In this case it was a fellow in the guise of a recently arrived French émigré officer who claimed he’d been at the right-hand side of the terror of the Italians, a young general called Bonaparte. What he offered Cantwell, for the right sum in gold, was the treasures of half the monasteries of the Po Valley, religious artifacts of precious metal and stones beyond price.
‘And he supplied samples, too. Jewelled crucifixes and the like, studded with gems, as well as scraps from illuminated manuscripts.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘Cantwell’s been bleating from his own little bit of Newgate.’
‘He’s in gaol!’
‘Man can’t meet his obligations,’ Bullen replied testily, ‘where else is he to reside? He’s telling all and sundry how he’s been robbed, and that if the likes of my good self would care to chase the miscreants, instead of innocent victims like himself, then he could satisfy every creditor he has.’
Bullen sniffed, finished his tankard of port, and lifted the third empty bottle. James, determined to extract more for the price of another, just stared back at him. Yet his mind was working on a different level. He felt a touch of elation mixed with guilt as he recalled that due to a disagreement he’d moved his own funds to the safer vaults of Baring’s Bank. And the third thought mixed in with that was less welcome, being the nature of those American Treasury bonds.
He’d advised caution on Harry when his brother had explained they were only redeemable at source, three thousand miles away from home. That was significant enough to begin with. But with this news it took on the proportions of a disaster.
Bullen picked up the bottle and tipped it, even though he knew it was empty, a look of innocent surprise on his square face.
‘When the rumour got out that he was in difficulties he was doomed. Every depositor was at the door a-hammering to get their monies out. No bank can stand that, regardless of how well it’s run.’ Bullen shook his head at the folly of his fellow humans. ‘Which is why, sir, I never trust my own humble stipend to their greedy hands. I’ve collared too many bankers in my time to trust the breed. And I know, whatever they say, that they has monies tucked away, even if they are in gaol. Just let the turmoil subside, then they settle their pressing debts, and walk off to a life of ease and comfort.’
‘Another bottle?’ said James. He suspected that Bullen had invented the last statement, but necessity meant he’d have to follow it up, and that was something that could not be achieved without the means to lubricate the under-sheriff’s throat.
‘I don’t know that I should, your honour,’ Bullen replied, this said in the way that people employ when they fully expect their feeble protest to be ignored.
James rang the bell, then walked on to the landing to call down. Marsh was still outside the door, his pock-marked face set in a scowl that looked habitual.
‘You’re a thief-taker, I’m told.’
‘I am that,’ Marsh replied, in a voice that exactly matched the face, low in the throat, rumbling, and very unfriendly.
‘Who found it necessary to follow me last night after I came ashore?’
‘Had to make sure I could direct Mr Bullen to the right abode, didn’t I.’
James was thinking how amusing it would be to put Villiers on to this fellow’s tail, Marsh’s reaction adding spice to the image, when Ben Harper arrived with the fresh port bottle. The way the boy looked at Marsh was singular indeed.
‘Is this the man who stole my brother-in-law’s letter?’
‘Can’t be sure, your honour,’ Ben replied, unconvincingly.
‘What are you afraid of?’
‘He’s not afraid of anything,’ Marsh growled.
Ben took the opportunity to rush back down the stairs, leaving James staring malevolently at the thief-taker. ‘What have you said to frighten the boy?’
Marsh gave him what passed for a smile. ‘Not a thing, mate.’
‘You have a letter belonging to me,’ said James, holding out his hand.
Marsh looked at the bottle. ‘Best not keep Mr Bullen waiting for his port. A lack of a drink makes him ten times as fierce.’
There was little point in the staring contest that followed, so James re-entered the room and handed Bullen his port. His loquaciousness grew ten-fold, and while he was informative about Cantwell and his troubles he felt the need to range far and wide regarding the state of the nation. James was treated to chapter and verse about the troubled climate of public finance, the unpopularity of taxes and paper money, a weariness with the war and the way it was affecting prosperity, and finally the opinion that every mutineer in the fleet who didn’t kiss the deck in abject supplication should be strung up from the nearest yardarm.
‘For we are a seafaring nation, Mr Ludlow. And that is as plain a fact as the nose on your face. Those devils can be replaced to a man, and that by honest Englishmen who could learn to sail their vessels in no more than a long hour. Two days of hard practice, sir, and they’d be up the Goulet burning every French ship that threatened these shores.’
James tried to keep him to the subject of Cantwell, and any possible hidden monies, but failed. And as he consumed more port, it became even harder. Bullen was drunk, and James suspected that he and Marsh had consumed a certain amount of ale before coming on. Finally he got back to the subject for which he’d called, and the news that Harry Ludlow was back at sea and not waiting somewhere, so full of remorse for a life ill-spent that he was begging to be arrested, brought forth the true nature of the sheriff’s man.
‘Am I being trifled with, sir?’ he demanded, pulling a writ from his pocket and waving it under James’s nose. ‘Do you seek to ply me with port while your damned brother makes a getaway?’
‘He’s been at sea these last two days, Mr Bullen. And he set sail thinking, indeed knowing, he was still a wealthy man.’
‘Pride before a fall, sir. Which is what I see all the time.’ Bullen tried to look cunning, but being inebriated looked like a low comedian. ‘And where, pray, will he make his landfall when he returns?’
‘I’ve no idea, Mr Bullen,’ said James standing up. ‘And what makes you think for an instant that if I knew I would tell you?’
Bullen was on his feet suddenly, swaying slightly, his staff of office waving to and fro under James’s nose. ‘Don’t attempt liberties with the law, sir, or you may find yourself in a place of confinement, your only companions rats and the steady drip of water from the moss-covered walls.’
James responded with a yawn. ‘One cannot be confined for silence, Mr Tipstaff, nor terrified by the threats of an overripe imagination. My brother is not here, I do not know where he is, nor when he will come back. And since you have no business with me, I will bid you good day, sir.’
Bullen looked set to continue the argument, his countenance exceedingly belligerent, which forced James to administer the coup de grâce.
‘And since I have been robbed myself, by that villain on the landing who calls himself a thief-taker, I feel disinclined to indulge your bad habits. If you refuse to depart I will get the owner of this establishment to present you with a bill for the wine you’ve consumed.’
‘Damn you, sir, for a rogue.’
‘What a pleasure it would be, should you fail to satisfy the bill, to see one of your own type on your heels, waving a writ for an unpaid debt under your nose.’
Bullen’s eyes expanded then, but even full of drink he could reason that to argue further was futile. He spun on his heel and barged out of the door, past a confused Marsh, stomping down the stairs, shouting at the top of his voice about gents now being paupers soon. He stopped at the foot to deliver his valedictory threat.
‘I will not be gainsaid, not by you or any other thieving rascal. Happen one day the name I’ll be after is James Ludlow, not Harry, and if that be the case, rest assured I’ll not be gentle when I take hold of your collar. Come along, Marsh. If you want to earn your fee, there’s work to be done.’
James sat
down as soon as he was alone, deflated more by what Bullen had said about Cantwell than the useless, drunken threats, and running over the consequences of this loss. Half that money traded in America belonged to the crew, and now it seemed that Harry lacked the means to repay them. And very likely, as a condition of his licence to sail as a privateer, there was a percentage of the profits from the voyage due to the government.
The soft cough at the door had to be repeated several times before he noticed. Lifting his head, he saw Ben in the doorway, with fine blond hair and long, soft lashes making him look almost theatrically sheepish.
‘Saving your presence, your honour, Mistress Blackett sent me to see that you was all right, what with that man shouting all them things.’
‘All right?’ James responded, with a sour laugh. ‘No, Ben, I’m not. And neither are you. Why did you lie just now?’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the boy bleated, ‘but you should have heard what he threatened me with. Said he could get me transported by a flick of his little finger.’
‘You lost a letter, Ben. My brother, it seems, has lost a fortune. Tell me, what was Lord Drumdryan’s mood when he gave you the note for my brother?’
‘High,’ Ben replied, ‘like he was angry about something.’
‘Was he? Then I think I now know what his letter contained.’ James shook his head slowly. ‘I need to find him.’
‘He’s in London, your honour.’
‘Is he, Ben? Then why no word from him? I’ve written, clearly in ignorance of how matters stand, yet he hasn’t replied, and this from a man who sent a special messenger by horse, so acute was the need to warn us. Wherever he is, he cannot be in London or I would have heard from him by now.’
‘That’s a fact.’
‘I want you to rent a horse, Ben.’
‘Sir.’
‘Ride back to London, find out where Lord Drumdryan is, then either get him to come to me, or I will go to him. But find out where he is and ride back and tell me.’
‘Can I look in on Lightning, your honour?’
‘Who?’
‘My own horse, who’s lame at Hindhead, eating grass paid for by Lord Drumdryan’s guinea.’
James was glaring at the boy, who clearly had no idea of the enormity of what had happened in the past couple of days. But then few did, and as he sat down to write an updated missive to his brother-in-law, exposed to such a crestfallen face, he couldn’t help but relent.
‘You may stop for a minute, Ben. But no more.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
HARRY slept for four hours with Bucephalas running in a wallowing, lubberly fashion before the dying breaths of the westerly wind. Pender shook him gently awake as soon as the situation became critical. Getting from his cabin to the deck took an age. His limbs had stiffened and his wounds ached even more than they had in daylight. The sky had cleared completely as night fell, and the breeze, still light, shifted northerly. It was the worst thing imaginable; even though there wasn’t much of a moon the sky was full of stars, and on a relatively calm sea the reflection made hiding from Tressoir impossible. And given the ship’s condition there was no way of outsailing the Frenchman. The temporary rudder was in place, but with the Lothian plainly visible no more than two miles distant, it only seemed to prolong the agony.
‘Time to lighten the ship,’ said Harry, looking along a deck lined with bodies that had yet to be sewn in canvas. The wounded were on the forecastle, most asleep, but some groaning in agony. ‘If we can spare the men, I’d like to bury the dead.’
‘Them that can sit up, can sew,’ Pender replied.
The guns, whole and in pieces, were first to go over the side. With no yardarms to speak of, and lacking time to rig a temporary davit, they had to be eased through the damaged bulwarks on a rope to the capstan, only released when they were below the curve of the hull. There was an unseen bonus in this; without splashes the enemy would not know what they were about. More men were down below, their first task to smash in the water butts so that the pumps could jet the contents over the side. Once the guns were gone the shot followed, manhandled in a chain from the holds below to the nearest lee gunport, then barrels of everything from salt beef to iron nails, each one setting up a small phosphorescent splash as it went over the side.
Harry made adjustments to the sails that helped, allowing him to stay ahead of Tressoir for an extra hour or two. But the Frenchman was still gaining, and without really striving, judging by the sails he had aloft. Racking his brains, Harry could think of no way to evade capture, the only possibility, a slim one, being to take to the boats in the hope that their pursuer would be satisfied with the ship. Even then, they would have to split up, since a cutter, or a launch boasting only a single sail, would soon find themselves overhauled by a determined East Indiaman. The jolly boat, if they used it, would have to be towed.
Timing was the key. If he could lash off the wheel to keep Bucephalas running on while he got the boats away on a different course, Tressoir would, he reckoned, go after the ship. But to sail south, on the wind and the tide, would only land them back in the great bight of the Normandy coast, a place where they could be hemmed in so comprehensively that only going ashore, and then abandoning the wounded, would ensure escape. Going north, tacking or wearing to make any headway, and they’d be just as vulnerable. Only a gap so great as to make pursuit questionable would stop the Frenchman from trying to take them too.
The dead were sewn in their sacks, roundshot at their feet, the final thread of each shroud running through their noses to ensure they were truly gone. Of necessity there was little ceremony attending their disposal; Harry said a collective prayer from memory as they were slid over the side. Having supervised that, a very subdued Pender came aft.
‘Boats are alongside, Captain, and I’ve got a sling rigged that will be able to take the stretchers.’
‘Good. Anyone who can manage without one must make himself as comfortable as he can in the boats. Try to get those that can’t into the jolly boat. Sails might not be enough. We may have to row hard, and we’ll never manage that with half a dozen stretchers laid across the thwarts.’
‘What are the odds, Capt’n?’ asked Pender.
Harry replied knowing it was a valid point. If taking the wounded jeopardised the rest they should be left. Tressoir had shown no signs of an excessively bloodthirsty nature, and would probably take good care of them. But they were his crew, and he was damned if he was going to lose them. Giving up his ship was bad enough, without handing over good men, some of whom he sailed with from the very beginning of the war.
‘He won’t come after us until he’s taken the ship, perhaps not then if we can put some distance between us.’ He slapped the ship’s timbers hard, which sent a jarring, almost welcome pain across his back. ‘I’m sure this is what he’s after.’
Pender looked at him for several seconds. ‘And what about you?’
‘I’ll survive, Pender, never you fear. I have to, since I intend to take Bucephalas back from the bastard.’
The smile was no more than starlight on white teeth, but it cheered Harry to see it, just as much as the words that followed.
‘Then I pity the poor sod. He don’t know just how much trouble he’s in.’
Harry began to laugh, but the pain caused by his heaving chest soon put an end to that. Pender was gone, shouting out the orders to get ready to abandon ship, exchanging a glare with Derouac as they passed each other. The steward looked even more like his nickname in this light, and he hunched his shoulder as he approached Harry, making himself look even smaller.
‘My captain is not up to being shifted into a boat.’
‘He’ll be safer there.’
‘With respect,’ Derouac replied, hunching even more and rubbing his hands in supplication, ‘I cannot agree. The wounds he has will prove deadly if he is not kept in a stable condition. And since he is my responsibility, I take leave to ask that I be allowed to decide.’
‘Th
e ship may sink.’
‘My service in the cabin, sir, has not stopped me from a knowledge of pumping. The hull, I suspect, is sound.’
‘Very well. Tressoir will take the ship. Just hope that he does not wish to revenge himself on Captain Illingworth for our attack.’
‘You forget, sir, that I have met him. Though I have not had the honour to serve him even a simple meal, I suspect him to be a gentleman.’
‘Very well, you may tell Pender.’
‘If you will permit, Captain Ludlow,’ said Derouac, pulling back his shoulders, ‘I would prefer you to do that.’
Harry held the wheel in his good hand, his heart heavy as he contemplated what he must do. The temptation to sink the ship so that Tressoir couldn’t take possession was hard to resist. It wouldn’t serve, since she was the only chance of freedom for the crew, but to give her up to another pair of hands was hard, and in his mind he recalled every action he had taken her into, remembering how the way she handled had confounded his enemies more often than any tactical skill he possessed.
‘You should be here now, James,’ he said to himself, looking around at what damage he could see, ‘to draw this.’
‘Boats loaded, Capt’n,’ called Pender. ‘I put the chest in the cutter, underneath a stretcher.’
‘Illingworth?’
‘Frog-spawn has had him taken to your cabin.’
‘Good,’ Harry said. The lump in his throat made his voice sound strange. ‘Now I need you to help me lash off the wheel.’
Pender came a few feet further aft to help, then taking Harry’s arm led him to the side. There the sling that had been used for the stretchers awaited him, the last load. It was an ignominious way to depart, but with only one good arm he had no choice. The three men who’d stayed aboard for the purpose, Pender, Jubilee, and Tom Biggins, hoisted him out over the black water, and lowered him gently into the bobbing cutter. As soon as he was by the tiller, Pender and his party joined.
Game of Bones Page 21