The Sea Officer Bentley Thrillers

by Jan Needle

  “By God,” said Sam. “What happened? Would not the men have set on you, alone, a Navy officer?”

  “No men,” said Will. “Just women and small ones. I thought I saw his wife, but I could only guess at that. Fair, and in her twenties, with a boy. The men were… out fishing, maybe? Or maybe decimated. It was very poor.”

  “Or out upon the trade!” said Sam, jocularly. “Well, I think you’re brave, or else foolhardy. You did not speak? Make yourself known? Perish the thought, I guess, an officer from off the Welfare.”

  Perish the thought indeed. He had not been an officer by then, at least an active one, for many many months. He did not even know if Broad’s existence on the Welfare or his fate as mutineer had been brought to the knowledge of his wife and home. But if any rumours had filtered from the prison hulks he had no doubt they would have blackened him, to hell and further. No one had spoken out for Broad at the court martial, not him, not anyone. That was still in him; deep hidden, but a burning, bitter shame.

  “They would not have known me as an officer,” was all he said. “I sail not dressed even as a gentleman, I was just a youth. But I did not speak to them.”

  “And was she very fair?” asked Sam, shifting on the stone step they sat on. “Christ, my bum is sore! Too fair to be a blackguard, is that the root of it! I’ll say this, Will, for a chap with such a not-melt-butter look, you have a great eye for the sex! I’d drink to Deborah right now!”

  There was nothing Holt would not jest about, however inappropriate, but to Will’s surprise this one struck a target in him. He saw Deb in his mind, clear as a picture, first naked then — as if he’d censored it — dressed in her simple bedroom garb. The pang was fresh and sharp as ever, he ached for her. God, days only but it felt like a year. He’d had his chance and missed it, when might it come again, if ever? They were in a dungeon now, and very far from the Biter, London never mind. To Will, she seemed to fade away, still beckoning. But the hurt was vivid as a knife.

  “Talking of blackguards,” he said, as if to tear his mind away from her, “what of Mr Eaton and our gallant boys? That old man on the Katharine called us worse than smugglers, and true it is that lot stood firm together when the game was on. I expected nothing of Tilley and Behar, I suppose, but Eaton is a warrant officer. I thought he had been shot, but he was running! If we had died, it would have been his fault.”

  The candle end was guttering, but neither of them had thought to put it out. Seeing it flutter to a close made them wistful. Sam’s attempt at heart came rather hollow.

  “You cannot blame them, when there was a drink about. Blood, Will, they are British seamen! As to Eaton, I’m as lost as you are, I confess it. I’ve always known him as a fiery little beast. Tom Tilley mentioned drink though, and Shockhead as a part of the same gabble, so maybe Mr Boatswain’s Mate’s a slave to it and something was set up. That candle’s going soon. Feared of the dark, are you?”

  When it was dark, they both lay on the earthen floor to ease their bones, having eased their bladders, reluctantly, into a corner of their not-extensive quarters. Sam talked of drink and maidens for some while, but William made few replies, despite he examined Deborah from every angle in his head for many minutes. He decided, sensibly but with reluctance, that he would never see her again, and convinced himself that he would learn to live with it, it being, after all, an outcome that would greatly please his mother if she ever got to hear of it. Then, deciding he was half delirious or mad, he turned to much more earthy things, like what if Sam were wrong, and they were hanged as would-be murderers? From there to that young officer, shot dead on Katharine by Slack Dickie Kaye. He would have liked to ask Sam’s thoughts on that, and if there was likely any chance the law would question their captain on that act, unexplained and inexplicable. But he knew the answer anyway, and Sam might be asleep. He saw Kaye with the pistol’s action covered with his hand, and saw his look and heard his voice. The Press was hated worse than any smugglers. He knew the reason why.

  He must have slept, because he was awoken with a shock. He was in a black hole, the deck not planks but earth, the smell not — He was awake! There was a spill of light at the edge of the door, a man’s face peering round. Beside him Sam jerked upright with a gasp, twisted his head, then blinked in a flash of lantern light. A voice then, rough and jovial. A voice they recognised.

  “Rouse out, rouse out, sirs! Soon be cock-crow and we’ve far to go!”

  “Bastard!” said Samuel, in complete surprise. “Mr Eaton, what do you here? We’ve marked you for a rogue, a bastard, a coward and a poltroon!”

  The face beneath the red mop creased in smiles.

  “The others would have left you, sirs,” he said. “I had to knock Tilley down, which I trust you will remember if my pension’s in dispute! Thank God he’d drunk three bottles or he’d’ve broke my bleeding back. Come on quick, before they kill some bugger else.”

  “What?” said Sam. “Are they here? Jesus, I’ll never have the measure of these men. Did they not run, then? And you? What happened?”

  There were noises up above them, some crashes, then a door slamming. Eaton turned, glanced back, then led them off across the outer cellar.

  “Oh they ran,” he said, “but not for badness, just for drink, I guess. No, Behar chased the guarding boy then lost him, then Tilley heard you say I’d gone, he says.”

  “I did,” said Sam. “You had, for Christ’s sake! Come on, Shock-head, admit it was a ruse!”

  Eaton did not deny it, but his face was jovial in the lantern light. He hushed them when they reached the stairhead, and all three peered down along the passage to the front door. It was hanging open, despite they’d heard it slam seconds before.

  “We split the lock,” he said. “Tom Tilley did it with an issue cutlass, and smashed that too. I doubt the Navy Board will charge it to him, eh! I did not run exactly, sir, but I had to hide my face. When we dashed in the hut, I knew the men and they’d have recognised me, my village is three mile away, that’s all. Bad enough I joined the Navy, but if they knew I was an Impress man, and hunting down the nighttime gents to boot, well! I ran to save myself, in hope of saving you two later. I’d said to John and Tilley, merely, that I’d lead them to a water hole when we’d done our business. But they were thirstier than me.”

  His voice was low, but as they approached a side doorway he touched his lip for silence. He was not a large man, but powerful and full of sense, so they let themselves be guided without demur. Will remembered he had thought him stolid when they’d met, silent and unwilling. He had rather changed his mind.

  “I will not go in, an’t please you,” Eaton breathed. “I left it to the shipmates who aren’t known. Please God they haven’t murdered them.” Will went in first, in trepidation, but no one was dead. Eaton need not have feared recognition, either, for the three men there, tied back to back, legs thrust out in star pattern, had their shirts pulled up and over their faces and their heads and knotted. They were wriggling and thrashing violently, but sailors’ knots — even drunken sailors’ knots — were more than a match for that. The sailors, though, were gone.

  After a look, both Will and Sam went out again to Eaton, who was standing at the broken entrance door. It was still dark, but the light of morning was rising in the sky.

  “They’ve gone,” said Will. “Did you give them more instructions?” Eaton’s laugh was short and harsh.

  “Instructions is it, sir? I said I had to fight to get them here. I found them in a barn with drink they’d stole, so maybe they’ve gone back, or more like they’ve gone to meet Rat Baines down at the creek. We’d better leg it, sirs, and lively.”

  “Will Baines be there?” said Sam. “He’s a sorry coward, ain’t he?” Eaton, not asking their opinion, was pushing down the lane at cracking pace. Sam’s legs were man enough, but Will was forced to jog to stay with them.

  “If he’s good at anything it’s staying alive,” said Eaton. “He’ll have hauled offshore and hidden in case
anyone was looking, but he knows not to have left them two in the lurch. It’s us I’m worried over. Be quick, or they’ll have gone without us, if they ’ant already.”

  He skirted dark houses on the edge of the town, and led through marsh and wood without hesitation or a doubt. When they reached the lagoon, though, it was dark and still as death. All three listened, when their breath had eased, but the only sounds were air and water, and a distant, peaceful barking. The tide was about full, all mud covered, last evening’s wind quite gone. But even in the stillness they could hear no oars or voices.

  “Should we call?” asked Will.

  No one replied. They strained their ears. Sam made a small note of disgust.

  “They’d not call back is my guess. What think you, Mr Eaton?”

  “Less noise the better, sir. Dawn’s not far off and they may find you missing anytime. London’s your best chance, ain’t it? If you’ve got money you could get horses, you could do it in two days. Sooner if you’re quick and lucky.”

  “But Lieutenant Kaye,” said William. “Do you not think he’ll come in for us? At least they’ll tell him what has happened, and that we’re out of jail.”

  “Aye, and there’s a justice and militia after us,” Sam said. “Attempted murder, was it? Assaulting protected citizens for the Press? No warrant for a start-off? Some captains might care to start a civil war for two bloody midshipmen, but Mr Kaye ain’t that man, or am I wrong?”

  “Any road,” said Eaton, “Slack Dickie’s caught some men this time out. Beg pardon, sirs, I mean Lieutenant Kaye. He’ll likely want to go and spend the profit.” He showed them a frank challenge with his eyes, alive with humour. “Piss it up against the wall, or shag some top-notch doxies. Begging it again, if you think me forward.” He gave a grunt of mirth. “No room to call him, really, have I? I’ll stay down here a day or three myself, though Maggie would not thank me to hear me dub her whore.”

  “A village maid?” said Sam. “So that was where you run to, was it? Afraid of being recognised, my arse!”

  Eaton denied it, but without any heat Will found this joking, officer and man, extraordinary. And was the boatswain’s mate, in theory sadly missed by Biter; planning to take a few days’ furlough, for some tumbles with a wench?

  “By God,” he said. “I know captains who would flog a man for less. Running’s a hanging matter, come to that.”

  “Aye, but you’d stand up for me,” Eaton replied, chuckling. “Didn’t I just spring you from the choke? In any way, Slack Dickie don’t flog, he can’t be bothered. Sir,” he then said, “we must none of us be found round here so go, for mercy’s sake. I’ll show you the best ways to cut inland to where you can lie up as long as you think fit. Flaxton’s the place to get a horse if you’ve the wherewithal, I have a kinsman who will set you right. He might even take your Navy clothes off you, for safety’s sake. God’s eyes, though — let’s be off.”

  In twenty minutes it was light, and Sam and Will were alone in a narrow country road. They had a long hard way ahead of them, but figured on safety once they’d cleared off the coastal parts. They did not look like gentlemen; indeed, either one of them could have gone apprentice to a tramp. It was too cold to throw away their blue, though, and replacements were too costly. In these parts any sight of them could mean danger, quick and deadly. They thought to spend a lot of time in ditches.

  EIGHTEEN

  They laid Charles Warrens body — what was left of it — in the parlour of a small inn at the village near Joe Simple’s father’s house. Joe had found it on a Friday, but it was Monday night before the local justice and the coroner were told. When they arrived, with a constable and the undertaker’s men, the corpse was in a sorry state, there having been, it seemed, some attempts at dismemberment. Joe’s father insisted that he’d found the man that very day, and had not touched his poor remains in any way. In fact, the men he’d called in to his house had wanted it reburied, gone for good, but could not bring themselves to help him move it. When he had tried, an arm had pulled clear off, while the leg he’d dragged on had broken at the charred knee joint. Sickened, he had told them his boy Joe would never keep a secret such as this — which turned out not so, although it was believed — and who could track them by discovering a cadaver in a field? In the end they’d ridden off, telling him to keep it secret for as long as he thought fit, in hope the dogs would scatter it.

  The inn was thronged with gawping Johns and Jills, and the landlord, despite the foul smell, did a most satisfactory trade. The justice had knowledge of the Customs search for missing men, although they were quite far from any sea, so despatched a man to Portsmouth on a reasonable horse and told him to seek out the collector at the Customs House on Point. Within half a day the little inn was bursting at the seams with officers near as lathered as the horses being tended in the yard, and their fury and upset at the dreadful state of their dead colleague meant an increase in the already roaring trade. More villagers poured in because of the commotion and reports of gruesome sights, the news spreading like a fire in dry grass. By early evening it was riotous. Three landlords from houses within five miles brought extra beer in hired carts, and got a handsome price from their lucky colleague, despite the ale was churned up and undrinkable by normal standards (not prevailing). Charles Warren, in his latter life an undercover man, became in death a wild celebrity.

  Sir Peter Maybold got the news at an hour not far from midnight. He had gone to see an opera, and by arrangement, meet his wife Laetitia there. She had not turned up, despite he had a family box, with wine, and food, and friends to share the pleasure with them, so he had a miserable evening listening to warblings about unrequited love and cuckoldry. He could not leave as he was playing host, his disaffection fed continuously by the veiled amusement he detected in his companions’ glances. When he did get home he found a riding officer, half dead with road-dust and exhaustion, and Laetitia with shiny eyes and an elevated mood, despite she said she’d spent the hours alone and not quite well in her darkened boudoir — having foolishly given the footmen an evening’s liberty and making do with just a maid or so. The officer, who forty minutes earlier had watched a rider leave as he had reached the lane up to the mansion, said nothing, but knew he had another tale to add to the collection.

  This man was Sunfield, of Portsea Island, and he had not known Warren. But as he told the news, the sadness of it all came home to him, very strong. As a Customs officer he had been filled with fury, naturally, because any injury or hurt to one was by proxy meant for all. But telling this fat personage the grisly details, and seeing that Sir Peter’s hurt was to his office and his standing, not to his heart, the loneliness of Warren’s life and death came in on him. He had died and been thrust inside a hayrick and set fire to, and mutilated. And Sir Cuckold hoped it was a step upon a road.

  “Ah horrible!” he cried. “Ah horrible! That the poor man should have suffered such a thing! However, it is good we’ve found the corporeal remains at last. I only wish it had been an officer who could have had the fortune. A farmer, you say? Was he of quality?”

  Sunfield shook his head, his features set.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I know nothing of the discovery. We Portsmouth officers were called out by the coroner, whose name I do not know. We have searched up hill and down. Poor Warren was well hidden, and then burnt.”

  Sir Peter tutted, pulling at his wig. He had a horrid feeling that they were nowhere further on.

  “So many men, so little achieved,” he muttered. Then, catching Sunfield’s face, he added: “Nay, but it is not their faults, nor yours, I’m certain all have done their best. It’s only that… God damn it, where is the other man!? Charles Yorke! They are laughing at us, they are making play!”

  Most likely dead as well, thought Sunfield. He had seen the rotting effigy of Warren, and he saw and smelled it yet. Sir Peter would not risk his nostrils on such corruption. Oh Christ, poor Warren; and poor Yorke. He had known neither, but felt he knew them at this mo
ment.

  “Who is in charge down there?” asked Maybold. “Is your collector gathering the strands, or is it someone else? Price is the man, Adam Price of Portchester, he is the man for me.” He jerked, bodily, as if hearing what he’d said. A flush spread across his jowls. “Nay, I’m speaking out of turn. That will go no further, do you understand? Pocock, is it? Do you understand?”

  “Sunfield. Aye, sir,” said Sunfield, “you may depend on it.” I do not say on what, he added, to himself. You cuckold bastard. That swine Price is just your sort, and all.

  “Aye. Well,” said Maybold, tiredly. “You must forgive me, Mr Sunfield, this is very hard, is’t not? Poor Charlie, I knew him, I knew him many years. I wish to Christ I knew how to catch them, what? To run them down and string them up. So very, very infamous.”

  Both of them, for a moment, were close to tears, with Sunfield, exhausted, the more surprised by it. Suddenly he’d seen through Maybold’s mask of privilege, realising that he could suffer for these two poor lost officers as well as he could. They stood for a while, their eyes holding, their bodies awkward. Then Maybold shrugged.

  “Fine men,” he said. “We must catch the perpetrators, and I’m sure we will. You know the place, don’t you? Why is it so hard? Why is there so little information? Every officer I have is on the search, every avenue has been explored. So very, very hard.”

  Sunfield, sadly, had nothing to offer that he thought might help, and shortly Sir Peter called a man to find him a bed behind the stables. Alone, the Surveyor General poured himself a brandy and sat disconsolate, wondering, to the bottom of his soul, what other they could do. If the officers at the heart of the matter were flummoxed, what use was any order from the top?