“Your soldiers’ pouches are full, Captain,” she said, with a slight air of breathlessness. “If they can be brought to stay their hunger on your way back to Deal, there should be enough to feed your entire detachment.”
“Most kind, Lady Drumdryan,” replied Latham.
Anne looped her arm through Harry’s. “Nonsense, sir. It is poor recompense for your bringing my brother safely home. It would not be remiss to observe that you have probably saved his life.”
Harry looked at her closely. She had not been privy to the tale he’d told Arthur. She smiled up at him, though it was accompanied by a creasing of her forehead.
“You need not think I do not know what happened, Harry. Hospitality has its compensations.”
“The soldiers?” Harry asked, trying to hide his amusement at the look on Arthur’s face. The idea of his wife conversing on equal terms with lowly infantrymen was anathema.
“I have had to allow for a degree of exaggeration. No one made of flesh and blood could sustain themselves, if the captain’s men are to be believed.” Anne beamed at Latham but said no more. They all escorted him to the door and watched as he led his men out of the gate, all rosy-cheeked from the hot cider punch they’d consumed. Tite, his head still swathed in his theatrical bandage, was standing below them, muttering imprecations against red-coated “bullocks,” a breed of men who never rated very highly to a sailor. Anne gave him a very hard look, then led the way back inside.
“I wonder if you could leave Harry and me alone, my dear,” said Arthur.
Anne looked from one to the other, then finally settled on her brother, fetching him a look that made him very uncomfortable. “I cannot pretend to understand why you refused his offer of help, Harry.”
It was natural to try and bluff, for he could only assume that his sister was guessing. “What offer?”
“Dear brother, I was standing outside the drawing-room door when Captain Latham made it.”
“Anne!” exclaimed Arthur.
“I am aware that it is ill mannered, husband,” she snapped, in a display of temper she rarely showed in Arthur’s presence. Her hand rested on her swelling stomach. “But you will accept that I have other considerations, which are above those of our own safety.”
“You have nothing to fear, Anne,” said Harry softly.
Her face, which had displayed nothing but strength, collapsed. “I cannot believe that. The people who tried to kill you, in such a barbarous manner, will not spare anyone if it suits their needs. We have ample evidence of that.”
Harry wanted to ask what the soldiers had told her, but decided not to, since that might force him to tell the equally horrifying truth.
“I shall provide ample protection for you and your unborn child.”
“How? These people are bound to be more numerous than us, even if we can engage our neighbours to help.”
Harry half turned to include his brother-in-law. “Arthur. I need the ledger that contains the names of the men who served with me on the Medusa.”
“Whatever for?”
“I want them here, at Cheyne Court. I have no intention of waiting to see if these people intend to try again. I am about to go on the offensive, and to do that I don’t need soldiers to guard my house, I need a party of my own sailors at my back.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ARTHUR HAD a sheaf of mail from those in high places promising immediate action to curb the lawlessness he’d reported. But both he and Harry knew that to those in power the word “immediate” had a very different construction to that given in Johnson’s dictionary, and it could be weeks before such intentions were translated into concrete action. There was private mail too, including a cheering packet from James, enclosing a list of ships presently on the stocks that might be suitable for privateering, with their designs and specifications.
Nothing was more guaranteed to raise Harry’s spirits. He was particularly taken with a ship under construction at Grisham’s yard in Blackwall, built to a new design by a naval architect called Steppings, specifically for the opium trade. Opium cargoes, destined for China, were compact and highly prized, so they required a vessel with minimal cargo space, great speed and manoeuvrability, accommodation for a reasonable crew, and a good number of cannon to ward off Malay pirates. Harry spread the drawings out on the table and examined them minutely. Flush-decked, the design shared some of the characteristics of an old-fashioned 28-gun frigate, especially in the height of its masts. Though smaller than a proper navy vessel, with the capacity to mount fourteen guns, it was undoubtedly suitable for use as a warship, which was why it had been offered at a premium price to the Admiralty. If the claims of the builders were to be believed, it would combine speed with firepower to make a formidable instrument.
Such a vessel would be a touch larger than anything else he’d ever had, which would present problems in manning and increased exemptions. But the nature of the war had changed his requirements in the last two years. Easy pickings were a thing of the past, even in the Bay of Biscay, now crowded with British warships and a host of other privateers. It might be necessary to consider going further afield, and this ship, properly armed with twelve-pounders and a couple of cannonades, might just answer for such a task.
There was little gaiety in the accompanying letter, none of the gossip about those in and out of power and fashion which normally filled his brother’s communications. The lawsuit would be bearing down on him, of course. Harry did wonder what James would say of recent events. No doubt he would give his older brother that look which relayed his firmly held view that most of Harry’s troubles were entirely of his own making. He wrote back immediately, but confined himself to a request that James should take a trip down to Deptford yard to get some impression from the builder as to when he expected to launch the ship, and an idea of the price, ending with a promise that he himself would come up to London in the near future.
Pender came back along the road to Cheyne Court, with his wide-eyed children sitting upright in the back of a donkey cart. Two days on the road, first in coaches, now in this cart, had created the beginnings of a bond between them, something approaching their relationship before he fled to join the navy, though the eldest girl, named Jenny like her mother, was still withdrawn. She was old enough to understand everything that happened. Looking at her thin face and blank eyes her father could not but wonder just how much she had suffered. The boy, Peter, was of an age to see only pleasure or pain. Once he was released from one, he cheerfully accepted the other. Charlotte, the youngest, named after the queen, was barely walking, her growth and development stunted by lack of proper care.
If they grieved for their mother it didn’t surface, and there was no hint from any of them that they missed their familiar surroundings. He tried not to make it sound too magnificent, this new home, for he could not tolerate their disappointment. Yet the closer he came, the more he detailed its grandeur. He pointed to the six brick chimneys, just showing above the trees, as if they alone would underline how warm they would be within the walls. He would have to leave them there, motherless, in the care of others. When Harry Ludlow left, as he must, Pender would go with him. But his children would have a home, he was sure of that, a place where they would be well fed and properly raised.
Tite’s musket, which came out of the hedgerow a second before he did himself, had his children, who’d been full of curiosity, diving for the floor of the cart. Pender hauled hard on the traces himself, his heart in his mouth, for he’d been taken by surprise, which was not something he normally allowed to happen.
“You’re back, are you?” said Tite, his weapon aimed steadily at Pender’s chest. “About bleedin’ time.”
Pender was angry, still reeling from the shock. He indicated the thick bandage that showed clearly below the brim of the old man’s hat.
“I didn’t think it was that bad. Or did somebody give you the kind of clout you deserve?”
“You won’t be so cocky when you’ve seen t
he captain.”
The musket twitched slightly, as though Tite was contemplating pulling the trigger. Then he walked forward and looked into the cart, plainly not pleased with what greeted his eyes.
“More useless mouths to feed.”
The urge to respond violently was tempting. But he did have the children to consider. Pender didn’t want their first experience of Cheyne Court to be the sight of their father booting an old man all the way back to the house. They’d witnessed enough violence recently to last a lifetime. He flicked his whip and forced the donkey into motion, leaving the old man to his solitary duty by the roadside.
Tite gazed at the back of the cart, cursing the driver. The cocky young sod had got off on the wrong foot with him, instead of being a bit humble and accepting that he was older and wiser. Pity, because Tite would have loved to ask him a few things about the captain, not least if he had another lady-love stashed away somewhere; for Harry had, to Tite’s knowledge, been nowhere near Naomi Smith, which was a damn shame, because it made the information he had about Drumdryan worthless.
Pender was cursing too. He’d made an enemy of that old man, who would be here when he was gone, able to take out on his children what he could not on their father. Now, in sight of the house, he wondered if he’d done the proper thing bringing his children here. And Tite’s words were still with him, too. He had the feeling that something else had happened in his absence. Something damned unpleasant.
He found out soon enough, for Harry did not spare his servant the details. The children were put in the care of Mrs Cray while Harry, plainly delighted to see him, dragged him off to his rooms. Pender watched as he excitedly paced the floor of his office, ticking off what he knew and what he didn’t, especially about Bertles’s murderer.
“They’ve got hold of the absurd notion that I financed Bertles. God only knows where that comes from. But even when I convince them otherwise, it won’t stop our real enemy. I need to know who he is and where he hails from. Once I’ve got that I can work out a way to take him. Since nobody wants to volunteer the information, we’ll have to find a way of persuading them.”
Pender hadn’t missed the piratical gleam in Harry’s eye, which boded ill for somebody. “Would I be permitted to observe, Captain, that it’s a time for clear thinkin’?”
Harry stopped his pacing abruptly and looked at his servant sharply. It was all there, in the look and the bearing, as well as the soft way he’d spoken the words. It was as if Pender was saying, “There you go again, charging in like a bull at the gate, as if such a thing hadn’t got you into enough bother already.” Harry Ludlow did not take to being checked. Yet he sought in vain for the words that would rebuke this man, who looked him square in the eye with an expression which, on another’s face, would qualify as downright insolent.
He tried hard to make his response sound like some kind of censure, but it didn’t come off. “You’re not suggesting that I sit still and do nothing, are you?”
Pender grinned. “I’m not one to fly direct in the face of nature, your honour.”
“Damn you,” said Harry, but without rancour.
“If we’re to have a war, Captain, we need some men to support us, especially since we’ll be working on another’s patch.”
“I’ve sent for the men who were listed on the books of the Medusa.”
“That don’t amount to more’n twenty.”
It was Harry’s turn to grin. “Which is just about the number of men I’d take in the longboat if I was raiding an enemy shore.”
“They’ve got more,” said Pender.
Harry was still smiling, the prospect of action having its usual effect on his outlook on life. “They always have.”
But it was clear that Pender’s questions were having some impact, forcing Harry to examine his plan. What it revealed to him, as he paced up and down, was that he didn’t have one. He was operating on instinct in a situation that needed something more definite. Instinct, plus a wealth of experience, might work for him at sea, where most of the factors that ensured success unfolded slowly. But would it do for his present difficulties? This was not his natural element. That was an advantage enjoyed by his enemies. He grinned at Pender again, glad that his servant had made him concentrate. He recalled his earlier words about needing the name. That was paramount. And until he had that he could not get a clear picture of what would then need to be done.
Braine wouldn’t disclose it. Temple certainly knew, but he was safe in his tavern, surrounded by his henchmen. An army could attack the Hope and Anchor without success and, even if they could force their way in, Temple would be long gone down his chalk-lined tunnels. And what if he had the name? The man who murdered Bertles wasn’t local. He had seen that in the Kellet Gut and nothing anyone had said to him since had questioned that supposition. Quite the reverse, for the brandy in his eyes had not stopped him from hearing of his assailant’s desire to get away from Deal. He had two hundred tons of contraband to collect. Where did he land it? It was one thing to know, quite another to do something about it. Wherever he hung out would be just as well protected as the smugglers’ hideouts in Deal. His mind turned back to the night he’d woken, as the Planet hove to off the French coast.
Bertles had stolen a cargo. But he’d known where to go to steal it, which pointed towards a regular landfall at an appointed time. He needed the name right enough. But more than that he needed the location of the spot on the coast of France where the smuggler picked up his cargo. For if he was going to take him, he would do so in his own natural element.
“How we doing, Captain?” asked Pender, who had been patiently watching Harry as he sorted out his thoughts.
He didn’t reply for a moment. Pender’s observation about their lack of hands had struck him forcibly, as well as his remark about “having a war.” With the best will in the world he could not contemplate that. For a start he had no idea of the odds he faced. How numerous were the smugglers in a place like Deal? Dozens, hundreds? What he had on his hands now was bad enough. More than that, it would be days before the men he expected would arrive. Could he just sit here and wait for that, with the risk that Temple would come to try and get him? Not Temple, perhaps, for he had not struck Harry as the energetic sort. But Cephas Quested might. The batman had required little bidding to do murder. Merely the contents of a purse.
That relationship was not as clear cut as it should be. Quested was more than Temple’s right-hand man. In that tavern, he’d sounded very much as though it was he who was in charge. Maybe Temple wasn’t such a force after all. He didn’t look healthy and didn’t sound like a man who took pleasure in his authority. It could be Temple was just tired, and needed someone like Quested to stiffen his backbone. Or it could mean that the balance of power in the gang was shifting to the younger man.
Harry, schooled as he was in the idea that attack was the best form of defence, knew he must do something, if only to give the smugglers pause. Perhaps, with the batman out of the way, he could achieve his aims by talking. Might Temple, bereft of both his protection and influence, and made plainly aware of the trouble Harry could cause, consent to compromise? But he knew instinctively that Quested would never agree to that. And if his voice in the gang leader’s councils was anything like as strong as he suspected, he alone could kill any hope of peace. So getting rid of him made sense. He didn’t have to die, but perhaps if he could be neutralised …
“Do you remember that fellow we ran into in Deal, the batman, Cephas Quested?”
“I’m not likely to forget an ugly sod like him,” said Pender.
“How many men would you say it’d take to capture him?”
Pender raised an eyebrow, clearly not content to continue speculation without more idea of what his captain was on about. It was typical of Harry Ludlow that even with someone he trusted completely he was not prepared to go into the complete details of what he thought he should do. Partly he wasn’t sure. But there was a real element of revenge in going after
Quested, which had nothing to do with his true object.
Harry looked his servant square in the eye. “I think he has possession of the information I require.”
“Is he the only one?” asked Pender swiftly, making Harry wonder if his own look had betrayed some of his inner thoughts.
“No,” he replied, forcing himself to smile. “But one of them I can’t touch and the other, if he has it, won’t say.”
“And this Quested?”
“He won’t volunteer. But he walks about alone, sure that he’s untouchable.”
“Capturing him won’t be easy, but it can be done if you can get him alone. Mind, getting a heavyweight like him out of Deal might be a mite more troublesome still.”
“How would you take him?” asked Harry, whose mind was on the batman’s club.
“I wouldn’t,” said Pender. “’Cause I don’t see how you could do without near killin’ the sod.”
Harry looked at Pender again, but this time his eyes were diamond hard. “Would that be so bad?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
HARRY INSPECTED Pender’s children after they’d suffered from the attentions of the cook. They were still painfully thin and clearly terrified, having been scrubbed from head to toe. Their hair was clean and dressed, still damp from the washing. But the two eldest stood to attention at their father’s bidding, while the nipper tried to hide her face in her father’s shoulder. The cook, Mrs Cray, stood to one side, her eyes fixed on the children.
“Welcome to Cheyne,” said Harry, slightly awkwardly. For him, children were generally difficult to talk to. Pender’s were no different. If anything they were slightly worse. They had that way of looking at him, with a direct, open countenance, that made Harry think they’d recall every word he said, ready to repeat it back to him should he fail to remember.
“Since your father now works with me, you will stay here. I have asked Cook to sort you out a room at the top of the house and she will also take you under her wing, using you to help in the kitchen. We shall either have a schoolmaster here or you will attend the Charity School in Deal. You will be put to your tables as well as learning how to read and write, for so I promised your papa. Attend to your lessons, carry out the tasks that you are set, and your life here will be happy. But …”
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