Where Gold Lies

by Jacqueline George

  “First things first!” Long John cried. “I’ll go and rouse up the galley.” He stumped up the stairs at the back of the tap-room, leaving us to look around and wonder. He did not stay away long, and returned followed by Mrs. Silver and her daughter bearing steaming sweet-smelling bowls of food.

  “This is Dick and Caspar, m’dear,” he introduced us. Mrs. Silver gave us a long look, but greeted us only with a shy smile. Long John was more welcoming. “Bring your grog over here, boys, and you can try the best victuals in Bristol.”

  We brought our mugs to the table and took the offered stools. The meal was magnificent, the best we had tasted for a long time. The bowls held white rice and a very fine and spicy chillo cooked by Mrs. Silver, redolent of the West Indies. What food that was, although I expect you would find it overwhelming, your tongue not being accustomed to the fiery peppers from those parts. After what we had been used to on board ship, it was milk and honey to us.

  After Mrs. Silver had cleared the board and the three of us had settled to our grog and tobacco, Long John lent over the table and started on the news for which we had been waiting.

  “As close as I can fathom it, he took the stage to Exeter. Leastways, it was either there or into Wales. And I’ll lay it wasn’t Billy that took off to Cardiff, not him. He must have been the one who went into Devon. He took the Falcon coach. Now we’ll put you two aboard that same stage tomorrow, and you can ship to Exeter. When you get there, ask for your shipmate who got there about the twelveth of September.” He paused to relight his pipe.

  “I believe it’ll be a lot easier than asking the same question in Bristol. There’s less people in Exeter for one thing. And for another, there’s none too many sailors, neither.” He stopped and thought for a while. “I wonder where the old fool’s headed. He’ll stay near the sea, I’ll lay to that. But the sea’s round every corner in those parts. He could be bound anywhere all the way to the Lizard, d--- him! An’ we don’t know but that he’ll cross over to the other side, to the west. I suppose he’d still go to Exeter first. It’s wilder over on the other side, what with the big winds off the Atlantic. But he might go that way, trying to hide himself in the wild places.”

  “What if we don’t find where he’s taken off to?”

  “Ah, well. That’s where the boot rubs, isn’t it? ‘Tis all well and good if you get there and someone tells you where to go looking. But if there ain’t no news...” He grunted and took a pull at his grog.

  “Now this is how it’ll go, boys. You step off the stage, and go looking. Ask everyone you see. Don’t be shy. Billy will have got off just the same as you, and he’ll have gone off looking for somewhere to bed down. He won’t be taking a room at the coaching inn, that’s for certain. Not our Billy. He’ll go looking for some grog-shop more his cut. But then again, if he’d wanted to ship out again, he’d have to go to an inn to get his place on a stage.

  “You ask everyone. Start with the coaching inns. He’d get there soon after the twentieth of the month, so he could be remembered getting off. Or where he slept. Or where he went to board again. Most of the inns have a big book for passengers, so his name might just be in there, if he was using his own name. Just you stay in Exeter and keep asking around. An’ if you don’t find nothing, or you don’t know where he went, write to me here. Write to me anyways, so as I knows where you’ll be.”

  Long John paused and looked fiercely into our faces. “This is grave work, lads. You’re the first of the crew here, and that speaks well of you. But you’ll need an old head to stay afloat in this weather. D--- this leg, and I’d leave both of you here and ship out myself. But you’ll have to do.” He twisted in his seat and settled again.

  “Now look you both. Do just as old John tells you, keep your rigging taut, and I’ll see you have a soft berth when we ship out of here.” He reached beneath his apron. “Here now. Here’s ten guineas, five each. Keep out of the grog-shops and you can live like admirals. Send a letter to me every week to tell me where you are. Every week, mind. And I’ll need to send you orders, so make sure I can find you. I’ll keep a weather eye out for the rest of the crew and when they drag their sorry hulks in here, and I’ll send them after you the moment you find Billy.

  “Just find him. Don’t let him know you’re there, or he’ll run again. Just spill your wind and lie low. Write your letter and you’ll have help in a week if I have to come myself.”

  Again he stared into our faces. “You’ll follow your orders, won’t you lads? You’ll do your duty by your old quartermaster?”

  The intensity of his plea brought us up short, I began to feel a little of the reality of what I had set my hand to. We had seen Flint’s treasure. We spoke often of chests of gold and jewellery, of kegs of silver covered in tarred canvas. Long John’s urging gave it body. The chests had weight to them, and the silver pieces became something Caspar and I might have in our pockets. Grave work indeed.

  Just then Mrs. Silver came down with mugs of chocolate. But I am cheating you. You have heard a little of your grandfather and I am sure you desire to know something of your grandmother.

  At the time of which we speak, she was a mature woman of between thirty and forty years. She had lived a wandering life in the sea-ports of the West Indies, much of it as the wife of Long John. It must have been a difficult life, as is the life of all sailors’ wives.

  In England we are much surprised and a little curious when we meet a Negro (or Negress). Their skin colour seems strange, their facial character and tight curly hair unattractive. We are disposed to view them as servants or even slaves, and pay little attention to any true worth or accomplishment. This is perhaps natural. Ignorance breeds suspicion. I admit that when I first went to the West Indies, I did not like them and felt nothing but distaste for the black ladies, be they true Africans or Creoles.

  However, young as I was, I rapidly became accustomed to the sight of black faces and to sailing with shipmates of all colours. In a short time I came to appreciate the pretty girls who lived in the Islands. They too were of all shades, from coal-black to the tawny colour of last year’s honey. I became a subscriber to the opinion that, no matter what England has to offer in the way of finely bred ladies, they are left in the shade. The ports of the West Indies claim scarcely an inhabitant of pure blood, yet boast populations of handsome men and beautiful women in proportions far greater than Bristol or London.

  But this is by way of a diversion, for I would not have you think poorly of your grandmother. She too was naturally handsome and had a graceful, unhurried carriage. In time I learnt she had a depth and force of character that rivalled Long John himself. She lacked learning of the bookish sort, being schooled by life alone. Not that her wisdom and experience was shared with us men, except perhaps with Long John. She said little to us that night or later. Her chosen companions were female, and it was only later that I saw how animated and playful she could become in their company.

  What did she look like? Well she was very tall, almost as tall as Long John himself, with a long fine neck. Her skin had a colour rather like coffee to which a little milk has been added. She had delicate features and deep black eyes, so black that the iris seemed but an extension of the pupil. Her curly black hair was kept short and she habitually wore a length of some brightly coloured stuff wound around her head. Her lips were very dark, almost purple, which brought out the brilliant whiteness of her teeth. Also the pinkness of the tip of her tongue, which used to emerge when she was engaged in some particularly difficult piece of sewing or embroidery. Altogether a fine and beautiful woman, to whom you must be grateful for her beauty has passed on to you! That will suffice for the moment; I shall tell you more of her later, when she once again becomes important in our story.

  Anyway, she brought us mugs of chocolate and sat with us a while. We exchanged stories of our different voyages aboard the American Providence, and Long John told us again how surprised he had been to find us there when he had boarded. Our surprise had been the great
er for we had at least stayed in our station of ordinary sailors, whereas he had transformed himself into an owner, something we had never thought to see.

  He chased us off early that night as we would need to wake with the dawn. Mrs. Silver showed us up to the big empty loft of The Spyglass where Long John had already slung two hammocks.

  Picking up the Scent

  Next morning saw Caspar and I seated high on the stage coach for Exeter, braving the late October weather. We were fortunate to have a still day with little wind to stir up the leaves, and no rain to make us outside passengers uncomfortable. We rode through a countryside at rest, everything prepared for the violence of winter and only waiting for it to arrive. If you are young, well-clothed (we had our sailor’s clothes), and well-fed (we did not stint ourselves in that item), travelling outside a stage coach is a fine way to view England. From our lofty seats we could peer over the hedges and watch the cottages of the country people. The children passed by waving, and we waved back. Cattle ignored us. Horses might keep pace with us on their side of the hedge. It was a time of ploughing and burning, of gathering and storing against winter. The bleak Levels of Somerset swept by followed by bare, harvested apple orchards. Through the small, white-washed towns we clattered, on to Exeter.

  Exeter is a fine town, as you know, and a more homely setting for the cathedral and its clergy is hard to imagine. We had not come there for the cathedral, however. We were looking for a sailor-man, an old man, tall, with a sea-chest, arrived from Bristol a month or more ago.

  At the close of a grey afternoon our coach brought us to the door of The Sun, at the very top of Exeter’s main street. This was the end of its journey, and all the passengers must dismount. Bundles, packets, trunks were all lowered to the pavements and as passengers gathered their luggage, the inn-keeper solicited them with offers of good food and feather mattresses. His attempt on our custom sounded half-hearted. The Sun was a fine establishment, prosperous and well-tended. Such a business did not grow from accommodating poor seafarers.

  We, of course, were far more interested in him. He had probably met Billy coming off the stage, not so long before. Would Billy have made a mark on his memory? Given a good coat and hat, Captain Wm. Bones Esq. might have caught his eye. He might even have stayed a night or two. In any case, the man was far too busy with his guests at present. If we wanted to question him we would have to wait. The tap-room welcomed us and we sat by the fire warming our hands on mugs of mulled ale. From where we sat we could see travelling boxes and luggage being carried up to the chambers above. The inn-keeper hurried up and down the stairs, marshalling the porters and installing his visitors in their rooms. What a world of worries he had. This man insisted on his sending out for a good fresh salmon for dinner, for he would have no part of the steak and oyster pie now cooking. That lady found her room impossible, lacking light near the looking glass. She would have to move rooms if nothing could be done about it. The people in the best room had a baby, and the infant’s demands exceeded those of all the rest of the guests.

  If only keeping people was as simple as keeping pigs or chickens, an inn-keeper’s life would be a good deal more attractive.

  For the moment, the tap-room stood empty and the girl charged with serving us had little to do. Under the pretence of replenishing the fire she stood, poker in hand, asking where we had come from, hungry for tales of strange things from over the seas. She was a pretty girl with a simple Devon accent, and you may be sure that we lost no time in spreading our feathers before her. We basked in her questions and exclamations of disbelief, and felt very fine fellows indeed. Behind us, the hubbub faded away as the guests settled in.

  When I remembered why we were there, I asked if she had seen Billy. She had not. She would have remembered him, she said. She was always interested to hear tales from mariners. She knew all the captains and naval gentlemen who passed through regularly and sometimes gave her shells and such-like from foreign parts. We asked for the inn-keeper.

  “You’ll not find him now, my dears,” she said, throwing her hands up. “‘Tis his night for practicing with the bells. You’ll soon hear him ringing away. Then he’ll take himself off with the other ringers and get rotten drunk. We’ll not see him before tomorrow.” As an after-thought she added that she would not be standing there chattering if the inn-keeper was on the premises.

  So, a wasted evening. Or partially wasted anyway. At least we knew that Billy had not stayed at The Sun. Our friend could not suggest where he might have gone. “I’m not from here, you know,” she assured us seriously. “I’m from Crediton. All the bad places where the rough people do go are down by the river. I never go there, my dear. The things they do call out after you in the street. It’s embarrassing, I can tell you. Your friend might’ve stayed down there, if he’s that sort of man.” She looked at us doubtfully. She was wondering if we were ‘that sort of men’.

  We pleaded that it was just a matter of expense. We could not afford to stay with her. “Oh, I see,” she said innocently. “You’re poor too. Don’t you worry now. You just go down to the Widow Howard’s in Mill Street. She’ll take you in and she doesn’t charge much. She cooks very nicely too.” We made a show of remembering directions and assured her we would certainly visit good Mrs. Howard. We took our leave and headed down the High Street towards the river.

  Our informant was right. The streets down the hill beyond the cathedral were much less prosperous. No one called out after us, of course, but there were plenty of sharp boys who might have made a country girl cry in vexation. We bought some hot chestnuts because they smelt so nice, and also because it gave us a chance to speak with the seller. What a blessing that Exeter is a smaller city than Bristol. He told us again and again that there were only two places a seafarer could go for a drink, a meal and a bed. One named Worthy’s after its owner. The other was The White Hart. The chestnut man guessed Worthy’s as the more likely place. Not only was it bigger, but it had a more popular tap-room. Apparently it had a name for wild carousing, a thing of which he approved.

  We took our leave and set off to Worthy’s, breaking open hot chestnuts as we went. The night was just about to close around the chestnut man when he called out to us. “Hey, listen, lads, the press is out and about. Keep a sharp eye for them.” We shouted back our heart-felt thanks. How different our lives would be if the press-gang caught us.

  Worthy’s could only be found by asking. It had no such name outside. In fact a faded sign said ‘Williams and Sons, Chandlers’. It was a narrow building of several storeys, tucked into an angle of the cobbled street. We stepped down into a narrow corridor and, passing through towards the back, found ourselves in a very large tap-room, its size belying the narrowness of the house frontage. Mr. Worthy stood behind the bar, looking completely out of place. A clerical figure with spectacles and dressed in old-fashioned black simplicity, he had something of the air of a Quaker about him. Not at all the man to be the proprietor of a roaring sailor’s tavern.

  He gave us a small room with a bed to share and, when we were uncertain as to how long we would stay, made us pay in advance for two nights, six pence a night each. While we had the chance we asked him about Billy, but in vain. As we followed him back down the crazy flight of stairs, we described Billy in detail, trying to strike a spark in his memory.

  “It’s no good, boys,” he said over his shoulder. “Most every sailor in the West Country has taken a drink here at one time or another. I can’t remember them. I shan’t remember you next week.”

  “He’s a big man,” we repeated. “If he took his hat off, he’s not got much hair. He likes to get drunk and sing.”

  “Get drunk and sing, eh?” He gave us a knowing look. “Get drunk and sing. Well, I believe he wouldn’t be much of a sailor if he didn’t do that on occasion. Everyone comes here to do that.” And he left us for other customers.

  Long John had told us to keep out of grog-shops, but in following Billy’s trail we must frequent the places he would h
ave done. So with easy consciences, we tucked ourselves into a corner and looked for victuals.

  We soon noted that a good part of Worthy’s success in business was due to his servants. He had realised that sailors would count being served by pretty girls a very fine thing, and by providing them, he brought sailors in by the dozen. He succeeded in making them feel like kings.

  Several barmaids rushed in and out of the crowded tables bearing drinks and food to the boards. Of course, a rowdy house is no place for ladies, and the barmaids would hardly wear that name. Nor were they quiet and well brought up like our friend at The Sun. They were strong, forward girls with sharp tongues, easily able to return with interest the raillery of their customers.

  We managed after a while to call one over to our table. The small, dark girl took our order for ale and pie, and disappeared. She returned bringing a loaded, succulent tray, fit to keep the damp autumn out of our bones. As she set the platters down I asked her name. She straightened up, ready to give a sharp retort but seeing I was not intending to intrude, answered politely enough.

  “You may call me Jenny, sir,” she said. “It’ll be a fine change from some of the things we’re called.” She cast a pointed glance over her shoulder at the crowded room.

  I was little used to questioning people, and hesitant to go on. But we had a man to find “Er…Jenny,” I started. “There’s something you could help me with.”

  Again she looked at us suspiciously, but softened as we described Billy. Then she shrugged. “You’ll never find him by asking here. I could never remember a face from one day to the next, let alone a month ago.”

  In vain we pleaded. She did not recall Billy, and left as soon as she could. So there we were. Billy may have stayed in the house, but no one was likely to have noted him. We had no hint of him, nor did we have a sign-post to show our path.