Dying Trade

by David Donachie

  ‘So what else did he find out?’

  ‘Nothin’. That night we came across you and Pious, we’d picked up some deserters, more for an excuse than because we needed ’em, and with Lubeck asking how the hell he intended to feed ’em. Captain Broadbridge was afire to have a look inside the place. Near got caught by some right slippery bastards and we had to scarper. Broadbridge headed off in the wrong direction, ’cause he couldn’t tell left from right, and we was making our way back when we heard you shout.’

  ‘These slippery bastards wouldn’t be dressed entirely in black by any chance, would they?’ Sutton’s eyes opened wide and he nodded slowly as Harry continued. ‘That’s why they attacked us in the dark. They mistook us for your party.’

  ‘I didn’t reckon that at the time, Captain, ’cause I didn’t get a proper sight of them on the quayside. But I did after.’

  ‘After Broadbridge was killed?’ asked Harry. Sutton just nodded. ‘And outside the villa?’

  ‘I got the fright of my life, an’ no mistake.’

  ‘You thought I’d killed him, so as to take his place.’

  ‘I didn’t know what to think. All I wanted was to keep my own counsel and stay alive. If’n there’d been a king’s ship in the harbour I would’ve given myself in. But I was stuck. On the one hand there was Bart, and on the other was you. I’d heard enough tales of Gideon Bartholomew to see you as the safer bet.’

  Harry questioned him some more, but Sutton seemed to dry up, partly through exhaustion. He knew there were still things the man wasn’t saying, for the inconsistencies in his tale were obvious. Broadbridge might not have told Sutton what he knew, but he must have a good idea what Bartholomew was up to. Given that the crew of the Dido had been on short commons for some time, he would have had to tell Sutton something to get him out looking for deserters. And Sutton must have known, that night on the quay, that those men were after him, not Harry Ludlow.

  But he also knew that no amount of interrogation would get them out of him. Sutton was well versed in the ways of his trade. He might be willing to assist Harry, but he would do nothing to incriminate himself if he could avoid it. Besides, he had enough. Toraglia and Bartholomew were connected. The count had been powerful once, and it seems he was still. He’d arranged for the syndicate to sail under Genoese colours so that they could pursue his interests. Privateers coming and going raised no eyebrows. Profitable merchantmen without cargo certainly would. And the French? Harry could see no real connection, but Toraglia must be on their side. Perhaps he’d promised to occupy the English privateers in a way that would leave French commerce be.

  The men in black, with their strange brand marks, had been his, laying in wait on the quayside to catch Broadbridge, then sent out to the ship because they’d failed. Bartholomew must’ve had a hand in that, removing the threat that Broadbridge posed. It didn’t explain Howlett, of course, and Harry wondered whether that might be an unsolvable mystery. His mind went back to that first night aboard the Principessa. No wonder Toraglia’d had too few men to carry his sedan chair. Harry and Pender had killed them.

  ‘You need to rest, Sutton. Right now I have to get our ship ready for sea.’

  She was not the same ship at all, and it was never more obvious than it was now, as she beat up into the northerly wind through the Straits of Messina. She wouldn’t lie as close to as she had before, and with the kind of gimcrack top hamper that Harry had aboard she kept falling off, especially on the starboard tack with the stronger leeway. It was hard work to make any headway at all. He fought on with a grim determination, for even though they had been at sea for a fortnight, Harry’s desire for a confrontation with Bartholomew and Toraglia had not abated. The wind had brought upon a stubborn determination, which was quite unusual in so affable a man.

  They’d made remarkable speed up until now, and Harry had half a thought that if Bartholomew was in no rush, they might just catch him. But this wind, even if the three ships were just over the horizon, would favour them against the Principessa in her present state. There was no one else up to steering tier in these conditions, and Harry had been on deck for over two full days. His eyes were red-rimmed and his face was caked with salt, and he stared ahead with a fixed expression, only occasionally glancing at the sails to see how they drew. He’d long since given up trying anything new. She wouldn’t answer to innovation and that was that.

  Everyone else aboard fervently wished he would just lie to until the wind changed, but if Harry could gain a mile then he would do it. He would not brook a sideways glance of protest from the men he called on deck every hour or so to change tack.

  Even Pender, who could say things to Harry Ludlow in a way barred to others, kept his silence. Fairbairn, who had tried to tell Harry that he was driving himself too hard, had been threatened with a keelhauling if he interfered. He’d been bluntly informed to mind his patients and leave the running of the ship to the owner. They were short of hands and short of masts to sail her properly. She was leaking substantially more than she had, which meant that sailing into the wind the pumps were never still. And they hadn’t experienced anything like a severe blow.

  Harry had gone slowly crazy after he made the connection between Bartholomew and Toraglia. It worked on him like a drug whose dose increased naturally. He’d driven everybody to get the ship ready for sea, and worked through the night with lanterns rigged to get what he needed across from the merchantman. Stepping the upper masts had been a sore trial. They’d rigged and rove, and bent on sails to see if they fitted. Pender, who hated a needle, had been set to sew with all the others. Harry had even shipped canvas to the hospital so that the men there, who couldn’t walk, could at least contribute something.

  And his crew knew that something had changed him.

  But no one dared broach the subject. For all his hatred of Bartholomew, Harry had slowly come to loathe Count Toraglia more. He’d actually liked the man, had warmed to him and cursed himself for what happened with his poor wife. And all the time the cunning little Italian had been sucking him into a trap: greed was the key. They’d heard that he had money to spend. How convenient to sell Harry Ludlow a ship he’d never take delivery of. After Broadbridge’s death they must have known he was a threat, but instead of attacking him, as James had feared, Toraglia had flattered him, sailed with him, and timed his naps to perfection.

  And that last night, when he’d been in such a rush. The count must have known death awaited him. If not the manner of his death then certainly that it was about to happen. He’d been made fool of, and that hurt more than everything else.

  Even though he’d thought of it night and day, Harry couldn’t believe his eyes. He even rubbed them to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, for he’d gone short of enough sleep to warrant it. But the sails were unmistakable, for he’d spent so much time looking at them they were as familiar as his own.

  With Ariel in the lead, the ships were sailing along easily, not risking spars or canvas. Harry, now that the wind had swung round, had set everything he could, and was making around five knots. If they had a glass on him, they didn’t react. And no wonder, for it would take a clever eye to tell that this was the same ship they’d nearly blown out of the water. Her masts were different and her sail plan was more likely to be a subject for humour than fear.

  Harry sailed on through the morning, coming up slowly on his three quarry. They hadn’t smoked it was him, and he wondered what they would do if they did. Harry doubted if he could even fight one of them with his ship in this condition, and he was now blessed with fewer men than any one of them. But still he held his speed and there was no one aboard to question the wisdom of what he was doing.

  He handed the wheel over to Pender, who in the last weeks had become quite a proficient helmsman, and made his way up the mainmast to the cap. He couldn’t go any higher, since the topmast he’d rigged was too flimsy to lend itself to the weight of a man perched right on its top. But even this small increase in height afforded a more adv
antageous view. He was still there when the commotion started on the decks of the three ships. Someone had taken a closer look at this strange fellow overhauling them, and looked at the hull and the figurehead, rather than the odd set of the sails.

  Arms waved and Harry could see much hailing going on through speaking trumpets. He found he was biting his lip, for if they came round to engage him he’d have to run into the wind. But if the spectre of Harry Ludlow, risen (to their minds) from the dead, worked on their imagination, he might achieve something yet.

  Suddenly the Ariel set more sail. The others followed, but being the better ship she shot ahead. The Bella was still labouring after all this time, and Harry guessed that the repairs he thought she’d had were just a superficial coat of paint. He was still gaining on her, but the other two were drawing away, Ariel more than Cromer. Bartholomew was abandoning Freeman to his fate.

  Then Pilton put his helm down and bore away from the land. He might be a buffoon, but he must have known Harry was after Bartholomew and given the choice he’d leave the Cromer. And he was right. Harry blessed the man for acting in character, though God knew what he would do if Ariel turned. And she’d have to, because there was no way he could catch her now.

  He turned his glass back onto Freeman. If he had had any sense he would have taken the same course as Pilton, for Harry could not care less about the Bella. But either out of loyalty or stupidity, he was holding his course, putting himself between Harry and the Ariel.

  They sailed on through the next three hours, with Ariel sinking in the distance while Bella had come within hailing. Harry kept shifting his helm to try and pass her, but Freeman wouldn’t have it, forever coming round to stay in his path.

  Harry lifted his speaking trumpet. ‘Let me pass. You have my word I shall not attack you.’

  For answer, Freeman fired his stern chaser, sending a ball close to the Principessa’s side, covering her deck with a spray of water. It would have been so easy before. He could have slipped round the Bella in no time, and he would then have caught the Ariel with Bartholomew aboard on his own. The thought spurred him on. Harry trimmed the wheel so that his bowsprit was aimed right at the Bella’s stern.

  Then he closed up. Freeman’s stern chaser fired at regular intervals. Harry had everyone down the hatchways except those he needed. Pender stood beside him, helping him con the ship, for Harry was forever darting forward to shout a warning to the Bella. Several of the balls struck the Principessa’s hull, but Harry ignored them. Shots to the hull he could live with, as long as Freeman didn’t go for the sails, because it wouldn’t take much to bring them down about his ears.

  The Principessa’s bowsprit was now edging towards the Bella’s stern rail. Harry held her there, decreasing his speed a little by loosening his braces. He made his way forward and called for a crew to man the bow chaser. He was going to try and blow the bastard out of his path, or at least scare him enough to get him to move over.

  The gun was run in, loaded, and run out. Harry was just about to give the order to fire, when Freeman let fly his sheets and put his helm hard down. The Bella swung broadside on, and the Principessa, still going full tilt, ran straight into her. Harry heard the sound of wood tearing into wood, and also the crack of it snapping. But worse than that he felt the grinding vibrations of his own hull beneath his feet. The Principessa juddered and swung round. Harry just had time to fire off his cannon while it would still hit something. Pender had been quick, calling all the hands from the hatchways to board the Bella, and they ran forward to where the two ships joined ready to attack over the bows. But Freeman had lowered his boats, and his men were piling into them.

  Harry yelled for them to get back aboard. He had no time for Freeman or his crew. He wanted to get his ship clear so that he could continue on after the Ariel. He’d fouled the Bella’s rigging so the boarding axes now turned to slashing at that. As she pulled clear, Harry heard a groaning sound from his own hull, and he knew that the ship was sorely wounded. He rushed below, heading for the forepeak, and there, underneath the prow of the ship, he could hear the water sluicing around. Then it started to cover his feet. Hitting the Bella had cracked the already damaged Principessa’s hull right open, and water was pouring in through her bows.

  He ran back on deck and ordered everybody aboard the still floating Bella, which was now drifting away on the tide. He hoped and prayed that Freeman hadn’t set him another trap with powder. The Principessa’s boats were over the side and men were throwing everything they possessed into them. Fairbairn was helping those whose wounds made it difficult for them, including Sutton, and the three eunuchs were running around in a state of panic. Harry had to slap one of them in the face and heave all three bodily into the boats. He went into his cabin one last time. Pender had got all his things into his sea-chest and was carrying it out of the door.

  ‘The key, Pender?’

  ‘In my pocket, your honour,’ his servant replied. Harry took the other key from the cabin door, had a last look round, and walked out. The bows were settling into the sea. Soon the guns, cast loose to fire if needed, would break loose from their breechings, crashing forward to smash their way through the figurehead.

  Harry stepped into the cutter, which was now level with the bulwarks, and ordered his men to pull for the Bella. Then he saw Freeman’s men doing the same. They had seen that the Principessa was going down, and had decided to try and return to their ship. Harry yelled furiously and grabbed an oar himself. If Freeman caught them in the water, in boats like these, he could easily sink them by cannon fire. His men, who’d been looking fondly at their ship, spotted what was happening and started to pull like the devil. They won by a short head, and Freeman, realising that he wasn’t going to succeed, ordered his boats to turn away for fear that Harry would be tempted to do the same to him.

  They came aboard the Bella, and before they’d had to time to settle Harry was at them to set some sail. He looked out to where Freeman and his men were pulling heartily to get as far away as possible. Harry put his helm down and sailed away from them. Looking back, he saw men collapsing over their oars.

  The Bella was, of course, slower than the Principessa, and given the distance to Genoa, Bartholomew would be there a whole tide before him. Harry didn’t care. He had more than Bartholomew to see to, and when he went ashore, he intended to set the whole Genoese Republic on its ears.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  HARRY sailed right in, forcing several boats to haul out of his way, calling all the while to ask about the Ariel. Eventually he found someone who’d spotted her. She had sailed into the outer roads, dropped off her pinnace, and headed out to sea again right away. Harry set the Bella’s head straight at the quay. As soon as he reached the harbour area, where the shipping was too crowded to force a swift passage, he hailed a boat crew, with Pender in charge, and he had himself pulled ashore at speed.

  ‘Straight for the Royal George, lads!’ he shouted. Pender, ever thoughtful, handed him two more loaded pistols, which he stuck in his belt. The boat bumped into the quayside and he leapt out, guns in hand, running for the entrance to the inn. A shay sat outside with a driver dozing on the box. Harry dashed past it and into the darkness of the interior. Crosby, who was sitting nursing a tankard with a worried look on his face, leapt up, startled, as Harry rushed in. He tried to block him but was too slow to move. Harry swiped him with the pistol as he went by, knocking him to the ground.

  He crashed through the door to the back. Ma Thomas stood in the hallway, her moon-like face alarmed at all this commotion. She opened her mouth to ask Harry what he was about, but he pushed her, with some difficulty, out of his way, and shot up the stairs three at a time. Bartholomew’s door was locked, and Harry crashed into it. It didn’t budge, being heavy oak. He aimed the pistols at the door and fired, splintering the lock. A mighty kick with his foot and he dived through the door, the other pistols up and ready to use.

  Bartholomew sat in the same deep armchair as he had that first n
ight they’d met. No mocking smile this time, his eyes had a startled look. His body was twisted, and his screwed-up face testified to the death agony he’d suffered. He had bitten through his swollen tongue, and the blood had dripped onto his shirt front, where it was now drying. Both rooms were in a mess. Through the door Harry could see the unmade bed. Chests lay open, lids thrown back and half packed. A strongbox stood open and empty where it had been taken out from behind the panelling.

  ‘What the fuck—’ Ma Thomas stopped as she saw Bartholomew, putting her hands to her mouth in an uncharacteristic gesture. Harry walked slowly over to the table. A Venetian glass, blood red in colour, was the only thing on it. It was half full of red wine. Bartholomew had been drinking too. His glass, of the same type as the one on the table, lay at his side where he’d dropped it, the wine long since drained into the cracks in the floorboards.

  Harry picked up the half-full glass and sniffed. It had the smell of a good claret. Then he lifted the one that Bartholomew had used, and sniffed at that. An odd smell to that, like almonds. Harry guessed he’d been poisoned, and touching the blood on his shirt with his fingers, he realised that it had happened some hours before.

  ‘Harry. Where the hell have you been?’ He spun round. James was in the doorway, with Pender right behind him. His brother’s jaw dropped open as Harry turned to face him, for in doing so, he’d revealed the body.

  Harry looked past James to his servant. ‘Pender. Go out to the ship and ask Fairbairn if he will join us.’

  James opened his mouth to say something, but Harry put up his hand to stop him. ‘Not now, James. I must attend to this first.’

  ‘He came rushin’ in, calling for me to fetch a shay, then he sent Crosby off to deliver some message. That’s the last I saw of him till now, though I’m bound to say I heard him banging and crashing about.’