by Val Wood
* * *
‘I’ve had an idea, Aaron.’ She ran down the stairs from her room one morning about two weeks later. ‘I’ve been thinking about it all night.’
‘Have you made a decision then,’ he asked quietly. He hadn’t pressed her for an answer to his proposal but had bided his time.
‘Not yet, but I promise I will soon, very soon. But hear what I have to say. We discussed didn’t we, that it would be an idea to get an apprentice to help in the shop?’
‘Yes, yes, but I haven’t liked any of them that came for an interview. Either too rough with scratchy hands or too foppish to attend the customers, let alone lift the bales.’
‘Well,’ she said excitedly. ‘It came to me during the night, I couldn’t sleep and I got thinking, you know the way you do during the dark hours.’ When the night seems never ending and all you can do is weep for what you have lost, she thought.
‘But I started to think about someone I knew, someone who knows about cloth and who knows how to talk to women, and to ladies too if he’d known any. His hands may be rough now,’ she added as she thought that Robin might have gone back to the quarry, ‘but we can soon do something about that with creams and lotions.’
‘Then you’d better send for him,’ Aaron said. ‘I trust your judgement. We’ll need someone soon, now that we have all this fabric coming in.’
Day by day shipments of fabric were arriving, down through the Aire and Calder waterways, and along the Ouse to arrive in York. Cargoes of soap and perfume, casks of porter and Jamaica rum, brandies and geneva were snatched up on arrival by the shopkeepers as the war with France made these commodities rare.
‘I can’t send for him,’ she explained. ‘He can’t read. We’d have to teach him when he got here.’
‘How do you know he’d be willing to come? He might be doing some other work that he can’t leave. Could you persuade him?’
‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I think I could. But how to find him and get him here, that’s the problem.’
‘Why, you must go, of course. Go to where you last saw him and talk to him.’
She stared at him. Go! To Hessle! Risk seeing Matt’s ship in the Humber and know that he was there, breathing the same air as she was. She became breathless as she thought of it, and yet, the thought excited her, to know that he was still living and breathing, to catch one glimpse of him perhaps for the last time. And if he wasn’t there, well then she could enquire of Robin or Josh and ask news of him, and swear them on their honour to secrecy.
‘I haven’t got my donkey, how will I go?’ She searched for excuses.
‘Bless my soul, we can afford the coach. We can charge it to business. Let me see now,’ Aaron ruminated as Annie continued to stare bemused. She’d been in a coach only once, when she had gone with Matt to the fancy dress ball, that wonderful night when Henry had been conceived, she’d worked it back from his birth, it had to have been then.
‘You’ll have to get the coach to Hull, and then I’m not sure what you’ll do. Will there be transport to this place Hessle?’
She smiled. ‘My own two legs or I’ll hire a mare.’ She nodded at the look of surprise on his face. ‘I can do either.’
They arranged that she should go the following week, before they began to get busy with the autumn custom, Mrs Cook agreed to come in each day while Annie was away and Aaron booked her a twelve-shilling seat for the seven hour journey, on the inside of the Hull light coach. At the last minute she decided to take Henry with her rather than leave him to the precarious protection of the well-meaning Polly.
I’ll show him the Humber, she thought, and the town of Hull where I was born. He’s so young and he’ll no doubt forget by the time he’s a grown man, but at least I’ll know that I showed him my beginnings. She had great aspirations for Henry, now that she had almost made a decision about marrying Mr Sampson.
As the horses pulled away and they waved a final goodbye to Aaron Sampson, she sat back against the seat and breathed in the smell of leather and remembered. How many memories I have, she thought. What a life I have led; from poverty to a lost love, and now riding in a coach back to Hull and my past.
31
‘Heave to or we fire!’
‘Then fire and be damned!’ Matt shouted back at the cutter captain who was chasing the Breeze.
‘In the name of the King, heave to!’
Matt ignored the command, he’d not have revenue men boarding his ship. He gave orders to increase sail and drew away from the range of shot from the revenue cutter. He stood with his arms folded and laughed at the incompetence of the captain of the Royal Swan who, acting in the name of the Customs, couldn’t keep pace with the swiftness of the Breeze. His crew too stood at the ship side shaking their fists and jeering at the desperate attempts of the cutter to score a hit.
They had dropped the last of the contraband, brandy and geneva, at Scarborough, after a hazardous journey across the sea from Holland where they had encountered French privateers who had attempted to board her. They had fought them off and continued to Whitby and then Scarborough to discharge the goods to the waiting fishermen.
Then they had been chased along the coast towards Bridlington by the King’s frigate which had discharged shot at them, penetrating the hull and damaging rigging before they had finally lost it, only to be approached later in the day by the revenue cutter, the Royal Swan, who had ordered them to heave to and who was now well out of the chase as they drew further away from her.
‘Will we sail to Hessle, captain, or stay in port?’
‘Stay in port, Bosun. We’ll need to get repairs done to the rigging, and I have some business to attend to, besides we’ve nothing for them, everything went at Whitby and Scarborough. They cleaned us dry.’
‘Customs’ll still come looking though, sir.’
‘Well let them, we’re clean as a whistle.’
They rounded the sand flats off the tip of Spurn Head and followed the pilot boat up the Humber towards Hull and into the crowded Old Harbour to a berth in the equally crowded dock.
Matt went as usual for his breakfast at the Cross Keys Inn and then ordered a mount. I’ve been going through this charade for three years now, he thought, as he mounted the stallion and rode off in the direction of Hessle, and what good has it done? Absolutely none. Not a sign or sighting of her; not across in Lincolnshire, not in Beverley, nowhere. Nobody has heard or seen anything, or so they say.
Robin or Josh would tell if they’d heard. Mrs Trott wouldn’t, she didn’t like her. Old Henry would protect her I’m sure of that – he’d only tell if he thought I was going to do the honourable thing by her. But Robin, well he’s in my pay. I pay him well to look for her, he surely wouldn’t do a double cross?
He’d brought Robin out of the quarries to look for Annie, asking him to search on the Wolds if necessary, and Robin had told him that while making his enquiries, he had come across Mr Moses. That gentleman having lost a lucrative outlet now that the young Mr Hope had disappeared, had asked Robin if he was willing to take some of his samples.
‘You seem a likely sort of young fellow,’ he’d said to Robin. ‘Do you think you could sell cloth like Mr Hope did?’
‘I could try,’ Robin had bantered. ‘But tha’d have to give me credit for stock, same as before, cos I’ve no money of me own.’
Moses had agreed, and so as Robin searched the towns and villages of the area for Annie, while in the employ of Captain Linton – even travelling across the Humber into Lincolnshire and scouring Barton and Goxhill – he also sold cloth on behalf of himself and Mr Moses.
Being an honest kind of lad, he had informed Matt of his intentions. ‘I’ll do my duty by thee, captain,’ he’d said. ‘I’m as anxious about Annie – Mrs Hope, as anybody. And while tha’s paying me I’ll keep looking for her, but I want to mek summat of meself and I can onny do that if I have money, and I can mek it wi’ selling cloth and stuff.’
Matt had studied him. He was a ple
asant-looking fellow, he’d thought, with an open, honest face, and he’d refused the job of agent for the distribution of contraband, saying that though he wouldn’t say it was wrong to defy the King and his officers, it wasn’t something that he would want to do, preferring to keep his hands clean. He’d laughed then and looked down at his hands which though clean were still pitted and cracked from the quarrying.
‘You’ll need more than money, Robin, if you’re to make something of yourself. You need to be able to read and write and to speak properly. You’ll always be considered a street urchin if you speak like one.’
‘I remember Annie saying summat similar,’ he’d said eagerly. ‘Robin, she said, you and me’ll have to learn to talk proper if we’re to better ourselves.’ He’d given a great sigh. ‘Well, she did; Master Toby learned her. But now she’s gone and I wonder if it did her any good. We all miss her, captain, more than we can say; Josh, and me – even Sorrel.’
Matt arranged an interview with the schoolmaster in Hessle, who on meeting Robin told him he would give him lessons in reading, writing and speech, and if he proved adaptable he would then teach him arithmetic. He couldn’t take him during school hours as Robin at fourteen was too old, but he agreed to take him on three evenings a week at a private fee which Matt would pay. Robin’s gratitude knew no bounds.
So when Matt dismounted at the cottage door where Robin still lived with his sister, it was a quite different young man from the gawky lad he had once been, who opened the door to him. At almost eighteen Robin had grown several inches and though not tall, he had broadened considerably, his face had lost the plump roundness of boyhood and though still ready to smile, had a mature confidence about it.
‘Come in, captain. It’s good to see you.’ He motioned Matt to sit down in the small room, which for once was devoid of the usual brood of his sister’s children. ‘Will you have a glass of ale?’
Matt refused. ‘No. I won’t stay long. I came as usual to enquire if you had any news.’
‘None, sir, I’m sorry to say.’ Robin faced Matt. ‘I was hoping you’d call for I wanted to talk to you. I’m sorry to say, Captain Linton, but I think we’re on a fool’s errand. We’re not going to find her and I can’t keep taking money from you pretending that we are. I’ll look and enquire wherever I happen to be, but I don’t want any more payment from you. It isn’t fair.’
‘Come Robin, are you now so rich that you can afford to throw money away?’ Matt hadn’t intended that his voice would be cold and harsh, he was disappointed and couldn’t help that it showed, even though he knew that the youth was right.
‘That I’m not, sir.’ The old Robin showed through. ‘And never will be, though I’m better off than I ever was. ’Summer months are always good to me, though when the bad weather comes I spend all I’ve earned when I can’t get up on ’Wolds.’
‘Yes it’s a fair weather job you’ve got, no doubt about that. That country can be a killer if you get caught in the winter.’
He felt a gnawing sense of guilt about his father as he spoke. He’d visit him the next time around. He didn’t go as often as he should, but he hated the questioning by his father of the whereabouts of Mrs Annaliese Hope and his derisive comments on what a fool he’d been to let her slip away.
‘All right,’ he said, rising to his feet from the small wooden chair. ‘We’ll call it off, but if you should hear—’
‘I’ll hot foot down to Hull and be waiting at ’harbour side, captain. Have no fear of that.’
Matt nodded and left. A sense of loss and desolation filled him. While someone had been actively looking for Annie, even after all this time, he had felt there was some hope, but now there was nothing; no anticipation that Robin might speak to someone who had come across a woman alone; or turn a corner and find her there.
But she might not be alone now, he pondered. She might have a child if she was safely delivered, or she might have a husband and even more children. Or, he breathed in softly as he mounted his horse and turned down the river path towards Hull, she might even be dead.
By the time he reached the town boundaries, his sense of sadness had fermented from despair, into frustration and finally anger that she should go, leaving him without a word or message. ‘Damn and blast the woman,’ he muttered as he trotted through the Market Place putting to flight scratching hens and scattering small boys from their games as they played on the dusty road.
‘Hey, Mister, better watch out,’ one of them called after him, but he cracked his whip in the air and rode on towards the Cross Keys.
‘Bring me a tankard of ale,’ he barked at the landlord as he entered the door. ‘No, make it a jug, and a brandy, large.’
‘Drowning tha sorrows, captain?’ The landlord raised an eybrow. ‘Is tha not sailing today?’
‘No,’ his answer was short. He didn’t want to talk, only to get drunk. If only Greg was here they could get drunk together, just like the old times. Yes, that’s what he would do from now on, he’d meet up with his old cronies, go carousing again. Not sit mooning around over a woman who might or might not be the mother of his child.
The smoky room started to fill up as dockyard workers finished their shift and other seamen, discharged from their ships came to relax and drink away their wages before they went on board again. He listened to the hum of conversation around him.
Two whaling ships had come in, both with a good catch. It was good news for the town which relied on the whales as their chief industry. Soon the inn would be packed with the whaling men come to celebrate their good fortune, while outside, women would wait, some with children by their sides waiting for their share of money that they might buy food and pay their debts, and others with painted faces who waited in anticipation of a good time.
He narrowed his eyes, his vision seemed to be blurred as he looked across the room. There was Parson White and Bosun, they gave him a nod but he didn’t respond. He didn’t want to talk. He looked down at the table. Two jugs. He picked them up one at a time. Both empty! Someone had been drinking his ale!
He let out a roar. ‘Another jug, landlord, and be quick about it.’
The landlord came across. ‘It’s not for me to refuse custom, captain, but doesn’t tha think tha’s had enough? Tha’ll be sailing tomorrow, no doubt?’
‘I might, or I might not. It’s my ship and I’ll sail whenever I damned well choose.’ He glared balefully at the double image of the man and hiccoughed. Why didn’t the rogue keep still?
He got unsteadily to his feet. ‘But if you won’t serve me, landlord, then I’ll find some other hostelry that will.’
‘Sir? Take care, there’s trouble—!’
Matt waved a dismissive arm and staggered towards the door. The room was stifling, he needed some air. As he reached the door it swung open, almost knocking him over. It was Greg Sheppard.
‘Now then, my old shipmate.’ Greg slapped him on the back, making him wince. ‘You’re well in front of me by the look of you. I’m going to have some catching up to do.’
‘Landlord here won’t serve me,’ Matt mumbled and grabbed Greg’s arm. ‘I’m going on. The George – they draw good ale. That’s where we’ll go.’
Greg laughed, throwing back his head. ‘You’ll have a devil of a hangover in the morning, you’re three sheets to the wind already! But yes, my friend, let’s make a night of it, it’s been a long time since we did. You’ve been a miserable drinking partner for far too long.’ He tapped Matt’s chest and whispered with a grin. ‘We’ll find a couple of ladies and have a good time. Just give me five minutes whilst I have a word with somebody over there and I’ll be right with you.’
Matt staggered towards the George just off the High Street, Greg would know where to find him; another few drinks and then oblivion, he’d be able to forget her even if it was for only a short time.
He pushed his way through the crowd; there was a large crush of people. Something must be happening, the local militia were out, their disparity of unifo
rm contrasting with the scarlet tunics and flashing cutlasses of the cavalry, who with their muskets slung over their backs rode towards the Market Place where the biggest press of people was gathering.
Greg caught him up as he crossed the George’s yard. ‘There’s trouble afoot,’ he said. ‘The mob are out. There’s been a rise in the price of flour and the townsfolk are being egged on to blame the millers; the press-men are in town and the whole place is about to blow!’
Matt didn’t answer as he reached for a chair in the inn. His mind was befuddled; he couldn’t cope with other people’s problems, he had his own. He couldn’t remember what they were, but he knew he had some.
Greg beckoned to the serving maid and pinched her bottom as she poured him a tankard of ale from a large jug. She winked at him and he slyly slid his hand under her skirt.
Matt drained his tankard and watched their antics through bleary eyes. He wanted no part of this. He wanted no loose woman to share his night. He wanted to get back to his ship and lie down alone in his bunk and wallow in misery. He suddenly felt sick. His head ached and he needed to get outside for some air. He pushed back his chair sending it clattering on to the floor and muttering something incomprehensible into Greg’s grinning face, he hurried towards the door.
Once outside he rushed towards the corner of the building and retched and retched, then gasping, he leaned against the wall. What a mess, he thought. What a fool I am, getting into such a state. He drew away from the pool of vomit and took a deep breath. Phew. I feel terrible. He turned towards the door of the George and then on second thoughts turned away. He couldn’t face the smell of ale again. Greg would have to find his own entertainment for the night.
He stood, his hand clutching his brow as he tried to remember where he was going. The Breeze. That was it. That’s where he was going.
‘Now then, my old matey. What’s your trouble?’ A friendly voice greeted him. ‘Lost your way home, have you?’
‘No, no.’ He looked warily at the group of men gathered about him. Perhaps he should have gone back inside to find Greg. Two men had more of a chance against a mob than one.
