‘If I could find some occupation to fill my time, Mr Tulkington,’ came as a plaintive cry. ‘That would save me from the temptations of idleness.’
‘The only skill you have is in mendacity,’ was the response, ‘and I cannot see how you can live off that, without you dun me for the means.’
‘Happen I could be put to a trade. If you was to put up an apprentice bond.’
‘I could set you up as a purveyor of useless excuses or idiotic suggestions.’
As they entered the Angel Inn, Henry called for some service, commanded the person who attended to see Spafford fed and clean him up, for if it was questionable as to what stained the front of his coat and shirt, there was no doubt it was filth of some kind.
‘If he asks for drink it is not to be provided. When he is presentable, and only then, bring him to my room.’
It was a process that did not take very long, but that still left enough time for Henry to brood on the problem and to come to one conclusion. Leaving Spafford loose in a place like Chatham, with its manifest temptations, was only marginally more troublesome than having him at Cottington Court. That, as a solution, even with tight restrictions, had to be avoided. He would never come to any kind of concord with Elisabeth if the lout was present.
It was in reflecting on that, Henry realised what he wanted from his sister was not just peace, but understanding and acquiescence: he needed Elisabeth to acknowledge his authority. That given, he had no doubt they could possibly coexist, if not in some kind of harmony, then in mutual respect. Not that such would be easy in the same household for some time to come, where the memories of what had occurred were bound to be raw.
Elisabeth thought he was against her marrying, which was not the case; it was to whom she had chosen as a potential husband that had brought this on her head. Pick someone of whom he could approve and he would have been sweetness and light. Why could she not see that? Perhaps if she had been appraised of the family trade, as he had from his sixteenth year, she might not have been so obtuse.
‘You were too soft on her by far, Father, too soft, and it is I who have to clean up the mess.’
The other mess knocked as he uttered these words, though it had to be admitted the people he had commanded to clean him up had done a reasonable job. Once through the door, he adopted the same attitude he had employed in Henry’s study, that of a schoolboy sure he was about to be punished. As he sat down, slowly and cautiously, Henry appeared to be examining him closely.
In truth, he was thinking what he could do with the wretch, while being aware he knew practically nothing about Harry Spafford, something to severely limit what were already constrained possibilities. Was there an occupation to which he might be suited? Not one he could presently think of and his parentage did not inspire.
He did know his mother had been a whore, a Welsh woman of reputedly fiery temperament, who had fled from Dan Spafford not long after the baby was born. If he didn’t mix in the same circles, Henry was nevertheless aware of what was common knowledge, as well as the subject of many a jest. What he had witnessed this very morning was standard behaviour as reported by gossip, a habit off which he would have to be weaned.
Henry turned to thinking that before him was a young fellow with a potentially loose tongue and one who might react badly to excessive restraint. If he had never, as far as was known, actively engaged in smuggling himself, he knew too much about the game and who was involved.
It was a deeply annoying train of thought, which encompassed the knowledge he had already castigated himself for. Matters had obliged him to act in haste and sitting before him, now with a truly concerned look on his face, was just one of the many consequences. His own expression, a scowl, being the suspected cause of Spafford’s anxieties, Henry made an effort to relax his features, reasoning he was in the presence of a booby and that could be used to his advantage.
‘It may be that I have judged you over harshly.’
If the reply was insincere, it did not appear as such and only a very mistrustful mind would have thought it so. The face went from worry to an expression of sad-eyed contrition, soon backed up by the words, delivered after a deep indrawn breath, designed to indicate shame.
‘No, you have judged right. I fear I have let you down and I’m sat here wondering how it could be possible to make amends.’
Happy to play the game, Henry asked. ‘You truly wish that to be the case?’
Had he been inclined to good humour, he might have found it impossible not to laugh at the bogus sincerity with which Spafford responded. He sat slightly forward, his expression now one of eager intention, his eyes bright with positive possibilities.
‘My pa sent me to school in Canterbury, so I have letters and numbers. If I’m in ignorance of all your affairs, it would be a blind man who could not see they’re extensive. Surely there is somewhere within that where I can be of use?’
The expression changed to one that could have been steely determination. ‘I’m aware I have wasted my growing years in dissolution, just as I know there are those who think I have no ability to live in a different way.’
Like your father, Henry Tulkington was thinking, but it did not show in his face. If this sod could do insincerity, so could he. ‘Harry, I do not know you well enough to be aware if that is true.’
‘Then I ask that you get to know me better.’
Henry dropped his chin to chest to indicate he was thinking about that, but his mind was in a very different place as regards solutions. Not that it stayed there for long: papers required to be signed and these were produced, along with a carrot.
‘Given what you have said, and should that prove to be the case, it might be that, in time, I will wish to send you to the West Indies.’
The expression was one of confusion now; Spafford was trying to work out where the idea came from and what it might portend.
‘But I fear, not yet. I would want to be sure you could carry out the duties that are necessary and that can only be done by a period of domestic observation. I would need to see how you progress in other areas before entrusting you with such a burden. Until then, the estates my sister inherited have to be managed, and I think, Harry, you would be the first to acknowledge, you are not yet ready for such a task.’
‘Estates?’
‘Sugar plantations.’
It was telling that he did not respond immediately, for he must know the law as well as anyone. Putting himself in Spafford’s place, Henry sought to read his thoughts, which would centre on the fact he was now the rightful owner of those plantations. He was also, no doubt, wondering if it would be wise to say so.
‘I admit to being slightly confused, Mr Tulkington.’
‘The management of such properties is complex and it is something I will encourage you to study. Until such time as I think you ready, I will run them on behalf of yourself and my sister.’
‘But—?’ That didn’t get far: Henry cut him off quickly.
‘While ensuring you receive the bulk of the income, which is considerable.’ Spafford didn’t know what to say and was unable to disguise his confusion, so Henry added, ‘That is, after the necessary investments have been made.’
‘Investments?’
‘Plantations require an injection of capital. A considerable sum has to be put down to purchase seed and, perhaps, the number of slaves will require to be increased. The people presently acting as overseers have to be paid also, so they will take care of the planting and, I hesitate to point this out, but you lack the means to provide it.’
‘How are they provided for now?’
That got a snapped response; Henry Tulkington couldn’t help himself and before continuing he had to work fast to return his tone to that which it had been previously, which he saw as paternal.
‘Take it that arrangements are in place, for now. But they require to be updated. But we must look to the future. If you husband the earnings, and the crop is as good as it has been in the past, you will be in
a position to fund your own purchases. That may become the time to think about being on the spot.’
Henry guessed the Spafford brain was still whirring, as his features went through a gamut of emotions and reflections.
‘You must understand, Harry, I need to take care of my sister’s well-being. Before I can entrust these assets to you, I have to be sure they will be safe in your hands. So it is my intention to manage them until that time.’
The deed Dirley had drawn up was rolled out as Henry fetched a quill and a pot of ink, the former dipped and handed over with an invitation to sign. The quill hovered for some time, but Spafford must know that, as of this moment, he was penniless and dependent on the man holding it. He had neither money, nor any access to credit.
‘In truth, I have to look out for you both now, not just Elisabeth.’ There was another wait before the quill dropped and scraped across the base of the deed, Henry saying, ‘I will have my sister append her signature when I get home, which I must do, since I have pressing matters to attend to.’
‘What do I do in the meantime?’
‘Stay here, for a week or two, while I consider how you can be of use to me.’ He did not have to mention money, they both knew it was germane. ‘I cannot have you behaving as you have done until now, Harry.’
‘Have I not convinced you of my intention to change my ways?’
‘Let us say I’m prepared to allow you the opportunity.’
The relief was obvious, as was the quickly suppressed smile.
‘I’ll draw a sum for your immediate needs and will also make arrangements for you to draw a weekly tranche of money.’ A heavy frown was necessary to underline the gravity of what followed. ‘Enough to fund pleasure − but not excess. I do not intend that you should be left here long, but when you return to Deal, it must be with something in mind to occupy you. I doubt I have to explain, given your parentage, in what manner that might be.’
‘John Hawker?’ came out with a worried frown, as well as proof he got the drift. ‘What will he say?’
‘He will do as he is instructed by me. And it may be, with matters as they are, I will seek to alter or expand my operations. I doubt I am required to say more. Now, I suggest you go to the room you occupy and wait. I will have to draw some monies and make certain arrangements, those I alluded to just a moment ago.’
‘I won’t let you down, Mr Tulkington,’ Harry Spafford insisted, as he stood to leave, again producing a look of deep sincerity. ‘I promise you.’
‘You have no idea how much I wish that to be true.’
His leaving was hesitant too, as if he wanted to add more lies. Or did he really believe what he had been saying about reforming? Maybe he did, but the man he was talking to was sure it would not last beyond the dipping of the sun. Many a fellow Henry knew had promised to foreswear drink of a morning; it rarely lasted past six in the evening.
Once he was gone, he left a pensive Henry Tulkington, who was revisiting a conclusion, one arrived at just before Harry Spafford had entered the room. He was a problem, with only one viable solution and that might apply to his equally unreliable sire.
Dan Spafford, locked up in the tannery with only shackled hands, was free to pace the room in which he was incarcerated, his reflections a constant. There were only two things on his mind, the first of which was what had happened to Harry. When that bone had been gnawed to a splinter, he would turn to the other. There was no possibility of him working for Henry Tulkington, and certainly not under the instruction of John Hawker. If it was pride which made that so, then he had enough.
Then concern number one would tell him, pride or no, the bastard held his boy’s fate in his hands. He also had no doubt Hawker would not cavil to slit his throat, or finish him off in one of the dozens of ways that could be conjured up. From time to time he would reprise the faces of those he had led, as well as their disguised looks of disgust at his indulgence of his boy. Sometimes he would admit to himself he was too soft.
How many times had he promised himself to cut Harry out of his life, to leave him to stew in his own juice? How much money had he wasted sending him to school and what a farce that had been, Harry thrown out for every sin imaginable and that before he was fully grown.
There had been a time when his boy looked to him and admired him, when he’d been a nipper, at a time when his pa determined for him a future better than the one life had gifted him. Not for Harry the risks of the contraband trade, or the company of the ruffians who made their way by it. Dan Spafford wanted his son a gentleman, with looks and manners to make it so, looks that had come from his mother.
Temper, no. Harry was not a thrower of plates, pots and pans, or one you felt the need to sleep beside with one eye open, for Welsh Mary was not one to let go of a grudge or be mollified by a confession of regret when she was in drink. Perhaps the lack of a mother was responsible for the way Harry had turned out: perhaps he had inherited Mary’s drinking habit as well as her looks.
Daisy had been kindness to him when they were home, but he had not, too busy earning the monies necessary for the lad’s future. He could not be around all the time and, with a war raging, thanks to the Jonathans across a whole ocean of water, and their drivel about liberty and not being taxed, the profits had been good.
It was hard to think how life had been only four years past. Tulkington too busy to care about his activities and profits high enough to justify his owning two luggers, as well as needing the numbers to crew them. And then the buggers signed a treaty and the war ended, which was no good to man nor beast.
Costs had stayed high, especially in the numbers depending on him, but profits had plummeted. Somehow he had to get back to his old ways, maybe with fewer souls needing to be fed and provided for. Thinking on that was the only thing that stopped him from tearing out his hair in frustration. Whatever it took he would get back to where he had once been and Henry Tulkington be damned.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was one thing to be advised of a sailing date for a cargo of contraband, another to be sure of its imminent arrival. Dirley Tulkington had worked out a system to cover that. The waters between the Continent and England were close to being probably the busiest trade route outside the Straits of Messina, full of ships passing through, travelling to and from the Thames Estuary and to any number of ports further north.
Every national flag was represented: Dutchmen, Danes and Swedes traded with their colonies or the Levant, added to any number of vessels from the Baltic ports of the old Hanseatic League. French and Italian ships carried legitimate cargoes of wine, spirits and luxuries to London, taking back manufactures, the whole dwarfed by the mercantile might of Britannia, pursuing commercial relations with the entire world.
A deep-laden cargo vessel, even one beating to and fro for a short period, would excite no comment, nor would the singular pennant that flew on the masthead, along with a fleur de lys. To send a boat out, weather permitting, to make contact within a very limited expanse of sea presented no difficulty. Having found them in the expected position, they could then pass on a message that it was safe to proceed when darkness fell.
Once the information was brought back to John Hawker, he could initiate things at his end. Word was spread for those who earned from porterage to assemble, the sentinels from his personal following despatched to watch the approaches. If anyone cared to notice, and few did, it would be observed that certain bodies were missing from their usual haunts, while the various tracks leading to St Margaret’s Bay carried more than the normal level of traffic.
Daisy Trotter had been watching the slaughterhouse for two days now, sure his mates were inside, less so regarding Dan Spafford. On the occasions when he had moved away, it had been to tail some of Hawker’s men as, singly or in pairs, they emerged to go about their various activities, usually collecting payments from the local traders. Hawker he never followed, indeed he made himself scarce on sight of a man who knew his face too well.
So when the same
folk came out in numbers, he could be sure something was up. When they headed out of the town, he had a very clear idea of what that would be, the knowledge sending him hurrying back to the point where he could continue to observe. One thing was obvious; if Hawker’s gang were busy overseeing the running of goods, they could not, at the same time, be guarding anyone they were holding.
On his own, knowing that did not provide any easy solutions. The only place he could look for support was not one that gave him much in the way of confidence. He had, many times, reprised his talk with Brazier and nothing he took from the memory indicated he would be willing to help. The gossip of him being in league with William Pitt he had picked up. It had even penetrated the doors of Basil the Bulgar’s place, though, very few being boatmen, there seemed to be few who gave any indication they cared if it was true.
Daisy didn’t know either, but if it was, did it explain his dispute with Tulkington? Would alerting Brazier get him the help he needed? It had to be tried, which saw another letter delivered to Quebec House, asking for another meeting at the same place, with no explanation as to why but with hints it might be to mutual advantage. It stated that Daisy would make his way to the Old Playhouse, once he had registered eight peals of the St George’s bell.
Joe Lascelles took it from the same attar-scented messenger and agreed to give it to his captain when he returned, while one of the urchins paid by Hawker wondered what to say about this visitor. He knew Brazier was not home, just as he knew where he was. He could see the man’s doorway and the entrance to the Navy Yard from the same spot.
Inside the headquarters, presently occupied by Rear Admiral Sir Clifton Braddock, Brazier, in full uniform, was in conversation with Elizabeth Carter. Now that the worst of the seasonal weather had passed, she was back in Deal where she had been born and maintained the house in which she was raised, sharing with William Pitt, in whose honour this soirée was being held, a love of sea air.
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