A Lawless Place Page 8

  Tanner emerged from the gatehouse to glare at him, tugging at the rope lead and encouraging his mutt to snarl menacingly, which pleased the object. He was sure his presence would be reported to Tulkington, which would send to him a signal that matters were not going to be allowed to rest. He sat there until the others caught up, he and Tanner glowering silently at each other, before hauling Bonnie’s head round and trotting off up the road.

  ‘Yon cully looked a cheery soul,’ called Cocky.

  ‘He works for Tulkington,’ was all that was required by way of an explanation.

  Brazier was set on killing two birds with one stone by journeying through Adisham, where he could call on Admiral Pollock to break what would, for the mounts as well as the riders, be a long journey in a single day. If the old man agreed, he could leave his escorts there and travel on alone, given he could not envisage any threat once he was away from Deal.

  Leaving the coast behind, the wind eased, yet it still whistled through the treetops, to make them sway in a manner that had all four eye them for the danger of a falling branch. The route took them through a string of quiet villages and, there being no conversation to distract him from his own concerns, Brazier began to wonder what the others were thinking.

  This in time led to thoughts of past events, not least the ritual of sailing a ship of war, endless days in which routine was sovereign, to the very occasional times action was called for. Over the course of a commission, he had got to know every member of his crew, their level of ability, as well as their foibles and ailments, even their superstitions. But none came closer to him than those who rowed his barge.

  That duty had been mostly peaceful and repetitive, calling ashore at the various islands in the West Indies where he was required to pay his compliments to the local hierarchy. The presence of his ship was there to remind them of the laws he was tasked to uphold, the same ones he was sure they would be trying to evade.

  The reception ashore was always polite and a dinner in his honour was seen as mandatory. Any resentments were held in check, even after copious amounts of rum punch, glasses of wine followed by decanters of port, lest it invite this pest of a naval officer to pay too much attention to what was being illegally imported into their speck of terra firma.

  The times of excitement might be rare, but they stood out more starkly in memory. The sighting from the tops of a strange sail, which, once HMS Diomede had been identified, would close if friendly and legitimate to exchange news. Others would run if not, so then came the excitement of a chase, which given the sailing ability of American schooners and the competence of their crews, could last for days, with subterfuge being shown once darkness fell to put him off, which sometimes worked.

  On other occasions, dawn would find him off their beam with his guns run out, but just as often the chase ended in daylight and he could then let fly a warning shot across their bows. If that failed to get them to haul their wind, it would become necessary to take to the boats and seek to board. No value came from the sinking of a contraband vessel; success was calculated in capture, the sale price of the goods it carried added to the value of the hull in which it was stored.

  The Jonathans rarely gave up without a fight, so boarding would be opposed. It was in those situations where the likes of Cocky, Peddler, but most of all his coxswain, Dutchy, the man in command of his barge, showed their mettle. Diomede’s boats had to contend with the Caribbean swell, and so did the deck on which they were trying to gain a foothold. That could be rising and falling ten feet or more, full of men with weapons, determined to drive off these damned Limeys.

  ‘I was just thinking, Dutchy, of some of our Caribbean adventures,’ Brazier said, to break the silence.

  Tom Holland was riding alongside him, head down and seemingly half-asleep, with Cocky and Pedder behind, he muttering an endless string of complaints and woes. The mount Dutchy rode was the biggest Flaherty possessed, not far off a ploughing beast, which was a good thing, given the size and weight of the man astride him. It was also a very steady platform, which allowed for conversation when Dutchy came to life.

  The names of vessels Diomede had taken tripped off Dutchy’s tongue, to be responded to by his one-time captain, as they both recalled the particulars of the ensuing fights: first musket balls that cracked by their ears, fried by the adversaries, others coming from their own marines. The combined yelling of insults and threats after Diomede’s trio of boats had split up to attack bow, stern and beam.

  Then came the clang of their cutlasses as they met those of the fellows seeking to drive them off. It never ended well for the Americans, or the few British prepared to chance the trade. He had a crew just short of three hundred men, a high percentage willing fighters. They sailed sometimes with a contingent as low as a tenth of that number. For them, speed and evasion was the key to success, not manpower.

  ‘Not as many captures as there should have been, Capt’n.’ This was said with a bit of a bite, evidence of lasting bitterness. ‘Too many times we was in the wrong place, were we not?’

  Brazier’s response was guarded. ‘Don’t recall ever having said that, Dutchy.’

  ‘Didn’t have to say it, such were plain on your chops. Then there was all that pacing to and fro and under-your-breath cursing.’

  ‘That obvious?’ came with a smile.

  ‘To anyone who knows you, your honour, which I have to tell you now was near the whole muster.’

  ‘Claimed to know me, Dutchy.’

  ‘There weren’t much left that were hidden.’

  He could recall the frustration Dutchy was alluding to, with a barren seascape all around him and not a smuggler in sight, despite what he had been told in Kingston. Too many times they had returned from a cruise empty-handed, when they’d set out with high hopes and seemingly solid information. He could not tell his old coxswain now how that had become the case.

  Interception depended a great deal on intelligence, which came from spies, usually one-time loyalists in the Carolina ports. If they espoused a hatred of Perfidious Albion, there were people who secretly longed for King George to recover the colonies he had so recently lost. Traitors to the majority of their fellow Americans, the information they provided was vital. But it would not serve to tell even Dutchy, whom he trusted implicitly, that the man in command of the station, Admiral Hassall, had been dishonest to the point of treachery, both to his sovereign and the service of which he was part, brought on by excessive greed.

  The period of silence no doubt told Dutchy he was not going to be gifted an explanation, for he changed the drift of the conversation, recalling the taking of the Santa Clara, with one recollection advanced with real feeling.

  ‘I’m glad we didn’t try to board that French bugger. I thank ’e for that.’

  ‘It would have been too bloody. They had a full buccaneer crew, maybe as many as a hundred and fifty men, all of them determined to fight to the death. If they lived, they were down to hang for piracy.’

  Having caught up with the privateer and its Spanish capture, Brazier had stood off the former and battered the Frenchmen into submission with a level of cannon fire they could not match. Once subdued, he had manoeuvred across their stern, triple-shotted his guns and fired a salvo through her casements, knowing it would go right along the deck all the way to the very forepeak and kill or maim anyone who stood in its path.

  He had never been sure, in retrospect, if he had carried out so bloody an action through necessity, or as a riposte to the actions of his commanding admiral and this, his French collaborator. Hassall had been dealing with them over many months, passing on the intelligence he should have shared with his own officers. He was deliberately depriving them of prize money, while lining his own purse with a half-share of the proceeds, instead of the eighth that would have normally come his way.

  ‘I never asked, Dutchy,’ Brazier asked, as a way of evading the subject, ‘what did you do with your share of the Santa Clara prize money?’

  ‘Got
to recall, Capt’n, it weren’t within a mile of what you got. My rating didn’t run to a country estate and a coach and four.’

  ‘For which I will not say sorry.’

  ‘’Tis the way of things, sure enough, that those who need the most suck the hind tit.’

  That was delivered with a wry smile, which also implied it was not necessarily right.

  ‘But there was monies owing for me being at sea when I was paid off, schooling for my nippers, rent and the like. Then there was family, large an’ all in need.’

  The over-the-shoulder shout, posing the same question to the others, got from Cocky the fact that he’d lived like a king for three months and found how easy it was to make friends with a full purse, and how quick they disappeared when it was empty.

  ‘Peddler?’

  ‘Same, Capt’n. Think I married more than one wench in my cups. Right now, I’m wishing I’d bought a dog cart or a spare arse.’

  ‘Spare head would suit you better,’ hooted Dutchy. ‘The one God gave you has never been right.’

  ‘Happen your head was so big, there was nowt left for decent folk.’

  The banter, once begun, continued, their one-time commander aware it was not something in which he could participate, even in the situation in which they now found themselves. It was like that on board ship, where his rank cut him off from the easy friendliness of his nature, even with his inferior officers.

  It came with being in command, which brought on a degree of loneliness. He was the sole occupant of his cabin, a place where everyone deferred to him, even when he invited them to dine. With that in his thoughts, a wave of melancholy swept over him, so it was a blessing they soon entered Adisham.

  The quartet turned up the lane that led to the home of Admiral Sir Eustace Pollock, to whom Brazier was still, and always would be, that blasted nuisance of a thirteen-year-old midshipman, known throughout the ship as ‘the Turk’. The soubriquet had been earned by his behaviour in fighting any fellow mid, whatever their size, if he felt insulted or abused.

  Pollock was delighted to see him, given he lived a lonely existence when it came to naval callers. A meal was ordered and cooking before the horses had finished their feed. Pollock would have respect locally and probably a lot of friends, for he was of the nature to be liked and admired, but to a man who spent all his years at sea, the lack of salty visitors hurt as much as the lack of employment.

  At peace, the navy had too many officers and too few ships to give them all employment. So dozens of admirals, hundreds of captains and probably over a thousand lieutenants were beached from want of the kind of interest, a powerful politico or a peer of the realm, who would act on their behalf to ensure them a place.

  None of this was alluded to as they shared the dining board, Dutchy, Peddler and Cocky eating with the servants in the kitchen. It was all naval gossip and seaboard reminiscence going all the way back to HMS Magnanime, Brazier’s first ship. Various reputations were trashed and a few praised, which was the way of the service, while the politicians who refused to vote enough funds to keep up to strength the Wooden Walls of England were roundly cursed.

  ‘France won’t stir, Brazier,’ Pollock opined through his chewing. ‘Rumour has it King Louis has not a brass farthing to his name after fighting for the Americans.’

  ‘We cannot, in all conscience, sir, pray for another war.’

  ‘No, but we can say that war is when the likes of you and I prosper. Not that you’re in need in that department. Happen you could lend the Bourbons a sou or two.’

  Was there a barb in that? Brazier was unsure. Pollock was not beyond such things, even with someone he claimed to hold in admiration. The thought was dismissed; having known him for so long, and he being so much older, as well as a superior officer, Pollock had earned the right to be tetchy.

  ‘So what brings you by?’

  ‘Will not a chance to share your company suffice?’ came with a quizzical smile.

  ‘Don’t bait me, Brazier,’ was a faux irritated response, the good humour badly disguised. ‘I’ve had occasion to put a birch to your backside afore and I can do it again.’

  ‘I’m on my way to Canterbury to find a legal cove, well versed in Canon Law.’

  ‘One to fire a forty-two-pounder ball of a suit, no doubt?’

  ‘Very droll, sir.’ Once the chortling at his own pun had subsided, the ‘why’ from the admiral was inevitable. ‘A friend of mine has been forced into an unsuitable marriage. I’m on my way to seek out what can be done to get it set aside.’

  ‘A friend?’ was posed with a degree of suspicion.

  ‘A very close one, sir.’

  ‘I take it to be a lady. It would be damned uncommon for a man to be subject to such a misfortune.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘This lady is merely an acquaintance?’

  ‘My plan is to carry on to Canterbury and, if I can, leave my men here with you until tomorrow. And their horses of course.’

  That got Brazier a very direct look from a man who knew that such an abrupt change of subject usually emanated from a fellow dodging an uncomfortable truth. It would take no genius, Brazier realised, to fix the nature of the avoidance. He realised, as he was aware of the slight heat in his face, he might as well have just told the truth. It was to be thanked that, whatever he had concluded, Pollock chose to respect his reservations.

  ‘That would be good, Brazier, as long as I can set your men to do some late pollarding of some of my trees. Getting too old for it myself.’

  It was odd, given his coming purpose, to be ruminating on a retaliatory pun, on how to fashion one from the connection between Pollock and pollarding. But it would not come, so he was left to lamely reply, ‘I’m sure they’d be delighted to assist you, sir.’

  ‘As for you and your purpose, it would be best if you stay the night. I will send out to some of my local friends to get a name for you, a lawyer to whom you can take your case. Otherwise you will be obliged to wander Canterbury to find one suitable and, I have to tell you, there are many rogues in the legal profession.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Excellent, and over dinner you can tell me of your exploits at Trincomalee. If it was worthy of your step to post rank, it must have been remarkable. I know from my own experience, Brazier, that raising a man to a captaincy requires some outstanding act of both bravery and skill, one which, to have confirmed, must equally impress their Lordships of the Admiralty.’

  The response was made with a smile, as it had to be, but it was less than enthusiastic.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It annoyed Henry Tulkington that Brazier had been outside his gates and belligerent, even if Tanner assured him no words were exchanged. This was made worse when he met with John Hawker, unusually for the second day in a row, to be told his letter had been rejected. He was not, of course, told the truth of the circumstances, how it had been delivered, or that it had not been rejected by Brazier in person but one of his tars. He was also with someone keen to drive home the nail.

  ‘My guess, Mr Tulkington, is that in seeing it were from you, he reckoned to know the content.’ In the face of a questioning look, Hawker added, ‘Well, you weren’t likely to wish him good health, was you?’

  ‘I want him out of Deal,’ was said with a hint of petulance.

  ‘An’ if he don’t choose to go?’

  ‘Then he must be made to.’

  Hawker’s sense of satisfaction had to be hidden under an air of concern.

  ‘Won’t be easy, an’ I feel bound to add, he might not be one to sit quiet and wait for whatever it is you would like to do.’ That was acknowledged with a sharp nod, and Hawker drove home another point. ‘What if he recruits more of his tars, in numbers to take us on? There’s no shortage with England being at peace.’

  ‘Which cannot be allowed, and I say that not from any sense of dread. Public disorder is bad for business, John, which I have had occasion to point out to you before.’

&
nbsp; The tone was annoying, like a schoolmaster-type admonishing a pupil. Hawker had been in receipt of that from the fellow who’d taught him letters and numbers. At the latter he had shown a natural ability, the skill that had originally made him valuable to the Tulkington family. The fellow teaching had found, even barely breeched, that John Hawker had fists of which to be wary.

  ‘Can we find out what his plans are?’

  ‘I can ask, don’t say I’ll get an answer. He has kept himself to himself these last weeks, outside of visits to the Navy Yard, which is only to be expected. That apart, he ain’t done much in the mixing line.’

  Again, there was pleasure to be had in withholding information. Henry Tulkington knew nothing of the likes of Saoirse Riorden or the Irish horse dealer, Flaherty. He had no idea who did the Quebec House laundry or who supplied their meat and drink, their candles and firewood. He was the master of the enterprise in which they were both engaged and had to be deferred to because of it. But John Hawker had never accepted, in his mind, that it was one of outright master and servant.

  For all his power, Tulkington depended on him. In their arrangement, all matters to do with smuggling or impositions on the town were supposed to be kept away from Cottington Court. If it had been breached the other night, that was an exception. Thus Tulkington could keep up the facade of an upright and successful man of business, with his string of tenant farmers, this slaughterhouse-cum-tannery, added to his control of most of the water mills which surrounded the town, giving him control in the grinding of flour.

  ‘Perhaps on your rounds, John, someone will reveal what you seek.’

  ‘My thoughts too.’