Dying Trade

by David Donachie

  ‘If I ever catch you displaying caution, Harry, I shall hasten to tell you.’ James looked closely at his brother in the dim light from the single lantern. ‘You have a smug air, brother, as if you are up to something.’

  ‘I wonder that you don’t see it, James. That despite our misfortune in being attacked as soon as we came ashore, we have fetched up in exactly the right place.’

  James treated the room to a meaningful look. ‘Perhaps for you, Harry. The right place for me would be better appointed, not to mention more spacious.’

  ‘Do you remember what it was that Admiral Hood suggested we might do?’

  James spoke cautiously. ‘All I remember is being wary.’

  ‘It sounded like a difficult task at first. After all, we don’t know anyone here in Genoa, we don’t speak Italian, and given what I’ve heard you’d have to be brought up in the place to make any sense of the politics. But our old friend the admiral missed something. And that something makes the finding out what he wants to know a whole lot easier, if not downright simple.’

  ‘Why is it that your air of certainty bothers me so, Harry?’

  ‘Come along, James. A man of your intelligence should be able to smoke it now.’ Harry, realising he’d spoken harshly, spread his arms to indicate that it had something to do with their surroundings.

  ‘I must be too tired, Harry, for I cannot see what you’re driving at.’

  Harry spread his arms wider. ‘This.’

  ‘The room, or do you mean the inn?’

  ‘The inn, and the people in it. Do you not see the privileges it implies? You can’t go creating something like this, in a city state like Genoa, without being under the protection of some powerful locals. I’ve told you it’s a shock even to find them sailing out of here. That warehouse at the back was empty, James, and they’ve only just come in from a cruise. Brown, the victualling agent, said they don’t land their cargoes here, and what I’ve seen bears that out. That smacks of a high degree of influence. I doubt they have it themselves. It’s more likely someone who stands to gain by their presence. Whoever that is can hardly be a friend to the French, since he seeks to profit from interfering with their trade.’

  ‘How do you know he profits by it?’

  Harry laughed. ‘If we find there’s another reason, I’ll be very surprised.’

  ‘So you intend to question the people here to find out who this protector is.’

  ‘Perhaps. But knowing who it is may not be necessary. At least not necessary for us to achieve the result we desire.’

  James’s frown deepened. ‘This is what I most feared. I detect a desire to bring to justice the murderers of Captain Howlett.’

  Harry frowned, and when he spoke, his voice carried a carping tone. ‘Would that be so terrible?’

  James exploded at the criticism implied in such a rebuke. ‘That’s unfair, Harry, and you will oblige me by withdrawing what you imply. Any man with an ounce of decency would like to see justice done. But I have already said that it’s none of our concern.’

  James’s temper was up, and his face flushed as he continued. ‘Can I fill in the spaces you’re deliberately leaving blank, for I’m not stupid. You say the men here have a powerful protector. This person, if he exists, and for reasons as yet unclear, will furnish you with proof of French involvement in the murder of Captain Howlett. We will put aside the fact that he’s not done so already, though confounding the French would appear to be self-interest. Such proof, by your hand, can then be presented to the Genoese Council of State.’

  James paused, his face taking on a look of mock alarm, made theatrical by his continued anger. ‘They will be exceedingly shocked by this. After all, Genoa is neutral. They will, at the very least, censure the French chargé d’affaires. At your urging they will then order his ship out of the harbour. The murderer might not face the gallows, but the enemy will have been displaced. This, in fulfilling the best part of Admiral Hood’s wishes, will allow you to claim your reward. Exemptions will flow and we will sail off to a prosperous future.’

  Harry smiled to take the sting out of his brother’s temper. ‘Lord, James. I thought you had put the whole thing out of your mind, and here I find you’ve been mulling on it all along. What a deep cove you are.’

  James was not mollified. ‘Do you know what it is to oversimplify?’

  Harry laughed loudly enough to disturb the sleeping Pender, who grunted and turned on his side, momentarily stopping his snoring. Harry put his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

  ‘I know, James. It’s more complicated than that. But we have finished up at the very place I wanted to. And that augurs well.’

  ‘Will anything I say make a difference?’

  ‘You cannot be unaware of how much I value your opinion.’

  James Ludlow looked long and hard at his brother. He shook his head, half amused, and half in despair. Harry chose to latch onto the smile. ‘That’s better. Let’s go and have a look around.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THEY MADE their way back through the warren of passages, the sound of revelry guiding them. Ma Thomas was not at her table, and the side vestibule was deserted. Harry headed for the door she had used when they first arrived. Another great roar greeted them as he opened it. They found themselves in the large open room which comprised the tavern. Everyone seemed crowded into a smaller area than necessary, facing away from Harry and James. Encouraging individual shouts were frequent, and yells of a more general nature, mixed with groans and bad-tempered imprecations, greeted some event they could not see.

  ‘Dogs?’ asked James over the noise.

  ‘Cocks, I think,’ said Harry, looking at the rafters and judging from them the size of the room. ‘Can’t see that there’s space for a dog-fighting pit.’

  Harry jumped onto a table, followed by his brother, both gingerly avoiding the tankards thereon. They looked over the heads of the spectators, but still they could see nothing but the eager, sweating faces of those on the other side of the pit. Ma Thomas sat on another table at one end, her feet splayed out and her elbows on her knees, watching with a keen eye. In one of her fat red hands she held a gold hunter, which she glanced at occasionally, timing whatever was going on.

  ‘Ma Thomas seems to be judging the contest,’ shouted Harry.

  James spluttered, choking at this height from the dense smoke emitted by dozens of pipes. ‘Then there’ll be no argument about the result.’

  Suddenly, to the accompaniment of a great roar from the crowd, a grey furry object shot up above their heads. Its body seemed to be jerking spasmodically as it fell back down to earth.

  ‘What was that?’ asked James, rubbing his smarting eyes.

  Harry stood on tiptoe, straining to see further. ‘A rat, James. They’re having a rat fight.’

  ‘What! How can one rat throw another that high in the air?’

  ‘It’s not rats versus rats, brother. It’s rats versus a man, teeth only. I’ve only seen it done once in a pit and that was in the West Indies.’

  Harry put his hands behind his back and leant forward in a dumb show, his voice loud to carry across the din. ‘The fighter ties his hands behind his back, then gets on his knees and fights the rats like a dog. He should break their neck if he catches them right.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. Do the rats fight back?’

  ‘Of course they do,’ shouted Harry, again craning to see. ‘Especially if they’re hungry.’

  ‘Rats are always hungry.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Can they win?’

  ‘The fight is timed, so if you can’t kill them all in so many minutes, you lose. And, of course, if they get you in both the eyes, brother, which is the part they go for, then they have won.’

  The crowd roared again, this time with deafening noise. James had to shout very loud to be heard. ‘Look at him.’

  A tall, well-built negro, his body glistening with sweat, stood up in the centre of the roaring crowd. He had a limp ra
t in his teeth and his face and shoulders were bleeding from a number of bites. Suddenly, he tossed his head, and the rat, neck broken, flew through the air into the arms of the eager crowd, to be held aloft as a token of gambling success. Someone untied his hands and gave him a cloth. He wiped his sweating and bloody face, then raised his arms in triumph. Most of the crowd roared. Those who had bet against him gave an underlying groan.

  Ma Thomas stood, holding the watch out for all to see. ‘Eight minutes near enough. Well inside the ten, and a fair contest.’

  Another yell of approval accompanied this, and the rat-fighter approached the table. From a pouch on the front of her voluminous garment, Ma Thomas produced several glittering coins. The man took his prize, and as he walked away the successful spectators pushed forward round the table, holding aloft their betting tally slips. Those who had wagered against the rat-fighter returned, some resigned, and some angry, to their tables. One of which was the one Harry and James had chosen to stand on.

  They were treated to baleful looks from three sailors, battle-scarred and mean looking, as they climbed down. The table tipped slightly, upsetting a jug of beer, as James’s weight came off it.

  ‘Mind my ale, you no-good bugger,’ said a swarthy individual, the tallest of the trio. He pushed James’s shoulder at the moment he managed to steady to tankard. James fell back, tipping the contents onto the floor. Harry immediately stepped between them, facing the man. He was wearing a broad-brimmed hat decorated with rat skins, the lifeless eyes catching the glare from the multitude of candles around the walls. His face, which looked at first to be marred by smallpox, was really a mass of small scars, some barely healed. He looked like another rat-fighter.

  ‘My apologies,’ said Harry, one hand held up in a gesture of reconciliation, the other indicating the pit at the end of the room. ‘But we didn’t know what was going on.’

  ‘Apologies,’ mimicked one of the others, in a travesty of Harry’s polite tone.

  ‘You’re not regular here. Who are you?’ said the third one of this unsavoury trio, leaning forward and sticking his face close to James’s.

  ‘Guests of Captain Broadbridge,’ said Harry, pushing his hand between them.

  The rat-fighter looked angry and disbelieving. ‘Guests. Of that no-account drunken bastard. An’ you come in here an’ tip over my ale.’

  The brim of the man’s hat was nearly touching Harry’s face, with one of the rat tails swinging before his eyes.

  Harry was clearly angry, but kept his voice friendly, still attempting to mollify the man. ‘With respect, mate, I think you tipped over your own drink.’

  The rat-fighter pulled his head far enough back to look Harry up and down. His eyes narrowed as he took in the cut of his cloth. He turned to his companions with an arrogant leer. ‘I’m his mate, lads, d’ye hear?’

  He turned back, running his fingers along the collar of Harry’s coat as he pushed his face close again. ‘Quite the gent, ain’t we?’

  Harry growled, fighting to keep the anger out of his voice, but it was James who spoke. ‘If you tell us what was in your tankard, we will replace it.’

  The rat-fighter ignored him. His fingers felt the cloth again, but this time taking a tighter grip, as if ready to tug it and throw Harry off-balance.

  ‘Can’t say I’ve ever had the chance to own such a fine coat. Now that don’t seem fair, your bein’ a gent and me just a luckless gambler. Happen my luck’s set to turn. Perhaps you should pay a bit more than the price of one tankard of ale.’

  ‘Mine looks as though someone’s been at it,’ said the man closest to James.

  The third one reached out, picked up a tankard and drained it. He wiped his mouth with his dirty sleeve before speaking. ‘An’ mine’s empty.’

  Harry put one hand on the rat-fighter’s chest and pushed very gently. His voice was soft too. ‘Back off, mate. You’ve had our offer. Either take it or pass it up.’

  Something happened in the rat-fighter’s eyes, which went glassy. He looked like a man about to lose control of himself. His voice was as tense as his body, and as it rose drops of spittle shot out of his mouth.

  ‘Don’t you call me mate. I’m not your mate. I’m Ralph Beldeau, d’ye hear? An’ I’m telling you I don’t like you. Where I walk men get out of my path, or rue the day. An’ you’re in my way, you lily-livered sod. Now you get some drinks on that table, enough to ease my temper, or both you and this bugger with you will feel more than the edge of my tongue.’

  The third man snarled, and he, in turn, pushed his empty tankard hard into Harry’s chest. ‘I’d shift to find my purse if I were you, mate, lest you end up head first in the harbour.’

  He never saw the blow coming, but, catching him right under the chin, it lifted him bodily off his feet. He’d just hit the floor by the time Harry, in a flurry of movement, felled the rat-fighter with a straight jab, breaking the man’s nose in the process. James threw the remains of the tankard of ale into the face of the other man, giving his brother time to turn to face him. Harry’s foot caught him right in the groin and he doubled over, a great whooshing sound issuing from his mouth, and Harry’s fists, clenched together, came down on the back of his head, knocking him to the ground to join his companions.

  Harry Ludlow spun round to face the crowd, suddenly finding himself in a space cleared of people, his fists up like a prize fighter inviting all comers. James, looking a great deal less threatening, emulated him.

  ‘Belay that. I’ll not have fightin’ in here!’ shouted Ma Thomas above the heads around her.

  Harry, seeing that no one was coming on, dropped his fists, and called across the room to her. ‘Then you should tell your customers to mind their manners. I’ll not put up with a lack of respect, from anyone.’

  ‘Why, it’s Harry Ludlow!’ yelled a voice from the back of the pit.

  ‘Who’s that?’ said Harry, his eyes searching the room. The crowd had parted, revealing a table, slightly raised on a dais, close to the pit itself. The people at this table seemed to be better dressed than the others in the tap-room crowd, clad as they were, with one exception, in a variety of good quality coloured coats. The exception wore a loose-fitting white shirt, and had his back to the room.

  ‘Joe Crosby,’ said a small man, crossing the sand of the pit and pushing through the crowd. ‘Don’t you recall, Captain? I did a trip to Calcutta with you in the year ’90.’

  He stopped in front of Harry and looked up at him, smiling. James looked at his brother, still breathing heavily. The smile was not being returned. Harry, always a sociable fellow with an old shipmate, wasn’t happy to see this Crosby.

  ‘What brings you out here, Captain?’

  ‘Chance, Crosby. Pure chance. I was stuck in Gib and Admiral Hood was on his way here with the fleet, so he offered me the passage.’

  There was a loud buzz of discontent at the mention of Admiral Hood and a fleet, and it wasn’t because they were impressed. Privateers disliked the navy just as much as the navy disliked them.

  ‘I heard tell you was privateerin’ off the Gironde.’

  ‘I was, Crosby. But I had my ship sunk under me.’

  ‘The Medusa?’

  Harry nodded. Two of Harry’s victims had hauled themselves upright and, standing over the still unconscious rat-fighter, were murmuring in the background, as if set to try another bout. Crosby turned and snapped at them. Yet for all his hard words to them he still seemed able to grovel to Harry. ‘You leave it be, Tinker. This be Captain Harry Ludlow, and if you mess with him again, it’ll be an early grave you’ll win.’

  He looked down at the rat-fighter, whose bleeding nose was staining the front of his shirt, while at the same time taking Harry’s arm. ‘I should get Beldeau upright before he chokes on his own blood. Come away, Captain Ludlow. An’ stay away from that bugger, for he’s as mad as a rabid dog. Let’s hope he forgives you for deckin’ him.’

  ‘Crosby.’ A loud voice cut across the buzz of conversation. The small
man turned quickly, looked once, and without any further bidding scurried across to the raised table. He stopped beside the man in shirtsleeves with his back to the room. The entire place fell silent. Crosby leant down to whisper in the man’s ear, his head close to the long curly black hair that was all Harry and James could see. The hair jerked occasionally as Crosby was questioned. Once more, it seemed, they were the object of curiosity.

  Slowly the man turned, and as he looked at them every eye in the room followed his, creating a tangible air of menace. Harry felt that one word from this fellow and the crowd would tear him apart. Steady dark brown eyes, slightly hooded. Black eyebrows, a dark complexion, and a slightly crooked nose. Handsome to say the least, and confident of his authority. He held Harry and James in his gaze for some time, imposing the silence, then suddenly the full red lips parted, treating the Ludlow brothers to a slightly mocking smile. The tension in the tap-room dropped immediately, allowing a buzz of conversation.

  Crosby, responding to words that the brothers couldn’t hear, rushed back to their side. He took Harry by the arm and led him towards the raised table. James followed. Behind the men seated at the table he could see the pit where the rat fight had taken place. Spots of blood stained the pale sand, and the bodies of three rats lay ignored.

  ‘Allow me to name Captain Harry Ludlow,’ said Crosby, addressing the man in shirtsleeves, who then looked enquiringly, and somewhat suspiciously, at James.

  ‘My brother, James Ludlow,’ said Harry.

  ‘Brother,’ said Crosby, looking more keenly. ‘Why, the likeness is there right enough. Wonder I didn’t smoke it right off. This here be Captain Gideon Bartholomew.’

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen. Crosby has favoured me with my full handle, but I normally answer to Bart.’

  The voice was low and compelling, with a hint of a colonial accent. The man stood up and signalled for some chairs. The speed at which these appeared testified once more to his authority. ‘I would esteem it an honour if you and your brother would join us, Captain Ludlow.’