Hanging Matter

by David Donachie

  Did he like James Ludlow? Arthur wasn’t sure, because he was old enough, and wise enough to see their past bickering for what it was, the resentment of two men competing for the same territory. But was James worth jeopardizing everything for? His wife, his child to be, and his potential future, a prospect made all the more desperate by his present financial plight. Neither of the Ludlow brothers understood what it was like to be poor. His mind went back to his wedding. He’d had to borrow money to buy a decent suit, a debt pledged against Anne Ludlow’s portion. They would not comprehend the shame attendant on that.

  Normally a cautious man, he had, for once in his life, taken a major gamble, prompted by the desire to look people like Harry Ludlow square in the eye. That, supposed to be the route to freedom, had become a burden even more difficult to carry. He was sinking deeper into the mire by the day, to the point where he might be forced, against all his instincts, to go cap in hand to his brother-in-law. That was an unpleasant prospect, if for no other reason than the fact that Harry would probably understand, forgive, and proffer help. That such an attitude would stem from a natural kindness didn’t make it any easier to bear.

  He’d often wondered what Harry Ludlow really thought of him. Most people wonder how they are perceived and Arthur was no exception, though James’s opinion concerned him less. He despised modernity with as much passion as James Ludlow embraced it. The “spirit of the age” had led to murder, mayhem, and regicide, to a society where men of mediocre background and dubious lineage, trimmers with no manners and opinions for sale, prospered at the expense of public funds. Arthur Drumdryan could not embrace that. He was determined to remain true to the tenets of his upbringing, even if, he suspected, people laughed, behind his back, at the constant insistence on proper standards of behaviour.

  “Versailles manners,” he said softly, as he pushed himself out of the chair and propelled himself towards their luggage. Whether he liked or disliked James was an irrelevence, just as his financial difficulties, and the potential need for Harry’s understanding, could not be allowed to impinge on his response. There was a matter of honour at stake, and if Arthur Drumdryan believed in anything, it was the maintenance of his personal honour.

  No one had touched James. Not even a piece of stale bread had been thrown at him since Trench had spoken. They were saving him up for later, leaving him to worry at his future, more difficult to bear than the fate itself. Arthur brought him something to drink and they spoke quietly for less than a minute. Then Arthur stood to leave.

  “I have a duty to resolve this, James. I shall do so, or die in the attempt. At the very least I shall put a ball in Trench before he casts his first stone.”

  Forced by his situation to look at the ground, it was hard for James not to take that as pure braggadoccio. But he never got a chance to say so because his brother-in-law was gone. He heard his feet echoing up the alley, as he headed back towards the courthouse. Arthur, shaking like a leaf, crept to the rear of the building, to the part that housed the judges’ quarters. The pistol in his hand was far from steady. Whatever his background or his standards, Arthur Drumdryan was not cut out for this type of behaviour.

  But it was what Harry would do. Indeed, he would set the whole town alight rather than let James suffer a scratch. Threatening a King’s Bench judge with a pistol would seem inconsequential. He’d tried to think of a way to break in, but it was not something he was familiar with. So, for the want of another method of entry, he lifted the trembling pistol, and with his free hand knocked hard on the door.

  The speed with which it opened nearly gave him a seizure. He stepped back quickly as Emerson emerged. The prosecuting counsel looked at the gun, then at the owner. The shock on his face—for he was as surprised as Arthur—faded before a wicked grin. He held up a piece of folded paper which he had in his hand.

  “I dare say you have come for this. Had I known of your intentions in advance, Lord Drumdryan, I would have let you have the first attempt at persuasion.”

  “Aspinall?” asked Arthur.

  Emerson came out through the door, closing it behind him. The lawyer then took his arm gently, to lead him away from potential murder. “This is a warrant to release Mr Ludlow from the stocks.”

  Arthur, who disliked being touched, detached his arm, though without violence. “What did you use to persuade him?”

  “His own self-interest, sir, which is all he cares about.”

  “Was it self-interest that caused that charade in the court today?”

  “Yes. But whether that was done by means of a bribe or a threat, I cannot say. Trench has powerful protectors, men who are tied to him by blood or profit, or by his activities. Aspinall may be one such person. But he is such a disgrace to the office he holds that he is subject to pressure. There is no vice to which he is a stranger.”

  “Then why has he been allowed to continue?” asked Arthur.

  Emerson sighed. “You will find, Lord Drumdryan, that government finds malleable judges a positive advantage in such troubled times. The letter of the law is sometimes insufficient for their needs.”

  “So Trench goes free.”

  “He does. And he cannot be tried again for the same offence. That is enshrined in Magna Carta.” The barrister shook his head slowly, then held up the paper again. “Still, we have saved James Ludlow from his fate, let us be content with that.”

  Arthur doubted if that was wholly true, but he had no desire to engage Emerson in a lengthy discussion. Besides, the lawyer, who’d kept talking, didn’t provide him with an opportunity.

  “The release of Trench will raise an eyebrow in Whitehall, but no action will ensue. James Ludlow is a different case. A man of his station, maimed or killed, would cause a scandal, especially since I would report the matter to the Lord Chancellor myself. I doubt that his behaviour would bear too much scrutiny. Subject to a thorough inquiry, he’d be lucky to escape the gallows himself.”

  Arthur trembled slightly as the tension eased out of his frame. “I thank you, sir. It must have taken a great deal of effort to change his mind.”

  Emerson snorted derisively. “He has a twelve-year-old virgin in there. The old goat’s sole preoccupation is to be at her deflowering. He was salivating with desire. I cannot even be sure that my strictures affected the man at all. James Ludlow means nothing to him, sir. I half believe he gave me this to be rid of me.”

  The barrister handed him the warrant, pointing to the pistol with his other hand. “Here, you take it, for it is better that you should release Ludlow. And put away that pistol, sir, for if you do not, I fear I shall be prosecuting you on a capital charge, given the number of tempting targets in this town.”

  The clerk was unhappy about being dragged from his dinner. The turnkey from the gaol was even more unhappy about having to go out. But neither questioned the instruction, written above Lord Justice Aspinall’s own seal. James was out of the stocks, and he and Arthur were far from Lewes, before the drunken mob arrived back in the square. Trench let out a scream, where another man would have bellowed. He cursed and he raged for an age. “He’s not the one. It’s the brother I want. And I knows where to find him …”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  “DAMN AND blast the fool!” shouted Harry. “I’ve a good mind to leave him to drown.”

  He looked at the chase, a merchant ship, labouring in the heaving seas. He’d been after that prize, in deteriorating weather, for twelve hours. And now, just when they’d practically overhauled her, he’d have to call off the pursuit. The crew were already fighting their way to the braces and the shrouds before he gave the order to shorten sail. He watched as his quarry disappeared into the flying spray which the gale was ripping off the top of the waves. Then he had to grab hold of a stay as Pender eased her round a touch, till she had maximum speed before the north-east wind. He was by the wheel as quickly as the pitching deck would allow, for with the Miranda in her present state this was a manoeuvre he wished to oversee himself.

 
It was difficult, in such a storm, to come up into the wind. Up till now he’d had it ten degrees off his stern, a point of sailing dictated by the merchant ship he was after. Now, to rescue the fishing smack that was wallowing in the water, he had to run before the gale, then spin in the trough created by two waves, one of which would take the wind off his lower sails. The men below would have to loosen the sails at just the right time, haul round on the yards, then bowse them tight again, while the men aloft fought the canvas of the mizzen-topsails to reef them in, leaving the main-topsails, hauled right round, to draw. Men could die trying this, but the crew of Harry’s ship trusted him. Besides competence, there was Providence and luck. What other privateer captain would pass up a potential fortune to rescue a couple of poor fishermen?

  The Miranda was shipping a lot of water in this gale, with the pumps clanking continuously, and she came round slowly. But she took the wind right and as the next wave ran under her counter, her sails billowed out and carried her forward on the starboard tack. He couldn’t get to them on this heading, so he handed over the control of the wheel to Pender, who had two other men to assist, and made for the bows, ready to shout the order that would bring her on to a larboard tack. He considered sailing past the fishing boat and coming round again, for the bulk of his ship would provide shelter for them. But this was no sea, and no ship, to be playing games in.

  Harry yelled as hard as he could, a cry that was taken up by men all the way down the side, carried to the wheel by the wind. They were at their stations, well aware of what to do. Pender timed it well, calling the orders in another trough. Slowly, groaning but not griping, the Miranda swung round on the other tack. The ropes flashed out from her side to the near-wrecked fishing boat. They missed the first time and had to be thrown again. Pender was holding the Miranda with little way on her, using the rudder and the leeway to slow her progress. He couldn’t maintain it for too long, since she was in danger of being broached by a sudden gust of wind, or a freak wave.

  The ropes flashed out again towards the three men clinging to the boat, this time one of them going to hand. Freezing fingers lashed the thin rope, then started to haul in the heavier cable. Pender eased his rudder and let her drift, taking the Miranda towards the fishermen, making the job of getting the cable aboard that much easier. As soon as it was secured, Harry called for all available hands to man the capstan, which proved difficult on a pitching deck, with men slipping and falling as they turned the great gear, coiling the rope around it, before it disappeared, dripping water as it was stowed below.

  “Never mind the paint, lads,” shouted Harry, who was pushing on one of the bars himself. “That boat could go down any second.”

  They hauled like heroes until the scrape of wood on wood told them she was right alongside. Hands holding loops were over the side and the near-drowned fishermen shoved their arms through to be hauled aboard. Harry grabbed the first one and turned him over without ceremony, pounding on his chest to force him to pay attention.

  “How many aboard?”

  The man just shook his head, uncomprehending. Harry shook him again, for he needed to cut that cable and set the Miranda free. If he didn’t, that special wave that all sailors dreaded, twice the size of its predecessors, with the wind to aid it, would arrive and drown them all. Three times he asked without success, until he suddenly realised the reason.

  “Combien de personnes dans le bateau?” he screamed.

  “Trois,” croaked the fisherman, holding up three frozen fingers.

  Harry turned, saw another two inert bodies on the deck, grabbed an axe from one of his crew and swung it hard at the cable. As soon as it parted, and he’d seen the wreckage spin away from the side, he gave the orders to bring his ship back round on to its original course to continue his chase.

  “I think if he apologises to me once more, I’ll sling him back over the side.”

  Pender grinned, glad that he couldn’t speak French. The three men, father and two sons, were from Alderney, the rockiest and most inhospitable of the Channel Islands. They had the odd English word, enough to get them watered and fed. But they could only talk to Harry. The weather had moderated, the wind swinging round to the west, and since they’d run out of conversation some time since, they were thrown back on gratitude, plus endless submissions that Le Bon Dieu would reward him, in heaven, for the loss of that fine French ship.

  Patiently, Harry had explained that he would take them home once he’d made his rendezvous. Privately, to Pender, he admitted that the Miranda was becoming too risky a vessel for such a dangerous stretch of water. That last blow, and his efforts to catch the Frenchman, had done the ship few favours. Not that the other man was surprised, for he had to detail the men to man the pumps.

  “God knows what would happen if we fired off the guns now,” said Harry glumly. “Let’s just hope our pardons arrive with the next contact. If not we’ll have to sneak ashore at Deptford and take the new ship in whatever condition she’s in.”

  A sailor entered the cabin. “Mr Patcham’s compliments, Captain. We’ve raised the Cap of the Hog.”

  “Any sign of a sail?”

  “Nothing yet, your honour.”

  “I’ll be on deck presently,” said Harry, giving Pender a meaningful look. But he was not the type to blackguard any ship he sailed, even one taken blind. “She’s getting on, that’s all. Given a proper refit she’ll be as sound as a bell. Damn it, I don’t even know when she was built. Odd, for all the conflict we’ve had, that I never even exchanged one word with Trench. Not that he would tell me much about his ship.”

  They made their way out of the cabin. The changing weather had brought drizzly rain in sudden squalls. But the swell from the storm was still apparent, with the current running south-east. The combination of that and the wind set up a choppy cross sea which made the ship pitch unpredictably. Harry could hear the slight groans of the timbers as they moved beneath his feet.

  “Sail fine on the starboard bow,” called the lookout. He called “two sail” before Harry had the glass to his eye. He’d just got the focus, and picked up the first ship’s topsails, when the lookout called three.

  “Sitting right on our rendezvous,” said Harry tersely. In the corner of his glass he could see the granite bulk of the Cap de la Hague. “Which is damned inconvenient, whoever they are.”

  Pender waited. There was no one better than Harry Ludlow at this guessing game. He seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to telling if someone was friend or foe. The silence lasted for several minutes as Harry shifted his glass down the line of ships. Then he called to the masthead.

  “What do you see?”

  “Two schooners and a barque. Two masts apiece, with great lanteens on the schooners.”

  “Can you see any gun ports?”

  “Not yet.”

  Harry turned to Pender, his lower lip stuck in his teeth. “Steer due north. Let’s see what they do. But stand by to go about, as well.”

  “Danger?” asked Pender.

  Harry shook his head slowly. “If we change our course and they hold theirs, no. But if they try to intercept …”

  “First one’s got ports, Captain, though that don’t mean it’s armed.”

  “He’s a talkative soul, that lookout,” said Harry, who liked things done navy fashion. “He would do us all a favour if he confined his opinion to the facts.”

  Pender put his head back to yell a rebuke, but Harry’s hand stopped him. “It’s all right, Pender. I’ll tell him myself.”

  A vicious combination of wind and water took the Miranda as he started to climb. Harry heard the groan of protesting timbers again, and prayed fervently that the slight tightness in his chest was misplaced. His feet slipped from rope to rope of their own volition. As he climbed he tried to work out what to do if he had a fight coming. There was only really one option against three ships. He’d have to run and hope like hell they were poor sailers.

  “Are they flying any flags?” he asked the lo
okout.

  “None, Captain,” the man replied, with pleasing brevity.

  He knew that he was wrong about their sailing qualities after five minutes in the crosstrees. The ships were well handled and coming on, close-hauled, at a fair speed. But they were making no attempt to intercept. He felt decidedly uneasy. Those topsail schooners looked like fast boats. If he’d had them, Harry knew that his tactics would be the same. He’d seek to get the weathergage by coming round to the south of his quarry, then come about with the wind just right and crack on in pursuit. The longer he waited, before taking a decisive step, decreased his chances and increased theirs.

  “Come round four points to larboard,” he called down.

  The men below, who looked like ants from above, rushed to trim the sails as Pender swung the wheel. Harry trained his glass on the three ships. It was one schooner captain who gave the game away. The ship’s topsails had shivered as she started to swing round in pursuit. Harry heard the faint boom of a signal gun as she swung back round on her original course. But he’d seen the smoke much sooner, a few seconds after he’d noticed the change of course. He didn’t know who they were, but they were very definitely after him.

  Harry, who’d edged away, made his preparations well in advance of his turn, making sure that when he let out his sails he would do so quicker than the pursuit. He questioned the Alderney fishermen closely, before offering them the cutter and a chance to escape, which brought back to his mind what had happened in the Channel. They did not understand why he broke off and looked suddenly over the side, with a strange look in his eye, nor did they comprehend the words he said.

  “Trench? It can’t be Trench.”

  It was the lack of flags to identify them. Without those, it could be anyone. Trench, warships, or other privateers—even ships hired by the Revenue come to take him in. Harry shook his head, as though to clear it, and continued with his explanation. The oldest of the three men, Gaston, answered for himself and his sons; he declined his offer on the grounds that since they owed him their lives it was their duty to assist him to escape from this threat. They were stout men, strong-limbed and weatherbeaten. But with nothing to do they’d get in the way on the deck, because they’d not be able to comprehend any of the orders.