Privilege Preserved (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 5)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Your man, Irish, from the accent?”

  “Murphy is the name he goes by, Robert, though I doubt he was born with it. My sergeant and a good man indeed – I would not have done half so well without him by me, I doubt I would have lived, in fact, it would have been easier not to.”

  Robert nodded, such a man was a treasure, made a mental note that he was to be looked after in later years if James died young, there were too few of that calibre available to the family.

  “Have you any plans for your future, James? It is fortuitous in some ways, your being available to the family just now, and if you have no other fixed intent you could be of great service to us all.”

  James said he had no future that he was aware of; he had thought of looking after the dogs perhaps, the mastiffs would need a keeper now that Mama had passed away.

  Robert rapidly invented the family’s need for a man of their own in the Lower House, one who could speak occasionally in their interest and who could, more importantly, be every day in contact with the leaders of public affairs, listening respectfully and offering the odd word of advice.

  “Manufacturers are not heard as they need to be, James, and their few parliamentary representatives are too often outsiders – good men, but not of the right sort for our leaders to talk to. Add to that, the bulk of them are of a Radical persuasion. A man with the correct school behind him and with fighting experience as a soldier, and thinking the right way, he could be listened to. I know that Father and Lord Star both would be pleased to have a strong, reliable man sitting in the Commons.”

  It was not something that had ever occurred to James, and he had little liking for the idea of speaking in the House, but to be useful to the family, to pull his weight, to be something other than a crippled burden was a chance that could not be refused.

  “Do you think I could do it, Robert? I have learned very little about the way things are done, you know.”

  Robert did know, was somewhat alarmed at the prospect of James haunting the halls of power, but, he consoled himself, almost every member he had ever met had been a gullible fool, a congenital idiot or an outright rogue. James might well shine in their company.

  The tailor was sympathetic and frank; he could not hide the missing limb and could not rig James out in highest fashion, but he could outfit him in an acceptable mode and would do much to reduce the appearance of deformity.

  “Trousers, I fear, sir, though they are not fashionable garments – neither breeches nor pantaloons will be, shall we say, practical. It is possible to fit the semblance of a boot at the base of the wooden leg, sir, and cut trousers to hang naturally – several officers of my acquaintance have done just that and have appeared less singular as a result. Of course, Lord Petersham has done his possible to make them a fashionable garment, though I have doubts of his success over the years, but they will do for our purposes.”

  It was blunt advice, and it hurt - but it made sense and James realised that he must either accept that he was no longer an ordinary young man and live with the pain, or hide away, safe, secure, and very soon dead.

  “I must travel to Dorchester at the end of the week, sir. Will you provide me with a few coats and trousers by Friday, please.”

  It could be done; a dozen assistants would ply their needles overnight and the first fitting could take place next afternoon, a normal enough service, not even particularly expensive. There was a queue of young men who would take a place, however ill-paid and long the hours, with any fashionable tailor in the hope of progressing in their profession, of one day picking up a pair of shears.

  “Father will wish to travel to London to join you, James, but I shall try to discourage him, if you do not mind. He is no longer as young as he was, does not need the hardships of two or three days on the road in both directions if it can be avoided.”

  James agreed, shocked at the thought that his father could grow old, though he supposed on reflection that it was natural enough, it happened to other people very frequently.

  “What sort of person is this Miss Drew, Robert?”

  “I like her, James. Pleasant, quiet, confident in herself – no beauty, that’s for sure, tall and lanky with it! No weak, clinging vine to rely on Father’s wise support every minute of every day, but not an arrogant, bustling hag either – I think she will do for him, and she will fit in with us.”

  “Good – I would imagine that I would like any lady who attracted Father’s eye – he would not make an error, I am sure.”

  “Not like Lord Frederick, eh?”

  James was too young to appreciate the family joke, could not remember anything untoward, was really rather shocked when all was explained. The army, it would seem, had made him conventionally straight-laced.

  “I am sure Father would never have done anything like that, Robert!”

  Robert, knowing of the old man’s younger days, grinned silently.

  “Should I bring all three of my people with me, Robert? Valet, groom and, what would you call Murphy, factotum?”

  “Yes. Normally it would be valet only, but I shall speak with Lord Paynton and explain your need and he, I am sure, will make the proper allowance for you. A nuisance, is it not? You will, if I might give the brotherly advice, have to accept that you must ask for a degree of special treatment – don’t be embarrassed, too shy to ask for the help that people may not wish to force on you!”

  “Murphy has said the same, Robert, but it is not easy.”

  “It never will be. Have you arranged to see Knighton yet?”

  The name meant nothing to James.

  “The doctor – it will be as well that you allow a medical man to take a look at you. Army surgeons are sometimes very good, I am told, especially with wounds such as yours, but it would be wise to let a London man give an opinion.”

  “I will do so, Robert, though I think all is well, as well as it can be, that is.”

  Knighton came at one day’s notice, being well aware just how rich the Andrews were; lesser mortals might wait a week before he could attend them but the favoured few received immediate consultation. He professed himself satisfied with the stump, well made and healed, congratulated James on the robust health which had, comparatively speaking, made light of a potentially mortal injury. He glanced at the fingers as well, commented briefly that he had been lucky, few men kept the hand after such a wound, particularly one taken in the high tropics.

  “All in all, Mr Andrews, you have been fortunate, though, obviously, unlucky to be twice wounded in the first place. I have a man who works for me and for surgeons in London and who will produce a more comfortable prosthesis, and one that perhaps looks more the thing.”

  He glanced at the puzzled frown, explained the medical term, very politely.

  “Good English beechwood, well turned, and cork padding to the foot and the stump cup, best leather for the harness, well cured and soft – much less of chafing, sir.”

  It smacked of the farmyard, the meat to be kept tender and well-preserved, but it was better than sweat and the itch.

  “The future of the continent lies in our hands, Mr Star! Are we to be a mere howling mobocracy? Is the gentleman to be no more than a cipher, a powerless nobody? Is the New World to despise all that is best in the Old and embrace the savagery of the Jacobinical reds? No, sir! No, I say, and say it again! We must take the future into our own hands and make our new land into a new Paradise, despite the savage grunting of the brute beasts who would destroy all civilisation in the name of so-called progress.”

  Henry Star sat back at his desk, signed to the boy to refill the speaker’s glass, third half-tumbler of the morning, long on whisky, short on water. Not an impressive seeming gentleman, hardly the model of the aristocrat, one might have thought - fat, red-faced, tub-thumping, and sent to him from New York with a letter of introduction from Colonel Miller. A ‘man of ideas’, it seemed, with ‘an original and daring plan’ which it might be proper to back financially, the Colonel to provide much of the
cash, Henry the knowledge and facilities.

  “So what precisely have you in mind, Mr Kirton, is it?”

  The letter had been carried in an inside pocket, was sweat-stained in places.

  “Geoffrey H. Kirton, Mr Star, an old name and proud of it!”

  Henry was not, in the nature of things, a repository of knowledge about the European aristocracy, but he could not quite place the name of Kirton amongst the great families. He smiled encouragingly, resigned to throwing away as much as five hundred dollars to get this drunken rabble-rouser off of his doorstep. His business with Colonel Miller gained him at least that much every week and it was, relatively speaking, a small price to pay.

  “Cuba, Mr Star! Held in thrall by the dastardly Spanish and ripe for liberation by the superior civilisation to their north! Rich in sugar and tobacco and, no doubt, a thousand other products, its mountains untapped treasure troves of every mineral known to man, waiting only to be discovered by the genius of the true white man!”

  Henry wondered, briefly, how Kirton knew of the existence of such treasures if they had not yet been discovered.

  “An expedition mounted out of New Orleans, Mr Star! A thousand bold men armed with Kentucky rifles would sweep the dagoes before them and the Kingdom of Cuba would be a reality inside a month!”

  A thousand men, each paid not less than fifty dollars a month; arms and powder and ball; food; clothing; shipping; medical staff; bribes to port officials and local lawmen. No change from one hundred thousands in the first month and at least sixty outgoing each month thereafter, and all falling down if just one Customs officer or sheriff or marshal would not be bought and alerted the Federal forces. Not bloody likely!

  “Are you sure that a thousand men could do the job, Mr Kirton? The Spanish must have thirty thousand in their garrisons, most of them with experience in the late war, and they could soon bring in more from Mexico and further south.”

  “Dagoes, Mr Star! One volley and they will be gone, no fear there, sir!”

  An hour of further discussion and Henry moved Mr Kirton along to his next appointment – he was a busy man, after all.

  A very few minutes decided Henry that he wanted no part of Kirton or his bold adventure. It was not the first such scheme he had heard of. Visionaries and crackpots, often one and the same, seemed to have a God-given right to take the Spanish lands and turn them into their own princedoms and arch-duchies, all in the name of progress and the ‘inevitable march of white, Anglo-Saxon civilisation’. Few of these gentlemen had active military experience and fewer still had any money, all they had to offer was nebulous leadership and all too concrete oratory, they could, and would, talk for hours.

  The law seemed to be that military expeditions were the exclusive preserve of the Federal Government, no matter who the target might be. The authorities were willing to turn a blind eye to ‘defensive’ raids upon the Indian tribes, but were less accommodating to potential attacks upon the Spanish, they having a substantially greater military than the United States.

  What should an honest, law-abiding, loyal gentleman do in such circumstances? Henry could see only one possible course, wondered whether he should send an anonymous letter or risk public exposure by appearing in person. Colonel Miller might be upset if his protégé was to be taken up and Henry was to swear evidence against him. It should be possible to make an arrangement with the authorities, to avoid the witness box, and he would build a store of credit with the local agents of the government.

  Henry strolled into the Federal building in the heat of mid-afternoon, a quiet time of day when the streets tended to be empty – there was no need to be too visible.

  “Mr Colcroft? I believe you to be a law officer, sir?”

  Colcroft was in his twenties, recently qualified and anxious to make a name and a fortune, an intelligent young man already known not to be overburdened with scruples that might delay his progress to Washington. He was dressed as a Northerner in drab, conservatively cut frockcoat, white shirt and black cravat, mutton chop whiskers and a grave cast of face – a true bureaucrat and an enemy to Southern honour and gentility. He admitted that he was in the employ of the United States.

  Henry outlined Kirton’s proposals, said he had been recommended to him by a business acquaintance who obviously wanted him off of his premises.

  “I sent him on his way, sir, but felt that it might be wiser if he were to be taken up. Not necessarily to be proceeded against, but warned as to the unwisdom of his conduct. I doubt we want warmongers here, sir.”

  “He is the third this year, Mr Star – it might be as well to make a public example of him, to make it clear that the United States is no wild colonialist by policy.”

  Henry shook his head, made a show of reluctance. “I would have slight wish to stand in court, sir. The name of ‘informer’ is not a desirable one for a businessman.”

  “You might, possibly then, wish to display your bona fides in some other fashion, Mr Star...”

  That sounded nasty. Henry chose not to understand, let Colcroft commit himself further.

  “Mr Kirton could, perhaps, fall into the river of a dark night, Mr Star, thus providing us all with a tidy end to his troubling and offering a hint to others of a like mind.”

  Henry demurred and Colcroft was forced to admit that government had been aware of Kirton’s activities for some few weeks and that he had, himself, been informed of his expected arrival in New Orleans and was under instructions to solve his problems.

  “You are an Englishman, Mr Star, by your accent, but obviously an American patriot as you are now showing. You could, perhaps, be thinking of Congress in a few years.”

  Wealth and a position in society and the friendship of the Federal authorities – very tempting, and who was Kirton, after all?

  Henry smiled and made his farewells, returned to his office and addressed a note to Kirton, begging his company for dinner on the following evening.

  Buy Kirton’s death or do it himself?

  Killing was cheap in the city – a hundred dollars, coins in hand, and he would be knifed in the street, in public view; two hundred and he would disappear, discreetly. The problem was, of course, that such a contract would open him to blackmail, killers rarely being gentlemen.

  Death by Henry’s own hand was in some ways safer, provided there were no witnesses who could be believed in court, and that could be arranged, with a little thought.

  The meal was very good; Henry had bought a well-trained cook earlier in the year as a business asset. The two ate shrimps and crab, pork and rare beef, rice and lightly fried or boiled vegetables bought at dockside from fast Northern schooners and the wines were, if not of the best, plentiful.

  “Faure’s warehouse, Mr Kirton, easy enough to find down on the waterfront, and containing a thousand English rifles, surplus to their army’s needs, which you might wish to inspect, military small arms and perhaps better suited to the battlefield than the longer barrelled Kentucky piece. A little discretion might be wise, sir – should we meet there, at, say ten o’clock tomorrow evening? If we find them suitable for your purpose we can soon come to an agreement.”

  Kirton was amenable, promised to be there, suggested it would be as well if he were to wear black, so as to be less visible.

  Henry agreed, black would be highly appropriate. He visited Faure, an acquaintance in the tobacco trade, next morning, paid him a hundred to give nothing away if Kirton should chance to make enquiries in advance, should ask about non-existent rifles, and returned home to make his preparations.

  His normal double-barrelled percussion pistol out of sight under his left arm, two eight inch single barrels butt forward at the hip, a broad-bladed knife in the small of his back, frontier style – not especially untoward on the New Orleans waterfront after dark where very few ventured empty handed. The knife would be preferable, all quiet and drawing no attention – not that there would be much heed paid to a fusillade of pistol shots, it would take a broadside of cannon to
cause eyebrows to rise on the waterfront. A townsman’s beaver hat, dark grey frockcoat, brown silk scarf to cover his shirtfront, he could have been anybody in the uncertain light of the few lanterns along the dockside.

  There was an inconvenient pair of lamps outside Faure’s which made Henry retreat fifty yards down the street, and there he found an aged, raddled working girl looking hopeful outside the most useful alley, one of the walls no doubt her place of business. He glanced around, could see nowhere better. He fished in his pocket, brought out five dollar coins – more than enough, she probably charged no more than ten cents for her services.

  “Can you find somewhere else to be tonight, lady?”

  She glanced at the coins, far too much for her silence, started walking.

  “Ain’t seen nothing nor heard nobody, mister. No need to send anybody to shut my mouth!”

  “Take the money, for Christ’s sake, you’ll come to no harm from me!”

  She muttered her thanks, stuffed the coins down her stained dress and ran, heading towards the nearest gin-seller.

  Henry eased carefully into the shadows at the mouth of the alley, alert in case she had a minder waiting there, but it was empty, she probably couldn’t earn enough to interest a pimp these days. He shrugged, thought he might have done the poor bag a favour if he had just quietly cut her throat.

  A cab drew up a hundred yards further down the road, two men waiting on the sidewalk until it had driven off, Kirton no doubt thinking he was being very discreet and conspiratorial in bringing his own guard with him. No sense in underestimating the fellow, he might not be quite as stupid as he seemed. Henry stared searchingly in the opposite direction, checking every patch of darkness for a second piece of security planted in advance, but he could see nothing. The pair set off towards him, the fatter figure of Kirton slightly in the rear. Henry drew the double-barrel.

  They came near to his cover, on the same side of the road as Faure’s, a pace between them, the sidewalk no more than ten feet distant from Henry. He triggered the upper barrel, a simple head shot for the unsuspecting heavy, then fired into Kirton’s body as he started to turn, reacting slowly for he was no man of violence himself, his battles had always been fought by others. Pocket pistol holstered carefully – he must not drop it, leave it at the scene – and he pulled out his left hand belt pistol, cocked it and stepped forward. Kirton was sat, bent over, clasping his belly, trying to find the wind to scream; a round down through the cup of neck and shoulder and he collapsed in an unmoving heap, dead or close enough to make no difference.