The Hawk

by Peter Smalley

  And so on the morrow, carrying his new papers, James returned to Portsmouth – his head alive with questions, and puzzles, and vexatious troubling doubts.

  TWO

  Captain Rennie, to his surprise, had heard nothing more from Sir Robert Greer, and nothing more of him. Rennie did not enquire at Middingham Court. He did not know the family, had never met them; they were called Rushton. It was the maid Jenny – who was in effect Rennie's housekeeper, so completely had she assumed control of his domestic arrangements – who informed him of Sir Robert's departure.

  'I heard from one of them at the Court that the grand gent has took himself off, and not a moment too soon, she said, very demanding he was of all the staff there, and not a shilling by way of a thank-you, neither, when he left.'

  Rennie had never met the family, but he knew that Sir Henry Rushton had six daughters, all of them still on his hands. The innkeeper at the Plough, Silas Wright, who knew everything in the village, about everybody:

  'Old Sir Henry is in despair that he ain't produced a heir, and has not got none of his daughters off his hands neither, and the youngest already seventeen. His eldest girl is twentyfive. If she ain't wed at twenty-five, who will have her now, in Norfolk? Lasses here is wed by sixteen, look. I do not say gentry does, mind, but girls is girls, whichever their rank, and young men do not want old maids, they do not.'

  'What about old men, hey?' Rennie had asked in jest. 'Perhaps I should try my luck, Mr Wright.'

  'I should not do that, sir.' Tapping his nose. 'If you don't mind a word to the wise.'

  'Oh?'

  'Ain't a bonny one among 'em.'

  'Plain fillies, hey?'

  'Fillies?' Lowering his voice. 'Moos is the word, I b'lieve. Bovine critchers, Captain Rennie. Steer clear, I should.'

  Rennie had not been arrested nor in any way inconvenienced by Sir Robert, but he determined that it would be as well, however, not to sit waiting at home in Norfolk. Was it not possible that Sir Robert was contriving and conceiving and conspiring against him? Might not Sir Robert probably return quite soon, with a detachment of marines and a warrant of apprehension?

  Rennie decided to go to Portsmouth. He would take rooms at the Marine Hotel for a week or two. If Lieutenant Hayter was still at Portsmouth, in his cutter, perhaps they could meet. Perhaps James would invite him to go on board. Rennie could give him advice, if he sought it. Only if he did; it would not do to presume. In course, thought Rennie, he would have to be discreet. He would not call on the Port Admiral, nor in any other way advertise his presence. He would not, after all, come to Portsmouth in any official capacity. He was not commissioned. He would not wish to be seen in any sense to be interfering in the business of the Channel Fleet, at a time of emergency. No, he would arrive at Portsmouth merely as a private gentleman, a private visitor minding his own business.

  He instructed Jenny to pack his bag, and to look after things while he was gone. To pay the boy who looked after his horse and cleaned the stable; to pay the man who came from the village to tend the garden, &c., &c. He would be gone a fortnight or three weeks, a month at the outside. If – by chance – Sir Robert Greer should call, she was to say that Captain Rennie was away on personal business – in London.

  He departed.

  Rennie might have gone to London by the same route that James had come to Norfolk, by sea, but he did not. He determined to go by road. He could have hired a post-chaise, at great expense, to take him all the way to London, and then on to Portsmouth. Instead he went by turnpike coach. The mail coach travelled daily to London from Norwich, with an overnight stop at an inn at Sudbury. Rennie paid thirty shillings for an inside seat.

  On the coach door was emblazoned the slogan The London Flyer in elaborate red and gold script on a green ground. The bodywork of the coach was green, with flashes of gold, the wheels were green with red spokes. The coachman wore a great green travelling cape, and a broad green tricorne. The six horses sported gleaming decorated harness.

  'It is all very splendid,' muttered Rennie to himself as he prepared to board the coach in St Stephen's Street, the castle wall behind. 'But does it reflect their efficacy of service?' He climbed in and settled in his facing window seat, for which he had paid an extra five shillings. He noted with approval that the leather seats were upholstered, and that the vehicle gave a little on its springs as each passenger ascended. 'We shall not be rattled and bounced to death, in least.' Politely, to the lady seating herself opposite. She made no reply, but employed her vinaigrette, and closed her eyes. She was a handsome woman, thought Rennie, in her bonnet and waisted blue dress. 'However, she contrives to look ten years younger than her years.' Not aloud.

  Towards evening, in open country between Bury and Sudbury, near to a hamlet called Capling Street, the coach came to a sudden sliding, shuddering halt. Rennie had been dozing, and woke with a start.

  'What? Are we upset?'

  'Nay, sir, I think not.' An elderly gentleman. 'I believe we are – '

  The crack of a pistol shot. The lady opposite Rennie gasped, and looked out of the window in alarm. Consternation among all of the passengers. And now a shout in the road ahead.

  'Stay still now! Very still!' Echoing on the crisp evening air. The sound of hooves, a single horse on the metal of the road. 'Make no resistance, and you will not be harmed!'

  The lady transferred her alarmed gaze from the window to Rennie, and instinctively he felt that he must offer her his protection.

  'Never fear, madam.' Quietly to her. She glanced again out of the window, and then looked anxiously at Rennie, as if for reassurance. 'Never fear . . .' He was not wearing his sword, and now regretted it, but he was carrying two loaded pocket pistols. He leaned to the window, thrust down the glass, and cautiously peered out. There was just enough daylight remaining for him to make out a large horse, and a caped figure. A horse pistol was pointed at the coachman, who was out of Rennie's line of sight. The figure urged the horse forward, pointing the long pistol, and in the glow of the newly lit side lantern his face was revealed, pale, with hooded eyes and a narrow nose under a thwartwise hat. He motioned with the pistol, leaning forward in the saddle, and Rennie saw the coachman descend from his driving perch. A second, shorter figure appeared now, that of a youth or a small man, also in black. The youth pushed the coachman towards the rear of the coach, and the pair passed the window. Rennie drew back his head until they had passed, then cautiously thrust it out again. The black-cloaked highwayman dismounted, and came towards the rear of the coach, leading his horse. The horse stumbled on a flint, and for a moment the man's attention was diverted, and he turned his head.

  Rennie acted. He flung open the door, leapt to the road, and drew one of his pistols from his coat. The man turned from his horse, saw Rennie, and thought to lift his own pistol, now half-lowered.

  'Nay, do not attempt – '

  Crack. The highwayman fired, lifting the long barrel in a jerk, and the heavy ball sang by Rennie's head, struck the half-open coach door, and smashed it back with a splintering thud on its hinges. Screams and gasps from within.

  Rennie fired in answer, his pistol aimed. Crack. The ball struck the man in the temple, his hat flew off and there was a fountaining spurt of blood. His head lolled to the side and his body collapsed. The black cloak billowed and was snatched down by his falling weight. His horse shied away. Rennie turned swiftly, tried to pull the second pistol from the pocket of his coat – and was struck a stunning blow to the side of his head.

  He staggered, lifted a hand, and felt a second savage blow to his forearm.

  'Damn . . . your . . . blood . . .' he mumbled in dazed fear, and fell to the road. He saw a figure loom over him, got his pistol clear, and fired point-blank into his assailant's body. Crump. The shot muffled in cloth. For a long moment nothing happened. Then the blackness of the figure diminished, fell back, became a tottering shape of cloak and breeches and riding boots, gave a cry – pitiful and anguished – and slumped.

  '
Good God, he is only a child . . .'

  Rennie stumbled to his feet, dropped the pistol in the road, and went to the boy, who now lay motionless. He pulled aside the draping cloak, and found – not a boy, but a young woman, quite dead, her dark hair loosed from a red ribbon in a spreading fan.

  'Christ Jesu . . .' Whispered.

  He had shot her through the heart.

  There was inevitable concomitant flurry and inquiry and nuisance after the incident. An agent of the coaching company, the London Flyer Limited, was summoned from Sudbury, the local magistrate was informed, a local physician pronounced the corpses dead, and Rennie was obliged to furnish his explanation of the event firstly to the magistrate, and subsequently to his clerk, &c., &c.

  The lady in the blue dress, who put up at the same inn at Sudbury, was a widow, Rennie learned – a Mrs Townend. She was travelling to London to visit her sister.

  'We are all in your debt tonight, Captain Rennie,' she said to him. 'You were uncommon brave.'

  'Well, I . . . I have had experience of this before, ma'am.'

  'Before?'

  'Aye, a year since, journeying with another officer to Portsmouth. Our roads in England, in this age of frequent travel, are not yet suitable safe, I fear. It is a thing the coaching companies must address.'

  'D'y'mean armed men, to protect us?'

  'I think so, ma'am.'

  'We had you, tonight.'

  Her late husband, it came out in subsequent conversation, had been a sea officer – Captain Arthur Townend RN. Rennie thought he could recall his name on the List, from several years ago.

  'He has been dead these seven years, Captain Rennie. He died at sea, and was buried at sea.'

  'I am sorry.'

  'It is long past, I no longer feel a pang when I think of it, nor even when I talk of it. Only a little passing regret. You think me harsh? You think me callous?' Looking at him over her chocolate cup as they waited for their rooms to be made ready.

  'Nay, madam, I do not. I have lost my own dear wife, and know intimately what such loss means. It is a private thing, and each of us that has known it must find his own way through.'

  She inclined her head with a grave half-smile. 'You are a man of understanding, Captain Rennie.'

  'I hope that I am, ma'am.'

  'And may I say it again – a very brave one?' A further smile.

  Praise to his face was in usual disconcerting to Rennie, but in the case of the blue widow he felt a little glow. He had meant to pursue – was that quite the word? – had meant to discover the lady's address at Norwich, so that he might call on her at some future time. He was not sure when, nor even why. To press his attentions upon her? But she had eluded him, when the coach reached London the following day. He was again delayed by company agents, and failed to see Mrs Townend depart the Angel Inn, and deeply regretted it. Rennie thought then, before he secured his seat on the coach to Portsmouth, that he would be a damned fool if he did not attempt to find her, and indeed press his attentions on her. She was a very handsome woman, and she had smiled at him.

  Rennie arrived at Portsmouth in a very subdued condition. He had always intended to come there quietly and discreetly, but the dark event on the road, and all of the consequent exigencies of magistrate and clerk and agent, had quite cast him down – in spite of Mrs Townend's kind efforts to lift him. By the time he came to the Marine Hotel, and enquired about a room, his bag lying by his legs, he was almost too selfeffacing and diffident in the bustling busyness of the place to make himself heard. Presently he succeeded, and:

  'I fear we are very full up at present, sir.' The clerk. 'If you had stayed with us before, there may be . . . I did not quite hear the name, sir.'

  A party of young women, escorted by a captain of Marines, made the space loud a moment as they moved towards the dining room, just as Rennie said who he was to the clerk.

  'I am very sorry, sir . . . will you just say your name again?'

  'Rennie. Hm. William Rennie.'

  'And – have you stayed with us before, sir?' Opening the book.

  'Yes.'

  A finger flicking through the book, moving down a list of names:

  'Ahh, yess. Yess, of course. Captain William Rennie, RN!' Triumphantly tapping the list.

  'Hush, hush – if you please.' Rennie glanced round.

  'I do beg your pardon, Captain Rennie.' Clearly this called for discretion, and he lowered his voice accordingly, and waited.

  'Now then.' Rennie leaned forward. 'I do not wish . . . it is most important that I should have quiet, that I should be quiet, d'y'see. That is – if you are able to find room for me, at such a busy time.'

  'Oh, yes, sir. We do keep rooms available for valued guests, indeed.'

  'I am not here on naval business. I am here privately. Quietly. I do not wish to be disturbed.'

  'Just as you say, sir. – If you was wanting the same rooms as what you took previous, well . . .'

  'Yes. No. Quieter rooms, towards the rear, if you have them. I do not wish my presence known.'

  'Very well, sir.' Riffling through another book. 'We have a room – not rooms – overlooking the stable yard, at the rear. If that would suit . . . ?'

  'Yes, yes, admirable.' Nodding, again glancing round. He saw no one he knew, among the officers and young persons making their way through to the public rooms, and was reassured.

  'Very well, sir. If you would very kindly write your name . . .' Dipping quill pen in ink, and offering the pen to Rennie.

  Rennie wrote his name. The clerk scattered powder from the pounce box, and summoned a boy to carry Rennie's bag. 'Second floor, back, last room on the left. Sharp now.'

  Rennie followed the boy.

  'Good God, it's Rennie, ain't it! William Rennie!'

  In dread Rennie pretended not to hear, but felt his arm grasped from behind, and was obliged to turn. He saw a tall, confident sea officer, in dress coat, his dark hair greying at the temples, and recognized him. Captain Richard Langton RN.

  'Langton. I did not know it was you, else I – '

  'Are you with the fleet? What is your ship?'

  'Nay, I am on the beach. I am only here privately, you know, a private visit.'

  'On the beach? You? That is damned bad luck.' With genuine sympathy, although of course he had already known that Rennie was without a commission, from the List.

  'And you, Langton? Have you still got Tamar?' Contriving to be polite.

  'Nay, I have not, I have got the Hanover, seventy-four.'

  'A ship of the line, hey? That is well, that is well. My congratulations. You deserve it.'

  'I don't know that I do, you know.' A laugh. 'But I have got her, anyway.'

  Rennie sensed that Captain Langton was about to invite him to the ship, and quickly:

  'Will you forgive me if I go to my room, Langton? I am rather tired. A long journey.'

  'In course, m'dear fellow. Perhaps we could meet tomorrow? I am ashore nearly every day, even to sleep, since we have not yet had our sailing instructions. Or we could dine aboard . . .'

  'By all means.' Rennie nodded and smiled, and left it at that. He was pleased to have seen his old friend, but convivial dinners, naval reminiscences, &c., were not what he could at present welcome. He would find an excuse, and make it. The only person he wished to see was James Hayter, and tomorrow he would – discreetly – seek him out.

  He climbed the stairs.

  'Thank you.' He gave a coin to the boy who had carried his bag to the door of the room.

  The boy touched his forehead, and said: 'Does you wish the maid to turn down your bed, sir?'

  'No no, thank you. I shall rest quiet through the afternoon, lying on the covers.'

  'Was you wishing her to turn it down – later?'

  Had the boy smirked at him? Had the scut winked, good God? Rennie peered at him, and detected nothing untoward. Perhaps he had mistook the boy's expression, in the dim light of the passage. Perhaps he had misinterpreted the boy's questions. />
  'Later? Nay, I think not. I am used to a seafaring life, you know, and am able to manage such things for myself.'

  'As you like, sir.'

  'I may perhaps wish to dine in my room. I will ring.'

  'Will I say so downstair, sir? That you wishes to dine?'

  Rennie saw now that what he had thought was a wink was a little twitch of one side of the boy's face, brought on by earnest enquiry.

  'Thank you, I will ring.' He gave the boy another silver penny, and went in. Presently he lay down.

  When he woke, his valise still strapped up on the floor where he had left it, it was already nearly dark. Until a minute had passed he did not know where he was. For those sixty seconds he lay in utter confusion, looking at the dim square of the window, snuffing the smell of candle wax and hearing from below the scraping of hooves on cobbles.

  'What is this place?' Muttered aloud. 'Where the devil am I?'

  He sat up, and saw his valise, and remembered. He reached for the candle-holder on the cabinet, and was about to strike a light when there came a sharp tapping at his door.

  'Captain Rennie!' A man's voice.

  Who could know his whereabouts? Who knew he was at Portsmouth, leave alone in this hotel? An agent of Sir Robert Greer's? But how? Surely Langton had not –

  'Captain Rennie!' The rat-tat-tat repeated.

  'Who – who is it?'

  'May I speak to you please, sir?'

  'Oh. Yes. – Yes, about my dinner.' Swinging numb legs off the bed, stumbling pins and needles to the door, shoeless. He opened the door – and was confronted by a pistol and a masked face. The pistol was cocked with a menacing click, the sharpened flint poised in the dim light of the passage.

  'Step back, if y'please.' The voice lowered, and now with a sharp edge.

  Rennie stepped back, slipped on one of his cast-off shoes, and nearly fell. At once the pistol was thrust at his head, as his assailant followed him into the room, and: