Dying Trade

by David Donachie

  The count had brightened again, but his wife looked properly agitated. Harry kept talking still, as the best hope of getting through to the man. ‘And I would also esteem it an honour if you would sail with me on my cruise, and we could then exchange our views on the way she handles. It would save time to have aboard the man who knows the way to coax the best out of her. And before you plead that it could prove injurious, I have often heard the greatest physicians recommend a sea voyage for the restoration of health.’

  Now she was really angry. ‘I cannot allow this.’

  Harry was quite emphatic, and completely ruthless, for her husband was nodding in agreement. ‘Madame, allow me to say that it’s worth a try. Why, it may set your husband on the road to a complete recovery.’

  The corner had been turned, for the count could hardly contain his enthusiasm for the idea. His wife took Harry’s arm and led him away slightly. She spoke quietly, using the sound of the fountain to cover her voice. There she objected that they had insufficient servants to carry the sedan chair. Harry, registering that they had indeed sunk to near penury, countered her objection with the fact that he had sailors waiting to perform that very duty, and that he would undertake to return the count at the first sign of a decline in his health.

  She spoke loudly now, so that her husband could hear. ‘No, Signor Ludlow. I fear I must forbid it.’

  Toraglia stood up, leaning heavily on his cane. His face was firmly set and though the words he used were addressed to Harry, they were aimed at his wife. ‘Signor Ludlow. I will most happily do as you request.’

  Harry turned just in time to see the look of flaring anger on the countess’s face as she bowed her head in submission. Regardless of his health, her husband was openly exercising his right to be master in his own house.

  Aware that his action had bordered on humiliation, Toraglia set out to mollify his wife with repeated assurances that he would be in good hands. Her suggestion, one that alarmed Harry, that she attend on him, was overborne by the count himself, who said that a ship being rigged for sea was no place for a lady. ‘And as for the morrow, my dear, let us see how we fare today before undertaking a cruise.’

  She mistook his meaning for she stated emphatically that the idea of a cruise held no pleasure for her, since she was a terrible sailor, constantly sick from the moment she set foot aboard until the time she left. In the end, it was the expression in her husband’s face that finally won her reluctant approval. Harry had never realised how little the eyes counted when you wanted something badly enough.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ANOTHER pair of hands was provided to add to Harry’s three sailors, though there were sour looks when his men found they had to carry a double sedan chair. They tried to engage Toraglia’s man in their general dissatisfaction, waving their hands and yelling scraps of the local argot. He merely met their moans with a blank stare which angered them even further. Opening his mouth wide, he pointed, and they observed that he lacked a tongue. Their angry tone immediately changed to one of embarrassed contrition, with murmured apologies.

  On the way to the harbour, Harry tentatively mentioned Broadbridge, alluding to his interest in the ship. As far as he could tell, Toraglia’s look of utter mystification was genuine as he made Harry repeat the name.

  ‘The gentleman is not known to me, Signor. But I cannot speak for the Guistianis. He may well have approached them, though I doubt they would make the sale public so soon.’

  ‘If they’re acting properly on your behalf they should seek as many buyers as possible.’

  Toraglia caught the drift of the remark and gave Harry a thin smile. ‘Do not fear, Signor Ludlow. I will not stage an auction. If you like the ship, and we can agree a price that satisfies us both, I shall look no further. And by your actions so far I think you have demonstrated, perhaps unwisely, that you are taken with the Principessa.’

  Harry answered rapidly, fully admitting that the liberty he’d taken of putting a few of his men aboard left him in a weak position to drive a hard bargain, whilst also reassuring the count that there was a price beyond which he wouldn’t go. He excused his actions on the grounds of haste, adding yet another lie to his tally by claiming intelligence of a rich French convoy which would be at his mercy if he could get to sea on time. It sounded transparently false to him, but the count was in such high spirits that he merely nodded with complete understanding. The man was clearly so pleased at the prospect of going to sea in his ship that he would have agreed to his guest stripping the copper off her bottom. Toraglia began to recount some of his adventures from previous wars, talking as if they were old shipmates. Harry, engaged in dissimulation himself, tarred him with the same brush, wondering how much all this bonhomie was going to cost.

  Toraglia was helped into the boat and rowed out to the Principessa, leaving the mute ashore to guard his chair until it was time to return home. They sat him in a captain’s chair at the stern rail, and rigged a hammock in the sleeping cabin in case he should get tired. But the count seemed to have taken on a new lease of life. All the way across the anchorage he had listed the Principessa’s little vices, talking about her like a doting parent. And Harry had listened carefully, for this was the experience of years distilled into hours. It would save him endless time. He only had to check Toraglia’s statements against the behaviour of the ship to know if they still held.

  On board, Harry had positively puffed with pride at the way he’d handled things. Toraglia couldn’t see the bulkhead, with its great gashes all round. Nor the deck. There were no hands as yet to priddy the planking and remove the black bloodstains from last night’s affray. Lubeck had provided a list of requirements as soon as they came aboard. To that he would add his own. He sent his boat over to the Dido to begin the job of ferrying the men over, and had words with his leading hands so that they could sort out who they wanted in each division. That, he knew, was something that would require adjustment, but at this stage he was prepared to let them sort it out for themselves.

  Luckily, Lubeck had some French and was able to communicate with the count. Harry, on the cutter’s first return with twenty of his new crew aboard, grabbed a couple of the more disreputable-looking types and had himself rowed to the quayside hard by the dockyard. Santorino Brown greeted him like a long-lost brother, and the length of the list in Harry’s hand only served to raise his excitement. Harry dashed that by telling the man how quickly he wanted these stores.

  Glumly Brown examined the two sheets of paper. ‘But done it cannot be, Signor.’

  Harry took back his own list, leaving him with Lubeck’s. ‘I’ll settle for everything on this list by dawn tomorrow, plus rations and water for two days. And I’ll need something better than this to provide a good dinner tomorrow afternoon. I want the rest of the stores and water ready to be loaded aboard the ship tomorrow evening. But most important of all, I need a cook.’

  Brown threw up his hands, and the haggling started. Harry knew it was possible, just as he knew that Brown’s objections were just a method of ensuring a high price for his chandling. Harry had done this in ports all over the world. It was a familiar dance, and if Santorino Brown thought he was driving a hard bargain, then Harry felt he should introduce him to some of the Indian traders he’d had to deal with in his time. The only point where he came unstuck was in the matter of ordnance.

  Powder and shot were available, indeed plentiful. But the Council of State, no doubt fearing an uprising, had a tight grip on the Arsenal. You could only purchase guns from them. Brown told him mournfully that they charged extortionately and moved slowly. He would be lucky to get even two of the cannon he wanted within a month.

  There was nothing Harry could do about that. He wondered about approaching Bartholomew regarding the guns on the Dido, but he knew instinctively that to do so would only court a refusal. He and Brown struck their bargain, with the victualling agent throwing in a berth at the quayside hard by his warehouse to speed the loading. Harry wrote a note for Bro
wn’s messenger to take to the Guistianis, for the victualling agent did not repose enough trust in Harry Ludlow to act as chandler to his ship without money down on the barrel.

  His final request was for the immediate despatch of a pair of shipwrights and a quantity of the finest oak, both in boards and panel, for he had no intention of sailing out of Genoa, in what he now considered to be his ship, with the bulkhead to his cabin in disrepair. On the return to the Principessa he cast his mind to the other places that he might purchase some decent ordnance. The guns on the Principessa were too light for comfort. Nothing closer than Gibraltar came to mind, and he doubted that he would capture anything carrying the nine-pounder cannon he felt he required. In truth he was wary of approaching anything at sea that carried that calibre of gun.

  Back aboard ship, he found that all his hands had come over, and after being afforded a decent, if cold, breakfast, were working away with a will. Toraglia and Lubeck were in their element. The Italian’s face had a healthy look, with a colour in the cheeks more akin to the man in the portrait. He’d avoided the hammock all the time Harry had been absent. Sutton stood by the stern rail, his face unhappy as he cast his eyes about the rigging, full of men reaving and roving. Harry decided that forcing him to do that kind of work would only sour the man. He set him to putting the cabin to rights, with a kind of watching brief over the shipwrights, who’d come aboard in double-quick time, laden with prime seasoned oak, stain and varnishes, assured by Brown that they would be handsomely paid for their efforts.

  Harry, who liked to toil as much as anyone, threw off his coat, and ignoring the effect that his labours had on his shirt and breeches, set to himself. Soon he was covered in grease, tar, and muck, and his hands, which hadn’t hauled on ropes for an age, were raw. But none of this dented the pleasure he took in the work.

  The yards were on their slings and the courses and topsails bent on. The outer jib-boom was out so that the forestay could be hauled aloft at a moment’s notice. Harry gave the orders that had the men rushing to the capstan. Not neat and tidy like a well worked-up crew. They bumped into each other, and stood on each other’s toes. There was a deal of cursing and shoving, but also the sound of laughter. Harry had told them that the sooner they got to the quayside, the sooner he could get a cook aboard to feed them a hot dinner. God help him if Brown had failed him there, for if he had, Harry Ludlow would find himself toiling over the coppers, cooking for the men himself.

  The men in the tops undid the bunts and the reefed topsails fell open, stretching out as the lower booms were pulled taut. The familiar cries rang out as they raised anchor, sailing right over the bower anchor to pluck it out of the slime. Only a scrap of canvas was raised, enough to allow Harry to back and fill, so as to carry out these manoeuvres. Now, with a gentle breeze steady off the sea, he dropped the main and forecourse, also well reefed, and with the boats helping to control the head of the ship, he conned her into the crowded quayside.

  As soon as the Principessa was under way the count finally wilted, and consented to use the hammock that Harry had provided for him. He slumbered peacefully, oblivious of the hammering, sawing, and planing of the shipwrights and the continual cries as the ship was steered and warped through the crowded anchorage, to finally bump gently alongside the fenders on the harbour wall.

  Brown was there, surrounded by brawny loaders and piles of stores. He also, much to Harry’s relief, had a one-legged fellow beside him who looked every inch a cook. He was the first aboard, closely followed by great bundles of wood, and the galley stove was lit in a trice, smoke billowing out of the chimney. Harry quickly ordered two vital casks brought aboard, one of rum and the other of lime juice. The hands crowded round while he did the duty as master-at-arms personally, mixing the grog and dishing it out. He raised his eyes in surprise as he found himself filling a mess kit for Count Toraglia’s mute servant, who’d had the good sense to fetch the sedan chair to a spot by the ship. He grinned at the man, a miserable soul who failed to reciprocate. Even the count, awake after his two-hour nap, was glad of a pitcher of grog, though Harry wondered what that, added to the exertions of the day, would do for him.

  Like a bad penny, no doubt attracted by the chance of a free drink, Crosby came aboard. Harry fought down the temptation to have him slung off the ship and poured him a measure. He then enquired what had brought him here, trying to sound as if he didn’t know.

  ‘Why, you’re the talk of the port, Captain Ludlow.’

  ‘And Ma Thomas’s?’

  ‘There too. I can’t think that Bart is too pleased with you, but he’s such a deep cove it’s hard to tell. He’s not one to shout when he’s angered. Just the opposite. He goes ice cold when he’s mad.’

  ‘I’m not aware of having offended him,’ replied Harry, untruthfully. By rights the hands he had aboard this ship belonged to the Dido, and with Broadbridge dead they were his. He was damn sure that Bartholomew was offended.

  ‘Them that gives offence rarely are,’ said Crosby, tweaking his bent nose. Then he saw the look that remark brought to Harry’s face, and he continued quickly, ‘Not that he ain’t a touchy bastard. It don’t take much to get on the wrong side of him.’

  That sounded as though Crosby had some experience, which didn’t surprise Harry in the slightest. ‘He’ll be getting ready for sea himself, I dare say.’

  ‘He is that. Off the day after tomorrow, by all accounts.’

  ‘Any idea where he’s headed?’

  Crosby looked at Harry, his soulless eyes wary. Then he drained his drink and offered his jug for a refill. Harry obliged. ‘That’s not the sort of thing he lets slip. I doubt even the other captains know, for sure.’

  ‘I find that hard to credit, Crosby.’

  ‘Perhaps Chittenden knows. He’s like Bart’s number two. He has the Mercury.’

  Harry leant closer. ‘He must have a nice set of victims lined up. It’s just occurred to me that there’s a pretty penny going begging for someone who could beat Bartholomew to it.’

  That was stretching the truth somewhat. It had occurred to Harry days ago. He knew to some it might smack of thieving, but to him all was fair in love, war, and privateering. He didn’t owe Bartholomew anything, and in a game so loaded with chance anything that reduced the odds was welcome.

  Crosby frowned. ‘Beat him?’

  ‘If he has a rendezvous, it wouldn’t be too hard to guess where the ships he’s after are coming from. Perhaps they could be taken up beforehand.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to be close at hand if he discovered that.’

  ‘Genoa isn’t the only port around here.’

  Crosby looked around the deck, his lip curling with distaste as he saw the amount of labouring being done. He tweaked his nose again, this time keeping hold of it to aid his thinking. Harry said nothing, content to let his offer work its way around the other man’s mind. He didn’t really want Crosby aboard, but if that was the price of easy success, so be it.

  ‘A pretty penny is one of them sayings that don’t seem to amount to much, especially when it’s a way off.’

  ‘Money on the barrel now, and five per cent of the captures.’

  For someone with such dull eyes, it was remarkable how much expression such an offer generated. ‘And a berth if you want it.’

  The nod was almost imperceptible, and Crosby followed Harry into the cabin. The frame of the bulkhead was in place and the shipwrights were starting on the panelling.

  Crosby watched as Harry counted out twenty gold coins onto his desk, scooping them into his hand and out of sight in one swift movement.

  Harry fixed him with a threatening look. ‘I expect value for money, Crosby.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that, Captain Ludlow. Just as I don’t doubt you’ll get it.’

  ‘Come aboard when you like,’ said Harry as they walked back onto the deck. Again the man looked around the deck and it was plain he didn’t like what he saw.

  ‘Perhaps in a couple of days, Captain?’ />
  When all the work is done, thought Harry, but he managed a bit of a smile.

  If Harry had any doubts that he’d set tongues wagging, they were laid to rest quickly. As Crosby went down the gangplank, Doria came up, followed by his nephew. He had a confident manner, like a man who expected to be made welcome. This evaporated as he spotted Toraglia sitting in his chair by the stern rail, sipping the potent mixture of rum and lime juice from his jug. He stopped suddenly, looked at Harry, then back to the count, his eyes narrowing as he sought to make sense of it. Then, almost as a way of recovering his dignity, the admiral looked Harry up and down, alluding silently to the state he was in. Filthy, looking more like a tramp than a ship’s captain.

  ‘You have bought the ship?’

  ‘Not yet. I intend to take her out for a cruise first.’

  ‘Very wise.’ Doria nodded slowly, but his eyes took in the stores being loaded. He frowned, no doubt thinking that Harry was lying. Then he wagged his finger as though what he was about to say had just occurred to him. ‘You mentioned the other day that you may wish to sail from here. Indeed I remember you sought my aid in the matter.’

  Harry snapped back at him, for it was a definite hint that he would need to pay a bribe. ‘If I was to do so under the same terms as Bartholomew I might be interested.’

  Doria was too long in the tooth to react to the anger in Harry’s voice. He looked as though the name was new to him. ‘Bartholomew? Ah, yes. Perhaps when you have had your cruise we had better have a talk.’

  ‘So it’s possible?’

  Doria made a Latin gesture, hunching his shoulders and opening his hands. ‘My friend, with care, anything is possible.’

  With that he turned on his heel and marched back down to the quayside. His escort, and his nephew, fell in behind him and he made his way back to the Customs Fort. Harry walked aft. ‘We have just had a distinguished visitor, Count Toraglia.’