A Parade Of Virtue (A Poor Man At The Gate Series Book 9)

by Andrew Wareham

  One of the leaders drew his tulwar and rode at Wolverstone, dancing his horse in close, skilful in the saddle. Wolverstone was less of a horseman, but recalled all of his skills with the sabre, parrying the blow from the straight sword then thrusting home above the ornate breastplate the Maratha wore.

  "Got the bugger! Grab that horse, Mahesh! Spoils of war - a beautiful beast!"

  Old habits resurged rapidly.

  Wolverstone sheathed his sabre, slightly apologetically, but he felt alive again, unlike his latest antagonist.

  "Clears the mind of all of its cares, a good fight, what, Cornet?"

  "Yes, sir. Do you know, sir, I think that they might have been trying to give up, to surrender."

  "Too late, sir! Surrender before the cavalry charges - procrastination is an evil indeed when a lance is pointing at you. If I might offer a little of practical advice, young man, I would examine the bodies quite closely to check that none are alive. You might take the opportunity to collect a souvenir or two - that fellow seems to be wearing a most interesting ring, for example."

  Cholmondeley had not realised that looting the dead was allowed, but he took to it as to the manner born.

  The little campaign came to an end with that engagement. There were, no doubt, some hundreds, possibly thousands, of individuals left alive, but they had the problem of getting home across nearly two hundred miles of land they had made very hostile to them. Few might expect to survive the attentions of the angry ryots, and they would be well advised to lie very low when they returned, for defeated soldiers make good scapegoats for rajahs determined to display their loyalty to their British masters.

  "What will you do now, Colonel Wolverstone?"

  The governor was very pleased with himself - his initiative in taking Wolverstone aboard had paid dividends.

  "Rebuild the regiments while waiting for my permanent replacement, sir. There will be much to be done. The Indian officers did very well, sir, and should, if at all possible, be given real responsibility - they are loyal and capable, sir. After that, sir - there will be three, possibly four hundreds of recruits to bring into the ranks, a worthwhile job. I owe you thanks, sir - for I was close to despair and might have dwindled into no more than a self-pitying sot. Now I will live a useful life instead, returning to the firm in time and ready to make a profitable one!"

  "Are you sure that we should give real responsibility to the Indian officers? What if they rise in religious frenzy again?"

  "They will not if they are looked after properly, sir. Pay them, give them prestige - fine uniforms and places of real authority. Keep the Hindus and Moslems separate, of course - no mixed regiments."

  "Of course! If the Moslems rise then the Hindus will aid us to crush them, and vice versa. It will be difficult indeed to offend both simultaneously."

  Book Nine: A Poor Man

  at the Gate Series

  Chapter Four

  "There is a man at the gate, Sir William. He wants to see you, says he's an old work-mate, sir."

  A navvy, then, he had worked with none other - fallen on hard times perhaps and looking for a hand-out. Always possible to pick up an injury that meant an end to working the roads and canals, and there was precious little else open for a navvy. Perhaps a man who was simply too old for the life - turned forty and the work very rapidly became too much for most men as the back-ache became intolerable.

  "Did he give a name, Malcolm?"

  The junior gate guard had not thought of anything as complicated as discovering the man's identity.

  "Not to worry! I'll come across just as soon as I've finished this letter. Take him in out of the rain and give him a cup of tea."

  "Right, Sir William. I'll tell 'im you'll come to see 'im, shall I?"

  "That's right, Malcolm. Off you go."

  Had he been any more stupid he would not have been capable of keeping the gate; had he been less so he would have taken a better job.

  The letter - a routine report to a customer who had a ship due to be handed over in two months - took another five minutes. For some reason customers liked to have letters penned in his own hand rather than written by a clerk - it was a minor nuisance, but it all helped persuade men of business to come to the Roberts Yard and then return for their next order.

  It was only a few yards from the new offices to the gatehouse, but it was raining heavily so he delayed to put his frieze coat on. It would be cold in the gatehouse in any case - they did not waste money on coals during daylight hours.

  There was a tall, lean fellow, a bit older than him, in his late thirties, maybe younger; the navvy's life, the unbroken toil and the huge consumption of booze, gave an appearance of age to any man. He was vaguely familiar, he had seen him before somewhere, must have sweated with him on one job or another... on a canal, he seemed to remember, one of the first contracts he had ever worked, fifteen years and more ago.

  "Dick Wilshere, Sir William."

  That was him, 'Spotted Dick', because he liked suety puddings, or so they said...

  "Just finished a job, Sir William, not so far north of here, thought I might drop in while I'm looking for someplace to put up over winter. To be straight, I ain't goin' back to the gang in spring. I can't for buggering me 'and, look."

  He displayed his left arm, taking it out of his pocket to show two missing fingers, two twisted and broken.

  "Bloody rock fall, working a tunnel, two years back. Never got right, lost one finger, then six months afterward the other bugger started to go black as well. The breaks wouldn't set straight, either. Had to be done three times before they got this good. Ganger let me work at the powder shed, making up the blasting charges and standing guard, like. Paid 'alf wages, which was better than sod all. But that job's finished now. That's when I remembered you and thought we might want to talk over old times like. Do you recall when we worked side be side over towards Stafford?"

  Sudden comprehension - Spotted Dick was here for a mite of blackmail, the little bastard! He could name a witness or two, quite probably, and make life very difficult indeed - if he did not want too much then it might be wise to pay him off.

  "What's the time, Dick?" He made a play of consulting his watch, solid gold, rich, heavy. "A bite to eat, I should reckon - there's a chophouse down the road I sometimes use. We could take a snap and talk about our past, eh, Dick?"

  Dick thought that to be an excellent idea.

  "What was 'is name now, Willy, that big bloke?"

  "Pincher Martin, as I recall, Dick. Twenty stone of 'im and a bad 'un with it, forever throwing 'is weight about."

  "And you 'ad a gutful of it, and called him one fine afternoon, wi' eighteen inches of lead pipe, filled with sand and the ends closed and tucked up your sleeve. Must 'ave been two dozen men watchin', I can put me tongue to most of their names still. Pincher threw a punch, would 'ave knocked yer block clean off, but you ducked and swung up between 'is legs, all yer weight behind it. Bent him over double and then you cracked 'im one on the nape of the neck - bust it clean, dead before 'e 'it the ground. Fair fight, so we all said, but I dunno what they might call it down at Bow Street, Willy."

  "Kept it in mind ever since, I suppose, Dick?"

  "Not really, Willy. Suppose I never forgot, well, you don't forget somethin' like, that, do yer? But, seein' as 'ow I got barely ten quid in me pocket and winter's comin' in, I just thought you might like to look after me a bit."

  "Night watchman? We've been thinking about putting on a second man. Stop the mudlarks from nesting up in the cabins on the ships on the fitting-out wharf. Bloody kids really make a mess of them."

  "Nah, I was thinkin' more of becomin' a man of leisure in me old age, Willy. A little cottage down by the sea towards Deal or just round there, three or four quid a week in me pocket, and a little bit of a boat all of me own. I come from them parts, years back, did a bit of fishin'. when I were a boy. Just settle back down nice and comfortable-like."

  "That will cost a bit, and will take a week or
two to arrange, Dick."

  "So it will, my old mate. I shall take my leave of you for today, Willy. Say I comes back to see 'ow things are progressin', two weeks today, do you think?"

  "Not to the yard - you might cause a bit of talk. To my house would be better."

  "And would my lady want to 'ave my sort in 'er front room, Willy?"

  "No, but she will have to put up with it for the once."

  What to do? A hundred pounds to buy and furnish a cottage on the foreshore. Two hundred a year in his pocket, rising over time as he got greedy, or perhaps found a wife and had children to keep. Once he started paying it would never end. Killing the man was no solution, simply because it was too great a risk - Sir William was far too well known to go sneaking through the alleys of the night with a bludgeon in his hand.

  Spotted Dick had been wise enough not to give an address, but stupid to set a date for his next visit. He was illiterate, almost of a certainty. He had made no mention of letters to be sent to Bow Street or to an attorney of his choice, so he would be relying on a verbal denunciation if he was taken up by the authorities.

  He needed advice, and knew of no safe source for it.

  His assistant manager of four years, Mr McGregor, was an intelligent engineer, but he knew little of the wider world. He had led a sheltered life, in fact, was hardly fit to be let out of doors on his own. He must do something about that one day - Milly's youngest sister was rising seventeen, he thought, and must soon be in the way of looking for a husband, could well be pointed in the right direction. But that was not today's question. No help from McGregor in any delicate matter.

  He sat silent over his dinner, brooded afterwards, taking a rare glass of gin and water to help him think.

  "What is it, husband?"

  He did not seem to hear.

  "'A trouble shared is a trouble halved', so they say, William."

  It had not occurred to him to speak to Milly about the problem - she was bright and very willing to do all she could for him, but she had little understanding of the law, or of the lawless world of the navigators.

  Why not? She was utterly trustworthy, had a right to know, probably. He explained briefly - he had been attacked by a far bigger man, had defended himself and the attacker had died. Many years after the event it would be possible to prove that he had killed the man, difficult indeed to demonstrate self-defence. He was at risk, and he was facing blackmail.

  She knew that her William was no murderer - that went without saying.

  "Pay once and you will pay for the rest of your life, William. Besides, why should you be bled? Best thing would be a lawyer, so I think. But not a local attorney. Who was that man my lord spoke of once?"

  "Mr Michael - last year it was, when we had a customer who was a little shy when it came to paying for the ship he had ordered. You remember the gentleman, Milly? The one who thought that we might like to wait a year while the ship earned money for him which he could then use to persuade his bank to make a loan of its price."

  "Your lawyer had the cash in his hand in three weeks, did he not?"

  "He did, though how I know not. I will go into Town tomorrow, pay him a visit."

  Mr Michael steepled his fingers, leaning back in his chair, a picture - carefully posed - of wisdom.

  "You were subjected to assault, Sir William, threatened repeatedly, and stood up to the bully. Self-defence, but very difficult in court, because it smacks of making an honourable, but unlawful, challenge to a duel. Duelling, of course, is now wholly unacceptable to the courts in England, though less so in Ireland... but I digress!"

  Michael smiled apologetically, called to the boy for tea, waited until the tray had been brought into his office and the door was closed again - a thick, soundproof door, Sir William observed.

  "After so many years the witnesses would be contradictory - no man's memory can be trusted at such a distance, and it would be none too difficult to muddy the waters... I could defend you and would have a good chance of success, but I would rather take other, wholly certain, measures. I have contacts with different offices of government, made on behalf of my lord, the details of which really are no concern of yours, Sir William, but may be used to the advantage of the firm and the family. You are not an Andrews born, but you are one of us, Sir William, that I can certainly say."

  Michael scowled - he did not like blackmail, a low form of crime, unmanly in its nature.

  "When your man comes to you have fifty sovereigns in gold to hand, as a payment in earnest of good intentions, and tell him that you have located a cottage and will have it purchased within the month, then send him off to his lodgings. My people can see to the rest, Sir William."

  Spotted Dick appeared on his day and took his money - a sufficiently large sum to show good faith - no man would throw as much as fifty pounds away. He trotted off, chuckling, hand clenched tight in his pocket, purse safely held. He did not notice the three men who took it in turns to follow him and who watched him into the respectable lodging house where he had a room, safely anonymous, he thought.

  Captain Eustace Hood, performing the little commission for Michael, held back out of sight, turned to his senior helper.

  "Find out the name he is using, if you would be so good, John."

  John was a respectable-seeming fifty year old, dressed as a small shopkeeper or clerk, unremarkable and with a trustworthy face - middle-aged ladies took to him on sight.

  He knocked on the door, smiled his kindest at the respectable widow.

  "I do beg your pardon, ma'am, but I thought I saw my late partner's son enter your house just now. Was that Mr Richard Jones I saw?"

  "No, I am sorry, sir. That was one of my lodgers. I let rooms you know." She smiled hopefully, but he did not take the bait. "No, that was Mr Dorset, who has been with me for three weeks nearly now."

  John reported back with the information.

  "Using a false name. Excellent. Not in itself illegal, of course, but can be used to show dishonest intent. Not an Irishman, which is a pity, because one can always find a Paddy to be attempting to subvert the established order. What do you suggest, John? A pistol in his pocket - I have one with me - and fifty gold sovereigns besides. My first thought would be an assassin out to kill Mr Peel, for his police force. Maybe a lunatic who wishes to rid the world of the king - though why that should suggest he was mad, I know not."

  John, a sober-sided, conventional man, frowned at such disrespect.

  "A Ranter, sir, one who opposes Catholic Emancipation and has it in mind to purchase barrels of gunpowder, hence the gold. A latter-day Guy Fawkes."

  "Very good, John. Reason to hold trial in secret, not wishing to encourage others of like mind. Take him up tomorrow morning, John, as soon as he stirs out of the house. Bring him to the court at Bow Street. I shall be there in advance and will prime the magistrate and we shall have him immediately found unfit to plead due to mental incapacity. Thence to stand before a judge, in closed court, who will exercise mercy and send him to an asylum rather than to trial, being that he is not in his right mind. As he is certainly mad the judge will ignore his ravings, poor man."

  "Beg pardon, sir, but how do we prove him mad? And, sir, do we not need a jury?"

  "We do not need to act publicly, John. There are provisions for the expeditious despatch of the embarrassing. The magistrate will cooperate, having been told that the demented and deluded felon in front of him has threatened to blow up His Majesty, who yet wishes to offer clemency to the poor fellow. That once done, he has already been found insane, so the judge will not question the fact, will be concerned to maintain order and to put the unfortunate chap into a place of safety far from London."

  "So off he will go to Botany Bay, all quiet and peaceful like."

  "No, better not risk him being in contact with others who might repeat his stories. The judge as well will like to see him given help and protection rather than punishment. He can go north to Willis' madhouse in York. Willis is short of the readies,
has been for years - he is still waiting to be paid his fees for the treatment of the late King. He will happily take on a paying customer, no questions asked. He may well try to cure him of his delusions as well."

  Four days later Mr Michael came to the shipyard in person, saying that he had never visited and had always wished to, steam being the base of the modern age. He took a tour of the yard, asking the occasional question and showing an intelligent but utterly ignorant interest.

  "Oh, whilst I think of it, Sir William, the man with the soubriquet of 'Spotted Dick' was recently found to be violently insane and has been put away in a place of refuge, poor man. Captain Eustace Hood, who I believe you know of, came across him and found it necessary to take action. So unfortunate, but such as he could not be left to walk the streets unchecked, you know! My lord is aware of his existence and has taken charge of the cost of keeping him locked away - for the rest of his natural life, of course."

  Sir William made his thanks, the overcoat of Roberts drawn close about him yet again. He would tell Milly that she had been perfectly right - any problem he had, he should immediately take to the firm, they would always look after him.

  "Tell me, Sir William, what is this strange seeming ship building here?"

  "One for a customer who came with his own set of specifications, Mr Michael. He is in the timber trade, has his deals brought from Sweden and Russia into his yard near Newcastle, the old sailing ships still on that run. He wishes to bring a substantial tonnage to London - the building trade is ever busy here - so a ship with an expanse of flat deck for long timbers and its own derricks was what he came up with. He has paid well, and the customer is king, or so it is said, but I am not convinced that steam engines and cargoes of timber mix in a satisfactory fashion. I fear that he may well see a flaming ship before too many voyages have passed. But, that is his affair, provided she sails up to Newcastle to be handed over - and she will do that, have no fear!"