Ram; being the tale of one Ramillies Anstruther, 1704-55 ..

by Taylor, Winchcombe

  His overpent passion burst and clashed with hers as, gurgling in her throat, she tore off his turban and silk jacket. Ferally she clawed, groaning in her urgency, until he had mastered her and they lay spent and gasping.

  Later, as he opened a drowsy eye to glance across at her, he began to laugh softly, then wildly. She awakened and for an instant regarded him blankly. "Oh, my love!" she breathed. "What ails ye?"

  "Look at you!" he pointed. "Piebald!"

  She picked up a mirror, then laughed in turn. Her chest, arms and face were painted a dead white to be in keeping with her role of Queen Bess, but the rest of her was her natural pale-lemon tint.

  "And you," she countered. "Ye're part Maratha—but not where it counts!"

  "Two piebalds!" he choked helplessly and reached for her again.

  They were reawakened by a knocking. "Martha's come." Sleepily she reached for clothing. "If she so much as raises a brow, I'll scratch her eyes out!"

  But it was Young Joe, bringing Ram's clothes. "The Captain may not wish to wear his Hindustan costume by day. The coach waits on his pleasure."

  Watching from behind the bedchamber door. Ram was both embarrassed and pleased. A sharp lad. Young Joe. He was as deferential as to a queen on her throne; yet Annie stood there, hair awry, bare to the waist and the ancient farthingale billowing out from her like a ship under full sail.

  He didn't love her and was sure she loved only herself; but with memories of the past and the excitement of the present, each filled the other's need. He was amused at how, under Isabella's tutelage, she dropped her Scots accent; how she basked in the compliments

  of Lord Such and Sir Thomas So and drew envy from the Countess of This and Lady That for the gems, silks and rarities she'd brought home. And Harry and Isabella had undertaken all the tedious details of leasing and furnishing a house for her—filling their pockets in the process, as they had when helping himself with his house.

  Though now mistress of a fine establishment in Red Lion Square, Annie kept her Covent Garden lodgings. For Ram couldn't visit her home late and leave early when she had a staff of servants and was, as she told everyone, expecting her "dear husband to arrive from building his great mansion in Wales."

  As for Ram's own prospects, Wade was still encouraging—and still a big winner at play. There was possibility the King would wink at the heirs' sale of Napier's Horse Regiment, so long as it was done without its being known in either the English or Irish Parliaments.

  So Ram was as happy as he'd been since Chanda. Even memory of her no longer pained. Sometimes he remembered the Irishman and his vow to seek him out. But first he must get his regiment, he told himself; that above all. Later he would take up the quest.

  One night, he was returning from Covent Garden and thinking of what Annie had told him: that just before her sailing, Raja Bajaji Rao had entered into a treaty with the John Company. The wily old rascal, he'd done at last what he himself had advised so often. As a Company ally, Baja would make new conquests. Ram wondered who was leading his old troops now.

  "Chilly night. Captain." Peg-Leg Parker stumped forward to pay the chairman and to open the front door. " 'Minds me o' winter quarters in the Low Countries, back in '03."

  "A trifle before my time, Tom," Ram chuckled, entering.

  Joseph took his hat and cloak. "The gentlemen are at play, sir. They're rare hands with the Oporto tonight. Young Joe's taken in five bottle already."

  Ram frowned; not that he minded the wine, but he needed sleep. "Send in more." He went to the gaming room.

  As he entered, a slurred voice was complaining: "Curse me, but foul luck's dogged me these three months. Damn your eyes, here goes the east meadow. See if ye can beat that!" It was Roger Sparrow, eyes red, wig awry, drool on his chin.

  Courtnaye, as banker, dealt his cards. Harry sat on the right with

  a Major Holton beyond him and callow Lord Deane next to Sparrow. All had their coats off and their waistcoats unbuttoned.

  "Come and raise our spirits, Nabob/' Tapley invited. " Ton honor, we're most demnably dull."

  "Pox take London weather!" Ram shivered, sitting. "You must all have blood like butter to stand it." He leaned to accept cards, then checked, realizing he hadn't removed his sword. Unbuckling it, he tossed it onto a settee. He glanced around. Courtnaye had gold and paper before him; Holton seemed to be winning, as was Harry; the peer was scrawling an I.O.U. The squire had neither money nor paper.

  Young Joe brought more wine and all drank. Spanow emptied his glass and held it out for replenishment.

  "Play!" he mumbled. "Me lud, trouble ye for quill and paper . . . or Gen'man said house worth fi' thousand. I stake it. No good without meadow or north pasture. Aye, house—fi' thousand."

  Ram was tempted to intervene. It was bad to see the lad staking his house. Yet, if he won! He saw Courtnaye's cold eyes watching the bumpkin scrawl his signature.

  "Five thousand," the captain said quietly. "I accept." He glanced around the table, but all the rest refused cards. It was to be between the gambler and his gull. In dead silence each tumed a card.

  Courtnaye won.

  "Cheat!" Sparrow leaned across to catch the winner's wrist. "Pox ye, I saw ye palm it!"

  "Faugh!" Courtnaye flung off his grip. "You're drunk, fool!"

  "Fool? Aye, thrice damned for letting ye cheat me of nigh twenty thousand! Ye whoreson, think I don't know ye cuckolded me lady's late lord—you and that bastard baronet?" Sparrow laughed horribly, swaying. "Gulled by a whore and her pimps! You, Nabob, they rob vou too—and you, me lud! I'll cry their names over the town. Cheats! 'Pimps! I'll—"

  But already Courtnaye had kicked back his chair, leaped for Ram's sword and drawn it. Before the rest could stir, he sprang at the screeching man. There was a gurgling scream and the snap of metal as the weapon shattered upon a waistcoat's silver button. But the point had pierced Sparrow's chest, leaving some inches of steel projecting.

  The victim stared down at it with horror-widening eyes, then

  clawed to pull it out, while Courtnaye crouched before him, clutching the useless hilt.

  Incredibly, Sparrow pulled out the blade and, using it as a dagger, stabbed futilely at his assassin. But blood gushed and he staggered, fell, gave a long shudder and become still.

  All were frozen in position: Courtnaye staring down at the bodv, the peer, Harry and the major leaning with their hands on the table to Courtnaye's right, and Ram on his left.

  "Great God, ye've killed him!" Lord Deane broke the silence.

  Murdered him you mean! Ram thought savagely, staring at the captain. He looked more closely. Bright blood was spurting from the left of Courtnaye's neck. Sparrow's stab must have nicked him, after all. Yet he seemed unaware of it and held his pose, watching the lad he'd ruined and killed. Then irritably, as if brushing off a fly, he slapped his neck. Lowering his hand, he saw it bloody. Scowling, he felt again and became aware of the spurting.

  "I—I'm hurt!" he gasped. He swajed, tripped over the body and went down. "Help! I die!" he choked, both hands now at his jugular to hold in his life's blood.

  Tapley came around the table, but Ram was quicker. "No!" And when, after a gurgling plea from the floor, Tapley tried to dodge him: "Move, and ye answer to me. Sir Henry."

  Swearing, Holton rounded the table in turn. "You can't let him bleed to death!"

  Ram caught his arm and swung him back. "Major, ring that bell. The watch must be called."

  "But, but—!" Holton gaped, but went to the bell rope.

  Ecod, Ram thought, the poor little sparrow's slain the hawk!

  CHAPTER 12 NEWGATE,

  1730-31

  The double tragedy at "Nabob" Anstruther's house brought its owner dubious fame, though the peer and the major remained silent as to. how Ram had refused to let them help the dying cheat. Tapley obtained leave and left London hurriedly. And if there was wonder why Lady Martham had closed her house in midseason and was said to be traveling abroad, how could the town k
now of the frantic accusation of a man the instant before he was murdered?

  Annie missed her mentor, but Isabella's main work had been done, and already wealthy Mrs. Morgan's drawing room was crowded.

  Ram was glad to be rid of the leeches. They'd served their turn, though they'd bled him heavily. Now he paid closer court to Wade, still losing enough to keep his favor. Yes, His Majesty considered "bestowing" Napier's on Captain Anstruther who would, of course, compensate the heirs and also—well, even a king can use gold.

  One day at the general's. Ram was taking wine from a footman when his arm was gripped roughly.

  "So, ye think the Company's forgot ye!" It was Rale, his eyes savage, his face a mass of blue veins and his nose bulbous.

  Ram shook him off. " 'Pon honor, Major, your manners haven't improved since we met," he drawled. "Let me see. Ah, yes, you were running demnably fast with two Marathas after you when I came up and called 'em off. You gave me no thanks for saving your life."

  "Ye whoreson, I've laid traitor charges that'll hang ye!"

  Already men were listening. Ram knew that this must be a test. If he let this fool bully him, his ruin was sure.

  "I'm no traitor," he said coldly. "First I served the Austrians, then a native leader. As for the Panmali affair, I told you then, had I known H.E.I.C. troops were there, I'd never have attacked, though it meant disobeying Raja Bajaji. I hear he's now a loyal Company ally."

  "Ye suborned Company servants!" Rale accused. But then he blundered; instead of bringing up Fred Morgan and McNeill, he spoke of Jakes.

  "A ship's deserter!" Ram scoffed. "Bajaji engaged him without my knowledge or consent. I had the pleasure of killing him myself."

  "Damn you, I'll crush ye!"

  "You wear a sword. If one of my friends may call upon you . . . ?"

  Rale changed color. "I—I don't fight with traitors!"

  "Damme, I'll have no gamecocking here!" It was Wade. "I order you to let this matter rest."

  "Sir, the gentleman makes accusations," Ram explained. "We've met before, in India. The last time somewhat embarrassed him. What I did then was in the way of duty. I've an urge to travel to France, beyond English dueling restrictions. Should he care to join me, I'm sure we can reach a conclusion." He turned to Rale. "You agree, sir?"

  The major glanced around and took small comfort from the onlookers' expressions. " 'Tis illegal to duel. The Company will settle this."

  "Plague take my liver, a coward!" a half-pay captain growled. "In my old regiment we'd ha' drummed him out."

  "Indoostan soldiers!" another veteran shrugged. "Fat living and little fighting softens their guts."

  "Captain Anstruther, a glass of wine with ye," Wade invited. "Right or wrong, I'd not be in his shoes. Damme, my doors are closed to him. Outfaced by a lad half his age! Gentlemen, suppose we resume our game?"

  But when next Ram visited the general, his greeting was frigid. Puzzled, he lingered until all others had gone for word with his host, who said at once: "Sir, His Majesty decided late Napier's can't be disposed of." He paced the room. "Certain advisers, closer to his ear than I, have been at him. And I hear at Court a gentleman lately back from Hindustan is becoming known unfavorably about the town. Two men died in his house, and 'tis said he even provided the

  fatal sword. So, 'tis my duty to request you no longer call upon me."

  It was numbing. The Company! Curse its fat, money-mad directors, sitting on their arses here in London, influencing the King himself.

  He returned home in a ferment. His mood was not improved when Joseph handed him a note from Annie: "Fred is come. Call on us. But he is not your friend."

  He did call and was shocked. Drink and heavy food had taken their toll of Fred. Like Rale, he'd grown gross and now was half drunk. Annie, standing behind him, looked at Ram imploringly.

  "Glad t'see ye again, man," Fred grudged. "Wales is dreadful cold and small building can I do now. Well, I must needs thank ye for finding my wife friends. Do ye thirst? I'm parched. Come, drink."

  "Tell me about the mansion," Ram invited. "You'll have it built by spring?"

  Fred's bloodshot eyes lighted. "Aye. I'll be a squire, with none daring to sneer at the poor attorney's son."

  Annie's grimace was revealing. Did the poor fool think to cage a bird of her plumage in bleak Welsh hills? "You'll find the town quite diverting, Fred," he said. "Annie's most sought after."

  "I want no popinjays spending my money! A few boon friends and a bottle's all I want till I'm back to building. Drink up."

  For the next month Ram was twisted by indecision, his only course apparently to return to Dalesview. Will had written that lead veins had been found nearby, that a fortune waited if they could be mined. If Ram would outlay a thousand or so, ground could be leased, miners hired, pit props cut and roads made to bring out the ore. Cattle and horse sales were poor. Yes, Ram thought, I'd better become a miner.

  Meanwhile, though Wade's house was barred to him, other houses were not, and people flocked to his own. He gamed more recklessly. Sometimes he won—once 1200 guineas—but more often he lost.

  Then one evening Young Joe brought him a note in a familiar hand. "Fred's gone back to Wales," it said. "Come late here. Urgent."

  He had not seen either of them for weeks. This was no assignation or she'd have named Covent Garden. She probably needed aid. Outside, the fog had closed in. He'd take a chair and not keep Williams and Young Joe freezing in the coach.

  He rang for Joseph. "Have Parker call a chair. I'll be back late."

  He buckled on his sword. Since his dress one had shattered on poor Sparrow's button, he had worn one of the finest steel. And tonight there could be footpads. Soon he was carried eastward along Piccadilly by two Irish chairmen. He shivered as the fog caught his throat. He'd rather go through three monsoons than this.

  It grew so thick his bearers halted and raised the lid to ask if he'd engage a linkboy. He agreed and at once a torch arrived alongside, showing a cherubic face. He smiled, aware it was a ramp, that the lad had been following and was probably the son of one of the men.

  Deciding that, with Fred gone, he'd best not be seen entering Annie's house so late, he halted the chair in the short street leading from High Holbom into Red Lion Square. The amount he gave brought chorused thanks. "God be wi' ye, sorr!" the boy's treble came after him as he turned eastward. Only the faint yellow glow of an occasional doorway lantern pierced the pall. He turned north. The house stood where Princeton Street gave onto the square.

  Mounting the steps, he rapped with his cane.

  "That's him!" There followed the rush of feet.

  Nerves tightening, he made out figures crowding behind him. He rapped once more. Dropping his cane, he drew his sword. There came a drag on his cloak as a blade ripped through it.

  This was no time for heroics. "Help! Let me in!" He lunged at dim moving shapes.

  "At 'im!" he heard, followed by a yelp as his point found flesh. But he felt a stab of pain as steel lanced his right thigh.

  "Pox ye!" He shortened his sword. This time his thrust brought a scream. The falling body almost jerked the weapon from his grip. In trying to free it, he had to descend the steps. Another jerk and he had it out. Then a smash on his head brought him to the ground.

  "Finish 'im!" A voice came through his dizziness.

  "The watch! Corblimey, let's 'op it!"

  Pounding feet; some fleeing, others approaching. He pulled himself up by clinging to the steps' railing. He began to vomit.

  "Wot's all this?" A lantern was thrust in his face. "Gord, 'ere's one all bloody." Another voice chimed in, " 'Ere's a dead 'un. Dead as an 'erring."

  "Murder, hey?" the first speaker grunted. "Disarm the rogue." Ram's sword was wrenched from him.

  "Knock door . . . Mrs. Morgan—!" God, he felt sick.

  "A night in the round'ouse won't do 'im a bit of 'arm, so lug 'im along, Tom, you and Will bring the deceased too."

  Too dazed to resist, Ram was hal
f dragged, half carried for what seemed hours, until his captors hauled him up wooden steps and rapped on a great oaken door. It opened, revealing dim light within and letting fetid air gush out.

  " 'Ere's one. Constable," the watch leader said. "Caught red-'anded, wiv 'is victim a bleeding corpse at 'is feet. Likely 'e's a dangerous rogue wiv a price on 'is 'ead."

  "This way," a new voice ordered. "Let's have a look at him."

  He was dragged into an anteroom, assorted staves, brownbills, muskets, handcuffs and greatcoats hanging from its walls. His right thigh ached damnably.

  "Who are ye? Speak."

  "I'm Captain Anstruther. I was waylaid outside Mrs, Morgan's house in Red Lion Square. Send someone there and another to my house in St. James's Square. But first a surgeon, I'm hurt."

  "You're Capting Anstruther? Maybe. Who's the dead 'un?"

  Ram shook his head. The room was spinning. "Surgeon . . . Pay well."

  "In good time, but manacled first ye'll be. A man's dead and your sword's bloody. The Justice'll charge ye right and proper in the morning," The handcuffs locked and he was thrust through a doorway into a segment of the huge circular building. An iron band was snapped around his waist and its chain attached to the stone wall. Foul straw was toed toward him; then his captors left.

  He sank onto the straw. When he tugged off his hat, blood trickled down his cheek. He felt his leg gingerly. The wound was through the great muscle on the outer side, level with his groin. Rents in his breeches proved the thrust had passed clean through. It still bled, but he was sure it wasn't dangerous.

  Annie! Why hadn't her door opened? His head was clearing and he remembered that voice rasping: "That's him!" He'd been expected, recognized. By whom? Could Fred, suspecting his liaison with

  Annie, have forged the note, as he'd forged the chit in Bankipur, to draw him into a trap? But, no, it was certainly in Annie's hand.

  Chains rattled on his left. "Wot cheer, cully? Wot they nabbed yer for?" A dirt-streaked face stared down at him. The smell of its owner gagged him, but the voice held sympathy. "Gord, they didn't 'arf give yer a wallop. Ahw'd yer feel?"