Young Dick

by John Jarvis

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Richard felt justified by taking on a pilot in the Thames estuary when he viewed the clutter and confusion of London’s docks. In the years that he had been away the docks and their parasitical supply businesses had multiplied tenfold.

  “Slave trade,” said Andrew with a look of disgust.

  Richard admired the pilot’s skills as he used the fickle winds to guide Juliet through the armada of merchant vessels large and small to the only vacant pier available.

  “Berthing costs are at a premium here, Captain – make sure you anchor down river once you have offloaded your cargo,” advised the pilot.

  Offloading proved not to be a problem: Sir Thomas’s business partners had been expecting Juliet and within an hour a party of stevedores arrived and energetically emptied Juliet’s holds of the furs and pelts. Richard had expected a Custom and Excise inspection and duties levied, but all documentation had been processed previously and all Richard had to do was sign the manifests and receive a check from a pimply-faced junior clerk from the Bank of London. He had already arranged for his funds to be transferred there from the Colonial Bank.

  Andrew and Tubal accompanied him to Threadneedle Street to uplift the coin to pay off the crew. Tubal and his Basques had decided to sign off and find a smaller boat to sail back to France. Tubal gave Richard a hug and almost a kiss and then, as an afterthought, shook his hand vigorously.

  “If you ever need another crew, Capitan, send word to Bilbao, ask for Tubal.”

  Then they were gone, pounding down the gangway, hefting their sea bags and disappearing into the crowds.

  “Me and the lads will stay on, Sir, if that is convenient; they will soon become restless once they have spent all their money ashore,” said Andrew.

  “Excellent, First Mate, they may stay aboard in exchange for a watchman; pity about losing the cook,” answered Richard.

  All morning Richard had digested newspapers, studied journals and read reports at the British Museum and Library. So much had happened in his absence and isolation, causing him to think he had been in some sealed time capsule. James Cook had discovered and mapped the land of the tribes, and it was now called New Zealand. The great Southern Continent had also been visited by Cook and was called Australia, but it was empty of people and wealth apart from the indigenous natives. The French had also visited New Zealand on the heels of Lieutenant Cook and other expeditions were planned. Dutch influence was waning in the Far East and the British were strengthening their positions in India. The shipping news had no mention of Subtile since the notification of its sailing over five years ago, but it did list the trading vessel ‘Supreme’ mastered by Captain Digby, lost with all hands in a storm off the coast of India: his father was dead. Richard became lost himself, in the small memories of his dad before rousing himself an hour later.

  At one o’ clock Richard took a single coach back to Juliet: he had to dress in his best before presenting himself to Lloyds Insurance in Lombard Street.

  Entering the building, Richard attracted the attention of a senior clerk who studied Richard’s hand-printed card with practiced indifference.

  “Whom do you wish to see, Sir, and I will see if I can arrange an appointment,” he spoke through his nose.

  “You will arrange a meeting immediately with anyone of the board members and inform them that I have information on the ship Subtile,” Richard replied.

  The clerk sniffed and departed through an ornate carved door. He vaguely recalled the ship being recorded as lost.

  “Captain Digby, my pleasure Sir, Howard Bentley at your service, Sir.” Bentley was a man of average height, well above average girth and a bald head that remained wigless. He was not a board member but was the face that dealt with the public on behalf of members who preferred to remain in the background. His method was to simple talk everyone into despair.

  Do have a seat, Captain, may I send for some refreshments? Subtile, you say, do you mind if my secretary takes notes, Captain? A record is necessary to prove continued efforts to find and salvage any lost vessel that has been settled. Now if you please, Captain, inform us, you were a crew member I take it?”

  Richard told his story from the date of sailing to his marooning in New Zealand. He noticed that Bentley’s eyes widened at the mention of the Dutch and Borneo treasures and he checked that his secretary recorded that Subtile was shipshape and fully crewed when Richard last saw it.

  “Thank you, Captain, you have been most helpful; you are owner of the Juliet I believe: with what do you intend to trade? May I be so bold as to suggest slaves Captain, a fabulously rich triangle: London, Madagascar, slaves to the Caribbean, sugar back to London. You will, of course, insure with Lloyds?”

  Richard made his escape back to Juliet and changed into his Captain’s uniform. He had noticed that his civilian attire was somewhat dated and arranged to visit a tailor and then an antique and curio shop in Portobello.

  The proprietor was Jewish, ‘a plus,’ thought Richard: he would have international contacts; on the negative side, he would not be as easily bullied into a high price like the one paid in New York.

  “How is it that you came by these disgusting heads?”

  Richard explained.

  “How can you prove they come from this New Zealand?”

  Richard pointed out that a description of tattooed warriors was recorded in Captain James Cook’s journals.

  “Are there only these three?”

  Richard explained the sale of the one in New York and the price received.

  “That is crazy price: I give you fifty pounds for all three.”

  “That crazy price was paid for and more by the King of France; the price is set; you may come up to it or I will take them to other capitals that I may visit in my travels,” replied Richard.

  He settled for two hundred pounds for all three. Richard now had a substantial sum in the bank, but if he wished to make real money he would have to buy a cargo and sell it at destination. He would need a loan from his bank.

  Richard would wait for his new clothes to be delivered before visiting his bank: it would be prudent to look like you did not need a loan when applying for one. He used the time to hire a French tutor and visit Wentworth the elder at his London gun shop.

  “How is my ambitious son coping in New York Captain?” Wentworth asked after introductions were completed and Richard had mentioned dealing with Wentworth the younger.

  “Very well, I fear he managed to sell me a pistol of questionable heritage at an exorbitant price.” Richard answered.

  The old man chuckled fondly. “How may I help you, Captain Digby?”

  “Sporting arms, Mr. Wentworth; the Colonies are crying out for them now that sales of firearms are restricted due to the unrest. Not your expensive engraved masterpieces but good solid country guns that are reliable and idiot-proof,” said Richard. Wentworth grunted and led Richard to his display racks.

  “Most of my trade and profit, Captain Digby, comes from custom-made weapons at the top end, but I do stock the odd fowling piece that can use solid shot safely: how many did you envisage?”

  “Two hundred minimum, Mr. Wentworth,” Richard waited while the older man sat down in shock. “You may source them from outside, Sir, and they do not have to be complete; I will take separate locks, stocks and barrels, and they do not need to be matched. Now, Mr. Wentworth, will such an order attract lower pricings?”

  “It will indeed, Captain Digby: we are talking wholesale rates for such a number. I can source some from the new arms factory in Birmingham, but it is the number of barrels available that will be the problem.” Wentworth scratched his head.

  “You have my card, Sir. I will leave you with a deposit of twenty pounds so that you may begin purchases immediately. Good morning, Sir.” Richard left Wentworth still scratching his head.

  His clothes had arrived, and the French tutor had departed. Richard had an appointment with a Mr. Brownlow, a manager at the Bank of London. He expected to
secure a loan – but fell in love instead.

  When Richard alighted from his cab resplendent in his new clothes outside the Bank of London he noticed a carriage and two with an attendant footman standing at the entrance. He was about to open the bank door by himself when it was flung open by a wigged footman who shot a frightened look at Richard and moved to one side. Richard had only just regained his balance when a young lady swished past him with a sigh of silks and bustles. He felt that he had been struck by lightning that melted his bones and super-charged his blood pressure. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Tall with a milky white skin and an hourglass waist, she carried herself like a princess. A scatter of freckles showed beneath minimal makeup, and her light blue eyes showed more than a passing interest in the handsome young man who quickly stepped to one side, removed his hat and showed a fine leg. A dimple appeared on the left side of her face as she was assisted into the carriage, leaving Richard gaping like a country bumpkin. It took Richard several minutes to get his breathing under control, use a kerchief to remove moisture from his brow and reset his mind for his interview.

  “I do not foresee any problems in a loan, Captain Digby.” Montague Brownlow sat back in his chair and removed a small set of eye-glasses. He was a thin man with a thin smile to match and middle age had done nothing to mellow his ambitions of higher status. His hard bargaining and ruthless recovery of his bank’s debts had leap-frogged him over more senior colleagues to senior management. “You have a substantial deposit with us, plus an unencumbered merchant ship, but may I suggest a floating overdraft rather than a fixed amount, that will give you greater flexibility and more favorable interest repayments. I take it you would be happy with such an arrangement? Excellent, I will have Grimes draw up the agreement. Now while my erstwhile clerk is actioning that, may I invite you to dinner this Saturday? You are quite the talk of the town and many important personages will be delighted to hear of your exploits. What say you, Sir?”

  “I will be delighted to attend, Sir,” answered Richard; it was the only comment he had made in the entire interview.

  “Excellent, I will send my carriage to your dock say seven for a nine o’ clock start?” Brownlow stood, indicating that the interview was at an end.

  When the carriage arrived promptly at seven o’ clock on Saturday’ Richard’s heart gave a leap. It was the same carriage that had carried the girl of his dreams.

  “Allow me to present my daughter Rebecca,” Brownlow was receiving his guests at the entrance of his palatial home near the Park. “She is invaluable in helping this old widower in all events social.” Brownlow noticed a look of surprise pass between his daughter and Richard. Have you two met before?”

  “We almost bumped into one another at the door of the bank,” explained Richard, pleased at the pleasant smile on Rebecca’s face.

  “Ah well, welcome, Captain, please avail yourself of refreshments, may I recommend the punch? Ah, Sir and Lady Howard, so glad that you could attend.”

  Richard walked into the high vaulted reception hall and took a glass of punch from a silver tray held by a uniformed servant.

  “Eyes off and definitely hands off that filly, Sir; allow me to introduce myself, Captain Briggs Royal Marines.” Richard turned towards a slender dark haired man not many years older than himself.

  “Captain Digby of the Juliet,” Richard replied.

  “I know old chap as will everyone here tonight, I am looking forward to your recitation later on,” Briggs had an engaging smile that would attract the ladies.

  “I am sure you could share similar stories of action, Captain, but why is it that our host’s daughter is off limits, so to speak?” Richard asked.

  “Not an unfamiliar story, old chap: Brownlow’s family on the mater’s side once held a title and substantial estates. The last Baron lost it all to gambling and bad investments; he had no male heir and Brownlow is desperate to restore a title, any title. He is new money and not acceptable to the upper crust, so will have to marry his daughter off to an impoverished titled family and hope for a grandson,” Briggs lifted another glass of punch from a passing tray.

  “Good Lord, what does Rebecca think of that?” Richard asked.

  “She is merely a chattel, old chap; her feelings do not come into any arranged marriage: see that thin fop with the large nose and stoop standing by the punch bowl? Lord Haversham, old family unable to pay their servants or the upkeep of their houses and estates; the engagement will be announced after the haggling over the dowry is complete. Another punch, old chap?”

  A stunned Richard merely nodded.

  On the completion of his recitation Richard gave a slight bow to acknowledge the polite applause of the guests. Richard had avoided speaking about himself and had related the events as an observer. He had extracted gasps of horror from the ladies when explaining cannibalism and the savagery of the natives. The males had appreciated the odd French baddie. Richard noted that the Lord Haversham had not applauded but whispered something to a fop on his right who sniggered and avoided Richard’s glance.

  “May I suggest that the gentlemen retire to the smoking room for brandy?” Brownlow requested.

  The smoking room looked more like a library than a den with floor to ceiling bookshelves stacked with heavy tomes and more modern models. There was scant room for the paintings of the hunt and the two large billiard tables cramped the floor space. Everyone sank into deep leather chairs and servants offered tobacco and cognac.

  At the first opportunity Richard pleaded the need for fresh air and slipped out the French doors to the terrace.

  “I thought I would find you here,” Rebecca had appeared at Richard’s side. “You are a man more used to windy quarterdecks than smoky dens.”

  “You have assessed me correctly, Miss Brownlow,” answered Richard.

  “You may call me Rebecca, and I shall call you Richard,” said Rebecca with a smile that caused laugh lines about her light blue eyes.

  “Is it true, Rebecca, that you are about to become engaged to Lord Haversham?” Richard decided to be direct; he suspected their time on the terrace would be limited.

  “You are well informed, Richard; I have yet to agree, but my father assumes consent without consultation with his daughter.”

  “I cannot imagine you as a trophy wife installed in a vast mansion and expected to breed heirs to the line and attend boring social occasions,” said Richard.

  “Now it is you who have assessed me correctly, Richard.” A cough came from the French doors and Richard looked back to Captain Briggs making a warning shake of his head.

  “I must go,” whispered Rebecca, and Richard grasped her hand and kissed the back of her glove.

  “Ah, there you are, slurred Brownlow, indicating he was well into his cups. “Come and rejoin us: my guests need to interrogate you about the political situation in the Colonies.” Captain Briggs gave Richard a wink as he passed.

  Two days later Richard timed his visit to the Brownlow residence at eleven a.m.: a time when Montague would have left for the bank and Rebecca would have risen. The butler recognized Richard, ushered him to the drawing room and delivered his card to Rebecca’s bedroom.

  “Richard, what a pleasant surprise,” Rebecca swept into the room chaperoned by a maid who sat in a corner out of earshot and concentrated sternly on her needlework.

  “I had to see you again, Rebecca: we had so little time together on the terrace and I feel we have so much to talk about,” said Richard, rather lamely.

  Talk about was what they both did, and they found that they shared views, opinions and the love of books. They talked on through lunch and several changes of maids until they needed tea at three to refuel. They parted at the door with Richard placing a chaste kiss on Rebecca’s cheek. He could feel her eyelashes fluttering against his.

  That night Rebecca could not sleep, knowing that she was deeply in love with Richard. Was he in love with her? She intimately knew that he was and would say so the next t
ime they met but feared her father’s reaction and subsequent actions. She stamped her foot against the sheets: she was of age and could make her own decisions, and damn her father’s titular dreams. She finally fell asleep into lovers’ dreams.

  Richard awoke with a start. He too had had lovers’ dreams and his sheets were damp with more than sweat. He would court his love Rebecca and damn the banker’s broadsides.

  “I absolutely forbid you to see that young whippersnapper again!” Brownlow raged at his daughter. He had delayed his departure to the bank to confront Rebecca at her breakfast. “You ungrateful child; after all I have done for you, spent on you, lavished on you, even an education, and this is how you repay me? Clandestine meetings behind my back that have not only the servants gossiping but also half of London? God knows how Lord Haversham will react when he hears of your indiscretions, and I am at a loss to think how you could be so obtuse. I – ”

  “I know exactly how that galloping goat Lord Haversham will react, Father: he will demand a bigger dowry and you will be foolish enough to pay it. I have repaid your investments in me tenfold by denying myself any personal life in order to play hostess for you and put up with your so-called gentlemen friends’ visual rapes and wandering hands; no, do not interrupt but hear me out. The one thing you have never given me, could not give me, is love, and I now have the chance to have that most precious of experiences and will not lose it by marrying your pathetic excuse for a man, Haversham. Never!” Rebecca picked up a plate and hurled it against the wall. Brownlow flinched and took a deep breath; never had his daughter spoken to him like that.

  “You will go to your chambers and confine yourself within. I will engage extra staff to keep you there and Digby without until you come to your senses. Now leave me,” Brownlow ordered, and Rebecca gave her father a look of defiance and withdrew.

  “A Captain of Marines by the name of Briggs wishes to come aboard, Sir,” Andrew reported to Richard, working in his cabin.

  “Thank you, First Officer, please show the Captain to my cabin,” replied Richard.

  “Captain Briggs.”

  “Captain Digby, do you mind if I sit down; there will be less to fall should you strike me,” said Briggs with a wan smile.

  “What on earth are you talking about, man?” Richard asked, completely baffled by Briggs’ question.

  “Well, Digby, I come as a messenger and they have a historical habit of getting shot. Brownlow has sent me, there being no one else willing to take the risk.”

  “Ah.”

  “Let me pass on his ravings then, we can splice the main brace if the sun is sufficiently lowered. He orders you to stay away from his daughter, of course under the pain of ruining you financially, socially and possible excommunication [sic]. He has hired unsavory types to smash your face in should you ignore his warnings. I did warn you, old chap,” Briggs eyed the ship’s decanter and Richard poured them both a glass of fortified wine.

  “How has Rebecca taken all this?” Richard asked.

  “She has flatly refused to marry Haversham and has been confined to the house, Brownlow is still pandering to Haversham in the hope he can pressure his daughter into surrendering, but I fear he has greatly underestimated Rebecca’s strength of will,” answered Briggs. Richard refilled their glasses.

  “To Rebecca’s strength of will,” toasted Richard.

  The letter came two days later, delivered by an urchin who demanded a second penny for its delivery. Richard paid and rushed to his cabin to read it. The envelope smelled of lavender.

  My dearest Richard, by the time you receive this letter I will be on my way to a Grande tour of Italy chaperoned by two male cousins. They are rather cute and embarrassed that my father has pressured them into the task of both escorting and protecting me. The all expenses paid tour has some effect in diluting that embarrassment. It is my father’s earnest desire that the long period away will allow events to settle down and in both mine and your absence and return to what he considers normal. I remain adamant that I shall never marry Haversham and pray each day that our love will somehow overcome all obstacles. I love you Richard and always will. I must finish and have the gardener smuggle it out to you, with all my love, Rebecca.

  Richard cried.