‘In all fairness, Mr Dougherty, ravishing is coming it a bit strong. T’was no more than a squeeze I gave the colleen, and the only reason I had to borrow your fecking horse was to get clear of you. Hadn’t you raised half of Leinster and were you not after breaking my head with a wicked-looking cudgel?’

  ‘You have some courage, O’Malley, showing yer blasted face here, I’ll grant yous that,’ snarled the farmer. ‘Though I see yous had the sense to bring some giant with you, this time,’ he added, pointing to where Evans stood, leaning up against the side of an empty wain.

  ‘Morning there, mate,’ said the Londoner in response, touching the rim of his hat.

  Dougherty ignored him. ‘But it’ll make no fecking odds,’ he continued. ‘The longer you wait on my front step, the easier shooting you down shall be.’ He turned to yell again over his shoulder. ‘Mary, the gun! Swiftly now, wife!’

  ‘Will you not listen to what I am after saying!’ protested the sailor. ‘I’ve come to put that all to rights. I’ll marry the girl!’

  ‘Marry her!’ exclaimed Dougherty. ‘Like that could make any difference! When you disappeared, what the feck do you suppose you left behind? Old Father O’Connell told all who would listen that you’d be after coming back for her, and at first that gave the girl hope. For a time, she could bear that all named her a slut and a whore. But year followed year, and still you never fecking came.’

  ‘I thought about it, truly I did, Mr Dougherty, but somehow, what with the war an’ all …’

  ‘Holy Mary, save us,’ said the farmer. ‘Could you not have written?’

  ‘I … I … don’t have my letters.’

  ‘Neither do I, you idiot! That’s why I get the fecking doctor to write for me, or the priest, or the bailiff of the estate. Are you telling me there’s not a man in the whole of King George’s navy as can set down two words together?’

  ‘I am sorry, so I am, Mr Dougherty,’ said O’Malley, his head bowed. ‘But let me set it right. Can I not come in, at all?’

  ‘What for?’ said the farmer, calm at last. ‘My girl isn’t to be found under this roof! A time came when she could take no more, and who would blame the lamb? The church has her now. She’s gone and joined the Sisters of Mercy, over Kerry way. Now, for the love of the Almighty, be gone from my land, before I truly do shoot you down.’

  O’Malley stood before the slammed door for a while, the rain soaking his dark pigtail. After a while Evans came over to stand beside his friend. Dimpled puddles spread all around them in the mud.

  ‘Sorry mate,’ he said. ‘That didn’t go so well.’

  ‘It’s my own fecking fault, Sam,’ sighed the Irishman. ‘Let’s get away, before he truly does produce a gun.’

  The sailors turned away and headed back down the lane, hunching into their coats against the weather. ‘Bleeding hell, but ain’t it green here abouts,’ commented Evans after a while. ‘Does it rain all the time?’

  ‘No,’ explained his friend. ‘Not above eleven months of the fecking year. But the twelfth one brings quite the change.’

  ‘What happens then?’

  ‘That’s when it fecking snows.’

  Evans chuckled at this, and the two men walked on, observed with suspicion by the grazing cows. After a while the Londoner spoke again.

  ‘You know, Sean, your home don’t seem quite as welcoming as I thought it would.’

  ‘Dougherty’s a good enough man. No, it’s me, with my roving ways as is the fecking problem. Shall we go and see about that London town yous is always rattling on about?’

  ‘If you reckon as that farmer were savage, wait until you meet some of them as are waiting for me.’

  ‘Surely that trouble you was in will have blown over by now?’ queried the Irishman. ‘Is it still not fecking safe for you in London, at all?’

  ‘Perhaps, but I reckon it ain’t worth the risk of finding out,’ said Evans. ‘Now I’ve seen a bit of the world, I can tell that home always were a shithole, even before I fell out with the wrong folk. No, strange to say, it ain’t Seven Dials I’m missing, but the sea. An’ I never bleeding well thought I’d say that.’

  ‘You have the truth of it there, Sam lad,’ said his friend. ‘The fecking sea, is it? That was a handsome looking trading brig as was fitting out in Dunleary when we landed. Shall we go an’ see if they need a brace of honest jacks?’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed the Londoner, ‘an’ if they can’t lay hold of any, they might yet take us.’

  *****

  The sailors came striding down a winding track bound by old dry-stone walls. In places they were so covered in greenery that they seemed on the point of being absorbed back into the rearing slopes of grass and bushes that rose on either side. From higher up the slope came the plaintive bleat of a lamb, while ahead of them they could hear the raucous cry of gulls. After a while, the rutted earth of the lane gave way to cobbles. Stone cottages appeared on both sides, each with a little tended plot of vegetables beside it. Dark, narrow alleyways twisted away from the main path, leading back up the hillside towards a little church that perched above the hamlet. The larger of the two men looked around him with keen interest in all he saw, while his slighter companion pressed on, as if eager to arrive at their destination.

  They turned a corner and saw the sea, a green, shimmering blanket, spreading to the horizon beneath the low clouds. The wind flowing up the valley brought the fresh salt tang of it. The smaller man came to a halt for a moment, his bag still across his shoulder, as if he had found the place he had been hurrying towards. His companion stood beside him, a puzzled look on his face.

  Trevan closed his eyes and breathed in the smell, while the breeze
tugged at his pigtail. ‘Tell me this ain’t as close to paradise as a mortal can come, Able lad,’ he said, opening his eyes at last.

  Sedgwick looked around him, and became aware that he was being watched from the window of the cottage across the lane. An old bearded man was staring at the new arrivals. He lifted his hat to him, and a curtain was swiftly pulled across.

  ‘Aye, very like,’ he said, smiling at his friend’s pleasure.

  ‘This one be my house,’ said Trevan, indicating a modest, single-storey building of stone walls beneath a roof of thatch. ‘I can’t wait for you to meet my Molly, and our little Kate.’ He went towards the door, but felt a firm hand on his arm.

  ‘I’d like that above all things, Adam, but a man returning to his wife shouldn’t have no witnesses,’ he said. ‘I’ll have myself a peek at that little harbour down there first. Then I’ll come back.’

  ‘Right you are, Able,’ said his companion. ‘But don’t you be away too long.’

  At that moment two young boys came dashing out from one of the alleyways in pursuit of a hoop, with a small girl trailing in their wake. All three of them halted open-mouthed at the sight of Trevan’s companion, while their toy bounded on down the lane.

  ‘It be one of them Blackamoors!’ exclaimed the larger of the boys.

  ‘Silas Penhaligon, that ain’t no way to greet a stranger!’ roared Trevan. ‘Just you say a proper good morn’ to Mr Sedgwick here, afore I box your ears.’ The two boys came over reluctantly and shook the sailor’s hand, muttering something incomprehensible, before setting off down the street in pursuit of the vanished hoop. The girl was too shy, and instead slid along the cottage wall, bunching her skirts in her little fists, before haring after her brothers.

  ‘Take no notice of them nippers, Able,’ urged the Cornishman. ‘Folk’ll be fine, once they gets used to ’ee.’

  ‘Away off to Molly, now,’ said Sedgwick, pushing his friend towards the cottage before setting off down the lane with a cheery wave.

  Trevan watched him disappear, and then turned to the low entrance beside him. Every grain and bump in the oak seemed familiar on the old door. It was split in two, like that of a stable, and was studded with iron nails. He paused before knocking, as the memories of a previous return crowded around him. On that occasion the cottage had been cold with grief, his wife up at the church tending a tiny grave. Then he heard the mewing of a baby through the wood, and the gentle sound of a mother singing. He lifted the latch and stepped inside.