Hanging Matter

by David Donachie

  “Which is?” said Harry, still pressing down on James’s foot. His eyes were fixed on those of Bertles.

  “Twenty-five guineas a nob.”

  “Ten,” said Harry immediately, holding up his hand to stop Bertles’s reply. “And before you protest, Captain, that you will be made penniless, be aware that I’ve sailed these waters many times, both in peace and war.”

  Bertles held Harry’s gaze, though his eyes moved fractionally, as if seeking a chink in his adversary’s resolve. Finally he spoke.

  “I dare say you have, at that. But anything less than fifteen would be robbery.”

  “Done,” said James. Harry started to glare at him, which he responded to with a smile. “My foot was going numb.”

  Bertles took another mouthful of food, ignoring the sauce which ran down his chin, and looked from one to the other, wondering what these two “passengers” were about. But the price pleased him and he clapped James on the shoulder. “Well, sir. For fifteen guineas I shall include a capital dinner.”

  James looked at the plate, so recently his own. “Tell me, Captain, what did you think of the fowl?”

  “Why, it’s tasty, sir. Very tasty.” He ducked to eat again, and so missed the look of despair in James Ludlow’s eyes.

  They’d barely finished their cheese when the hullaballoo commenced. The news that was spreading like wildfire in the streets soon penetrated to their inn, rippling through the packed room like a tidal wave. Voices were raised in evident alarm and the crowd seemed to disperse as soon as they comprehended the information. Suddenly the room was empty, except for Pender, who’d pushed his way forward, against the flow of the crowd, his face creased with anxiety.

  “The French are at the gates, your honour,” he said to Harry. “Cavalry in the main. Whoever’s in charge here has thrown up a defensive line with some of the troops that were bringing in the stores.”

  “That won’t hold,” Bertles observed calmly. “There’s scarce five hundred soldiers in the whole port.”

  “It would seem prudent to get under way, Captain,” said James.

  “It may be prudent to board ship, sir. But I’ll not be shifted by a ravaging pack of Jacobins. I will sail on the ebb as I originally intended.”

  “Far be it from me to question your decisions, sir—”

  Harry interrupted James, lest he offend Bertles. If Flushing had been invested, even by a cavalry screen, they needed him now, more than ever. “Don’t be alarmed, brother. The French will attempt nothing till they’ve fetched up some artillery—”

  Bertles now cut in. “By which time our lads will have torched their stores and be ready to either take ship or offer surrender.”

  “So you apprehend no real danger?” asked James.

  The tufts of hair on Bertles’s cheeks twitched as he replied. “Unless the Jacobins have learnt to walk on water, Mr Ludlow, unlikely you’ll grant me, then the answer must be no.”

  He picked up the bottle on the table, which was still half full. “I’d say we’ve got time to finish this, sir, and toast damnation to the French.”

  James knew he’d been the butt of Bertles’s condescension, so his reply was a trifle sharp. “Forgive me if I decline, Captain. I cannot abide the damning of an entire race.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  TOBIAS BERTLES’S “capital dinner” came as a pleasant surprise, for though it was plain, the food was of the very best quality. Fresh fish to start, herrings and turbot, followed by a fine bowl of brawn, with a proper English roast as the main course. No part of the beast was to be wasted and this was accompanied by a remove of sweetbreads and faggots.

  The captain had reclaimed his tiny cabin to entertain his passengers and since the Planet was riding gently at anchor, it was more like a shore-based affair than a nautical one, with only the occasional exploding warehouse, with the dull boom and accompanying flash, to remind them of their situation. Bertles, who’d appeared a trifle shifty on first acquaintance, blossomed in the role of host, introducing his guests to each other in a grand voice and pressing upon them a glass of sillery to “whet their whistle.” But with barely enough room to accommodate the five extra diners and a red-hot stove contributing to the warmth, it was an intimate dinner, and every time the door opened to admit another dish the blast of freezing air made all present shiver.

  The married couple were military, a middle-aged major of engineers, Franks, and his young wife Polly, decidedly pretty, with a cornflour complexion and blonde curls. But the lady was unsuited to mixed company, since she could not let a word pass her lips that didn’t have more than one interpretation. That she was innocent and completely unaware of this fault entertained the Ludlows and infuriated her husband as she delivered every sally with her blue eyes wide and excited and her blonde hair escaping, one curl at a time, from under a very fetching cap. Franks felt the need to explain his presence at the table when his fellow soldiers were engaged in a desperate attempt to throw up some kind of fortifications to protect the town: he had offered his services and been politely declined. The colonel in charge of the operation had informed him that the earthworks he was digging were a sham: he had no intention of trying to protect Flushing. Their first purpose was to give the French pause, their second to reduce the danger of panic in the town itself, which would seriously hamper his attempts to destroy what he could before withdrawing his men to their transports, something he fully intended to do before the day was out.

  The other passenger was a young man from Warwickshire named Wentworth, whose family traded into the Low Countries, selling the new manufactures and startling innovations that spewed out of the factories springing up in such towns as Birmingham. He was tall and thin, with fair hair and a serious demeanour made more apparent by a pair of half spectacles which continually slipped to the end of his nose. His conversation, which was plentiful, for he was a garrulous soul, consisted entirely of profit and opportunity, even extending to those avenues, like the sale of armaments, which had been opened up by this latest war. Yet it was mixed with a string of complaints about everything he’d encountered: Flemish food and manners, the roads, the inns, and the attitude of the locals to the glittering opportunities he represented to them. The fact that their country was suffering invasion was held a poor excuse for such behaviour. Harry and James, who would rather have listened to Polly Franks any day, were bored rigid by the time they were called to eat. The dinner, however, once they sat down, was very convivial.

  Having embarked these few passengers, the Planet had none of the desperate air of the other ships in the harbour. The anchorage was full of small boats, busy loading casualties, portable stores, and refugees by torchlight. None of that panic penetrated this cabin. The crossing, Bertles assured them, would be brief, for the wind was steady in the east, its prevailing quarter. So they regaled each other with background and anecdotes, in the shallow fashion that people in transit do.

  “I have travelled extensively in these parts, sir,” said Wentworth, who had, to Harry’s relief, turned his attention to Major Franks, “and it is not just the fortifications that are in need of an overhaul.”

  “Pray, sir, not fortifications,” cried Polly. “I have suffered enough in that area for a lifetime. There is nothing in life more tedious than to be surrounded by men, all ardent …” She paused at that point and took a mouthful of turbot, leaving her fellow diners in anticipation. “… in the matter of castles and the like. If they are not intent in sticking things up, they want to take them down. And guns, poking this way and that. Poking things out and blasting away! I wonder if it’s all men ever consider.”

  “Gentlemen,” said Franks hurriedly, “I have been attempting to persuade the Dutch to renovate their fortress line, especially in the light of what is happening not two miles from where we sit.” Franks had originally been sent across from Shorncliffe to look at the Flemish forts that lined the border with France. Many had long since fallen into disrepair, and those capable of offering some resistance had suffered
from the incursions, earlier in the year, of the French army under Doumouriez. He had of course deserted to the Royalist cause and the invasion had collapsed. But the threat resurfaced, with new armies, under generals like Pichegru and Lazare Hoche, more committed to the Revolution. A hasty programme of rebuilding was essential. But they had not heeded the advice and all the Allied armies had paid the penalty. Franks had tried the same persuasive tactics on the Dutch further north. But despite the evidence of their own eyes, it would not prevail.

  “Do you think the burghers of the Rhine towns will heed your advice?” asked Harry.

  “Certainly they will rebuild, but only if we subsidise them with British gold, Mr Ludlow. They are no more willing to fend for themselves than any other nation in Europe.”

  James interjected at this point. As a man who had initially welcomed the Revolution in ’89, he felt that despite the recent excesses there was a case to be made for the French. “Our Gallic foes do not seem to seek our subsidies. Nor do they seem to require your advice. They are sustained by the strength of their ideas.”

  “What are these brown balls, Captain Bertles?” demanded Polly, poking at a dish on the table. Her husband, who’d been about to bristle at James, had to divert his energies immediately. “They are faggots, my dear.”

  “Are they, husband. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one so big.” She turned a dazzling smile on their host. “I dare say they are not meant to be taken whole. Why, I’m sure I would choke if I were to swallow a ball that size.”

  “Major Franks, allow me to apologise,” said James, trying not to grin at Polly’s latest gaffe. He realised the lack of tact involved in defending the Revolution to a serving officer who had just witnessed his army in full retreat. “I spoke hastily and too freely.” It didn’t emerge well, but the good major took it in the proper spirit: “Being an Englishmen, sir, I am conscious of the benefits of liberty.”

  The conversation flowed, as did the food and ale, with James and the major deeply embedded in his concerns over Dutch fortifications. “For the French are not idle, Mr Ludlow.”

  Polly, who’d been busy hearing of Mr Wentworth’s Birmingham buttons, a penny a pair by the newest process, rose to the unoffered bait once more. “They’ll come again, Mr Ludlow, even if they are repulsed. And I should know, sir. I hear it morning, noon, and night from my husband. The French are forever coming. But I hope they never arrive, for they are frightful, sir, given to all manner of rapine …”

  It is impossible to put two sailors within ten feet of each other, particularly those who captain their own ships, without the talk turning to the sea and its hazards and the nature of ships and fellow sailors good, bad, and downright criminal.

  Harry was very tempted to ask if they’d met before, for the feeling that they had was as strong as ever. But Bertles gave no indication that this might be the case, nor left a gap in the conversation for him to enquire. And his questions regarding Harry’s recent movements were merely polite, with scant attention paid to the answers. Not that Harry volunteered much. Bertles was left unaware that he was dining in the presence of a very successful privateer; nor did Harry divulge any of the strange events of the last eighteen months since he and his brother had set sail from England. He confined the conversation to the ports they’d visited and the sights they’d seen.

  Below decks, Pender, close-mouthed by nature and given to withholding information as a lifetime habit, showed equal restraint. But his companions probed nevertheless, curious about all the passengers, and sailors being a gossipy lot, the name Ludlow quickly rang a bell, forcing Pender to confirm certain facts. The wealth and potency of the Ludlow brothers was readily conceded, as was their parentage. After all, who but a wealthy man could carry a personal servant halfway round the Continent? But for all the answers he gave, he avoided more. His response to an endless stream of lower-deck questions, with pots of ale provided to wash down his supper, seemed to leave his companions somewhat dissatisfied.

  “It must be a fine thing to have your pa as an admiral,” said one of the men at the mess table, who’d tired at last of asking questions about the brothers.

  “There’s admirals and admirals,” said another. “Some ain’t got a pot to piss in. But, like I said already, I heard o’ the name Ludlow, and I seem to remember that he’d done all right.”

  Pender looked at the man over the rim of his tankard. Admiral Ludlow had done more than all right. He’d made a mint from the West Indies command. But that fact was also none of their concern, so he left them to wait in vain as he sipped his ale. Seeing, finally, that they were getting nowhere, they changed the subject.

  “Now what’s the military cove doing with a wife half his age?”

  “If’n you don’t know the answer to that, then you’re as thick as a plank. It won’t only be the swell that’s rockin’ the barky this night.”

  Things were no less amusing in the main cabin. Bertles, like most of his guests, perspiring freely, was clearly pleased at the air of conviviality. As soon as the cloth was removed he set forth the port and a large bowl of nuts. Major Franks’s face froze as he saw it; he knew what was coming.

  “Nuts!” cried Polly gaily, her face now flushed with the addition of port wine. “I long to crush a pair beween my hands. My father could manage it, but the art of crushing nuts has ever eluded me.” Her husband looked at the deck-beams above his head, as if seeking deliverance. But he could not be unaware that the other men envied him, none more so than young Mr Wentworth, who’d made every endeavour to monopolise Polly Franks this last hour. James was enchanted, thinking her a creature from another age, positively Jacobean in her wit. He was game to paint her for free and said as much. She trilled dismissively. James was too well mannered to add how sought after he was in fashionable London circles. Harry, who would have spoken up for his brother’s talent, missed this exchange, registering instead the different motion of the ship. But he soon turned back to join in the conversation. To him Polly spoke of home and comfort, of England and domesticity. Like all sailors he longed for it at sea, and chafed to be away again once he’d tasted it.

  Yet she had made him hanker after more than that. Even if her speech caused mirth, she had an independence that reminded him forcibly of the one person he was looking forward to seeing again more than any other. He was a healthy bachelor, prey to the same desires as any man, and since nature had favoured him with looks and birth with money he’d enjoyed the favours of a good number of the fairer sex. As a sailor, these things were transitory, of course; but there was one relationship which could be said to be more than that, without ever threatening to place a curb on him, something he would resent.

  When it came to Naomi Smith, jealous souls mouthed droit de seigneur, which only demonstrated how little they knew her. Their relationship had nothing to do with pleasuring her landlord. Naomi, widowed young and now sole owner of the Griffin’s Head, seemed as determined to remain as unentangled as Harry himself. Decidedly pretty and obviously secure, she’d been exposed to innumerable offers of marriage; most had been subjected to a good-humoured refusal. Not that she was all jollity.

  She was as prone as Polly to speak as she found, though less likely to make a gaffe: she paid little heed to the nature of the gender of her company, cast her own opinions instead of borrowing them from others, and disdained to seek defence from mere males. She could, in short, stand up for herself. Some men found such behaviour unbecoming. Harry Ludlow esteemed it.

  His mind was dragged back to the present by his host’s topping up his glass. Bertles, continuing round the table, was evidently pleased. He poured port liberally into Polly’s glass, well aware that he owed some of the success of his dinner to her. All complimented her husband and extolled his good fortune in having a wife like Polly. He remained silent in the face of this. But if he had been challenged on his own attitude, Major Franks would have opined that they didn’t have to live with her.

  “My lady and gentlemen,” said Bertles, rising to
his feet, “forgive me, I feel the ebb tide under our counter. I must see to the unmooring of the ship.”

  He reached behind him, to a desk which had been pushed out of the way to accommodate the diners, and fetched an inkstand, plus a leather-bound folder, with the name of the ship picked out in gold tooling.

  “One request, since I may not have time to join you again, this being such a busy anchorage. You must enter your names on the manifest. I also like to have the comments of my passengers noted, be they favourable or not. If you would be so good as to list your names and addresses, with your occupations and opinions, on the ship’s manifest, here in this ledger, you would be doing me a service.”

  “Will a favourable comment gain a reduction in the crossing fee?” asked Wentworth. He tried to make it sound like a jest, but he failed, for it was plain he meant it.

  “After such a fine dinner, sir?” said James nailing him.

  Bertles, who seemed less full of ale, wine, and port than his guests, beamed at him, his little tufts of hair twitching on his puffed-up cheeks. He watched as Harry filled in his details in the folder. Such examination was unwelcome. Not that his name and address presented any problem. The difficulty arose with his occupation. He had no desire to put down privateer. But ship’s captain hardly seemed sufficient for someone who nowadays never sailed in a vessel he hadn’t bought. Harry scribbled ship owner and put the quill back in the stand.

  “I trust I will not be in the way if I join you on deck,” he said, pushing the folder across the table as he began to rise to his feet. He stopped when he saw the flicker in Bertles’s eyes, as though he was about to refuse, which left him half in and half out of the chair.