Black Gold (13 page)

He pulled his coat tightly around him, looked out over the city in the distance, and set to thinking. Sir Harry had intimated his willingness, nay eagerness, to provide the ship to take Fitzroy to France. The problem was how to get the Irishman securely on that ship without, as Baron Breteuil had said, making a mess. That did not look easy, now that he had met the man and his two guardians.

A click clack of heels on the stone floor alerted Saint-Martin. He swung around and recognized the shadowy figure of Captain Fitzroy advancing toward him. Instinctively, the Frenchman tensed. His right hand rose, clenched, then dropped to his side. The Irishman's posture didn't seem menacing.

“Enjoying the view, Colonel Saint-Martin? I'll join you. It's time we get better acquainted.”

“We appear to know a good deal already about each other, Captain.”

Fitzroy shrugged. “I'm intrigued to know why Sir Harry invited you so quickly to be his guest at Combe Park.”

“He enjoys my company at court tennis.”

“And it's remarkable that Miss Cartier, Charlie's tutor, is also your
particular
friend.”

“You and I understand one another better than I could have anticipated.”

Fitzroy leaned silently on the balustrade, then straightened up and turned to the colonel. “Are you confident you'll achieve what you set out to do in England? I should imagine Baron Breteuil has paid a pretty price for your trip.”

“I believe I shall, God willing.”

The mask of frivolity dropped from Fitzroy's face. “You'll need more than God's help, Colonel. The baron has sent you on a fool's errand. Gallant knight indeed! Will you avenge the stain on Sylvie's honor? Preposterous! No one in England believes she's been wronged or trusts the word of her godfather, a minister of the French king. The baron beat her, not I.”

“The English may believe what they wish,” Saint-Martin retorted. “I know what happened to Sylvie—and also perhaps to Miss Campbell.” He looked askance at the captain. “Why are
you
staying here?”

“Looking after the interests of Lady Margaret. As even a half-wit can see, Sir Harry is infatuated with another woman and searching for a way to divorce my cousin, leaving her and her son penniless. She's easily bullied. If I weren't here to advise and defend her, he could coerce her into confessing an infidelity she never committed.”

“What's in it for you, Captain?”

“Honor. Beyond that, who knows?

Saint-Martin arched an eyebrow, kept an ironic silence.

“Look here, Colonel, I should warn you off any foolish move. I'm protected by two British officers who know my situation, and I'm armed at all times.” He drew a small pistol from inside his coat and aimed it at Saint-Martin's head. “Do you understand?”

“Perfectly,” he replied, gazing calmly at Fitzroy. “You've wasted your advice on me. I plan no foolish move.” He held the captain's eye and with a finger gently moved the barrel of the pistol to one side. “Don't point it at me,” he said softly. “If it went off, you'd be hung. A pity. I have in mind a more appropriate fate for you.”

***

Disguised in the simple, decent gray suit of a traveler, Georges sipped a glass of brandy in The Little Drummer. He had time on his hands. Jack Roach wasn't expected for at least an hour. The Frenchman had chosen a small table with a clear view of the room and sat on a bench with his back to the wall. He had peeked into several inns on Avon Street, most of them small, dark, seedy venues for prostitutes and thieves. The Little Drummer, in contrast, comprised a large wood-panelled public room with a low ceiling. Oil lamps on the walls cast a friendly glow. The wooden furniture was worn but decent.

Clerks and artisans were drinking amiably and playing cards. At a table near the bar sat three women in cheap finery, still young and attractive. Local people called them “Nymphs of Avon Street.” A stairway at the end of the bar led up to their first floor rooms. Georges recognized in these women a way to pursue Mary Campbell's case.

At Anne's urging, Georges had made the acquaintance of Jeffery, the black footman. Their conversation had come around to Critchley's claim to have spent the night of Mary's death at The Little Drummer. His partner, according to Jeffery, had been a nymph named Fanny. That's all the footman would say though it was clear he knew more.

Georges approached the women's table with the ease of a man who had had some experience with their kind. He gave them his most engaging smile and asked if he could buy them drinks. Won by his friendly manner, they invited him to sit at their table. He explained he was French, a footman on an errand in Bath for his employer, a Scottish family. On closer inspection, he noticed that their gowns, though of inexpensive material, were well-made and fitted perfectly. He complimented the women. They thanked him and gave the credit to Sarah, a dressmaker next door. By this time, he had identified Fanny, a short, buxom country girl. He asked her, “Could we get to know each other better in your room?”

She rose smiling and led him up the stairs.

As he closed the door behind them, she began to unhook her bodice. He asked her to stop, then gestured to a pair of wooden chairs. “We'll talk instead. I'm willing to pay you well for certain information.” He reached over and pressed a shilling into her hand. “That's for a start. The Scottish family I serve are the parents of Mary Campbell. They want to know what happened to their daughter.”

Fanny stared at him, nonplused and wary.

“Have you heard of her?”

“She's the one that fell and broke her neck…a fortnight ago.”

Georges nodded. “On that night, you were in this room with Mr. Critchley, were you not?”

“What if I was,” she snapped. “What's that to you?”

“It's all the same to me. Were you together until dawn?”

She frowned perplexed. “So we were.”

“Isn't that unusual in your line of work?”

“He paid for the whole night.” She grew exasperated. “What does that have to do with Mary Campbell?”

Georges pressed another shilling into her hand. “What did you do all night?”

“Frolicked in bed. Drank an ale. Slept.”

“Did he get up in the night?”

“I wouldn't know,” she growled. “I slept like a dead woman. Didn't wake up till he shook me at dawn and said he was leaving.”

“You've been very helpful, Fanny. I had to learn exactly what Mr. Critchley did that night. I suspect he put a potion in your drink, went about other business, and returned at dawn to rouse you.”

A troubled expression came over her face. “That
was
odd. I usually wake up in the middle of the night. Use the chamber pot. So, he drugged me, the old sneak. Why would he do that?”

Georges waved a warning. “You're a clever woman, Fanny.” He pressed three more shillings into her hand. “If you value your neck, speak to no one about this, not even to your friends downstairs. Just tell them what a great lover I am.” He rose to leave, put both hands on her shoulders, and looked her in the eye. “Mr. Critchley may be dangerous,” he said in a low voice. “Do you grasp my meaning?”

“Yes, sir,” she said in a small voice. “I do indeed.”

***

Back in the public room Georges fretted over another brandy as the minutes passed. His disguise couldn't hide the fact that he was a stranger. The regular patrons might resent him and wonder what he was doing there. In case he was asked, he was prepared to admit he was French. Patrons of The Little Drummer were likely to think he was in the smuggling trade, which he knew well enough to carry on a conversation.

At nine o'clock, Roach appeared at the entrance in his characteristic red coat and squinted into the room until he recognized someone near Georges. He made his way to the table of a scar-faced beetle-browed man with wiry gray hair and sloping forehead. Roach ordered drinks and the two men began to exchange loud, foul remarks belittling the nymphs, who pretended not to notice. After Roach and his companion were served, they leaned toward one another in more serious conversation. Roach passed a folded piece of paper to the man, who tucked it into his pocket.

A few minutes later, two men looking like strangers walked into the inn and spoke to the barkeeper. He nodded toward Roach's table. The newcomers approached him and a brief conversation ensued. Then the four men moved to a private room at the end of the bar.

Georges watched all this, increasingly perplexed. The newcomers were wearing plain brown suits, but Georges could recognize military officers even if they were naked. Tarleton and Corbett. Madame Gagnon had described them. Georges rubbed his neck. What kind of business did they have to discuss with Jack Roach?

A short while later, Roach and his three companions left the inn—without paying for their drinks. The barmaid grimaced sourly to their backs. Georges beckoned her to his table. “Has the Red Devil been here earlier today?” He pressed a penny into her hand.

She pierced him with a wary look. “You an exciseman?”

“Do I talk like one?” he asked, as if insulted. “I'm a French traveler, just getting acquainted in Bath.”

His accent disarmed her suspicions. She drew close to him, so as not to be overheard. “Nothin' wrong saying he was here a couple hours ago. Met a pale thin man what looked like a clerk. Does regular business here with the Red Devil. Don't make me rich.”

“Critchley doesn't pay for drinks either,” said Georges softly to himself, as the barmaid moved on to another patron. Georges stared into his glass at the last few drops of his brandy. Smuggled, he was sure.

***

Paul lay in his bed, eyes open, restless. He had slept fitfully for an hour. Now he was wide awake. A distant clock struck midnight. When he had first considered the idea of a trip to Bristol, he and Georges had thought it would be safe to travel during the day on a well-used road. Even after his encounter with Fitzroy on the portico, he had gone to bed, his mind still at ease. But a seed of doubt had been planted, and it grew while he slept.

He got up from the bed, opened the window, and stared out into the early morning darkness. Might Fitzroy dare to attack him so soon after threatening him? Would he also risk injuring little Charlie? Or Anne? Would Roach learn of their trip and try to cause her harm?

He ran his fingers through his hair. His questions seemed pointless. These scoundrels would choose an unlikely time and place to strike where their blame could be concealed. Surely not in broad daylight on the Bristol road.

Unlikely? But wasn't that precisely the point? Finding it impossible to release this nagging concern, Paul got up, retrieved his military pistols from a drawer and loaded them, then went back to bed and fell into a fitful sleep.

Chapter 11

A Day in Bristol

Sunday, April 1

Anne rose early, dressed and breakfasted, and crossed the antechamber to rouse Charlie. To her surprise, he was ready and eager to go. He was usually a slug-a-bed. They had just stepped out into the hallway together when Paul approached them. Anne started. He was wearing two holsters beneath his traveling coat.

He followed her gaze. “Anne,” he said in French as they embraced, “send the boy downstairs to the entrance hall. Georges is waiting there. I need to speak to you.”

Hiding her concern as best she could, she did as she was told. Charlie dashed off, skipped down the stairs, and was soon out of sight. “What's happened, Paul?”

He took her under the arm, walked her back into the antechamber, and closed the door. “I've grown concerned for our safety,” he began evenly, then went on to tell of his encounter with Fitzroy on the portico, his sleepless speculation about Jack Roach. “My fears may be groundless, the stuff of an excited imagination. But, I've taken this precaution.” He patted the pistols. “Georges has also armed himself.”

For a moment, Anne remained silent, biting on her lip. Should they cancel the trip? After all, she was responsible for Charlie. But was the danger real or imaginary? They would travel on the main road in broad daylight. It would be folly to allow vague, ungrounded fears to govern one's life. One might as well be in prison. Finally, she said with more determination than she felt, “We'll go. But I'll bring along my duelling pistols.”

***

The morning sun struggled through a crevice in a bank of clouds; a thin mist hovered over the Avon. Hitched to four fresh horses, the coach rolled out of Combe Park down the road to the river valley. Mindful of the real or imaginary dangers ahead, Peter Hyde drove with a blunderbuss at his side. Next to him, Georges held a short-barrelled musket in his lap. Two pistols were hidden beneath his seat.

At the Bristol road the coach met an early morning rush of wagons and carts. Families from nearby villages were arriving, smiles on their faces in anticipation of the city's Sunday pleasures. A few travelers were leaving for Bristol. In the coach, the sense of danger vanished. Paul laid his pistols on the floor. Across from him, Anne left her pistols in their case at her feet.

Charlie sat next to her, lips parted, delighted to be going on an outing. At first, scenes along the road caught his eye. Sheep grazing on a lush green hillside. Men playing at skittles outside a country inn. Children chasing one another up and down country lanes. After a little while his excitement slackened, and Anne involved him and Paul in word games with signs and gestures.

The coach reached Bristol in an hour and a half without incident. Hyde, who knew the city, drove into fashionable Queen Square. “Sir Harry owns that one,” he shouted, pointing out a house in a long row of elegant residences. “He rents it to one of his partners in the shipping business.” Rogers had lived there for several years until he tired of Bristol's inbred cliques. He now divided his time between a London town house and Combe Park.

The coach halted in front of a small cottage a mile from the city center. Daffodils were blooming in plots to the left and right of a graveled walkway. Georges remained with the coachman, while Anne led the others to the door. She put Charlie in front and rapped.

At the sight of the boy, Betty cried out his name, hugged him, and welcomed his companions. She was a stout, vigorous, nimble-witted woman with a thick Irish accent. Except for a few gray hairs and wrinkles, Betty wore her seventy years lightly.

“Charlie, my boy!” she exclaimed, “I thought I'd never see you again.”

Her accent baffled him, but he easily guessed her meaning, smiled, and spoke a few clear words of greeting.

“The school's done you a world of good.” She held him at arm's length and looked him in the eye. “How do you like Bath?”

He shrugged his shoulders. The corners of his mouth turned down.

For a moment she was silent, then said quietly, “I understand.” She turned to the other visitors.

Anne and Paul introduced themselves and delivered Lady Margaret's note. As Betty read it, a cloud seemed to cross her face but didn't lessen the warmth of her welcome. She seated Charlie and his two companions in her tiny parlor and treated them to tea and biscuits.

After pouring the tea, she read the note again and sighed. “Lady Margaret doesn't know my sister's recently passed away. It's hard to write about it. I'll have to send a note back with you to Combe Park.” Betty's voice was cheerful, but it couldn't mask the grief and loneliness of a person whose life had just lost much of its purpose.

Her attention turned to Charlie. Their conversation was difficult because of her accent. Nonetheless, with Anne's help, he spoke of his teachers and friends at the institute in Hackney. Betty understood most of what he said, and clearly enjoyed his wide-eyed exuberance. Paul remained in the background, a kindly expression on his face. Betty gradually warmed to him and congratulated Anne on having such a fine, handsome friend.

Anne cast a grateful sidelong glance at Paul, then ventured cautiously into Betty's years of service with Lady Margaret.

“Yes,” she said, smiling wistfully, as if conjuring up the past in her mind. “I nursed her as a child and later was her lady's maid. She's the most beautiful woman I've ever known. Always a pleasure to dress her.”

“And her son?” Anne asked.

“I raised Charlie as well and cared for him during the illness that cost him his hearing. Such a fever he had! A lucky boy to have come out of it alive. I felt sad when he went away to Hackney, but it was for the best.”

Betty was intensely loyal to Lady Margaret, Anne realized. How would she react to the gossip swirling around her mistress? Withdraw behind a wall of silence? Anne sent Charlie out to pet the horses, then turned to the nurse. “I've no interest in Bath gossip, but I'm troubled for Charlie's sake by what I hear and see.” She explained the tension in the Rogers' family and its effect on the boy.

Betty listened with increasing distress. “I didn't know Fitzroy had returned to England. Poor lovely Margaret. She's doomed.” Betty pressed a hand to her mouth. Tears trickled down her cheek. She patted them away with a fine linen handkerchief. “It's a gift from her,” she said, folding it neatly.

“I wouldn't ask you to betray a confidence,” Anne began. “But something is terribly wrong in the Rogers' family. Could you tell us what's at the root of it? I fear it threatens Charlie.”

“I'm sorry, I promised Lady Margaret years ago I would carry her secrets to my grave. I know I must also watch out for Charlie's best interest. But at this time, I can do nothing.” With a trusting look, she glanced at Paul, then at Anne. “I do care. Please let me know what happens.”

“Were we the first to speak to you about Lady Margaret?” Anne asked. Too many people knew about this visit for it to remain a secret.

“No, you weren't! A big man in a red coat came here an hour ago. I didn't let him in. Didn't like the looks of him. He offered me money if I'd talk about her affairs with men years ago. I slammed the door in his face.” She paused, shuddered a little. “He said he'd be back.”

***

After lunch at an inn, they drove to the harbor and found Sir Harry's ship,
The African Rose
, rocking gently alongside the quay at high tide, its sails furled. It appeared to be over a hundred feet long and about thirty feet wide. The hull's copper sheathing glistened above the water line.

“Paul, you must know something about ships,” Anne remarked, aware he had sailed to America and back during the war with Britain. “What kind is it?”

“A brig,” he replied, pointing to the two square-rigged masts. “Look at its sleek lines. It can serve as a privateer. I see ports for twenty guns. With a well-disciplined crew, it should sail faster than most brigs—a great advantage when carrying slaves on the Middle Passage. They're more likely to arrive healthy.”

“Middle Passage?” she asked, unfamiliar with the phrase.

“The voyage from Africa to the West Indies. A slave ship runs great risk of foul weather, disease, slave mutinies. With bad luck, even a fine ship like this could lose half its crew and cargo.”

Paul went on board with Sir Harry's message. In a few minutes he returned with the captain, who had just finished a meal in his cabin at the ship's stern. He was a weather-beaten man about forty years of age, hale and hearty, with a sailor's rocking gait. His blunt speech inspired confidence. Anne had no doubt of his ability to manage a difficult voyage. Without hesitation, he offered to lead the visitors on a tour of the ship.

They started on the main deck. “This being the Sabbath, half my crew is ashore today.” He added with a wink, “at their prayers.” The refitting of the ship continued, nonetheless, if at a slower pace. Sailors were hauling kegs of ship's supplies up gangways and lowering them below deck through open hatches.

For the occasion, Anne had deliberately chosen a dark brown frock of light-weight wool and a sensible pair of shoes. She intended to be as free to walk and climb as possible. The captain raised a warning hand to her. “You'd better stay on deck with a ship's officer, young lady, while I take the gentlemen below.”

She stared at him with cool determination. “I came prepared to hitch up my skirts. I'd like to see everything.” Then, nodding toward Charlie, she added, “Sir Harry's son is deaf. I must explain things to him.”

The captain's expression softened. He gazed at Charlie for a moment. “I had a boy his age. Lost him at sea in a storm.” He opened his hands in a gesture of welcome to Charlie and smiled.

The boy's eyes brightened. “Thank you,” he said carefully.

Anne took note of the captain's gesture. “How do you speak to black people?”

“Natural signs aren't enough. If I can't recruit a crewman who knows their languages, I make a point of buying a black man who speaks English.”

Anne thought she must have looked doubtful, for the captain went on to say, “On the African coast, many speak our tongue. Sir Harry's footman, Lord Jeff, he was one. I bought him and his mother ten years ago. Prime domestic servants. Sold them in Jamaica to a planter for twice the average price.” He appeared to reminisce. “Yes, I recall Jeff. Had an African name back then. Big strapping fellow. Spoke like an English school boy.”

“Jeffery was on this ship?” asked Anne, incredulous.

“That's right,” the captain replied. “Smart. Knew what was good for him. His mother fell sick. We took care of her; he helped us.”

The captain led them down a hatchway to the lower deck. They shuffled between bunk beds, trunks, racks of muskets and cutlasses, a cook's galley. Anne thought it incredible so much could be packed into so little space. Between decks she could barely stand upright.

The captain signaled for them to climb back up to the main deck. Anne protested, “I'd like to see the hold for the slaves.”

The captain frowned, waved away the idea, as if she had asked to taste the bilge water.

“This is a ‘respectable trade,' is it not?” she asked. “Where do you put the human cargo?”

Nettled by her irony, the captain turned to Paul, who seconded her request. The captain pointed to a heavy door with a small barred window. “There's another entrance at the far end of the hold.” He pulled the door open, remarking wryly, “We keep it locked and barred when the blacks are in there, three hundred and fifty of them and just thirty-five of us.” He explained that the slaves could also be reached from hatches on the main deck that were normally covered with heavy iron grates. These were now open to receive goods to be sold in Africa in exchange for the slaves who would be brought to Jamaica.

Anne peered through the door. The slave hold occupied the central portion of the ship. With Charlie in hand, she entered the low, dark, cavernous space, already half-full of cargo. Small, high portholes allowed for some circulation of air. She forced herself to imagine hundreds of men, women, and children lying manacled side by side for weeks on end.

Charlie tapped her arm and asked, “What did the captain say about Jeff?”

“He was taken with his mother from his home and put on this ship. Might have lain here.”

The boy looked around the hold, his face screwed up with distaste. Shuddering, he drew close to Anne. She put her arm on his shoulder.

The captain stared at her. “I know what you're thinking, Miss. The Abolitionists say we're brutes who maim and kill the blacks for the pleasure of it. Well, I find my pleasure in bringing as many of them to market as I can.” The captain swung his arm out in a sweeping gesture. “We put them in this cramped place for six to eight weeks or more. Without proper care, they'd nearly all die. We can't afford to let that happen, so we keep the place clean. Weather permitting, the blacks come up on deck during the day. We make them move about, dance, even if they don't want to.”

Turning to Paul, he remarked, “During the war, Colonel, I transported our soldiers to America in conditions worse than this.”

The slave trade was taking on a lurid aspect in Anne's mind. She had seen black men and women in London but had thought of them only as exotic servants. They bore no visible marks of servitude or mistreatment. She had paid little attention to controversy over the slave trade. But this visit to
The African Rose
roiled her mind. She saw herself lying in the hold among the slaves, chained, naked, filthy, overpowered by stifling heat and the stench of excrement and urine. Horrid images of the Islington jail seeped into her imagination. She began to feel nauseated and trapped. Her companions swayed, the wooden floor rose up toward her.

Paul moved quickly to her side, held her under the arm. “Fresh air, Anne?”