The Old Order (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 7)

by Andrew Wareham

  Godby had not known that his journey had not ended.

  “Gents to meet you in Natchez, suh, so’s you can see it all. They says you gets to know what they got here, this way, suh.”

  A small, open carriage pulled up at the boy’s signal; without waiting for Godby to respond he put his bags up behind and held the door for him.

  Godby followed his bags, unthinking, if anything flattered to be met and treated with distinction – the great bulk of the passengers were whistling for cabs and hefting their own luggage.

  The boy sat up beside the driver and they set off at a fast walk, weaving through the traffic, left or right as seemed good.

  “Fifteen minutes, suh, or about, to gets to the river wharves.”

  Stone-built, a somewhat more handsome dock than any in New York, a tall stern-wheeler tied up, smoke curling from her high stacks. He was led aboard and taken up to the top deck, ushered into a cabin larger than the one aboard the ship from New York.

  A servant started to unpack his bags, to hang up his clothes, a young girl, very light in colour and with a broad smile for him.

  “Bella, she look after everythin’ you needs, suh.”

  Bella grinned wider and curtseyed, very close to popping out of the low-cut dress she wore and announcing her function very precisely.

  A couple of shouts and the steam-whistle blew and Godby felt movement under his feet, far less than the rolling of the ship.

  “Iffen you likes to come to the saloon, suh, you gets looked after there.”

  The boy led him down a single companionway and into a dining room big enough to seat at least two dozen couples. It was empty other than for two men who stood courteously as he entered, and for a barman behind a counter towards the rear, and four waiters in white trousers and waistcoats, all slaves, he presumed.

  “Mr Flash?”

  He smiled, stepped forward to shake hands and one of the waiters hit him neatly behind the ear with a short wooden billy, stunning him, leaving him not quite asleep but unable to resist in any way.

  His frockcoat was heaved down behind his back, trapping his arms, and he was efficiently searched, pistol taken from the holster they expected to find under his left arm, knife removed from his belt, pocket-book tossed onto a table, watch and chain slipped off carefully, matching fob taken, inspected and assessed as real gold. They were professionals, he vaguely noted, pulling off his trousers and checking for knife or hold-out pistol at his calves, then stripping him of the rest of his clothes; naked men were inhibited, far less likely to run.

  He was shackled, wrists and ankles, all in silence, and then tripped to the floor. Professional again, he realised – the man on the floor felt weaker, humiliated, had the will to fight broken.

  “Mr Flash of New York, and England, I believe.”

  Godby said nothing, coming to terms with the situation. They had not killed him yet, which gave a chance they did not intend to – why put him in slave shackles just to cut his throat? The Old Man must have betrayed him, but he would not have thought Van Rensberg would have paid enough, so who, and why? Let them talk first.

  “Sure, now, and you meet the description of Godby Fletcher of Burton and other places, and you carry the right sort of handgun, and I would be interested to hear what you might have to say. The dining saloon is a little exposed for such a conversation, and the waiter will not thank me for havin’ to mop the floor, so it’s downstairs to the engine room, I am reckoning. Below-decks, I should say! What will these nautical chaps be thinkin’ of me?”

  The speaker nodded to the three apparent waiters who were his heavies and they dragged Godby to the door and kicked him down the companionway.

  “Bounces well, does he not, Mr Star?”

  “Noisy though, Mr Murphy, but at least we know he is not dead.”

  Two stokers and an engineer looked on unmoved as they pushed Godby towards the firebox.

  “Feet first, I think, lads.”

  “Now then, Mr Flash, you can feel the heat and see the flames, and I am going to ask each question just once. No answer – no feet! Simple enough, I think. Messy and slow, because we’ll have to be waiting for you to come round before we turn you to put your hands in. You are understanding, Mr Flash?”

  He understood and knew that the threat was real; he believed the Irishman and was fairly sure what he wanted.

  “My name is Godby Fletcher and I was born in Burton near to that scar-faced bastard Andrews’ place. I tried to kill him and I’m bloody sorry I missed!”

  “And that is all that I wished to know. Thank you for your kind cooperation, Mr Fletcher.”

  They pulled him back on deck, dumped him out of sight to wait for darkness, feeling that they should not be seen to be throwing tied bodies overboard this close to town. He was whimpering with pain when they came for him four hours later, both arms swollen from the bones broken when they kicked him down to the engine-room, but there was no sympathy in them.

  “Don’t look such a fierce, hard gang-leader and killing-man, does he now, Mr Star?”

  “He just looks dead to me. Tie the ropes good and tight, lads.”

  A block of stone to each limb and they sat him on the low bulwarks, positioned themselves to either side.

  “On three, lads! One… Two… Go!”

  The four weights splashed and Godby was snatched away, straight under the water, where he stayed.

  Star of the South made a broad turn and headed back to the city, tying up two hours later. Murphy sat at a table in the saloon, Henry’s four employees to his front.

  “A neat and tidy job, gentlemen. I am told that you are all free men and I offer my apologies that I asked you to act as slaves – but you did it very well. Mr Star has taken the personal effects of the late gentleman and will split their value between you – one watch not sharing out easily amongst four men, after all. In addition, I am pleased to offer you the reward that Lord Andrews put on the head of the man who tried to kill him. One thousand English sovereigns, which amounts to a little more than four and a half thousand dollars.”

  He placed four wrapped bundles of notes in front of them.

  “One thousand, one hundred and fifty dollars, gentlemen, with my best thanks.”

  Four years wages for a longshoreman – buy a small house or drink themselves to death, whichever alternative appealed the more.

  “You a good man, suh. We don’t know nuthin’ about no reward and you could have just gone back to England with it in you back pocket. Good man, good money – I do thank you, suh!”

  The others nodded agreement, took up their money, tentative smiles surfacing.

  “What do you do now, Mr Murphy?”

  “Back to London for me, Mr Star – I have the promise of work there, and likely to be well-paid and of the sort to keep me amused. A year or two and maybe I shall look for a lady wife and to settle down – but maybe not.”

  “One is to understand that the lady with you is not your life’s companion, I presume?”

  “Just so, Mr Star. A handsome lass, but not of the marrying persuasion, it seems.”

  Henry was interested, his lady wife having taken up residence at the plantation and being engaged in her pregnancy in any case.

  Murphy took ship two days later, Sophia staying in New Orleans for the while and waving him goodbye in the most casual fashion; Mr Star had provided her with a handsome apartment - in freehold, she being a sensible lady of business – and she believed she could do quite well for herself in the South, and she did like the warm climate.

  The Indian climate was hot, and sticky, close to the monsoon, and Captain John was sweating. He had underestimated his new business partners, neglecting to inform them of the loans taken out and secured on his ships. They had bought his business, as agreed, but had employed an efficient Scot as a lawyer, and he had asked the wrong questions in the right places and Captain John had been invited to explain himself to a number of very powerful men.

  Two, at least, of semi-auto
nomous Maharajahs had provided cash to the consortium; each maintained a degree of independence, including his own courts and a small army, and although having to conform broadly to Company practices, had effective jurisdiction in criminal matters.

  Captain John was well aware that he could find himself strangled and with no questions asked by any other authority.

  He could not deny his actions, tried the course of absolute candour instead.

  “I thought I would be in England before it was discovered, gentlemen, and that a repayment over several years could then be negotiated, paid out of the profits of my business there. I do not have enough money to retire from business, you see, so I wanted to set up a big firm.”

  They asked what he intended to do, and where he would be located, displayed sufficient interest in his plans for him to suppose that he might have a future. He was escorted out of the city, taken to a small town a few miles away and settled into a comfortable, but locked and guarded, set of rooms, left to think for a couple of days.

  The door had opened in the first afternoon and a pair of girls had been shepherded inside – amusement for his idle hours.

  He waited patiently, having no choice in the matter, and was rewarded on the third morning, the lawyer himself appearing, documents in hand.

  “I require your signature, Captain John, in this name and in that which you will expect to use in England, sir.”

  He presented the blank spaces, the rest of the document covered.

  “May I know what I am signing?”

  “No.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “I do not know, sir. I have taken care not to know, but my employer has intimated to me that my interest in this matter would cease in such an event.”

  “Give me the pen.”

  They would not require a contract of a dead man, or he hoped not – it could, of course, be a Will.

  He was ordered out of the rooms a little later, bundled into a closed carriage and taken back to the city.

  “Captain John, or Mr Starling, as you prefer. You are fortunate to be offered the opportunity to act as agent in England for the consortium.”

  The lawyer dug out a pair of spectacles, polished them and peered.

  “Imports of English goods into India are wholly in the control of the Company at the moment, and the princely houses find themselves at the Company’s beck and call as a result. Certain goods are simply not to be obtained, sometimes by policy but quite often no more than as a matter of convenience. Thus, it is impossible to obtain spindles and looms for the Indian cotton workshops, probably in order to reduce competition; as well, importation of Irish whiskey and good brandy is frowned upon, perhaps at the influence of the missionaries. You have agreed to act for the consortium in England, and to procure any and all goods required and to ship them out expeditiously. In certain cases it might be regarded as desirable that the items should be forwarded to, for example, the pilgrim port of Jeddah, there to be transhipped to returning, empty pilgrim carriers – which are, one is told, never examined on reaching India.”

  They would demand artillery, he was certain. Muskets were made in India, were easily available, but the Company took care to keep modern guns out of princely hands.

  That would be treason, and he would be lucky to stand trial if he was caught, an official hanging being a public process and not the English government’s way of dealing with such matters as a general rule.

  “I presume I will be paid for such services, sir?”

  “Generously, Captain John. You will also be put in the way of starting and maintaining a large and profitable enterprise, one with a sufficiency of legitimate activity to provide a cover for other affairs. Amongst other things, I am given to understand that there is a shortage of entertainers in India, blonde dancers, for example.”

  White slaving – he had never tried that, but had heard it was very profitable. He would need a London office, it seemed, the bulk of the poor and unprotected in Liverpool being Irish, and thus dark-haired commonly.

  “We have spoken to Mr Mostyn, and are inclined to believe that he was not aware of your attempt to defraud the consortium.”

  Captain John thought rapidly, but he could see no way of getting a lever on Mostyn so decided on the truth.

  “At no point, and in no way, did I discuss the matter with him – I considered it, of course, but felt that he would be inclined to peach on me rather than take shares. The amount I could offer him was, I felt, too small to be of interest – he makes far too much in legitimate business to wish to take to crime, sir!”

  “I trust you will bear that example in mind, Captain John! I believe I might say that you are fortunate to be given this opportunity, and can add that it was Mr Mostyn who suggested your possible value in this role. You will, naturally, use his bank for all of your business affairs, Captain John.”

  So much for the confidentiality of bankers; he smiled his assent.

  “You will discover on reaching London that the firm of ‘John Starling, Import Agency’ will have an account with a very substantial balance to its credit. You will use your own funds to purchase offices and warehouse in London and at least one other major, northern city – you have shown an interest in Liverpool and that will do very well.”

  They intended to tie him down – selling up would be a visible process and he would not be able to afford to simply run for many years.

  Annoying – it meant that he would not, for example, be wise to put a bullet into his naval brother, because he would not be able to get away afterwards. He would have to be content with lesser actions. It was his own fault, of course – it had not occurred to him that Indians would be so wide-awake and he had treated them with contempt.

  “Live and learn, sir! Please to assure your principals that they need have no fear for the quality of my future service. I intend to live for another forty years yet, and doubt that I should repeat this particular mistake if I am to attain that aim.”

  “I am glad to know that you have discovered the course of wisdom, Captain John, and strongly recommend you never to forget it!”

  George was walking a tightrope, or so it seemed to him - a thin line of success to his front and an abyss to either side awaiting his least slip. If the extension of the mill came to time, and if the looms were all built and installed, and if the new steam engine worked from its first day and the belts were all set up correctly, and if all of the new men actually knew how to produce quickly and to quality, then he would have to surmount the problem of cash flow - the short-lived hole of five thousand pounds between expenditure and income. For just forty-three days he would be technically insolvent, spending more than he earned and with no cash reserve to cover him.

  He could go to the banks - they would probably lend to him, because of his name and family connections - but they would charge at least eighteen per centum, which would carve a hole in the following six month's accounts, and probably force him to extend the loan. He would be teetering on the edge of the red for at least another year - a single breakdown or lost customer and he would go over.

  His father would cough up, no question of that, and at no interest and very generous repayment dates, but he would probably suggest - very strongly - that he should accept Thomas' oversight and 'assistance' in running Lodestar. He would lose his independence - which would be better than losing everything to bankruptcy - but he would be no more than the younger son again.

  The final option was Miss Brown.

  He had just sufficient time to propose and set a wedding day and bank her father's cash - provided he delayed not at all, and that they would accept him and assent to an immediate marriage. It would surely be obvious that he needed the cash; he could never get away with it.

  Possibly he could knock on Martin's door at the bank and take a loan for six months, or less if he could repay earlier, explaining quite candidly that he was about to wed the moneyed daughter of the New Steam Mill but that he was temporarily short of cash. A sight of
his books and Martin would accept that his business was fundamentally sound and he might be able then to make all seem above board in the public eye.

  The other possibility was to seduce her, to get her to an unlawful bed - she would no doubt be much in favour of a very early wedding thereafter. He was not at all sure that he could achieve it - she was no shy, blushing maiden to be bowled head over heels; maiden in all probabilities, but not one to be taken advantage of - she was far too sharp for that, he was quite sure.

  He must propose to her in any case - and he was not entirely sure that she would accept him. They had met repeatedly in the month since he had entered local society and she had made no attempt to avoid his company, but she had certainly thrown out no lures, made no attempts to attract his interest. That might well be simple arrogance - she had so high an opinion of herself that she might feel no need to offer encouragement to any suitor; thinking on it, she had made more than one reference to her twenty thousands - perhaps that was her definition of enticement.

  He sent a note to Mr Brown, begging the honour of waiting on him next morning. His man returned with an immediate reply, suggesting that he should come to Brown's house for ten o'clock rather than see him at his office.

  Brown was renowned for starting work before six in the morning, watching the night men out and standing by the clock as the day shift came in; it was an honour that he should choose to dally at home on a working morning.

  "Set theesel' down, Mr Star! I am honoured to see thee in this house, sir. I have never 'ad the privilege of meeting thy father, but have often wished I might, for he is one of our great men, sir."

  An occasional dropped aitch, the use of 'thee', said self-made, out of the farm cottage probably, from any part of the country that used the old Southern English. George had listened to his father's advice over the years - the first thing to do when meeting a man was to discover who he was, what he was behind his public face - it made it easier not to cause unwitting offence. Style of dress was another indicator, Lord Star had said, and Brown's bottle-green frockcoat and flaming red tie-cravat suggested a less-refined upbringing.