Dying Trade

by David Donachie

  The other four men at the table sat silent, their eyes fixed on the brothers without a hint of welcome in their eyes. Harry looked from one to the other, gracing each with a small bow before sitting down.

  ‘Since we are all captains here, Ludlow, it might be best to dispense with titles.’ Bartholomew rattled off their names, each person acknowledging with a slight nod. ‘Pilton, Freeman, Chittenden, and Frome.’

  He swept the room with his hand. ‘I shan’t bother to introduce you to their entire crews. Though you seem to have met some of mine already.’

  Harry glanced around the tavern, idly wondering if there was another room somewhere, for there were not enough men here to crew two privateers of any size, let alone five. Bartholomew treated Harry to another mocking smile, but his voice had an edge to it as he addressed his companions. ‘Now that our sport is done, gentlemen, I’m sure you have other matters to attend to.’

  Mumbled ‘ayes’ followed as they stood up and left. The tavern had returned to some semblance of normality, noisy, but with the crowd now dispersed at the various tables. Crosby, standing slightly away from them, waved his arm and a dark-skinned serving woman appeared. He directed her towards the table. She was like the rest of the place. False. A plump girl, she wore a mob cap and a low-cut gown designed to push her ample bosom up, the very parody of an English serving maid. But her smooth olive skin and jet-black hair spoiled the effect, as did her apparent inability to understand more than two consecutive words of the language.

  Drinks ordered, Bartholomew treated them to another of his smiles. ‘A privateer captain, Ludlow. Is your presence here a coincidence?’

  Harry deliberately chose to misinterpret the question.

  ‘It most certainly is. We are here as guests of Captain Broadbridge.’

  At the mention of Broadbridge’s name, a slight frown crossed Bartholomew’s face, which disappeared quickly as Harry, in response to more specific questions, outlined how they had come to end up in the Royal George. The conversation took on the air of an interrogation. James, wholly excluded, noticed again that Harry volunteered nothing, waiting to be asked something before imparting any information of value. Crosby must have managed to convey a great deal in that brief whispered conversation with Bartholomew. Asked, he told Bartholomew how the Medusa had been sunk, but as with Broadbridge, nothing else. James watched the other man as he listened intently to Harry’s replies.

  Then he turned to look at Crosby, who was straining forward to hear what was being said. He was a small man in many ways. His head seemed small even in comparison to his body. He had lively brown eyes, and dry-looking skin, with patches where the sun had burnt it. His nose was slightly crooked, and he had a habit of grabbing it between thumb and forefinger, as if to ensure it was still there.

  ‘So you’re just on your way home?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Harry, ducking the point of the question, indicated his brother. ‘James here wanted to revisit some of the places from his Grand Tour, and since we were offered passage here, it seemed the quickest route.’

  ‘So you won’t be looking to set up here then?’

  ‘Set up here?’ said Harry, quietly wondering how fast gossip travelled in this place. James tried to keep all expression out of his face as Bartholomew shot him a look.

  ‘The thought never occurred to me,’ said Harry, leaning forward, pensive, trying to look like a man who’d just had an idea. Crosby, who’d managed to get very close to the table by now, spoke out.

  ‘Then I’m glad we’ve brought it to your mind. For if’n you was to set up here, Captain Ludlow, I’d be mighty glad to serve with you again.’

  Harry spun round to look at Crosby. ‘Why, if I do, Joe, you’ll be the first person I’d want on my crew.’

  If Crosby noticed the insincerity, he didn’t bat an eyelid.

  Nor did Bartholomew. He looked into his tankard with some distaste. ‘This is a poor brew for gentlemen, Ludlow. If you’d care to join me in my rooms, I think I can offer you something better.’

  The contrast between Bartholomew’s rooms and the accommodation afforded to Captain Broadbridge could not have been greater. Nothing cramped here, Bartholomew had a sitting room, a bedroom, and a personal privy. The place was panelled in dark oak, aged over the years till it was almost black. The floor was the same, with twelve-inch boards, and Bartholomew had furnished it to match, with pieces that could have been out of any English country house built at the time of the Stuart kings. High-backed chairs and divans were laid out around a huge stone fireplace. And it was as if Bartholomew himself had adopted the same style. With his dark curly hair, worn long, and the open-necked shirt with a lace collar and cuffs, he looked every inch the Jacobean. In fact, quite the Cavalier.

  ‘This wine is from a region to the north of here,’ said Bartholomew, tipping the cane-covered bottle and filling three huge pewter goblets. ‘I think you’ll find it compares favourably with the better clarets.’

  Harry picked up his goblet and took a deep draught of the wine, nodding his approval as he tasted it. James did likewise, but while Bartholomew hung on Harry’s reaction he seemed intent on ignoring James’s, not even glancing in his direction to witness his appreciation.

  ‘It is unfortunate that your first impression of Genoa should be one of unbridled licence,’ he said, sitting down opposite Harry. Given the depth of the winged armchair, this cut him off from James’s view. ‘Did you glean anything about your attackers?’

  ‘Only that they knew what they were about. For one thing they were dressed in black, and were hardly visible.’

  ‘An odd thing,’ said James. ‘They didn’t speak at all.’

  Bartholomew leant forward so that he could see James beyond the side of his chair. His voice was as cold as his look when he replied: ‘Why is that odd?’

  James Ludlow was not a man to be treated so. Natural authority and grand surroundings were not enough to subdue him. ‘If you, sir, cannot see something odd in that, then I am at a loss to explain it, for it is as plain as day.’

  Bartholomew sat back, leaving James looking at the side of his chair, and addressed Harry. ‘Nothing you have said identifies them to me. They could have been any one of a number of the gangs that plague this part of the world.’

  ‘Perhaps they weren’t from this part of the world,’ said Harry.

  Bartholomew raised a dark eyebrow, inviting Harry to elaborate. ‘Come, Captain Bartholomew. There is a French ship in the harbour. An officer of His Majesty’s navy was recently murdered in these very streets. I don’t know if you are aware of that.’

  Bartholomew gulped his wine, looking at Harry’s dark blue coat before replying. ‘You think they mistook you for English officers?’

  ‘Or perhaps English privateers,’ said Harry. He’d meant it as a joke, but he suddenly realised that his blue coat looked remarkably like Broadbridge’s. Bartholomew nearly smiled, but it was only a fleeting impression that was soon replaced by a look of blank passivity.

  Harry sat forward in his chair. ‘In the opinion of those who ought to know, this officer, Captain Howlett, was murdered by the French. Why would they do that?’

  Bartholomew did smile this time. ‘I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me.’

  ‘Let’s suppose that’s true,’ said Harry, keen to develop a recent thought, for if he could convince Bartholomew that he too was threatened, then he might be more forthcoming. ‘What’s to stop them trying the same thing on English privateers? After all, you will be doing as much damage to the French as our navy. Perhaps more right now. And they could have well suspected that someone like Broadbridge would be out tonight, hunting for deserters.’

  For once Bartholomew was startled out of his composure, sitting forward. ‘Broadbridge was out tonight!’ He recovered quickly, sinking back into his chair. ‘I can see that he has not been entirely discreet.’

  ‘It’s not something I need Captain Broadbridge to tell me.’

  ‘Captain Broadbridge?’r />
  James looked at Harry, wondering if he’d noticed the way Bartholomew emphasised the word ‘captain.’

  ‘He had sailors from the Swiftsure in his party when he rescued us. They recognised me, and I’m afraid I recognised them.’

  ‘You were not tempted to inform the navy of this?’

  ‘I am not tempted to meddle in affairs that are none of my business.’

  James took a deep drink of wine to cover his smile. His brother, to his mind, suffered from an excess of curiosity, and like most people with a failing, he was entirely unaware of it.

  ‘Not even for so lofty a patron as Admiral Hood?’

  ‘Sailors run, Captain Bartholomew. You know that as well as I do. Though I might add that if it gets out of hand, you may find this place surrounded by marines one night. Hood is no more of a fool than you are. If his losses exceed the norm, he’ll soon smoke where they are.’

  There was a slight hint of steel in Bartholomew’s voice as he replied, expressing the same thought which had probably troubled Broadbridge. ‘He might have it from you.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Harry, sitting back and crossing his legs. ‘After all, I could suffer myself.’

  Bartholomew waved his hand dismissively. ‘We sail under Genoese colours.’

  That produced a humourless smile from Harry. ‘I’m at a loss to know which court you’d apply to for redress, if the navy took matters into its own hands.’

  A silence followed as Bartholomew digested this. Then a sharp tap at the door had him swiftly out of his chair. He opened the door a fraction and had a quiet conversation with someone who remained outside. Neither Harry nor James could see to whom he spoke. Harry was left to mull over what he’d just said, sure that Bartholomew knew, just as he did himself, that you couldn’t ever sail a ship, especially a privateer, without having aboard someone who’d deserted from the king’s navy. Not unless you wanted to crew your ship with landsmen.

  Bartholomew finished his conversation, and after filling Harry’s goblet, returned to his chair. ‘Do I detect from what you’ve just said your intention to sail from these parts yourself?’

  Harry avoided the real point of the question. ‘I had not expected to find Englishmen sailing from this port.’

  ‘Leghorn?’ asked Bartholomew, smiling at Harry’s nod. ‘Tell me, sir. What did you make of Broadbridge?’

  ‘Make of him?’ asked Harry, slightly taken aback.

  James had stood up and lifted the bottle off the table. If Bartholomew was not going to offer him another drink, he felt he should help himself. This brought him back into sight of their host, and he answered for both of them. ‘I’ve nothing but praise for him, sir. Both his timing and his hospitality are of the highest order.’

  ‘We would not be here now, if it wasn’t for Captain Broadbridge,’ said Harry.

  Bartholomew ignored James, and changed the subject back to the previous point. ‘Does Leghorn still attract you?’

  ‘I cannot say till I have been there and had a look.’

  James, reseated, spoke up again, determined to be included in the conversation. ‘According to our information, you are faring somewhat better than the good sailors of Leghorn.’

  ‘“Our” information?’ Bartholomew made the possession of information about him sound like a sin.

  ‘Yes. The people in Leghorn petitioned the admiral to curtail the navy in its prize-taking. Here, you obviously didn’t feel the need.’

  Harry intervened. James was in danger of saying too much. ‘It’s all luck, James.’

  ‘Nonsense, Harry,’ said James sharply. It was bad enough Bartholomew ignoring him. He would not take it from Harry as well.

  Bartholomew flicked back his curly hair. ‘Your brother is right, Ludlow. It would be a foolish thing, merely to trust to luck.’

  ‘I accept that you have to be in the right place, of course. But you can do that and still finish up empty-handed. I mentioned that very thing to Broadbridge.’

  ‘I am a firm believer in making your own luck.’ Bartholomew leant forward to top up Harry’s glass. ‘In the case of Broadbridge, I’m afraid he gets the quantity of luck he deserves and that certainly doesn’t rise to the level we expect.’

  There was a pause of several seconds. James broke the silence. ‘Are you issuing us with an invitation, Bartholomew?’

  He leant forwards again, this time gracing James with his mocking smile. ‘What we have here, sir, is a syndicate. The rules are that we share our ‘luck.’ That reduces the element of chance quite considerably. If however there is a weak strand in the cable …’

  He shrugged and stood up, leaving James’s question unanswered. ‘However, we must not get ahead of ourselves. You have only just arrived. Look around, and if you like what you see, we may talk further.’

  Harry wasn’t finished. ‘May I ask you, Captain Bartholomew, if you know anything of the death of Captain Howlett?’

  ‘I had heard of it. But you would do well to heed your own counsel in these waters, Ludlow. I cannot stress how dangerous Genoa is. Murder on the streets is not uncommon.’

  ‘I merely wondered if you incline towards the suggestion that the French were to blame?’

  ‘I believe that he still had his valuables about his person.’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Then it must be the French. There’s not a local, rich or poor, who would do that.’ Bartholomew laughed softly, without the slightest hint of humour.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘I WOULD NOT have Crosby aboard my ship if he was the last available sailor in port. He is a liar, a cheat, and though I could not prove it, a thief to boot.’

  They were back in their room, having checked on Pender, who was now snoring fit to wake the dead. James was lounging on the makeshift bed staring at the ceiling.

  ‘I observed that you were less than delighted to see him. That was quite an impressive display of fisticuffs, Harry. All that boxing at the local fairs has not been wasted. Not exactly gentlemanly behaviour, mind.’

  Harry grinned. ‘I’ve had more practice at sea, James. I haven’t always had the luxury of a flogging to keep the hard cases in check. No matter how good a crew are, someone is bound to get out of hand, especially when they’re in drink. And as for gentlemanly behaviour, I’m a dab hand with a marlin-spike from behind.’

  ‘All your skills will be in demand, brother. We’ve been ashore for less than four hours, and already we’ve been in two scrapes.’

  ‘It’s a good job we left that strongbox aboard the Swiftsure. I don’t think we’d have that now if we’d brought it ashore.’

  ‘Damn the money. I doubt we’d be alive.’ James dropped his eyes and looked at Harry. ‘So, how does the plan proceed?’

  ‘Plan?’

  ‘I believe you tend towards the expression, “a fine calculation of chances.” Has it occurred to you that Admiral Hood may be entirely wrong?’

  ‘More than once.’

  ‘What does that do to the fine calculation of chances?’

  ‘Could we adopt another expression, James? That one strikes a very jarring note.’

  ‘Would that I could think of one that fits the bill, brother, but that would tax the limits of the lexicographer’s art.’

  Harry responded sharply, stung by his brother’s irony. ‘James. I want my exemptions. Hood can give them to me. I assure you that if it is in my power to shift that French sloop, shift it I will.’

  ‘And the murder of Captain Howlett?’

  ‘A means to an end,’ snapped Harry.

  ‘I doubt that’s wholly true. But at least you have, in your nautical way, hoisted your colours.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s a bad idea to keep me in the dark, Harry. I know you are used to the solitary exercise of command, and it must come hard to you to share your thoughts with anyone. But be warned, as long as you exclude me, I shall exert a wholly negative influence on your efforts.’

  ‘James.’ He was stung by
guilt, reaching over and touching his brother’s arm affectionately. ‘I thought you, of all people, knew.’

  ‘Knew what?’

  ‘My fallibility, I suppose. This air of certainty is a habit, worn at sea. It’s vital everyone thinks you know exactly what you’re about.’

  James favoured him with a look of mock alarm. ‘Are you trying to tell me I’ve been sailing with a poltroon, a novice?’

  ‘No. It’s all experience. And luck. But I’m no different to most men. Often I have only the foggiest notion of what I’m about.’

  ‘Even such candour, Harry, does not entirely reassure me.’ But James was still smiling. He followed this with a yawn. ‘I don’t think Bartholomew was overly impressed with our theory.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘That the French were responsible. Mind, he strikes me as a man not given to over-reaction.’

  Harry’s mind was elsewhere. ‘If Broadbridge bribed those boatmen …’

  ‘He didn’t actually say he had.’

  ‘Pender could ask that fellow Sutton.’

  James yawned again, and settled back on his makeshift pillow. ‘It will have to wait until morning.’ He nodded towards the comatose servant. ‘Do you think we’ll be able to sleep with that going on?’

  ‘It won’t trouble me,’ said Harry, putting a chair under the door handle. ‘But with the reception we’ve had so far, I think I need this.’

  The sun was high when they woke, though little of it filtered through the shutters. Pender stood beside the desk with a tray bearing coffee and bread, still warm and fresh from the bakery.

  ‘How is your head?’ asked Harry, sitting up and reaching for the pot of coffee. His whole body felt stiff after a night on the floor.

  ‘A mite sore, your honour,’ said Pender.

  ‘On the inside or the outside?’ said James, as he yawned and stretched.

  ‘Bit of both, Mr James.’ Pender smiled and narrowed his eyes slightly to acknowledge the hangover. Then he shuddered. ‘That needle, with thread hangin’ off it.’

  Harry got to his feet, stretching painfully, and making much of the aches so that his brother should feel remorse. James responded with a smile. He peered at Pender’s bandage, as if trying to see through it.