The Privateersman (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

  He must have a man, Martin said, a gentleman’s gentleman, a valet, a personal servant who would ensure that he was dressed correctly, because looking like a gentleman was often more important than acting like one. His valet, Martin warned him, would be a bully and an intrusive, interfering nuisance, but he would prevent him from making a fool of himself – there was nothing the shabby genteel loved more than mocking the gaucheries of the newly rich. The old landed gentry still possessed the political power that could make a newcomer’s life uncomfortable – they were the magistrates, their sons the lawyers and bankers and churchmen, and between them they could be a thorough nuisance – ostracising him socially, cold-shouldering him economically. If Tom wanted to straighten the course of a waterway, to build a new road or canal, to shift a public right-of-way, then he had to have the goodwill of his neighbours, and that meant that he must become part of their community. His valet was a vital part of this process of assimilation, so he should be chosen carefully – a man of much the same age as Tom, so as to have a good thirty years of service in him, knowledgeable in his trade and willing to spend most of his life in the country, for Tom would not really expect to grace fashionable London with his presence. With Tom’s permission, Martin would see to the process of hiring this paragon – not easy, but it could be done.

  Brown had appeared in December – short, slightly built, silent on his feet, dressed in unobtrusive blacks, he had a slight lisp, faded blue eyes and thinning fair hair, though barely Tom’s age, and some slightly effeminate mannerisms. He had been the victim of the local bullies all through his childhood and had been forced out of his village and into service as an indoor manservant at the earliest possible age – he could not have survived on a farm, country folk were vicious to those who did not fit in, who were in any way ambivalent. He had become footman in a larger house and then servant to an elderly member of the family living on the fringes of fashionable life, still remembering his past glories and dressing the part; he had learned the trade with him for three years and had left the family on the old gentleman’s death. Now he preferred to take service with a master who would live a country life – in Town a valet was not insignificant, but he was one of many while out on an estate he was the Master’s man, his confidant and worthy of respect from the tenantry, recognised and saluted by all. A country dweller of good lineage was his desired employer and Mr Andrews was one half of that, and by the time Brown had finished with him he would pass as a gentleman as well.

  Brown surveyed his new master and was not displeased with what he saw – he could make something of him. He was tall, topped six feet, a hand bigger than the average, which was always useful, particularly as he carried himself well, head high; strongly built, but not fat, yet – he would be, of course, in middle-age, but that was unavoidable – fourteen stone at a guess and broad on chest and shoulders, narrower at the hips, a good shape for a competent tailor to work on – he would have to be dressed plainly, severe, military in cut, being so big – Scott would be the man to take his measurements, he dressed all of the soldiers – they must go to London immediately because that frockcoat the master was wearing must never be seen by any discerning eye, it lacked only hayseeds! A pity about the scar across his face, but it added some slight distinction, he would be remembered by all who met him, and they would assume a military background; the hands, big, red and coarsened by work, would have to be covered by gloves whenever possible – a gentleman never performed any manual labour so his hands were pale and delicate, the nails perfect ovals – still, one could not have everything,

  “I believe, thir, that you will wish to purchase a wardrobe, thir, from new? In London, of courth.”

  “I have been informed that I must follow your advice in this, Brown, so I will do so. How do we go? Canal boat, mail coach, post chaise?”

  Brown permitted himself a smile – the master had a sense of humour and was not averse to showing it to his servant. The Accommodation Boats on the canals were in fact a very fast means of travel, but indiscriminate in their clientele, never used by the gentry, their single large cabin as likely to contain pigs and geese for market as people and invariably full of snotty-nosed, wailing infants. The Mail was uncomfortable with its rushed meals and halts for the convenience of the driver and no one else. Post chaise and four was the only possible means of travel for the rich, and sufficiently expensive to announce their wealth for them – the best rooms at the inns, good meals for the master and better for the man who would actually choose which hostelries to patronise on future journeys.

  “I will ask Mr Martin to write to his correspondent in Town to book a hotel thuite for uth for next week, thir – the Clarendon, I expect – it makes one’th standing clear to the tradesmen if they are directed to make deliveries to your thuite there.”

  Tom had never heard of the Clarendon, or any other hotel in London, was happy to do as he was bid.

  “Do you dance, thir?”

  “I have never had occasion to do so, Brown. Must I?”

  “Yeth!

  “Then I shall learn. How?”

  A dancing master was engaged and an elocutionist to remove the few lingering traces of a Dorset burr, to eliminate the odd Americanism and banish the very faint tinge of Lancashire that had crept upon Tom; it was imperative for the genteel and loyal to adopt the new Hanoverian accent that had developed in the past half-century. The old English was still to be heard, but it signified often a Jacobite hankering in its user, was viewed with distrust and must be avoided by newcomers to the ranks of the County.

  “Can you shoot, thir?”

  “With a pistol, very well. With a long gun, very poorly. Do you wish me to buy duelling pistols?”

  “No, thir – not unleth they become needed. What of riding to houndth, thir?”

  “I do not intend to – I am not that good a horseman, would only show myself up. The scar on my face will suffice there, Brown – you may let it be known that other wounds make me a weak rider.”

  “Very wise, thir, I do, very much, approve. I must know, thir, ath your valet, have you other woundth?”

  “Not really – a slash across the chest that was little more than a surface cut, less severe than the one to my face.”

  “Good, it will make my job thimpler, thir, if there ith nothing to cover up. You are to be correctly turned out at all timeth - you may theem conventional and stuffy, even – but that ith better than being rudely improper. You are a big man, thir, tho will dreth plainly – no jewellery other than a pin in the tie-cravat, and that not big. Black and white indoorth, brown and russet out, dull but neat and tidy and very clean and exact. To be blunt, thir, the County will visit you once, out of duty; if they detect vulgarity, they will not return. It ith up to you to fit in, thir. The butler will be of great help here, if he ith awake to hith trade he will know every gentleman within convenient travel of the house and will be able to advise me of their nature.”

  “And you will then forewarn me, Brown? So be it! Don’t hesitate to tell me when I am making a mistake, Brown – I may not love you for it, but you will not suffer for doing your proper job.”

  Tom did not enjoy London, it was a dirty, smelly, cold, wet unwelcoming town, its streets full of whores and pickpockets, its shops crammed full with goods he did not want, its people with a vast and totally unjustified good opinion of themselves; it claimed to be at the heart of civilisation – the same could have been said for Babylon.

  The cooking at his hotel was very good, the wines were outstanding, but he had better things to do with his days than spend them guzzling and gutsing at table. The tailor was civil and condescending, and made it clear that he would rather serve the gentry than mere businessmen, but he took Tom’s money although seeming to suggest that Mr Andrews was honoured to give it to him. The boot maker was much the same as he carved a pair of lasts to Tom’s feet and pledged himself to deliver boots, slippers, pumps and half-boots at soonest; haberdasher and hatter sniffed as they sold their best and too
k their cash – all of them sad little crawlers who did not realise just how weakly contemptible they were, natural born slaves allowed the illusion of freedom and making shackles for themselves. Tom found he had little love for the weaklings of the world, not having mixed with them sufficiently before to realise the fact.

  They had to stay at least two weeks in the Metropolis to allow the tailor time to make his deliveries; at Brown’s orders Tom was dressed in his first outdoor clothes and sent to walk in Bond Street and observe the gentlemen on the strut there, particularly to note the smart saunter, so different to his own businesslike march; he would need to cultivate such refinement. He found himself outside Manton’s Shooting Gallery as it came on to rain, ventured inside to see cases of the best-made pistols in the world, discovered that he could have pistols created to his own hand and specification. He wanted a good pair of pistols – not for any particular purpose but because he liked them and enjoyed the practice. The boy at the counter passed him onto his employer, one of the Manton brothers who personally supervised the construction of any specially ordered hand-guns.

  “If I may presume, sir, you would seem to have had military experience?”

  “A little, Mr Manton, a few years at sea, but they have left their mark on me. I left the sea at the end of the last war and have worked in iron and steel in St Helens since. My name is Andrews.”

  Only a few works made steel and it was reasonable to assume that a gunsmith would know them.

  “Proprietor of Roberts, I believe, Mr Andrews?”

  “I am, Mr Manton, and flattered to be known as such.”

  “Your name is known in London, sir – I believe, in fact, that you were mentioned to me recently as a depositor with the famous Martin’s Bank?”

  “You hear everything, it would seem, Mr Manton.”

  “My clientele includes probably the most distinguished gentlemen in the City, Mr Andrews – not merely the aristocracy – most matters of interest are discussed here at one time or another. I believe this to be your first visit to London, sir – are you expanding your business interests here?”

  “No, Mr Manton – my man has dragged me to a tailor – mere provincial cut will no longer suffice he informs me. I am moving out of the world of manufacturing to a great extent, am in process of purchasing an estate near Kettering.”

  “A wise move in many ways, Mr Andrews – land is cheaper at the moment than for many years and the war is closing European sources of wheat and barley to our traders. I believe that in recent years nearly one half of all the corn eaten in England came from the Germanies, but that can no longer be so.”

  “So wheat prices must rise, Mr Manton. It will be possible to buy from the States, I believe, but it will be some years before they grow sufficient for all our needs.”

  “I know that some wheat is being bought from the Black Sea, sir, but not a lot as yet and the Mediterranean is not a safe ocean for our traders. I have a pair of very heavy pistols here, Mr Andrews, ten gauge, the ball one and three fifths ounces. Would you care to try them out on my little range?”

  Tom smiled quietly – Manton was obviously making sure he could handle a heavy pistol before manufacturing a pair for him – he would not want complaints that his customer could not hit a target with his pair. They stood quietly near the firing point, waiting for two gentlemen to finish practising with light duelling pieces, shooting against each other on a small bet. Tom stepped forward, loaded and primed his pair.

  “On range, Mr Andrews,” Manton called, giving him the clear to fire and in passing informing the other two who he was. They glanced superciliously at the heavy, bulky pistols Tom was carrying, waited to see if he could hit the back wall with them.

  There were targets the size of playing cards at seven yards; Tom hit left and right from the hip, put the pistols down.

  “At twenty, perhaps, Mr Manton?”

  Two more wafers were set up at the end of the range and Tom reloaded and brought the pistols to shoulder height before firing this time, right hand then left, hitting both squarely.

  “Many years of practice, Mr Andrews?”

  “Inborn, Mr Manton – I could do this the day I first touched a hand-gun – how, I do not know. I would add, sir, that I am a hopeless shot with any sort of long gun – was I to go out for pheasants I would be better advised to sneak up upon them and club them with the butt!”

  One of the watching men smiled ruefully at that, commented that he had been about to beg the honour of being taught the knack.

  “I would do so happily, if I could, sir – but I do not know what it is – I see the target, whatever it may be, and the pistol puts itself upon it. All I can say is that I watch the target, not the pistol, and I rather doubt that that helps in the slightest!”

  “A pity, Mr Andrews, is it? My name is Ebchester.”

  Manton, a pace back, mouthed, ‘viscount’.

  “I am honoured, my Lord,” Tom bowed as Brown had taught him, took the hand offered him.

  “Mr Andrews, Mr Cooper,” Ebchester said, turning to his companion.

  They talked idly for a few minutes and then parted in friendly fashion.

  “Chatterboxes, Mr Andrews, fashionable young men with no occupation, they come in here a couple of times each week. They will tell others of their circle of meeting you, will name you as a particularly great shot and an acquaintance. It will do you no harm at all to have your name mentioned amongst their friends.”

  Manton called one of his boys to come with a pair of soft beech blocks and a sharp knife, trimmed them precisely to Tom’s hands, shaping them so that the pistol barrel would naturally follow the line of Tom’s forefinger; they would be kept for reference, the mahogany or teak or walnut grips being copied precisely from them.

  “A single, rifled, eight inch barrel in ten gauge, Mr Andrews? Three days to produce, for my boys keep themselves busy producing blanks for stock, though only a very few in ten gauge, and my spring maker produces a half dozen a day for the locks. All I have to do is supervise the assembly and truing of the pieces. Can you come in on Friday to test fire them, sir? I will take them to the Proof House in advance but it is best if we make sure they fit exactly to your hand. Will you wish to purchase fowling pieces as well, sir? No great point to building them for you, as you are no shot with a long gun, but guests are often pleased to be lent a Manton.”

  It was April before Tom finally reached his new home, the lawyers having created repeated delays, mainly relating to the incomplete enclosure, it being difficult to write a contract of sale on land whose boundaries were as yet only partially defined.

  The winter had been put to good use – it was naturally a slower time for building and the demand for roof trusses and pillars would always be slacker; this year there was virtually no demand at all, so Roberts was effectively shut down. Rather than dismiss his skilled, loyal hands, Tom rebuilt the furnaces and their sheds, modernising and tidying the rather haphazard collection of buildings that had grown up. The trackway was lifted and its bed was levelled and straightened and realigned and new tubs were constructed. The quarry was surveyed and cleaned up and a stockpile of worked ironstone was built up behind the furnaces. The new steam engines were installed, two of them in the second works, and Frederick Mason persuaded Tom to buy one of the new steam lathes, a great, slow monster that could bore out the barrel of a fortress gun or a piston to tolerances measured in tenths of an inch; they gained immediate orders for cannon, there being few of the lathes and a shortage of great guns of thirty two pounds or more. The navy in particular would snap up every nine foot barrel thirty-two pound chase cannon they could make – they were valuable guns that foreigners had none of. Joseph also took avail of the winter of the Depression, closing three of the mills he had bought, equipping two of them with ‘mules’ rather than frames to make finer grade threads and expanding the third to make better use of the strong-flowing river it stood on; he simply sacked all of their workers – they were only women and could be replac
ed on the instant when he opened again.

  The post-chaise came at first light and Tom left his old house with barely a pang, his few farewells said, his baggage sent ahead on a wagon; it had never really been a home to him, just a place to eat and sleep in between doing better things. It was a two day journey, the long first haul taking them to Birmingham then seven hours to Kettering and the hotel, a conference in the afternoon with Mr Telford, Martin’s correspondent, Thingdon Hall early next morning.

  Telford confirmed that all was in hand, payments received and made and Rockingham long gone.

  “Wells-next-the-sea, sir, in Norfolk, a very small town and port, sea-fishing and country walks to keep a retired gentleman occupied, sir. I expect he will buy his own boat to amuse himself in the summer months, very popular, yachting, sir.”

  “Has he connections there, Mr Telford?”

  “Why, no, sir, but his lawyer and I felt that he would be more comfortable there, where there was none to know of his fall. Besides, sir, I felt the sea air might be good for him.”

  He would embarrass none of them at a distance – much better for him to be well out of the way.

  “Thank you, Mr Telford. I am obliged to you, sir.”

  Rockingham had been a great man in the area and now was nothing. He had lost his power and was now as one dead and buried, to be referred to rarely and in a hushed voice – he was in fact less than nothing. It was a good lesson to remember, Tom realised – they lived in a pragmatic world, one that responded to today’s reality not to yesterday’s illusions of glory – the treatment meted out to their poor, mad king reflected this.

  Telford agreed when he commented that ‘the king was dead; long live the king’.

  “Exactly, sir. The Thingdon Estate survives and awaits its new master and has few memories of the old, other than people he has left behind him. All debts have been cleared, sir, as far as possible; the Jews are satisfied – have sent a polite message thanking you for the speed of your payment, very welcome in these troubled times; the lawyers have been silenced, their mouths gagged by great gobbets of gold. There will be some debts outstanding, however – some of them simply overlooked, oddments here and there, five and ten pounds to this tradesman or that, insignificant to us but important to them. A few accounts will exist but will not have been presented – tenant farmers who have sold a load of brewing barley to the kitchens, or a beef cow or a dozen geese and will tend to be shy of dunning the master, not unreasonably. They must be sought out.”