The Scent of Betrayal Read online

  The Scent of Betrayal

  DAVID DONACHIE

  I dedicate this book to

  NIGEL LOVE, GLENN COULL & ALAN BURRETT

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  About the Author

  Copyright

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  GENERAL James Wilkinson did exist, as did his gold. Someone once said of him that ‘He was a man so careful in defence of his honour, it was clear that he had none.’ He conspired, at Valley Forge, to remove George Washington from the command of the Continental Army, the first but not the last of his underhand dealings. Personal advantage was his prime motive, though it was cloaked in statements relating to all manner of high-sounding causes. While a serving soldier in the army of the United States, he sought to serve both Spain and his own country, while deceiving them both regarding his aims for Kentucky. He did solicit a bribe of $200,000 from the Governor of New Orleans, this to act as a paid informant against his fellow Americans. The gold was shipped, in secret and by a circuitous route, up the Mississippi. But before it could be handed over, those carrying it, and their escorts, were ambushed and robbed. No trace of the money, or of the identity of those who stole it, has ever been established.

  CHAPTER ONE

  HARRY LUDLOW wasn’t one to get inebriated often. But celebrating Oliver Pollock’s birthday had led to a bout of drinking that got out of hand, and an extended period of sleeping ashore in this cramped lodging house had dulled the sixth sense that every ship’s master needed as a guard against sudden danger. Pender, who’d expected his Captain’s eyes to open as soon as the door creaked, was obliged to throw the shutters wide, allowing the first bright streaks of Caribbean sunlight to stream in through the window and fill the sparsely furnished room. That wasn’t enough, it didn’t even break the rhythm of the loud snores. He had to shake the recumbent figure very hard before he got any kind of response. Half awake, and confused, he was slow to comprehend what Pender was saying.

  ‘Who?’ Harry croaked.

  ‘Your American friend, Pollock,’ Pender repeated slowly. ‘Who was matchin’ you jug for jug last night. The drink didn’t seem to affect him in the same manner as you. He set sail in the Daredevil at the full and not a hint as to where he was headin’. I don’t recall him saying anything about shifting out of here in the middle of the night.’

  Harry shook his head very slowly.

  ‘Coffee, I think,’ said Pender, making for the door.

  Harry tried to say gallons, but the word wouldn’t come. He lay back on the wide double bed and closed his eyes, rubbing his temples in a vain attempt to dull the ache of what promised to be a serious hangover. His brain was slow to clear, the events of the previous night, as well as the last few weeks, unfolding in a series of confused, non-chronological images. Five men; great quantities of food; endless toasts. The scarred face of Nathan Caufield, native of Sag Harbour and former Loyalist, bridling at any reference to the American Revolution. The Long Island sailor’s seeming indifference when his son, Matthew, in the company of James Ludlow, slipped away to yet another assignation at Madame Leon’s bawdy-house.

  The impression existed that for all he’d consumed in food and wine, which was considerable, he shouldn’t be feeling this bad. Harry Ludlow would never claim to be a trencherman of the first rank, but in a world where no meal was considered memorable if it wasn’t huge, where drink was taken regularly and copiously, he could recall few occasions when he’d felt as weak as he did now. His next attempt to speak died as Pender returned, no more than a rasp in his bone-dry throat. Handed a pitcher of water, he drank from it greedily, allowing a fair quantity to spill over the front of his shirt. He looked down.

  ‘God in heaven,’ he sighed, at the realisation that he’d probably been carried to bed, ‘I’m still in my breeches and boots.’

  Raising his eyes he observed that he wasn’t alone in his distress. Pender’s face was tinged with grey. The eyes, steady as they contemplated his plight, had a red, bloodshot rim round each pupil, and his voice had a weary quality.

  ‘Since you was dead to the world, I decided to partake of a bit of a gargle on my own account. I was on my way back here when one of the fishermen told me about Mr Pollock.’

  Another image floated into his mind. Of Pender, cold sober in the background, stepping forward only occasionally to top up a tankard that wasn’t full to the rim. It must have been some ‘gargle’ he’d crammed into the time he had left.

  ‘Beats me how Pollock managed it,’ Pender added, ‘given what he put away. He must have been the very devil to rouse out. There’s no way he could have walked to the quayside, that’s for certain.’

  Harry, with a deliberate air, swung his feet onto the floor, an action which produced an alarming stab of pain in his head. His nostrils picked up the odour of coffee long before the serving girl set the tray she was carrying on the table. Pender had a cup poured and in his master’s hands before her footsteps faded. He drank the coffee gratefully, then hauled himself to his feet. By the open window he could see out over the whole of St Croix harbour. Several ships, including Daredevil, had slipped their moorings during the hours of darkness. He struggled to recall the names of others but his hangover defeated every effort in that line and he turned his attention to his own ship, Bucephalas, knowing that the mere sight of her clean lines would lift his spirits.

  No man sailing as a privateer could ask for a better vessel. Over a hundred foot long and well armed, she lay by the quay, still handsome despite the staging round her stern. The work he’d ordered done on her was all but complete. Today he intended to set about removing the mess the shipwrights had made of his pristine deck. Normally a man who harried such people, he’d been content to let them work at their own pace. The topsail schooner Ariadne, which he’d escorted here, was in need of greater repair: as well as substantial damage to her upper works, her timbers had suffered from worm and weed. Hauled over by the nearest stretch of beach, she looked forlorn in the clean morning light. Both ships had been damaged in a recent battle with two French frigates and here, safe in the Danish harbour, the local shipwrights were making perfect the temporary repairs that had been undertaken at sea. In less than a week from now they’d both be ready, with Harry determined that they should part company as soon as they’d weighed.

  ‘Odd that Pollock didn’t let on he was l
eavin’,’ said Pender.

  ‘He’d have informed us if he’d known.’

  As much a question as a statement, it produced no response from his servant. Pollock must have left because of some unforeseen emergency. Despite many conversations, he still knew little about the American’s reasons for calling at St Croix. He was just about to make this observation when both the Governor’s signal guns boomed out over the harbour. Raising his eyes, he saw much commotion on the parched lawn in front of the residence. Both guns boomed out again. The Danish flag rose and dipped as someone sought another method of alerting the inhabitants. All of which could mean only one thing: serious danger, which in this part of the world tended to mean an attempt to take the island. Painful as it was to make any sudden move, his response was immediate.

  ‘Get the crew aboard Bucephalas and make ready for sea. Send someone to drag James and young Caufield out of that damned whorehouse and tell Matthew to rouse out his father. He’s to turn him into the trough if necessary, but get him aboard ship.’

  Pender was hanging out of the other window, trying in vain to see what the fuss was about. His Captain’s sharp tone brooked no argument, nor did it invite questions. Harry Ludlow had his own well-developed sense of impending peril, honed by years at sea, that was proof against a mere hangover, and when he spoke in that manner he expected obedience. Pender was out of the door before Harry had grabbed his sword, pistols, and papers from the sea-chest by the side of the bed.

  The commotion in the street was tremendous, the harbour worse, with every ship firing off some kind of weapon, adding to the air of panic. Men in the tops of each vessel, sent to make sail, were pointing towards the west, clearly the source of whatever threatened, while below their masters were attempting to haul the ships over their anchors. With no clear idea of what lay in the offing, Harry pushed his way through the throng towards the quay. He found his way blocked by a heavy crowd milling around outside the locked door of the Børsenen house, with those in the front banging on the thick wood. The leading banker in the town, he held money for the majority of the traders in St Croix and in a crisis all wanted their funds in their own hands. The buzz of conversation, in a dozen tongues, engulfed him as he fought his way through. There was a great deal he didn’t comprehend. But he understood enough.

  His original supposition, made at the first boom of the signal guns, proved accurate. There was a fleet in the offing, flying the French flag, beating up towards the island, intent on a landing. How much was this a threat to a neutral Danish possession? Then the expedition leader’s name was mentioned, and that stood out no matter what language was used. Harry’s already delicate stomach heaved with apprehension. There was no way of knowing how the crowd had come by the information, or indeed if it was true, but a voice had named Victor Hugues as the man leading the French expedition. As soon as he heard it Harry ran twice as hard. Hugues had arrived from France two years previously. He came with troops, a message telling the slaves they were free, and a guillotine. Having retaken Guadeloupe, he’d shown little hesitation in using the symbol of the Terror on white and black alike. On its own, that made little difference, since whoever commanded the invasion force, the security of neutrality did not apply to a British ship’s Captain sailing as a privateer.

  But if it was indeed Hugues, Harry’s case was made much worse because of the Frenchmen he’d escorted here. While not by nature Royalists, the Ariadnes had taken up arms against the forces of the Revolution, first on their home island of St Domingue and secondly against Hugues himself when he’d invaded Guadeloupe. Once that ogre was ashore, on an island without a Danish garrison, there could be little doubt where power would lie. The Governor would have no say in what took place. If this emissary of the Terror discovered their identity he’d certainly take his revenge. A man who’d brought a guillotine all the way from France, who had shot hundreds of his enemies in cold blood, wouldn’t hesitate to ship it from one Caribbean island to another. A similar fate could well befall the crew of the Bucephalas: his name and that of his ship must be known to every Frenchman in the Caribbean. In the company of a British fifth-rate and the Ariadne, he’d fought two French frigates within sight of Guadeloupe, taking one and severely damaging the other.

  All these thoughts chased around his throbbing head as he barrelled his way along the crowded quay towards his ship. He shot up the gangplank and onto the deck, there to be greeted by a scene of utter confusion. Pender, by means that didn’t bear thinking about, had got the men to work. Normally his crew could be relied upon to perform efficiently, but judging by the way some of them were staggering around he wasn’t the only one who’d spent the night drinking – and this surprising development had robbed them of the power to see what must be done. His dehydrated shout emerged as a harsh croak, but enough of his crew turned to allow him to issue some orders. The primary task was to cut the stout ties that attached the staging on his ship to the quay, then he wanted everything not belonging to Bucephalas thrown overboard.

  The deck was a mess of carpenters’ tools, shavings, pieces of timber, and lumps of unsawn wood; ropes hung loose everywhere, left to swing, rather than coiled in the manner in which he normally insisted; what sails he had aloft were haphazardly slung, and certainly insufficient to get him out into the approaches off the harbour mouth; his guns, which he might need desperately in the next few hours, had been struck below so that the shipwrights could repair the damaged gunports. It was as if everything on board made a swift departure impossible. And it was his own fault. The ship had needed so many minor, scattered repairs he’d relaxed his own strict standards, learned when he was a naval officer, and allowed his crew to take their pleasure ashore in numbers that left Bucephalas practically unattended.

  ‘Harry!’

  The call made him swing round. His brother James stood at the gangway. Elegant as ever, his face was shaved and his hair combed, that in sharp contrast to the Captain, whose obvious stubble allied to his grey face and general state of undress undermined his natural air of authority.

  ‘Where in the Devil’s name have you been, James?’

  The furious tone, accompanied by a bloodshot glare, really a reflection of his own anger at himself, was immediately mistaken as a rebuke. Whatever James had been about to say died on his lips, his look of concern replaced by one of defensive hauteur. His words carried that quality of icy disdain he could so easily adopt when ruffled.

  ‘My God, brother, you looked wretched. Had I encountered you on the quay I might have slipped you a beggar’s coin.’

  ‘Where is Matthew Caufield?’ snapped Harry, in no mood for jokes or condescension.

  ‘Gone to try and raise his father.’ James sidestepped neatly as a trio of sailors rushed past him with a load of planking. ‘I hazard that given his love of the bottle he looks worse than you.’

  ‘Victor Hugues is just offshore, preparing to take over the island.’ The shocked look that produced, even if it was only rumour, cheered Harry somewhat. ‘Do you know the whereabouts of our Frenchmen? I should tell them, if you do, that it might be in their interest to unbolt that chest of treasure from the deck of the Ariadne and fetch it aboard Bucephalas.’

  ‘What about their ship?’

  ‘She’s halfway up a beach. She’d probably sink if we tried to float her.’ He looked towards the harbour mouth, to the few vessels that had managed to weigh. They were beating out of the narrows hoping to take the trade wind on their quarter. In their haste some of the slower vessels impeded the more efficient ships and judging by what was happening in the rest of the harbour, matters were likely to deteriorate rather than improve. ‘I’m not even sure we’ll be able to get away ourselves. But it’s their only chance. They either come with us or …’

  Harry had no need to finish the sentence, nor was he given the opportunity. James was already out of earshot. He gave more instructions to Pender then ran for the mainmast shrouds, reflecting on the words he’d said to his brother, which were nothing but the plai
n truth. But he had no real idea if they’d even be given the chance to escape. If the French were here in strength, and gained enough time to block the approaches, he was wasting his time. Yet if the others were trying to flee, a chance must exist. Bucephalas, compared to them, was a much better sailer, and being merchantmen, quite possibly fully laden, they presented the enemy with tempting targets. That in itself might suffice to aid him, despite the odds against success. Harry Ludlow was determined to sail through any gap that presented itself rather than wait in the harbour for an inevitable surrender.

  He was halfway aloft when a thought struck him: Pollock’s sudden departure might not be unconnected with what was happening. Yet surely if he’d known the American would have sent word to warn him: he knew all about Hugues, whose behaviour had become a byword for brutality all over the Caribbean. And even if he hadn’t heard the story of Harry’s action against the French ships from the horse’s mouth, there were enough loose tongues in St Croix to give him fair outline of what had happened.

  Harry didn’t often come across people with whom he struck up an immediate rapport. Oliver Pollock was that rare creature, of an age and jaundiced outlook on life with him, one that allowed them to take few things too seriously, including the recent past. A slight feeling of isolation had probably helped, with James more interested in painting Madame de Leon’s mulatto girls than his company. Barring regular discussions with the Danish banker, Børsenen, at whose house they’d first met, Pollock seemed just as unencumbered by duties as Harry. Meeting regularly at a tavern overlooking the harbour, their friendship had matured rapidly until they’d seemed inseparable.

  As he climbed the ladder of ropes, Harry conjured up an image of his ruddy face, generally half-covered by the rim of his tankard, eyes twinkling and cheerful under his close-cropped white hair; in drink he sang loud songs or recited patriotic poems, mainly compositions relating to the defeat of the British army by the forces under Washington. Both men were old enough to see that conflict in perspective, and with the gift of hindsight to reflect that for all the animosity it had created, all the blood and destruction, the outcome had been beneficial for both countries. A lieutenant at the time, Harry had missed that war: not an occasion of happy memories for him. He’d lost his commission after the Battle of the Saintes because of his refusal to apologise for duelling with a superior officer. The fact that the man was a martinet didn’t count, since Harry had put a ball in his shoulder. Even the son of a serving admiral had to be disciplined for such an offence. Normally reticent on that subject, he’d opened up to Pollock, prepared to admit just how much such a loss had disappointed his father, even hinting just how much it had hurt him. The American could not know just how that rated him in Harry’s estimation: it was a subject he never talked about, even to his own brother, James.