“Only that he’s a bully and backstabber, although it appears he wasn’t much of an assassinator,” Edward replied.
“Who said he came to London to assassinate?”
“My idle speculation,” Edward replied casually, his mind racing to recover from the near-error. “How else does a Jacobite courier come to rest in Fleet Ditch? A man with the business of rebellion at hand avoids duels and affrays. A courier might be attacked by those who work for you, but I think you would have told me this already. Ergo, knowing Lynch as I do, he probably died attempting murder in an alley.”
“You’re quick on your feet, sir, very quick,” Edward’s interrogator said with a curious smile. “As soon as Lynch was identified—we already knew of his Jacobite inclinations—one of my officers dispatched thief-takers with coin to bribe those who might have witnessed his death. A whore admitted to seeing a man thrown into the Ditch by some Egyptians or cheats, doubtless she lies and they were in fact her own rogues, and doubtless she robbed him—the thief-takers confiscated a guinea and a crown from her. But we’re sure she didn’t kill him, and she swore she had nothing to do with his death, nor did she know anything else about it. Certainly she wasn’t capable of killing him, at least not in the way it was done. Lynch wore a mail shirt—whoever killed him was proficient enough to put a sword through an eye.”
Silently Edward rebuked himself for having thought the woman had betrayed him. He had not even asked her name, not when he had first met her, nor when she helped him in the alley. It was an unacceptable transgression.
The gentleman paused, looked long and hard at Edward, and then continued. “It’s a strange business I’m in, sir, in which everyone lies, yet I must distinguish between the lies that matter and the lies that don’t. The dead man was not one of the assassinators, but a Jacobite agent nonetheless. Whoever killed him saved him a trial and hanging, but deprived us of a witness.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed. Odd that you fought a duel with him in Bristol before you departed for Ireland, or so I hear, over an accusation that you are a Jacobite. As you know by now, my intelligencers are very good.” The gentleman picked up a paper from the desk. “We took this letter from the whore I mentioned; she said she found it near where she saw Lynch thrown into the Ditch. It came from Ireland. The signature is without doubt false, and the letter is phrased in fairly innocent terms, although there is no salutation. It is a request to recover certain letters that you—you yourself, sir—might have on your person. Let me it read to you:
‘My dear Frend and Cusin Capt. MacNoten has Letters for me concerning our mutual Ventur. You may finde Him in Bristol Bath or London. Use all Intelligence as You requir. He will not expect you. Pls send Your Frend to ask Him for the Letters. Have a Care and Your Frend use all Care.’
“It seems intended to appear benign, yet it is poorly so. Frankly, to my mind it’s an order to murder you for the letters, or at least to have them from you at any cost. Here, read it for yourself. Do you know the hand?”
Edward glanced at the writing, a round hand with attempts at flourishes in the French mode.
A woman’s hand, he first thought, then his mind shifted to the existence of the letter itself. Damn! I searched in haste and missed it. Yet had I discovered it, dare I have given it to this man? Of course I would have—the letter would have proved the man a Jacobite and I his target, it would have saved me from arrest.
In spite of his anticipation that such correspondence existed, Edward was shocked, and tried to suppress his private concern that it very likely could have been Molly or Lydia who had given the order for his murder. A man may suspect much, and thus forearm himself, yet too often he reserves some hope that it might yet not be true—and thus the reality may still shock him to the core.
He shook his head. “I don’t recognize it,” he said as he tried to recover his wits. He refused to believe that Molly might have him murdered. Robbed, perhaps, if she were truly a rebel—or under O’Neal’s thumb!—but not murdered. He had a difficult time believing it of Lydia as well. He had known many backstabbers, man and woman: neither Molly nor Lydia fit his experience of them.
“Unfortunately, there’s no address. It appears to have had an outer folio for security. We have recovered some other correspondence from Lynch’s lodging. Several letters were addressed to Lawrence Unwin ‘for S. J. K.’ at the Black Swan tavern in Bristol, with inscriptions added later for delivery to Lynch. We don’t know who Mr. Unwin is, but S. J. K. is doubtless Sir John Knight, a Bristol Jacobite.”
“I don’t know these persons,” Edward said.
“I didn’t think you did. You are suddenly quite pale, sir, in spite of your saturnine tint.”
“Are we nearly finished here?” Edward demanded as he passed the letter back.
“A moment, sir, a moment. Let us inspect this billet of assassination. It’s not a well-educated hand, certainly not that of a secretary or scholar. Nor is the grammar exceptional, or perhaps it’s that of a foreign speaker who knows English only well enough. A native Irishman is the natural suspect, but it might be any foreigner, or even an English person of middling education.”
Edward was coldly silent for a few moments.
“In other words, it might be anyone,” he said eventually, argumentatively.
“Indeed? Maybe. As for Lynch, an incidental affray is most likely, although a curiously coincidental one, given that you were his target and he died very near your lodging, not to mention that you assume him—rightfully it seems—an assassin.” Edward’s face remained impassive. The interrogator shrugged his shoulders. “I care not if you killed him, unless there were an understanding between you. I know you’re a resourceful man, and not a fool either, except perhaps in the case of women. You’ve been busy since you returned aboard the Virginia Galley—a brave thing that, by the way, the chase you led from the French privateer. It put you once more in the news. I know what you must be thinking: what matter a spy in a place as small as Kinsale anyway?”
By now Edward was becoming less annoyed by the man’s interrogation, and more impressed. He had a finely practiced habit of attacking as one was off-guard, of feinting in one direction and attacking in another in the distraction, although it was not working as well as he probably would have liked with his current subject. Edward, having been interrogated before, knew that in all cases it was imperative that one tell as much of the truth as one could, letting it provide cover to any necessary lies, white or black. He wondered fleetingly if the man might not also be as skillful with a sword.
“I knew well the likely consequences when I brought the letters here, as it was my duty to do.”
“Yet I suspect you would have it both ways if you could—you would have your reward, and preserve the objects of your sympathy too. Is this why you didn’t turn the letters over to the authorities in Ireland? Admirable yet foolish, your philosophy. And impossible too, but then, your sort have a reputation for the impossible. Unfortunately, people forget how often bold men like you also fail when trying to impress Fortune. Don’t worry, Captain, we’re almost finished, you’ve no reason to worry or fear. In fact, my country cousin tells me you’re an honest man, and she’s a fair judge of the sex,” he said. “She’s far more worldly than she might seem, and makes her way through many circles.”
“Your cousin?”
“You escorted her flying coach into London, for which you have my thanks. An assassinator would have done nothing to draw so much attention, such as unnecessarily charge two highwaymen, I might add. I believe she’s taken out notices to further your venture, so impressed was she.”
One small mystery solved, Edward thought.
“I’m no longer a suspect then?”
“You never were. We committed you to the Tower to keep you safe for us, and for that matter, safe from Jacobites, and because you might have other information helpful to us. Sadly for you, your information came too late to us and was too vague. Three who knew of the conspiracy came to u
s with details of time, place, and traitor. Frankly, we’ve been too busy the past few days to deal with you.”
“Then I’m free to go?”
“You have a curious relationship with Fortune, Captain MacNaughton. Akin to a cat’s, I think. Particularly, you have a curious relationship, even if you do not recognize it, with parties involved in the attempted assassination and uprising, if only in a small way. As to your question, yes, you are free to go....”
“But?”
“But we prefer that you don’t.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Again, it has to do with your peculiar history and your relationship with Fortune. His Majesty would reward you, sir, and in such a way that you might use your fortunate affinity to help us find O’Neal and others like him. Money is scarce, but His Majesty strongly desires to reward you.”
“How?”
“What does it matter how? We’re in an emergency, sir: who wouldn’t help his king in time of need?”
Edward stood, filled his glass, and drank more wine. “You have a point.”
The gentleman picked up a large folio from his desk. “This is a naval commission for the duration of the emergency, for some few months perhaps, and longer if you please, assuming you please your superior officers. If you accept it, you’ll command one of His Majesty’s small vessels, a ketch I believe it is, the King Fisher, recently recaptured from the French.”
“A commission as a naval officer?” Edward asked.
Commissions were rarely granted to former accused pirates.
“You seem surprised, Captain MacNaughton, that we would make this offer. Don’t be. Yesterday, upon hearing of the loss of the vessel’s commander and lieutenant, it was suggested to me—if you must know, by my cousin—to suggest to His Majesty that you be given the commander’s place, to set a thief to catch a thief, so to speak. Please pardon the expression: I don’t accuse you of being a thief, other than of the Spaniard’s American property. And anyway, as the King Fisher is only a small vessel, you can’t do much damage with her if you are actually a Jacobite, nor will the crew let you. There is precedent, of course, for choosing a man like you. First, you once briefly held the King’s commission as a naval officer before your later notorious escapades, and there is further precedent: Captain Bartholomew Sharp, the pirate—you sailed with him once, didn’t you, and helped put down a rebellion in the Bermudas?” Edward nodded. “I thought so. Sharp was appointed to command of the Bonetta Sloop, although he never took it up.”
“That was a dozen years ago, but precedent is precedent, I suppose,” Edward remarked, wishing to return to the subject at hand. “How did the King Fisher lose her officers?”
“Her commander died the day the emergency was declared. Drunk, he choked on his vomit after having escorted a small vessel loaded with French Huguenot refugees, and, I might add, some excellent French brandy, Nantes, I believe. Her lieutenant died of some accident of disease some days earlier, but I do not recall the details. A lingering illness made worse by the sea, and perhaps by an excess of French brandy as well.”
Edward grunted.
“Just as I feel, Captain. If you accept this commission, you will take horse, escorted by a small troupe of His Majesty’s dragoons, to Dover and there take command. You’ll receive your formal orders there, but as far as I know they will be, for the present, to cruise close by the shore by day and night along the coast near Romney Marsh, to chase, board, and inspect all vessels, arresting or detaining anyone suspicious or who cannot properly account for himself. For that matter, you may arrest whom you please as you please. With luck—again, you have a peculiar relationship with Fortune and her hand in recent events—you may even find this O’Neal or some other of the few we have not yet captured. I place my trust in the skills you developed in your trade as a buccaneer, or, as you probably prefer to say, as a privateer. Men such as yourself can do good service for the Crown, in certain capacities.”
Edward, unsure if he had just been insulted, briefly reviewed the proposal. His mind, which had taken the interrogation largely in stride, as it would have in any crisis or emergency, was now settling into confusion. O’Neal alive? And he Molly’s betrothed? Was he then the man he had seen with her at the races, the man upon the hill when he arrived, the man upon the road when attacked? And Molly practically accused of being a spy, perhaps a murderer too? Even Lydia, too? And what of Jane, Deigle, and Lynch? And somehow Edward and the attempted assassination of the king were intertwined in all of this and them.
One thing I do know, he thought grimly: Everyone’s been playing me for a fool!
Still, Edward realized, he had accomplished three critical things during the interrogation: he had given no useful evidence against anyone but O’Neal; he now knew much of what his allies and enemies knew; and, most importantly to his venture, he had done nothing to brand himself as a Jacobite, in fact quite the opposite.
The gentleman, perhaps sensing some of the reasons for Edward’s hesitation, intruded on his thoughts.
“Captain MacNaughton, please accept my apology for the inconvenience of your brief confinement. And I apologize also for not having introduced myself: I am Matthew Prior, former secretary to the king, occasional poet, and, at present, interrogator of intelligencers. Here is your commission, you will accept it? It will surely lead to better things. I know you wish a privateering commission, but this naval commission is the King’s wish for your recent service to Him, and I can tell you as a man who knows, it is never a good practice to spurn a king who would promote you. You will accept it then?”
“Of course.”
“Good, sir, good. On your way then, and I’ll tell my country cousin you intend more good deeds. A sergeant and his party wait outside to escort you, and they have the keeping of your arms and baggage as well. I’ll forward your confiscated correspondence this afternoon. Good day to you, sir, God speed, and damnation to the Jacobites and the French.”
A day later, Edward was aboard the King Fisher, and soon at sea. The all-consuming nature of command kept his mind from dwelling on his the painful paradox around him. The ketch was well-suited to Edward’s mission, notwithstanding that she had seen a dozen years of hard service. One of a handful of ketches in the Royal Navy, the King Fisher was small, a mere sixty-one tons, seaworthy if not overly swift. Edward would have preferred she carried a few sweeps for rowing in calm airs, but he must make do with what he had. At least he had a stout crew, significantly better-disciplined than the buccaneer and privateer crews he had commanded in the past.
For several days and nights the ketch cruised near Romney Marsh, stopping and searching every vessel, and her captain applying a combination of liquor, interrogation, and elicitation to each captured vessel’s captain. Ashore, Edward spread money and liquor around, dangling hints of great reward to be had for the capture of traitors, and for that matter, of smugglers and anyone who sought to leave England secretly, for after all, might they not be traitors in disguise? He noted ironically to himself that here at Romney Marsh, Captain Sharp had reportedly departed for the Caribbean after being acquitted of piracy: he had stopped here to steal sheep for provisions.
Early into the fifth night, the King Fisher anchored off Romney Marsh and made a signal. An hour later Edward was rewarded with a whisper in his ear as a sharp-eared seaman directed his attention to an area between the ketch and the shore.
Edward saw nothing. But if he listened carefully he could just make out the creak of muffled oars and their quiet bite in the water.
Chapter 25
At sea whose loud waves cannot sleep,
But deep still calleth upon deep...
—Henry Vaughan, “Abel’s Blood,” 17th Century
The Irishman heard the loud voices at the Mermaid tavern when he was but a few thrusts short of climax. He paused at the noise, almost bolted, but then the moment struck him—the maid beneath him and her erect nipples, pairs of moist lips, and wide-eyed fear, the sharp silence and sharper
surge of adrenaline, himself hard, primed, loaded, waiting to discharge—and he thrust several times more until he spent himself within her body, his hand over her mouth as she struggled in fear to escape not his passion or seed, but the noose she realized might now await her only several yards away.
Finished, he leaped quickly from the bed and dressed, straining to hear the voices outside. Someone was searching the Mermaid, and now they had the tavern keeper.
Aye, and he’ll not be silent for long, thought Michael O’Neal.
“But you’ll be quiet now, my girl, won’t you, until I’m gone?” he asked the half-naked woman on the bed. “Sure now, I don’t want them to hang you for pleasuring a man you thought was only a free trader,” he said.
It was more than a week since the aborted attempt on King William’s life, and Michael had lain hidden most of the time in an alien capital in an alien land with treason upon his shoulders, a noose waiting to stretch his neck, and a thousand informers just waiting to tighten the hempen turns.
He had come ashore eighteen days before among the shoals and sands of the smuggler’s haven at Romney Marsh after a journey aboard a French corsair. He’d stayed overnight at Hunt’s isolated house, otherwise known as the Jacobite spy’s gateway, lodging, and post office on the Marsh, then walked to Rye. At the Mermaid tavern he’d met a Romish monk who escorted him to a safe house in London, confirmed the assassination attempt, and dressed him as a middling merchant. It was a route already followed by other assassins-to-be, many of them members of King James’s personal guard. Alone, Michael made his way to the Piazza at Covent Garden on a Monday evening, and there found his old Scottish commander, Sir George Barclay, a white handkerchief hanging from his pocket as a sign.
“I feared you’d never make it, lad,” the old Scotsman said. “What brings you—loyalty, revenge, or money?”
“The last two. And I’ll consider myself satisfied with little more than the latter of those.”
Fortune's Whelp (Fortune's Whelp Series Book 1) Page 31