by Jan Needle
The house was small, and by Deb’s standards, rather wonderful. It was a cottage, near but not too near three others, built for a woodsman on the estate and now lived in by his widow, Mrs Collins, who helped out at the big house kitchens, so she said. She was a pleasant body, quiet and comfortable, who found Deb’s accession no surprise, it seemed, although she later told her that she’d never heard of such a thing before. She lived on the bottom floor, “because my leg ent right,” and the rest — a sitting room with bed and two small lobbies up above — were Deb’s domain. With ostentation and embarrassment, Sir Peter pressed a purse of guineas into the old dame’s hand, but did not do the same for her. So I can’t run away, thought Deb. I wonder if he doesn’t know Sir A provided for me?
She wished to see upstairs, but was not certain of the protocol. She was still near bursting, for she knew the rich had different attitudes to simple needs than she and her type did, so, in a rush, she said to Mrs Collins “I’d better go outside, I need the privy quick, and then we’ll go up, shall we, sir?” and he blushed brick red again, which she found quite endearing.
When she returned, though, he had thought it through. He would not come up, he told her, because he wished that she might have some privacy, and in any case he had… business he must do. ‘Privacy’ was quite humorous, thought Deb, but did not say so, and when he’d left, at long last and awkwardly, the old widow, with unexpected candour, told her that the “business,” surely, would be his wife.
“Didst know that, med? That this man’s got one, like? She’m a wild one, half his age, scarce old enough to be your big sister, and she’ll shag near anyone, save poor old ’im. Treat him badly, and he’ll be no trouble, my advice to you. Leaf out of ’er book, like. Make good sense?”
In ways it did, she saw that, but it was not Deb’s way. As it happened, she needed neither guile nor other forms of lying and dissembling to keep Sir Peter from forcing himself upon her. It was a week before he came to visit next, to find her drinking tea in the back kitchen with Mrs Collins, now her friend; and even then, upstairs in her sit-and-bedroom, he made no move to touch or use her person. There was a fire going, and they sat on opposite sides, decorously, and Sir Peter sighed a lot, but seemed otherwise content. Deb was embarrassed, and developed a head pain through trying to think up anything to say, then gradually relaxed. At the end of one hour and a half he got to his feet, apologised profusely when she sprang to hers, moved his head forward as if for a kiss, and then back again as if his neck was stiff and he’d been merely looking for an easement for the ache. Deb laughed, but did not kiss him, and he went away.
“Contented?” Mrs Collins said, when asked. “What, him? What’s that to you, my med? If he do not be contented the remedy is his, for surely, ent it? Anyways, I think he’ll be content with talking to a woman what answers back without a sneer, what I’ve ’eard. Just so long’s you don’t make ’im too ’appy, so he brags to ’er ’e’s got you, you’ll be fine is my advice.”
It took him several visits, in fact, before the fat Customs man felt the urge to try the physical, and then he signalled it so far ahead with gifts of cut blooms and sweetmeats that must have come from a London craftsman shop, that Deborah was not only ready but could hardly keep a face. She was easy in the cottage now, and easy with her old companion, and even easy, in a certain way, with him. They normally retired “up aloft” (as he put it, gallantly) and sat and chatted little talk, and drank dishes of tea, or sometimes coffee, or sometimes merely sat. When he did speak seriously it was brief because his only subject was Laetitia (his wife, as Deb now knew), and as soon as he realised what he was saying, he would collapse in embarrassment. It was after one of these occasions that he pulled up to his feet, wheezing a little from the effort, and produced his presents from a bag.
“My dear,” he said. “You must like candy, for you are so sweet. And these blooms — from Covent Garden, from the Netherlands — well, they are not so fair as you are, that’s the truth!”
Truth or not, he blundered forward then to seize her, and Deb, who could have stepped aside and had him fall flat on his arse and called it accidental, Deb did not have the heart, and let him grab and squash her and fold her in his arms. And thus he kissed her, and a boundary was crossed. That night, alone in bed, Deb cried. The bed was soft and white and warm, and hers. She wanted no one in it, ever, except William.
Mrs Collins, also, when she told her, was gloomy for her sake.
“Ah well, med, it ’ad to ’appen,” she opined. “Leastways it means you’ll not ’ave your eyes scratted out, don’t it?” Deb looked blank, and she continued. Apparently, some of the household maids, who had young men on the estate, were beginning to get hot about her being there because she did no work, but swanned about just being beautiful. The feeling was that one day some young groom or footman was bound to fall, and land slap on her belly, bottom up. The girls were gossiping, the venom on the flow.
“But once Sir Peter’s done the deed with you, why, all’s all right again, ennit? How will they know? I’ll tell ’em, won’t I, med? I am your friend, and looking out for you.”
It worried Deb that her presence was such common currency, for she knew that Maybold’s house was not too far away. He had urged upon her several times that she should keep silent about her “gentleman,” but having naught to do with younger men and women in the day-to-day brought problems of its own, for she was seen to be standoffish and stuck up. Aloof, and she must suffer isolation; fraternise, and she became a whore.
There came an evening though, inevitably, when the die was cast. From the moment he stepped into the house from out his coach, Deb knew that the fat man’s mind was up — and his dander! He carried flowers and a bottle of the finest, finest brandy (this he told her), and he was as clumsy as a first-time youth. Deb’s smile of welcome, shot through with amusement at his shambling, faded away when she realised. She bit her lip, then had to smile once more, but hardly carried it. Sir Peter, in a rush, came up to kiss her. He dropped the flowers, hit her elbow with the bottle, swore like a trooper, then apologised.
“Madame,” he said. “Mademoiselle. Deborah. Oh what an oaf I am, I’ve spoiled it. Take me upstairs, an’t please you. I wish to propose a toast.”
Well, it would not be marriage anyway, thought Deb, and that is one thing. But he’s going to swive me; he is going to get it out. And I must smile, and make some noise of pleasure. Oh Christ, I wish I did not have to.
Upstairs in the bedroom, Maybold was nervous as a cat, and blushing like a bride. Deb, amazed at his gawkishness, was disinclined to help him, had trouble not to let her feelings show. He tried to clutch her with romance, but his arms were too short, his corporation too gigantic, her bones and figure too unyielding.
“My dear,” he breathed. In fact, he almost panted. “My dear, tonight’s the night that I must… that you must, we…”
With luck he’ll spend before he gets it near me, thought Deb, with neither charity nor passion. Oh I do not want to do this, how I hate to be a whore. Now he’s plucking at my kerchief and my teats will soon be out. Oh I hate it all. I hate it!
“My lord,” she said, pushing him politely back from her. “My lord, you must get ready; you have your britches on. Would you like to use the little room to make your preparation? We ladies, Sir Peter, must prepare. Excuse me for a moment, do.”
She swept away from him, and then, having nowhere to go, turned back and harried him towards the other door. He went reluctantly, but with an eager look, and Deb stood for a moment, suffering. Her preparations would be minimal — lie down, pull up her skirts, she had it off by heart — but she had to steel herself, she had to smile. When he returned two minutes later she was still on her feet, still suffering. But Sir Peter, red as brick, was ready as a man could be.
“Sir Peter,” said Deb, aware the sight was funny in despite of all, but desperate not to laugh, or cry. “Sir Peter, you are very bold. But come.”
He was in a brocade tunic, but na
ked from the waist. His belly was enormous, round like an orange, and his legs were patched with purple, quite peculiar. His lips were drawn back from his teeth in an agony of self-control, and beneath his lower dome the prick poked out and throbbed, most painfully. At any second he must spend. It was inevitable.
He did, with a gasp and cry of pathos mixed with joy, and as he did so the bedroom door burst open with a crash, to reveal a woman with long hair in ringlets, and a pointed and triumphant face. Behind her were two serving men, with pistols in their hands. Deb, still fully clothed thank God, just stood and stared. It was Laetitia Maybold. They had been betrayed.
*
Dick Kaye, when he came back on board, was like a whirlwind. He could be noisy in a fury, and today he was damn near apoplectic. The ship was quiet when he came along, with no one smart enough to notice him and muster a saluting party, which set him off wrong-footed for a start. On deck, though, when he met Rex Shilling and asked some pointed questions, the thing began to fizz. Will was down below with Black Bob and Ashdown when it erupted, and he cut and ran. Holt was still sleeping, but that did not last for long. Kaye’s voice, vibrant with fury, was like a cross-cut saw.
Will hit the deck in time to see Shilling quailing, his face flecked with spittle from the tirade. He heard Kaye bellow of the Scotsmen, demanding who had locked them up and why, ordering their release, immediate! When he saw Bentley his voice went even higher, approaching screaming pitch. Around the deck the seamen, many of them marked with cuts and bruises, averted their eyes and tried to be invisible.
“Bentley! Lieutenant Bentley! What means this boy, what means this raving boy, sir?”
Shilling’s pale face seemed to go paler, but he held his ground and pulled his shoulders back.
“It was a mutiny,” he said. “Captain, I beg of you, please listen. It was — ”
Kaye stamped his foot and raised his fist and screeched. Bentley approached with caution.
“It was a dereliction, sir!” Kaye shouted. “A dereliction of your duty, sir! Good God alive, I put you in command, you ninny! The Scotchmen were to help and they’re in irons! Christ, I will have your entrails, boy. I’ll have your bloody entrails.”
“Sir,” said Will, and “Captain Kaye,” said Holt, appearing at the hatch.
“You boobies!” bellowed Captain Kaye. “I leave my ship for half a day and — oh, you bloody, bloody boobies!”
All four were standing still now, in the morning sun. It was a strange sight, four men in some degree of uniform, stunned or bawled to silence. The Thames smell was sweet today, with the breeze wafting the London filth up to the Essex shore. Kaye blows hot and cold, thought Will, he has no bottom, no authority. Even a man as young as Shilling could not fear him for very long.
He said, carefully: “I think, sir… in the cabin? These people have big ears.” Enjoy a show, he added, to himself alone. Mr Punchinello, make ’em laugh…
“Where’s Bob,” demanded Kaye, aggressively. “I need some coffee. Bob! Come out and serve your master, skulking scum!”
“The cabin, sir,” repeated Will. “We can talk of it in there. Mr Shilling, perhaps you’d be so good? Geoff Raper will have put the coffee on, I have no doubt. He will have heard of Captain Kaye’s arrival.”
For an instant he feared the midshipman might get up on his high horse at being used as cabin boy, but even this one saw sense after a hesitation. He strode towards the galley, as purposeful as if the captain had been a normal man, and any sailor who dared to look at him soon dropped his eyes. Kaye gazed after him with bemused disdain.
“My second cousin’s son,” he said. “How did she ever get such shit? What has he done? Why are the Scotchmen held? Call Bosun — where is he skulking? I want them out immediately! Now.”
“It can’t be done instanter,” Holt improvised. “We’ll need to get the blacksmith to heat up the forge and knock the shackles off. I’ll go find Taylor to set him up. Will can fetch you to the cabin and explain. The mess.”
Despite the clearing that had been done, Kaye’s cabin still bore marks of the struggle for the roundhouse, and there were bits of broken furniture, although he showed little interest in them. Will guessed he had been drinking, which he did with zeal on runs ashore. He had a whiteness round the eyes, a looseness of his grip on things.
“Groat said you were on shore, the pair of you,” Kaye said. It was half a statement, half a question, accusatory. “He said you had not returned, and then the men got drink in them. Lax, lax! I warned him ’ere I went to keep them from the liquor, then half the company go in a riot. Why did he arrest the Scots? It is insubordination! It is dereliction!”
Will said, carefully: “There seems not any doubt, sir, if you will pardon me. The Lamonts… were those that started it.”
Kaye’s bulbous eyes fixed on him. They were angry, not a hint of acceptance in them.
“Fiddle-faddle! Who told you this? You were not even here! Rex Shilling has a grudge for them because I put them in a half-command. They are good men, Bentley, have not a doubt of it; they are exceptional. How many others of the crew are chained? Why think you these brothers were the ringleaders?”
Will licked his lips. It would place many men in most tight positions if he told Kaye what he knew and he chose not to believe it. He had seen Kaye’s way with facts in times gone by; he was a man with little grasp of right and wrong. He wondered if he should bring Black Bob into the picture. How would that work on Dickie’s addled mind?
“Six or seven are in irons, sir,” he said. “And those others from the time they tried to murder Gunning. This band, this new lot, so we’re told, went mad in some wise, sir. Mad for the drink. And for… they chased your little servant, sir. Black Bob. We thought they’d killed him.”
Shockingly, Slack Dickie laughed.
“He’d take a lot of killing, that child would,” he said. “What was their plan, to use him for their sport? He’s got a great advantage in the night; black bastard goes invisible! Sometimes I think he is a spirit.”
Will viewed this with distaste from many aspects, not least the way it had put the captain in a better humour. Bentley had tried to talk with Bob, and the boy’s eyes had shown as pools of terror; he’d been out of speaking, far beyond. He had lain still and trembled when approached.
“It is more serious,” Bentley said. He kept his voice indifferent, but his words were quite concise. “He was hunted like an animal and used quite barbarously. He is badly injured, sir. The Scotchmen — ”
“Oh, to hell with him,” said Kaye. “He is a boy, a thing, a toy, an ornament, no more. The Lamont brothers are most useful men, and if they need some sport, what of it? Black boys are two a penny where we go. I spoke with them yesterday, Mr Bentley; we spoke at some good length. They know Jamaica, they were prime movers in society until detractors brought them down. They could help us make a fortune.”
Bentley’s face must have betrayed his blank astonishment, for Kaye began to bluster.
“Now, sir, your memory’s at fault!” he said. “We spoke with my father, did we not? We talked of pickings, an estate. These men can set us on. They are well versed in fields of planter commerce!”
Will was almost speechless. Ashdown had known the men in Port Royal, Jack Ashdown who had near lost his life in saving Bob. He had told Will earlier that they had been run out for bestiality on a servant girl. They had hunted her, and raped and murdered her, just as they would have done the boy, and had escaped the gallows by a half an inch, on account alone the servant girl was black. He had begged Will to warn the captain, to tell him if he shipped these men he would be mad. Black Bob would die, he said, and many other men as well.
“But sir,” said Bentley. “I have been told that… I have it on authority…”
He stopped, and they held each other’s eyes. Will knew he was on shaky ground, on very shaky ground. But Kaye was challenging.
“Authority? On what authority? What have you heard about these Scotch?”
&n
bsp; “There is a seaman, sir. One Ashdown. He — ”
The captain cut him off. He expelled breath hard; he made a sound of great derision.
“Pshaw, Ashdown! I have heard of Ashdown! The Lamont men are on to Ashdown, sir! It is a niggler of the most petty kind, a carper. He it was who was thrown off the island, not the Scotchmen. He is determined that he’ll do them trouble, and you’ve fell for it. He is a Romish, is he not? A Jacobite. He would rather join the Frogs or Spaniards than fight for King and country. He is for a Romish God. And he has a thing for black men, Bentley, a truly strange thing as the Lamonts tell it. He has incited slaves to rise against their masters. He was damn near hanged for it.”
That Ashdown was a Catholic, Will had no doubt. He was Irish, after all. But he had not mentioned faith, nor any of the other things he stood accused of in Kaye’s eyes. And Black Bob had been attacked, for certain.
“The brothers, sir,” he started mildly, “are drinkers.”
“And so am I! And so are you, be not so mealy-mouthed! They are good honest men of commerce who were ruined by a lack of capital; it is the same old story.” His eyes narrowed. “The eldest one, whose name is Angus, was a factor, too. They know estates. Lack of capital, that was their problem, and rival factions in the planting trade. They are Scotch, and therefore work too hard in some men’s eyes. There is prejudice in Jamaica against the Scotch. I will have them free, Mr Bentley. It is disgraceful. I must go on shore again today, and I will have them at liberty. Where is Mr Holt?”
“Go on shore, sir?”
“Aye, on shore! Unfinished business, that’s why I went to London yesterday, ain’t it — or did you think I’d gone and left my ship for pleasure? We sail, sir, we sail tomorrow, and we are short a sailmaker, and a soldier, and a man to keep ship while I sleep, if I should be so foolish as to ever dare, even a man of God, good Christ. There are things to do ashore, sir, and only I can do them, and you must keep the Biter safe for me, and keep her clear of bloody drunken mayhem in the way of yesterday. Is that too much to hope for? I doubt it on a proper ship, sir, but on this — but on this I sincerely… well, I fear!”
