‘Who are they?’ asked James.
Harry shrugged, unable to answer truthfully. The way Adams had described them, the men who’d led the mutiny sounded like swarthy cut-throats, the dregs of the fleet. By the cut of the hair and clothes he knew these men to be officers of petty warrant rank. To see them, amongst the steadiest men in the fleet, sitting in a captain’s barge surprised him.
‘They look something more than able seamen, Pender.’
Harry pushed the tiller to bring the cutter round, while Pender leapt forward to shift the sail, forcing James to duck as the boom swung over his head. They came round in a long sweep, fetching the barge’s wake. Harry had no intention of trying to overtake it, nor could he have done so with a crew rowing in such a well-disciplined way. They fairly shot across the anchorage, and as they came close to a 100-gun ship which Harry recognised as Queen Charlotte they raised their oars with handsome precision, gliding alongside the entry port with no risk to the paintwork.
‘They could be ferrying an admiral,’ said Harry, as he eased the tiller to take the way off the cutter. He could see other figures by the entry port, sailors in long winter waistcoats and breeches, waiting to bid their visitors welcome. There was even the odd red marine coat. But there were no officers present. They were on the quarterdeck, leaning over the rail, observing the scene and gesticulating to each other, some angrily, others with an air of resignation.
‘Let’s bear up for the Sally Port, Pender,’ said Harry. He was tempted to try to board Queen Charlotte, dying to find out what was taking place, to ask the host of questions engendered by what he’d seen. But there was no guarantee that the men who controlled the ship would let him.
Closer to the harbour, they sailed past the Spithead squadron, four sail-of-the-line including London and Marlborough. Slightly further inshore lay Sir Peter Parker’s flagship, Royal William. No hint of mutiny was apparent there and the flag that flew aloft wasn’t red, but the proper pennant for a Vice-Admiral of the Blue. Marines, pipe-clayed and smart, stood to attention at the entry port, and the quarterdeck had a good quota of officers with telescopes, all of which, at the same moment, seemed to be trained on Ludlow’s small craft.
Harry ignored them, his eyes ranging round the land defences. Every fort and redoubt, even the old medieval towers that guarded the narrows, seemed to be at full alert, with guns manned and run out, as though those ashore anticipated that the men of the fleet, having taken control, were about to invade their native land carrying the torch of revolution.
The crowd around the steps pressed forward as they landed, each one mouthing a different enquiry that turned the whole into an incomprehensible babble, making it difficult for the boatmen to come aboard. Eventually they managed to squeeze through the press of bodies, passing a numbered medallion to Harry bearing the inscription of their yard.
It was equally hard for Pender to find anyone interested in carrying their sea chests, once the locals found out that they were neither famous men nor mutineers. But he succeeded eventually, and with an injunction to mind their purses he led the way through the throng. The whole of the town seemed to be gathered along the Hard, the main thoroughfare that ran from the dockyard to the Gun Wharf, gossiping and creating rumours, all eager to witness the next round in the continuing fight between the government and the sailors’ revolt.
They called at the Fountain, the Dolphin, and the George without success. Likewise the Vine and the Blue Posts. Every hostelry seemed full, with officials, admirals, and government ministers, representatives of bankers and newspapers, not to mention the merely curious who’d come hot-foot from London to see for themselves what was happening. Harry started to curse the latter roundly until James reminded him that their sole reason for being here was exactly the same. And here, in such a very naval place, the name Harry Ludlow, used in the hope of gaining favour, counted for nothing.
It was Pender who solved the problem of accommodation, taking them away from the better parts of the town to the narrow streets and alleys in the bustling part of the town known as Portsmouth Point. They tried the Old Ship and, once more refused, they were ushered to a house in Love Lane, property of a Mistress Blackett. The lady knew Pender, emitting a high-pitched screech when she saw him. And judging by the way she enveloped him in her ample bosom she had a soft spot for the man. It was several minutes, during which many an endearment was exchanged, before Pender could introduce James and Harry.
‘Why, gents, you are most welcome,’ she said. ‘Though I doubt my ’umble ’ouse is grand enough to accommodate your like.’
The strong scent wafting out of the open door, and the sounds of singing and merriment from the parlour left both brothers in no doubt as to what sort of accommodation they were being offered.
‘We want somewhere private, Mary Blackett,’ said Pender. ‘And we’ll move ourselves the minute a space comes in any of the proper inns.’
Mary Blackett curtsied, an act which spread her already voluminous skirts beyond the confines of the doorway. ‘You shall be favoured, sirs, with my private quarters, which is quiet enough for a grievin’ nun. But should you require a little hullabaloo, then a mere knock on the wainscoting will suffice.’
Pender looked round at the glum faces of the Ludlow brothers, responding himself with a wide grin, as if to say that if they weren’t in their element, he was.
‘Perfection it ain’t, I’ll grant you. But I don’t doubt if they’d had the like in Nazareth, Joseph would not have turned it down. And if you’re looking for better quality in the brothel line, your honour, this one will be fuller than the Fountain, which means that anyone staying here, or at the George, and is in possession of an appetite will be coming this way. Why, I’d bet you now that the folks you hear revelling know more about what’s going on in the fleet than the First Lord himself. Besides, it’s this or back to Buckler’s Hard.’
‘Lead on, Pender,’ said Harry, giving James a hearty shove. As they made their way through the door neither man observed that they were being watched, nor took any notice of the thickset fellow in the heavy black coat and large round hat who’d managed to follow them all the way from the Fountain without being seen.
‘Here, lad,’ he called to a scruffy urchin, holding out a coin. The boy had looked up fearfully when he heard the gruff voice, but the lure of the sixpence was greater than his alarm. ‘Hop over to Mistress Blackett’s and ask of her if she’s really got the famous privateer captain Harry Ludlow under her gables. I’ll be at the Fountain. Find out yea or nay, and this here coin will be yours.’
The boy nodded and ran off, skirting round the back of the house to Mistress Blackett’s kitchen, while his benefactor turned back towards the shore, mentally composing the note he would send to London, to find out if the warrant on Harry Ludlow was still in force.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HARRY and James couldn’t rest at Mistress Blackett’s, though they did have a glass of port, and a bit of conversation for decency’s sake, which naturally included Pender. The lady herself was afire with both delight and curiosity, quizzing them about how they came to be in the town. That led to some evasive answers, and in the article of wealth taken at sea one downright lie, though the knowledge of having been in battle was hard to contain, and she’d picked up where Bucephalas was berthed outside her own front door. A slightly dissonant note was struck when she alluded to the services she could provide: Harry’s response was so sharp in declining that it bordered on the very impertinent. But James, ever adept with the opposite sex, poured a little emollient flattery on to their hostess’s surprise.
The whole of Portsmouth was gripped with the fever of the fleet mutiny and the Ludlows were no exception, catching very easily the mood that comes with being at the centre of great events. Even James, normally very deliberate in his progress, was eager to return to the Fountain to pick up on the latest gossip. Pender was unwilling to over-expose himself in the very heart of his home town. He’d been absent for five years, but the wa
rrant for arrest that had made him run to the King’s navy might well still be in force.
But he had his own visits to make, and he was just as curious as the men who employed him. Though he didn’t say so to Harry Ludlow, he knew that he could find out a lot more about what was happening to the fleet in the hovels and back streets than ever they would find out in an oak-panelled taproom. So they parted company at the door, with Pender taking to alleyways so narrow no man could pass another, while Harry and James went back to the more open areas around where the Point looked over the huge anchorage. The streets around the wharves and dockyard were crammed, people busy exchanging rumour and speculation. The Fountain itself, with the proprietor’s servants ensuring that only persons of a certain quality were admitted, seemed a haven of peace, even though the taproom was full of serving officers, a number of whom seemed to wear a particular expression; that of men who saw their hard-won livelihoods disappearing before their eyes.
Harry recognised several faces, but declined to acknowledge the questioning looks that were aimed in his direction. The Ludlow brothers secured a table that gave them a good view of both the reception rooms and the hallway, then settled down over a steaming pot of coffee to await events. Harry knew, and James surmised, that it wouldn’t be long before some of the naval acquaintances, ever eager to trade information, would make their way to the table.
‘I say Culloden, Peggy, my girl.’ The man’s voice rose over the buzz of conversation, this accompanied by an emphatic thump on his own table, one that rattled the crockery and brought about a temporary cessation in everyone else’s conversation. The act failed to startle the good-looking if rather pale young woman who sat opposite him. She was young, slightly over-dressed, and wearing too much face powder in an attempt to increase her years. But she was clearly attuned to her companion’s temperament, since the slightly bored expression on her face remained unchanged. That is, until she realised that everyone in the room was looking at her.
Her companion – if he even noticed – wasn’t bothered. A big man, with high colouring in a handsome countenance, he had a mass of wavy hair, snow white now, though it had clearly once been blond judging by the hint of yellow at the very tips. He continued in the same vein, his intemperate tone now magnified by the silence.
‘And that to any rascal who even dreams of disobedience. Troubridge strung up a round five of the miscreants within a fortnight of their insurrection. The yardarm, girl, is the place for a mutineer, not the comfort of a quiet chat in the commanding admiral’s cabin.’
‘Jack Willet Payne,’ said Harry softly, as James leant forward with an enquiring look. ‘Always was of a full-blooded hue. A ladies’ man, I gather, even as a shaver. Never served with him myself, but one midshipman who did said that the discomfort alluded to by his surname failed to identify the proper seat of unease.’
‘How many in this room have you served with?’ asked James, smiling.
Harry shrugged. ‘One or two.’
‘Judging by the number of knowing looks we received when we came in, that’s an understatement.’
‘I’ve met more, of course. A sailor’s chief pleasure is ship-visiting when at anchor, that is if you exclude shore taverns and bawdy houses. Many of the men here were mids or junior officers when I was in the service, so I’ve dined or drank with them. I’ve even traded blows with a couple who impugned the honour of my ship.’
‘Well, since we have come to glean the state of affairs, would it not be a good idea to corner one?’
Harry lifted his cup, the smile on his face rather forced. ‘When I have finished this.’
James knew very well why Harry was reluctant. For a man who normally avoided his naval contemporaries, just being here, in Portsmouth, was a strain. The idea that he might approach one of them, rather than the other way round, was making him decidedly uncomfortable. So much so that James guessed his brother was beginning to regret the impulse that had brought them here.
‘Have more than one cup if you wish, brother. I’m sure that they are as curious as we are, and given the rumours that are flying about regarding Jacobins and stockjobbery, some may even see sinister purpose in our presence. I doubt you’ll drain a second before we are accosted.’
James proved correct. Harry had barely begun to refill his cup when a captain rose at the other side of the room and, watched covertly by three or four others, crossed to speak to them. He was a portly man, his face fleshy and weather-beaten, with a protruding stomach that showed a great deal of his white waistcoat. Harry stiffened, and concentrated on his pouring so much that the officer was upon them for several seconds before he looked up. The feigned surprise he adopted was as transparent as gossamer.
‘Griffiths, is it not?’
‘Harry,’ he replied, his round face looking perplexed.
‘James,’ he said, definitely flustered, ‘allow me to name to you Captain Edward Griffiths.’
‘It used to be that you knew me well enough to call me Ned. Does a civilian coat change that?’
Harry shot to his feet, catching the table and spilling into his saucer some of the coffee he’d just poured, acting for all the world like a nervous youth in the presence of a stern uncle.
‘Of course, Ned,’ he said, putting out his hand. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘So good that you walked straight past me when you came into the room.’
‘It’s been a long time, has it not? And you have changed a bit.’ He looked down at Griffiths’s protruding stomach. ‘You have an air of prosperity that I don’t recall. It suits you, as well.’
‘A little flesh on the jowls, I grant you, Harry. But have I changed so much that you failed to know me?’
‘Please join us,’ said James, as he saw his brother flush slightly. Harry didn’t like being checked, even if it was justified, and was as likely to reply to that remark with an insult as an apology.
He waved to a servant to fetch a chair as he stood himself, that followed by a slight bow to Griffiths.
‘I’m happy to make your acquaintance, sir. I fear my brother is often too ashamed of me to introduce to his old naval friends.’
The word ashamed broke the mutual stare between the two men, as Harry turned to refute it, and Griffiths looked for any possible cause.
‘I am such a lubber,’ James continued smoothly, ‘that my own father would turn in his grave to see it.’
Griffiths glanced from one to the other, as if checking the family likeness. It was there of course, though James had none of Harry’s heavier build, being slim enough to look elegant rather than muscular. But the fair hair was of the same colour and texture, while the penetrating blue eyes spoke of a blood tie so strong that one face being ruddy while the other was smooth was irrelevant.
‘I served as a volunteer under your father, sir. It was my first floating home. I remember him as being exceeding kind to me. More so than he was to his own flesh and blood, since he stretched Harry over a gun and birched him more times than I care to remember.’
‘It is my misfortune,’ James replied evenly, ‘that I did not serve with him, though I dare say the nation has good cause to be very thankful.’
‘Take my hand, Ned,’ said Harry softly, ‘and with it my apology.’
‘Readily,’ Griffiths replied, grasping Harry’s outstretched arm just below the elbow to pull him closer. ‘Though I fear I cannot take up the invitation to join you. I have another officer, a guest, at my table.’
‘Then let him come too, sir,’ said James, before Harry could speak. ‘Indeed, if you name him, I will be happy to invite him personally.’
‘Patton, Captain Philip Patton. I dare say he has his eyes on my back at this very moment.’
‘You are more interesting than that, sir. Every sailor in the room, with the exception of that loud-mouthed hangman with the trollop, has his eyes on your back.’
‘Sit down,’ said Harry, quickly, as he observed just how right his brother was. James had already left, easing hi
s way through the tables to where Griffiths’s companion sat, an empty port bottle before him. His arrival was greeted with a glacial stare.
‘Captain Patton?’ The sailor nodded while he bowed. ‘I wonder if you would care to join my brother and me. He and Captain Griffiths are old shipmates, and will bore each other rigid with nostalgia if left to their own devices.’
Patton grinned instantly, which changed his rather stern countenance dramatically. He was good-looking, with dark hair and eyebrows. The crows’ feet now very evident at the corners of his eyes indicated a readiness to smile.
‘With only an empty bottle before me, and a vacant chair, how can I refuse?’
‘With difficulty, sir,’ replied James, returning the smile.
‘But I must warn you that I too have served with Griffiths, so I may only compound the boredom.’
James generally didn’t have much time for naval officers, finding them too stiff for his taste, too ready to take offence. But this Patton was inducing a quite different feeling, mostly communicated by the directness of both his observation and his look, which was steady and held James Ludlow’s eyes without the slightest trace of dissimulation. Quick, in the way of all artists, to decide on a subject’s abiding trait, he reckoned Patton to be the kind of man much sought after by his contemporaries. As a commander he was no doubt adored by his men, as well as being very probably a fellow with the wit to chastise his superiors without forfeiting their regard. In fact he seemed to be that exceedingly rare creature, the ideal of the naval officer.
‘Are you offended by indiscreet yawning, sir?’ asked James, grinning.
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