Some Brief Folly

by Patricia Veryan

  Chilton was busily engaged in rewarding Sampson with pieces of cheese he had carried in his pocket. He told his pet proudly that he was “a jolly good dog,” and Sampson wagged his tail and sought hopefully for any dropped crumbs.

  Reining back, Gains bent towards Hawkhurst. “Don’t give up, old fellow. It looks empty, but—”

  “But is not,” said Hawkhurst softly. “I saw a gleam of light from a side window, and the place fairly reeks of ale.”

  His voice held a note of suppressed excitement. Bryce marvelled at his control, but felt also a pang of dread. What if poor Hawk was doomed to another disappointment? A man could only stand so much, even this dauntless man! His cousin rightly interpreted that troubled gaze and cuffed him gently. “Don’t be a cawker. I’m all right.” He pointed to the lower street. “Max, we should go down there, I think. We’ll be less obvious, yet close enough to keep an eye on the place.”

  Accordingly, they made their way along to a cut through the bank and, reaching the lower level, swung back again towards The White Rose. As they approached, it appeared they were not the only ones interested in that establishment, for a small, sinewy-looking individual stood on tiptoe, gripping the railing and peering at the tavern. Either the man was deaf, or the fog muffled their coming, for he did not seem to hear them drive up and only at the last instant turned a startled face, then darted away. Obedient to his brother’s shout, Chilton sent his mare galloping in pursuit. Sampson tore free enthusiastically and followed with much flapping of ears and with legs that flew erratically. The small man sobbed with fear as the dog came at him and cringed against the bank, throwing an arm across his throat and whimpering, “Call ’im orf, mate! Don’t let ’im savage me, melor’! I didn’t do nuthink!”

  Chilton spoke sternly to Sampson, who cavorted about the captive, his friendly ungainliness so misinterpreted that, by the time he had been herded back to the curricle, the little man was quaking with terror. He snatched off a grimy knitted cap, and a spate of pleas burst from him that Hawkhurst terminated with the lift of one gloved hand. “Why did you watch that verminous place?” he demanded.

  The man started and peered into the stern, aristocratic face. “Sir…? Ain’t I see you somewhere afore? Wasn’t you with General Craufurd’s Light Division at Bussaco?”

  Hawkhurst leaned forward. “I was. And you?”

  The man drew himself up. “Draper, sir. Sergeant Robert. 43rd. I knowed I’d seen you. Friend o’ my Captain Redmond, wasn’t you?” His face saddened. “Him what was killed at Rodrigo.”

  “If you mean Captain Sir Harry Redmond,” said Hawkhurst. “He was found alive, sergeant. They brought him home. He’s not quite recovered, but—” He paused. The leathery features were twitching, the eyes bright with tears. “Cor!” gulped the sergeant. “I wasn’t never so glad to hear nuthing! Never!”

  Hawkhurst reached out at once and only then noticed that Draper’s right hand was gone. “Lieutenant Garret Hawkhurst,” he said and, as a gleaming steel hook came up, smiled and shook it. “Kicked you out, did they?”

  “Yus, sir. I come home, and me brother took me in, me not being good fer much no more. Me right hand, y’see, sir. But Bill’s been jugbit frequent lately, account o’ his sweetheart up and married a man milliner. He ain’t been home now fer four nights. A cove told me he went in that Satan’s pot, and many a man’s been shanghaied from there, so I been keeping me ogles on it—not that it’s done me a particle o’ good. Poor Bill’s off to the Indies by this time, I reckon. But sometimes they waits fer a ship, and I thought p’raps I could catch ’em at it and spring him free.”

  “Have you reported this to the authorities, sergeant?” asked Gains.

  Draper gave a scornful snort. “Ain’t no authorities fer the likes o’ me, sir. The ships masters need crews, and the Watch—such as we got, which ain’t much—turns t’other way.”

  Hawkhurst dismounted with care, the little man hastening to aid him. The night’s activities, plus the long, jouncing ride, had done his leg no good at all, and the pain was becoming exhausting, but he asked intently, “Have you ever been inside the tavern, Draper?”

  Gains added, “Mr. Hawkhurst’s son has been stolen. We think he’s there.”

  “Then Gawd help ’im! A little tyke, eh? A cabin boy they’ll mark him fer. Lucky if he comes through the fust voyage alive. And as to have I been in there, yus, I have. And I don’t mind telling you, it fair give me the shakes. You has t’go in the back way. The Watch closed ’em down twice, but they only bolt up the front door and give a wink at the back.”

  “Where would they have my son, d’you think? In the cellar?”

  Draper shook his head. “Too many rats, sir, and the ships’ masters don’t like their crews brung on board fulla bites. Upstairs is more like it. The ground floor’s all give over to kitchens and the tap, and there’s a parlour o’sorts where you can get summat to eat—if y’ain’t too partickler about the rats and roaches having a nibble afore ye!”

  “Charming,” said Gains dryly. “Do we venture this menu, Hawk?”

  Hawkhurst, who would have given all he possessed for a sound leg at this point, smiled and checked his pistols.

  “Don’t do it, sir,” said Draper. “You wouldn’t last two minutes, not none o’ ye. A fine bunch o’ rum touches up there. Make me look like a pure angel, they do! Though, there is gents o’ sorts wot goes in reg’lar.”

  Hawkhurst seized his shoulder. “A tall man, sergeant? A handsome scoundrel with brown curling hair and unusually large eyes?”

  Draper thought a second, then shook his head decisively. “No, sir. The only gentry cove wot I’d call handsome has yeller hair. Now he come, ’long about three s’arternoon. They druv inter the back, so I couldn’t see whether there was a boy with him, but I did see a lady.”

  Colley interpolated eagerly, “Hawk, Mia told me about an odd chap she met when she was lost that day. She said he had rather too much charm, but was extremely good-looking and had yellow curls!”

  Hawkhurst’s breath hissed through his teeth. Watching him, Gains said, “It fits, Hawk. All but the hair. Dye, perhaps…?”

  Hawkhurst nodded. The same excitement that had always possessed him before his regiment went into action was making his pulse race. The throbbing misery in his leg was quite forgotten. He knew somehow that he would face Mount tonight—at last! Exultant, he turned to the curious Draper. “Sergeant, if you will help us, there’ll be a place on my staff for you.”

  “Sir,” said Draper, with a quiet dignity, “I’d help you no matter wot! I seen you in action at Bussaco. You only got t’tell me wot you wants me to do.”

  NINETEEN

  THE AIR inside The White Rose was foul with the odours of smoke and ale and unwashed bodies and so hot that Hawkhurst could scarcely abide the heavy motheaten blanket he wore, a hole cut in the centre to enable this unlovely garment to slip over his head. A large, sagging-brimmed old hat shaded his features, and he leaned gratefully on the heavy crutch that Sergeant Draper had also miraculously procured. Not half an hour had passed from the time they’d sent the little man off on his errands until he had returned with “suitable clothing” for the three of them. Hawkhurst glanced at Coleridge, who had entered the tavern beside him, and could barely restrain a chuckle. His dandified nephew, a patch over one eye, hair matted with bacon grease and straggling around his dirty face, was clad in a filthy coat that hung in tatters about him and breeches that had made the young exquisite blench as he’d slipped them over his own immaculate garments.

  Their disreputable appearance had won them little attention as they made their way to the tap. Hawkhurst’s quick eyes had at once noticed a door on the far side of the low-roofed, smoky room that must, he thought, give onto a hall. They procured two tankards of ale, and by means of shoving Colley repeatedly in an apparent argument, Hawkhurst had gradually manoeuvred them close to this door. They now slouched against the wall, mumbling in quarrelsome fashion to one another and awaiting the arri
val of Gains, whom they had left attempting to pacify Chilton, incensed because he had been delegated to remain with the curricle.

  Draper reeled past, raised his tankard in apparently drunken recognition, and hissed. “Door aside you, sir. Stairs at the end o’ the hall. I’ll try and stop anyone who looks like follerin’,” and went on.

  Glancing about from beneath the brim of his hat, Hawkhurst saw no sign of Mount, but a more unwholesome lot he’d seldom beheld. Voices were coarse, conversation profane, eyes hard, and manners belligerent. An occasional howl of laughter would greet some rank joke, and sometimes a snatch of song emerged from the din. Here were the very dregs of the waterfront, the veneer of civilization thin indeed. He saw not one face upon which he would care to turn his back and spotted several slippery-eyed fellows he’d have laid odds were rank riders, at the very least!

  “Hawk,” breathed Coleridge in awe, “I’m sure that big fellow by the tap is the rogue who held me up on Hampstead Heath last spring!”

  “Pray he don’t recognize you!” advised Hawkhurst and nudged him warningly. A husky and decidedly foxed man, his crossed eyes wavering from one of them to the other, lurched up and demanded to know where was the borde as was owed him. Hawkhurst growled an admonition to “stow his whids,” advised he’d had too much strip-me-naked, and cursed him gutturally, whereupon the opportunist retreated.

  “By Jove!” grinned an admiring Colley. “What’s a borde?”

  “A shilling. And I wish to God someone would start a brawl so we can—”

  A wild commotion erupted beside the door, shouts and curses and guffaws of laughter. “Devil take it!” groaned Hawkhurst. “It’s Sampson! He’ll draw attention to us, confound him!”

  “Let the pup in, dang ye!” snarled a large, bloated individual, shoving the man who strove to eject the hound.

  “Gains!” whispered Coleridge.

  His lordship was resplendent in a tattered old rifleman’s jacket, a cap worn back to front, his features barely visible behind the tangled hair that hung over his eyes. Ignoring his aggressive critic, he continued to push at Sampson. The bloated one promptly back-handed him, so that he staggered, causing a coster to spill his ale. The coster howled his wrath and swung his tankard at the peer. Gains ducked with commendable alacrity, and the bloated one took the ale full in his red face. The taproom became a mass of flying fists, breaking glass, and plunging bodies, while shrieks, howls, and shouts increased the din.

  Delighted by this diversion, Hawkhurst cried, “Now!” swung the door open and limped into a dark, cold hall, Coleridge close on his heels. The heavy door closed behind them, shutting off an astonishing amount of the uproar, and a narrow hall stretched out starkly, lighted only by the candle on a rickety table beside a flight of uncarpeted stairs. Hawkhurst tucked the crutch under his arm and leaning on Bryce managed to hobble his way upward. The treads squeaked and groaned under them, but at last they reached the top and a corridor that led towards the front of the tavern. Breathing hard, Hawkhurst counted six doors, all closed. He tried the greasy handle of the first room to his right, and a man grumbled a demand to be left in peace. Coleridge opened the left-hand door and peered into a bedchamber to be rewarded by a feminine screech and the crash of a glass against the door he hurriedly swung shut. And then, from the far end of that dank hall came a shout of mocking male laughter and a woman’s voice, cultured but indignant, scolding, “But, Bobby darling, you promised I should have a ruby!”

  Hawkhurst stood immobile, the years rolling back as a deep, velvety voice said, “Greedy little doxy! That’s all you think of! Were I penniless, you’d be back to Everett without so much as a farewell kiss!”

  A primal glow began to burn in Hawkhurst’s eyes, and one word hissed softly through his gritted teeth. “Mount!”

  “But you are not penniless, love,” the woman cajoled. “And as soon as you get rid of the brat, we can—”

  “’Ere! Wot you two doin’ up there?”

  The rough challenge came from the stairs. Swinging around, Hawkhurst was in time to see Colley level a ruffian who charged at them, but another followed, his howls causing a door to the right to burst open, disgorging several burly louts and revealing a brightly lit room and two women with painted faces and gaudy gowns who ran eagerly to watch the excitement. Hawkhurst swung his crutch and discovered it to be a fearsome weapon as his first opponent, a veritable giant, was struck on the jaw, sailed backward over the railing, and thence, noisily down the stairs. A bull-necked, grinning bully replaced him, muscular arms eagerly outstretched. Vaguely aware that Colley was fighting like a Trojan at his back, Hawkhurst lunged with the crutch as though it were a sword. The bully jumped clear, seized the crutch and wrenched it away. At once, Hawkhurst sprang to ram home a solid right to the lowest button of the dirty waistcoat. His grin vanished, the bully jack-knifed and lay on the boards, gasping like a landed trout. The women started to screech lustily; Hawkhurst started for the door. It slammed, and he heard a key turn in the lock.

  Colley was striving heroically, but a narrow-featured individual had crept up the stairs and was in the process of levelling a pistol at his back. Belatedly recalling that he also carried a pistol, Hawkhurst whipped it from his pocket and fired from the hip, having no time to aim properly. The retort was cacophonous in the confined space. He was mildly astonished to see the would-be assassin drop his weapon and clutch a smashed wrist.

  Light flooded along the dim hall as the end door was flung wide. Robert Mount (better known to Euphemia as John Knowles-Shefford), clad in a brown velvet lounge jacket and light beige pantaloons, the lamplight gleaming on his golden curls, stood in the aperture, a woman peeping over his shoulder.

  Hawkhurst tore blanket and hat away and leapt forward, an inarticulate snarl of rage escaping him.

  Mount gave a shocked cry, flung the glass he held at the onrushing man, and sprang back, whipping the door to, but Hawkhurst’s shoulder smashed it open. He caught a glimpse of an incongruously elegant parlour, richly draped and carpeted and graciously furnished, and of a beautiful woman, clad in a flowing blue silk gown and running clear of his maddened charge.

  Never one for hand-to-hand combat, Mount wrenched open the drawer of a walnut escritoire. Hawkhurst launched himself across it. Mount jumped back, holding a small pistol, but the toppling escritoire slammed against him, and he went down, Hawkhurst crashing onto him. Still gripping the pistol, Mount swung it upward. Hawkhurst, his fingers having barely locked around the throat of his enemy, was forced to abandon his hold so as to smash the weapon away. At once Mount drove a fist against his jaw, twisted free, snatched up a marble clock, and swiped it at Hawkhurst’s head. Dizzied, but coming to his knees, Hawkhurst ducked. The clock caught him a glancing blow, starting the cut above his temple to bleed copiously again. For an instant he could see only wheeling lights, but pain was a distant thing which must not be heeded. Mount was already on his feet, and he was after him like a tiger. Frantic with fear, Mount caught up a chair and flailed it in a vicious arc. Hawkhurst swung clear, and it flew on across the room to miss the woman by inches, drawing a terrified shriek from her.

  “Stand and fight, you cowardly rat!” roared Hawkhurst.

  Mount, however, dodged desperately, heaving whatever he could lay hands on at his enemy. Pursuing him grimly, Hawkhurst was aware of a continuing uproar in the corridor and knew that a battle royal was under way out there. Colley was acquitting himself well. Mount had backed into a corner, and, triumphant, Hawkhurst started forward. A heavy tread sounded behind him, and something smashed into his back, beating the breath from his lungs. He went down hard, the shock sending pain lancing through his leg from ankle to thigh, but to relax was death, and so he rolled, started up doggedly—and froze.

  His cheek grazed, and his curls sadly disarranged, the shoulder of his jacket ripped out, Mount yet grinned his triumph. One hand was tightly twisted in Kent’s hair; the other again held the pistol which he waved tauntingly, so that at the end of each wave th
e muzzle ruffled the fair hair at the boy’s temple. “Excellently done, Japhet,” he wheezed, and Hawkhurst saw that the large individual Colley had recognized as a member of the High Toby stood smirking at him, a leg of the shattered escritoire gripped in one beefy hand. So that was what had brought him down. Panting, he fought his way to his feet, his eyes drinking in his son. The boy’s fine hands were bound before him, and a bruise at the side of his mouth accentuated his extreme pallor. Yet he did not weep; his eyes instead fixed upon Hawkhurst with an expression varying between adoration and anxiety. Hawkhurst summoned a grin and winked encouragement. The highwayman gave a mocking laugh and rammed the improvised club into his ribs, staggering him. Enraged, Hawkhurst crouched, fists clenched, poised for battle, and the large man advanced willingly.

  “No, no, Japhet,” Mount chuckled. “Rather, go and stop all the clamour before we have the Watch here! As for you, Hawk, I admire you. No, but really I do! Look at him, Anne. He is as close to indestructible as any man I’ve met.”

  “Despite your efforts to the contrary, eh, Robert?” Hawkhurst’s head tossed back, and the look of boredom Mount had never been able to tolerate was very pronounced.

  “But I had no intention of killing you, dear Garret. Not for a long time yet. Do you refer to my little games with Mohocks and other commodities, plus your former friend’s hunting gun?” He shrugged slyly, “One must have some fun, after all. And you’d come off so damnably easy. I knew I must be sensible, of course, but there were times when I simply could not restrain my desire to … ah, make your life a little more, shall we say—uncomfortable? I had intended to keep you worrying, and paying, until my son was a few years older. Oh, yes, Eustace is my own—and it seemed poetic justice that he should inherit Dominer.” He sighed. “But this…” His merciless hand shook Kent’s head savagely, “… complicated matters. How you ever found him, I cannot know, but I am now compelled to call a halt to the game. Sad. For you have not paid nearly enough for the death of my love!” He grinned and tightened his grip so that Kent’s mouth twisted with pain.