The Tobacco Lords Trilogy

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  He didn’t know how long he had been standing there, gazing bleakly across the vast expanse of sea, when suddenly there was a shout from the crow’s nest.

  ‘A ship! On the larboard side.’

  Immediately his heart raced with excitement. The ship in the distance appeared to be sailing in the direction from which they had just come. Could it be possible that it was on its way to Glasgow? If so, perhaps he could join it. Happiness nearly exploded his wits. It was as much as he could do to prevent himself from jigging with joy. He hastened eagerly, hopefully, to the captain’s side.

  ‘Maybe it’s a Glasgow-bound ship, captain. I’d be mightily obliged if you’d get near enough to hail her and find out. If she is bound for Glasgow I would be glad of the opportunity to board her. There is an urgent matter I find I ought to have attended to before I left the town.’

  The captain raised his glass and peered through it.

  ‘Can’t see what flag she’s carrying,’ he muttered.

  ‘Could we get nearer her, captain?’ Cunningham struggled to repress his eagerness.

  ‘Oh, I dare say we could, Mr Cunningham,’ the captain admitted grudgingly.

  Then he called an order to the first mate without lowering the glass. Soon the Mary Heron was billowing and curtsying along towards the other ship.

  Cunningham was already back in Glasgow in his mind. He was sweeping Annabella off her feet, refusing to take no for an answer. He had been mad to allow himself to be so easily put off in the first place. He wouldn’t make that mistake twice. This time he would carry her away with him. He would make her his wife and together they would enjoy a full and happy life on his Virginia plantation.

  He itched to be aboard the other ship. It must be a Glasgow-bound vessel. His prayers were so fervent surely they must be answered. He scanned it as it came nearer and was surprised when it came into full view that he could make out a long row of guns.

  ‘It’s armed like a frigate,’ he gasped.

  ‘Aye,’ said the captain. ‘One thing’s certain, Mr Cunningham, she’s not a merchantman.’ He lowered his glass and called to the mate. ‘Pipe to quarters!’

  ‘Do you think she’s hostile, captain?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir, but it’s best to be prepared.’

  Cunningham glanced around. Already sponge tubs, rammers and primers were out. Tackles were being bent and gun-ports raised. There were only a few guns, but in those powder bags and shot were being rammed home, and slow matches were alight even before the guns were run out through the open ports.

  Other sailors were arming themselves with pistols and cutlasses.

  ‘I’ll go and get my weapons,’ Cunningham said.

  By the time he returned on deck the ship was close enough for him to see its very hostile-looking crew. He groaned. ‘A damned privateer, is it, captain?’

  ‘A damned privateer, sir,’ the captain replied. The gap between the ships closed rapidly, then a voice from the privateer yelled:

  ‘Heave-to! We’re going to board you!’

  ‘Fire!’ Captain Daidles bawled at the mate.

  Almost at the same time, the privateer’s cannon fired a heavier broadside killing several of the Mary Heron’s crew. Then the pirates leapt into the Mary Heron’s rigging and began swarming down on to the decks.

  Cunningham drew his sword and fought furiously. But they were coming thick and fast, fierce, wild-eyed men wearing coloured handkerchiefs and golden earrings and sashes that bristled with pistols and cutlasses. The merchant seamen of the Mary Heron were no match for them and were being hacked to pieces all around him.

  He had taken off his coat to give himself freedom of movement. But soon the sweat was pouring from his face and body and although he had killed and wounded many of the pirates, they still kept engaging him. There seemed no end to their numbers.

  Then suddenly a sharp pain in his chest made him gasp and he caught a glimpse of a scarlet stain spreading across the white of his shirt.

  He remembered feeling surprise, then regret. He remembered thinking of Annabella. Then he remembered no more.

  * * *

  The dining-room at Mungo House was radiant with many candles. It was apricot-tinted like a gilt-framed painting in orange and red and copper and rust. Warmed by the flames of the candles, the peach walls with their ornamentation of painted fruit had acquired a rich orange glow. The brocades and silks and jewels of the ladies and gentlemen round the dining-table added to the tapestry of colour. They were all bewigged and powdered and the ladies wore face patches, long tightly-laced stays and wickedly low-fronted bodices. Gowns and petticoats were embroidered with flowers and leaves, or rustic scenes of trees and hills, or vines twisting and twining. The gentlemen were resplendent in flowered silk coats and waistcoats and lace jabots and cuffs. One or two wore vivid face paint.

  Even Big John who was waiting at table looked smart and colourful in a powdered wig and a pink coat and white breeches and white silk stockings.

  The table was crowded with food and scarcely a spot of the tablecloth was visible. There was a roasted goose, a side of beef with frizzled potatoes, a roasted lobster, black game and partridge, brandered chickens, reindeers’ tongues, currant jelly, capsicum, elder, garlic, vinegars, cheese, biscuits, goats’ milk, limes and claret.

  Much witty talk and merry laughter and ogling went on as well as enthusiastic eating and drinking. After the meal there were the usual rounds of toasts and sentiments followed each time by clapping or laughing.

  ‘Here’s to ye,’ was the first. Followed by ‘The land o’ cakes’.

  ‘May the hinges of friendship never rust, or the wings of love lose a feather.’

  ‘Here’s health, wealth, wit and meal.’

  ‘May the mouse never leave our meal-pock with a tear in it’s eye.’

  ‘Thumping luck and fat weans.’

  ‘May we all be canty and cosy.’

  ‘To loving women and trusty men.’

  ‘More sense and more silver.’

  ‘Blithe may we all be.’

  ‘When we’re going up the hill of fortune, may we never meet a friend coming down.’

  Afterwards the ladies retired upstairs to the drawing-room, their silks and brocades rustling and trailing behind them. The men joined them later and, although very merry in their cups, were able to step a minuet to the tune of two fiddles and a French horn. Next came a jig and a reel, then another minuet. Annabella also entertained the company on the spinet and Phemy sang in her sweet trilling voice:

  ‘As Mally Lee came down the street,

  Her capuchin did flee;

  She cast a look behind her

  To see her negligée;

  She had two lappets at her head

  That flaunted gallantlie,

  And ribbon knots at back and breast

  Of bonnie Mally Lee.’

  It was a hugely successful evening and the first of many that Annabella gave in Mungo House. She was immensely proud of the place but found it necessary to employ another servant to wait at table and help keep the house clean. Her name was Tib Faulds and she was much older than Betsy. A widow woman, plain, agreeable and efficient in many ways, she could be stubborn and touchy in others. She had a long, horsey face and always wore a frilly mob cap into which she tucked all her hair. This made her neck appear long as well. She was given to bouts of grumbling if things didn’t please her and Ramsay had chided her by reminding her that the Lord had blessed her with a good life for many years now. She had replied,

  ‘Aye, but I haven’t provoked Him any.’

  She was excellent at keeping the house in order and serving at table but had not much time for and was no use at all at flipperty-gipperties, as she called such tasks as dressing or powdering Annabella’s head and attending to Annabella’s clothes. Annabella felt she needed a personal maid as well as Betsy and Tib, but was having difficulty in persuading her father to see the necessity.

  ‘Oh, I do miss Nancy,’ she kept sighin
g. ‘She was an impudent baggage at times but she did my hair so well and always helped me to dress.’

  Then one evening her father had astonished her by replying,

  ‘Aye, weel might ye miss her. She was your half-sister.’

  ‘Half-sister? Papa, what do you mean?’

  He had been drunk at the time and at first she had thought he was havering. But he had looked very morose and guilt-ridden and continued.

  ‘Aye, she was the result of a sin I committed many years ago with my servant, her mother, Chrissie Kinkaid.’

  ‘Papa!’ She was shocked but not because of his houghmagandie with his servant. ‘How could you allow your own daughter to live all these years in such menial circumstances? She ought to have been on equal terms with me. You could have employed another servant to attend to us both. You have been very remiss, Papa.’

  ‘Ach,’ her father sighed. ‘That’s all water under the bridge now. And you’ve no need to judge me, Annabella. I’ll be judged and punished for all my sins when I pass to the other side and meet my Maker.’

  But Annabella was no longer listening to him. Suddenly she laughed.

  ‘Gracious heavens, it is a most astonishing thing. I must write and tell her. I wonder how she’ll take it. Will she be pleased or furious? I will tell her that if she returns to Glasgow for a visit, she and her husband must stay here as our guests. What a droll occurrence that will be.’

  She wondered if Nancy and her backwoods husband would know the rules of etiquette that bounded formal visits. Visits were supposed to be of a standard length; ‘a rest day, a drest day and a prest day’. On the day of arrival guests were given the opportunity to rest after the fatigues of their journey. On the second day everyone wore their best full dress. On the third day it was considered proper that the guest should make as if to leave. Then the host was expected to press them to stay one more night. After the correct amount of hesitation, it was proper that they should accept.

  But of course, if Nancy was her half-sister, she could be classed as family and family could stay as long as they liked. And if Nancy or her husband did not know basic rules of genteel society like the one that insisted that guests should never yawn or spit, then she would soon tell them. If a gentleman felt obliged to spit, he should do so in his handkerchief and not in the room. Formal guests, of course, if they knew how to behave correctly, never entered a house wearing a cloak or a big coat or boots. But they must always wear gloves. And it was considered rude for a lady to enter a house wearing a scarf or plaid or with her gown tucked up. As for curtsying when entering a house, the curtsy ought to be slow enough to allow the company to return it. On the other hand, it should not be so slow that it wearied them.

  Rules of etiquette had never bothered anyone in the tenements and folk just dropped in when and as they liked either as afternoon ‘cummers’ for a drink of tea and a gossip, or later to crack a hen’s egg together or have a more elaborate supper. But life in the mansions was different in many ways. If Nancy came to stay she would have to tell her. Not that it mattered so much in Mungo House. Mungo House must be considered as Nancy’s second home any time she came to Glasgow. But if she came and she was included in invitations to other mansions, then for Nancy’s own sake, to protect her from embarrassment, she must be told the various little niceties and social rules. The chances were, of course, that Nancy would bitterly resent being told anything and they would fight like wildcats. But what did that matter, they’d fought many times before.

  The more Annabella thought about having a sister, the more she liked the idea. Happiness and warm affection flowed through her veins. She felt a most fortunate woman and was truly thankful for this new blessing. She had always seemed a confident and generous-hearted person and it would never have occurred to her to be jealous of Nancy or to feel threatened by her in any way.

  She wrote a long and loving letter to her ex-maid and told her of their true relationship and how delighted she was about it and how she would make Nancy and her family welcome at Mungo House any time they found it possible to come. The letter went with The Glasgow Lass on its next voyage to Virginia and Annabella waited eagerly for a reply.

  But the first news she received from Virginia was not happy. Her father came home one night in a distressed, yet excited condition and told her that his other ship, the Mary Heron, had been attacked by a privateer, many of the crew killed and all of his cargo stolen. The indentured servants aboard had been given the opportunity of joining the pirate ship or being left to an uncertain fate on the Mary Heron. The servants had decided to remain where they were and somehow they, with the wounded Captain Daidles and what was left of the crew, managed to continue to Virginia. Unfortunately, Mr Cunningham had been one of those killed.

  ‘Oh, Papa!’ Her sadness went beyond tears. ‘What a waste! Such a gay and handsome man with all his life before him. Such a charming gentleman. Oh, this is a hateful calamity. I feel cruelly cast down.’

  ‘Aye, he was a fine fellow, like his father before him. A sensible one too. In the will he made before leaving Virginia, he made you the sole beneficiary of all his money and land and possessions. Aye, it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good.’

  The real impact of this news did not get properly through to her at that moment. She was too sad and distressed at the thought of Cunningham’s death. A listlessness overcame her.

  ‘Oh, Papa,’ she sighed. ‘I feel mightily depressed.’

  ‘Aye, well, a jaunt over to Virginia should cheer you up. We’ll all go. The Speedwell should be ready to leave from Port Glasgow in a few days.’

  ‘Go to Virginia? We can’t go to Virginia.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I … I don’t want to go, Papa. There’s nothing for me in Virginia now.’

  ‘Lassie, lassie. Did you no’ hear what I said? You’ve a fortune over there. You’ve one of the biggest tobacco plantations in the colony.’

  ‘But I don’t want a tobacco plantation.’

  ‘Well, I do.’

  ‘Oh, Papa!’

  ‘Never mind the ‘oh Papa’. You do as you’re bid and make yourself ready. We’ve important business to attend to in Virginia.’

  12

  HARDING had been teaching Regina a card game called picquet when her birth pangs started. They were both sitting on the settee in the drawing-room with a small table in front of them. A log fire crackled at one side, giving off a more intense light than the candles. The leather of the books lining the wall opposite the fire warmed to a ruby wine colour. The dancing orange light reflected in the gold-framed mirror giving it a dark bronze glitter. The curtains were drawn and the glow from the flames and the candles burnished the green brocade. Regina’s embroidery lay on the footstool and on the open desk were some papers and a quill that Harding had been using earlier. The flower-patterned porcelain vases on the mantelpiece rippled with light, and the blue bird handles on top of their lids seemed as if they were preparing for flight. Only the tall clock in the far corner was in shadow, its brass face, gloomy, its tick-tock sad and slow.

  Regina put down her cards.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Harding asked. ‘You’ve gone pale. Do you feel ill?’

  ‘I think the birth has started.’

  At least she supposed that was the explanation of the grinding, gripping pain she had felt. It had only lasted a few seconds but it frightened her.

  ‘I’ll send Westminster for the doctor.’

  ‘We’ll be lucky if we see the doctor here by morning.’

  ‘Births usually last for hours, don’t they?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘We’d better have the Negro midwife here as well. Just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘Huh!’ Regina gave a sarcastic laugh. ‘I’m sure to be all right with her.’

  Harding struggled to keep his temper.

  ‘Dorcas Judy has brought hundreds of infants safely into the world and I’ve yet to hear of the wo
man who’s been the worse of having her minister to them. I’ll send for her.’

  He went out to the hall and she heard him call for Westminster and then give him various instructions. She listened to the deep rumble of Harding’s voice outside and felt a childish pique that the birth had to happen at all. She had been getting on so well with her husband recently. He had been spending a considerable amount of time with her and had even indulged her in several whims with surprising good grace. If she took a craving for peaches in the middle of the night, as she had on more than one occasion, he rose from his warm bed and actually went out to the orchard and picked her some.

  He said that once she’d wakened him, he might as well get up and get them himself because he’d need a walk in the fresh air to help him to sleep again. Yet she liked to think he was doing it for her. She found herself enjoying his little attentions and sought them with all the cunning and naivety of a child. She puffed pathetically going up the stairs until he was forced to link arms with her so that she could lean on him as she slowly plodded upwards. Or he had to lift her and carry her to her room. She dropped her embroidery or her handkerchief then helplessly rocked and teetered, half-falling, half-fainting in her efforts to retrieve it until he hastened to the rescue and picked it up.

  If he was too long in his office building, she would go and see him there and stand in front of his desk gazing dumbly at his quill or his ledgers until he’d groan or sigh and ask what was the matter with her now. Sometimes he could not control his irritation and would bawl:

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  But before he could say any more, she would burst into tears and just continue to stand near him, refusing to relinquish her need of his presence. Eventually he would groan again and fling down his quill and come and take her in his arms.

  Sometimes when she was getting his attention by some little ruse or other, or by acting in a babyish or petted manner, he would suddenly laugh and shake his head but it wasn’t cruel laughter. She liked to imagine it was to some small degree affectionate. Pleased and grateful, she would laugh too.