The King's Bounty

by Sara Fraser

‘I tell you truly, Captain Seymour. I do not have any money to lend you.’ The fat constable managed to convey his indignation at Seymour’s reiterated demands for a loan without slowing the tempo of his gin-sipping. The expression on the soldier’s face plainly showed his disbelief. The nerves at the side of his left eye began their erratic twitching and, leaning farther across the narrow table he wrapped his long, strong fingers about the other’s podgy wrist and squeezed viciously until the fat man squeaked in pain.

  ‘You great fat turd.’ Seymour hissed. ‘I’ve given you near fifty pounds in gold and notes since I’ve been here. I do not ask you to return that. All I ask is for a loan of some of it.’

  ‘Captain, I swear to you I have no money,’ the fat man bleated pitifully. ‘It’s all gone, all the money you gave me has gone . . . I swear it! May God strike me dead if it ain’t gone!’

  Seymour’s unstable temper erupted. ‘I’ll not wait for God to strike you dead, you fat pig. I’ll save him the trouble by doing it myself,’ he snarled.

  Marston’s gin-reddened folds of complexion became a sickly puce.

  ‘Now don’t you be so hasty, Captain . . . I beg you not to be so hasty. I’ll try and get some money for you, I will. I take my oath, I’ll try.’ As he finished his anxious assurances, the blasts of a trumpet and shouts muted by distance came from the west of the town.

  ‘What the devil’s that trumpet blowing for?’ Seymour demanded. ‘Are you expecting recruiters here?’

  Marston shook his head in mystification. ‘No, Captain, I’ve had no word about soldiers coming here.’

  As he spoke, a small boy burst through the door of the bar-parlour and gabbled in nervous excitement, ‘If it please you, Marster Marston, me Dad says can you come up to the Black Lion. Me Dad says he afeered there might be some trouble . . . Me Dad says that them bloody ranters am causing an upset . . . Me Dad says they’m ablowing trumpets and suchlike and me Dad says that it’s a terrible sin to do that on the Sabbath day, that’s what me Dad says . . .’

  ‘And who, in hell’s name, is your Dad?’ The constable’s fear of his companion vented itself in aggression against the child.

  ‘If you please, Marster Marston. Me Dad keeps the Black Lion,’ the small boy answered breathlessly, and took to his heels.

  ‘God’s curse on those damned lunatics!’ Marston’s grumbles were more relieved than angry as he snatched at this opportunity to get away from the dangerous-tempered soldier. ‘You’ll forgive my leaving you, Captain Seymour, but there’ll be a riot if I don’t get over there this instant.’

  William Seymour’s pale eyes were filled with contempt and loathing. ‘I well recall another riot that you failed to prevent, fat man, and you were there when it started.’

  He once more put pressure on the constable’s sore wrist. The man grunted at the renewed ache and begged almost tearfully, ‘I must go, Captain, I must!’

  Seymour smiled savagely. ‘And I must have some money. A small loan only, to stay me until my pay arrives from the regiment.’

  The constable’s many chins quivered as he nodded his head.

  ‘I’ll see what’s to be done, Captain Seymour. I promise you faithful, I’ll see what’s to be done.’ He tried to smile confidently and reassuringly, but the other man’s expression halted the attempt. ‘I’ll bring you some money tonight, Captain. That’s a promise.’

  Seymour grinned again and released the captive wrist. ‘Make sure you keep that promise,’ he whispered menacingly.

  The constable, his breathing coming in short shallow gasps, nodded, and without another word went quickly away. Left to himself, William Seymour took a sip from the half-full tumbler of brandy at his elbow and abruptly realized the import of the small boy’s message about the ranters . . .

  ‘Goddam me for a slow-witted fool,’ he muttered. ‘That means George Jenkins will be with them . . . Excellent! That gives me the chance to have a quiet look about his quarters before I have my few words with him.’

  The captain finished his brandy in one gulp and went painfully on his crutches from the tavern and up in the direction of the smithy. Once out of sight of the town’s buildings, he hefted his crutches across one shoulder and ran quickly and easily towards his objective.

  *

  At the Black Lion, George Jenkins blew a long trumpet blast and ordered his companions to halt.

  ‘WOE! WOE! TO THE INHABITANTS OF THE EARTH BECAUSE OF THE COMING OF THE SHILOH!’ he shouted.

  The group formed a circle around him and the two flag-carriers which all but blocked the narrow street.

  ‘In the blessed book of Joel, chapter two verse twenty-eight, we are told . . . “In the latter days your old men shall dream dreams and your young men shall see visions . . .”’

  George Jenkins’ booming tones carried to the ears of the drinkers inside the Black Lion. Big Tom, the yeoman farmer who had started the fight with the soldiers, was in a genial mood. He opened the leaded bay window that fronted the street and retorted.

  ‘You’m bound to dream, Jarge Jenkins, specially when thee’s had a drop o’ drink.’

  His fellow topers joined in the bantering. ‘Ahr, that be roight, Tom. But you couldn’t call they buggers wi’ old Hellfire, a set o’ visions, could you now?’

  ‘Noo, more loike bloody bad dreams or nightmares oi should rackon.’

  The ranter blinked furiously and putting his trumpet to his lips began to sound blast after blast, until the echoes bounced along the entire length of the street and women left the fires where they tended the stewpots for dinner and came to their cottage doors to see what was happening. A stray dog sat down in the gutter outside the inn and started to howl in concert with the trumpet blasts.

  ‘Theer Jorge, thee’st made another convert!’ Big Tom jeered, and the onlookers laughed uproariously, women throwing their white aprons up before their faces and men, choking, spitting out the mouthfuls of drink they had been taking when the big man spoke. Gangs of urchins flocked to see the free entertainment and as the news of what was happening spread, customers at the dozens of other alehouses and taverns in the town left their seats and hurried to the Black Lion. By the time Thomas Marston had fetched his staff of office from his house and reached the scene, a dense mass of people and dogs hemmed the ranters in from all sides.

  ‘WOE! WOE! TO THE INHABITANTS OF THE EARTH BECAUSE OF THE COMING OF THE SHILOH! . . .’

  The chant echoed again and this time the crowd mockingly joined in.

  Marston selected some of the more sober, steadier men and directed them to aid him. Then he began to push his way through the close-packed, strong-smelling mass, using his heavy staff to belabour the backs and shoulders of those who were reluctant to move.

  ‘Clear the way in the King’s name,’ he ordered officiously. ‘Clear the way, I say . . . in the King’s name, clear the way!’

  ‘Watch out, Jarge!’ Big Tom shouted above the tumult of excited jeers and insults. ‘’Ere’s the conquering ’ero himself, acoming to get you!’

  ‘Ahr, that’s roight,’ a blue-aproned gardener laughed at Big Tom’s side. ‘Here’s the Champion o’ Salop acomin’ . . . the Tom Cribb o’ Bishops Castle.’

  The crowd good-naturedly hectored the constable, most of them liking him well enough. All through the baiting and heckling that George Jenkins had been subjected to, his temper had steadily risen, until now, when the constable had nearly broken through the crowds, it at last overwhelmed him and he lost control.

  ‘YOU ARE ALL ACCURSED!’ The tiny frame shook violently from head to toe and, pouring from the whiskered mouth, the mighty voice overtopped all the noise from the gleeful masses, while the small clenched fists flailed the air above the bushy-haired head. ‘YOU ARE THE GADARENE SWINE!’

  A roar of cheers greeted the booming insult.

  ‘YOU SHALL ALL PERISH LIKE THE MISERABLE SINNERS OF SODOM AND GOMORRAH!’

  ‘HURRAH! HURRAH! HURRAH!’ A hundred throats bellowed their mocking plaudits.

&nb
sp; Jenkins red-rimmed eyes bulged from their sockets and the blue veins in his forehead swelled and throbbed like thick twisting worms. ‘MAY GOD STRIKE YOU DEAD!’ his voice cracked into a hoarse scream. Blood-streaked froth bubbled down from his lips. ‘MAY HE STRIKE YOU DOWN AMONGST THE FILTH THAT BEGAT YOU! MAY GOD DESTROY YOU AND . . . GGGHHH . . .’ The hoarse scream gurgled in his throat and the ranter suddenly staggered and pitched face foremost into the gutter, sending a stray dog yelping. For brief moments there was a hush, then the fat, smelly woman shrieked and cried shrilly, ‘The Lord’s struck ’im down! He’s bin struck down!’

  Instantly the superstitious fears that dominated most of the people there took effect. Men walked quickly away, and mothers came running in a flurry of skirts to grab their children and hustle them into the cottages. Doors slammed shut and bolts rattled home. In only seconds, all who remained in the street were the constable, his helpers and the followers of Jenkins, all staring in mute horror at the small form lying motionless on the cobbles. Thomas Marston, like the rest, could not help thinking that the preacher had indeed been struck down by God. Summoning all his resources of courage, he carried out the bravest action of his life. He went to the motionless Jenkins and turned him over. Marston’s bated breath whooshed from his lungs in one great gust.

  ‘He’s alive!’ he uttered.

  The ranter’s face was calm and peaceful. There was a discoloured, fast-rising swelling on the cheekbone that had struck the ground and some small bubbles of saliva around his mouth, but that apart, the man might merely have dozed off. Big Tom the farmer came from the inn, with his cronies creeping nervously behind his broad shoulders.

  ‘He’s alive, is he, Marster Marston?’ The big man’s normally florid face was pale and tense.

  The constable nodded, and for once in his life felt strong and confidently in command of the situation. Jenkins stirred and his eyes opened. They held a peculiar fondness of expression.

  ‘Mammy?’ the ranter crooned the word doubtfully, and then smiled suddenly in delight, holding up his arms. ‘Mammy! Mammy! Mammy!’ he crowed like a baby, and curling himself up, he started to suck noisily at his thumb.

  There was a sharp gasp of horror from the people standing about him, and Marston shook his head gravely.

  ‘The poor bugger’s mind has gone,’ he said quietly. ‘He’s fit only for Bedlam now.’

  ‘What? What’s that you say?’ the smelly fat woman asked, hesitant and afraid.

  The constable scowled at her. ‘I means that he’s gone mad. As mad as a bloody hatter, and he’s got to go to the madhouse!’ He swung his staff at Jenkins’ followers. ‘Get you gone from here!’ he shouted angrily. ‘I’ll lock you up, if you ever comes to cause such disturbance in this town again . . . Get you gone!’

  Silently, they obeyed him, the men shocked and frightened at the terrible downfall of their prophet, the women sobbing bitterly and their children wailing in sympathy with them.

  Marston turned to his deputies and to Big Tom’s group of friends. ‘You men carry the poor sod down to the lock-up. I’ll put him in there and watch over him while one of you fetches the doctor to him . . . But it’ll do no good. He’s a loony now and bound only for Bedlam, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Ahr, oi rackon you’m roight theer, Thomas Marston,’ the big farmer sighed. ‘Mind you, he’s bin halfway theer for years, arn’t he?’

  Between them Marston and Big Tom lifted the thumb-sucking preacher and carried him gently to the town gaol.

  *

  William Seymour searched every inch of the smithy, even sounding all the walls and floors for hidden, hollowed-out spaces, but found only a soiled one-pound banknote and a few silver and copper coins. He slipped those into his pocket then sat on one of the rickety chairs in the living room to think.

  ‘That hoard of Turpin Wright’s is not here,’ he decided. ‘But I would stake my life on it, that George Jenkins knows where it is. It’s clear that it was hidden in the grave, but who the devil took it out? Surely Wright and his friend could not have done so. It must have been Jenkins . . . Or?’ Another possibility occurred to him. ‘I wonder now? Could it have been his daughter?’

  At first Seymour thrust the idea from him as preposterous, but the longer he pondered, the more it persisted. He went back over the news he had gleaned from the gossips in the taverns and alehouses. Jenkins had attacked his daughter and she had fled the town. The grave had apparently been opened while Jenkins was locked up. Could the attack on his daughter have been part of a carefully contrived plan between them? A hundred different possibilities raced through Seymour’s mind. Where could Sarah Jenkins have gone, assuming she had the hoard? . . . Could it be to Portsmouth? To be near her French lover? What better place to dispose of valuables of any kind than a bustling seaport, with rare and costly objects continually changing hands as ships brought home prizes of war and captured cargoes?

  ‘But I must be sure!’ Seymour told himself. ‘I must force the truth from that poisonous little rat, Jenkins.’

  He decided to return to the smithy later that night when the town would be sleeping and the streets deserted. He wanted no interference when he tackled the blacksmith. Seymour went slowly back to the Three Tuns and found the bar-parlour full of excited townspeople discussing the events of the morning. Seymour listened intently to the disturbing news and then made his way discreetly to the town gaol. A small crowd was hanging about the open door watching the doctor examine Jenkins in the first of the cells.

  The ranter kept muttering to himself and then gurgling and waving his arms and legs in the air like an infant. Seymour leant against the open doorway, ostensibly to rearrange his crutch pads more comfortably beneath his armpits. He caught only one snatch of Jenkins’ apparently meaningless rambling, but that was sufficient.

  ‘Her’s took me pretty things, Mammy . . . Her’s took me pretty things,’ the ranter grizzled.

  Thomas Marston came to the open door. ‘You’d best be off about your business,’ he ordered the inquisitive loafers impatiently, and then sensed Seymour’s cold regard. A flash of apprehension crossed his eyes. ‘I haven’t forgotten our talk, Captain,’ he said nervously. ‘I’ll be seeing you tonight, never fear, and I’ll have with me what we talked about.’

  Seymour was pleased at the other’s obvious misunderstanding of why he was there.

  ‘You had better have it, Marston,’ he snapped, and hobbled away up the steep slope of the hill.

  Inwardly, Seymour felt a warm glow of satisfaction, and a certainty that he now knew what had become of Turpin Wright’s hoard. ‘At last my luck has changed . . . I’m sure it will hold for me now,’ he exulted fiercely. ‘When I get some money from that fat pig tonight, I’ll be on my horse and away to Portsmouth,’ he promised himself, and smiled in anticipation. ‘Who knows, I might even take some pleasure with Sarah Jenkins . . . God knows, I deserve a little honey after all the vinegar I’ve been forced to swallow these last months. . . . She’s a tasty piece right enough, and would make a rare sweet bedmate for a while.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Portsmouth, December, 1812

  ‘Yes, good voman? Vot can I do for you?’ Shimson Levi opened the small hatch let into the fretworked iron grille that surmounted his pawnshop counter and protected his goods from the thieving hands which abounded in Broad Street, the main artery of Spice Island, Portsmouth.

  Sarah Jenkins took a large silver spoon from her canvas sack and showed it to the young Jew. Unlike his father, old Shimson, the pawnbroker did not favour the wide hat and gaberdine, with the long ringleted hair and beard of his fellow Hasidic Jews. Instead he was clean-shaven, with hair trimmed short and he dressed in elegant cutaway square-tailed royal blue coat, with tight breeches and gold-tasselled Hessian boots. Shimson took the spoon and turned it over and over in his be-ringed hands, while his brown, slightly protruding eyes evaluated it. He finished his scrutiny of the metal and then gave his full attention to the woman, openly admiring her shapely body
and handsome face.

  ‘Vell, my pretty, vot does you expect me to give you for this?’

  ‘Only a fair price . . . no more, and no less,’ Sarah boldly met his avid stare. ‘Come now, Hebrew! Give me your offer, for I’ve no time to waste here.’

  Shimson toyed with the large diamond pin that he wore stuck in the folds of his fine lace cravat, and his wide thick-lipped mouth grew suddenly dry. This woman disturbed him, the sexuality she exuded so powerfully almost caused him to offer a generous price. With an effort, he recovered his customary poise and stated a ridiculously low figure. Sarah immediately took the spoon back and went to leave the shop.

  ‘Vait! Vait a moment, young voman . . . I was only teasing you.’

  She paused with her hand on the doorlatch that opened on to the street.

  ‘Come back here . . . Please . . . I’ll give you a good price,’ Shimson wheedled, overcome by the desire to know more about this handsome girl.

  Still without speaking, she released the latch and came back towards the counter. He poked his head and shoulders through the hatch and she caught the fragrant scent of the oils of Macassar that glistened in his abundant raven curls. He smiled at her, his teeth white and perfect, and for all his fleshy nose and thick straight eyebrows he was not unhandsome.

  ‘Have you more things to show me?’ he asked. ‘If you have, I can give you a better price for the spoon . . . That is, so long as you let me have first choice of the rest of your goods.’

  His tone gave a double-edged meaning to the words, but Sarah disregarded that.

  ‘Give me a good price for the spoon, Hebrew, and I’ll bargain with you for what’s in here.’ She jerked her sack causing the silver plate inside to clunk dully. ‘But that won’t be today,’ she added.

  ‘All right, my pretty one,’ he nodded, and doubled his price. ‘There? Is that fair enough? I’m letting you rob me,’ he joked.

  She took the money and again went to the door.

  ‘Don’t forget, pretty. Come and see Shimson Levi very soon.’