On Starlit Seas Read online

  The boy turned to remonstrate with the captain, but he was gone.

  For once, outside Maria’s cabin, Henderson didn’t hesitate. Decisive, he knocked and entered. The shutters were closed and the room felt sequestered by the heavy silence of sleep, the air thick with it. On the table, the remains of dinner had been swept one way and another during manoeuvres. A splash of red wine trickled across the surface where it had spilled, and a scrap of bread lay torn and uneaten, rolling across a stray piece of paper upon which Mrs Graham had scrawled notes. On the other side of the room, Maria turned under a thin sheet and sat up, blearily.

  ‘James?’

  The captain steeled himself. If he intended to change, he should simply do so. This, he realised, was the nature of being a man. He crossed to open the shutters and Mrs Graham scuttled to cover herself, pulling a wrap around the shoulders of her white lawn nightgown. Her hair was down and she twisted it into a bun, checking her appearance with fluttering fingers. He had never intruded like this before. What did Henderson intend bursting in this way?

  ‘If you give me a few minutes, sir . . .’ She was flustered, trying to read him.

  Henderson pulled up a chair. ‘My apologies, but there’s no time. You said you’d tried that cocoa powder. What was it like?’ he demanded.

  Straight as Britannia, Maria stared at him blankly. ‘It’s not as good as the cocoa aboard ship.’ She glanced hopefully towards the door, as if at the very mention of cocoa, breakfast might be served.

  ‘Simmons said the cocoa trade was booming. So who makes it, Mrs Graham?

  Maria sank back against the pillows. Henderson was perplexing sometimes. Of all the reasons he might have burst in here, this line of questioning had not been on her horizon. ‘Who makes cocoa?’ she repeated.

  The captain nodded sharply.

  ‘Well, several manufactories. Fry’s is the largest, as I recall, but any apothecary might set up in the trade. The Quakers excel in such matters.’

  ‘Religious men?’

  Maria shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t see . . .’

  ‘So I could simply put the goods into bond, sell them to a manufactory and pay the duty?’ the captain said, this revolutionary thought only now coming to him as a real possibility.

  Maria smiled in a thin line that spread across her face like a low sunrise. ‘You wish to pay the king’s due, Captain Henderson?’

  ‘I think I may. Do you know where they are based?’

  ‘Fry’s? Bristol, I think. I can’t be sure. But I recall that it is Bristol. How strange. From a packet of lozenges – Fry’s of Bristol. That’s what it said.’

  ‘The beans are of excellent quality,’ Henderson murmured. ‘There is no reason the trade wouldn’t pay a true price.’

  ‘Well,’ Maria chipped in, ‘they are men of conscience but men of business too and they will know the value of the thing. They must get their beans from somewhere. There is a coach from Bristol to London. The Bristol Rocket. It would see me in Piccadilly by next week. We must be close now.’ She sounded excited.

  ‘You have reformed me, madam.’ Henderson nodded brusquely and rose, scraping the chair across the boards.

  But Mrs Graham had not finished. She could not let it go. ‘The other night, James,’ she started.

  ‘Please don’t trouble yourself.’

  A low flush crept across her face.

  ‘I have no wish to embarrass you,’ he said. ‘I know I’m not respectable. Goodness and badness, respectability and otherwise, are complex matters. I had hoped you would forgive my complexities. I understand that you cannot and I am sorry for troubling you.’

  He turned, but Maria caught his hand. She wanted to explain. She had been thinking of it for days. Now she ignored the pang in her stomach – the ignominy of it. The air of urgency about Henderson made it easier, somehow, to speak.

  ‘The thing is that I value my reputation.’ Her tone was pressing. ‘Everything I have strived for depends upon the respectability you consider so unimportant. My whole career, my life, can turn on a rumour. No matter what you or I might want, the stakes are too high.’ Her words hung in the air.

  He might have retrieved those stakes, but Henderson had no intention of talking. If they discussed the matter, it would make no sense. He wanted to marry her. He’d made that plain. What could be more respectable? Her fingers were soft in his palm. In a rush, he bent towards her. They kissed, lightly at first but then with increasing passion. He didn’t register the knock on the door and only sprang back as it opened. Horrified, Maria couldn’t bring her eyes to meet his, let alone the mate’s, who had edged into the cabin.

  ‘Sir,’ Clarkson said. ‘They have spotted us.’

  ‘Who?’ Maria’s voice sounded distant.

  ‘There’s a cutter and a barque,’ Clarkson continued.

  ‘I’m coming.’ Henderson waved the man away. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  Maria pushed her hair behind her ear. Whatever had caused this confusion aboard had at least made it easier to speak.

  ‘No good can come of such passion,’ she said quietly. ‘I have to get back to London . . .’

  The ship veered. The captain stepped backwards.

  ‘What is happening?’ Maria asked as she almost tipped over.

  ‘Get dressed, Mrs Graham.’ Henderson turned.

  The least he could do was make sure, if the Bittersweet was boarded, that Mrs Graham was not in a state of undress. As it was, once she understood their predicament, she might never forgive him. He must try somehow to avert the crisis. As he left she was already out of bed, heading for her grey dress.

  On deck, Henderson put the glass to his eye. His line of vision was partly obscured by a shroud of low cloud, but you could make out the ships nonetheless. The wind was whipping up the water.

  He motioned to Sam Pearson. ‘Is that the Preventative waterguard?’

  Sam nodded. ‘Yes. Pirate ships don’t come so close nor look so vicious. You don’t want them to catch sight of me, sir. They know most of the ships working the trade hereabouts and most of the fellows who crew them. They don’t know who you is, but if they see me, they’ll tumble pretty quick. My hair, you see. I should put on a cap.’

  ‘Mr Clarkson will stow you below decks, Mr Pearson.’ The captain’s orders took on a naval air and the boy responded with a cheeky salute.

  From high above, the cabin boy let out a whistle to show the ships were making ground. Henderson barked orders, sending the Bittersweet’s crew scuttling. Their best chance was open water.

  When Maria came on deck, her grey dress camouflaged her against the sky and the motion of the ship almost upended her in the commotion. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders, out of place immediately, the little hat she had carefully pinned in place almost obscured. She was instantly soaked. The black waxed parasol was nowhere to be seen, but it would not have survived the wind. It swept across the captain’s mind that if the situation wasn’t so dangerous, it might be comic. What had he been thinking, putting a respectable woman in this position? She had been right.

  Sam Pearson took a cap from one of the crew to cover his bright hair and refused to be stowed. He had a sense that the captain was not going to keep their bargain and he fought his way back to confront him. The ship was broadly heading back towards the Atlantic.

  ‘Where are you up to?’ he glowered.

  ‘Change of plan, boy,’ Henderson announced. ‘It needn’t worry you.’

  ‘But . . .’ Sam’s voice trailed as he stared in the direction of the village.

  ‘If we get through this, we’ll put you off at Bristol. Work the passage and we’ll settle up afterwards, fair and square.’

  ‘You won’t get the goods in at Bristol. There’s bondsmen and harbourmasters. They’ll cop you for sure.’

  ‘You need to get below,’ Henderson said firmly.

  ‘I shan’t.’ Pearson scorned him. ‘This isn’t right. We had a deal.’

  One or two of the sailors dallied
, curious as to what might transpire. No one ever questioned the captain’s judgement. Not above decks or below. That was mutiny on a calm day, never mind when the ship was cutting through a storm and being pursued. Sam’s fists were clenched as a crowd formed round him.

  ‘The gentlemen won’t like this,’ he insisted. ‘It’s their cargo and you can’t . . .’

  Henderson’s eyes flashed a glance as sharp as a razor, but Sam ignored it.

  ‘You’re as good as thieving,’ the boy continued in outrage.

  ‘I’ll repay the capital plus interest, being a cut of the profits. But I’m determined on doing what’s right, Mr Pearson. Call it a change of heart. I’ll be paying the duty due, and beyond that we shall make a deal. You must settle now.’

  Sam had no intention of it. ‘It ain’t your cargo,’ he spat.

  The boy launched himself at Henderson, who dodged the attack, landing a sharp right uppercut that sent Sam reeling. Four of the men rushed forward, but the captain waved them off. Anyone left on deck stopped what they were doing. Everyone was watching. Maria found herself transfixed, the men crowding around her, jostling to get a look as Henderson hovered over the boy and punched him in the stomach like a piston. The boy might have been thin, but he put in a good show. Still, the captain was stronger and it didn’t take long before, plucky or not, the youngster folded. Henderson pulled Sam Pearson to his feet, propping him against the mizzen.

  ‘Never question me on my own ship,’ he snarled. ‘We’ll cut a deal. Perhaps not the one you want, but things have changed. That happens at sea.’

  Sam’s breathing was constrained. ‘They won’t have it,’ he wheezed.

  Henderson shrugged. ‘Like it or lump it, and be thankful I’m not throwing you overboard. Search the boy for weapons and confine him below, Mr Clarkson.’

  ‘You’ll wish the customs men had got you by the time the gentlemen are done,’ Sam spat over his shoulder, his voice as ominous as a witch’s curse.

  Henderson addressed the crew. ‘Any more of you?’

  Matters had changed, after all. There was silence. Not one of the men met the captain’s eye.

  ‘Get on then.’

  ‘How long will it take to reach Bristol?’ Maria enquired coolly, as the men dispersed.

  ‘There was nothing else I could do.’ Henderson’s tone was insistent.

  She nodded curtly. He was right. ‘Your eyes turned quite devilish.’

  ‘Maria, are you flirting with me?’

  ‘I’ve never seen you so passionate.’

  ‘Oh, you have.’

  Henderson took the eyeglass from his pocket. The weather was covering their path as the ship zigzagged out to sea. The going was choppy. Maria had not flinched at the pursuit. Her nerve was impressive.

  ‘Keep up the speed,’ he shouted ‘They can’t follow us if they can’t see.’

  ‘Shall I prepare to open fire, sir?’ Clarkson asked.

  Henderson paused. He stared at Mrs Graham as if he was contemplating an excellent vintage or an inspiring view. If he was going to do this, he must do it now.

  ‘Sir,’ Clarkson pushed.

  ‘I will not fire on His Majesty’s Customs,’ Henderson said. ‘We shall outrun them if we can and explain ourselves if not.’

  The mate took a moment to take this in. His blunt fingers scratched his filthy hair, but he never looked anything less than jovial. ‘Aye aye, Captain,’ he barked, and the Bittersweet swung for cover into the last of the storm.

  Maria flopped onto a barrel. She folded her hands primly in her lap. It would seem Henderson had the makings of a gentleman, albeit a gentleman in trade. He wouldn’t be the first to fight his way to respectability. Good for him, she thought. As the sailor with the injured fingers passed her, she glared his way. Then she steeled herself and wondered how long it would take her to get to London. The world was waiting and she must attend her business. She must.

  17

  Bristol docks, two days later

  Young Richard Fry’s agile fingers served him well, though not with the ladies, for in that regard Richard’s conquests were naive in nature. He had indulged in a stolen kiss when the opportunity arose, but he’d never had to tackle an obstacle such as a corset. All the sons of chocolate manufacturer Joseph Fry had been brought up to save themselves for marriage, and though he was a hot-blooded young buck of only seventeen years, Mr Fry’s youngest certainly intended that. That said, his attention was sometimes diverted by the plump haunches of Mary Hewson, a worker at his father’s factory. Mary was a pretty girl – blonde, rosy-cheeked and, like all Fry employees, well fed. The family treated their workers better than many treated their personal servants and had been shocked when the newspapers brought to light the case of a maid in one of England’s stately homes who had been found dead in her bed. The girl had perished from lack of sustenance and the family’s doctor had felt the need to release the shameful secret as a matter of conscience. Mrs Fry led a time of family thoughtfulness, inciting her sons to pray for the soul of the poor creature. Around the country, employers stipulated that cake and cheese must be served in the servants’ hall. The hoi polloi, seldom seen below stairs, inspected their scrawny employees and adjusted housekeeping budgets marginally upwards. Fry’s finest cocoa had benefited – sales were higher than usual for the time of year. However, the Frys were good people and could say quite honestly that they would have preferred the poor maid had survived.

  Young Richard found himself drawn to such stories of poverty and cruelty for reasons that were not apparent to his family. Safe in his parents’ comfortable, middle-class home, surrounded by the twin tenets of Moderation and Temperance, the boy seemed very much like his brothers, although Mrs Fry had noted her son’s predilection for anticipation. Richard was always the last to finish dinner and the slowest to dress. Mrs Fry privately worried that her youngest son took too much pleasure in all things. Though, strictly speaking, there was no sin in Richard’s lingering, it played on her mind.

  Mr Fry had noticed more. In his view, the boy was like a puppy still to be trusted off the lead. He had no idea what his son might do, but he looked forward to finding out. Secretly he hoped Richard might prove an adventurer, though that would horrify Mrs Fry, who kept her boys close, hand-reared like lapdogs. Mr Fry suspected that what Richard needed was a stretch – something to form him. He had recently decided he would think upon it and come up with something suitable.

  None of them had any idea that Richard was running well ahead of his father and already pursuing a secret life of his own. Had Joseph Fry realised where the boy was really spending his time, he’d have been horrified. Bristol harbour housed a long line of bonds, warehouses and businesses that straggled along the water. Richard liked coming close to what he thought of as ‘real life’ – those people living in abject misery who made up half the population of England’s great nation. He regularly set out to investigate this underworld and, indeed, to master it.

  He bought a set of clothes from a pawnbroker. He rubbed dirt about his person and tousled his hair, adding some goose fat nicked from a pot in the pantry, so his well-kept locks hung in limp strands like those of a pauper, a stranger to Mrs Fry’s glycerine soap and the cleansing effects of warm water. And day on day, thus arrayed, he set off. The dirtier he looked the more it seemed he might penetrate the intriguing nooks and alleyways, the dead ends and back rooms where men gathered to throw dice. He learned to blend in among the tavern whores. He watched as thin children scavenged the middens and fished forlornly by the stinking pontoons. He became accustomed to the packed public houses with working men oozing out of every window like yellowing sausage meat. He delighted in such desper-ation. Quickly, he’d torn extra holes in his trousers, for at the start he had not been nearly ragged enough. Coming from the respectability of the Fry household, it had been easy to underestimate the worst of the poverty.

  The first time he tasted alcohol, the boy retched, but he quickly learned it was possible to grow accustomed t
o practic-ally anything. After only a week or two he could withstand the stink of the hide vats overflowing with piss, and face a hearty working man’s breakfast despite the miasma. In fact, he was drawn back often to fit in among the tanners, innkeepers and ne’er-do-wells, and the girls selling stolen snuff, moonshine and themselves from dingy rooms by the river.

  Most of all, Richard learned to take chances, and that thrilled him more than anything. Here, at the bottom of the heap, all life was a wager. Unlike his mother or, indeed, his brothers, the boy was not a reformer. He did not seek to uncover vice to encourage its reparation or indeed to help. Instead, he treated the intentions of others as an intriguing puzzle that he might outwit. Therein lay the game and, for that matter, the profit. Richard Fry liked to win far more than he liked to evangelise, and he sought knowledge more than he sought to use it for good.

  The boy had learned a great deal about sleight of hand from the men who touted card tricks on the dock. Gambling was a sin spoken against often in the Fry household (as much as the sin of drunkenness). There were, as far as he could make out, two sorts of gaming man. ‘Find the lady. We’ll play for the fun of it, shall we?’ Conmen, every one.

  And then there were those who indulged in private matches of stakes up to a shilling. The first time he sat at the table – or, if he recalled correctly, it was a barrel-top – Richard could not have been happier were he betting ten guineas a time at a club on the Strand. Here, his family name could buy him nothing. He had to prove his worth. And he did. He fought when he had to. Not the boxing matches or fencing classes of a gentleman but the deadly, frantic lashing, the whatever-it-takes scrabbling in the filth, rolling, still fighting into the stinking water. The I’d-rather-die-than-lose mantra of shanty men who might die any minute. He wore his bruises with pride, though at home he had to explain them away as sporting injuries – a spot of wrestling or a fall sustained out riding. When he was cut, he doctored himself. Slowly, scarred but quick-fingered, Richard Fry found satisfaction. He might have been born a gentleman but he could make his way among the ragged and the desperate. He understood how things worked. He could win.