The Tobacco Lords Trilogy
Page 34
‘Why doesn’t he say something or do something to defend himself?’ Gav asked Jemmy.
‘I’ll tells you why, Gav. I’ll tells you. If Mr Jubb returns them blows, he’s put in irons. Yes, it’s down in the bilboes for him.’
The Captain called over all the rabble.
‘Mr Gudgeon! Mr Gudgeon, sir! Will ye come aft? You too, Mr Jubb.’
‘The captain’s the man to sort them out. That’s when old Captain Kilfuddy’s himself. But I’ll tells you something else you oughts to know. Sometimes the captain’s not himself.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I means what I says, Gav. Sometimes the captain’s himself.’ Jemmy tapped his head significantly each time he said the word. ‘And in charge. And sometimes he’s not himself. And when he’s not himself, he’s not in charge. Now do you gets my meaning?’
Gav nodded uncertainly. Darkness was beginning to creep around and he was far from happy. Apart from missing Regina, he felt worried about how to keep out of Mr Gudgeon’s way. It had been bad enough trying to hide from enemies in Glasgow with its many closes and wynds, but the ship was tiny in comparison, a cramped dangerous place from which there was no escape. He realised the safest place for him was probably the steerage but it was a terrible thought to go down to that stinking hold to lie in the gloom with rats scuffling over him.
The night before he had wakened to the sound of a gentle rustling. Then, by the feeble light of the lantern, he’d seen a monster rat jump from one of the sea-chests and walk towards where he was huddled against the bulkhead. Too terrified to move in case it would bite, willing himself not to cry out and waken the women and younger children, he lay in agony watching it climb over his bare feet. He could feel its scratching nails on his skin. It made its way up one side of him and then, crossing where his head was pillowed, its progress was hindered by an entanglement in his hair.
Tears and sweat streamed from his face and it took all his courage to refrain from crying out. It seemed an age before the rat freed itself from his curls and walked down the other side of him and away.
Afterwards he’d sobbed himself to sleep, repeating Regina’s name over and over again as if believing that somehow the broken-hearted repetition of the word must reach her.
‘Where do you sleep?’ he asked Jemmy Ducks.
‘I sleeps with the rest of the crew in the foc’stle, Gav. What makes you ask?’
‘Can I stay with you? I don’t like it down in that steerage place. Can I sleep in the foc’stle with you, Jemmy? I won’t take up much room or be any trouble. Please?’
Jemmy scratched his head, making his pigtail jig about.
‘If you asks me, Gav, the foc’stle’s no better a place than the steerage. Not that I blames you for not liking it. I defies anyone to like it. No, no, I defies them. But the foc’stle’s no better, that’s what I says.’
‘But I’d be with you. You’re my friend, aren’t you? And friends should stick together?’
Jemmy looked taken aback. All eyes and ears, he stared at Gav. Eventually he said:
‘You’re right, Gav. And I can’t deny it. Them’s true words you spoke.’
Gav brightened.
‘I can come with you?’
‘I’ve work to do first. Them animals have to be rounded up and made snug. You’d best keep out of sight until I’m ready. Or stow yourself away in the foc’stle when Mr Gudgeon’s not looking and I’ll meets you there later.’
Gav nodded. Then, after Jemmy hopped away, it occurred to him that just in case Regina tried to get in touch, he ought to tell her that he was changing to the foc’stle. Struggling to his feet, he peered cautiously around. The moon was half-hidden by small white clouds and the sails stood out like silhouettes. The ship seemed to be in the exact centre of an empty circle of shimmering ocean. It was quiet on board except for the usual straining and groaning of wooden spars rubbing together. He hesitated, wondering if he dared go right aft where Regina’s cabin was situated. Probably it would be Mr Jubb who was on watch now and it would be all right. Still, he couldn’t be sure and he eventually decided to make straight for the foc’stle.
It turned out to be a small dark cave right up in the bows with no warmth and no light except that of the moon glistening through the square scuttle. Triangular in shape, it was full of vague huddles of men, ropes and sails. It stank frowstily of bilge water, sweat, tar and mildew, and by the feel of the slushy planks of the floor, it had never been dry for years and would never dry again. Everywhere there was water.
Gav shivered. It was very dark and cold and he wished that Jemmy would come. Dim outlines of sleeping sailors gave him scant comfort and no desire to move away from the path of grey light afforded by the scuttle. But he was tired and the ship was beginning to roll and heave about, making it difficult for him to stand. Groping to one side, he found a coil of rope and lay down on it and before long he had to cling to it as best as he was able because of the increasing movement of the ship.
Then suddenly the dark shadow of a head appeared at the scuttle and the bosun’s voice shouted.
‘All hands ahoy! Tumble up here and take in sail!’
Men fell about and struggled into clothes and rushed for the ladder and in a matter of minutes, Gav was alone. He felt frightened by the pitching of the vessel, the increasing anger of the wind and the lightning that had begun to sizzle and flash. At one point, he cried out loud as the ship lurched so far to one side he thought it would never rise again.
The men were making a terrible noise on deck too. He could hear the loud and repeated orders of the mate, the heavy tramping of feet and the creaking of blocks.
Unable to stand being on his own any longer, he scrambled up and tried to reach the ladder to the scuttle. But it took several terrifying minutes of being tossed from one side of the foc’stle to the other before he finally grabbed the ladder, clung on, then slowly edged his way upwards.
4
‘Hear ye, hear ye goodfolk o’ the toon,
There’s going to be a horse fair held right soon,
Along the Trongate they’ll be put through their paces,
Come along tomorrow and see the races.
Ride the beast first to put him to test,
Before ye buy make sure it’s the best.’
MOOTHY MCMURDO clanged his bell as he strolled along, his tattered green frockcoat flapping in the breeze and showing a wide expanse of orange breeches. His cocked hat was jammed forward on a head flung back to give full range to his great bell-like voice.
‘To dance to there will be penny reels,
Tents where they’ll sell cheap whisky,
A fiddler will help ye kick up yer heels,
No’ just horses will be frisky.’
Annabella watched McMurdo from the window of her bedroom. The Ramsay tenement, known as The Old Coffee House Land, was situated at the corner of Saltmarket Street and Trongate Street and it commanded an excellent view of the business centre and the market place where four main streets intersected. Trongate Street ran from the west, Gallowgate Street from the east, High Street from the north and Saltmarket from the south and the River Clyde.
On the corner of the building there was a lantern-shaped projection above one of the arches that opened into shops and warerooms below. This lantern-shaped projection meant an extra dimension to Annabella’s room and gave it three windows, each with a different view. It was through the one facing into Trongate Street that she was watching Moothy McMurdo go shouting and swinging his bell.
She sighed and turned to Nancy who was washing the floor in a leisurely fashion, hands on hips, bare feet shuffling a wet cloth around, red and white striped petticoats swinging.
‘At least the horse market will be a diversion. I have persuaded Papa, not without some difficulty I confess, to promise that a horse can be part of my dowry and that I will be allowed to choose it myself.’
‘The date’s fixed then?’
‘Yes, more’s the pity. The hate
ful calamity will be in two weeks’ time.’
Nancy stopped for a moment to give her a piercing look.
‘Does it really bother you that much?’
‘Gracious heavens, Nancy. Wouldn’t it bother you? I try to keep my courage up. I try to be of good cheer. I’ve never believed in wasting time with fruitless lamentations but oh, the minister, Nancy. Of all the men in Glasgow, why did it have to be him?’
‘The maister’s told you why often enough.’
‘Oh yes, he wants my spirit broken. He wants to see me a quiet wee, obedient wee, douce wee minister’s wife. Well, wife I will be, but quiet, obedient and douce I certainly will not!’
With a small smile Nancy continued her lazy shuffle.
Annabella bristled.
‘What are you smirking for? You surely don’t think I’d let such a man as the minister get the better of me?’
‘No, mistress. I was only thinking that the Reverend Mr Blackadder doesn’t know what’s afore him. It’s almost possible to feel sorry for the poor man in his innocence.’
A trill of laughter took Annabella aback. Hastily she stifled it with her fan.
‘Losh sakes, don’t make me laugh. It’s no laughing matter.’
Tears had in fact been fast building up inside her and threatened at any time to flood out and drown the whole preposterous idea of marriage to Blackadder. Yet at the same time she longed to laugh. Laughter, like her energy for enjoying life, strained for release. A deeper sadness remained in secret places. There were still times alone in bed at night, when she wept for Jean-Paul Lavelle. But his death was too terrible to be kept at the forefront of her mind. She locked it away along with the emotions it aroused and she as seldom as possible allowed herself to look at it. At the best of times she was an impatient young woman with little, if any, concentration. Neither was it in her nature to be morose, and despite the ravages of emotions like grief and vengeance, a mischievous butterfly kept rising up and fluttering about inside her.
‘But as you say,’ she added, with a frisk of her fan, ‘I might as well try and make the best of it. I’ll set to as soon as possible and brighten up that gloomy house of his. It’s commodious enough but sadly in need of new curtains and cushions and the like.’
‘Don’t forget the minister’s not a wealthy man like your father.’
‘If he can’t afford me, he should never have entertained the idea of making me his wife. I’ll fly into a pretty passion, I can tell you, if he denies me a few yards of silks and velvets.’
‘I suppose the maister won’t see you stuck.’
‘He’s bringing Blackadder home with him today so you’d better tell Big John to get the whisky bottles lined up.’
Nancy giggled.
‘I wonder if he’ll be as drunk as usual on his wedding night.’
‘If he does, he’ll never catch me. I’m a lot more nimble than him even when he’s sober.’
Another noisy character was now making his way along the Trongate. He was a tall angular man, hung about from top to toe with clanking, jangling kitchen utensils and he was calling out:
‘Roasting-jacks and toasting-forks!’
He rolled the initial ‘R’ so long and loudly that it echoed down the streets like a clap of thunder. It had been raining earlier and the rutted earth of the Trongate looked as if it were dotted with sparkling pier glasses. The roasting-jack man was heedlessly trudging them and getting his bare feet and breeches soaked.
Rain had also polished the Tolbooth across the road. Annabella stared idly at it, wondering if there were any prisoners inside. Sometimes passers-by could hear them groaning. At other times, hands could be seen straining out through the bars appealing for food, or for money with which to bribe the guards.
It was a huge building of five storeys with barred windows on each floor. Its principal front was on the Trongate but a portion of it looked onto the High Street. There was also a crown-topped steeple that jutted out a few feet and had a special entrance guarded by a half-door with spikes on top, and a sharp-eyed turnkey.
The main entrance was up the outside stair, called the hanging stair, to the door on the outside landing or balcony. It was here that the gallows were set up when there was a hanging. The stocks and the pillory were in front of the Tolbooth too and the Ramsay tenement was much envied because it afforded such a good view of everything of interest that went on.
Annabella had always enjoyed the thrill of a hanging like the rest of the town. But she never had any patience with the punishments meted out to the breakers of the Sabbath. In fact, she had often risked being put in the stocks or pillory herself in order to help them. Many a poor wretch in the stocks, who had done nothing worse than comb her hair or laugh on a Sunday, had been grateful for Annabella’s protection. She thought nothing of standing in front of the victim, shouting abuse at his or her attackers and daring them to throw another missile. Or she had given defiant sups of whisky to similar victims who were nailed by the ear to the pillory.
‘But Papa, Papa,’ she kept trying to explain to an outraged Ramsay. ‘All they have done is act in a perfectly natural manner. I cannot see why it should be such a sin and a crime to take a stroll on the green or hum a merry tune or look in a pier glass on a Sunday.’
‘No, that’s your trouble, mistress!’ her father always roared. ‘And you never learn, for all I’ve told you and for all the readings I’ve given you from the Good Book. You’re a wicked and sinful lassie.’
She could see him now emerging from the tavern accompanied by the minister. They were both tall men but Ramsay had the heavier build and was more prosperous looking in his long curly wig and scarlet cloak and shoes buckled in silver. The Rev Mr Blackadder picked his way gingerly beside him with a watchful eye on the muddy road that could ruin his best stockings.
He was a man of many moods, watchful and cautious like now, or at other times, when he was in the pulpit, throwing all restraint to the winds and working himself into a veritable frenzy of rhetoric. He had a long lantern-jawed face with keen dark eyes, high shoulders and long limbs. A black tie-wig covered his head and he wore a dark blue coat, a grey waistcoat of almost the same length and blue breeches with knee buckles.
‘Here they come,’ Annabella said. ‘Hell and damnation!’ She swished across the room, flopped down on a chair and impatiently tapped her fan on the table.
Soon she heard her father’s heavy tread on the stairs and the quicker pace that betrayed the eagerness of the other man.
He bowed at the same time as rubbing his hands when he entered.
‘Uh-huh. It’s yourself, Mistress Annabella.’
Annabella flounced into a curtsy.
‘Minister.’
Ramsay said: ‘You’ll take a glass?’
‘Och, aye. I never say no to a wee dram.’
‘Indeed it’s true, sir,’ Annabella said.
Ramsay pulled at his nose and glowered a warning at Annabella from beneath bushy brows. But Mr Blackadder seemed happily unaware of Annabella’s jibe. With one eye he admired his glass filling with amber fluid and at the same time inquired:
‘And how are you today, Annabella?’
‘As well as can be expected in the circumstances, sir.’
‘Uh-huh. Oh, well,’ said the minister mistaking the circumstances referred to for her recent adventures with the Highland army. ‘The least said about that the better. God bless this whisky,’ he added before emptying his glass and smacking his lips. ‘I’ve had a wee word with the Reverend Mr Gillespie and he’s agreed to say the prayers over us.’
Ramsay signalled to his servant, Big John, to give the minister a refill and Big John, dwarfing the low-ceilinged room, lumbered over to do as he was bid. Then Ramsay said:
‘And Letitia Halyburton is willing to have the marriage feast at her place. It’s bigger and she’s got more servants and there’s her girls to help her. I’ll pay her well for all the food and falderals, of course. Still, it’s verra obliging of her.’
Long ago she’d insisted,
‘Mistress Annabella, you are too perjink and disrespectful. You need someone to discipline you. The minister should do very well.’
Griselle and her sister Phemy would have a prodigiously enjoyable time too, snickering and giggling. The only person who would not savour the wedding would be herself. She swallowed down the lump of chagrin in her throat.
‘Very obliging indeed, sir,’ she sarcastically agreed with her father.
One thing was certain, she would see all the Halyburtons and her father and the minister choke in hell before she would allow them to witness her distress. As if in preparation for this she shut her father and the minister out of her mind. Instead she concentrated her attention in the fading light of the window on the ornaments on the mantelpiece—dainty porcelain figures and snuffboxes painted in bright colours and gilt—on the silver candelabra, and on the big Bible on the table, its black grain a coarse contrast to its gossamer leaves with their golden, gleaming edges.
Her father and the minister continued to converse and drink together. At one point they burst into a drunken duet and a psalm rollicked up to the ceiling.
‘To render thanks unto the Lord,
it is a comely thing,
And to Thy name, O Thou most high,
due praise aloud to sing.
Thy loving kindness to show forth,
When shines the morning light;
And to declare Thy faithfulness
With pleasure every night …’
The summer’s evening gradually emptied of sunshine. The moon slid over to fill its place. Curtains were drawn, candles lit, their flickering deepening the shadowy folds of the bed-drapes.
Annabella remained at the table straight-backed and dignified in her lavender silk dress with silver trimmings, her white powdered hair and her black face patches.