by Edward Cline
The lieutenant let go of his cane and the Scotsman’s grip loosened. The officer then threw off the hold on his wrist with a contemptuous jerk and swept his hand down to the hilt of his sword.
“Stop.”
One of the patrons stepped out of the breathless crowd, an older man in a plain tricorn and a magnificent white wig, wearing a cape of heavy gray silk with a fur collar. His gray, deep, intelligent eyes were fixed not on the lieutenant, but on Blair, and they glittered with triumph. His face was rough-hewn, but placid and restrained.
The lieutenant glowered at him. “Stay out of this, sir. This is navy business.” He turned to face Blair again and drew his blade out half its length.
“I say, stop,” insisted the stranger.
“Who’s to stop him?” sneered one of the seamen.
A voice in back of the stranger said, “Rear Admiral Sir Francis Edward Harle.”
The officer paused in his action. Jack Frake lowered his shovel, and discovered that his throat was dry and that he could hear his pounding heart. The stranger reached up, undid a hook, and shook off his cape, which one of his companions caught and folded over his arm. He indeed wore the uniform of a rear admiral. Its brilliant blues and yellows seemed to light up the room as no number of candles could. The press-gang stepped back, and the crowd, now completely on its feet, inched forward. The lieutenant blinked, blushed, let his sword fall back into its sheath, and stood at attention.
He said, “I humbly beg your pardon, milord.”
“‘Sir’ will do,” said Harle. He nodded at Blair. “This man interests me, Lieutenant…?”
“Lieutenant Timothy Farbrace, of His Majesty’s ship of the line Rover, sir.”
“Captain Weekes, is it?” queried the admiral congenially.
“Yes, sir.”
“A fine man, Weekes. A fine ship, the Rover. I recommended Captain Weekes myself, you know.”
The lieutenant replied, “We have the honor of serving under him, sir, and thank you.”
“Just in from convoy duty, Mr. Farbrace?”
“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant saw a look of expectancy on the admiral’s face, and went on. “We took a prize just two days’ sail from Land’s End, the Durand, a privateer foolish enough to try to pounce on one of the slower merchantmen. We raked her with a single cannonade, and picked off half her crew with small arms before boarding her. We suffered only a broken spar or two, and a jib, which we repaired at sea. And one gun of ours was knocked out. The Durand has been towed to Plymouth, where she’ll be refitted.” The lieutenant paused. “She was originally the Gallant, sir, one of our own, captured by the Spanish some years ago.”
“Well done, Mr. Farbrace,” said the admiral. He glanced at the press-gang. “No doubt you lost crew in the engagement?”
“Yes, sir. That is why we are on this, er, recruiting mission, sir, to keep up a full complement. Captain Weekes took a ball in the leg, but he’s recovering. I’m sure he would be honored by a visit from the Admiralty, sir.”
Admiral Harle shook his head. “I must decline your invitation, Mr. Farbrace, as I am on urgent business here. Just passing through on tour of the ports in this vicinity. Wee Charley has agents planted in the most unlikely places. But please give Captain Weekes my sincerest regards.” He paused, and nodded at Blair. “This man interests me. With your permission, I should like to interrogate him.” The lieutenant’s permission was not necessary, but Harle did not want to further humiliate him.
“Of course, sir.”
“I believe I have first claim on this man, Sir Francis!” interjected a figure that shouldered its way through the crowd.
Admiral Harle turned to the speaker, a squat, ugly man who stood squinting greedily at Blair. “And you are…?”
“Henoch Pannell, Commissioner Extraordinary of His Majesty’s Revenue.” Pannell paused to bow perfunctorily. “I have a letter of authority, signed by Mr. Pelham himself, to seize any person who I suspect is an associate of Augustus Skelly, or who can give me information leading to his arrest and trial.” Henry Pelham was first lord of the treasury, and de facto prime minister.
“Skelly?” replied the admiral. “The smuggler?”
“And murderer, and deserter, and outlaw — ”
“And I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, also, Mr. Pannell,” said the admiral with a chuckle. “I too have a warrant from Mr. Pelham giving me authority to seize any person whom I suspect to be an agent of Charles Edward Stuart, or a French agent, or an agent of the Associators, or anyone having Jacobite connections or sympathies.” He smiled with charming but pointed benevolence at Pannell. “Somewhat broader a mandate than your own, you must admit.” Harle sighed. “But don’t envy me, Mr. Pannell. My colleagues in the Admiralty seem to think I possess the power of Jesus, and have instructed me to ensnare and route the alien money-changers in our midst.” He stepped closer to Blair’s table and picked up his book. “Ah! I thought I recognized this from across the room! Les Lettres persane, by Charles-Louis Secondat, Baron de la Brède et de Montesquieu. A Dutch printing, too. Not of English manufacture. How treasonable,” he remarked with alacrity. He flipped through a few pages, and gently put the book back. “You read French, sir. Can you speak it?”
“A little, sir,” replied Blair. “What tradesman can’t speak a little of it? We’ve had so much commerce with the French lately.”
“No doubt you refer to our commerce of lead and iron.” Harle turned to Pannell. “And, he’s a wit, too, Mr. Pannell. Very tart… very quick… very interesting… ” he added, more to himself than to his rival.
“May I point out, Sir Francis,” said Pannell, “that it is not likely that this man has any Jacobite connections or sympathies. I have reason to believe that this person is Rory O’Such, Skelly’s chief lieutenant. His information — properly extracted — could reveal the exact location of the gang’s headquarters.”
“What is your name, sir?” asked the admiral of Blair.
“Matthew Blair,” said the man with a brief bow of his head. “I am a representative of the Bristol firm of Reddick and Eppes, iron fabricators. I am awaiting a shipment of Massachusetts pig, which is to be cast into moulds for the manufacture of various naval supplies for the Portsmouth docks, per agreement with my firm and the ironmonger in this town, Mr. Gill. The pig was purchased by our agent in Boston.”
“Have you documents to prove your association with Messrs. Reddick and Eppes?”
“Yes, sir. They are in my room. I have been lodging here, awaiting the shipment.”
“He’s lying!” said a stout man who pushed his way to the front of the circle of spectators. “I’m Gill, and I never heard of this man or Reddick or Eppes!”
Henoch Pannell barked once in jubilant laughter. “Thank you, Mr. Gill! You see, Sir Francis, this man may also match the description of Rory O’Such given to me by people in these parts. I wish to detain him and collect those witnesses.”
Blair smiled at Pannell. “If you had suspicions about me, Mr. Pannell, why did you not act sooner?”
“Because you did not speak, sir, and you sat in shadow, and I was biding my time for my own official reasons.”
“A rather fanciful explanation for poor industry,” remarked Blair.
“His verve is well matched to his riposte. Certainly not the humor of a mere smuggler, Mr. Pannell,” said Harle to the Commissioner, who was not sure whether the admiral was patronizing him or conversing with him. “Listen to that brogue — and what a tale it told!” said Harle with some amusement. “What do you think? Scots-Irish? It would account for the outlandish name you claim is his real one. I’ll wager his grandfather was an Ulster Scot in debt to Cromwell.”
“Whatever his antecedents, Sir Francis, he must be a Skelly man. I’ve trod every stone on this coast looking for a trace of the gang. They’re very crafty and have the citizens of this region so affrighted that it’s been difficult to find a man or woman brave enough to speak.” As he sensed an indifference to his ef
forts, Pannell added, “Skelly’s depredations rob His Majesty’s government of much-needed revenue. I’m sure the Admiralty can appreciate that.”
Harle shrugged. “It is widely known that expenditures on revenue collection of the kind in which you are presently engaged mostly exceed the revenue collected.”
Pannell stiffened and stood his ground. “I am not responsible for that paradox, Sir Francis. I am merely performing my duty.”
“Ah, duty!” exclaimed the admiral. “We have been at war a month, Mr. Pannell. In addition to the Scottish element, you must know that a number of Irish renegades, slavers and privateers operate out of France, and some were no doubt intimately linked with Louis’s plans to force the Young Pretender on England. These privateers prey on our shipping and deprive us of much more revenue than you could ever dream of recovering.”
“Perhaps, Sir Francis.”
“And you must be aware of the fact that in times of war, military concerns supersede domestic, and that is where your duty consequently lies.”
“I am not aware of that, Sir Francis. It would be an interesting matter to submit to Mr. Pelham and Mr. Pitt, don’t you think?”
“No doubt. However, as that is not a practical alternative at the moment, may I suggest that we repair to a more private circumstance to argue our points and interview our subject properly?”
“The undersheriff and bailiff are in Falmouth at Quarter Sessions, Sir Francis. But the constable is home and has a jail back of his house. His wife is a fair cook and can fix you what you could not finish here.”
“Excellent idea, Mr. Pannell.” Harle turned to the officer. “Mr. Farbrace, would you and your worthies be so kind as to escort us and the prisoner to the constable’s home? Mr. Pannell here will show us the way.”
“My pleasure, sir,” said the officer. He waited until the admiral had donned his cape again, then he glanced at Jack Frake. “But what of this scullion dog, sir? He assaulted one of my party, and that’s a civil offense. I would be satisfied with impressment. We lost a powder monkey taking the Durand, and he looks limber enough.”
Harle studied Jack Frake for a moment, and smiled at him. “Good work, lad. Some day you may want to defend your country with the same vigor.” He turned to the officer. “No, Mr. Farbrace,” said the admiral, shaking his head. “We owe a debt of thanks to the boy for having provoked Mr. Blair into revealing himself to us. ’Twas a noble gesture on both their parts, wouldn’t you say? Leave him be. If your man wishes to pay his anger, let it be to the French or Spanish, before they do him worse than this boy could.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Cuff the prisoner for Mr. Pannell’s ease of mind, and let us be on our way.”
The lieutenant turned and nodded to a seaman, who produced handcuffs. Blair held out his wrists and the cuffs were snapped on. “Find a physician in this town and have him see to Jones,” said Farbrace, glancing at the injured bosun. Then he picked up his cane and faced Blair. “After you, sir.”
“You’re a lucky man, Mr. Farbrace,” remarked Blair.
“If you’re not indefinitely detained by Sir Francis or Mr. Pannell, we’ll see what you have to say about my luck.” Farbrace’s sight fell on the book on his prisoner’s table. With his cane he swept it off, then kicked it down the aisle. “Foreign trash!”
The bosun followed the group out with a limp. Before he got to the door, he turned and glared at Jack Frake. “Don’t let me catch you out-a-doors, scullion,” he growled, “or you might find yerself at sea without a keel!”
When the inn’s doors closed behind them, the Sea Siren’s patrons resumed their revelry. Jack Frake stood with some amazement as the men and women picked up songs and conversations where they had been left off, as though nothing of dire importance had occurred, as though the wind had blown open the doors and caused confusion and temporary discomfort. Some patrons stared at him with curious looks. He turned and gathered together Blair’s book, brass box, and shards of pipe to put them with his own things. The book’s spine was broken by the lieutenant’s boot. Still, he treated it as though it were a valuable object.
The army sergeant rose and ambled over to him, frowned, and with a slight bow, handed him a shilling. Jack Frake studied the man’s face, which bore the healed furrow of a musket ball on his forehead and a saber scar on one cheek. “Take it, son,” said the man, “and you don’t have to sign up, either. Them tars call us dogs, too.” The sergeant winked at him, then strode out of the inn.
Hiram Trott waved him into the kitchen and scolded the boy. “That was a foolhardy thing to do, damn you! You don’t never tell a press-gang its business! And particularly not an officer!”
“I told him a fact,” stated the boy.
“Well, the fact didn’t sit well with him, did it? And it wasn’t a fact, was it? Blair’s some kind of impostor, and he’s been having us on all this while!” Trott glared down at Jack Frake. “If it weren’t for his lordship the admiral, your head would be broke and they’d be rowing you out to the Rover! And they could’ve taken me as well, damn you! The navy ain’t got so many cooks they wouldn’t have no use for me!”
“They’d no right to kidnap him, or me, or anyone.”
Trott threw up his hands. Underneath his automatic assumption of the boy’s ignorance, lay a kernel of resentment of his innocence. “Kidnap? They got the right and the law to do it, and there ain’t no use arguing about it! If you don’t like it, go introduce a bill in Parliament!”
“Will they let him go?”
“You heard the officer, lad! If he ain’t who his lordship or Pannell is looking for, off he goes to sea! The gang got first dab on him. And that officer’ll want to break him now.” Trott frowned. “Now get back to work! We’re lucky that gent didn’t get to tumble with that officer. I got broken furniture the last time the gangs were here.”
It was a lesson most men do not learn at all; or if they do learn it, forget under the pressures, burdens or lures of the banal distractions of life. To Jack Frake, it did not matter which a mob took first, with or without his consent: a man’s fence, or his physical body. A fence, after all, had a purpose, and would not exist but for one’s body having built it; it was, in a sense, an extension of it. Did it matter if one’s body were left free to erect fences, only to have them seized at any time, for any reason? How could one go on erecting fences, or producing anything, if that likelihood always hovered in the air? How could one tolerate the likelihood, or submit to it as though it were a mere cold?
He did not dwell on the subject of the seizure of one’s person; it was, to him, so self-evident an evil that it did not merit elaborate analysis.
It was hours later, after the inn was closed for the night and the Trotts had retired upstairs, that Jack Frake posed these issues and questions to himself. He sat on a stool in front of the fireplace, alone in the room. He was supposed to have let the fire die out, but he added a few pieces of wood to it, because he was restless, and wanted to think.
There was something extra in the make-up of grown men that allowed them to live with the evil he had witnessed this evening… or something missing, as though it, too, had been seized in some mysterious way. And there was inside himself something he did not share with any of them, perhaps because he had not allowed it to be seized. At first he felt a pang of loneliness and the prospect of a kind of exile from normal association with his fellow human beings. But this was followed by a gripping, steely sense of loneness — not solitude, but a distinctive grasp of his existence — the kind which eventually breeds the conscious conviction that whatever the difference between one’s self and others, one would never allow one’s self to be taken away, or diluted, or tamed.
The light of the flames, friendly, animate companions to his thoughts, danced over the grave lines of his young face. He turned his hands over and examined them. They were his hands, hands that had taken up a weapon to combat an injustice. He did not think it was so remarkable a thing to have done; that is, his deed thi
s evening was not their sole glory. He was sure there was more to himself than that. Someday, he knew, he would be able to express what it was.
He pondered the fate of the mysterious Mr. Blair. He could think of no explanation for the man’s behavior, either this evening or over the course of the last week and a half. But he was the second man to come to his defense at mortal jeopardy to himself. For reasons he could not yet identify, he had felt a fellowship with the man even before Blair confronted the officer.
It was quiet in the Sea Siren, and quiet outside. Jack Frake put on his jacket and hat, went out through the kitchen door, and strode around the inn to Jetty Street. The street was lit by cressets, one to a block. At the far end, one stood near the entrance to St. Brea’s Church, whose tower was invisible in the night. Small, wet bits of cold fell gently on his face and melted, and he realized that it was snowing. He thought he saw some movement in the deep blackness farther down the street, but he could not be sure. Bob had told him this evening that the press-gangs would be busy until they were satisfied with the number and kinds of men they seized; wise men, whatever their station, would stay indoors until the warship departed for its home port.
A mad idea occurred to Jack Frake: he could accomplish two acts of justice tonight — deliver his note about Isham Leith to the vicar of St. Brea’s, and perhaps rescue Blair from the constable’s jail.
The first task was easy enough. He located the rectory in back of the church. It was more sumptuous than Parson Parmley’s, built of cut stone. All its lights were out but one. He went to the front door, took out his note, and slipped it under the carved oaken portal. On the door was a brass knocker. He reached up, took hold of it, and banged it three times. Then he turned and ran.
