The Dying Trade
DAVID DONACHIE
To Tom
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
POSTSCRIPT
About the Author
Copyright
PROLOGUE
DRUNK HE MIGHT BE, but William Broadbridge knew he was in the wrong part of the port. The only light he could see was the thin strip of pale night sky directly above his head. The moon hadn’t risen sufficiently to penetrate this dank and stinking carruga, an alley so narrow that two men would struggle to pass each other. That very lack of width allowed him to support himself while he tried to make sense of where he was and what was going on. He peered into the darkness trying to identify the source of the scuffling noises, hearing a quiet, oddly familiar, yet seemingly disembodied laugh as he staggered forward. It must be imagination, for there was no one to be seen. It was the creaking sound of the straining rope, followed by a strangled gasp, that made him look up. The feet were kicking violently, but they were not aimed at him. The crack on the head from one polished toe was not, in itself, enough to cause him to collapse. But it combined with the effect of drink and the mere act of looking up. He fell heavily against the stone wall and slid down into an untidy heap.
He was not out for long. Enough time for the moon to traverse far enough in the sky to send a shaft of silver light down one dirt-streaked wall. That light, and the fluid dripping onto his tricorn hat, sped his waking. Broadbridge sniffed loudly, aware, even in such a noxious port as Genoa, of the overpowering smell of human waste. He looked up, ill-advisedly, since another drop of urine parted from the polished toe, this time missing his hat and landing square in his eye. His angry shout reverberated off the walls of the alleyway as he struggled to his feet. He looked up again, this time with more caution. The body, closer now and fully lit, wore the full-dress uniform of a British naval officer, a senior captain judging by the twin epaulettes. It swung gently in the slight breeze, turning this way and that as though it could not settle. The eyes seemed to start from their sockets and the tongue, clasped between his clenched teeth, had been bitten through in death’s agony, adding blood to the mixture of fluids staining the hard-packed earth below. The man was dead, and in his death he had voided himself, as all men do.
Broadbridge turned to get away, kicking the gold-braided hat as he did so. In one swift movement he picked it up and ran unsteadily towards the well-lit quayside, trying desperately to quell the pending upheaval in his stomach. Vaguely he registered his proximity to the looming bulk of the Customs Fort, with the added tinge of unease caused by the thought that he shouldn’t be anywhere near the place. He managed to get his head over the low harbour wall before he was sick, retching noisily, ignored by the guards standing duty under the torches which lit up the fortress gates.
Eventually he pulled himself upright, wiping his sleeve across his mouth, cursing the burning sensation in his throat. He looked at the hat, still in his hand, fingering the gold that covered its edge. Then he turned it over, and peering inside he saw Howlett clearly marked on the nametape sewn inside. With a swift movement he flung it out into the harbour. William Broadbridge wanted nothing to do with the navy, nothing to do with murder, and nothing whatever to do with a man called Howlett.
That damned Customs Fort. He knew now that he’d turned the wrong way on leaving Ma Thomas’s tavern. Not that he’d wanted to leave. William Broadbridge would much rather have stayed in that overheated, smoke-filled place, with a full pot of ale to drink, a wench on his lap, and a winning bet on the fight that would be taking place in the pit at the far end of the room. But it was not to be. His tankard would stay as empty as the pockets of his blue broadcloth coat. Silently he cursed under his breath, damning God, the devil, and his fellow men, and wondering where in the world his next penny would come from.
The quayside became busier and brighter as he made his way north, away from the Customs Fort towards the area near the centre of the bay called the Madelena, with its teeming bawdy houses and taverns. He wiped his brow to remove the sweat caused by the warm night air and tried to adjust his eyes so that each image passing before him was singular, instead of the double he was seeing now. And he roundly cursed the citizens of Genoa, as though his poverty and his inability to focus could be laid entirely at their door.
That was the theme which dominated his thoughts as he staggered along. This cursed place, bankers to half the known world, bursting at the seams with gold, none of which he could get his hands on. A city state, a thriving port, and a so-called republic that was really just a swindle perpetrated by the rich upon the poor. The waterside tenements, rising up from the narrow alleyways into the sky till they nearly met at the top, crowded together with the warehouses, left little room for traffic of any sort. Yet beside a building teeming with ragged, hungry, and filthy inhabitants, amid the stink of crowded and deprived humanity, you could find an intricately carved doorway that would lead to a secret and spacious palazzo. Behind the buildings that bounded the port the new palaces of the rich, built cheek by jowl in glaring display, vied in size with the numerous churches and cathedrals of an earlier age.
Men spoke of revolution, of emulating their French cousins and setting up the guillotine before the cathedral in the Piazza San Domenico, so that the aristocrats and bankers who controlled their miserable lives could be brought to justice. Yet the advent of Jacobinism merely added another strain of conflict to a city at perpetual war with itself. Men fought ancient feuds, with Guelphs and Ghibellines still ready to carry their loyalty for Pope or Emperor to open conflict, even if the true cause was lost in the mists of time. Freemasonry flourished despite the efforts of friars and Jesuits to stamp it out. Business rivalries overlaid all this, with families pitted against each other in a bewildering series of shifting alliances. Few wealthy men ventured out into the streets without an armed escort to protect their person, and they took care to build their houses and palazzos with barred windows on the lower floors that made a surprise attack impossible.
Broadbridge, still cursing the city and his luck, bundled people aside. He was in the Soparipa now, the arcade that ran under the sea wall, each arch a stall or shop with the vendors loudly crying out to shift their wares. The smell of exotic spices filled his nostrils, which did nothing to assuage his raging thirst. The hungry, adults and children alike, wandered about or sat listless where they could. Some, with more food inside them, sought to beg from him. Perhaps they would seek to rob him. The Englishman laughed at the thought of some dip stealing his purse. They were welcome to it, for its only value lay in the leather it was made of.
Little of the great wealth of Genoa permeated down to these wretches, who stood to gain something from any revolutionary upheaval. He swore at them in turn, for as a true-born English
man he’d have no truck with turmoil unless, of course, it smacked of profit. Broadbridge sucked in a great breath of air as he emerged onto the quayside again, though to call it fresh would leave out mention of the stench of the port. He swayed through the crowds which parted uncertainly to avoid him, and fixed his bleary eyes on the entrance to Ma Thomas’s place. Dry-mouthed and with a still-burning throat, he debated returning to his ship. But the problems there were, if anything, worse than those he faced here. The tavern was full of people. Folk with money to spend. Perhaps, at this late hour, one of them would be far enough gone, or so flush with a successful wager, that they would stand him a drink. And you could never be sure that there wasn’t a soul inside just dying to invest in William Broadbridge. After all, he’d been lucky once. Perhaps he could manage the same good fortune twice. Volubly he reassured himself that for William Broadbridge something would turn up. Something always did!
CHAPTER ONE
IT HAD BEEN a mistake for the Ludlow brothers to attend the ball given in honour of Admiral Hood. Yet what excuse could they give to such a close family friend? You could not say they were being ignored, since all the proper forms were fully observed, and the officers of the newly arrived fleet, unaware of what was about to take place, were agog to hear about the action they had just participated in, a battle in which the Magnanime of seventy-four guns had engaged two Frenchmen of equal strength, though they studiously avoided any allusion to the other events which had resulted in a number of dead bodies aboard the ship.
But those based here were giving them a wide berth, lest by association they would be thought to be taking sides. Gibraltar was, in all respects, a garrison town. The governor was an army officer. Those posts in the administration not filled by officers of the army or the navy were filled by civilians who depended on the military for their very existence, and aware of the quarrel and its possible outcome the civilians were taking their cue from those in uniform.
The admiral had stopped by and had a word, and for a brief moment they were at the centre of a busy throng. But the guest of honour could not be expected to expend his time on them, and Hood had passed on, circulating round the room in the company of the governor, exchanging a word with everyone in turn. A number of ladies glanced in their direction, for the Ludlows were a handsome pair. But with strict orders from their husbands or fathers, none dared approach within ten feet.
James turned to his brother, having listened to him explain the recent action for the twentieth time. ‘I think we could decently leave, don’t you?’
Harry took a glass of punch from a passing servant, ‘Let’s wait till the admiral leaves. It won’t be long. He’s not overfond of this sort of gathering.’
James frowned slightly. ‘Do you think he knows?’
‘I doubt it. If he did, he would likely forbid it,’ said Harry.
‘He surely cannot forbid you.’
‘Duelling is illegal. Especially for serving officers. He could most certainly stop Clere.’
‘I should think there are any number of people in this very room who could stop Clere.’
James had raised his voice so that a fair number of the people close by could hear him, including a knot of officers standing in a group by one of the tall windows. Some of them turned sharply at the sound of his words, flushed with embarrassment or anger.
Harry knew that James was indulging in a touch of family loyalty. He’d spent the last two days trying to persuade Harry that he was being foolish. Indeed, that his opponent wasn’t worth the effort. But Harry took what James had done at face value, adding a small laugh. ‘Hush, James. We can’t fight them all.’
Hood, at the other end of the room by the double doors, was just taking his leave. Seeing the admiral finally depart, a lieutenant detached himself from the group by the window and walked towards them.
‘Mr Ludlow,’ he said, stopping in front of them and addressing James. ‘My principal wishes me to inform you that an apology is still possible.’
James just shook his head. He didn’t even bother to ask Harry. Despair he might, but he knew his brother too well for that.
‘Then I must inform you that Captain Clere has chosen swords for the encounter.’
‘Thank you, Lieutenant,’ said James stiffly. ‘We shall see you at dawn.’
The man turned on his heel and walked away. With a sudden show of anger, Harry flung the contents of his glass down his throat and stalked out of the room, followed by his brother.
At dawn, the top of the Rock was a beautiful place to be. The sun would rise in the east, clear across a thousand miles of sea, catching the tip of the mountain and bathing it in light, while the town below remained in darkness. Indeed, they had walked up in darkness and in silence, for all that had to be said had been tried. Harry could have declined this encounter with no real loss of honour, for Captain Clere, who had engineered the challenge, had been drunk at the time. It seemed to Harry that Oliver Carter, late captain of the Magnanime and his old adversary, whose body now lay in the cemetery, was going to cause him as many difficulties in death as he had in life.
Clere stood with his second silhouetted against the first hint of light in the morning sky, the false dawn that came when the sun had yet to clear the rim of the Earth. The effect was grey and morbid. The surgeon stood off to one side, fussing around, not sure whether to sort out his instruments or the two swords he was holding under his arm. The sky was lightening quickly, as the new sun lay just below the horizon. They stood watching as it rose, turning the night sky from blue through grey. The red rim of the emerging orb added a slim line of bright orange to the very east.
‘I suppose one last appeal to reason would be a waste of breath?’ said James softly.
‘It would only be putting off the day, James. If I decline this challenge, I only open myself up to others.’
‘You do that anyway, brother. It is not good to have a reputation for going out. There are people who love this sort of thing, and will challenge you for mere sport.’
‘One thing at a time. Let me survive this and I promise you I will worry about the rest.’
James spoke again, the light from the east now strong enough to show the anger on his face. ‘Someone could have stopped him, Harry.’
‘The good of the service, James. He might have been behaving like a drunken oaf. It may be that none of his fellows esteems him very highly. But our actions have not endeared us to his fellow officers. Call it partly envy if you like. But while they don’t feel strongly enough to challenge us themselves, they are quite prepared to let Clere have his chance. Besides, to interfere may expose them to the same threat. He has quite a reputation for his temper, I believe. A hard man to control. All that about Carter being his friend is so much eyewash.’
‘All the more reason for you to decline,’ said James.
‘You have the flask, Pender?’ Harry used this question to his servant to avoid answering his brother. Pender passed him the flask containing coffee laced with brandy. Harry took it, and allowed himself a small sip, before passing it to James. ‘You may need this more than I, brother. Watching a duel is much more disturbing than taking part.’
James just shook his head, and Harry passed the flask back to Pender with the injunction to help himself. His servant did so gratefully, giving an exaggerated shiver as he did so.
The formalities had started as soon as the first edge of the sun tipped over the horizon. The surgeon approached both parties, giving them the option to withdraw. Once refused, cloaks and coats were removed, and with their white shirts taking on the colour of the blood-red sun, now just clearing the horizon and steadily turning gold, the two combatants joined the surgeon in the centre of the open space. Quietly he ordered them to abide by the rules of the engagement.
‘For the last time, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘is there no way to avoid this encounter?’
Both shook their heads. Harry looked at Clere, seeing him for the first time without wig or uniform coat. The hair was l
ong, mouse-coloured, straggled, and thin. His face bore the marks of many physical encounters, including a nose that had been on the receiving end of a fair number of heavy blows. His blue eyes were opaque and lifeless, and the lips, which always seemed to have a superior smile, were now tightly pursed together, evidence of the tension he was feeling. And the shoulders seemed hunched without the benefit of his epaulettes. Like this, Clere was an altogether less imposing figure. Harry felt himself relax. Now that he was finally going into action, the knot of fear, always present in the period of waiting, evaporated. He felt alive, able to see and think with absolute clarity, and the grin he gave Clere as they took up the ‘on guard’ position caused a look of fear to flash across the man’s eyes.
Harry knew then that he was in the presence of an opponent who talked a good fight, a man who intimidated people by his sudden loss of temper and the violence of his language, a man who was now afraid, for on this occasion his passion had carried him to the point of a proper duel, and with a dangerous opponent. He didn’t want to be there any more than Harry Ludlow, yet he could not withdraw for fear of losing face.
The sun was full up now, bathing the grassy slope that capped the mountain in a brilliant light, and making the carpet of long grass sparkle as it caught the tiny drops of morning dew. Below them the sea had gone from black to grey. Soon, as it reflected the light from the sky, it would turn to blue. The swords scraped together as the surgeon commanded the duel to commence. Clere tried to circle round, forcing Harry to face the low, blinding sun. Harry declined and thrust at his unprotected side. Clere parried and started to swing his sword to cut at his opponent. But Harry Ludlow wasn’t there. In defiance of the proper rules of swordplay, he leapt past Clere and gave him a mighty whack on the buttocks with the flat of his blade. Clere gave a strangled cry, spinning round swiftly. Harry’s sword sliced right through his flapping shirt, swept in an arc to push Clere’s sword away, before he darted round to the back again and fetched him another mighty blow on the arse.
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