‘Yet what right have I to burden you with all this, which is surely none of your concern? Odd how I have come to esteem you on such a short acquaintance,’ said the count, leaning forward again to touch Harry’s knee with a degree of intimate familiarity.
Harry felt tears prick the back of his eyes. ‘Would that I had the power to make you well, Count Toraglia. Should what you say come to pass, I feel I would be losing a friend.’
Toraglia laughed. ‘And all this before we contest a ducat. I fear we are poor merchants, Captain Ludlow.’ A minute pause, before he continued: ‘But I would ask you one thing. If it is in your power to do my poor wife a good turn after I’m gone, it would reassure me to know that you would oblige.’
‘Of course,’ Harry croaked. If he then wondered at Harry’s immediate and vociferous objection to staying the night, it didn’t show. Soon they were back in the sedan chair and heading for the Toraglia villa, and to Harry’s mind an encounter he would rather avoid.
His fears that there would be some kind of awkwardness were proved groundless. The countess had returned to her previous impeccable demeanour. Neither by look nor gesture did she refer to the events of the previous night.
She was attentive to her husband and polite to Harry, with no trace of tension in her voice as she asked him about the events of the day. Once more they retired to the courtyard, there to drink wine and eat. And this time, after the food, to haggle. Yet it was a good-humoured affair, for even Toraglia’s wife gasped at his opening price. He was not angry with her for letting him down, treating it as a jest himself. He soon named a more realistic figure.
Harry offered a hundred ducats less. The count, throwing up his hands, would not budge, singing the praises of the Principessa. Harry offered a shade more. Still he wouldn’t be shifted. The argument went back and forth, with Harry conceding little and the count refusing to budge. Time was passing and Toraglia was tiring. Deep in the pit of his stomach Harry feared that he might be forced to sleep here, with all the attendant risks that included. He, trying to emulate the Latin gesture of his host, threw up his arms and conceded the price, comforting himself with the thought that he was paying for it out of profits he’d already managed in another ship.
Toraglia was plainly disappointed, for his face showed the first trace of real anger that Harry had seen. ‘I do hope that my disability is not affecting your judgement, Captain!’
Harry was aware his quick surrender looked like condescension, but he really didn’t think he had any choice. Perhaps, in his haste, he answered the count a shade more pointedly than was necessary. ‘It has not, sir. But she is a fine vessel, and if I think her worth every penny of that amount. I cannot see why you should seek to dissuade me.’
‘He will not do that, Signor. You may take my word on it,’ said the countess.
Her husband frowned at that interruption. But he must have realised the game was over, for his shoulders drooped slightly. Toraglia had been looking forward to the cut and thrust of continued barter, which would complete the pleasure of the last two days. But it was not to be.
His wife produced ink, a quill, and paper so that the contract could be drawn up. Harry wrote a letter instructing the Guistianis to transfer the required funds. The business was complete, with Toraglia near collapse, though he stayed manfully awake till Harry made his hurried apologies and prepared to leave. Despite his protestations, the countess walked with him to the hallway, stopping underneath her husband’s portrait. The old bent servant stood by the door, waiting to escort him to the postern gate. They were out of her husband’s hearing when she spoke.
‘Do I take it that I was included in the price?’
James would have said something gallant. Not Harry; he didn’t know how. Yet he knew he made a hash of the truth, his voice harsh. ‘It was to avoid a repetition of the events of last night that it was so high.’
He saw a flash of anger and hurt in her eyes. Then, in a gesture that he meant kindly, but somehow performed insultingly, he bent down, kissed her hand, and left.
He came out of the gate to find his three escorts gone. Harry cursed under his breath, and for a moment contemplated knocking at the door and begging re-admittance. But after what he’d just said that was impossible. Perhaps the men had spied somewhere to get a drink on the way. Hard to say, since he didn’t know them very well. Lubeck was the one who had picked them. He had no way of knowing if they were reliable or not.
Having little choice he set off through the now darkened and deserted streets. At some point he would have to turn down towards the harbour. He tried hard to recall the route he’d taken yesterday in the company of Guistiani’s messenger, but quickly realised he’d have to rely on pure instinct. How could he recognise any of the things he’d seen in daylight in this stygian darkness?
It was neatly done. The cold steel of the pistol was at his temple before he could open his mouth. Hands held him from behind, and a voice he vaguely recognised spoke. ‘Someone wants to see you, Ludlow.’
Harry, expecting a French voice and certain death, was surprised. The man had spoken in English. They threw a blindfold round his eyes and tied it tight. He had the absurd thought, as they bustled him away, that it was unnecessary to blindfold a man on such a night. Sounds echoed off the walls of the narrow alleyways as they pushed him along. The creak of a door, again familiar, and suddenly Harry knew where he was, and who had spoken. It was the voice of the rat-catcher, Beldeau. And by that distinctive creak of the door he knew he was in the rear warehouse of Ma Thomas’s inn.
Was it just Beldeau, taking revenge for the humiliation Harry had meted out to him in the tap-room? If it was, that would mean a beating. But why fetch him here? Something like that could be done in the streets, and in a town like Genoa the chances of anyone taking any notice were slim. Then Bartholomew spoke, his voice harsh, as though he was straining to control it. ‘Take off the blindfold, Beldeau. I need to look this bastard in the eye.’
Harry blinked in the candlelight, before looking round to see his captors. All three of the men he’d knocked down were there, plus two others, their faces vaguely familiar. Both Beldeau’s eyes were black and his nose was swollen to twice its normal size. Then he turned back, and found himself looking into Bartholomew’s eyes. There was none of that amused air about the man now. His eyes were as hard as stone, and directed at him. Suddenly Bartholomew stepped forward and fetched him a slap with all the force he could muster. Harry spun away, too late to take the sting out of it. Habit had him halfway to returning the blow but Beldeau and the man called Tinker grabbed him.
There was a slight taste of blood in Harry’s mouth, and a numbness in his jaw as he spoke. ‘Is that how you fight, Bartholomew?’
‘I dare say you’d prefer my men to let you go?’
‘I promise you a bout if you do.’
Bartholomew snorted derisively. ‘A bout, Ludlow? What are you, a prizefighter?’
‘Ask your friends.’
He heard Beldeau growl, right by his ear, as Bartholomew responded. ‘What a sporting fellow you are. Odd that I asked my “friends” what to do with you, since my first instinct was to string you up. No, said Beldeau, for he too has a score to settle. He reckons to have some sport with you, and he has persuaded me that I shall enjoy it.’
‘You will, Bart, take my word on it. An’ so will I,’ said Beldeau.
Harry was searching his mind, trying to think what he could have done to cause such a reaction. Surely sailing as a privateer, purloining a number of hands, or making insulting references to the syndicate didn’t warrant all this? Had he heard of Harry’s attempt to question Crosby? Or had Crosby come straight back here and told him everything, plus a bit more—for he was given to exaggeration. Beldeau taking revenge he could see, for the way Harry had knocked him out must have rankled. But that was meat for a thrashing, perhaps a severe one if Beldeau was as mad as Crosby said. But to string him up. What for?
‘I am at a loss to know what I’ve done t
o offend you.’
Bartholomew stepped forward and hit him again. ‘Are you, by damn? Shall I tell you what we have decided?’
Harry didn’t reply, since there didn’t seem any point.
‘It’s Beldeau’s notion, and I have to say when he told me, I was impressed. I dare say you have spied his hat, and had a good look at his face, so you will know what he does.’
‘Rats, Ludlow.’ This was said by Beldeau, softly, almost caressingly, in his ear. ‘I rear ’em as well as fight them.’
Bartholomew continued, his voice carrying an almost jesting tone.
‘He catches his own, you know, and breeds them special. Feeds them up, and crosses the ones that grow the most. So what he ends up with are the biggest rats he can manage. But to make them fight, that’s hard. You have to feed them, then starve them. You know when they’re hungry, for you put one of the little ones in with them. When they eat it, you know they’re ready. It was his rats that the Negro was fighting the other night, so you can see how successful he is in making them big.’
‘I seem to remember the Negro finished well within the time.’
‘He did too. Beldeau was upset. But the man is a champion at the sport.’
‘We should have made him fight ten instead of six, with a reputation like his,’ growled Beldeau.
‘One a minute. I think I would have backed your rats at that, Beldeau. What do you reckon a novice could handle?’
Harry felt his blood chill, for he knew what was coming. ‘Not more’n two, Captain.’
Bartholomew smiled now. ‘Let’s show him what’s in store, shall we?’
Harry was pushed towards one of the larger barrels. Tinker opened a door halfway up, then pushed Harry’s head through. He’d heard the sound of scrabbling rats all his naval life, but even before Tinker shoved the lantern into the barrel, he knew that he was going to see more rats in one place than he’d ever seen before. And he was right. He looked down into a sea of gleaming eyes, as the rats froze for just a second. Then they panicked and tried to get away, but in the confines of the barrel there was nowhere to go, so they just ran in circles, climbing over each other, biting and scratching, squeaking in their high-pitched way. Some tried to climb the walls, but Beldeau had lined it with a circle of grease so they fell back amongst their mates. The larger rats started to attack the smaller ones, and in one corner some of them had gone into a frenzy, literally ripping a half-grown creature apart.
Harry was pulled out again, and the door was slammed, plunging the rats back into darkness. Beldeau pushed his swollen face close up. Harry could smell his breath as he spoke. ‘Mustn’t get ’em too worked up, eh, Ludlow? Else there be nowt left for you to fight.’
Bartholomew laughed. ‘Are you a novice, Ludlow, or did you indulge in this sport as a youngster in the West Indies?’
Harry fought to keep his voice even. ‘I’m not frightened of the odd rat, Bartholomew, if that’s what you mean. Just as I’m not frightened of you. Just untie me, and I’ll show you. I’ll take all of you if you like.’
That amused the man even more. ‘The odd rat. He offers us the odd rat, then says he’ll fight us all. I fear you see yourself as a hero, Ludlow. Put his nose close to theirs, Beldeau, and let’s see what kind of hero he is.’
They flung the door of the barrel open again, and this time, as they shoved him through the opening, they lifted his legs so that his head was pointing to the floor. Tinker shoved the light in again, and Harry fought to shrink his body away from what he saw. His head was within inches of the bottom of the barrel, practically amongst the teeming rodents. As the light panicked them again they started to run, but sensing this intruder as the cause of their distress they all tried to bite him. Beldeau and the other man holding him pushed him down till his head hit the floor. Harry felt the teeth start to sink into his neck, head and shoulders. He screamed out in fear, and they hauled him up and out again. Bartholomew was laughing, and as he looked around the grinning faces of the others, Harry’s heart sank. There was no mercy in any of the eyes.
‘A novice, I think, Beldeau, don’t you?’ said Bartholomew.
‘Aye, aye, Captain.’
‘We’ll start him on four.’ He waved an elegant arm to his rear. ‘We’ve got a special arena prepared for this, the largest barrel we could find, cut in half so that we can watch. We’ll be just above your head if you stand up. I wouldn’t do that if I were you, of course, since I for one will almost certainly fetch you a buffet if I can.’
Bartholomew’s voice went suddenly ice cold. He was full of hate for Harry Ludlow, though he and God alone knew why.
‘Shall I tell you the terms, Ludlow? We shall put you in the barrel with four rats to start, and you will be allowed the ten minutes to kill them. If they are not dead in the time, I’ll string you up from the first hoist I find on the quayside.’
‘And if they are?’ Harry croaked.
‘Then you shall have a rest. And after your rest, you shall fight five. Then another rest, and you’ll fight six. Then seven, eight, and nine. And if you can still see and are still alive we’ll try you on ten.’
‘Why should I bother, since you intend to kill me anyway?’
‘You’ll bother, Ludlow,’ he snarled. ‘It is in the nature of man to cling to life. And perhaps I shan’t kill you. Perhaps Beldeau’s rats will win.’
Bartholomew’s voice was filled with mockery. ‘A promise, Ludlow, that I swear I’ll keep. If they do win, and you are blinded, I shall let you live. You’ve had your sport, you bastard. Now I intend to have mine.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THEY’D SLUNG him in another empty barrel, his hands still tied, while they prepared for their sport. Harry sat in the dark searching his mind for a motive in Bartholomew’s behaviour. Perhaps the man was mad. And what did he mean when he said he would string him upon the nearest hoist? That was what had happened to Howlett.
He had tried to find the door of the barrel as soon as they put him inside, but with his hands tied behind his back that was difficult. Also, in the darkness, he could go round and round the thing without ever knowing when he’d gone full circle. What had happened to the men he’d had with him? Where were they? And what about those on the ship? Would they wonder where he was, or would they just assume he was still at Count Toraglia’s villa? They didn’t know him well and he hadn’t taken them into his confidence about his plans. If he didn’t show up, they’d just sit there, eating their way through his stores, and waiting for him to return.
No one else had any cause to realise he was missing, since he’d transacted his business with the count. Perhaps if he hadn’t sent Pender away. But then, if he kept him around his servant would have been with him tonight, and possibly killed before he came out of the villa. Or worse, captured and in the same predicament as his master.
Reluctantly he turned his mind to the immediate future. Harry had seen rat-fights on board ship. The usual practice was for a man to poke his head down the hawse hole, and try to do them one at a time as they climbed the cable. Only once had he seen it done the way they operated in the tap-room, and that had been in the West Indies.
Bartholomew’s slight twang sounded as though it could be his birthplace. That set off another train of thought. Harry’s father had held the command in the West Indies for three years and had enjoyed a degree of success in suppressing the actions of the Caribbean privateers, who, out of sight of authority, behaved more like pirates. Was Bartholomew one of them, for he was of an age with Harry, who’d been a midshipman when his father held that post?
He tried to remember every word that Bartholomew had said, every look and every gesture. He could recall no overt enmity. But then would Bartholomew expose it if it was there? He’d been rude to James, much more than he had been to Harry. Was that because he disdained to be polite to an obvious lubber, or was it the Ludlow name?
It was too much of a coincidence surely, that someone Harry’s father had harmed twenty years ago should be seek
ing revenge on the son. Then his mind turned to Broadbridge. Did Bartholomew think Harry had killed him? Again Harry ran the events of the last two days through his mind, desperately searching for a motive, for if he could find it, he could plead his innocence. Then, perhaps, he could persuade them to let him go.
Sounds outside the barrel forced his mind back to the rats. It was the kind of thing youngsters talked about in the midshipman’s berth, pretending an ability they didn’t possess. But he’d had it from some of the older hands. He knew, hands tied, there were only two ways to kill them. One by tossing them like a terrier, thus breaking their necks. The other needed sheer brute strength to crush them between your teeth. Neither prospect was very inviting. Yet, for all Beldeau’s boasting, rats were timorous creatures unless cornered, preferring to run rather than engage anything larger. Harry had caught enough of them as a lad.
He’d fattened them up and eaten them. Sometimes he’d sold them to his messmates, to assuage the endemic hunger that afflicted every youngster aboard a man-of-war. But trapped rats could be vicious, and he was sure that Beldeau knew from experience how to make a rat feel that sole means of escape was to fight.
The door, which turned out to be by Harry’s right arm, was flung open. As the head came through Harry butted the man. He felt a sharp pain, and wondered if he hadn’t done himself more damage than his opponent. But the other fellow yelled, grabbed his head, and pulled it back out of the barrel, leaving the door ajar. Harry was through in a flash, scrambling out, tripping over the step at the bottom. He fell heavily and rolled, trying to get to his feet. The boot caught him just behind the ear as he got to his knees, and he was knocked sideways, his head reeling. Another boot caught him in the ribs, before hands got hold of him to drag him to his feet.
Dying Trade Page 27