He was pushed into a corner. “Private, you’ll remain here to guard him. If he moves, knock him out.” One of the men opened the door, and the officer strode out, followed by the corporal and the other private.
As his eyes adapted to the darkness, he distinguished the figure of the private, standing nearby. From the man’s occasional twitch, it seemed he was nervous. So am I. Yet he was in no danger. He had his letter of authority to prove his identity and his mission, and once the officer in charge read it, he would be released. Rupert…Jane’s brother would be captured with whoever else was with him. It was too late for him to inform against his fellow conspirators present in the house. He might still have a chance of leniency if he offered up Charles Pleasaunce and anyone else who was not caught in the raid, but Alex feared Rupert would be too stupid and panicky to think of it. I did the best I could. He hoped Jane would think it enough.
At length, he heard the rush of feet and the ringing of metal on metal outside the shed. Then shouting and breaking glass. Easier to go in through windows, if they were not shuttered; the doors were likely too thick to kick in and bolted or barred. Two or three shots were fired—not by the soldiers, he thought. Alex sat glumly, waiting upon events.
Which took a long time coming. There was a gray light around the door before the sound of men milling around and shouted orders died down. Various parts of his body ached, or were stiff, or had gone to sleep. His mouth felt dry although the linen gag was damp with saliva, and he urgently needed to relieve himself. The private had made use of the opposite corner of the shed hours ago.
The door swung open and silhouetted a tricorned figure.
“Bring the prisoner out, Private.”
The private used his bayonet to cut the strip binding his feet and Alex was hauled up—not without difficulty, for the private was shorter than he and not burly—and aimed toward the door. He uttered a stifled groan.
“You may remove the gag, Private.”
Alex gasped as it was taken out and croaked his request.
“Ah…you may free his hands, too. The army is a hard service, but there’s limits to what we’ll ask of a man,” the lieutenant said with a grin.
His most pressing need taken care of, Gordon said, “I must speak with your commanding officer. I am here on behalf of the government and have an order authorizing—”
“Ay, so you said last night. The captain is ready to see you now. Mind you don’t try to escape.”
“Nothing would induce me to do so, as I have no reason to fear His Majesty’s forces.”
“That’s as may be.” The lieutenant snorted.
“It would be best if the people you have taken into custody did not see me, however.”
“No fear of that. They’re on their way to Dundee.”
Captain Sloane had set up his command post in a back room of the house. He regarded Alex without favor.
“Gordon, is it? What were you about last night, skulking around this place?”
“Sir, as I tried to explain, I supplied the information about the smuggled shipment which I expect you’ve found. I came to intercept you with information of use to you. I have a letter which will make everything clear.” He reached up to pull it out of his coat’s inner pocket. Sloane and the others stiffened, and Gordon heard a pistol being cocked behind him.
“Raise your hands,” the captain said. “Corporal, see what he’s got inside his coat.”
The tension eased somewhat when the corporal brought out the letter and presented it to the captain. The latter took it then levelled a glance somewhere behind Alex’s left shoulder.
“You will oblige me, Lieutenant, by clearing the pan. It hardly seems that it will be necessary to fire. I do not want the prisoner’s brains on my desk.”
Alex heard and felt the puff of breath as the man blew the priming gunpowder out. He sighed with relief himself. Captain Sloane studied the thick red seal on the letter before breaking it. He read the letter, frowned, and reread it more slowly. Then he squinted suspiciously at the signature. It was not quite the reaction Gordon had expected. Sloane seemed lost in thought. At length, he said, “I can take no action based on this remarkable document, except to pass it on to my superior.” He folded it up and tucked it into his pocket. “You will be held pending Colonel Tate’s decision.”
“But no action is called for, now that the house has been raided. Except that one of the men you arrested can be persuaded to give evidence against other conspirators, and his cooperation should be secured as soon as possible, before the ones still at large come to hear of this and scatter. And I am sure the order you have just now read identifies me as an agent of our government.”
“It does. But I have no way of knowing if the document is genuine. Even if I recognized the signature, it might be a clever forgery. I’ve never seen such a thing as this: ‘The bearer, Alexander Gordon, is acting by my Order, and you are Instructed to give him Any aid he may request.’ If it had come through official channels, I should have to trust its authenticity. This is too serious a matter for me to take any action except to refer it to a higher level.”
“But—”
“There is no more to be said. Private, lock the prisoner up in the cellar until he can be sent to join the others.”
“Captain Sloane, I would ask that you keep me away from the other prisoners. Only one of them knows me, but if he encounters me here, when he supposes me gone back to England, he may guess I am an intelligencer.”
“Hmmm. Well, you won’t be less comfortable in the cellar than you would be in a cell in Dundee. See that he’s provided a blanket and some straw, Private Bates. If confirmation of your document can be obtained, or Colonel Tate chooses to trust it, your stay may not be overlong.”
“Thank you, sir. And if you could pass the word that the prisoner Rupert Stowe would probably be willing to give evidence—if someone suggests it to him? He’s a fool, and I believe was led into this…this—”
“Treason,” Sloane finished, succinctly.
“By men of stronger character than he, who would be the more worth catching.”
“Very well. I see no harm in that, as I must send a messenger in any case.”
Even with a blanket, a pile of straw, and a bucket, the cellar room to which Alex was escorted was not appealing. There was a small ventilation grate high up on the outer wall, and the unexpected bonus of a pair of packing crates, one empty, one half full of kitchen utensils. He would at least be able to sit on one box and use the other for a table. No doubt they would feed him eventually.
Dinner proved to be a thin stew or thick soup containing some sort of meat and root vegetables, accompanied by beer. Supper was cheese, crackers, and beer. In the intervening hours, he speculated as to what was happening, or more specifically, why nothing seemed to be happening. Why had he not heard wagons arriving to impound the cases of muskets? Unless Captain Sloane was waiting for Jacobites to come for them. There were several problems with that strategy. For one, the word of the raid must have already spread for miles around and would have come to the ears of someone who would pass it to whoever was supposed to move the weapons along on their journey. He well recalled from his visits to Scotland as a boy how word spread in these country places. He dwelt for a while on memories of roaming the fields and hills with his cousins, who were all but bilingual in the Oxford English drilled into them by their tutor and the Lowland Scots dialect. There was a ruinous little tower, its floors and roof gone, they’d used as a fort to fight the many battles of Scottish history as related by their grandsire. They caught fish in a stream nearby and cooked them, pretending to be under siege by Edward I or some rival Border lord. Those grilled trout and the oatcakes they had brought with them had seemed a feast.
He sighed and forced his mind back to the present. He really could not believe the Jacobites planned to send a procession of freight wagons to collect the muskets. Transporting the cases from St. Andrews to the house, marked as imported furnishings, might pass
unremarked. A string of wagons moving them away again could only arouse curiosity. If he were planning to distribute them, he would do it a few cases at a time in a farm cart, well covered with hay or turnips, or in a visiting gentleman’s carriage.
The light penetrating the ventilation grate was fading. As no one had provided him with a candle, his tinderbox having been confiscated, he would be spending the night in the dark. He hoped there were no rats, but the certainty that there would be preyed on his mind until he moved one crate over against the other, piled the straw and blanket on them and curled up on top to await the morning.
He finally fell asleep, thinking of a ramble he and Cousin Hugh had taken the year before Hugh entered the University of Edinburgh and he went to Oxford. They had traveled on foot cross-country to the coast, sleeping outdoors wrapped in plaids at night. One day, they discussed the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius and the application of Stoic doctrine to modern life. When they realized they were doing so in the broadest Scots, they laughed until their sides ached. “We must not do so at university,” Hugh had said, wiping his eyes.
A pair of redcoats arrived shortly after he finished his breakfast of oat porridge and bread.
“Out o’ there, you,” the older one ordered brusquely. “The captain wants to see you.”
Gordon did not regret leaving his cell. The soldier might have shown a little common civility to an agent of His Majesty’s government, however. He would go back to the inn, wash thoroughly, have his coat and breeches brushed, put on clean linen, trade his hired horse for a fresh one, if the Lark had sailed, and start his homeward journey. What a heartening prospect! He’d done what he could for Stowe, passing on the word that he might be willing to give evidence. Perhaps the young fool would learn something from his misadventure.
The doors of the barn stood open, he noticed. Several redcoats were prying cases open, while another set out paper, ink, and quills on a table. Of course they would want an inventory. It was the British army at its best, though he was now quite glad his father had not bought him a commission.
It was not until he was shown into the back parlor and saw Sloane’s expression that he realized his plans might have suffered a setback.
“I almost believed you were an honest man,” the captain said. “It’s fortunate I’m cautious by nature. I’m sending you on your way to Dundee.”
“Why? If your colonel hasn’t had time to respond, why not keep me here?”
“He has responded. Your fellow conspirator—Stowe, is it?—was indeed willing to give evidence. He swears that you organized this business, provided the money and arranged your and his shipboard passage to St. Andrews. The navy will be advised to board and search the Lark if they sight her, and ascertain whether her crew are smugglers, traitors, or innocents. As innocent as sailors ever are,” he added sourly.
“Unbeknownst to Stowe, our government supplied the money, Stowe having gambled away the sum he was entrusted by Charles Pleasaunce, who apparently owns this house. No doubt Stowe hit upon this outrageous lie as a way of repudiating his supposed debt to me and diverting blame from himself. And you’d do better to stop the Sea Mew, captained by Daniel O’Brien. The cargo came on board that ship. The Lark is—” He stopped. Captain Sloane was ignorant of the Lark’s connection to the government. To call off the search for the Lark, Sloane would have to send word to his colonel who would forward the message to his navy contact through who knew how many intermediaries? There were the two privates present, as well. Once the secret was out in this room, it would soon be up and down the coast, putting the Lark’s usefulness in jeopardy and mayhap endangering its captain and crew.
“We took passage on the Lark because when Stowe lost the money, he panicked. By the time he confided his troubles to me and I had made arrangements with the, ah, correct department, it was too late to travel by coach or horse.”
“You are welcome to explain all that to Colonel Tate, though I doubt he will believe such a manifest Scot as yourself.”
“It’s true I’m half Scottish, on my mother’s side, but no one has ever mistaken me for a Scot.” Not since boyhood, anyway. And not that there was anything shameful in being Scottish, but just now it might be inconvenient to be taken for one.
“What, with such an accent as yours? If I’d noticed it yesterday, I’d not have been so trusting.”
“I don’t have an accent,” Alex started to say and then heard himself. Being in Scotland and remembering earlier visits, the burr had slipped into his speech, as it had during his boyhood visits.
“Take him away.”
They rode north by the highway that ran from Kirkcaldy to Newport, where a ferry crossed the Tay to Dundee. Through the whole journey, some fifteen or eighteen miles, Alex tried to decide what to do. He was guarded by a corporal and several privates, making any attempt to escape a forlorn hope. He would have to persuade the colonel to send to London to confirm his identity and mission. A few days’ imprisonment, or perhaps a week or two, and he would be free. Also, the Lark’s captain might come to hear of his arrest and take action. What, Alex could not guess. The captain would hardly care to reveal his status as an agent of the Admiralty. If he had no more pressing business, possibly he would sail back to London to notify that body, and that discreet office in Somerset House.
****
“It’s a fine, new building,” the corporal said chattily as they reined in before a great, steepled building fronted by an arcade. A number of men were idling there, talking in low voices. Even without being able to make out the words, there was an air of palpable tension. He’d sensed something very like it as they had ridden through the town: a sensation like that when amber is rubbed on silk.
“They call this the Town House, and the official offices are here. I’m told the cells are not bad. As cells go,” Corporal Fisk added.
He asked to speak with the colonel and was told Colonel Tate was too busy to be bothered, meeting with the provost and bailies of Dundee. “When he wants to question you, you’ll be sent for.”
Alex was escorted up a set of exterior stairs to an upper floor and shown into a cell containing several other men. None was Rupert Stowe. They fell silent when he entered. Once the guard had gone, there was a brief exchange of greetings. Alex took care to sound Scots, but no one offered any explanation of why they had been arrested. He noted they were dressed decently and spoke like men of some education. None appeared to be common criminals. He would have to rely on their recognizing his speech as a gentleman’s, for his appearance did not testify to it: no neckcloth and his coat and waistcoat dusty and bearing bits of straw from his imprisonment in shed and cellar, in spite of his attempt to brush them off.
Conversation was desultory, and he noticed a certain constraint, because of his presence, perhaps. Or mayhap they were worried. Which, in the absence of such proof as he had, would be very understandable, if they were rebels. It then occurred to him that he no longer had his letter. It was in Colonel Tate’s possession. Or not. He might have sent it on to London. He might have thrown it on the fire. That possibility gave him very uncomfortable cause for reflection, taking his mind off his fellow prisoners.
By the next morning, if his mind was not at ease, he had at least regained his powers of observation. As they ate their oatmeal porridge (rather cool by the time it was served out), he realized the other three men were very nearly as relaxed as if they sat at their own tables with no prospect of trial or hanging before them. They seemed to apprehend no more danger than if they had been taken up by the watch for some street brawl and would pay a trifling fine and be released. He remembered the feeling clearly, from his college days, when he and a few friends had spent a night in a cell over some silly prank.
He learned a little about the other men over the following two days. One was the owner of a small manor, one owned a linen manufactory, and the youngest was an attorney. Political discussion was avoided. They might be Jacobites or they might not. Their stoicism compelled all his respect. Wo
uld that he himself were as able to ignore the filthy condition of his clothing and the itching, which he feared was lice. He chose not to look beyond those minor discomforts.
That afternoon, he felt again the skin-crawling tension of the day of his arrival. They could hear the jailers whispering together when they passed in the corridor, and the afternoon meal was late. Then they heard the ringing of church bells. Alex’s cellmates exchanged glances and tight smiles. Even through the building’s thick walls they began to hear some commotion and shouting. Heavily shod feet ran past their door.
“Not long now, I think,” one man muttered to another.
Chapter 18
When she received the discreetly worded note from Jessup (“The chimney sweep failed to arrive today, as expected.”), Jane read once again the last paragraph of the letter Alex Gordon had left for her.
I expect to return to London with your brother no later than 7 September, on the schooner Lark. We may be delayed by bad weather or other circumstances, but in the event I do not contact you by the end of the aforementioned date, please convey the enclosed to the address inscribed thereon, to the hand of Anthony Lattimer and no other.
Your most obedient,
Alex Gordon
No message had come from Mr. Gordon at her papa’s house (which would have been awkward, but oh, she wished it had!) or at her uncle’s, as Jessup’s message had informed her. It need not mean that he—and Rupert, of course—had met with difficulties. Not dangerous difficulties. Storms might have delayed the ship they were to meet or kept the Lark from beginning its return voyage. It might have sunk. No, not that, please. Travel was often slow. Still, it was Scotland. Certain items in the last issue of The Gentleman’s Magazine occurred to her. She must fulfill Mr. Gordon’s request.
It was too late in the day to do so. With both her stepmother and her father at home, she could not go out to deliver it, or even send it by a servant without it being noticed and questions being asked. The next morning, 8 September, was Sunday, and she could do nothing until they had attended church.
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