“It is easy to carp, Mr Wentworth. But you cannot comprehend the restraints that the Navy Board places on serving officers. An admiral is responsible for his fleet, a captain for his ship. Should either set off in pursuit of a privateer, which you will find are generally nimble sailers, risking spars and sails and firing off their cannon, then they would enrage their superiors, for they would consider that the officer had endangered his ship to no purpose. And anything they lost, or used in the way of powder and shot, would have to be replaced out of their own pockets.”
“Is that not the task of a ship-of-war, Harry? Or are they to be merely polished and displayed like brasswork on a door?”
“And is it not the duty of the navy to protect our shipping, sir? After all, our nation lives by trade. Damn the French privateers, but could they not at least recover the prize?” Wentworth addressed this question to Latham, who smiled in reply.
“I am au fait with the arguments, Mr Wentworth. And as a military man, subject to the same constraints in the execution of my duties, I can sympathise with the difficulties attendant upon the officers of the navy. But I also heard the opposite view, most forcefully and loudly expressed by the merchant captains.”
He looked at Harry as if he represented the source of enlightenment. “I must say that it does appear a trifle odd that Admiral Duncan forbids his frigates to chase enemy privateers, and lets them carry off cargoes from right under his nose.”
“The key is in the word prize, Captain Latham. A ship is not a lawful prize until it has been in possession of the enemy for 24 hours. If it is recovered inside that limit, then it is merely handed back to the owners. Clearly, with the enemy shore so close, any ships which are taken are safely anchored under French cannon. The navy will not pursue a ship, at their own expense, for no financial gain.”
James was about to speak, about to bait him further. But Harry held his hand up to stop him.
“And before you all castigate that as an ignoble attitude, you should enquire as to why it is so. It is those very same commercial captains, or rather the ships’ owners, who order it so. Laws are made in Parliament, gentlemen, where the commercial lobby far outstrips the service in power. They would rather lose a ship than see the navy rewarded, too soon, for recapturing it. So be it. Such people only have themselves to blame.”
Wentworth’s nose was up, his face bearing a look of high dudgeon. “Well, I’m sure what you say is true, Captain Ludlow. But it is nevertheless a scandal. No less a scandal than the fact that a villain can threaten our lives and nearly take them, yet no one seems to care. I shall not let it rest, I do assure you.”
Latham made a swift gesture to silence him, for he’d observed that Major and Mrs Franks had come downstairs to join them. “A change of subject is in order, I think, Mr Wentworth. We would not wish Mrs Franks to recall her terrors.”
Wentworth’s hard, angry look softened as he turned, and a thin, salacious smile appeared as he gazed on Polly Franks. He adjusted his stock and his spectacles, which had slipped in his anger to the very end of his nose, then brushed his grey coat, like a preening bird. Polly was wearing her new dress of dark burgundy silk, and her hair had been restored to some of its former glory. They were all on their feet as she approached, pleased to observe that she seemed quite her old self. And if they doubted her recovery, the words she said, in a voice loud enough to turn every head in the room, was sufficient to convince them that she was, in all respects, back to normal.
“Why, Captain Latham,” she trilled. “How can I ever thank you for letting me share your bed?”
CHAPTER NINE
“THERE MUST be a way out of it,” said Harry, unhappily.
They were walking back to the Three Kings, having seen Major and Mrs Franks off in the coach to Dover, where they could change for another to take them to Hythe. Addresses had been exchanged and the promise of letters made, with an invitation to visit Cheyne Court should they find themselves in the vicinity. It was the way that Wentworth had picked up on this that had caused Harry’s gloom, for he’d virtually forced an invitation for himself out of James.
Added to that, his behaviour towards Polly Franks had bordered on the licentious, for once Major Franks had left to arrange their travel he’d treated her like a girl to be courted rather than as a married woman whose husband was hard by. Perhaps the most embarrassing thing for the others present had been his assurance to her that he, and he alone, would bring to justice the men who’d tried to murder them. No mention was made of the fact that the Ludlow brothers had tried to do that very thing. Indeed, the way Mr Wentworth related it, though without actually saying so, everyone else had been too busy drinking and eating to take any action at all.
James gave Harry’s words due consideration before replying, for he was no more happy about the prospect before them. “I can’t see how. Perhaps there is a naval expression that would suffice.”
“There are several, but given our recent adventures I cannot bring myself to use them.”
“Then it seems we must suffer his company a little longer, Harry.” His normally passive face closed up angrily. “Perhaps he and Arthur can bore each other to an early grave.”
James would dearly have loved to go straight to London, avoiding the family home altogether. But much as he disliked his brother-in-law he could not ignore his sister, Anne. She would be badly hurt if she heard he’d been so close and travelled by. As they approached the Three Kings they saw Pender standing with the horses they’d ordered.
“Perhaps we could just leave without him,” said Harry, indicating the waiting animals.
“That wouldn’t deter Wentworth. He knows where we live, and he does insist that since he intends to take coach from Canterbury it’s on his way to Birmingham.”
“Excuse me, sir.”
The voice was weedy and as Harry turned, responding to the tug on his sleeve, he saw the abject look in the woman’s eyes. She was thin and wasted, with her bones sticking out of her gaunt face. The children beside her were as filthy as she, and equally undernourished.
“Word has it that Tobias Bertles is dead, an’ his whole crew with him?”
“I regret to tell you that is true,” Harry replied, automatically reaching for a coin, for it was plain by the look of supplication that her man had been on the Planet. Thieves they might be, but their charges depended on them to eat.
The other voice wasn’t weak. It was loud and harsh. “What are you about, Bridie Pruitt?”
The woman’s head spun round, but not before Harry saw the fear in her eyes. Passers-by, at first made curious by the loud voice, hurriedly looked away, or found good reason to go about their business when they recognised the source. The terrified children had clutched at their mother, grabbing the rags that passed for a skirt. The man approaching them was well fed, tall, and stocky, wearing a dun-coloured coat, good breeches and boots, and a shiny leather meat-porter’s hat. He had a huge white scar down one side of his ruddy face, and the way he swung the club in his hand told you that it was there to be used.
“The lady posed a question to me,” said Harry. He saw, out of the corner of his eyes, that Pender had moved away from the hitching post and was coming round behind the interloper.
The man didn’t look at Harry. He kept his eyes on the woman. “Then she’s changed her mind, ain’t you, Bridie.”
Bridie nodded her thin head quickly and slipped round him, leaving the man staring at Harry. “We takes care of our own, mate, so you can put your conscience money back in yer purse.”
The voice was deep and rasping, the sound of a man who liked his gin as well as his pipe. The black eyes regarded Harry steadily.
“Was her man serving with Bertles?”
“Same goes for her troubles, friend. They’re our concern, not yours.”
“Did you know Bertles?” asked James.
The head of the club twitched slightly. For the first time Harry noticed that it was a mass of intricate carving, but he couldn’t make o
ut the detail. The man’s voice brought his attention back to the ruddy, scarred face.
“You ought to be careful with questions. They can lead to unwelcome bother.”
Harry moved closer. He wanted to be inside the arc of that club, rather than on the end of it, if the man decided to use it. “The same man who killed Bertles tried to kill us. I have some interest in his identity.”
“You’re alive, friend. I’d settle at that if I was you.” The eyes flicked to the side, but he didn’t look behind him as he raised the carved club a touch higher. Harry saw serpents and dragons in the woodwork. “An’ I’d tell that cove, who I take to be a servant of yours, to stay away from my back, else I’ll need to give him a taste of this.”
“Easier said than done, mate,” replied Pender, evenly.
The man finally turned, but kept the club pointed downwards. He walked past Pender, stopping to look him in the eye as well.
“If I ever meet you when I have a mind for a brawl, then I’ll be happy to put you to the test. You and your lords and masters. Meanwhile, if’n I was you, I’d get aboard them horses and put Deal an’ what happened last night behind you.”
It was only when he’d gone that Harry realised how still the street had become. No one had dared look in their direction. He’d rarely seen the “blind eye” so prevalent. All those by an alleyway had used it. People too close to melt away had found many other things to occupy their attention. Movement restarted as soon as he was gone, and in seconds it was the same as before, full of bustle and noise, as though nothing untoward had taken place.
“Now who was that fellow?” asked James.
Pender grinned. “Shouldn’t be too hard to find out, your honour. There wasn’t a man or woman in the street didn’t recognize him. Ain’t surprising, mind. An ugly bugger like that tends to be known to all.”
“Did you notice the club?” said Harry.
“I did,” replied Pender. “Wouldn’t be much doubt who hit you if’n he used that.”
“Cephas Quested,” said Pender. “He’s a batman for a mob called the Aldington gang, an’ a right terror by all accounts.”
“The Aldington gang?” said James, raising his eyebrows. But he neither expected nor received an answer, for a gang in these parts engaged in only one occupation.
“And the girl?” asked Harry. She’d been no more than that, for all that she had two children.
Pender grinned. “I was told to mind my nose. One question answered was sufficient. But I doubt that they knew.”
Neither Harry nor James enquired as to whom he’d asked. That was Pender’s business. And here in the street, where they could be overheard, their servant would refuse to tell them anyway.
Pender looked at the crowded roadway, full of people and traffic. “They’re a close-mouthed lot round here, an’ no error. Makes me hanker after home.”
He looked at Harry in an odd way, and it was only then that the realization dawned on his captain that Pender’s family, whom he not seen since he went to sea eighteen months before, would if all had gone well be at Cheyne Court. Harry had sent instructions for them to be fetched from Portsmouth. Pender, normally a still, self-contained person, was fidgety, impatient to leave. But patience he had to have. There was no sign of Wentworth, which left Harry mulling things over again. He suddenly remembered a nagging doubt.
“Pender, did you tell the crew of the Planet that I was a privateer?” His servant took that badly, for he was proud of his discretion. Harry tried the same question on James as a way of avoiding his eye. “I didn’t talk to the crew,” replied James.
“Don’t be obtuse, brother.”
James shook his head slowly. “I don’t think the subject of your occupation ever came up.”
“Then how did Bertles know? I made a point of not telling him. Yet I distinctly remember him using the word, saying that it was handy, me being a privateer. That was when he was about to put us in the boat.”
Harry hesitated, for he knew he was on tenuous ground. “You remember when he came to our table in Flushing …”
“Nothing will ever erase his enjoyment of that bird.”
“I smoked he was a sailor, right away. But I also had the feeling that I’d seen him before somewhere.”
“You’ve been a lot of places, your honour,” said Pender. “Could’ve been anywhere.”
Harry shook his head, suddenly certain of one thing. “No. It was in England. Perhaps even here in Deal.”
James made the observation Harry most feared. “One sailor looks much like another, Harry.”
“True.” Harry slapped his horse on the flank. “Where is that damned fellow, James.”
The cry that hallowed across the road dashed any hopes, briefly considered, of leaving Wentworth behind. He made his way with some difficulty through the rutted mixture of mud and dung to join them.
“I trust I have not kept you waiting, gentlemen.”
“We are impatient to be off,” replied Harry stiffly, hoisting his foot into his horse’s stirrup. “I have a mind to be home before dark.”
But Wentworth’s social armour was easy defence against the rebuke. He just grinned at the brothers, already mounted, and took the reins of Pender’s horse out of his hands.
“I have put the time to good use, I do assure you. Thomas Wentworth is not a man to be trifled with, sir, by land or sea. Polly Franks can rest easy in her bed. That fellow who tried to kill us needs to be brought to heel and I shall do it.”
“And how will that be?” asked James.
Wentworth pushed his half-spectacles up his nose, fixing James with an expression which testified to a superior ability. “Let us just say, sir, that you will be amazed at my ingenuity.”
He was up on the animal before anyone could protest. Pender shook his head at his audacity. Harry, more taken with the way he’d usurped the horse than the words he’d said, looked to the sky to contain himself. It was left to James to do the necessary.
“Pender, go to Mr Hogbin and bespeak another horse.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Pender, moving away, favouring Wentworth with a baleful look as he did so. Not being a rider, he’d picked a quiet mare for himself, an animal he’d been assured by the farrier was as steady as the man’s own armchair.
“Have you extended another invitation?” asked Wentworth, looking around him.
“I’m sorry?” said James, perplexed.
“The other horse. I wondered if you had engaged yourself to another guest.”
“It is for Pender,” said Harry, through clenched teeth.
Wentworth’s eyebrows shot up, an action which pushed his half spectacles down again, perilously close to the end of his nose.
“Your servant, mounted on a horse? What a quaint fancy. I doubt even the ogre Robespierre ran to such a levelling notion.”
They rode away from the tang of the sea, up the gentle slope towards home, passing through the old town of Deal with its quiet red-brick houses aglow in the dying rays of the sun and on into open country. The sky was clear, blue and cold, with a heavy frost promised. Every spire and naked tree stood stark against the skyline. Wentworth talked incessantly, unaware that his fellow travellers were occupied with their own thoughts.
Harry, quite deliberately now, pushed the events of the last 24 hours to the back of his mind. He had no intention of leaving things as they stood: he was not a man to forget attempted murder. But given that there was so little he could accomplish without information, the matter was better left, for the present at least. Perhaps Arthur, who dealt with things political as well as matters financial on his behalf, and who knew the local oligarchy much better than he, could propose a solution.
He was happy to be heading for home. But he wondered how quickly he’d be embroiled in running Cheyne Court and the estate. Providence had given him a brother-in-law who lacked a fortune and was thus willing to look after the Ludlows’ considerable possessions and take the regard that came with such responsibility. Having contr
ol of the Ludlows’ two parliamentary seats guaranteed him the ear of those in power. It was a world which had little attraction for Harry; Arthur Drumdryan found it extremely congenial. The heir to Cheyne Court was grateful for this mutually beneficial arrangement, for it left him free to go away to sea when he chose, which was often, since it was the only place he was truly happy. Of course, Arthur rarely missed an opportunity to inform him that such behaviour was immature.
James harboured the same thoughts, but for different reasons. He liked Cheyne only on those occasions when Arthur was absent. There was a degree of mutual antipathy which no amount of sisterly pleading could overcome. He had grown up in the house, motherless, with an elder sister who’d expended most of her regard on him. The arrival of an impecunious Scotsman, brother to one of his father’s officers, had, regardless of his title, thrown young James’s world into disarray. Especially since Lord Drumdryan, who prided himself on his manners, had seen it as his duty to take a hand in the young man’s education.
But it wasn’t just Arthur’s presence which would make him chafe to be off. He also had a number of pressing matters to attend to in London, not least the need to reintroduce himself into society. It would be interesting to see if people were still as anxious to have him paint their portrait. The cause of his absence from London had become common knowledge. His very public affair with another man’s wife had caused a scandal, though the effect on him had been hidden by his absence. Was he truly his old self again? Only exposure to the root of that problem would tell him if such a thing was possible.
Pender was too preoccupied trying to stay on his horse, a very skittish Arab, to think of anything else. Yet he, too, had much to ponder when the ride was over. He had been a thief and a good one. But the law, such as it was, closed in on the best of them, especially when their success excited the envy of less-talented practitioners. He’d left Portsmouth one step ahead of the sheriff’s grasp, taking the best route that he could out of a wartime seaport by joining the King’s Navy. The last he’d seen of his wife and family was their fearful faces as he climbed out of the back window, leaving them to face the tipstaff hammering on the front door. The feelings engendered at the prospect of seeing his wife again were mixed, though he was curious to see how his bairns were faring. If anyone had mentioned domestic bliss to him he would have looked at them strangely, not knowing of what they spoke. His life to date precluded it. In Pender’s world a man wed just ahead of a birth and a father’s wrath, then struggled to keep a roof over the family’s heads and food in its mouths. He’d succeeded better than most, though never enough to satisfy the girl he married, whose partiality to gin had been a constant source of friction. The last words she’d spoken to him, as he’d dived out the window, would not come under the heading of conjugal endearments. Yet he’d sent her the king’s bounty when he signed on, and made what arrangements he could to give her the docket that would allow her to draw his pay.
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