by John Drake
“Yes, sir,” says I.
He bit his lip and chewed things over in his head, and then looked at me with something like nervousness.
“Jacob,” says he: Jacob, indeed! “I will entrust you with a confidence as great as that given to me.” He waved at the drawer with its hidden secrets. “The President wants to sell more grain to the French. It is vital to the farming interest that is his main support in Congress. But he does not want a long or hard war with the British. Do you understand?”
“Not entirely, sir,” says I. He strained even harder, like a sparrow laying a hen’s egg. Finally he forced it out.
“The war with Britain is finished. Our representatives will meet the British in Lisbon as soon as diplomatic couriers can carry the necessary messages to and fro. And a peace will be negotiated.” He looked at me closely. “This is uttermost secret, Jacob,” says he. “No other person aboard knows this.”
“You may rely upon me, sir,” says I, solemn as a bishop in a buttocking shop.
“My orders, are,” says Cooper, “to join the Grain Convoy at Norfolk, to place my ship at the disposal of the convoy’s commander, Rear-Admiral Vanstable, and render him every assistance within my power … But … I must avoid action against the British.”
In that moment I could see the burden of worry he was under. He seemed to be a man of more weight than I’d thought, for he’d covered it up very well. I’d not have thought such pressures were on him. Obviously President-Mr-Yankee-doodle Washington wanted to have his cake and eat it. He wanted to be friends with the British and the French, and Cooper was stuck in the middle. What was the poor devil to do if Admiral Frog ordered him to engage a British ship? Mutiny, perhaps?
“I see your problem, sir,” says I, “but why should you tell this to me?”
“I am telling you,” says he, “because I need the expertise that you bring to my ship, but I appreciate the divided loyalties that must struggle within you. I wanted you to know that I am under orders not to fight against your former countrymen.”
Well, it was handsomely said, I suppose. But he was wrong in one respect. There was no struggle going on within me, I was simply looking forward to going back to Boston.
After that he gave me his hand and then leapt up with a grin on his face.
“Now then, Fletcher,” says he, “I shall turn out all hands for your first gun-drill. The stage is set! It is time for you to give us your Hamlet!”
15
CASE: Coignwood v. Fletcher
BODY: Salisbury, David, Lt. RN.
CONNECTION: Witness to actions of Fletcher?
ACTION: Strong interrogation required.
(From Samuel Slym’s record cards, transcribed from the shorthand.)
*
Slym faced three opponents. Three young men with vicious anticipation writ all over their faces. They were what his dad would have called “Grosvenor Square coves” the sort that by money and birth were used to having the world the way they wanted it. Two of them were big, red-faced, stupid louts, fresh in town from their fathers’ estates, and looking for a wiser head to show them how to rake hell. The third, who was their leader, was a tall, thin gentleman, dressed in the height of fashion, and with a thoroughly nasty look about him. He was the one to watch.
“What’s your pleasure, Davy?” said one of the bumpkins. “Have you your pocket-knife to hand, Toby?” said Lieutenant David Salisbury.
“Aye,” said Sir Toby Moore, Baronet.
“Well, then,” said Salisbury, “give it here,” and a gleam of steel passed from hand to hand. “Now,” said Salisbury, “if you and Billy’d just hold the rogue down and stuff a handkerchief in his mouth, for the noise ...” he showed his teeth in a lascivious grin, “then I’ll trim the bastard’s ears for his impertinence!”
“It’s madness, gentlemen,” said Slym, “this is Brooks’s of St James’s Street, you cannot …”
“Get him!” cried Salisbury, and the two louts dived at Slym. Five minutes later a waiter bearing a tray of refreshment for the patrons, passed along the corridor of side rooms just as a door opened and two gentlemen emerged.
Both appeared drunk, and one was supporting the other. The waiter recognised the helpless one as Mr Salisbury, a well-known member of the establishment, who gossip said had recently lost his employment in the Navy through a scandal believed to be connected with the Coignwood millions.
“May I be hov hassistance, sir?” said the waiter with massive dignity.
“No, no, ‘sallright!” said Slym. He shifted his hold on the drooping and barely conscious figure of Salisbury who the waiter noticed was somewhat bruised about the face. Slym grinned and found a coin for the waiter.
“Good fellow!” said Slym and the waiter passed on his way. He wished he had a similar coin for every other time he’d seen members go home in that state.
So Slym and his bosom companion made their way through the opulent splendour of Brooks’s subscription house. Down the corridor they went, through the Great Room with its glittering chandeliers, and the shaded lights illuminating the big green-baize table tops surrounded by absorbed gentlemen at their whist, picquet and quinze. This elegant chamber with its Adam fireplace surmounted by a huge mirror, and its vaulted ceiling adorned in gilt and white plasterwork relief, was the very temple of London gambling. Fortunes changed hands every night and there was a long waiting list for membership, even at the stiff cost of eleven guineas per year.
Even as he played the part of a drunken toff, even as he chuckled into Salisbury’s dazed ear and laughed at his imagined replies, and hushed him with finger to lips, so as not to disturb the silence of the players, Slym looked about him at this epicentre of the world he ached to join. He well knew that the committee would never even consider membership for such as he. Brooks’s was for gentlemen, which the creature Slym was supporting could claim to be, and which he could not.
Slym had only got inside by hefty bribes to the Chief Steward and the Head Waiter. Greedy for gold but in fear of their employment, they’d sneaked him in through the servants’ entrance and into a private room. A message was then sent to Lieutenant Salisbury at the gaming tables that a gentleman begged to see him in the Coignwood interest. That had brought Salisbury quick enough.
But Slym hadn’t expected Salisbury’s two chums, nor the savagery of Salisbury’s reaction to his questions.
As Slym and Salisbury staggered through the Great Room and made their way to the lobby, the Head Waiter and Chief Steward rushed to their assistance, helped them out into St James’s Street and hailed a hackney coach.
Only as the coach pulled away towards Piccadilly did these two functionaries relax from the nervous dread that some Committee Member might discover their connivance at allowing a non-subscriber to enter the premises. They stood on the corner of Park Place and St James’s Street, outside the Club, for some minutes sharing their relief and good fortune. When finally they went back inside, they found the porter and one of the waiters laughing over the fact that the two young country gentlemen who’d been brought in by Lieutenant Salisbury had obviously fallen out with one another, for they’d emerged from one of the private rooms with blood down their shirt-fronts and all the marks of having given one another a good battering.
*
By the time the hackney reached the Blue Boar Inn on Aldpte High Street, Lieutenant Salisbury had recovered from the clout he’d had from Slym’s fist. His head ached and he felt sick, but he was fully aware of what was going on. None the less he remained meekly co-operative and stood beside Slym and waited while Slym paid the coachman. It was two in the morning, but the street was alive with light and noise from the Blue Boar, and the Bull next door. Tarts and drunks followed their callings and raucous singing came from within both establishments.
When the coach rattled off, Slym jerked his thumb at an alley between the two inns.
“In there!” said he. “You first,” and gave Salisbury a shove to help him on his way. The alley was well
lit by lamps fixed to the walls and contained stables for the Bull’s horses. Above the stables, reached by a flight of heavy wooden stairs clapped against the outside of the buildings, was a first floor, with a long run of windows, like those in weavers’ cottages. Slym pushed Salisbury up the stairs.
At the top was a small landing opposite a door. Beside the door, a brass plate was screwed into the wall. It gleamed from daily polishing and bore the two words, “Samuel Slym”.
Slym handed Salisbury a key.
“Open it,” he said and stepped back. This procedure was necessary in order for Slym effectively to continue with the persuasion that was enforcing Salisbury’s meek compliance.
The persuasion was a neat little double-barrelled pistol, by Egg, the Irish gunsmith, with exterior lock-springs, one barrel over the other, and a single trigger that fired each in turn. It was a favourite of Slym’s where concealment was important, for it was no longer than his hand and slipped nicely into a coat pocket.
“See this?” he’d said to Salisbury, waving the pistol under his nose when he came to himself in the hackney. “Trim my fuckin’ ears, will you, you dirty sod? Listen, kiddy, play me false by just one squeak and I’ll pop this in the middle of your back!”
So Salisbury opened the door into Slym’s offices, gave the key back to Slym and the two stepped inside, into a narrow hallway lit by a low night-light, fluttering in a dish of water on a side table. Slym pushed Salisbury through a door into a room lined with little drawers. Row upon row of them just visible in the dim light of the single candle that Slym had lit. It was the same room where he’d first met Lady Sarah.
“Sit down,” he said to Salisbury, indicating a chair.
“I protest,” said Salisbury, as anger overcame fear. “I am a Naval officer. I bear His Majesty’s commission, and the Law will not allow …”
Crack! The blackthorn stick in Slym’s right hand rapped against the side of Salisbury’s head.
“Ah!” cried Salisbury, jumping back and holding his hand to his head. “You could have killed me!”
“Sit down!” said Slym, firmly. “You’d have been dead half an hour ago, if that’s what I’d wanted. I’ve told you, kiddy, all I want from you is some answers.”
“Damn you!” said Salisbury. “I’m a King’s officer and I’m damned if I’ll answer to the likes of you!”
Crack! The blackthorn landed on Salisbury’s elbow, making him yelp in pain. Slym seized him by the arms and forced him into a chair by main force. Then he drew up another chair and sat facing his victim at one yard’s distance.
“Now then,” said Slym, “you saw me baste them friends of yours, didn’t you?” Salisbury nodded. Slym continued, “Did it with this, didn’t I?” He held up the blackthorn stick with its knarled, lead-loaded head. Salisbury nodded again. “Now, we’ve got all night for this, kiddy,” said Slym. “It’s you, me and this stick. Just the three of us, see?” Salisbury said nothing, so Slym jabbed the stick hard into his belly. “See?” he repeated.
“Yes,” said Salisbury.
“Good,” said Slym. “So there’s only one more thing you should know.” He fell silent and cocked his head on one side. “Listen!” said he and Salisbury heard the sounds of the unquiet streets and the boozy music of the two big inns. This interspersed with the occasional distant cry or peal of laughter. “Hear that?” said Slym. “You can bawl your head off in here, and nobody’s going to pay the least heed.”
“Good God-in-heaven!” gasped Salisbury. “Do you propose to put me to torture, like a heathen Turk?”
“Yes,” said Slym, “that is precisely my intention and I thank you, sir, for saving me the trouble of explaining it to you.”
A feeling of uncanny horror came upon Salisbury. He felt he was in the grip of a madman. The dark room with its solitary candle added to the horror. Only a dim light came through the windows and of the man in front of him he could see little more than shadows and the fierce, gleaming eyes.
But even Salisbury, sadist and bully that he was, had held command afloat and was not to be subdued without a fight. Especially not by a man who came from a class that Salisbury believed to be innately inferior to his own.
“I’ll tell you nothing, you bloody lubber!” said he. “You cannot touch me, you do not know who I am. By God I’ll have the law on you!”
“I know who you are,” said Slym, “for I’ve taken an interest in you. You’re Lieutenant David Salisbury, a friend of Lieutenant Alexander Coignwood. You were Master and Commander of the Impress Tender Bullfrog when Mr Jacob Fletcher was taken aboard. You carried Fletcher and other pressed men to Portsmouth in February. But later you were relieved of your command over something that happened aboard your ship. I want to know exactly what happened, and I want to know everything you can tell me about Mr Jacob Fletcher.”
Salisbury was stunned by this and was instantly pricked with quite another kind of fear.
“How can you know this?” said he.
“I ask questions everywhere,” said Slym, “even at the Admiralty.”
“I’ll tell you nothing!” said Salisbury, for he was terrified of past misdeeds coming back to ruin his future.
The first blow from Slym’s stick knocked Salisbury clean out of the chair. And so the interrogation commenced.
*
Later, Slym threw Salisbury out through his front door with such vigour that Salisbury had to grab at the stair rail with his left hand (the fingers of which were still sound) to save himself from going headlong down the flight. He managed it by a whisker and hobbled painfully down the wooden stairs to creep away into the night. There was not the slightest possibility of his taking legal action. He was reduced to praying that Slym might hold his tongue.
As soon as Salisbury was gone, Slym filled his favourite office with light. He lit a dozen candles, without regard to the cost, and methodically cleaned the floor of the marks of Salisbury’s presence. Fastidious man that he was, he set to with brushes and cloths and water and an oilcloth apron over his immaculate clothes. As he worked he thought over what he had learned and realised that it was easier to get a few bloodstains off his polished floorboards than it was to rid his mind of the filth that Salisbury had poured into it.
Some of what he’d got out of Salisbury merely confirmed what Slym had already learned from a clerk at the Admiralty: namely, that Fletcher had been entered into H.M. Frigate Phiandra (the ship that had made herself so famous recently, by beating the French at Passage d’Aron).
Salisbury also knew that Fletcher had for some reason been discharged by Captain Bollington, at Portsmouth. But this was the sort of gossip any Naval officer might pick up in the coffeehouses, and as to where Fletcher had gone after Phiandra, and which Slym dearly needed to know, Salisbury was ignorant — or at least Slym hadn’t dared ask any harder, for fear of killing him.
What had set Slym’s mind whirling was that Fletcher had been singled out for the press-gang and Salisbury’s Impress tender, because of a plot laid by Lady Sarah’s son Alexander.
She hadn’t told Slym that! And she hadn’t told him that her precious bleedin’, dead-departed, favourite son, Lieutenant Alexander Coignwood, who was supposed to be Sir bleedin’ Galahad, that fell in action against his bleedin’ country’s enemies, had actually been a dirty-minded sod that was up to Christ-knows-what with turd-pokers like Salisbury and his own brother Victor!
Slym was furious and disgusted all at the same time. Furious that she thought she could keep him ignorant of any aspect of the matter once he got his teeth into it, and disgusted at the filthy insinuations Salisbury had made about Lady Sarah herself. He couldn’t believe what Salisbury said, be he never so good a friend of her sons and up with all their doings. When he thought of her …
“Fire and shite!” he said aloud, on his knees, scrubbing-brush in hand. “I won’t have it, and that’s that!” A singular remark indeed for a man whose entire career had been built upon rigorous sifting of the evidence.
He grou
nd the brush into the floorboards and scrubbed away at the remains of a bloodstain as he fastened on simpler matters. Alexander had set Salisbury to kill Fletcher — actually kill the bugger! That was a spry one for a pair of King’s bleedin’ officers of the Royal bleedin’ Navy! But Salisbury hadn’t the stomach for the work, and the most he dared do was set his Bosun to make the sod’s life a misery, while the Bullfrog made the brief voyage from Polmouth to Portsmouth. But then the stupid fool of a Bosun had disappeared — odd that, thought Slym, bleedin’ odd — and Fletcher had been off-loaded with the other pressed men into the receiving ship for the Channel Fleet. And that was the last Salisbury had seen of Jacob Fletcher.
Slym forced himself to push all else out of his mind so he could all the better concentrate on finding Jacob Fletcher. That’s what she’d employed him for. The thing now was to find where the bleeder had gone next. Fortunately Salisbury had given him the next step. Salisbury knew an officer who’d met an old shipmate, a common seaman discharged from Phiandra too ruptured by heavy lifting to be of further use. This kiddy said Fletcher had been sweet on a tart called Kate Booth aboard Phiandra.
It seemed Fletcher and his doxy had piped their eyes something sad to see when they parted, and she’d left the ship a day after him, vowing to follow him. It seemed to Richard Slym that if anyone knew where Fletcher had gone, it would be little Miss Booth. Methodically he completed his cleaning, put his bucket and brushes and cloth away, removed the apron, put on his coat, and took a copy of that day’s Globe from the rack where newspapers were filed. He looked for the column listing prices and departure times for the Mail Coaches. This was a ritualistic action carried out to calm his mind. He knew the Mail Coach times by heart and, on this occasion, price didn’t matter. He’d go as an “inside” and damn the expense. She was paying and she could afford it.
16
The instant the last man ceased to move, I felt four hundred pairs of eyes on me, as many of them as could see me anyway. Cooper and his officers were clustered behind me, looking down into the gun-deck. The top men filled the fighting tops, the Marines were deployed with ball cartridge, and the gun-crews stood at their stations behind the main-battery 24-pounders, and the squat 32-pounders that lined the quarterdeck and fo’c’sle. I’d taken my stand at the quarterdeck rail where I could see most of the gun-crews. Only those beneath my feet, under the quarterdeck, were out of sight.