by Dudley Pope
And now the Griffin was furling sails as Lobb brought her round to anchor. Ned smiled at Aurelia. Despite all the irritations there had been when they left to catch up with Thomas and the Peleus, it was good to be back. It was very easy to get angry with Jamaica when you were really angry with someone like old Loosely. You needed patience because the Looselys of this world, as soon as they realized that Jamaica could not provide them with either fame or fortune, had themselves recalled to England. Governors of colonies were ambitious men: each posting was a step up (they hoped!) the ladder whose lower rungs were made of money, nepotism and opportunism and whose upper ones were held in place with various orders of knighthood.
As the Sans Peur anchored to leeward and the Phoenix and the Peleus took up their usual positions on each quarter, Lobb came up to report, almost apologetically: “There’s a fishing boat coming out to us from the jetty, sir, and I’m afraid it’s bringing that mincing secretary to the Governor…”
“Make him brush off the fish scales before you allow him on board,” Ned said, and Lobb grinned. Suddenly Ned felt too tired to put up with Sir Harold: not physically tired, but unwilling to truckle with a man who could never have made a spontaneous remark in his life; whose every sentence had to be examined because it had two meanings, if not more. Luce, he thought bitterly, was such a perfect trimmer it was impossible to understand why honest men had anything to do with him. He had survived and flourished under Cromwell; at the Restoration he had trimmed his sails and was now under way again, only this time in the King’s service…
“And Lobb – if he’s carrying a letter from the Governor, bring it down to me: I don’t want to see the young man. Tell him I’m too busy.”
Young man…the phrase came easily enough but Hamilton was about his own age and Luce was probably paying off his tailor by taking the man’s son as his aide: that was how most of these youngsters started off. Well, it was possible for a tailor’s son to get a dukedom by trimming, as the Duke of Albemarle had just shown…
Ned went down to the cabin with Aurelia and suddenly kissed her affectionately. She responded with equal warmth, and then held him at arm’s length. “What are you up to now?”
“Nothing,” he said innocently. “Why can’t I just want to kiss you?”
“You can, and I hope you always do, but at this moment you have a look in your eye – a cunning look. What trick are you going to play on that poor man Hamilton?”
“Trick? What trick can I play on him? Damnation, we’ve just sailed into Port Royal, been fired at from the bastion by guns we provided and using powder we supplied, and you ask me what trick I am going to play? Better ask old Loosely what trick he’s already played.”
“All right, then, tell me why Sir Harold Luce had his guns fire on us?”
“That’s easy. He’s jealous of me because I have such a lovely Frenchwoman as a mistress.”
Aurelia smiled but persisted. “Come on, be serious.”
“All right. It’s actually Thomas’ fault. Sir Harold lusts after Diana. He’s been reading the Song of Solomon again and Diana’s breasts are driving him mad. Or the thought of them, anyway.”
There was a knock on the cabin door and Lobb came in. “This fellow, sir: he hasn’t got a letter. Says he must see you because he’s got an urgent message from the Governor.”
“Ned,” Aurelia said quietly, “you promised…”
Ned made a face. “All right, bring him down, but stay and listen to what he says: one can’t have enough witnesses when dealing with these people.”
Sir Harold’s secretary arrived with a thump, missing the last two steps of the companionway and falling in a heap at the doorway. Lobb stood behind him, unsmiling, as he stood up and straightened his jerkin, tugged at his lace collar and tried to wriggle his breeches lower: the fall had obviously pulled them tight under the crotch, and with Aurelia present he could do nothing more.
Ned glared at him as he stepped into the cabin, and before he could say anything demanded: “Well, where is the written apology?”
“Apology? Sir, I bring a message from the Governor and–”
“Listen carefully. Sir Harold Luce’s guns fired on my ships as we passed the James bastion. I want to know why, and I want a written apology.”
“Very well, sir, I’ll tell him that. But–”
“Delivered before I listen to anything he has to say,” Ned growled. “Good morning to you.”
“But sir, I have an urgent–”
“Trying to knock my head off with roundshot fired from guns I captured from the Spanish and gave to Jamaica is urgent,” Ned said angrily. “You don’t know just how urgent a roundshot sounds when it whistles past your ear but, if you’ll excuse me, I am busy: we have to make a careful inspection of this ship to see what damage we received.”
“Oh sir,” the wretched Hamilton wailed, “I’m sure none of the shot hit your ship!”
“None hit my ship?” Ned suddenly roared at him. “Why not? Do you mean to say we captured those guns at Santiago, brought them back here, made Heffer build bastions, provided powder and shot, and after all that the damned gunners can’t hit an innocent ship passing a hundred yards away? Not one ship but four! Blasting away into the middle of the covey, they were – and now you say they didn’t hit anything!”
“No, sir,” stammered Hamilton. “I didn’t say they didn’t hit anything–”
“Oh, now you admit your damned guns did hit my ships! Well, I want to know why they opened fire.”
“Sir, I didn’t mean that they actually hit your ships–”
“Ah, now you say they are such a crowd of dunderheads that they can’t hit such close targets. That’s what I was saying: the guns, powder and shot are just a waste.”
“Sir, they thought you were Spanish!”
Ned appeared to freeze. “Oh, so I am Spanish now, eh? An enemy of Jamaica, of Sir Harold Luce and his blessed majesty the King. Not a traitor, just an enemy. Well, you–”
Ned knew that Aurelia’s pinch would soon draw blood from his arm unless he looked at her. He knew her well enough to recognize that she was fighting hard to avoid laughing, and he had noticed Lobb duck out of the cabin a couple of minutes ago after seeing Hamilton tripping over himself.
“Ned,” she said in a neutral voice, “I think this gentleman has a message for you from the Governor.”
“I know that: he said so at the beginning. And I’ve told him that before I have any other communication from the Governor, I want his written apology for opening fire on us. Lobb!” he called. “Ah, there you are. Send on shore for those beeves. It’ll take hours to get them slaughtered and roasted. And take this fellow away with you and send him home. Shoot at him if he tries to come on board again without that written apology.”
Ned realized that Aurelia had moved close to him again and any moment there would be another pinch. He promptly sat down at the table and glared at the polished surface.
“But sir–” Hamilton cried, scuttling out of the cabin when Ned bellowed: “What, are you still there? Where are my pistols, woman?”
As soon as she could no longer hear Hamilton’s boots clattering up the ladder, Aurelia said: “Ned, that wasn’t funny: it was cruel. You are a bully.”
“Why are you laughing, then?”
“I’m not laughing. I’m ashamed of you.”
Ned stood up and kissed her again. He started to unlace the soft leather jerkin she was wearing but she pushed him away. “Not now! The Governor wants to see you!”
“Darling, if I have to choose between you and the Governor, you will always win.”
At that moment they both heard Thomas’ deep voice calling from the top of the companionway, followed by Diana who, Ned noted, always sounded as though she was inviting you to her bed, no matter what she was saying.
“What di
d that fancy boy want?” Thomas asked. “He was as white as a sheet! Lobb fairly threw him into that fishing boat!”
Aurelia jabbed Ned with her finger and turned to Thomas. “Ned was absolutely hateful to him. He came with a message from the Governor and we still don’t know what it is – even though it’s urgent.”
Thomas raised his eyebrows, startled by Aurelia’s sharp tone of voice. “Why don’t we know? Was he struck dumb?”
“No, Ned completely confused the poor man with demands for an apology because the bastion opened fire on us.”
“I should think so too,” Thomas rumbled. “Fired on by our own guns!”
“But we weren’t hit!” Aurelia said, almost wailing with exasperation.
“Even worse! At that range they should have riddled us. That damned Heffer – he hasn’t the faintest idea of how to train his men, although we’ve told him enough times!”
“But the Governor – it’s urgent!”
Diana tugged Thomas’ arm. “Listen to Aurelia,” she said firmly, “because Ned is having one of his attacks. Just look at him: he’s just sitting there giggling like a young girl.”
“Very sensible of him,” growled Thomas, subsiding on the settee facing Ned. “What’s all this about, Ned? Aurelia looks as though she’s going to lay a clutch of hard-boiled eggs.”
Ned shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, to tell the truth. Our friend was mincing down the companionway when he missed his footing and arrived with a crash. After that everything went to pieces.”
“Yes,” Aurelia said crossly, “it did because Ned got the Devil in him. The poor man was trying to say the Governor wanted to see Ned urgently, but Ned was shouting – oh yes you were shouting – that he wouldn’t have anything to do with anyone on shore until he had a written apology from the Governor over that shooting business.”
“Steady on,” Thomas said. “Someone could have been killed by ‘that shooting business’. Never underrate a roundshot, I say.”
Aurelia looked despairingly at Diana, who took her arm and led her out of the cabin.
Ned looked up at Thomas. “I was a naughty boy, but I couldn’t resist it!”
“When shall we go over and see him – tomorrow morning?”
Ned nodded. “Quite soon enough.”
Chapter Twenty-One
General Heffer was, as Ned had suspected, sitting in his office with the door shut, even though it was a humid day with only a slight breeze to ruffle the jalousies and stir up tiny whirlwinds of dust. There was no sentry on the door. Had Luce already paid off the Army, keeping only the four hundred militia?
Ned banged on the door and walked into the room. Heffer might well have been dozing: he leapt from his chair, his startled eyes blinking in the familiar mournful sheep’s face.
“Ah, Mr Yorke and Sir Thomas! Welcome back. I heard you had returned.”
“You didn’t see us passing yesterday?”
“Er, well, yes. With an extra ship.”
“Did you order the James bastion to fire on us as we came in?”
“Indeed I did not! I heard the guns firing.”
“Why?” Ned demanded. “Why at us?”
Heffer sat down after closing the door firmly and gestured to Ned and Thomas to be seated. “There have been changes here since you left. My role is – well, my title is now Quartermaster General. I am (I think) supposed to make sure the island doesn’t starve and we don’t run out of powder and shot for the militia. I also have to make sure the Governor is well supplied with lobster, and with turtles from the Caymans (he’s very partial to turtle cutlets). Oh yes, I have to collect all the uniforms and arms from the soldiers now they’re paid off. As they have nothing else to wear and they haven’t the money to buy clothes (there isn’t enough cloth in the island anyway, let alone boots or shoes), the Governor has a crisis on his hands.”
“So that’s why the bastion fired at us, eh?” Ned asked. “We’re not welcome, I suppose, after Loosely cancelled all the commissions and the Brethren left.”
Heffer gave an unexpected gulping laugh, like a sheep sneezing. “Ah, yes, as I just told you, things have changed! But I’m only the quartermaster. I hear the Governor tried to send you an urgent message yesterday, but you gave his messenger a dusty answer!”
“Yes, that’s about it. What was the message?”
“Mr Yorke,” Heffer said ironically, “I’m now only the quartermaster – the island’s housekeeper. The Governor doesn’t confide in me nor does he ask my advice. He asks no one’s advice. If he wants to see you urgently, I’m sure it’s over an urgent matter. I’ve just told you we have a clothing crisis. Or perhaps it’s a turtle cutlets crisis – the sloop from the Caymans is two days overdue…”
“Nothing changes much,” Ned said with a grin. “Quite like old times.”
“Except that you’re not humbugging me any more!” Heffer said thankfully. “I remember when I first met the pair of you. Buying grain you had stolen from the Spanish!”
“Captured, not stolen,” Thomas corrected. “You talk as though my sainted Uncle Oliver was still alive. The King is back, Heffer!”
Heffer glanced at the door, as if making sure it was still shut. “Yes, I know. He sent us the Governor!”
“Heffer,” Ned said suddenly, “that’s the third time you’ve smiled, and you just laughed. What’s the matter? Whence come this ribald Heffer? Why are you so cheerful? I’ve never seen you smile before, and as for laughing…”
Heffer smiled yet again, self-consciously. “Well, Sir Harold is not an easy man to work for but he has all the responsibility now. I can assure you that I’d sooner be responsible for turtle cutlets than the safety of the whole island. And–” he took a large watch from his fob and flipped open the front, “–perhaps you gentlemen had better go and pay him your respects: someone will have seen your boat arriving at the jetty, and he’ll probably think I’m deliberately keeping you.”
Ned stood up. “Well, we’ll call in after we’ve seen him. Not to tell you about the urgent matter, but to see if you can find some turtle cutlets for us. And who knows, we might then sail over to the Main and get some cloth so that your former soldiers can hide their nakedness.”
Hamilton was standing at the front door of the Governor’s residence, hands trembling, his forehead beaded with perspiration that owed more to nervousness than humidity.
“Ah, Mr Yorke! We saw you coming on shore – but then you and Sir Thomas vanished!”
“We often do,” Ned said. “It’s a trick Sir Thomas learned on one of the Crusades. The Third, wasn’t it, Thomas?”
“The Fourth,” Thomas said.
“Ah yes. The Third was when you rescued Lady Diana from the Sultan.”
“No, no, no, my dear fellow: I rescued the Sultan from Lady Diana,” Thomas said, straight-faced. “The poor man was in mortal danger of being transmuted into a eunuch.”
William Hamilton’s eyes had long since become glazed. “Sir Harold…” he said weakly, “Sir Harold has–”
“The written apology waiting for us,” Ned said.
“Er, well, I’m not sure–”
“Good day,” Ned said crisply, “we have plenty of work to supervise on board our ships.” As he turned, Hamilton said hurriedly: “I’m sure Sir Harold is only waiting to–”
Ned knew that Hamilton was lying to save his master’s face, but now, having spoken to Heffer, he was curious to know what it was that Loosely regarded as urgent.
“Very well, tell Sir Harold we’ll give him ten minutes.”
As Hamilton turned to hurry into the house, Thomas growled: “At the most, and that includes time for the apology.”
And there Sir Harold Luce was, sitting at an enormous desk: the ferret face, wisps of urine-coloured hair poking out from under his wig, sharp little hung
ry eyes, the face like freckled cold pork on the turn, the mouth open enough to reveal yellowed teeth.
Hamilton announced their names and Luce stared at them without speaking. Both Ned and Thomas stopped walking into the room, waited a full minute and then turned to go out again.
“Gentlemen,” Luce said hurriedly, “welcome back to Port Royal. I was getting anxious about you!”
“So I noticed,” Ned said, taking out his watch and looking at it carefully. “Welcoming us with the guns of the James bastion.”
“Oh, that,” Luce said, waving his hand as though to dismiss it. “Just a mistake; some fool misunderstood an order.”
“Indeed?” Ned’s eyebrows were raised. “Well, we haven’t much time and no doubt the explanation is given fully in your written apology.”
Luce’s eyes flickered from one side of the room to the other, reminding Ned of a trapped animal. “Well, no, I’m explaining now.”
“No you’re not,” Ned said quietly. “We haven’t time to listen. You received my message that I have nothing to discuss with you until I receive your written apology?”
“Damnation, boy,” Luce shouted, thumping his desk, “you don’t send messages like that to the Governor, laying down conditions!”
“Oh, but I do,” Ned said. “Why, we could tar and feather you and send you back to England in a turtle shell, and everyone in the island would cheer us. You’ve no Army, you’ve no idea what is needed here in Jamaica, and you gave the order to fire on my ships. You are the Governor, yes; your commission is no doubt securely locked away somewhere. But don’t forget – if we are exchanging compliments – that I am the Admiral of the Brethren of the Coast, and if the rest of my men hear that you opened fire on me, they’ll come back here and capture the island. You’ll be marched along to Gallows Point and instead of sitting at a desk, you’ll be hanging from a gibbet, the late Governor.”