Blood & Sugar

by Laura Shepherd-Robinson

  As Child had warned, my uniform soon attracted the attention of some of the town’s rougher elements. Syphilitic whores tried to waylay me, while other eyes watched me from the shadows. I was followed for a time by a pair of heavy-footed rogues, until I paused to give them an eyeful of my sword and pistol. They slunk away, but I remained vigilant of every rustle and flitting shadow in the darkness.

  I was looking for a tavern where slaving men might drink, and I found one near the quays which looked a suitable proposition. It was named the Blackamoor’s Head, and the inn sign depicted an African boy with a slave-collar around his neck.

  In the taproom, I was greeted by an eye-watering blast of sweat and cheap West Indian tobacco. The place was packed with hard-faced, hard-drinking men and their whores. Their voices held the dialect distinctive to Lewisham and Deptford: a rough blend of the Cockaigne of East London and the broad Kentish dialect. Occasionally I heard other languages too: Dutch and Portuguese, perhaps Russian. I could see no one who matched the few descriptive details of Tad’s assailant that I had gleaned from Child and Brabazon.

  I elbowed my way through to the bar. ‘We’ve rum and we’ve beer, friend,’ the tapman greeted me. ‘Which will kill you first?’

  His wiry, ill-fitting wig had raised a rash of pimples across his forehead. A navy service medal was pinned to his yellow waistcoat. I asked for a beer and he filled a greasy-looking pot with a thick, yeasty mixture from his jug.

  ‘You looking for company, friend? The fragrant kind?’

  ‘A game of dice, actually.’

  He eyed me like a fattened calf. ‘Dice we can do. I know some coves who’ll give you a game.’

  ‘Oh, I already know the man I want to play with. A friend told me he ran the best game in town. He gave me a description, but I’ve had no luck finding him yet.’

  ‘Perhaps I might know him? Give me a try.’

  ‘He’s a slave ship sailor, a big man, wears a fistful of rings. The other month when my friend was in town, he had a nasty bite on his hand.’

  The tapman scratched the coarse tuft of hair at the neck of his shirt, and I was convinced I saw a louse scuttle across it. ‘You sure you don’t want to play with these coves of mine?’

  ‘I only ever play by recommendation. When I’m betting with gold, I never want to risk cogged dice. No offence to your friends.’

  ‘None taken.’ I could tell the tapman liked the sound of my gold, and I presumed that like most tavern keepers he would expect a cut of any game. Still, he hesitated.

  I opened my purse to pay for my drink, making sure he got a good look at the gold it contained. It proved sufficient enticement.

  ‘The man you’re looking for – he sounds a lot like Frank Drake.’

  I smiled. ‘There’s a name it would be hard to forget.’

  ‘He claims he’s a descendant, though it’s probably horseshit. Drake was bitten by some vermin down here a month or so back. When I say vermin, I mean the human kind. He’s the man you’re looking for, I’m sure.’

  ‘Do you know where I might find him?’

  The tapman came out from behind his bar and walked to one of the tables, where a trio of men sat smoking long, Dutch-handled pipes. He whispered a few words to them and with a glance at me, they vacated the table. The tapman patted it and smiled.

  ‘You just sit right here, friend. I’ll fetch Drake.’

  *

  I knew it was Drake the moment he walked into the tavern. He had the height and solidity of a wall, and a path opened up before him as he swaggered through the crowded taproom. Once he must have been remarkably handsome, but his broad, brick face was bloated from too much ale and he was starting to lose his long flaxen hair. His turquoise coat was embroidered with gold thread, and his boots looked like Italian leather. Each ham fist glittered with a row of rings.

  The tapman indicated me with a nod, and Drake approached my table, flashing white teeth.

  ‘Frank Drake.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’ll singe any beards you ask, only don’t come looking to me for a game of bowls.’

  It had the ring of a line he’d used many times before. I smiled dutifully. ‘Just dice, Mr Drake.’

  His accent was local, and his handshake firm to the point of discomfort. I’d wondered if he would inquire further into my mythical friend with whom he’d once diced, and I had a few vague replies prepared. In the event, I didn’t need them, for Drake seemed anxious to get down to the business of emptying my purse.

  He’d brought a couple of other players with him, presumably men he’d been dicing with in whatever tavern the tapman had dragged him from. One was lean and dark with a crude tattoo of a naked woman on his bulging forearm. Like Drake, he wore his own hair long. I presumed there was little call for wigs aboard a Guineaman. The other was a fat fellow in merchant’s garb with a florid complexion and a cavalier’s blonde moustache. His accent was Flemish and largely impenetrable.

  We played hazard, my father’s game, and I used him for inspiration, adopting the role of a gentleman who thought he played dice rather better than he did. At first they let me win. Almost every time I called the main, my throw was good and soon I had accumulated a little stack of half-guineas in front of me. The tapman was a frequent visitor to our table, his rum and ale flowing freely.

  I told them I was in town on business, and everyone toasted the health of my investments. Drake, I learned, was awaiting his next slaving voyage, but his ship had been delayed in port. Isaac, the man with the tattoo, had lately returned from a stint aboard a man-o’-war in the North Atlantic, harassing French ships under Letters of Marque. The Dutchman told me he had been in port only two days, and I guessed they were playing him for a chub as much as I. Drake held court as we played, making jokes about his bad luck, and sharing his opinions on a variety of topics, from women to horseracing to the perfidy of the Navy Yard, who had impressed a dozen drunkards in one of the taverns last night.

  ‘Poor bastards will wake up with a sore head to find they’re scudding across the Solent. I’m a patriot, Captain, but that ain’t right.’

  We had been playing for about an hour, and the dice had started to turn against me. To mix a metaphor, it was time to shake the tree, before I lost my shirt.

  ‘Did you hear about that dead abolitionist they found down at the dock?’ I said. ‘Someone hung him up and cut his throat.’

  ‘We heard.’ Isaac grinned. ‘Tortured him too. Must have died howling.’

  I drank deeply from my pot to disguise my anger. ‘I can’t abide abolitionists,’ I said, once I’d recovered my equanimity. ‘Might as well hand over the keys of the Bank of England to the French. As for whoever killed him, now there’s a man I’d like to buy a drink.’

  ‘Aye,’ Isaac said. ‘Wouldn’t we all.’

  ‘I heard it wasn’t the first time they’d crossed swords,’ I went on blithely. ‘They say the killer had a run-in with the dead man down here at the dock a month or so back. Our fellow would have ended it then and there, but there were too many witnesses around. So he came back later to finish the job he’d started.’

  Drake had cast the dice, but he didn’t watch them fall. He was looking at me and the bonhomie had drained from his bright blue eyes. ‘I’d check your facts before you start spreading rumours, Captain. The fellow at the dock wasn’t the man who killed him.’

  ‘Are you certain?’ I said, as though oblivious to his change of mood. ‘The man who told me seemed very sure.’

  ‘Aye, I’m certain. I was there.’

  Isaac grinned and mimed a boxer’s punches into the air. Then he raised his pot to drink Drake’s health.

  ‘That was you?’ I cried, all astonishment.

  ‘Aye, and I know I didn’t kill him, because at the time he met his maker, I was at the bathhouse. Cock-deep in nigger cunny from dusk ’til dawn.’ He gave me a hard stare. ‘So watch what you say.’

  ‘My mistake,’ I said cheerfully. ‘What started things between you, anyway?’

&n
bsp; ‘He asked too many questions. Now cast the damned dice.’

  Asking questions. The same charge levelled at Tad by the author of the anonymous letters.

  We played a little more, and some of our old cheerfulness returned. The dice were plainly cogged, and they fell in such a way as to entice the Dutchman into making several large and risky bets. Soon he was down a good ten guineas. I played more cautiously, much to the frustration of Isaac and Drake.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, a little later, ‘we all know why that abolitionist really came to town.’

  ‘Handing out pamphlets,’ Isaac said. ‘The sort you use to wipe your arse.’

  ‘I heard there was more to it. He was here because of the slaves who died on board that ship.’

  A silence descended, broken only by the Dutchman muttering about his luck.

  ‘What slaves?’ Drake’s tone was underscored with menace.

  ‘Over three hundred of them. It must have been quite a voyage, wouldn’t you say? Does anybody know the full story? How did they die?’

  Drake’s fist crashed onto the table, making the dice and the Dutchman jump. ‘What the devil?’

  ‘Come on, Drake.’ Isaac gave my stack of gold a pointed glance. ‘He’s only repeating what he heard. He means no harm.’ He smiled at me reassuringly.

  ‘Certainly I meant no offence,’ I said. ‘They were only slaves, right? No one will miss them.’

  ‘Only the cotton fields.’ Isaac placed his index finger on the edge of his pot, gave it a flick with his other hand, and the finger plopped into his ale. He repeated this curious gesture several times, and I was given to understand that it was another of his mimes.

  ‘Thirsty work, eh, Drake?’ He winked.

  ‘Shut your mouth. Both of you.’ Drake scraped back his chair. ‘This game’s over.’

  Isaac didn’t like that. They’d hardly begun to recoup the money they’d let me win. ‘Christ, Drake. It’s not even eleven o’clock.’

  ‘I said it’s over.’ Drake swept his money into his palm, and strode from the tavern. Isaac followed, frowning. I exchanged a bemused glance with the Dutchman and pocketed my winnings. The tapman looked dismayed and offered to find me more players. I declined, and once I’d finished my pot, I too left the tavern.

  Drake hadn’t liked me talking about his fight with Tad, but he’d liked me talking about the dead slaves even less. I suspected he had been one of the sailors on board that ship. Tad must have questioned Drake about it, and Drake had beaten him senseless. I believed him more than capable of torture and murder. I would pay a visit to the bathhouse tomorrow night, to see if his alibi withstood scrutiny as Child claimed.

  Yet Drake, a slave ship sailor, would hardly count as a powerful enemy. If he had murdered Tad, perhaps he had been acting upon instruction? Were the deaths of those slaves somehow behind Tad’s conviction that he could end slavery? Everything he’d said to Amelia suggested this was much more than a local Deptford quarrel.

  As the noise of the taproom receded, I was conscious of the quiet of the dockside alleys. The air still held the warmth of the day, and the smells were no less pungent for the dark. The cobbles were slippery with seaweed and rats scuttled in the shadows. I heard a noise behind me – a scrape of boot against stone? – and I turned, drawing my pistol.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I waited, head cocked, aware that Drake and Isaac might consider me unfinished business. I heard nothing more, and after a moment I walked on, thinking about the curious mime Isaac had performed. His finger dropping into the ale again and again. Could the crew have drowned the slaves? Drake’s reaction suggested foul play, and yet I struggled to find any plausible reason why the crew would destroy their own cargo.

  I was still puzzling this mystery, when two dark figures stepped out at the end of the alley to block my path. One lean and lithe. One built like a wall. Knives flashing in their hands. Isaac and Drake.

  Drake saw my flintlock pistol, and gave a warning shout. Isaac either misunderstood, or thought he could reach me before I could get off a shot. If the latter, he was wrong. As he came at me, I brought my pistol up and fired. A burst of white light, the sear of burned powder, and a crack resonated through the alleys. Isaac clutched his chest, and gave an astonished laugh. Then he dropped to the ground.

  Seeing I had no time to reload, Drake charged me like a bull. We went down, and I landed awkwardly, my bad leg folded beneath me. The pain brought flashes to my eyes. Nevertheless, I managed to get in a couple of good blows to Drake’s skull – until he put his knife against my throat.

  He dragged me up, taking my sword from its scabbard, and throwing it down the alley, along with my pistol. ‘Who sent you here?’ Drake breathed the sickly odour of rum into my face. ‘What do you know about that voyage? Damn you, speak.’

  I knew he was going to kill me, whatever I said. I’d seen that cold, determined look in men’s eyes before. I tensed myself to make a move: a knee to the groin, a grab for the knife-hand. If he didn’t slice my jugular vein first.

  ‘Speak, soldier boy, or I’ll cut your pretty face. Who sent you here asking about that ship?’

  A new voice spoke out of the darkness: ‘There’ll be no cutting tonight.’

  Drake whirled round. Peregrine Child stood behind him, his staff of office in one hand, a pistol in the other. ‘You heard what I said, Frank. Put your knitting needle away before someone gets hurt.’

  Drake scowled. ‘This ain’t your business, Perry.’

  ‘I say it is. Now do as I say. We’re good friends, you and I. Let’s keep it that way.’

  ‘He killed Isaac.’

  I looked down at the man I’d shot. A black stain was spreading across his shirtfront.

  ‘It was self-defence,’ I said. ‘These men attacked me.’

  ‘It seems to me,’ Child said, ‘that you’re all square now. No need for any more quarrelling. Or for this business to end up in my courtroom. Am I right?’

  I could have insisted Child arrest Drake, but I didn’t have much confidence in Deptford justice. Isaac’s death also complicated matters. I had no wish to see my name in the newspapers accused of shooting a man dead, however mitigating the circumstances.

  ‘You’ll hear no argument from me,’ I said.

  I could see Drake didn’t like it, but he returned his knife to his pocket and stepped away.

  ‘Good,’ Child said. ‘Think you can take old Isaac out for a swim, Frank, while I walk Captain Corsham back to his lodgings?’

  Drake gave me a look, pregnant with promise. ‘I can do that.’

  ‘With a bit of luck the tide will take him down to Greenwich. Let Isaac be their problem, eh, not ours?’

  Drake grunted unhappily, and crouched down next to Isaac. He started going through his friend’s purse and clothes, pocketing whatever he found. Child looked away, whistling a tune. I groped around in the dark until I found my sword and pistol. Then Child and I walked up towards the Green.

  ‘Were you following me, Mr Child?’ I asked.

  ‘I told you to watch your step in these alleys, Captain Corsham. No more games of dice, that’s my advice.’

  ‘They attacked me because I asked Drake about Archer’s murder. If he is the best example of an innocent party that Deptford has to offer, I’d hate to meet one of your guilty men.’

  ‘I told you, Drake’s alibi is sound.’

  ‘You also told me he merely gave Archer a bloody nose. That was a pack of lies as well.’

  We walked the rest of the way in uncompanionable silence. When we reached the Noah’s Ark, Child put his staff across the door to arrest my progress.

  ‘Go home,’ he said. ‘There’s no profit for you here. Don’t think I’ll always be around to play your wet nurse.’

  ‘If you’d only do your job, I’d happily go.’

  He muttered an oath beneath his breath – I only caught the words ‘London’ and ‘fuckster’. ‘On your own head be it,’ he said, as he walked away.

  CHAPTER FIF
TEEN

  Drums rolled and muskets crackled. A thousand scarlet coats filled the field of my vision. Officers shouted panicked orders, my own voice among them, until a great roar of artillery cannon drowned out all other sound. An explosion of earth and smoke and blood sucked everything else away. Blood mingled with saltpetre in my mouth.

  I glimpsed stumbling figures in the acrid haze around me. I ordered them back into formation, but they kept walking, blood running from their ears. The cannons roared again and startled me awake.

  My heart was pounding, my bedclothes soaked. I could still hear the crackle of muskets, until I realized it was the clatter of hooves on the cobbles outside. I remembered, in an awful, piercing moment of clarity, that I was in Deptford and Tad was dead.

  I went to the washstand and splashed water on my face. My leg was a torment after my encounter with Drake in the alleys last night, and I limped to the window, gazing out over the stable-yard towards the quays. I had such dreams less often these days, but they still had the power to chill my soul to ice. My thoughts turned to the poor boys who would soon be boarding the merchantmen moored in the Navy Yard dock. I gave little thought to Isaac, the man I had killed last night. Better men than he had died at my hands on the battlefield – and with less justification.

  The stable boy was shovelling straw in the yard below, and a large black dog lay sleeping in the sun. A gentleman in a black coat walked across the yard, and I recognized James Brabazon, presumably back to see his patient. The surgeon climbed the steps at the side of the stable, which led up to a living loft above it. His knock was answered by the same young man who’d approached our table last night. I presumed this was Nathaniel Grimshaw, my landlady’s son. He and the surgeon went inside, and Nathaniel reappeared a few moments later. He ran downstairs, pausing in the yard to pet the dog, and went into the stables. I dressed swiftly and went down to find him.