Villiers rapped his cane on the roof of the coach. ‘Make for the Chequers. That is where the scum have foregathered in the past.’
‘I wonder,’ said Harry, ‘if my servant and I could alight here?’
‘Why?’ Villiers replied, looking out into the busy streets of the town that had grown up around the yellowing outer wall of the dockyard.
‘Secrecy,’ Harry answered, trying to imbue the word with as much drama as he could muster. ‘If, as you say, you are known, then my arriving in the same coach will alert those men to our shared mission. Go to the Chequers by all means, but do not attempt to stay there. Leave that to me.’
It was too easy. That was obvious by the glow in Villiers’s eyes. ‘That is a clever touch, Captain Ludlow. I see we think as one. By merely being here, I may flush them out. Force them to break cover.’
‘While I pursue the running fox. Take a room at the Flagstaff, if not there then the Tudor Arms. It would be best if we communicate through my servant, rather than meet face to face.’
The speed with which that glow died, to be replaced by a look of petulance, was startling, even if it was becoming familiar. It was the look of a particularly indulged child.
‘Am I to do nothing, then?’
‘You will have a purpose, in carrying to Admiral Buckner that letter from your uncle.’
Pitt had sent written instructions to old ‘Papa’ Buckner, the admiral at the Nore, to provide his nephew with a craft suitable to his needs – a most nebulous request, since the purpose wasn’t stated. This had allowed Harry to outline the vessel he required for his own designs, as well as encouraging Villiers in his desire not to tell Buckner face to face what it was for; this on the grounds, so dear to the agent’s heart, that no one, even a vice-admiral of the white, could be trusted.
Villiers put his hand inside his cloak and fingered the letter, which he carried next to his heart, his expression now full of concern. Having been exposed to a flag officer, one who’d treated him with disdain, the prospect of bearding another was clearly worrying.
‘I do hope the old man will not be difficult, like Sir Peter Parker.’
‘Why should he be? Buckner has ships in abundance. What he lacks is the men to sail them. You will have the pleasure of telling him that in such an area, George Villiers, without so much as a day’s sea service, is more favoured. If there’s a blush going it will be on his face, not yours.’
The appeal to his vanity, as it had since they’d met outside Walmer Castle, didn’t fail. His thin chest puffed out slightly, shaking the drop of clear fluid that seemed so much part of his nose.
‘I need only, of course, remind him of who I am.’
Harry patted Villiers on the arm, aware that he would have to outline the arguments this young man could use, without in any way lecturing him on the subject.
‘He’d be a fool to take liberties with a man with your impeccable connections. I would not wish you to be rude to such a distinguished officer, but an allusion to the removal of his present posting may work wonders. Serving officers are prone to forget who appoints the First Lord of the Admiralty. Spencer has enough on his plate without getting into a scrape with your uncle. You must tell him you require a sloop with decent armament, that is not some hog in need of repair, and you must be firm.’
The cane hit the roof again, the command to stop instantly obeyed. ‘Pender, Flowers, get our dunnage off the roof.’
‘Aye, aye, Capt’n.’
Harry opened the door to alight as both men jumped down. Villiers grabbed him by his good arm to restrain him. ‘How shall we communicate?’
‘I told you. Through Pender. And if we need to meet he will have the details of somewhere secure. A day or two here should suffice, then when my crew arrive we can take ship to look at matters elsewhere.’
Villiers stuck out his hand, his chestnut-coloured eyes wide and excited. ‘Good luck, Captain Ludlow.’
‘Thank you,’ Harry replied, the relief he felt at getting away from Villiers passing for a shared enthusiasm. Moving stiffly, he eased his arm out from the sling and stuffed it in his pocket, feeling that it would make him too conspicuous.
‘Where to, your honour?’ Pender asked, having heaved Harry’s sea-chest on to his shoulders.
‘Anywhere,’ Harry replied in a soft weary voice, well covered by Villiers’s cane banging on the coach roof to restart it. ‘Just get me away from that man.’
Pender had a wicked look in his eye as he whispered his response. ‘Now is that the way to talk about your new friend?’
‘I know my luck hasn’t been of the best lately, Pender, but do you not think this must be the nadir of my fortunes?’
‘I’ll answer that,’ said Pender, more seriously, ‘when you get round to telling me what we’re about.’
Having not been separated from George Villiers since the meeting with Pitt, Harry’d had no chance to inform Pender, or to test the sudden inspiration that had assailed him outside Walmer Castle against that most necessary benchmark, a Devil’s advocate. Pender, with Flowers ahead clearing a path, played that part to perfection, forcing Harry to think hard about how he was going to turn what was at best a sliver of opportunity into something that would meet his objective.
‘There’s not a soul born, Capt’n, who could take what you’ve got now and turn it into something useful. Long shots is one thing. And how the hell you’re going to manage to be off the Vire Estuary when the May tide is right beats me.’
Like most ideas, it had seemed easier when inspiration had struck than it did subsequently examined. But there was one thing Harry Ludlow was sure of. He had no means at present of getting a ship, and without that he was hamstrung. Even Pender agreed with that.
‘Let Villiers do that one thing, Pender, and suddenly the odds will be halved.’
‘Move over, there!’
The shout had cleared the street. Deep in thought and conversation, they’d paid scant attention to the increasing noise of music being played behind them. Flowers had dropped back when he heard, so that the man who uttered the warning found himself faced with a trio blocking his route.
‘Are you deaf, you swabs?!’
Flowers was well known for liking a scrap, and since he was only carrying a ditty-bag, he stepped forward in challenge. The man he faced, in striped trousers and a leather waistcoat, was a sailor to his fingertips. Wiry but strong, his face was weatherbeaten from years at sea, the pigtail long and intricate, sewn with coloured threads that told all who knew the navy that here was a first-rate topman.
‘You mind your lip,’ said Flowers, his voice raised to be heard over the sound of the following band.
The topman put his hands on his hips. ‘That’s rich, mate. You can’t hardly watch yours since it seems to be somewhere under your ear.’
Harry grabbed Flowers before he could throw a punch, dragging him to one side to join Pender. There was an exchange of curses that concluded when the topman told them why they were being ordered to clear the route. ‘It don’t do to get in the way of the President of the Nore Delegates, mates. You might find yourself being trampled over.’
‘Happen I’d do the tramplin’, friend,’ spat Flowers.
The topman just laughed, then hurried on to clear away any other recalcitrant folk. Pender put the sea-chest down and stood on it, so he could get a better view. Harry put one foot on it and eased his good shoulder on to the wall behind him. From that vantage point they had a good view of the approaching procession, a slightly military affair in that one man led from the front, while ranks of his companions, many of them with red and pink ribbons sewn into their hats, followed along.
The leader, a dark-complexioned fellow, with heavy black eyebrows, looked straight ahead, acknowledging neither the cheers or insults with which he was assailed. Not so his consorts, who threatened to lash out at anyone who had the temerity to disparage their cause. This was the mutiny in all its glory, and looking into the eyes of the men leading it, Harry had th
at first inkling of a darker purpose than anything he’d seen in the Channel Fleet.
‘Who’s that, mate?’ Pender asked a man beneath him.
The look he got for that question was one that might have been bestowed on a village idiot, or a man from the moon.
‘Where you been, mate, with your head up your arse? That there is the high and mighty President Richard Parker.’
‘He’s not an admiral, is he?’ asked Pender. ‘Because he shares a last name with one or two.’
‘No, mate. But that’s not to say he don’t carry on like one. They’ve been outside the Commissioner’s house all morning, demanding this, that and the other from old Buckner.’ A hollow unpleasant laugh followed. ‘Not that it’s done them a rate of good, the bastard refused to meet with them.’
‘President Parker,’ said Harry, softly.
‘President, my backside,’ said the local man. ‘He’s nothing but a jumped-up nobody. Hasn’t been here more’n a few weeks, the cocky bastard.’
The parade passed, and Harry, Pender, and Flowers fell in alongside their talkative informant. They heard that Parker had once been a midshipman, disrated for insubordination; after years of trying and failing to make a crust he had been taken up for debt, using the twenty-guinea bounty he received on joining to pay that off.
‘You don’t like him?’ Harry asked.
‘No I don’t. An’ I’ll tell you why. You ain’t got to look too far to see soldiers in this town. Nor the nose of a hound to smell. There’s going to be trouble, and when it goes off, who’s to say those red-coated swine will know who to shoot at, and who to leave alone?’
‘How do you know so much about Parker?’
‘He’s the talk of the place. I’m surprised they don’t post a bulletin when he goes for a piss.’
Judging by the looks and growls that had greeted Parker, and were even now following in his wake, neither he nor the mutiny was popular, in stark contrast to the way the inhabitants of Portsmouth had universally supported the tars. His informant was still talking, cursing and swearing as he castigated President Parker for getting above himself.
‘Did you see the look in his eye as he went past? Like he was talking to bloody God.’
‘Will they be going to the Chequers?’
‘They will. There to drink themselves into more bravado, like working out one or two other demands to give to “Papa” Buckner.’
‘Let’s step out a bit,’ said Harry, and the trio did so, leaving their source, still mouthing imprecations, behind them.
Getting a room at the Chequers proved simple. Though the seamen were using it as shore headquarters, none actually stayed there, instead going back to their ships each night. In the main taproom someone had set up a long table, one side occupied by some dozen men, clearly the delegates. Richard Parker sat at the centre, while the other side of the table was clear.
‘Looks like the Last Supper to me,’ said Pender.
‘An unfortunate reference,’ Harry replied. ‘Especially for the man in the middle. All we need to spot is Judas.’
Flowers spotted the man he’d argued with amongst the crowd close to the table, which produced a snarl. ‘They’re an ugly bunch, an’ no error.’
‘I need a wet,’ said Pender.
‘Me too,’ Harry replied, raising his hand in a vain attempt to attract the attention of the girls serving at table. ‘Might be best if I go to the hatchway.’
He stood up and pushed his way through the throng, knots of men who looked at him suspiciously over their pipes and tankards. He was just about to shout an order through the hatch when the room suddenly went quiet, every voice dying, the only sound left some tuneless whistling accompanied by the playing of bones.
‘Flowers,’ said Harry to himself, a fact which was confirmed as the crowd behind him moved enough to give him a view of the table which Pender had chosen. Every eye was on it, as one of the delegates rose and approached Flowers’s back. He leant forward and spoke to him quietly, and Harry’s crewman stopped his rattling abruptly. Whatever had been said induced the same reaction as had occurred in the Sheerness street. Flowers was swinging round to argue when Pender grabbed him and hauled hard enough on his arm to pull him backwards.
The voice from the table was loud, with a clear West Country burr, even though some of the words seemed to be Scottish. ‘Play on, laddie. And if your rhythm is any good, then we’ll get a fiddler to give you a wee bit of accompaniment.’
The man who’d talked to Flowers stepped back quickly, turning to grin at Richard Parker. His words followed as he made his way back to the table. ‘It’s all right for you, Parker. But I can’t hear myself think when those things are in play.’
‘They’re fine in the company of a bit of string, man.’ He made an expansive gesture, and a fiddler started right away. ‘There you go, stranger, now give us a right good rattle.’
Flowers looked set to refuse. Again it was Pender who intervened, probably to tell him that outnumbered as they were this was no place to go standing on pride. Harry used the continuing silence to order three tankards of ale, then, hooking them into his one good hand, slipped back through the crowd as the fiddler struck up. Everyone in the room it seemed was watching Flowers as he resumed his rattling on the carved bones. The flat parts cracked together, and once he’d got the crowd’s attention he began bouncing them off his hands, arms, thighs, and occasionally his shoulders to produce a rhythmic background to the fiddler’s tune.
‘What happened there?’ Harry asked when he could finally get to the table and sit down, grateful to distribute the ale. Flowers and the fiddler finished, to loud applause from Parker but a muted response from everyone else. He started to explain, until Harry stopped him by telling him that he’d seen everything. ‘I just wondered what he said to you.’
‘The second thing he told me was I could get my throat cut for letting fly with these,’ Flowers replied, holding up the intricately carved bones, his face angry. ‘What he said afore that I couldn’t make out.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He whispered a bit in my ear, but I couldn’t get what it was. Sounded foreign.’
‘What kind of foreign?’ asked Pender.
‘Difficult to say, mate. But it weren’t unlike that little sod you calls Frog-spawn, when his temper is on the go.’
Harry took a sip of his drink. ‘What happens to Derouac when he’s annoyed?’
It was Pender who replied, all his dislike of the man evident in his voice. ‘He curses in that heathen French tongue that all those island sods use.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE MOVEMENTS were subtle, but to men with senses acutely tuned to danger they were obvious. Without exchanging a word the trio at the table knew that their exit from the Chequers was barred. Harry sipped his ale, trying to look unconcerned while he sought to make sense of what had happened. The gathering had been upset by Flowers playing his bones. Parker, perhaps wiser than the rest of his fellow mutineers, had sought to make light of it. But others had done the opposite, reacting in a very obvious way to an event which should have passed unnoticed.
There was a genuine frisson as Harry stood up, a stiffening of limbs that spelt danger. As he sauntered towards the centre of the room, instead of the door to the street, they eased slightly. Conversation, which had become muted, continued but all eyes were on him, even if many a head was turned at an odd angle. Many of the papers strewn across the table had writing on them already, proposals perhaps that had been started and abandoned. He turned one round, grabbed a quill, and wrote quickly on the bottom. Then tearing off the piece he moved to the centre, in front of Richard Parker, and slid it across to him. He was back at the table before the President of the Delegates picked it up.
He could almost feel the men willing their leader to read what Harry had written out loud. But Parker, having looked at it, merely folded it and put it in his pocket, ignoring the anger that caused. The tension was just about to explode when the doo
r burst open and a messenger entered, waving the paper he was carrying in an excitable way.
‘A refusal, mates,’ he cried. ‘Spencer intends to post a bulletin to say that he will not meet with us.’
His words acted like a match to dry tinder. Suddenly Harry, Pender, and Flowers seemed forgotten as a bitter cry burst forth from the assembled seamen. Richard Parker was on his feet, shouting to the men who’d crowded round the doorway to part and let the messenger through to the table. He, still waving his paper, was surrounded by angry, questioning faces. Eventually he reached the middle of the room, and slammed the poster he was carrying on to the table with a resounding thud.
That brought silence, which fell just as quickly as the earlier irate shouting had erupted. Parker leant forward, picked up the letter, and opening it began to read, his thick black eyebrows pressed together in concentration. Occasionally he would look up, stare at one or two faces for a second, then go back to his perusal. After what seemed an age he finished, and passed it to his nearest neighbour, his black eyes sweeping the room as he opened his mouth to speak.
‘Well, shipmates,’ he said, ‘it seems that our generous offer to treat with the government has met with a refusal. We are still included in the Spithead pardon, as well as all the other articles of pay and conditions, and are even offered a dispensation of our own, for acts carried out since matters were settled at Portsmouth. But that does not extend to acts carried out subsequently.’
‘Shore leave?’ someone yelled.
‘Is denied to us, as well as a better distribution of prize money.’
‘Why did those bastards come down from London if’n they ain’t going to talk to us, face to face?’
Parker slowly shook his head. That response set up a cacophony of noise, as suggestions rained down on the men at the table, these ranging from hanging a couple of the worst officers, to taking the ships into the Medway Estuary and bombarding Chatham. Parker had his hands out, palms down, in an effort to calm the men before him, but his gesture was having no effect whatsoever. Pender leant forward, close to Harry’s ear, so that he could be heard.
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