The Privateersman (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

  Carrot and stick – it worked for donkeys, it should work for foundrymen.

  “Do it, George. I’ll contact our customers for wrought and tell them we shall be ending production. They’re mostly one off jobs, I believe, apart from the ploughshares.”

  “Ploughshares are month on month, sir, just a word of mouth for how many are needed. Give them good notice – it will take at least three months to build the crucibles, so we can keep them sweet.”

  “We need a traveller if we are to get more contracts, especially in steel, where we aren’t known.”

  Mason stirred uneasily, almost for the first time in their acquaintance seemed unsure of himself.

  “I ain’t certain that I’m doing right by this, sir, but I’ve got a young brother, twenty years between us, almost. He went to the Grammar School, being as how I could find the cost of clothes and books when he passed the examination what gave him free entry, so he has the knowledge and speaks right. He can learn about our costs and prices quickly – he’s a bright lad, no question, sir – and he could travel for us, if it’s not an imposition, sir, me putting his name forward.”

  “I had rather employ a man I know – and any brother of yours is likely to be a good worker. I know I can trust you, George, so I reckon I can trust your family. What do you say to offering him a small wage, say a pound a week, and his expenses – hotel rooms and such, buying a horse for him as well, and then give him a share of the profits he makes. Say ten parts in the hundred of the money the firm makes on every contract he brings in?”

  “He would be making big money after five years or so, sir – I reckon he could be raking in damn near a thousand a year in the end!”

  “So the firm would be making nine thousand, George – sounds good to me.”

  “It’s a lot of money, sir!”

  “It is. You should be doing the same, of course, except that your ten per cent will be of all the firm’s earnings, not just the contracts your brother brings in. Later, when Roberts has got big enough, I may well leave the whole management of the works to you, George, while I do something else – coal mines, maybe. When that happens you will get a share in the firm as well as more of the profits. I don’t believe in something for nothing, George – I want a lot from you, so it’s only fair to pay for all I take.”

  Money making was easy, Tom had discovered, if you had money already and the country was booming; it occurred to him that one day the country might stop expanding and he wondered what would happen then – perhaps he should start to keep an eye on what was happening nationally, so that he might be able to get a warning of bad times if they seemed likely. For the while canals were spreading apace, there was a turnpike building between every big town in Lancashire, and likely elsewhere, iron was expanding and coal was being hauled out of the ground in thousands of tons while cotton was mushrooming and he still had five thousands sat in the bank, uncommitted, safe but not really earning. Perhaps he could find something for that money, in another field though.

  “Mr Clapperley! What should I do with about five thousands of cash money? ‘Eggs in one basket’, you know, I am unwilling to put it to work with the rest of my money.”

  “A rational thought, sir, and there are several possibilities. Safest is Consols, Government Loan stock, payment guaranteed from the Consolidated Fund, the Exchequer in effect. Being safe, Consols pay poor returns, four and one half at maximum, three more common. For high returns one must take a greater risk, but even then one can reduce the chances of default; I would suggest that you make two or three loans, Mr Andrews, of one or two thousands to venturers who are unable to borrow elsewhere, who the banks, for example, will not touch. Twenty-five per centum is not unheard of for such, sir.”

  “Six times as great as Consols, and more than twice the rate most banks would charge. What sort of business makes a profit that can pay that, Mr Clapperley?”

  “Black ivory, for one, sir – most of the English trade is Liverpool-based now.”

  “Slaving? No! I have seen slavery in the Sugar Islands, Mr Clapperley, and I will have no part in it. A dirty business and for dirty people, sir – I have no weak stomach and have killed my man in fair fight, sir, and more than once, but I will have no part in flogging and butchery.”

  “As you will, sir – I have seen neither slavery nor warfare, can comment on neither. I would add, sir, that no money of mine is involved in slaving, but there is a high profit and I could not but draw it to your attention.”

  “That was your duty, sir, and you were correct to perform it, however distasteful it may be to both of us.”

  The awkward moment was over, for the while.

  “Horse-coping, Mr Andrews, is a risky trade – the buyer typically going to the Irish fairs and then bringing his purchases across the sea to England, often some dying in storms or losing condition badly, and, of course, possibly simply not finding buyers and having to be kept over winter, at some expense. A client of mine proposes to buy in the northern parts of the country and then take his horses to the little port of Larne, which is only a half of a day’s sailing from Stranraer in Scotland, a far out of the way place, admittedly, but with the advantage that the beasts may be walked a quiet month south to Manchester, corn fed and regaining their condition on the road and coming to market strong and healthy. He aims to move six strings of thirty over the summer months, buying for no more than ten pounds and selling typically at eighty to one hundred. He would ask to borrow two thousands and repay twenty-five hundreds at season’s end.”

  “Done, Mr Clapperly, the money to pass through your hands, neither my face nor my name to be seen.”

  “My fee to be, say, fifty guineas, ten per centum on the interest?”

  “Certainly, sir, payable when your client squares up at the end of trading.”

  “As well, sir, a lady known to me needs a thousand temporarily to cover a run of bad luck on her tables – three times in a week the faro bank has been broken! Unheard of – it rarely happens once a year, and of course, she had funds put aside to cover that eventuality, but not thrice! She would pay fifty a month interest, hoping to repay in three months, certainly in four.”

  Tom knew nothing of gambling and gaming houses, except that they were illegal but the law was never enforced while they were discreet and allowed no silly suicides or scandals on their premises. In any case, the government had no business interfering with private pleasures – what people did with their own money and out of public view was their own business; to hell with the law!

  “By all means, Mr Clapperley, but it occurs to me that collection of such a debt might perhaps raise difficulties – one could hardly go to court, I would imagine?”

  “No, sir, one could not, but I can vouch for the lady’s probity.”

  “Good. You might, perhaps, wish to point out that I am capable of making my own collection if needs must.”

  Clapperley shuddered, he was not a man of violence, was quite content to restrict his assaults to those sanctioned by the law and the courts.

  “Two thousands more, Mr Clapperley?”

  “By the end of the week, Mr Andrews, I have one or two ideas, will have to pursue them a little further.”

  Tom visited Martin and arranged to make a cash withdrawal on the following morning and then took his gig back to his lonely house to clean and load his pistols for the benefit of Mr Clapperley’s nerves. Greatly to his dismay he had discovered that the local business community was aggressively low church and chapel, committed to thrift, soap and overt sexual rectitude – one could not openly keep a mistress in one’s mansion and expect to gain another contract from these men; behind closed doors no doubt all was different – ‘out of sight, out of mind’ was, he understood, an expression of local invention. Discovering the exact location of those closed doors was not easy, however – they were not discussed here, it was very different to New York where such matters had been boasted of. Clapperley, now, was obviously familiar with at least one gaming house and from gamb
ling table to ‘knocking shop’ was normally one very short step – he must have a very precise idea of the location of the Lancashire dens of iniquity, could probably offer a detailed, guided tour, but to use his services would be to open oneself to blackmail, he was a lawyer, after all. Better not to take advice in this matter from him; it was, however, becoming a matter of some urgency to locate a source of relaxation.

  He entered Clapperley’s chambers next morning in a black mood, frieze coat flapping open and pistol butts displayed at each stride. He counted out sixty bank notes of different size and pattern and print and drawn on a mixture of country and London banks, but all of fifty pounds denomination and known and acceptable at face value; notes drawn on obscure, minor country banks might fetch a discount, but the majors were well enough known to be as good as gold, almost.

  “Three thousands, Mr Clapperley. Would you wish me to escort you when you carry them out of the building, sir, or have you your own arrangements?”

  It was a dangerous sum of money, a long lifetime’s earnings for a farm labourer, worth killing for as Clapperley was only too well aware.

  “Thank you, Mr Andrews, but I shall send the money by messenger rather than carry it myself. The men are quite well-known in the town, and are never attacked for fear of the consequences, I understand – they tend not to bother the courts of law, according to rumour.”

  “Sensible – the parish constable is of little value for the apprehension of felons, I understand, Mr Clapperley.”

  Clapperley left the distasteful topic – he could find nothing amusing or interesting in even the second-hand discussion of violence.

  “I have been able to confirm another rumour that had come to my ears recently, Mr Andrews, speaking last evening to a contact who often has specialised knowledge.”

  Tom nodded, he had heard of paid informants, men who knew everything and everybody like Bob had in New York.

  “The Corporation, as is well-known, intends to build an Infirmary, for the betterment of the health of the poor people of the town – the infectious diseases of the slums spread all over if unchecked – and have finally decided on a location. They will build on the hillside behind Chamberlain Street, on the outskirts where there is a healthy wind to blow away the miasmas, a decision recently taken and not to be public knowledge. A few guineas and I can discover the exact plots of farmland they will wish to purchase…”

  “How much?”

  “Two hundred in golden guineas, coin so much more convincing than paper in these matters.”

  “And we may then purchase ourselves and discuss the resale with the Corporation, possibly even with the same gentlemen who sold us the information?”

  “Just so, Mr Andrews. We may also be able to nominate a builder of our choice.”

  “And to think that I went privateering in the Sugar Islands when I could have been a pirate here! Yes, Mr Clapperley, I think we should put our money to work for us, it is I believe our Christian duty to do so!”

  Clapperley looked a little surprised at this last.

  “I remember, vaguely, from Dame School, sir, something about the Parable of the Talents – it is incumbent upon us to set our money to work for the best return.”

  Clapperley simpered weak approbation for this stroke of wit, finding it somewhat strong for his taste, and enquired, apparently apropos of nothing, whether Mr Andrews had had much contact with Miss Roberts, for her time of strict mourning must be at its end and she would be venturing more into public.

  “I have seen nothing of her, Mr Clapperley – I thought it best to build a fence around the house – to maintain her privacy – and she has not strayed out of her acre of garden, to my knowledge.”

  “One wonders how she will occupy her time now, Mr Andrews – she was always used to be about the works and performed much of the bookkeeping, I believe.”

  “Her father not doing so for being unable to follow the figures from column to column, they tending to dance about so after the first half bottle.”

  Clapperley smiled primly, his lawyer’s training not permitting him to associate himself with so damaging a comment.

  “I presume she will have local acquaintances, Mr Clapperley, young ladies of like age.”

  “Probably not, sir. Her brother was socially active, and made few friends for the family, and Mr Roberts Senior was of an abrasive disposition, not a well-liked man, even at his best.”

  “So her existence will be reclusive, you fear, Mr Clapperley, yet a young lady with twelve thousand pounds is unlikely to remain uncourted, surely.”

  “Normally, I would agree with you, Mr Andrews.”

  Tom pondered Clapperley’s words on his way back to the works, trying to read between the lines, to discover what precisely was the message in them; the little lawyer was not one for idle conversation and his advice, however veiled, had so far been worth listening to.

  “George? Miss Roberts, she was used to be busy in the works, was she not?”

  “Aye, sir, you could call it that.”

  So there had been a reason for Clapperley’s idle chat, Tom made a note to thank him, as obliquely as he had made his warning, the nature of which he must ferret out for himself.

  No need to be subtle with Mason – his loyalty was unquestioning and his mouth stayed closed.

  “All right, George, tell me the details.”

  Mason clasped his hands behind his back, he would never sit in the office, assumed a righteous pose, face stern.

  “She were a damned nuisance, Mr Andrews! Flirting around the men, where they was bare-chested at work, and making half-promises she never meant to keep, leading some of the younger men on something chronic, and ready to scream blue murder if ever one was to so much as lay a finger on her. Right pain in the arse, that one! She did some of the paperwork, and did it well enough too, but she would have screamed ‘Rape’ and had a man hanged before too long. Got to the point that the older blokes would pass the word whenever they saw ‘er about and make sure none of the lads was left on their own with ‘er.”

  “Surprising, not what one expects of a young lady.”

  “That one ain’t no lady, that’s for sure, sir.”

  “Best to build that fence of ours a bit higher, George?”

  “Better still to build a big moat like they old castles had, sir!”

  “Did her father have any idea, George?”

  “Who was going to tell ‘im?”

  Good question – no workman would keep his job for ten seconds after complaining to the master that his daughter was a bit of a whore.

  “Strange family, it would seem, George.”

  “The old man’s father was stranger yet, sir, from all I’ve ever heard. There was just a smithy in his day and the old ’ouse that they built when the family used to have money, way back – the word was that they was Romanists and when King James was thrown out they got fined for being disloyal. Anyhow, sir, the old man worked his forge, would work all hours of day and night for weeks at a time, the story goes, and then suddenly it’s down tools, apron and hammer thrown into the corner and ‘e’s off to the boozers and knocking shops, come crawling back on ‘is hands and knees a week later, pick up the hammer and blow up the forge and back to work, not a word said. Died blind and raving mad, so ‘e did, Mr Andrews, and everybody guessed the cause of that, as you may imagine, sir! They say it passes on, sir, the sins of the fathers, down through the generations.”

  “So… you reckon she might not be all there, George?”

  Mason shrugged, he was no mad-doctor, could not say for certain, but all things were possible, and some were a bit more likely than others.

  Clapperley came into the works unannounced, apologised for not making an appointment by letter, but he had preferred to keep this piece of business unwritten.

  “Mrs Morris, Mr Andrews, to whom you lent one thousand last month, begs leave to meet you, wishing I think to vary the terms of your agreement.”

  “Does that mean she can’t pa
y, Mr Clapperley?”

  “Not necessarily, Mr Andrews – I believe, in fact, that she has a long term proposition instead. As yet she does not know your name, only that you are a client of mine and she would prefer the relationship to be more open if it is to be longer lasting.”

  Tom shook his head, he was not at all sure that he wanted a longer term relationship with a gaming house with all of the risks of becoming involved with the shadier side of the business world.

  “It would be highly profitable, though risky, but more importantly, sir, it could be the opening into any number of opportunities. Men, even the most discreet, will open their mouths and blab in such surroundings – a little wine, relaxing company, the excitement of the tables, can cause the most sensible and hard-headed to talk of affairs better kept quiet. I have no doubt that Mrs Morris would be able to put you onto several profitable little transactions.”

  “You are very persuasive, Mr Clapperley. They say that Peel has made a million from cotton and general dealing – I wonder if, with your assistance, I might not match him? I presume it has occurred to you, sir, that once I met your Mrs Morris, I would be unable to safely drop the acquaintance, would be in effect part of her world.”

  “As am I, Mr Andrews.”

  “So be it. When do we meet?”

  “This morning? I have my gig if you are at leisure, sir.”

  During the cold three quarters of an hour in the gig, hooded but essentially open, wrapped in his heavy coat, scarf up to his ears, hat pulled low, Tom gave some thought to where his life was taking him. The works was on its way to return a thousand this year, would multiply that several times over when they had the steel production and special castings up and running and had built a name for themselves; Joseph’s cotton would eventually come in at as much or more, particularly if, ‘when’ rather, a proper power loom was invented – a dozen men in England, France and the Low Countries were said to be experimenting. Ten years would see them very well off, so why take wild risks? Why not? Risks made life amusing - without them all became humdrum, boring, tedious. Already he was discovering that his daily round had become routine – get up at six o’clock, breakfast and visit the works, take a morning report from George, discuss any minor problems that had arisen on the previous day, make the necessary entries in the books, authorise and agree expenditure, check the bills that had come in then take any payments to the bank. In the afternoon, discuss new contracts, their prices and potential problems and enter them into the calendar, talk over the question of twenty-four hour working, of when they must start a night shift and what they must pay. It was predictable, he knew exactly what tomorrow would bring – it was almost tempting to hand over to Joseph and look for a berth as prize master on a privateer, except that the war was almost at its long-delayed end.