by John Drake
Soon after, Phiandra and Ladybird fell silent, as all hands, barring look-outs, were ordered to their hammocks to rest until the unknown perils of the day ahead. But my day was not yet over. Before I could get to my hammock, Bosun Shaw came to me with a most unexpected order.
“Fletcher!” says he. “At the double now, Mr Williams wants a word on the quarterdeck.”
“About what?” says I, suddenly nervous.
“Bleedin’ get along there and you’ll find out, my lad!” says he. “Go on now. Get along!” God knows what this meant and I didn’t know what to do. Williams had ignored me for the last few days as if nothing had happened. But I couldn’t keep an officer waiting so I went up on deck. No lights were showing but there was a bit of moon about. A marine sentry stopped me at the companionway leading to the quarterdeck, but Williams’s voice called from the darkness.
“Let him pass!” says he. “Over here, Fletcher.” I looked around nervously. It was dark, but not that dark and there was a sentry at the other companionway as well as the look-outs in the tops. So there were witnesses if need be. What the hell could he be playing at? There was no chance here for secret murder. All the same, I was wound up tight. What should I do if he went for me? Would he have a knife? Or a pistol?
“Mr Williams?” says I, edging closer to the dark figure with its gleaming buttons and white stockings. He was completely at his ease, leaning against the mizzen mast with his hands deep in the pockets of his coat. I stopped well clear of him, wondering what might be in his pockets. He noticed my hesitation and I saw the flash of his teeth as he grinned.
“Don’t be afraid, Fletcher,” says he quietly so nobody else should hear. “I mean you no harm ... see?” And out came the hands — empty, palms upward, fingers spread. “I want to talk to you, that’s all.”
“About what ... sir?” says I, still keeping a good distance between us. I looked around again. The two sentries were close enough to see what we were doing and even as he spoke, Lieutenant Seymour came on deck and began to pace up and down, lost in thought. That reassured me. With another officer on deck there was no chance of his getting away with an attack on me. Mr Seymour would see it for sure.
As I realised that, and saw that he was unarmed, I lost my fear. In fact, as I looked at him more closely and saw the mocking smile on his face, and I remembered what he’d done, and what he’d tried to do, and especially as I realised how much the bigger man I was ... a slow anger grew instead. If I’d thrashed Billy Mason, I could thrash this one.
“Fletcher,” says he, “there are certain facts that I should like to acquaint you of. First, it was entirely by my actions that you were brought to this ship. Even your friends at Pendennis’s, Ibbotson and Bradley, were bribed to tell Lieutenant Spencer, of the Polmouth Press, how and where you might be captured with the least trouble. You may have wondered why you were pressed and they were not. Well, now you know.”
He paused to let me digest that and near as damn it got my fist in his face that very second. I was boiling with rage.
“Now,” says he, “it is my most devout hope that you will be killed in action tomorrow. Or at least that you might be blinded and crippled. However, should you survive, I have taken action to ensure that you will be arrested the instant you set foot on British soil. I am in touch with powerful interests ashore that will bring you to trial for the murder of Bosun Dixon of His Majesty’s brig Bullfrog. I shall have you hanged for this crime. Do you understand?”
I understood all right. It was an uncanny moment. After all the months of wondering what was happening and piecing things together, here it all was in plain English. And this man, who’d always behaved as a perfect gentleman, was pouring out venom like a serpent. The anger grew within me. Why should I suffer this? Why should I be dragged into this mad world of ships and fighting? Then a thought came to me.
“Why are you doing this?” says I. “What am I to you?” He stretched back comfortably against the mast.
“I am doing all this, Fletcher, for excellent reasons that would interest you most extremely and which I am therefore going to keep secret from you. I know everything about you, Fletcher. I know who you are and what you are ... and I’m not going to tell you.”
“You back-stabbing bastard!” says I. He laughed at that.
“Yes and no, Fletcher,” says he. “It is true that I have twice tried to stab you. And I’ve played you lots more little tricks as well. Why d’you think I kept you out of the Purser’s service when first you came aboard? Did you think it was to do you a good turn? I did it to set the Purser against you. And didn’t it just work? Did you enjoy boiled rat for dinner? And it was I who set Mason on you. All it took was a little word in his ear.”
He was getting excited now and his tongue ran away with him. “And what an utter fool you’ve been, Fletcher. When I think of you crawling after me to secure that loose gun with that stupid look in your eyes and me planning to shove you under the bloody thing all the while! Why do you think I laughed when I looked at you? And who do you think tripped you when we were dancing round it? Isn’t it just a pity the wrong man got his leg broke? By Christ I wish it’d been you, you ... ”
He was spitting out words in fury. There was froth on his lips and he was shaking. For the first time I could actually see the evil side of him.
Then he took a grip of himself ... and paused ... and the calm smile was back again.
“Hmm,” says he. “Nevertheless, Fletcher, you are wrong in one important respect. It is you who is the bastard. You were conceived in filth and dropped in a dung heap. It’s the truth, believe me. I’ve documents to prove it. You are no more than a dirty whoreson.”
That was it. I pulled back my fist to smash his loathsome face to pulp ... and then, thank God, I saw the delight in his eyes and I realised what he was at. I was a split second from an act of mutiny that would hang me far quicker than any legal process ashore. It was a trap. The witnesses on the quarterdeck would be his, not mine. My legs wobbled with the shock of it, it had been that close.
But I wasn’t so green as I had been and I took hold fast.
“Aye aye, sir!” says I, in a loud voice for all to hear. “Very grateful to you for that, sir,” and I turned round and left him before anything else could happen. Perhaps that surprised him, I don’t know, but he didn’t call after me and I simply went back to the lower deck and got into my hammock. And there I lay for hours trying to sleep. Strangely enough I felt safe there. Sammy’s hammock was on one side of me and Kate’s was on the other. And I was enough of a seaman for the constant sounds and movement of the ship to be comforting. Finally I fell asleep wondering what would happen on the morrow.
25
I write concerning the dreadful disaster which has befallen my employers Mr Richard Lucey and his son Mr Edward. Alas, I must tell you that Mr Richard is dead and Mr Edward’s life is in the hands of the doctors.
(Letter of 22nd July 1793 to Mr Nathan Pendennis at Polmouth from Mr A. Day, Chief Clerk to Lucey and Lucey of Lonborough.)
*
Late on Friday evening, 19th July, Victor Coignwood made his way along Market Street, a narrow, ancient street of half-timbered houses crammed one against the other. It was dark and nobody was about. He was heading for number thirty-nine, the offices of Lucey and Lucey. The Luceys lived at number thirty-seven, next door, and he didn’t want to be seen, so he was wrapped in a large cloak with a hat to match, and he came from the direction which avoided passing their house.
Victor was in a high state of excitement. His heart pounded with anticipation as he thought of what he was about to do. Even for Victor there were still some experiences yet to be sampled. And besides, he was happy. Things were going well. Pendennis and Edward Lucey had been dealt with, and since the return of Victor and his mother to Coignwood Hall (always regrettable when London beckoned, but necessary), they’d found a local lawyer who’d take their case.
The man was a clod, and could never win against the Luceys, b
ut after his fashion he was fighting the 1775 Will and seeking provenance for the earlier Will which named the Coignwoods as beneficiaries. At least this established the claim and kept Richard Lucey on his toes.
Meanwhile, the Coignwoods were informed of Lucey’s actions by the spy that Victor had inserted into his office. More accurately, Victor had made a spy of someone already at number thirty-nine. By one of life’s happy chances, a junior clerk in the Luceys’ office, one Andrew Potter, shared the same appetites as Victor. This had introduced Potter into a discreet circle of friends through whom the two had met. Seizing his chance, Victor had devoted special attention to Potter, to recruit him to the Coignwood cause. At first, Potter balked, but he saw reason when Victor explained what would happen to his employment should Mr Lucey learn of his recreational activities.
So now there was not a letter, document or memorandum that passed across Richard Lucey’s desk, that was not read by Lady Sarah and Victor (and Victor was at the peak of favour compared with the wretched Alexander who, to judge from his last letter, was still trying to get his knife in the right place). Victor smiled to himself. He’d never seen his mother laugh so much as when he’d showed her Pendennis’s letter to Richard Lucey, confessing to his seduction!
However, despite all these good things, the Clod would surely fail in competition with Richard Lucey, and Alexander might fail with the Brat. So Lady Sarah had decided to be done with peering into letters and waiting while others made the running. She had decided on direct action and given Victor his orders. At this, Victor had gone paper-white and tried to find alternatives. But he could never defy her for long. Also, the more she explained what he must do, the more fascinated he became with the thought of doing it. With these happy thoughts in his mind, Victor knocked gently on the door of number thirty-nine. He glanced at the Luceys’ house and all was quiet. Soon, through one of the windows of number thirty-nine, he could see a light approaching. There came a sliding of bolts and the door opened. Potter stood there with a candle. He was nervous.
“Mr Coignwood!” he said. “Come in, quickly!”
Victor stepped inside and Potter made haste to lock the door.
“Good evening, Andrew,” said Victor, and his heart thudded so hard that he felt the Luceys must hear it through the party wall.
“Quick, follow me!” said Potter, and led Victor through the outer office and into a small room at the back. He shut a door behind them and relaxed. He grinned, pleased with himself.
“There,” he said, “you are in, Mr Coignwood. And nobody can see us. We are quite safe.”
“Well done, Andrew,” said Victor. “And have you told the Luceys you’re here?”
“Yes, Mr Coignwood, just as you said. I told them I’m working late.” Potter laughed. “They think I’m no end of a diligent fellow! If only they knew ... ”
“Good,” said Victor. “And has anything changed? Have you any further news?” His mother had insisted he should ask that first.
“No, Mr Coignwood. Mr Edward still refuses to take part in the Fletcher work and he hasn’t told his father what happened in London, though I think the old man has guessed.” He smirked and lifted his eyebrows in an arch expression. “Well!” he said. “We all know your dear mother, don’t we?”
“Yes,” said Victor. He saw that his dear mother was right. Potter was already impertinent and might soon become dangerous.
“Now,” said Victor, with his most winning smile. “My dear Andrew, I have a surprise for you.”
“Have you?” said Potter.
“Oh indeed!” said Victor. “But first you must close your eyes.”
“Wait,” said Potter, “I’ll just put down the candle.”
“Yes,” said Victor, “now stand there, and put your hands to your sides.”
“Yes,” said Potter.
“Now, eyes tight shut, and lift your chin a little.”
“Ah,” said Potter, as something brushed gently against his throat, “it tickles.”
“Does it?” said Victor, and thrust upwards, driving a needlepoint, razor-edged blade through Potter’s larynx, through the roof of his mouth, and into his brain.
Potter fell backwards, with the steel embedded inside his skull. He pawed at it and his heels drummed the floor as he jerked from side to side and his breath whistled impotently through his mangled neck.
Victor watched with bulging eyes as Potter died. When it was over, Victor sniggered nervously, and when his hands stopped shaking, he took the weapon and jerked it free. He wiped it on Potter’s coat and slid the three feet of gleaming steel back into his walking stick.
For a few seconds Victor stood admiring his handiwork. He wished that his mother had been there to see it. Nobody could have done it better, not even Alexander. But he had work to do. It must look as if Potter had fallen asleep and caused the fire.
There were papers everywhere so it was easy to build a great pile of them on Potter’s body. He piled more to either side, making sure some were nicely crumpled to let the air in. Then he took a light from the candle and applied it in several places. He backed away as flame and smoke filled the room with amazing speed. He stayed a while to see what a man looked like as he burned, but soon it grew too hot and Victor knew it was time to leave. Already the light of the fire would be plainly visible to anyone on the other side of the street.
Victor sauntered to the front door. He drew the bolts and pulled at the handle. But the door wouldn’t move! A tinge of fright ran up his spine. Christ! There was a lock! Potter had locked it. Where was the key? Victor looked at the back room, and felt the heat of it. The furniture and fittings were well ablaze and the old dry timbers of the room were smoking. If Potter had the key then it was lost.
Victor tugged at the door again, then ran round the outer office throwing open desks and cupboards in a vain search for a key. He found one, a tiny thing intended for a cash-box, and in his panic he jammed it uselessly into the massive iron lock on the door.
“God damn!” he cried, and hurled the key away. He looked for another way out. He took a chair and smashed one of the windows, but the Luceys kept valuables on the premises and the windows were armed with inch-thick iron bars on the outside. Immediately there came a roar from the back room as the fire felt the draught of the opened window and the main timbers went up in flame. A shower of sparks burst forth, and one scorched the back of Victor’s hand. It broke his nerve, and he shrieked in fear of being burned alive. He hammered on the door and called for his mother. He screamed and screamed, and tried to break through the heavy oak planks with his fists.
Then, wonderfully, someone was turning the lock from outside and swinging the door inward. Two men stumbled in, right into Victor’s arms. It was the Luceys, come to investigate. For a few seconds the three glared at one another in hatred, and Victor knew he was found out. It would be impossible to say who was most shocked at their meeting.
But Victor recovered first. He drew his sword-stick and shoved it through Richard Lucey. Lucey groaned and grabbed at Victor.
“Father!” cried Edward and leapt forward, but the older man was hanging on to Victor and got in Edward’s way. Victor jerked out his blade and slashed at Edward’s eyes while shoving the old man off. Richard Lucey sank on his office doorstep as Victor steadied himself, and deliberately thrust at the blinded man before him. Edward Lucey fell beside his father as Victor slammed the door on them and ran for his life, leaving three victims to the fire.
26
On the morning of Saturday 13th July, dawn came just after five o’clock and found two boat-loads of us rowing through the Lance archipelago in the dim light. It was an uneasy experience, that brief pull through the islands, for it was more dark than light and we could see no more than a few boat-lengths ahead and the seas foamed and broke all around us on the grim black islands of the Lance. The narrow channel we were passing through could not have been more than twenty yards wide and the islands rose up sheer, like teeth. It was just like the fjords of N
orway only shorter and more broken and there was a deal of white water over glossy rocks that barely broke surface.
The rowlocks were muffled with rags to silence the clanking of the oars, but the regular splashing of the blades was thrown back by the echoing walls in an eerie, wet sound. Heaven only knows how Captain Bollington knew his way through, but he got himself up into the very bows of the launch which was leading, and gave his orders to the coxswain by hand signals. I have often wondered if he wasn’t simply taking a chance on distant memories and his own skill in conning us around the hazards as they came into view. We were not going fast enough for the boats to be stove in, should they come upon a hidden rock, but the swirls and eddies around some of the rocks looked capable of oversetting us should we fall into their grip, so there was danger enough in all truth and the whole party was silent with the thought of it.
But however Captain Bollington did it ... he did it, and soon we were sliding away from the Lance and into the anchorage. Into the Passage D’Aron. And one thing was sure. Nothing bigger than a ship’s boat had any chance of running through the Lance as we had done. The only way out for us with our prizes would be down the Passage to the open sea.
Once clear of rocks and islands, we could see the dim outlines of ships anchored all up and down the Passage. Excitement began to mount in the boats as, according to plan, we lay upon our oars to consider the next move. With the bows of the boats pointing across the Passage towards the shore, some three miles ahead, we sat silently in our bobbing craft as the light grew stronger and the officers conferred on what was the best to take, from that which was on offer. At least we were supposed to be quiet but there were whispers and nudges and the oarsmen edged round on their thwarts for a look over their shoulders at what was going on.
