The King's Bounty

by Sara Fraser

He passed the cup to William Seymour. The cavalryman’s lean features were completely relaxed, so confident was he that his luck would hold. Smiling easily, he shook and threw.

  ‘A six and a five . . . That totals eleven, gentlemen,’ he said quietly, and felt as if a supra-natural agency was at his elbow, influencing the fall of the dice in his favour.

  ‘My congratulations, Mr Seymour,’ Portugal John told him affably. ‘In all honesty I do not mind if I lose now, for to me the greatest satisfaction is seeing that that accusing cousin of mine has been already bested,’ he sneered viciously at Levi. ‘I thought you said that God would cause the dice to fall for you so that you would win, Cousin Levi. It proves what a liar you are.’

  Levi raised his small plump fists, as if to strike the other, forcing Seymour to intervene again, and as he did so, Portugal John switched the dice once more for yet a third set.

  ‘You see how he reacts, Mr Seymour,’ Portugal John said, when Levi was pushed back into his seat. ‘He hates to be beaten, this one.’ Carelessly he rattled the dice once only and tossed them on to the table.

  Seymour watched them bounce once, twice, three times, four times, five times and come to rest directly in front of him.

  ‘Two sixes!’

  Even as he breathed the words a stunning unbelief at what he saw overwhelmed him. ‘Two sixes! A score of twelve! But I was meant to win!’ a voice screamed in his mind. ‘It was I who was meant to win! This isn’t possible! It’s not happening! It’s not happening!’

  ‘Twelve! I’ve thrown twelve!’ Portugal John crowed in delighted surprise. ‘Now, Cousin Levi, what do you say to that? Tell me, who did God protect, you or I? That shows you that I did not cheat you in Antwerp, does it not? If I had cheated you as you thought, then God would not have allowed me to win, would He?’

  With a great show of reluctance and with very bad grace, Aaron Levi grudgingly admitted he might have been wrong in his suspicions.

  ‘Now let us please forget the entire incident, Cousin da Costa,’ he said grumpily. ‘And see. It is almost dusk outside. We must get on if we are to reach Hurley this night.’

  ‘My goodness, you are correct! I had forgotten.’ Da Costa pulled his large gold pocket-watch from his waistcoat fob and examined it. Then said anxiously, ‘We must leave this instant, or the gentleman we have to meet will be gone.’ He turned to William Seymour. ‘Please forgive us for leaving you so abruptly, Mr Seymour, but my cousin and I have a very important business appointment in a village some miles from here . . . The game was so exciting, that I quite forgot the passage of time, but we are already late and must go immediately.’

  Seymour, filled with the sickening knowledge that because of his own reckless stupidity he was again left with just a few shillings, gave only a small portion of his attention to what the man was saying. Before he had fully realized what was happening, the pair of them, muffled in their many-caped greatcoats and broad-brimmed slouch hats, were outside in the yard chivvying the stable boy to harness their horse into their small open gig.

  The cavalryman sipped at his brandy and absently toyed with the dice in the leather cup. He rattled and threw and watched without interest the ivory cubes roll across the table. The crunching of iron-rimmed wheels over gravel marked the departure of his erstwhile companions and through the bullseye window panes he saw the flickerings of their already lighted carriage lamps disappear around the building. He sighed deeply and berated himself mentally for his failure to control his instincts.

  ‘If only I had stood aside for the last wager,’ he thought. ‘I’d have had more funds than enough to stay me until I can find Sarah Jenkins.’

  He stretched out his hand and tapped his forefinger on the dice. He noticed that he had thrown two sixes, and he grimaced. ‘One throw too late to save me.’

  Lifting the cubes Seymour dropped them one at a time into the cup and cast them again. Two sixes appeared uppermost.

  ‘God rot my eyes!’ he cursed and snatched the dice up. Three times more he threw them, and three times more the sixes came uppermost.

  ‘I’ve been gypped, Goddammit! The dice are cogged.’ The nerve beside his left eye began to throb and jerk.

  ‘I’ll blow their bloody tripes out for this day’s work,’ he promised himself, and shouted . . . ‘Landlord?’ The man entered, bowing and smirking.

  ‘Get my horse saddled and made ready,’ Seymour ordered, and to allay any suspicion added. ‘And prepare me a room for the night. I’ll be coming back to sleep here . . . If anyone should come inquiring for me, tell them I’ll be returning directly.’

  The man hurried away and Seymour tried to judge what direction the two cheats had gone in. When the stable boy brought his mount into the yard Seymour asked him,

  ‘Would you like to earn a shilling, boy?’

  The child’s eyes glistened eagerly. ‘Ahr, zur . . . I ’ud.’

  ‘Then tell me boy. Which way did the two gentlemen in the gig go, north or south?’

  ‘They went south, zur.’ The boy pointed at the stable loft. ‘I knows for sartin’ they went south, becos’ I was watchin’ ’um from up theer.’

  ‘Good!’ Seymour tossed a coin on to the muddy gravel for the boy to pick up . . . ‘And listen, boy.’ The child stared up at the tall-hatted, cloaked figure towering above him. ‘Say nothing of what I asked you . . . Understand?’

  The urchin’s brain was nimble enough for all his vacuous expression. ‘I shanna, zur. I shanna open me mouth.’

  Seymour nodded in curt dismissal and mounted. He kept his horse at an easy canter, not wishing to cause the beast to stumble and fall upon one of the many potholes in the rutted road. Also he had no wish to come upon his quarry at a gallop. That, he knew, would only arouse their suspicion and give them cause for alarm.

  In a remarkably short time he sighted the gig-lamps flickering in front of him. He dropped his pace so that the gap narrowed only slowly and once he was near enough to be reasonably certain that the gig’s occupants were the men he sought, he allowed his horse to walk and the distance to widen once more.

  The sky had cleared and the stars gave sufficient light for the cavalryman to gauge the lie of the land. Seymour knew exactly what he was looking for and was content to wait for it to show itself. Soon it did so. The road swung in a wide curve around a stretch of wild bush-covered heath, and Seymour guided his mount across it, using the cover of the clumps of bushes to shield him from the gig. The short-cut brought him to the roadside once more a good hundred yards ahead of the gig and he used the intervening time to prime and load the brace of horse pistols he carried in his saddlebags, and to wrap his handkerchief around his lower face. The gig came nearer and Seymour heard clearly the clip-clopping of the horse, the crunching scrape of the iron-shod wheels and the loud laughter of the two men.

  ‘Did you see his face when we left?’ Portugal John’s voice was loud in his enjoyment. ‘What a bloody Joskin he was, to be sure.’

  Aaron Levi chuckled beside him at the memory, and Seymour scowled in the darkness.

  ‘Joskin, is it?’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Country bumpkin, am I? You hell-damned sharps!’

  When the gig came nearly abreast of his hiding-place in the bushes he spurred his horse out in front of it.

  ‘Pull up!’ he shouted. ‘The first to move gets a ball in his tripes.’

  ‘Whooaa! Whooaa, blast ye!’ The gig horse snickered high with fright and with its ears laid back flat to its skull tried to baulk and turn away. ‘Whoooaaa! Easy! Be easy now!’ Aaron Levi, holding the reins managed to steady the animal.

  ‘What d’you want wi’ us, cully?’ Portugal John blustered. ‘We’em flash coves like yourself, not bloody flats.’

  ‘Shut your mouth!’ Seymour came a little nearer the gig, the long-barrelled pistols pointing unwaveringly at the men in it. ‘Shut your mouth and bail up!’ Seymour shouted, his voice muffled in the folds of the handkerchief across his mouth.

  ‘What if we says no to bailing up,
cully?’ If Portugal John felt any fear, he hid it admirably.

  Seymour didn’t argue. With a touch of his spurs he drove his mount to the side of the gig and his tall body swayed in the saddle as he slashed the pistol barrel across Portugal John’s plump cheek, gashing the tender flesh deeply.

  ‘Bail up, or you’re a dead man!’ he spat out.

  The two sharps slowly and reluctantly took small purses from their pockets and held them out.

  ‘Pitch them on to the ground,’ Seymour told them. ‘And let’s have those wallets you’re carrying.’

  Aaron Levi suddenly grasped who the highwayman was. His features, however, showed no sign of recognition. He had been trained in the vicious criminal underworld of London and had learnt long before not to let his face show his emotions. At the mention of the wallets Portugal John had also drawn his conclusions, but like his friend kept his features from showing anything but fearful indignation and the biting pain of his bleeding cheek. The wallets were tossed on the ground by the purses.

  ‘Get those rings off, and I’ll take the timepieces as well . . . and those cravat pins.’

  ‘Goddam and blast it! Would you strip us naked?’ Aaron Levi complained bitterly, but wisely obeyed the instructions. When the heavy gold watches and the pieces of jewellery had joined the rest of the booty, Seymour jerked his head.

  ‘Be on your way!’

  After a slight pause, Aaron Levi cursed long and loudly and shook the reins. ‘Giddup! Giddup!’

  The gig had barely begun to move when Portugal John turned swiftly and fired the tiny flintlock gun he had taken from a hidden pocket in his coat. Fortunately for William Seymour, the gig hit a pothole in the very instant that Portugal John pulled the trigger. The ball went high and hummed over the cavalryman’s head. Reacting instinctively, Seymour fired one of his own pieces and the ball tore through the soft top of Portugal John’s shoulder. As the explosions sounded, the gig-horse squealed and reared in fright then bolted. The vehicle bucked and careered along the track with its occupants hanging on desperately to avoid being pitched headlong from its narrow seat.

  Seymour waited until the clatter of the wheels and flying hooves grew faint, then gathered up his booty. His thin hard mouth curled in a savage smile.

  ‘A joskin, am I?’ he said aloud, and burst out laughing.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The new recruits formed a ragged line on the parade ground of Colewort Garden Barracks, which stood tucked into the corner of the fortifications of Portsmouth nearest to the Gun Wharf. Jethro Stanton was standing second from the left in the line, engrossed in the contemplation of his new home. To either side were two-storied brown-bricked barrack blocks with long balconies fronting each storey. Behind him were the blocks of workshops, stables and stores, while before him was the officers’ mess, with its fine-stained entrance flanked by captured French cannon from Marlborough’s wars. The conducting sergeant who had brought the recruits into the barracks that mid-morning used the stave of his halberd to dress the line.

  ‘Blast you bloody ’cruities! Try and look as if you’m fit to be soldiers!’ he swore irascibly.

  The man on Jethro’s left hawked noisily and spat a gob of phlegm on to the ground.

  ‘SERGEANT TURNER TAKE THAT FILTHY ANIMAL’S NAME!’

  From the side of the parade-ground a tall resplendently uniformed figure erupted. Under his right arm, with its four gold chevrons, he carried a long, brass-headed cane and a sword hung at his side.

  Turpin Wright was standing at Jethro’s other elbow and he whispered from the corner of his mouth,

  ‘It’s the sergeant-major. Just keep your head up and eyes front, lad . . . and don’t move.’

  The sergeant-major reached the group of recruits and strutted along the ranks. They were only seven in number and to each one he gave a cursory inspection. His thin-lipped mouth beneath his great hook of a nose curled in distaste.

  ‘God rot me, Sar’nt Turner! From what butcher’s midden did you rake out this offal?’ he inquired contemptuously.

  He reached the end of the line then turned and came back to halt in front of the man who had spat. It was the flat-nosed drover.

  ‘What’s this bugger’s name, sar’nt?’ he barked.

  ‘It’s Deane, sir.’ The sergeant hovered anxiously to one side of his superior.

  The sergeant-major used the heavy brass knob of his cane to rap the drover sharply on his broken nose.

  ‘’Ow did you come by this flat snout, you filthy-habited animal?’ he questioned, but didn’t pause for an answer. ‘One o’ the “Fancy”, was you? A pug? Well, Flat-Snout, my name is Gresham, Sergeant-Major Gresham, and this is my drill-ground that you’se just gobbed on, you dirty bleedin’ pig! Now I care not a tinker’s knacker for a hundred o’ you bastards, pugs or no, and if you upsets me agen I’ll ha’ you on the triangle and let you meet the Drummer’s Daughter. UNDERSTAND?’

  The drover nodded sullenly.

  ‘SAY, YES SIR . . . YOU SCUM!’ Sergeant Turner screamed at the man.

  ‘Yus sur,’ the drover grunted submissively.

  Gresham glanced at Jethro, who had remained steady, with his eyes to the front, and then looked more closely.

  ‘What’s your name, my lad?’

  ‘Jethro Stanton . . . sir.’

  ‘Have you served the King afore, lad? You’ve the set of a soldier.’ The sergeant-major’s tone was almost pleasant.

  ‘No, sir, I’ve not,’ Jethro answered.

  ‘Well, lad, you’ve got the height and build for the Bacon Bolters, that’s if you’re quick and smart at your drill, o’ course. D’you know what they be?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Jethro successfully resisted the instinct to shake his head.

  ‘They’re the Grenadier Company, lad! That’s what I’ve allus bin . . . a grenadier! Not one o’ your jumpin’ and duckin’ Light Bobs, and never, never, a Bum Tool . . .’ He paused and sardonically surveyed the blank, uncomprehending faces of the recruits. ‘For the greater increase o’ your knowledge, and because for once in a blue moon I’m feeling well disposed towards you bleedin’ Johnny Raws, I’ll tell you that the Light Bobs is the Light Company o’ the battalion, and that the Bum Tools be the Line Companies.’ His shrewd eyes fastened on Turpin Wright and took in the lengthening bristles of his once-shaven head. They also read something in the convict’s expression.

  ‘Sar’nt Turner!’ the sergeant-major bawled, and pointed his cane at Turpin’s face. ‘Mark well this man . . . I’ve sin a lot like him in my time,’ he chuckled grimly. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Wright, sir.’ The convict was rigid.

  Gresham chuckled again. ‘You’re a right ’un as well, I’ll wager. You could tell a few stories, I’ll be bound; and I’ll wager you’re no stranger to the drill and the drum. No! Nor to the Drummer’s Daughter, neither.’ Turpin made no reply, only stared blank-faced ahead. ‘Well, I’ll say no more than this, Wright,’ the sergeant-major told him. ‘I’m not worried about your past as long as you keeps your nose clean in my battalion.’

  The next man in line was the tiny, bald-headed beggar, still in his filth and rags. He cocked his head and grinned at the sergeant-major, as if recognizing an old and dear friend.

  ‘Oh my good God!’ Gresham moaned the words, and passed immediately by both the beggar and the Morris men’s squire beside him. The second drover brought no comment and the last man, the respectable artisan would not have evoked any if he had not stepped out of line to confront the sergeant-major.

  ‘Can I speak wi’ you a moment, cully?’ the artisan’s face was tense and strained.

  The sergeant-major halted, the cropped grey hair on the back of his neck bristled, and the eyes beneath the shiny peak of his elaborately braided, chained and feathered shako flashed in outrage.

  ‘GET BACK IN YOUR PLACE, YOU STUPID BASTARD!’ Sergeant Turner bellowed in rage, and using his halberd like a quarter-stave he struck the artisan hard across the chest.

  ‘B
ACK INTO LINE! DAMN YOUR STINKING HIDE!’

  ‘AND DAMN YOU AN’ ALL!’ the man shouted back. ‘I’se got my missus and kids to think on . . .’

  ‘SHUT YOUR MOUTH!’ The sergeant savagely backhanded the man across the lips.

  ‘I’ll speak my piece!’ The artisan was half-sobbing with rage and torment.

  ‘That’s enough, Sar’nt Turner!’ Gresham restrained the N.C.O. when he would have struck the man again. ‘Calm down Johnny Raw, and tell me what’s the matter . . . Speak up, man, say your piece.’

  The artisan rubbed his bruised chest where the halberd stave had caught him and glared in hatred at both N.C.O.s.

  ‘It’s me missus and kids,’ he babbled the words tearfully. ‘I was promised twenty-five pound to be a substitute, and another two guineas from the King when I took me oath in front o’ the magistrates, and I’se not bin gi’ed a penny piece on it. . . . Not even a brass farthing, and me missus and kids back home in Cleobury Mortimer, they doon’t even know I’se bin took for the army. What’s to become on ’um, that’s what I’d like to know? I only come to Kidderminster to find work, for we’d none at home and no money for food . . . Them bloody magistrates and constables tricked me into the army, so they did . . .’

  ‘Get on wi’ your grievance about the money, man,’ the sergeant-major said impatiently.

  ‘He can have no grievance, sir,’ Sergeant Turner put in. ‘Most of the money these lot got for being substitutes was took by the magistrates to pay the sums they was fined for bein’ rogues and vagabonds.’

  ‘Well, if that’s the case, I’ve no wish to hear any more o’ this bellyachin’ about it,’ Gresham snapped.

  ‘I wants to know why I arn’t bin paid loike I was promised?’ the artisan apparently refused to hear what Sergeant Turner had said about the fines and the substitute bounty. ‘I saw that cove I went as substitute for, gi’ the money to one o’ they bloody orficers who was asittin’ in the courtroom wheer we was took. If I’d ha’ bin paid loike I was promised, I could a sent the money to me missus. But I’se had nothin! Nothin’ at all! And my kids could be bloody starvin’ by now . . . starvin’!’