The King's Bounty

by Sara Fraser

  ‘Damn the High Toby!’ Seymour decided. ‘Tomorrow I’ll move into Portsmouth, and this time I’ll stay there until I find Sarah Jenkins. All I’m likely to find if I continue like this is a hempen rope around my neck.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  In the time she had been working at The Golden Venture, Molly Bawn had been able to save more money and acquire more possessions than in all the years she had been selling her body on the streets and ships of Portsmouth. True to her promise, Sarah Jenkins had given the girls employed at the club a fair return on the money they persuaded men to part with. Molly herself had been one of those trained as a ‘priestess’ or croupier by Hebrew Star and Portugal John, and her income had increased correspondingly. The sight of Molly’s creamy-skinned swelling breasts in the low-cut semi-transparent gowns which all the girls wore, had caused many a gambler to lose concentration on the hand of cards he held, and in doing so to lose his stake.

  Molly’s sense of loyalty and affection for Sarah had also developed and grown, and when her mistress had asked Molly to carry out certain mysterious tasks, the girl had assented eagerly. For the most part these tasks had been merely to go once a week, sometimes early in the morning, sometimes late at night, to a sleazy beer-ken on Spice Island and take a sealed letter. At the beer-ken Molly would wait until a pig-tailed young sailor came to her carrying another sealed letter. Without more than a word in passing they would exchange missives and part. Molly would see how eagerly Sarah tore the letter open and read it, and would wonder what sort of lover Captain Arthur Redmond could be, to arouse such emotion in her normally undemonstrative mistress.

  On the night of the second day of February, Sarah again called Molly upstairs to her chambers. Sarah’s handsome face was flushed and her manner strangely tense.

  ‘Molly, my dear. I want you to go on an errand for me.’ The girl’s bold eyes twinkled. ‘Is it the usual place, Mistress Sarah?’

  The other woman nodded. ‘It is, yes.’

  Molly laughed and teased. ‘I rackon you’re having a high old fling wi’ that captin, ain’t you, Miss Sarah . . . Sending all these love notes to him?’

  Sarah’s full lips tightened in annoyance at the other’s assumption that the letters were for Redmond. ‘Hold your tongue, girl,’ she snapped angrily. ‘Don’t jest of matters you know nothing about.’

  The girl flushed, hurt and affronted by the rebuff.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she retorted sharply. ‘I meant no harm by it. I was only teasing you.’

  Sarah was instantly sorry for what she had done. Her voice softened and she went to her young protégée and hugged her gently. ‘It is I who should say sorry, for answering you in that manner, my dear,’ she smiled, and released the girl. ‘I could wish with all my heart that it was merely a love affair . . . But there are plans coming towards completion that I can tell no one of, not even you.’ Her green eyes held anxiety. ‘Believe me, when I am able to do so, then I shall tell you the meaning behind these letters you have been delivering and bringing for me.’

  Molly returned the smile and lost her feeling of hurt. ‘Be sure, Miss Sarah, that you can trust me. You’ve bin real good to me. Better than anyone ever was before in me life . . . I’ll never fail you in anything.’

  Her sincerity was so patent that it touched Sarah deeply.

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ she said, and then from the cabinet of her French-style writing bureau she lifted with difficulty a largish parcel wrapped thickly in oilskin covers. Her expression was grave as she told the girl, ‘This is the last thing I shall be asking you to take, Molly, and the most important. I must know that it reaches its destination safely, and it is vital that it reaches there tonight. When the sailor takes it from you, wait at the beer-ken until he returns, no matter how long that may be . . .’ She paused and then with great emphasis repeated. ‘You must wait until he brings back the news that the parcel has arrived safely. Do you understand? It must get there tonight, it is of the utmost importance to me.’

  The girl nodded. ‘I will, Miss Sarah. I promise you faithful I will.’

  ‘Good! Go quickly now, and take care.’ Sarah gave the younger woman the packet and ushered her down the stairs and out of her private entrance into the dark street. The parcel was very heavy in relation to its size and before she had gone far, Molly was obliged to rest for a moment. Then she went on, picking her way through the narrow ill-lit alleyways made sinister by the faint wraiths of steam snaking up from the fetid gutters and sewer puddles that lay everywhere along the lengths of the cobbles.

  *

  In the pitch blackness of the upper battery of the Crown hulk, Henri Chanteur lay in his hammock, unhearing of the night noises of men and rats, his mind a turmoil of anxious tensions. For weeks now he had been making his preparations. First had come the task of finding a safe messenger from among the garrison of the hulk to carry letters to Sarah. Helped by Gaston de Chambray, he had been able to meet and bribe a young sailor for this. Next had been the recruitment of half a dozen daring and trustworthy prisoners who were ready to risk their necks in an escape attempt. One of these was, of course, de Chambray and between the two of them they had slowly and very cautiously selected four others.

  The need for caution was paramount. In the hell-holes of the hulks, men would have betrayed their own mothers if it could gain them the slightest advantage; and if an informer brought an escape plot to the notice of the authorities, then he was rewarded generously, being allowed to go to one of the small towns where prisoners-of-war were given freedom of parole and supplied with subsistence and money for his needs. The temptation was one which most men found irresistible and many escape attempts were foiled by these means.

  Up until this point all had gone well with Henri’s plans. Tonight was the crucial time. A parcel containing weapons, charts, navigation instruments, and instructions as to a safe hiding-place where the escapers could lie low until the procurement of a boat, should even now be on its way from Sarah. The parcel would also contain the prime requisite of any escape . . . Gold! Gold enough to purchase a deaf ear and blind eye from the sentries on the gallery—gold to buy the help of sufficient prisoners in the upper battery, so that any attempt to raise the alarm while the escape was in progress would mean a slit throat for the man who made that attempt. Gold to pay for the hiding-place and gold to pay for the boat. Henri lay rigid and sweating in his hammock and not for the first time that night prayed fervently to his God to let the parcel reach him safely.

  *

  When Molly reached the beer-ken, which was one of a dozen tumbledown hovels fronting the Camber anchorage separating Portsmouth from Spice Island, her arms were strained and her back ached from the weight of the parcel. Spice Island was unusually quiet, no fresh ships had entered the harbour for days and money was scarce. The cold night had driven the beggars and urchins from the streets to the kitchens of their doss-houses, or wherever else gave some shelter from the wind and rain. Only the patrols of the town provost marshal could be seen wandering, shivering and cursing their ill-luck at being selected for the task. And these were only seep infrequently, since the old soldiers and sailors who led them knew many discreet little drinking dens where tired men could have a pot of mulled ale to keep out the chill of the weather.

  The beer-ken that Molly went to consisted of a single room. Low-roofed and dirty, its only furniture a few wooden kegs turned on end to serve as tables and seats. A greasy-topped narrow counter divided the customers from the barrels of ale and cider that lay on a low brick shelf, and hanging from the ceiling two oil-lamps gave light and enough heat to accentuate the musty smell of the room. There was only one customer in the place, leaning over the counter in quiet conversation with the pockmarked, filthy-aproned, unshaven tub of a landlord.

  Molly glanced at the customer and was struck by his appearance. He was very tall and wore a long black military cloak which stretched to his Hessian boots. On his blond hair was a high-crowned beaver hat. As if sensing her regard
, the tall man swung to look at her. Molly’s bold hazel eyes met his pale grey stare and she felt a tremor of excitement course through her body.

  He appraised her admiringly and despite the cruelty that she saw in his lean weathered face, and the hard lines of his thin lips, she thought him one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. He smiled at her, showing even white teeth and for all her wide experience of men, Molly became suddenly shy. Flustered, she looked away and placing her parcel on the counter asked the landlord to give her a glass of gin. For some minutes she sipped the yellow-clouded liquid and felt its heat spreading through her, calming her sudden nervousness and restoring her customary confident boldness. She studiously ignored the tall man, and was so intent on doing so that when a young sailor entered the beer-ken, she failed to notice him. For all his tarred pigtail, tarpaulin jacket, wide trousers and glazed round hat, the sailor was little more than a boy, and with the brashness of youth he went straight to her, asking loudly,

  ‘Be you the gel from Mistress Sarah Jenkins?’

  William Seymour was just lifting his own glass of gin to his lips when he heard the question. The words almost made him drop his glass, so unexpected were they. Fortunately for him, both Molly Bawn and the landlord had turned to look at the sailor and neither had noticed his shocked reaction. Covertly he watched and listened.

  ‘That’s right,’ Molly Bawn answered. ‘And keep your voice down a bit, can’t you. I doon’t want the whole o’ bloody Pompey to hear my business . . . And another thing, who might you be? I don’t know you.’

  The youth became exaggeratedly quiet. ‘I’m Dick’s messmate,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘He warn’t able to come tonight. He’s bin took orf the shore boat crew, so ’e’s sent me instead.’ The sailor produced a sealed letter. ‘’Ere, he give me this to give for your mistress, and ’e says that you’m to gi’ me the parcel to take back.’

  For a few moments Molly bit her lip in indecision, then remembering Sarah’s instructions she said rapidly, ‘All right, Jack Tar, there’s the package . . . Now listen careful . . .’ She instructed him as to his coming back to tell her all was well.

  He knuckled his forehead and grinned cheekily. ‘Doon’t you fret, my pretty. We’ll be bringin’ the boat back and forrards all night long by the look on it. I’se never known so much comin’ and gooin’ by the bloody orfficers, I’m buggered if I ’as . . . I’ll come back and let you know all’s well, doon’t fret.’

  ‘Mind that you does,’ she admonished severely.

  He hefted the parcel and whistled through his teeth in surprise. ‘Bugger me! But ’tis heavy. What’s you got in ’ere? A bloody cannonball by the weight on it, I shouldn’t wonder.’ He grunted with effort as he hefted the parcel on to his shoulder and left swaggering jauntily. Molly watched him go, then ordered another gin. When she put a coin on the counter to pay for it, the landlord pushed it back to her.

  ‘It’s paid for,’ he told her gruffly.

  ‘I hope that you’ll not take offence, mistress.’ William Seymour swept his hat from his blond hair and bowed with courtly grace. Still bending, he smiled at her. ‘It is only that I was so charmed by your appearance, I wished to make your acquaintance.’

  Molly felt her heart start to thump. She could not remember ever having been so strongly attracted physically to a man.

  Seymour straightened. ‘May I join your company?’ he asked politely.

  Molly drew a deep breath to steady her heartbeat and returned his smile. ‘If you wish, sir. For I have to remain here awhile, and company is always welcome.’

  He came close and smiled down at her. ‘Then I am a very fortunate man, mistress. To have met someone as beautiful as yourself, to whom company is welcome, is indeed a blessing for a man as lonely as I am . . .’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It was during the second week in March that Captain Joseph Ward, officer commanding the Grenadier Company, sent for Jethro Stanton. Sergeant Turner marched the young private into the company office, but told him nothing of what was to happen. So it was with some apprehension that Jethro, standing rigidly to attention before the captain’s desk, waited to hear what was to be said. Joseph Ward laid down the feathered quill he had been writing with in the ledger in front of him, and leant back in his chair.

  ‘Ah yes, Private Stanton,’ he began. ‘I wish to ask you one or two questions.’

  Jethro’s hand flashed to the peak of his shako in salute and remained there.

  ‘Put down your hand,’ the captain told him.

  Jethro stayed as he was.

  Ward’s lips twitched in a gratified smile. Some old soldier had obviously given the young man some tips. It was a custom brought back by veterans from India that in the presence of an officer, the soldier, to show his respect, remained at the salute until the officer manually pulled down the raised hand. Ward nodded his close-cropped brown hair and Sergeant Turner stepped up to Jethro and pulled his hand down.

  ‘Your courteous respect does you credit, Stanton,’ Ward said. ‘Tell me, do you know aught of reading and writing?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Do you scribe a neat hand and read well?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Do you like the army?’

  Jethro hesitated perceptibly before answering. ‘I find it a very interesting experience, sir.’

  The captain chuckled in amusement. ‘A natural courtier this one, what say you, sergeant?’

  The sergeant grinned in agreement. ‘I should say yes, sir.’

  Inside Jethro’s mind his thoughts were racing. He feared that the captain had found out that he and Turpin were fugitives, and he was waiting for the man to begin questioning him about the fact. Jethro’s temper started to rise as the captain chuckled once more, and he thought that Ward was baiting him deliberately. To his amazement he heard Ward say,

  ‘I have had excellent reports on your ability and conduct, Stanton. Therefore I have decided to appoint you to a vacant corporalcy in the Grenadier Company.’ He paused and waited for the private’s grateful thanks. None came. Instead Jethro replied calmly,

  ‘With all respect, sir . . . I’ve no wish for it.’

  ‘What?’ the captain came bolt upright in his chair. ‘No wish for the chevrons? And why not, pray?’

  Jethro’s confusion had left him, also his apprehension that the other man knew of his past. ‘I wouldn’t feel justified in accepting the promotion, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘After all, I have scarcely served above two months in the army.’

  ‘That is neither here nor there, man,’ the captain told him impatiently. ‘Length of service is not so important as ability. Sergeant-Major Gresham and Sergeant Turner both feel you would make a good N.C.O. I can easily appoint N.C.O.s, Stanton, but it is not so often that I can appoint first-class ones. If you take this vacancy, then perhaps in a few months you could become a sergeant . . . The rank of sergeant is not to be treated lightly, it is an honour!’ Ward brought his flat hand sharply down upon the desk to emphasize the point.

  Jethro felt the terrible urge to tell the captain his real reasons for not wanting to become a corporal. In the short time he had been in the army, he had seen other men flogged, apart from the artisan. A dozen, twenty-five, or thirty lashes were meted out frequently for the most trifling faults in men’s drill or turnout. Soldiers were battered and banged about by officers and N.C.O.s, it seemed to Jethro for no apparent reason other than the whim of the castigators. Feeling as strongly and bitterly as he did against these methods of maintaining discipline, Jethro did not want to become one of those who enforced it.

  Sergeant Turner, standing by the young man’s side, was watching the play of emotions across his face. A shrewd and experienced man, he sensed what the young private felt. Jethro opened his mouth to speak, but before the angry words could come the sergeant intervened.

  ‘Permission to speak privately with you, sir?’ he requested. The captain nodded.

  Marched outside, Jethro stood on the
veranda and listened to the rumble of voices from the office. At first he seethed inwardly at being robbed of his opportunity of saying what he really thought about the army, but as the minutes passed and still the voices droned on the other side of the door, he began to realize how fortunate it had been that the sergeant had intervened.

  ‘God save me,’ the young man thought. ‘I might have ended upon the triangle. They say Ward’s a just man, but he’s got a hot temper when crossed, that I know.’

  The voices stopped, the door opened and Sergeant Turner marched out. He jerked his head at Jethro.

  ‘Follow me,’ he ordered, and led the way to the rear of the barrack blocks and behind the lines of drying washing and airing bedding swinging and flapping in the wind. Moving away from the curious soldiers, one from each barrackroom who were there to prevent their roommates’ clothing and bedding from being stolen, the sergeant said in low-pitched tones,

  ‘Now lissen hard, young Stanton. I’se saved your neck wi’ Captain Ward and today you puts up the chevrons . . .’

  He clamped his hand across the younger man’s mouth, cutting short the protest that erupted. ‘Shurrup and lissen, you born fool! I knows what you thinks o’ the floggin’ and the beatin’ and the bad treatment we gets. Does you think I’m a bloody wooden-yedded bugger who carn’t see beyond me nose? If it’s any consolation I feels the same way about it . . . But you’ll take the chevrons none the less. I’se bin in the army for a good many years, boy. I took the shillin’ as a regular afore you was born, and I’m only wi’ the militia now because me old regiment was disbanded back in ’02 arter the Peace o’ Amiens . . . I knows all there is to know about this life, and I’ll tell you now that iffen you doon’t take this chance to transfer into the Bacon Bolters, then sure as theer’s an ‘ole in your arse, you’m agooin’ to be kissing the Drummer’s Daughter afore many weeks be out.’