Tad nodded nervously. He slid the bag beneath his coat and hurried away.
Crossing the bridge’s span over black swirling waters, Tad rushed through broad streets in the sleepiest hours of the night. Avoiding the rabbit warrens and narrower alleys where a young boy like himself might be robbed or worse, he passed Westminster Cathedral, then St. Paul’s. Fog crept close. For a time, before dawn rose, Tad was forced to stay an arm’s length from shop windows dismembered by the mist to keep to his route.
Early sun flowed red through cracks in the fog as Tad rounded a final corner to his destination: a fine Mayfair neighborhood with newer brick town homes and shops. The outer door to the finest building—two stories high, its stoop freshly washed—was unlocked. Tad pushed inside, padding up the stairs to a door, the sign on the door declaring in bold paint, Mandy Bristol, Solicitor. Removing the papers from the bag, Tad slid them with a push beneath the door, then knelt down and peered with one eye to be sure they couldn’t be retrieved.
He sat up, heaving a sigh. He’d done his job. No beating should await him when he returned to Lonny in Whitechapel. Only twenty shillings, a pat on the head, and a shove out the door to get to his usual day.
He spat on the wooden floor and rubbed his stomach in thanks for his good luck.
Then he stood and returned to the streets that were his home.
ON THE THAMES
PORT OF LONDON
Captain Harold Tuttle unwrapped the scrolled paper at his sea desk and read in the fitful light of a candle. Only a single piece of paper and yet it was capable of extraordinary might. Just ink and parchment, but with the seal of the English Crown, a source of power for a captain of only thirty-three years to act with the authority of the greatest empire on earth.
Such was a Letter of Marque.
Harold set the Letter down. Out the stern cabin windows of the Padget, the harbor waters rippled as the ship edged toward the London dock to the rhythmic tugs of the oarsmen off the bow. The midnight moon split the Thames into streaky lines that ducked and weaved amid the crowd of scows, schooners, brigs, and warships docked or anchored on the river. The scents and sounds of London grew stronger the nearer the Padget drew to the quay: the waste of the city floating in the river, tempered by sweet sawdust of lumber cut for ship repairs; the bodies of sleeping sailors packed on the anchored boats they passed; the lapping of waves; the howl of a dog; the angry voice that shouted it down.
It was good to be home. In hours—at most a few days—he’d be back with his Rebekah. This time, on bended knee.
Harold locked the Letter of Marque away in his cabinet, pocketed the key in his trousers, and went up on deck.
Quint Ivars, the first mate and ship’s physician, was at midship watching the landing. Harold patted his shoulder.
“Ready for dry land, Mr. Ivars?”
“Aye, Captain.” The first mate smiled. “A year and three months is a long time to be away.”
“It could have been much longer. You served under Admiral Jervis in the Royal Navy. Surely you were out longer than this under his command?”
“No, sir. All Atlantic duty. The longest time at sea was eight months, sir.”
“Then you’ll be as glad as me to get ashore.”
“Aye, Captain. That’s for sure.”
Ivars’s service under the esteemed Admiral Jervis—a demanding taskmaster who ran a tight fleet—was part of what had attracted Harold to the man. His first mate was no complainer.
Still, he heard in the man’s words an undeniable echo of the misery of their first year on the voyage now ending. Down the coast of Africa, nearly foundering around the Cape, circling impatiently in the Indian Sea in fickle winds. The Letter of Marque was powerful but without purpose if they couldn’t find what they were seeking: a fat French merchantman subject to the authority granted by the British Crown. Whole months had passed in search of such a prize, until every officer and crew member had resolved themselves to the likelihood of returning to London empty-handed.
Then arrived that blessed day when the French ship came sailing out of the fog in the wake of a typhoon off the coast of Ceylon, Atlantic bound, crammed like a Christmas goose with two hundred tons of Chinese tea and a mere ten twenty-pounders measured against the Padget’s twenty. She’d been taken without the loss of a single man on either ship, and the Padget had at last turned for home, the poor luck of their voyage behind them.
Harold drew himself to ramrod posture. This was no time to recall the hardship, nor to let down the military standards that had kept the Padget shipshape throughout the voyage. Besides, all was well now. The investors would be celebrating soon; the crew would receive their shares.
His own sweet love, Rebekah, would receive his proposal.
“When shall I tell the lads they can go ashore?” Quint asked.
“After we’re unloaded and the cargo safe—not a minute before,” Harold commanded. “Make sure that’s very clear. The share of any crew member who disobeys that order is subject to forfeiture. Prepare them to wait two days at least.” He hesitated. “To soften the blow, I’ll arrange for fresh food and some rum to be brought aboard.”
“The wait will be torture, sir. But the rum will be appreciated. I’ll pass the word.”
Torture? Maybe. But they wouldn’t leave the ship unmanned until its hold was empty and the tea stored safely ashore, in the warehouse of a consignment merchant. “Never furl a single sail until the last enemy ship is out of sight or beneath the waves,” his last commander had warned repeatedly. He’d been right.
Harold was scanning the wharf when someone brushed his side. He looked down.
A boy had appeared, hair so white he looked like a candle in the night.
“Going ashore, sir?” the boy asked. “Won’t you be wanting your pistol?”
Harold patted the boy’s head. “Yes, young Simon Ladner. I’d say that’s a good idea for anyone walking in London this time of night. Get it for me. Loaded. And be quick about it.”
The towing boats slid the Padget into berth with the ease and skill of a salty crew. A few others of the crew began wrestling the gangway into place, knowing the captain was departing. The oily dock shimmered in the moonlight; the wharf lay silent with the late hour. Harold rubbed moisture from his hands in the briny air.
He sensed a presence at his side again and looked down.
Simon had returned, pistol in hand.
“Loaded, Simon?” Harold asked sternly.
“Aye, Captain.”
“Good boy.” Harold grunted and took it. “When I return from shore, I’ll bring some peppermints. And if you keep to your duties, Simon, you’ll be the first ashore to greet your father.”
Simon smiled as Harold took the pistol.
A light creased the night, followed instantly by the explosion of a gunshot from ashore.
Harold reacted instinctively, dropping behind the gunwale and pulling the boy after as the zing of a ball cried out. As he dropped, the pistol, barely in Harold’s grasp, clattered uselessly to the deck in his surprise.
His pulse thundered in his ears as he looked frantically about. The small crew on deck, unprepared and unarmed, had hit the deck for safety as well. Harold glanced at Quint, who lay prone only a few feet away, eyes wide.
“Cease firing!” a voice cried from the darkness ashore. “Cease firing!”
Harold edged an eye over the gunwale.
Shadows about a warehouse just beyond the Padget had parted, and figures were emerging. Several wore constable uniforms with the band of an arresting party on their forearms. With them marched half a dozen soldiers in scarlet tunics, flintlocks in their hands.
Harold reached out and took up his pistol from the deck.
“Shall I call the crew to arms?” Quint hissed low, glancing about.
“In London Harbor?” Harold exclaimed. “This isn’t rotting Calcutta. Can’t you see? These are constables and soldiers of a king’s regiment.”
The squad of men onshore h
ad reached the end of the gangplank and were coming aboard.
“Oh, Captain!” Quint’s voice broke into Harold’s raging thoughts. “Simon!”
Harold looked to his side.
The boy was crumpled in a ball, blood leaking through his tunic, forming a black circle at his chest.
Harold reached to raise him, but Quint had already crossed to lift the boy up, cradling him in his arms.
A sheriff appeared at the top of the gangway, leading the rest of the party.
Setting the pistol back on the deck, Harold stood to confront him. “Why did you fire?” he cried out. “You’ve shot him!”
The sheriff took in the sight.
“Sergeant Rhodes,” he said over his shoulder to one of the soldiers. “See what you can do for the boy.”
“No! Our Mr. Ivars here serves as ship’s doctor. He’ll take him belowdeck.”
The sheriff hesitated, then nodded his assent. The first mate hurried away with the boy.
“Are you Harold Tuttle?” the sheriff demanded.
“Captain Harold Tuttle. Are you insane? Firing at my crew? Boarding without permission? What is the meaning of this?”
“I gave no order to fire. But I saw myself that you were holding a weapon. And the meaning of this, Captain Tuttle, is that we were ordered to arrest you and your crew for piracy.”
The night had descended into madness. “Piracy? That’s absurd.”
“Did you take the brig the Charlemagne, September last? A French tea merchant in the Indian Sea?”
“Yes. Under authority of the Crown. I hold a Letter of Marque.”
“Every smuggler and pirate pleads the Crown’s assent.”
“It’s true. We were given authority to take French smugglers. I was empowered to harass any French tea brigs I found in the region.”
The sheriff shook his head. “Show us this letter, Captain.”
“I want to see after the boy first.”
“Later. I’ll see that letter now.”
It was a terrible thing, taking orders from this man. But Harold reluctantly led the walk to his cabin, each step a hollow wooden echo threatening the satisfaction he’d known only minutes before. The ship about him grew stiff and quiet as he marched, the deck crew watching in bewildered silence.
In his cabin, Harold could hardly light a candle, his hand shook so with a smoldering rage. As the shadows receded, he drew the key from his pocket.
The drawer unlocked. He pulled it open.
It was empty.
Impossible.
“It was here!” he shouted. “I read it only minutes ago!”
The sheriff’s men gripped Harold’s arms.
“Wait,” he said with bewildered despair. “Wait, please. This is all some terrible mistake. The Crown will confirm my letter. And you needn’t arrest my crew. They only followed my orders.”
The sheriff raised his chin with an air of indifference. “That’s unfortunate,” he answered. “Because it appears that your orders have led them all to the gallows.”
There was a scuffle. A voice called out from the steps to the main deck—Quint Ivars’s voice.
“That’s my first mate,” Harold called.
“Let him through,” the sheriff said.
As he stepped into the captain’s quarters, Quint’s face was the pallor of the yellow moon, shining low through the stern windows.
“Captain,” he said in a strangled voice, “the boy Simon . . . he’s dead.”
2
MIDDLESEX SESSIONS
MIDDLESEX COURTHOUSE
LONDON
Still several blocks from the courthouse, young Edmund Shaw, barrister, clutched his cloth bag with one hand and impatiently pulled up his collar against the cold drizzling rain with the other. The royal carriage, following in the wake of a mounted guard, was passing slowing by, impeding Edmund’s journey across the street. Edmund caught a glimpse through the carriage window of portly Prince Regent George, wrapped in a deep-blue robe, staring disinterestedly out at his subjects. Some of those subjects rewarded his gaze with stares of their own. Several even stretched for a better glimpse.
Edmund would have none of the exchange. The prince regent was a fat fop of a man. Likely en route to see one of his mistresses. A Whig by politics, Edmund had little love for the throne regardless of who occupied it. But he was particularly disdainful of this man. At least the regent’s father, King George III, had made an effort at ruling before insanity struck him down. His son, the next King George, now having ruled in his mad father’s stead for seven years, spent his time and the country’s money on new palaces, balls, finery, and actresses—while the poor were an ocean about him.
“A pox on the lot of them,” Edmund said aloud.
The carriage and guard were past. Edmund hurried across the street, sidestepping muddy puddles and worse. A few blocks along and the Middlesex Courthouse loomed. Edmund rushed inside.
Catching his breath, he looked about the high-ceilinged courtroom, packed tight and warm against the cool air outside. Like a freshly heated griddle, its occupants released a menagerie of smells: sweet-spice merchants, pungent horse traders, earthy tea sellers, gently perfumed ladies. All gathered for a day’s entertainment at the quarterly docket of civil and criminal charges. Including the criminal trial of the gypsy tinkerer now sitting in the dock, the elevated space reserved for defendants. To Edmund’s eyes, their client appeared as lonely as a solitary pawn on a chessboard.
Edmund removed his wet overcoat and made his way through the swinging door of the bar to take a seat beside his boss and mentor at counsel table, where he placed his bag beneath the table.
Focused on the proceedings, senior defense counsel William Snopes barely registered the arrival of his junior, Edmund, as the young barrister took his seat at William’s elbow. William wore the oldest gown and wig in the courtroom—the latter a mop that splayed horsehair strands like a nest of overturned spiders, while Edmund’s was as new and neat as his certificate of passage of the bar.
The senior counsel took to his feet “Objection, my lord,” William intoned.
Judge Plessing looked to the barrister. “Objection, Mr. Snopes?”
William nodded. “That is the case, my lord.”
The judge leaned back, easing the pressure on an ample stomach. “And what, pray tell, was objectionable about your opponent’s question?”
“His question assumed the guilt of my client, your lordship.”
The judge leaned forward and smiled. “As does everyone in the courtroom, Mr. Snopes.”
The gallery burst into laughter. Avoiding playing the brunt of the joke, William joined in with a light laugh of his own.
“Of course, my lord,” he replied when quiet returned. “But may I ask the court’s indulgence until the matter of guilt has been settled to the satisfaction of the jury?”
“Yes, yes,” the judge replied. William smiled, hoping that he’d blunted the judge and jury’s prejudices for the moment.
The magistrate pointed to their opponent. “Prosecution counsel, Mr. Periwinkle, shall refrain from assuming the guilt of the accused by the nature of his question.”
The cross-examination of their client, young tinkerer Patrin Cooper, went on. It was a grand torture, being forced to listen while sitting there stone-faced, appearing unconcerned for the jury’s sake. Excruciating. His junior, Edmund, was barely able to contain himself as the prosecutor, old Lawrence Periwinkle, far past the prime of a modest career and clearly the worse for “lunch” at the pub, had a field day with his cross-examination of Patrin.
“So then, you left your wagon and went into the chemist’s shop, correct?” Periwinkle articulated with only the slightest slur.
“Aye. I needed a bit of poppy for my wife’s headaches.”
“And your accusor, Master Tenbome, was already in the chemist’s shop?”
“Aye.”
“And Master Tenbome’s wagon, with his cache of goods bound for his London warehouse, w
as parked outside the chemist’s place of business.”
“I saw it, yes.”
“And Mr. Tenbome greeted you in the chemist’s, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And he let you make your purchase while he awaited his—that’s a correct statement of the facts, is it not?”
“Aye.”
“Then you left the chemist’s.”
“Aye.”
Periwinkle leaned across his table to level a malevolent gaze at Patrin. “And on your way back to your wagon, you lifted from the Tenbome wagon a case containing Chinese figurines and placed it in your wagon, didn’t you, sir.”
“No, sir. I did nothing of the sort, sir.”
“Was there anyone else in the street when you exited the chemist’s?”
“No one I saw.”
“But you heard Mr. Tenbome’s testimony today that he saw you, through the shop window, busy yourself at his wagon before going to your own.”
“Aye. I saw that a case was sliding out from under the straps and so pushed it back onto the bed of Mr. Tenbome’s wagon. That was all.”
“The case with the Chinese figurines, Mr. Cooper? The one that was missing by the time Mr. Tenbome returned to his wagon?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know. I didn’t look in it.”
Eight pound and six. That was the value Tenbome had placed on the stolen goods. Not enough to warrant a hanging, but enough to transport their client aboard a pestilent ship to Australia for the rest of his days. William glanced at their client’s mother and wife, seated, pale-faced, in the front row of a gallery that had grown quiet with the testimony. He scanned the rest of the crowd. A woman who was covered completely but for her eyes. A sailor with a smoking pipe clenched between his teeth. The local parish priest and his friend, Father Thomas, sitting solemn and still. Was this only entertainment for the lot of them? Did they appreciate or care about the consequences hanging in the balance?
“You are a gypsy, are you not, Mr. Cooper?” Periwinkle inquired.
Their client hesitated. “I am.”
“I see the brand on your thumb. Thievery?”
The Barrister and the Letter of Marque Page 2
