A Victorian Gent (The Making of a Man Series, Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

  Another month and they had him.

  “Sergeant William Williams, no less, Mr Burke! Welsh by the name yet must have made his way to the north-country for he deserted from the Durham Light Infantry – which is in itself uncommon – not a regiment that expects to lose men in such a way. There must have been a very substantial incentive for the Sergeant to run. They were off to India, were sent to Bristol because of epidemic disease in London at the time – better to stay clear of the docks there.”

  “Was his name to be sent to the depot at Durham then action would still be taken, Mr Mayhew?”

  “Definitely, sir. Such a regiment is most unforgiving of those who, in their view, bring shame to them. There would be a detachment of implacable provosts knocking on the door of Burke’s within a very few days. I believe the Army when in pursuit of the deserter to be less hindered by Habeas Corpus and the need for writs or warrants of arrest, as well, sir.”

  “Excellent!”

  “I have the letter written, sir, to be sent to Durham. It awaits only your go ahead.”

  “Burn it, Mr Mayhew! Instantly!”

  Dick watched the sheet of paper curl up and blacken in the fireplace.

  “Why should I wish to jeopardise the future of so useful a gentleman as Sergeant Bill, Mr Mayhew? Please to make clandestine contact with him, and beg him to meet me, say in Poole, or better still Southampton, a little further down the line from his home area. At the end of next week, perhaps?”

  Sergeant Bill was not a happy man, was inclined in fact towards pugnacity; he was very unwilling to be blackmailed and was much in the mood to meet the extortionist and kill him and take his chances with what followed. Discovering Dick’s identity mollified him only very slightly.

  Dick had chosen to greet him as he left his carriage on the Up Platform of Southampton railway station, calculating that such a public place would limit any initial violence.

  “Would you care to accompany me to the Red Lion Hotel, Sergeant Bill? I have a private room there. We have much to say to each other, and very little of it for public consumption.”

  “I do not like threats, Mr Richard! Tell me why I should say anything to you.”

  “I had you blackmailed to bring you here, Sergeant Bill, thinking you might otherwise refuse. Listen to all I have to say and then make your mind up. Get back on a train now and your name goes to Durham. Talk to me and nothing will be said whatever decisions you come to. That is all I demand – talk!”

  All he knew of Dick said that he would not lie, that would be out of character. He stayed silent in the cab, following Dick into a back room at the hotel and refusing refreshments.

  “I have been in America, Sergeant Bill. I became an officer in the Northern Army, and my name has been mentioned in English newspapers, as a major, promoted in the field following Bull Run.”

  Sergeant Bill did not read the newspapers, but that statement would be easy to check, especially as he knew that Sir Godby took a morning paper and might have noticed the coincidence of names.

  “I made another minor reputation before that, I would add. I also turned some two thousand pounds into ten, and have doubled it again since returning to England a few months ago, sending goods to the States. I shall make much more money now that I have discovered how. I need my freedom, Sergeant Bill, from that whore my father wed me to. You know that divorce is impossible.”

  “Murder? A shot from ambush?”

  “I could do that. I have learned many things since my father chose to make a man of me. But I cannot arrange the accident that I would prefer – I could not spend weeks unknown in the area to familiarise myself with her habits and create a likely mishap.”

  “What of her children? They are not yours, after all.”

  “No! Some other means of disinheritance must exist short of infanticide. I am not King Herod.”

  “Had you been I would have told you to go to hell, Mr Richard. Do you wish your father to be made aware of your existence?”

  “Why?”

  “He might be proud to hear of your military glory.”

  “All the more reason to keep quiet. I would give him nothing!”

  Sergeant Bill stood and took his leave.

  “We have nothing more to say, I believe, Mr Richard, except that I think you are too harsh in your judgement of Sir Godby. As regards the matter of your legal wife, sir, then I shall give consideration to the matter. You wish to be wed again, I presume?”

  Dick nodded.

  “You may well be free to do so in the near future, sir.”

  Sergeant Bill made his way back to the station, thence to Poole and the branch line to Blandford, reaching Burke’s inside three hours and musing that only fifteen years before the journey would have taken two full days. The world was changing, sometimes for the better.

  He had made no promises to Mr Richard, and his loyalty laid with the father, not the son. He went straight to the study.

  “I have been in Southampton today, Sir Godby.”

  He had said nothing other than that he needed the day to himself.

  “I met Mr Richard there. I did not know until I reached the station that he was to be the gentleman I had been invited, strongly, to speak to.”

  “Begging?”

  “No. He has made money, in America and in some sort of business in England – selling guns and munitions of war to the Union, I believe.”

  “Well done, the boy! I did not believe he had it in him.”

  “I always thought him stronger than you would ever allow for, sir. Do you remember the newspaper reports of the battle at Bull Run, sir?”

  “No. I doubt I ever more than glanced at them. Not interested in bloody fools shooting each other! I could find them out – tell that damned leech of a lawyer that I wanted them and he would dig ‘em up. Why?”

  “Mr Richard informed me that he was promoted major in the field for his service there, sir.”

  “Was he, by God!”

  There was silence for a minute or two, broken tentatively by Sir Godby.

  “Does he intend to come back? Was he attempting to, what do they say, ‘break the ice’?”

  “No. I think he wanted no more than to discover the truth about his lady wife.”

  “Mad, drunken bitch! She’ll be dead within ten years, I doubt not.”

  Sergeant Bill said nothing, made no query of the time scale suggested.

  The demand for silks in the North was surprisingly high, and the prices had rocketed. Merchant shipping out of American ports had been massively disrupted by the war. Only a very few ships had been lost to the Confederate privateers in the first few months, but the insurance companies had panicked and had pulled out of the market, forcing the bulk of American ships to stay in port. Since then the Confederacy had managed to obtain commerce raiders and sail them from foreign ports and massively reduce all trade to the Union ports on the Atlantic Seaboard. Neutral ships, primarily under the British flag, the Red Duster, were much less affected – the Confederacy dared not offend London – and cargoes could be sent to Canadian ports and thence south by rail with almost complete safety; the cost was far higher, however and military goods predominated.

  Miss Parsons was able to buy cargo space by dint of chartering a ship put newly under British papers and currently docked in New York. She sent her new vessel empty to Halifax in Canada, crawling through the coastal waters in safety. In Halifax there was a cargo of wheat in sacks, available cheaply because of the current shortage of bottoms in the Atlantic trade. A swift passage to Liverpool, a British ship with a cargo of Canadian grain having nothing to fear, and there was a profit in itself; she loaded nearly a thousand tons of blue woollen uniform and far brighter silks in the Mersey and then set out again, the British mercantile flag very prominently displayed.

  The ship was stopped on the high seas, a day or so off Newfoundland, a Union cruiser checking that she was not a raider in disguise, as was legitimate under maritime law.

  The boarding offi
cer was very polite, apologetic to a bone fide British merchant master – he dared not be anything else, there would be a court-martial for any officer who offended the English and caused them to offer comfort to the South. He told the master that the waters off New York were certainly safe – known raiders were all in the southern Atlantic.

  The ship’s master, on a profit share, took a risk and made for New York, landing the cargo three weeks before its time, much to the pleasure of Miss Parsons.

  The sale of the uniform cloth to the army predisposed the Union authorities in her favour, and the disposal of a mass of silks proceeded without question, or interference from the Customs people.

  She wondered whether she should remain in Washington. She had hired a one-legged veteran of the recent campaign, a young lawyer who had sought adventure and found too much, an intelligent youth who had become much older in a very short while. Mr Robbins had become a very efficient deputy, and attracted favourable attention from any military purchasing officer; he could deal with the business in the capital, and was probably trustworthy. She needed another deputy to travel between the ports to talk to the officials, something that she, as a woman, could not do – they would never listen to her or take her bribes. The most useful thing she could do, other than remain in the background as the overseer and director, was to purchase in England.

  Mr Burke had shown an eye for profit, but he did not necessarily know exactly what would or would not sell in America. She could buy more effectively than him, or so she told herself.

  She did not fancy crossing the Atlantic in winter. A safe passage out of a Canadian port would take her ship far too close to the iceberg waters off Greenland and Iceland – she would travel in late spring. May, she thought, would be a very sensible time, and besides would give her the opportunity to tidy everything up in the States.

  A week or two in Missouri; a few days in Baltimore; a sojourn in New York, then a final hand over in Washington – all would make it easier for her to spend a time in Liverpool and London. Just how long she might be away for, she could not estimate – that was not entirely in her hands, and Mr Burke’s letters had been a little ambiguous. He seemed to say that he would like to see her, but not perhaps just yet.

  Well… time would tell… She liked Mr Burke, more than that, quite possibly, but if he thought she could be kept dangling on a string… She was no closeted little miss to say ‘Yes, sir. No, sir. Thank’ee kindly, sir!’

  End of Book One

  Here’s a short excerpt from the start of Book Two, Dire Shenanigans. The book continues the story of Dick and Elizabeth’s triumphs and failures with the tragedy and intrigues of the Civil War never far away, as they seek business opportunities in America and England.

  Better off Dead

  Mr William Williams, commonly known as Sergeant Bill, had devoted much thought to his present task, his latest service to the Burke family. The 'removal' of Mr Richard's deplorable wife - he refused to consider the exercise to be murder, at most it was an act of kindness, a mercy killing - was not to be simply achieved, he had found.

  Although he was quite sure in his own mind that the poor, demented woman would be better off dead, released from the devils that drove her, he was aware that policemen and judges would probably not agree with him. Indeed, they would hang him, and possibly Mr Richard as well, being the benefitting husband, if he was to botch the job. The serendipitous death - a mishap that would cause joy to all, except the lady herself perhaps - must be seen as an accident, ideally occurring in such scandalous circumstances that the authorities would wish to hush it up.

  She had to die; she had to do so sufficiently publicly that there could be no whispers among the County that she had been put away into a convenient madhouse; she had to go so disgracefully that the coroner would be embarrassed and the police would chortle as they drew a veil over the whole business.

  He considered burning her house down at night, but arson was a chancy business. There was no guarantee that her corpse would be discovered in bed with several of her manservants. There was no certainty that she would die even; she was an athletic lady and might well escape.

  He set himself to discovering her daily routine, sure that some opportunity would arise.

  A week and he had discovered that she visited her baby on most mornings. She did not feed the child herself, of course, very few of the gentry lowered themselves to that particular activity; the little girl was out to a wet-nurse and living with her for convenience. In a very large house the wet-nurse would move in, but where that was impractical and the woman lived in acceptable conditions she would take the baby for the first year or so until it was weaned.

  Mrs Burke had found the wife of a small farmer as her feed-cow, the woman's own baby dead at the most useful time, leaving her with milk in plenty for the purpose. A small fee and the business was conducted to the convenience of both. Her house was adequate and Mrs Burke was willing to step inside it to visit the child, for which she had conceived a vague maternal affection. Her son was now fostered out, the family having believed that he would grow up better without her influence, and she was quite pleased to have a little - but not too much - contact with her daughter.

  It was her habit to take a walk through the farmer's fields after leaving her baby, just a wander through the countryside that commonly brought her to the place where the hands were working, laying a hedge or ditch-digging at this season. When it was not raining and the bracken fronds were dry and comfortable she would entertain one or two for a few minutes before making her way back through the woods to her own house. She would generally pause by the small stream that ran through the coppice to freshen herself and tidy up before going indoors where the servants would notice her dishevelment and might be smitten by jealousy.

  The coppice was located on poor, stony ground, which was why it was not down to the plough. The stream had cut a tiny dingle, four or five feet deep, too small to be called a valley but providing sufficient concealment for her purpose.

  And more importantly, sufficient concealment for Sergeant Bill’s darker purpose…

  Universal Kindle link: http://viewbook.at/Shenanigans

  Thank you for reading A Victorian Gent. For any author, gaining exposure relies on readers spreading the word, so if you have the time and inclination, please consider leaving a short online review wherever you can.

  Regards, Andrew

  Kindle review link: http://getbook.at/Victorian

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