The boy considered a moment and stowed his weapon. ‘Will Simmons.’ He grasped Henderson’s fingers. ‘Sorry. It gave me a turn, hearing English.’
‘Quite understandable,’ the captain replied, still as polished granite, and better dressed.
Inclined to tarry and investigate this drunken, late-night orphan of the town, Henderson withdrew a pipe from his pocket, stuffed it with tobacco and set it alight. A comforting waft of sizzling toffee shag clouded around the men. It would have been nothing extraordinary at home, but here, on the deserted, late-night dock, it was like meeting a pale English shade. Simmons’s mouth dropped.
‘You’re newly arrived? Where are you berthed, if you don’t mind me enquiring?’ Henderson asked.
‘I took passage and the ship is gone.’ Simmons stifled a hiccough. ‘I’m here to transact some business. Do you know Senhor Dourado, sir? I’ve been looking for him for hours, but no one seems to speak English.’
Henderson drew on his pipe and left a long pause before he decided to answer. ‘There’s a local man of that name – a trader. He has a warehouse in that direction’ – he gestured – ‘towards the end of the quay. You’d most likely catch him at home – he’s not so present in his affairs. I’m sure he’ll have men to look after his stock.’
‘My business is with Dourado alone.’
Will sounded dramatic, but then he was young.
‘If I were you I’d head to town tomorrow. There’s a square.’ The captain gestured in the opposite direction. ‘That would be the place to ask. Most private householders are abed. Matters at the docks run late and even here they’re fading. I’m sure Senhor Dourado will be at home in the morning.’
Simmons nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Henderson.’
‘Captain,’ Henderson corrected him, tipping his hat. ‘I’ll take my leave then. Goodnight.’
The captain tarried one last moment to take in the final details of Will’s appearance. If the boy had business with Dourado then he was evidently up to something, but that was not Henderson’s concern. Still, his curiosity was lighted. Will was fresh from England. Henderson had not seen London in a long time. It must be fifteen years at least. Simmons somehow brought the city to mind, but Henderson was unsure what, if anything, he wanted to say about it. With no words coming to mind, the captain raised his hand and made his way onto a small ship of shabby appearance. Two men on watch sprang to their feet.
‘Did that ship cross from England?’ Simmons said to the captain’s departing back. He found the question had formed quite involuntarily.
Henderson knew that his vessel was unusual. Old-fashioned, even.
‘The Bittersweet’s a beauty, isn’t she?’ he turned and leaned in conspiratorially. ‘She handles a dream. She might be traditionally built, but she’s shoaly as a stream. You can bring her in, you see, almost any bay at all.’ He winked.
Simmons grinned in recognition and Henderson smiled back. Ah, the captain thought, now I’m getting the measure of the fellow. He’s a smuggler.
‘Puts me in mind of a caravel or a fluyt,’ Will said.
Henderson shrugged. The Bittersweet was wider than a ship of the line, and shallow for a cargo vessel. She housed twenty men, at capacity. The design was less unusual in these parts than it was where Simmons had come from. Caravels, after all, were Portuguese. ‘The Yankees love their morning chocolate.’ He hovered comfortably at the top of the gangplank.
Simmons hoisted his roll over his shoulder. This had been a lucky encounter. The boy’s rum-sodden mind focussed. Henderson not only spoke English but was also just the kind of fellow who might run the Bridge Club’s return cargo – decent, but not too decent. Someone who paid his debts and had done no more jail time than was usual. Just like Mr Grant said. Will had not thought to look for a captain before he had secured the Bridge Club’s supplier, but if the chance fell into his lap, he’d take it. Now he thought on it, the shabby old ship was perfect too – nothing flash, which meant it wouldn’t attract the wrong kind of attention. He cleared his throat.
‘I may have a proposition for you, Captain. I need to find this Dourado fellow. I’m in the market for some chocolate beans. I hear it is the crop of the continent. And then I shall have to transport it.’
Henderson leaned over the side. Cacao was his cargo of choice. He’d been running it since he was a nipper. ‘Where do you want to bring it in?’ the captain enquired, low.
‘England, of course.’ Simmons was green. To him, there was only one destination.
‘Is there much trade in cacao over the Wash?’
‘Yes, sir. And growing.’
The captain nodded. England to him meant London. He’d been brought up there. Somewhere in the murky recesses of his mind it was still home. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. Returning was an attractive idea. Still, to discuss the matter further in common hearing would be foolish. Brazil was more laid back than other territories, but smuggling was still a felony. Henderson was circumspect, weighing up the invitation before issuing it.
‘Can I offer you a drink?’ he asked after a short pause. ‘I’m planning to eat a custard tart before retiring – you’re on Portuguese territory and if there’s one thing the Portuguese do to perfection it’s a custard tart. Pastéis de nata, they call them. I prefer ’em sprinkled with cinnamon. Have you yet had the opportunity?’
The boy grinned. ‘Not yet, but I’d be delighted,’ he said as he stepped off the quay and followed the captain up the gangplank.
4
Lord Cochrane’s private study, Recife
Angelino hovered by the door in case he was needed. His greying hair was slicked behind his ears and it was not without pleasure that he eavesdropped. The rumour was that this Englishwoman was Lord Cochrane’s lover. To Angelino, this seemed unlikely. Lady Cochrane was both younger and more beautiful than Dona Graham. Besides, Her Ladyship was in close proximity, asleep upstairs, along from the nursery where her children slumbered. Still, Angelino wanted to see what His Lordship and the dark-eyed dona got up to, left alone in the cool of the evening. He set his eye to the well-crafted brass keyhole and drew the cool green room into focus, with its leather-bound books and its ormolu timepiece on the white marble mantle. The clock struck midnight. He put a hand to his crotch for comfort and tried to hear what was being discussed.
His Lordship was not in uniform. As head of the Brazilian navy, Admiral Cochrane allowed himself a degree of sartorial freedom and tonight he wore an elegant pair of pale-gold britches and a flamboyant green jacket that showed off his figure. Maria thought he looked very fine as he poured her a glass of red wine and then paced in front of the window, which lay open. Behind them, the sun had long since set over the ocean like an orange pool of melted lustre and now the darkness was peppered with shipboard lanterns that marked the outline of the harbour. Maria had known Admiral Cochrane for almost twenty years. They always spoke frankly to each other.
‘Kitty finds the conditions difficult. She’s looking forward to the end of the conflict,’ Cochrane confided.
‘I can hardly blame her, but heavens, Thomas, haven’t you only just started?’ Maria sipped the wine, her elegant wrists highlighted by long honey-coloured satin gloves.
It was a comfort to be back in civilisation. It had taken two baths and a full day of careful unpacking to remove the rainforest from Mrs Graham’s person. Between these duties she had told Cochrane’s children stories about the jungle and instructed the eldest in how to play cards. As well as doing her duty.
‘Kitty and I visited the hospital this afternoon. It was not pleasant, poor souls.’ Maria had seen such scenes before, but it hadn’t inured her. On the crowded, under-equipped wards, the wounded were dying in droves, carried off by infection after the ravages of post-battle surgery. The sweet stench of gangrene had made both women retch as they donned aprons and rolled up their sleeves. It was Lady Cochrane’s first experience of war. She had managed not to cry in front of the injured men – that
was the main thing. The tears had only seeped out in the carriage home.
‘We mustn’t let the children see. Nor Thomas.’ Kitty dried her eyes. ‘I can’t help but worry about it all,’ she sniffed, confiding in Maria, for the state of the injured and battle-worn troops was not the only matter on Kitty Cochrane’s mind. The family was here because the admiral had been disgraced in London. ‘It’s Thomas’s reputation. My father was cut dead when he had to leave. I never worry for my husband on a raid or in a battle. He cannot die, Maria, he will not, until he makes everyone proud once more. He thanked God when the uprising started – now he will be able to make his name again.’
Maria sympathised. A man could lose everything over a rumour. She was sure that the admiral had not done what they said – stock exchange fraud was hardly in his nature. But London was harsh if you landed on the wrong side of its good opinion and, for the time being, Cochrane was in disgrace. Maria laid her hand on Kitty’s shoulder.
‘He will be pardoned. People will petition for him. They must. Everyone will be in awe of his naval successes. Thomas is a marvel and England will want him back. It will take time, that’s all.’ A man, after all, might regain his lost reputation, particularly if he had talent.
The admiral took a sip of claret and settled into a leather armchair. ‘The job has to be done,’ he said. ‘By hook or by crook, Brazil will be independent. It’s best to be quick – it’ll mean fewer casualties in the long run.’
‘I know,’ Maria said gravely, banishing the memory of the makeshift hospital with its livid flesh and raw suffering. Wallowing was no good to anyone and it wouldn’t get her to London any quicker or, for that matter, back to Rio to take up her position. ‘You’ve turned around the war in six weeks, Thomas. It is quite amazing. Their Majesties can be nothing less than delighted. However,’ she admitted, ‘I did not come here only to deliver Her Majesty’s missive. I need your advice on how I am to get home.’
Cochrane put down his glass. ‘Really you oughtn’t to be travelling, Maria. I can’t imagine what they were thinking, sending you this way – apart from to deliver the dispatches. You are reckless, my dear. No ships are leaving for England – it will take a month at least for things to calm down. We can find you passage then.’
Maria shook her head. She had promised to return to the royal nursery as quickly as she could. Even in wartime she knew there was always a way. ‘That’s all very well, but I don’t have a month. I need to get back to London.’
‘London? My dear lady, at the moment I can’t see with certainty how we’ll get you out of Recife,’ Cochrane replied. ‘I can spare no resources. We may have won a battle, but that is not a victory in the war. I’m maligned enough at home without being the fellow who lost the precious Mrs Graham on the high seas by dispatching her inappropriately. Murray would never forgive me. Can’t you wait?’
Maria laughed. ‘Silly,’ she teased. ‘“The precious Mrs Graham.”’
The admiral, however, was adamant. What he did not tell her was that Lady Dundas had written to him. Given his state of social disgrace in England, the old harridan must have been desperate. But there were few Englishmen in South America and, for that matter, in Brazil, and they all knew each other. Given the tone of the letter, the admiral was not sure that Maria ought to return to London. Despite the fact that she had never liked her niece, it was clear Lady Dundas would do everything in her power to keep the poor woman there. Still, Maria was used to sticking to her guns. If Lady Dundas took her on, he’d like to see that battle. Maria regarded him coolly.
‘Are you sure you want to go back?’ he asked. ‘When the Brazilians sent instructions they did not include ferrying you across the water, my dear, and I’m stretched as it is.’
Maria took this in. ‘I must,’ she said firmly. With or without Cochrane’s help, she was determined, but it would be easier with it.
The dispatch pouch lay open on the table. The Emperor of Brazil’s instructions were clear. The fight was not yet over and, though it might take till Christmas, Cochrane must force the Portuguese ships off the coast and isolate Portuguese sympathisers on the mainland. The power of the entire fleet must be dedicated to the fight.
‘Dear Lord,’ Maria sighed good-naturedly, ‘please don’t say I must travel onwards through the jungle again.’
Cochrane smirked. His fingers darted to the folds of his carefully knotted gold silk cravat. ‘I have heard,’ he said, ‘that everything there has teeth.’
Maria’s eyes brightened. ‘Even Senhor da Couto.’ She leaned in. ‘By the end he was set to finish me, I swear. I’ve never seen a man more eager to take his leave, and I myself have never been so relieved to be delivered safely by a guardian. Though I hesitate to call him that. The jungle was formidable and he was just as bad. If I make my way onwards by land, at least I will be on my own reconnaissance and I can choose my own compatriots.’
‘It’s a rich country, but it guards its treasures well.’ Cochrane emptied his glass, thinking of his family home in coastal Fife, where the coal at Culross had to be ripped from thin seams under the cold grey firth. The Cochrane family employed an army of miners as strong as pit ponies and not much taller. Until recent generations, they had been serfs. The pale colours of Cochrane’s homeland were a distant memory. Maria was aware she was lucky to be able to go back. She had no wish to rub it in.
‘The jungle is alive. It’s dangerous as a living nightmare and brimful of hostility. I was bruised, but I always heal quickly. At least I’ll sleep in a proper bed tonight.’ She stretched beneath the long skirt, flexing her ankles, unseen.
Cochrane regarded her. Mrs Graham was certainly elegant. This evening one would scarcely believe she was a bluestocking, for she had happily abandoned her accustomed daywear, the ugly grey travelling dress, in favour of something more fashionable. She lounged on the little sofa dressed in pale swathes of cascading satin, a blue feather with a small gemstone-and-pearl clasp clipped into her dark hair. Through the study’s atmosphere of musty paper and sealing wax, she smelled of orchids. The doctor at the hospital reported she had raised the men’s spirits. There was something about Maria Graham that you could believe in – a slice of home. If not unique in her travelling, she was at least extraordinary. Not many women had the force of personality needed to make long journeys. Still fewer were such good company. She would bring him to the point, he supposed, one way or another.
‘If there was a merchant ship, I’d happily take passage—’ she started.
‘Madam,’ Cochrane cut in, ‘I know there’s little point in telling you what to do.’
Maria blushed. She folded her hands neatly in her lap. ‘I only thought a merchant ship would—’
Cochrane put up his arm to cut her off. There was no measure to be gained in beating around the bush. He would simply tell her the truth. ‘If it is a merchant ship you are considering, there are few such vessels and almost certainly you will have difficulty in finding a vacant berth. In wartime, the goods that are most profitable are food and weapons, not travelling English ladies. Besides, in the current situation it cannot come as a shock to find that each and every one is captained by an opportunist. It is not quite like taking passage on a pirate vessel or a smuggling ship, but the truth is it’s not far off. We’ve had to string up half a dozen renegades in the last week and that’s after we’d offered them the chance to join us and been refused. You know I don’t hold against trade, Maria. Gentlemen of business can be gentlemen nonetheless, but the kind of fellow who trades in these circumstances . . . I would not encourage you to put your life in such hands. I do not say this solely because you are a lady. I would advise a man the same, but there are some indignities to which a woman can be subjected and you would be at great risk. Especially if you were captured.’
Maria nodded. Cochrane’s advice was genuine, unlike that of many men, who, it seemed, were simply vexed by a woman attempting anything other than a gentle afternoon ride. She had had to stand up to such things ever sinc
e age of eight, when matters had been decided against her mother. Everyone wanted to dictate to a girl she had realised as they chose her clothes and censored her reading matter before packing her off to that hateful school, miles away. At first she’d prayed she might be allowed to go with her father on his next commission – but to no avail. Then she told herself the restrictions would stop when she reached adulthood, but they didn’t. Everyone wanted to dictate to a lady. Cochrane was a friend, though. He was telling her the truth as he saw it.
‘I understand,’ she said. ‘It’s only that da Couto chartered a ship.’
‘A tub,’ His Lordship objected. ‘It was a fishing boat. And he was heading south – that is quite different. For an Atlantic crossing you need something seaworthy.’
She called his bluff. ‘Oh, a fishing boat would be fine. At least it could get me part of the way. My only alternative is to head inland and north till I reach another port.’
‘Da Couto was a fool.’
‘Without question.’ Maria’s eyes danced. She stretched her neck like a swan. ‘I can’t tell you how relieved I am to be rid of him and instead to be in your capable hands.’
Cochrane sighed. The interior was far too dangerous and if he didn’t step in he could see Maria was determined on some damn foolish course – chartering a skiff and getting into trouble. He raised his hands in surrender. ‘You’ll be the end of me. I’ll be sending two ships up the coast in a few days. They’ll be on reconnaissance and if they come across enemy vessels they will engage them. However, one of them could make a short detour to drop you somewhere less central to the resistance than Recife. Somewhere you’d stand a decent chance of finding safer passage.’ Cochrane pulled a chart from his desk. ‘I’ll have to find somewhere they can set you ashore.’ The admiral’s finger landed on the map. ‘Have you visited Natal? It’s the state capital of Rio Grande do Norte and a decent size for a trading port.’
On Starlit Seas Page 4