The Sea Officer Bentley Thrillers

by Jan Needle

  Deb, indeed, while listening, had called up to her mind the women who had controlled the band of maids “obtained, sustained, and trained” by Dr Marigold, in his own well-known expression. Strict they sometimes were, and not above giving out a slap or two, and pretty sore ones sometimes. But from the way Malcie went on, you’d have thought these Portsmouth women, by contrast, demons.

  No one had seen her yet. She had not tried to buy a drink or food, and her potboy friend had said she might merge in pretty well in dimness. The Starry was a busy place, he said, because it was not the haunt of “daytime folk,” and the other type avoided “painful light.” He also counselled her to seek out Navy officers, or the Revenue, because their villainy was “better in control than many other men’s.” What’s more, they were what she wanted, were they not?

  Deb, in the full crush of a sailors’ drinking room, was almost overwhelmed. The noise was harsh and constant, the shouts and oaths delivered at the top of every voice. At first she saw no women, only pushing, drinking, drunken men. There was food there, as at Marigold’s, plates of steaming fish and meat, but it was not carried round by pretty serving maids with low kerchiefs at their bosoms. It was piled at tables, attacked, sucked up, knocked over, spat upon the floor. There were two fat dames behind the serving hatch, one with a pipe in mouth and spitting. Then dimly, Deb saw a kind of inglenook, and in it, at a table, two women whose breasts were out and being fondled by four sailors. As she watched, one of the doxies fumbled at a breeches front and exposed a stiffened yard.

  “Hah!” said a voice behind her. “Your face, maid, is a picture! Tuppence an’ you do the same to me!”

  Gasping, Deb spun on her heel to face a man who was certainly an officer. Not Navy, he was not dressed as the main part of Marigold’s visitors had been, so perhaps a Customs man? He was tall, longfaced, but kindly with it all. He was laughing at her. She had touched his funny spot.

  “Teape!” he called. “I’ve got a good one here! A Spithead Nymph that blushes, as I breathe! Ho, maid, you must come and take a glass with us!”

  “Are you Revenue?” she said. Her blush deepened. “I mean, sir… are you, sir? I seek a… I am not a Spithead Nymph!”

  “No-no! You are not! Heaven forfend, maid, the very thought! Teape! She’s not a nymph, hang me, she ain’t! Come, lass, come and take a glass. There’s Higginson, as well. He knows well how to treat a lady!”

  She knew the names from Malcie, and knew she should be glad; they were his better ones. In any way, she had no choice. The tall man, though kindly looking, had her in a grip that would have bent an arm of metal. If she moved with it, it did not hurt. She moved.

  “Sunfield, you dog,” said the officer called Teape, “will you never learn your lesson? I came here for a drink, man, not other business.” But he smiled at Deborah, to take the sting away. “Sit down and welcome, maid,” he added. “But if you are a doxy, then I fear — ”

  “No, sir! No! I seek a man, not… I mean, I am not a whore, God save me from it, I am respectable! Oh please, sir, are you Revenue?”

  They were Revenue, but they were, sadly, rather drunk, or very pleased to go that way, and fast. Her accent intrigued them and amused them, and, truth to tell, it was unlikely she could be other than a whore, for only whores came in the Starry, didn’t they, and only whores went wandering Spice Island in the night. When the fat Customs man came in and joined them at the table, Deb was close to tears. She knew she had no prayer of gaining information.

  What’s more, the women had now noticed her, the real whores, out to earn an honest living. They moved in staring, they muttered filthy words, and one bared a tongue loaded with a ball of yellow phlegm. She caught Deb’s eye, then rolled it round and pressed the bubbles through her teeth. The next one’s in your face, her look said bitterly. The next gobbet’s for you, you thieving slut.

  The fat man was a different kettle from the other three. They were still trying to understand exactly what this strange wench was wanting, when he pushed through to their table and shot a hand to catch her bosom, no compromise. Deb squeaked like a maiden girl, jumped up and sideways, and clutched her handkerchief to ensure her breasts stayed hidden. He was like a rampant pig to her, his cheeks fat and purple in her sight, his lips flecked and horrible, eyes bursting with intent. His next lunge pushed her up against a wall, where Sunfield interposed himself, protecting her, his laugh polite but rather humourless.

  “George, George,” he said, “contain yourself, at least until you have been introduced. Sit down and drink up like a Christian. This maid is Deb Tomelty and she ain’t a whore.”

  “Not a whore,” boomed George, his voice as big as he was, and equally congested. “If she ain’t, then what’s she doing here, and why’s your arm around her?” To Deb he added, leeringly, “Don’t trust old Sunny Sunfield, maid, just because he says you should. It’s always them is worst as looks as if they stirs their tea with it! Come here, I want to feel your lovely little milkers.”

  A serving wench, summoned by Teape or Higginson on the fat man’s entrance, arrived at table with a metal jug of ale and a brandy bottle with a glass upturned on its neck. George grabbed the bottle, but disdained to grab at her, which she could hardly fail to notice. “Look to your place now, Mary,” he whooped, “look to your place! By Christ, you’ll lose your living now they’ve brought in a pretty one.”

  Instinct or not, Deb knew she had to get out fast. She pushed past Sunfield, who tried to stop her with a worried look, she pushed past Mary, still transfixed, then fought through the fat man’s flailing arms and open, tongue-filled mouth towards the nearest door. Malcie she needed, needed very bad, but she dared not call his name for fear of what might fall on him. It seemed she’d chosen well though, for she ended in a wide, low lobby without heat or light, and not a single person. For a moment she stood still, listening to the baying roar from the room she had escaped from, then froze as other doors opened, to her front and back. Maids streamed out, boys including Malcie, and the spitting woman with the pipe. Ahead of all was Mary, who flew at her with fangs and claws exposed.

  How he did it Deb never knew, but Malcie accidentally fell, and accidentally tripped poor Mary in full flight. A hand raked Deb’s eyes, but the bitten nails, fortuitously, did no damage. She was aware of chants of “whore” and “thief’ and “bitch” and a scream of “let me kill her” from the fallen girl, then she was knocked sideways back into the drinking room, and surrounded by laughing men. Foremost was fat George, who jostled Sunfield and Higginson to one side and grabbed her by her wrist and pulled and dragged her clear of the angry women who were trying hard to get at her, and wrapped her in his arms. His mouth was at her ear and he bellowed, all romantically, “A shilling, Spithead Nymph! A shilling and you’ll get a bed all night!”

  She spat at him. She spat into his face, and pushed him backwards with staccato force, a cry of fury bursting from her mouth. Fat George went over backwards in the manner of a doll or acrobat, his short legs rigid and his feet in air. A table crashed down, then another, and a plate of steaming cutlets hit the flags. In the way that seamen do, the company went bedlam with delight, and ale and punches, then teeth and blood, went flying everywhere. Mr Teape, a riding officer who had suffered silently for very long from his superior, took the presented opportunity to stamp hard (by awful accident) upon his face. Fat George lost the straightness of his nose, and three good teeth.

  Deb, five minutes later and without a sign of Malcie or another friendly face, got out into the sharp Spice Island night and picked her way clandestinely up Broad Street to St James’s Gate. She walked through the town to Landport, north towards the loom of Portsdown Hill, and found a small inn approaching Hilsea Lines where she was not taken, automatically, to be a hungry whore. She slept in a warm bed with two fat chambermaids, who urged her in the morning to stay with Mrs Tubbs their mistress, who was a very kindly dame and let them eat for breakfast as much as they could cram. Deb was tempted, but she knew she had to go. N
orth was Surrey, and in Surrey was Sam’s uncle’s place, and maybe safety. Maybe safety, and maybe news of Will. She was sorely tempted, and she knew she had to go.

  When she looked back down on Portsea Island from beside the old George Inn on top of Portsdown Hill, the sadness of her visage won her a lift far up the London Road.

  SEVEN

  Richard Kaye returned next morning as he had said he would — a big enough surprise — and the gig contained a surgeon and midshipman, as promised. Not a sailmaker called Smith, though, but a fat and sweating purser, Mr Black. Even less expectedly, John Gunning was in the sternsheets, still resplendent in a landsman’s long-back coat, and still as sober as a judge. Taylor, without an order being passed, had mustered a receiving party at the gangway and blew a welcome call.

  Lines taken, Gunning came up the side before the captain (hang protocol), as agile as an enormous cat. He smiled at the two young officers, then glanced about the deck proprietorially.

  “Slack lanyards there, slack lanyards!” he boomed. “Good God, the ship has gone to pieces! Those shrouds need setting up immediate! The bloody stick’ll come down otherwise!”

  Kaye might have been offended, but Sam was secretly amused. Say nothing else for Gunning, he was a seaman born and knew his old ship backwards. Once pointed to, the slackness screamed out loud, and Sam made rueful faces at his friend. What else would Gunning see that we can’t, his expression said. God save us in the Western Ocean without a man like him.

  With protocol established once again, the captain took them to his cabin and ordered coffee from Black Bob. He went through introductions with unusual briskness, the lesser mortals getting short shrift. The surgeon was a scrawny misery by the name of Grundy, who shook hands all round distractedly, then went, he claimed, to check his precious chest. The purser, like all pursers, was full of lard and greasy with it, with a greedy, smacking smile. Introduced, he was soon dismissed as not a gentleman (nor yet a successful rogue, like Gunning). Which left the new midshipman, whom Will and Sam examined with the greatest interest. In theory, one day soon, he would turn into them. He was the Navy’s hope and future.

  “This is Rex, my second cousin’s boy,” Kaye said. “He is very clever, fourteen years old but thinking forty, and he wants to be an admiral. His family name is Shilling, but we call him Groat. That is a jest, sirs, you may smile.”

  No one did, however, most clearly not the victim of the crashing humour. Indeed, Rex Shilling, who was exceeding small and pale and ill-fared looking, turned grey eyes on them, which were remarkable only for their coldness.

  “I joined the service, sir,” he said, “because my father died and my mother has no other funds to raise me. I shall do my duty, sirs, because I have to. I am Rex Shilling, midshipman. The name Groat I do not ever wish to hear.”

  The second new man to be dismissed immediately! Captain Kaye, blushing with anger, said: “You may go, Midshipman Groat. You are quartered down below in what we call the gunroom. It is your mess. You are alone there. I pray you find it, sir. Ask a common seaman, if you are lost. Ask someone who might know, as you do not. My cousin, your mama, will hear of this. I confide, sir, it will pain her mightily.”

  Amazingly, Black Bob stepped forward. He had witnessed this with tray and coffeepot in hand, and it appeared to affect him in the oddest way. Across the cups and saucers, he turned eyes full of pity towards the young midshipman, and said: “I help. I know way. I show you gunroom. Sir.”

  For a moment there was silence. It was the nearest to a sentence Sam or Will had ever heard him say, and possibly his longest utterance. They stared, waiting for Kaye’s inevitable explosion. But Kaye was not the one to speak.

  “How dare you!” said the midshipman. The words were hot, the voice was high, but still retained its chill. He glared at Black Bob cruelly, as at a piece of nothingness. “If you speak to me again without express permission, I will strike you, understood? Go to your tree, you monkey. Go.”

  Black Bob’s dark eyes fell down, but that was everything he showed. He pushed the tray forward, and went with it towards a table. Not a crock or spoon that rattled, as he put it down. Rex Shilling bowed towards Post Captain Kaye.

  “Sir,” he said. “With your permission, I shall seek my quarters.”

  “I will send for you,” said Kaye. “Proceed.”

  “Well, there’s a jolly chap!” said Gunning, as the midshipman disappeared. “You told me, Kaye, we’d have a splendid company if I threw in my lot with you. Laughing and carousing both day and night, fine wine and better song! And add to all, this one most signal honour!” He turned his eyes to Will, mocking the captain openly. “He was going to make me master, with a warrant and a berth all of my own,” he said in explanation. “Better than the little hutch I used to have as owner. Ain’t he the merry Andrew, then?”

  Slack Dickie kept his course through this.

  “Each family has its liability,” he said, good humouredly. “Groat is mine.” He paused. “Or one of ’em, at any rate; I have an ugly sister, too! But I told you true, Jack Gunning. With this fine ship, done out with good King George’s money, we’ll reach Jamaica and drink rum by the barrico, served up by nipple-naked girls! I’ll find a cane estate, bankrupt or abandoned, I’ll get it factored into health again, and when the war is over, all there’ll be to do is ship the sugar back and pull in cash. You’re a rich man now, Jack, don’t bother to deny it. Good God, that shipper could be you!”

  Even by the standards of Slack Dick this was unguarded stuff, thought William. But Kaye was eyeing him intensely.

  “No need to look like that,” he said. “It’s not so great a secret, Mr Bentley, or if it is, it is a family one. Your Uncle Swift is in on this — a prime mover, not to blunt the point, so I deem it in your interest to add your weight to mine. Jack Gunning should come too.”

  “But I’m rich already so you tell me, Capting,” said Gunning, with a smile. “I’m rich and live in London and I love the place. As do my wife and little children, sir.”

  “You have more mistresses than children,” Kaye replied, not unpleasantly. “The day your wife finds out, what then? In the Carib Sea the drink is better, the whores are dark and passionate, and if you should weary of it, you have money to desert. I know, remember, how much you took off of their lordships for this ship. You could live among the palm fronds in the golden sand, a beauty on each arm, two others in your bed, and drink yourself insensible every day. Jack, the rum comes out of taps! Listen, man, listen to me! What about the drink?”

  A haunted look crossed Gunning’s face. It was as if he heard a siren calling in his head. Then he relaxed.

  “You are persuasive,” he said, “but you don’t persuade me, not at all. In truth I have forewent the demon, and that is fact. I always told men I was ruler, not the ruled. As to your money schemes; well, my needs ain’t many, that’s the truth. You keep your cold Atlantic, and I’ll go home by coach at sunset, like a lord!”

  “But not tonight, though, surely? I hardly think that we’ll be through by evening. The more the work, the more the guineas, no?”

  “As you desire, Capting. I am not expected urgently. No hogshead is calling me, neither. Their bungs can stay bunged up, for all I care. I tell you, I ha’ given up for good.”

  A half an hour later, Will and Samuel took orders and advice from Gunning, as he moved about the new-rigged ship. A heavy man, he went soft and feline, and his eyes picked out a dozen things in minutes. At first he stayed in his shore-bound togs, pale linens, long-skirt coat and all, but shortly he was chafing at the bit. He went to the cabin for a word with Kaye (who was largely conspicuous for his absence during the “seadog things”), and emerged in what East Indies men call dungrees, and a canvas smock. The Biter’s people, or at least the newer hands, responded with enthusiasm. He knew the workings of the ship like an angel guardian.

  Not all were with him, though, which appeared to trouble and surprise him, as if he’d forgotten how badly he’d betrayed them. H
e had hired them and worked with them, been blind drunk with them on many an occasion, and then one night had led them on a special beano, financed in secret by Captain Dickie Kaye. And they had woken in the morning with shackles on their feet, pressed for the king of England in the good old-fashioned way. Willie Morgan, built like a muscle-barrel, spat on the deck between Gunning’s feet, which were shod in rich, soft leather. Boatswain Taylor saw it very plain and pretended he had not.

  Taylor, as he made it clear to Sam and Will, also watched some others with an added caution. At the main chains when work was smoothly underway, the three of them discussed the people, and how they shaped, and the prospects that they would get across the ocean in one piece. Happy no one could run while they lay at the mooring buoy, they focused on the men they guessed were troublemakers, mainly the three Scots. Each had been face-to-face with one of them, and to a greater or a less degree disconcerted. Each acknowledged that the three could be open, almost sunny, but had a kind of mayhem lurking in the eyes. Their blond curly hair, their thin little goatish beards, their lack of bulky muscle — well, inside these strange, unthreatening exteriors lived something dangerous.

  “I cannot understand a cursed word they say,” Taylor summed up, “but it sounds like they would like to kill me. Hugg and Tilley feel it, too. I think Tom Tilley might kill them first to get in his advantage!”

  “And do you see the way they watch?” said Holt. “Except their eyes are always on the swivel; you cannot catch the buggers at it, nohow. And they watch Gunning, and his old crew; they weigh them all the time. Keep ’em hard at it, Jem. Work ’em half to death. And tell Tom that I’m on his side. I’ll bring him brandy while he’s waiting for the gallows!”