Reigning E-Book

Malcolm Archibald

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

John Smith, ex-smuggler and highwayman, and now Lord Fitzwarren, a respectable London ship owner, has an unscrupulous rival. Charles Shapland hopes to destroy his trading empire by any means possible.

However, Smith and Bess, his wife, are prepared to defend their position. When Kate Rider, a woman with a grudge against Smith, joins Shapland, the situation becomes complicated. Add in the mysterious Mr. Jay, a group of scuffle-hunters and the Bow Street Runners, and Smith’s life once again becomes a series of adventures.

Facing his most dangerous foe yet, Smith will need to rely on his loyal friends, Bancroft and Judd. But is there more to them than meets the eye?

Set against the background of the American War of Independence, Reigning is the third book in Malcolm Archibald's 'The Rise Of An English Lawbreaker' trilogy of historical adventure novels.

Leseprobe

Reigning

The Rise Of An English Lawbreaker

Book 3

Malcolm Archibald

Contents

Prelude

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Historical Note

About the Author

Notes

Copyright (C) 2023 Malcolm Archibald

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter

Published 2023 by Next Chapter

Edited by Graham (Fading Street Services)

Cover art by Lordan June Pinote

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

For Cathy

Prelude

North Atlantic Ocean, November 1774

“Keep her steady, helmsman!” Captain Bragg had to shout above the scream of the storm that threatened to tear London’s Pride’s masts from her deck.

“I’m trying, Captain!” Isaac Winchester put all his weight behind the wheel, feeling his muscles strain with the effort of holding the ship’s head to the wind. For three days, London’s Pride had battled the gale under topsails only and with her crew praying for deliverance.

Tied to the wheel, Winchester swayed with the violent motion of the ship and peered, narrow-eyed, into the boiling sea ahead. His jaws constantly worked, chewing the remains of a wad of tobacco that had sustained him for hours. “The wind’s not easing, Captain!”

“It will,” Bragg shouted, more in hope than expectation. “These Atlantic storms always blow themselves out after a couple of days.”

David Cupples, the second man on the wheel, said nothing. Laconic by nature, he concentrated solely on keeping the vessel as safe as possible. In common with everybody on board, he knew it was impossible to drive a wooden ship without the danger of her seams opening or something giving aloft. After three days of the wind driving London’s Pride, Cupples felt she was heavier and slower to answer the wheel.

“We’re making water, Captain,” Winchester spoke Cupples’ thoughts.

“Aye,” Captain Bragg agreed. “She’s sluggish.”

London’s Pride responded with less buoyancy at every heavy wave, no longer rising like a cork as she had done even a few hours earlier.

“Bayne!” Bragg’s roar battled the scream of the wind. “Check below! She’s taking in water!”

Gripping a safety line with his left hand, Joshua Bayne, the first mate, lifted his right in acknowledgement. He did not know whether it was safer above deck or below, but at least beneath decks, he would escape the constant pounding of wind and waves. As Bayne struggled toward the main hatch cover, a rogue wave crashed over LondonPride’s stern and swept forward in a white-foamed rush. Bayne’s despairing yell was lost in a hellish cacophony of roaring water and splintering timber.

“That’s Bayne gone,” Captain Bragg said. A veteran of the Seven Year’s War and thirty years at sea, he had experienced too much death to be moved by the loss of a single man.

“Here comes another!” Winchester shook seawater from his head and gripped the wheel with brawny hands.

“Hold hard, boys!” Bragg shouted as another wave crashed over the stern, pressing the helmsmen against the wheel. Bragg knew his ship was low in the water when the sea pooped her, and he had to make an agonising choice. Should he remain in the stern with the helmsmen or check below? He looked forward, where every wave filled London Pride’s main deck, glanced aloft, and swore. The main upper and fore lower topsails were flapping loose, adding to the ship’s distress.

Removing the metal speaking trumpet from its bracket on the mizzen mast, Bragg roared commands.

“All hands,” he shouted. “All hands! Make the main upper topsail fast! Clew up the fore lower topsail!”

Swearing, scared, and unwilling, the hands emerged from the stinking dark of the foc’sle. Holding on for their lives, they clambered aloft, some shaking in fear, others pretending nonchalance, and a few, the bravest topmen, throwing themselves up the rigging despite the gale.

A frantic blast of wind blew London’s Pride onto her beam ends, nearly dipping the larboard lower yard arms into the sea. Cupples swore foully as the gale snapped the ratlines of the mizzen rigging nine feet above the poop. With the sails blown out of their gaskets, London’s Pride lurched further to larboard, and Cupples heard a rumble below as the cargo shifted.

“Bugger it to damnation and back,” Captain Bragg shouted. “Damn these Chesapeake longshoremen; they could no more load a cargo than fly to the moon! Cut away the main lower topsail! We’ll work her under bare poles, damn my eyes!”

Leaving the men at the wheel to struggle alone, Bragg dragged himself along the sloping deck, gripping the safety line as mountainous seas burst over the ship. About half the crew obeyed Bragg’s orders, working desperately with hatchets and knives, while the remainder fled to the precarious safety of the foc’sle, too scared to return to the deck.

With the last of the sails cut away, the wind exerted less pressure on London’s Pride, but she refused to right herself. She remained on her beam ends, trapped by the shifted cargo and a tangle of spars and gear. Bragg glowered at the nightmare of white water that roared over his ship’s larboard topgallant rail. No seaman, however daring and skilled, could live in that.

“Mr Blackstone!” Bragg came to a hard decision and roared for the second mate. “Jettison the cargo, or we’ll be over, damn it! It’s shifted to leeward.”

Isaac Blackstone was a young man, barely out of his teens, proud of the wedding ring on his finger. He stared at Bragg with his mouth open. “Captain, if we open the hatches, the sea will get in.”

“Do your duty, damn you!” Bragg roared.

Huge waves were tumbling over London Pride’s hull, breaking on the solid English oak. For an instant, master and mate glared at each other as the terrified hands clung onto any handhold and waited for a clear order.

London’s Pride made the decision for them. The pressure of the sea carried away a bobstay, and the bowsprit followed, lost to the surging sea. As the waves ripped away the fore topmast, the raffle dragged at the main topgallant mast, and in moments the ship was dismasted and rolling crazily in the mountainous seas. Those hands who had been working aloft vanished with the masts. One moment they were there, and the next, the sea took them, with their cries unheard in the roaring wind.

“Damn my soul!” Winchester said, clinging to the wheel as London’s Pride gyrated from larboard to starboard and back. “We’ve got a proper hurrah’s nest now.”

Cupples nodded, chewing his quid of tobacco, and staring at the maelstrom of raging water surrounding the ship. He glanced at Winchester. “Best make your peace with your maker, Isaac. I reckon we’ll be shaking hands with Davy Jones before long.”

Winchester staggered as London’s Pride nearly rolled right over. “Maybe so, Davie, maybe so, but I think the old girl will stay afloat now the masts are gone.” He looked up. “Sky’s clearing, Davie. The storm’s blown itself out.”

Cupples spat a mouthful of tobacco juice into the wind. “So it is, Isaac.” He forced a grin. “Better late than never. Mebbe we’ll see another day, yet.”

Before Cupples finished speaking, the storm lashed London’s Pride with its devil’s tail, sending a final wave crashing over the bow to sweep along the deck. When the force of the water smashed a hatch cover and poured into the hold, the ship gave up. She rolled completely over, throwing the men on deck into the sea and trapping those in the fo’c’sle.

Winchester slashed at the rope that tied him to the wheel, hearing a horrific roaring in his ears and feeling seawater rasp and burn in his throat and lungs. When the rope parted, he kicked frantically away from the wreckage to surface thirty yards from the capsized ship.

“Davie!” Winchester shouted, seeing only a chaos of confused water, heaving waves and a mess of cables and spars. Waves rose around him, spindrift-tipped marbled green mountains roaring and hissing. “Davie!”

“Isaac!” Cupples lifted a hand from ten yards away. “Over here!”

Winchester kicked closer, and both men wrapped their arms around a spar, tossing on the already moderating waves.

“She’s going!” Cupples said and watched as London’s Pride sank slowly beneath the surface, taking most of her crew with her. “God in heaven, she’s going!”

The storm calmed slowly, leaving a shocked handful of survivors swimming or clinging to pieces of wreckage.

“Where’s the captain?” Cupples asked.

“Gone,” Blackstone gasped, spitting out seawater.

“We’d best keep together.” Winchester was the oldest survivor. “Try to make a raft. “Does anybody know where we are?” He looked hopefully at Blackstone.

“About three hundred miles west southwest of the Scillies,” Blackstone said. “Or we were when the storm hit. That storm could have driven us anywhere.” He glanced around at the slowly moderating sea. “Gather the spars together, men, and make a sail from some of these scraps of canvas. If we make a raft, the south westerly trades will drive us towards old England.”

For the next hour, the survivors collected spars and fragments of wreckage and lashed them together with lengths of cable. One fortunate man found a keg half full of fresh water and another a piece of canvas. Knowing that the alternative was drowning, they worked together, gasping and struggling to keep afloat.

“We’re doing well,” Winchester encouraged them as the makeshift raft gradually took shape. “Climb on board, lads!”

The survivors dragged themselves onto the collection of spars and lay there, panting as the waves lifted around them and inquisitive gulls circled.

“A sail,” Blackstone croaked. “Fashion a sail and catch the wind.”

They raised two spare spars, lodged the ends between the fabric of the raft, and attached the scraps of canvas to create a sail. Within minutes the wind caught the canvas, bellying it out to push the raft in a north-easterly direction.

“We’re making progress,” Winchester said.

“About half a knot.” Blackstone peered ahead. “We’ll need better than that, or we’ll die of thirst.”

The survivors huddled together on the raft, some nursing injuries from the shipwreck, one man praying, and all hiding their fear. Night increased the loneliness as low clouds blanketed every star and the unceasing wind kicked spume from hissing waves.

One man died during the night, rolling into the sea without a sound and vanishing. Nobody noticed his absence until dawn rose red and angry in the east.

“Jacob’s gone,” Winchester said.

“We’ll all be joining him soon,” Blackstone said gloomily. He touched his wedding ring, thinking of his wife, Leah, alone in their two-roomed house on the Isle of Dogs.

“Not so!” Cupples said. “Look over there! A sail!” He pointed to the south, where a fine three-master was bearing up on them.

The survivors stood up, raised their hands, and set up a yell, with Cupples and Winchester holding up the sail as a flag.

“She’s bearing towards us,” Blackstone shouted, his voice hoarse with salt water.

“I know her,” Winchester said. “That’s Amelia Jane!”

“One of Charlie Shapland’s ships,” Blackstone said. “She’s seen us, men!”

Amelia Jane surged toward them, furling her mainsail when close. A group of men stood in the stern with a spyglass fixed on the relieved survivors.

“They’re launching a boat,” Blackstone said. “We’re saved, lads!”

Winchester saw a group of men clustered around the jolly boat, with the ship’s mate giving directions, and then a tall man in the stern snapped an order.

“That’s Charlie Shapland himself,” Winchester said. He saw an officer approach Shapland, and then the group around the jolly boat scattered, and men ran aloft. Amelia Jane set her mainsail.

“Wait!” Blackstone shouted, waving frantically. “We’re over here!”

Cupples saw Shapland turn his spyglass full onto the survivors on the makeshift raft, and then Amelia Jane headed away, with the sea breaking white around her bow.

“Wait!” Blackstone shouted, “Oh, please, God, don’t leave us here!” The other survivors yelled and lifted their hands in supplication.

Cupples shook his head. “Shapland saw us,” he said as the wind sent a spatter of spray over the raft.

“Why didn’t he pick us up?” Blackstone asked, shaking his head. “He’s leaving us to die! The rogue’s leaving us to drown!”

“Mebbe he was in a hurry,” Cupples said. “The reason doesn’t matter. All that matters is us trying to reach safety. Put back the sail, and we’ll catch this wind.” He looked around, where the sea stretched endlessly to a distant horizon and shuddered, knowing the possibility of survival was slim.

ChapterOne

Leadenhall Street, London, February 1775

John Smith, Lord Fitzwarren, leaned back on his chair, listened to the wind roaring in the flue, dipped his quill in the inkwell, and perused the bill of lading. He smiled, thinking such documents appeared like works of art rather than necessary receipts given by a shipmaster. The bill of lading acknowledged the shipmaster had accepted a quantity of merchandise and promised delivery.

This bill was engraved with a picture of a three-masted ship in both top corners and the name John Smith & Company, Leadenhall Street, London, across the top centre in beautiful copperplate writing. As with all Smith’s bills of lading, the first line of printed text ran: “Shipped by the Grace of God in good order and condition” and continued with the ship’s name, handwritten, in this instance, “Martha of Norfolk, Master William Hood, at anchor in the Chesapeake and bound for London.”

“One hundred hogsheads of Virginia leaf tobacco and fifty barrels of tobacco stems for snuff.

And so God send thee, good ship, to thy desired port of safety.”

“You’re looking very pensive, John.” Bess Webb entered the room. She had been with Smith for over fifteen years and married to him for ten. Dark-haired and of medium height, a white scar disfigured the left side of her face.

“I am,” Smith agreed. “I wonder how many more cargoes of tobacco we can ship before this looming war shuts everything down.”

“Will it be a war?” Bess sat on her favourite chair beside the fireplace. “I thought it was only some malcontents stirring up trouble.”

“I think it’ll end up as civil war,” Smith said. “My shipmasters inform me the atmosphere in the American colonies is brittle. Unless the authorities there are very careful, the Colonists will be taking to their arms.”

Bess screwed up her face. “Whose side are you on, John?”

Smith pushed back his chair and swivelled to face her. “Ours, Bess; yours and mine. Oh, we may appear as part of the British establishment now, with our big houses, this place, and our businesses, but you and I know we’ll never be accepted.”

Bess touched her scar. “I don’t want these people to accept me,” she said quietly. “They think their position and money make them superior to ordinary people. No, John, if the Colonists oppose the Crown and the aristocracy, I am wholeheartedly on their side.”

Smith grunted. “You’re nothing but a Whig, Bess,” he grinned. “But nobody wins in a war. Thousands of men are killed, tens of thousands die of disease, trade is disrupted, and ships are captured or sunk. Most of our fortune comes through trade.”

“We have the tenants’ rents on our lands,” Bess reminded.

“We keep the rents low,” Smith said. “The only way to win in a war is to make armaments, and I’m not making money that way.”

“There is another way,” Bess said.

“And what’s that, pray?”

“Support the winner,” Bess smiled. “As you did in the late war with France.”

“I didn’t support anybody in the last war,” Smith told her.

“You supplied the Royal Navy with grain,” Bess said, “and smuggled half the brandy consumed in Kent.” The scar on her face writhed as she smiled. “In short, dear John, you played both ends against the middle.”

“And that is exactly what I plan to do now, Bess,” Smith said.

“I am glad to hear it.” Bess shifted on her chair. “I nearly thought you were turning into a Tory.”

“Only when it suits me,” Smith said. “The impending war will have to wait, Bess. We have other more pressing problems.”

“Charlie Shapland and Henry Copinger?” Bess hazarded.

“Shapland and Copinger are two,” Smith said, “and another of my ships is overdue.” He tapped the bill of lading.

“London’s Pride?” Bess said.

“I’ve given up on her,” Smith admitted. “Now Martha of Norfolk is three weeks overdue with a cargo of tobacco from the Chesapeake. That’s the third ship this year.”

“Lost with all hands?” Bess asked.

“London’s Profit and London’s Pride vanished without a trace,” Smith said, “although Pride caught the tail end of a hurricane, so that might account for her loss. Profit only experienced boisterous weather, which her master should have been able to cope with.”

“Martha of Norfolk might turn up yet,” Bess said. “Her captain, William Hood, is a good man. He’s a Down East Yankee, isn’t he?”

“From Maine,” Smith agreed. “They breed fine seamen in Maine, and he keeps a tight ship. I can’t see him losing her without an excellent reason.”

“Pirates?” Bess suggested. “Or a mutiny?”

“I haven’t heard of a pirate in the North Atlantic,” Smith said, “and that intelligence would travel fast. Mutiny is possible, although mutineers have to make landfall somewhere, and I’d hear about it then. No, I think something else. Three ships lost in such a short space of time is too much of a coincidence.”

“Mr Abergeldie and the other insurance companies will raise their premiums,” Bess pointed out. “And it will be harder for you to recruit crews if you lose too many ships.”

Smith nodded. “I know all that,” he said. “I want to know why we lost three vessels.”

“Martha is not lost yet,” Bess reminded. “She might still turn up.”

“I hope to God she does,” Smith said. “I have thirty-two men on her, plus William Hood.”

“And a valuable cargo.”

“That too,” Smith agreed. “We can’t afford to lose many more ships and cargoes. The tobacco trade is vastly profitable, but if this liberty business over there blows up, commerce could drop to a trickle, and we’ll lose more money.” He looked up when somebody tapped at the door. “Come in!”

“Excuse me, Mr Smith.” Judd, Smith’s secretary, stood inside the door. “A seaman at the front desk wishes to speak to you.”

“What sort of seaman?” Bess asked.

“A rather ragged common mariner, Ma’am. He asked particularly to speak to Mr Smith.” Judd took a deep breath. “He says he sailed in London’s Pride, sir.”

Smith glanced at Bess with renewed interest. “London’s Pride? Send him up, please, Mr Judd.”

“Yes, sir.” Judd withdrew immediately and rapped on the door again three minutes later. “Here is the seaman, sir.”

The man was gaunt to emaciation, with ragged clothes hanging from a near-skeletal body and a face burned deep brown by sun and wind.

“Come in, man.” Smith extended a welcoming hand. “You look like you’ve experienced a rough time.”

The man nodded and knuckled his forehead. “Rough enough, sir, if you count shipwreck and weeks on an open raft as rough.”

“I would, my friend,” Smith said. “I’ve undergone shipwreck myself.” He stepped to the cabinet on the far wall and produced a decanter. “I can offer you Madeira, port, gin or rum.”

The man’s eyes glistened. “Rum, sir, and you’d be so kind.”

Smith poured a generous glass, added two more and handed one to the seaman and another to Bess. “Now, my friend, sit down and tell me who you are.”

The man sat delicately on the leather seat of a chair and sipped at his rum. “I am David Cupples, sir, late of London’s Pride and before that of Thames Blessing and the old Maid of Kent.”

“You’ve sailed in my ships for some time then, Cupples,” Smith said.

“I have, sir, and you’ve always been a fair employer.”

Smith accepted the compliment. “Tell me what happened to London’s Pride, Cupples, if you will.”

Cupples took another draught of rum to strengthen himself for the ordeal of talking to his employer. He related the end of his ship in bold terms as Smith listened and Bess took notes in her firm, neat hand.

“Hurricanes are devilish things,” Smith said when Cupples finished his story.

“Yes, Captain.” Cupples reverted to a more familiar term of respect as he struggled to convey his point. “But Captain Bragg had its measure. We would have survived the hurricane if the cargo hadn’t shifted. That put London’s Pride on her beam ends, and the sea broke over us.”

“That’s unlike the dockers at the Chesapeake,” Smith said. “In my experience, they are as expert in loading cargo as anywhere in the world.” He poured more rum into Cupples’ glass and topped up Bess’s in response to her hopeful smile.

“Yes, sir,” Cupples agreed. “Captain Bragg said something similar.”

Smith glanced at Bess, who lifted her eyebrows, dipped her pen in the inkwell and carefully wrote something down. “What do you think happened, Cupples?”

“I can’t say for sure, Captain, but some dockers didn’t like us.”

“Was it this taxation nonsense?” Smith asked.

“I don’t rightly know, sir,” Cupples said. “I saw other ships loaded in half the time, sir, but they seemed to dislike ours.”

“Only Pride? Or all my ships?”

Cupples screwed up his face, becoming loquacious as the rum took hold of his ravaged body. “I never heard of any trouble with other ships, sir.”

“London’s Profit?” Smith asked.

“She sailed before us, sir. I didn’t see her loaded.”

“Martha of Norfolk?”

Cupples shook his head. “She was coming into Baltimore as we left, sir.”

Smith saw Bess writing assiduously. “Check which dock it was, Bess,” he said.

“I will,” Bess said.

“And the other disturbing matter,” Smith said, pouring more rum into Cupples’ glass. “Charles Shapland and Amelia Jane.”

“Yes, sir,” Cupples said. “Amelia had the jolly boat ready to launch, sir. I saw the boys crowding round the boat and the mate, Mr Burgess, giving orders, and then Mr Shapland shouted something, and Amelia clapped on sail and bore away.”

“Are you sure they saw you, Davie?” Bess asked. “The sea is a big place.”

“They saw us, Mrs Smith, sure as I’m sitting here. We was in a raft with a scrap of canvas as a sail, and Mr Burgess was readying the jolly boat, as I told you.”

“You saw Mr Shapland countermand the order and sail away.” Bess searched for confirmation.

“That’s what I think, Mrs Smith.”

Bess nodded as Smith put the stopper on his decanter and replaced it in the cabinet.

“How many men were on the raft, Cupples?” Smith asked.

“There were twelve of us, Captain.” Cupples’ eyes darkened with memory. “Twelve good men, sir. I knew them all.” He mentioned each man as Smith listened, and Bess noted the names.

“Where are they now?” Bess asked.

“They’re all dead, Mrs Smith,” Cupples said. “They died one by one as we floated across the Atlantic. Isaac Blackstone was last. He died crying for his wife, lying in my arms one day before a French trader picked us up.” He looked directly into Smith’s face. “Shapland killed them, Mr Smith, as surely as if he thrust a knife into their hearts.”

Smith stood up. “I’ll deal with Mr Shapland in my own time. The first thing is to get you fed and watered and a new set of clothes.”

“And Davie’s wages,” Bess said.

Smith nodded. “Two month’s extra wages for Cupples and the widows of every man in London Pride’s crew.”

As Cupples left the office, Smith walked to the window and looked into the street.

“What do you plan, John?” Bess asked.

“I’m going across to the Chesapeake,” Smith said. “But first, I am going to talk to Burgess.”

“Not Shapland?” Bess raised her eyebrows.

“No,” Smith said. “He can wait.”

* * *

Smith found Israel Burgess sitting in the corner of the Swan with Two Heads on the Ratcliffe Highway.

“Mr Burgess!” Smith sat opposite. “Is it rum you’re drinking?”

“It is.” Burgess was a heavy-set man with a florid complexion and a silver ring in his right ear. He watched Smith set two tumblers of rum on the round table and said no more.

“My name is Smith.”

“I know who you are,” Burgess said. He did not lift the rum.

“You are Israel Burgess.” Smith stretched out his legs.

“I am,” Burgess said.

“And you are mate of Amelia Jane,” Smith continued.

“I was,” Burgess said again.

“I believe you saw some survivors from one of my ships in mid-Atlantic,” Smith said.

“No.” Burgess shook his head without meeting Smith’s gaze. “I didn’t see any survivors.”

“One of these men recognised your ship and you,” Smith said.

Burgess pushed the rum towards Smith. “Your informant is mistaken, Mr Smith. We didn’t see any survivors from any ship. We had a rough voyage and saw few ships. You may ask the captain.”

“I will,” Smith said quietly. “My survivor mentioned you by name and told me you tried to help.”

Burgess looked away. “I’m sorry, Mr Smith. I can’t help you.”

“My survivor was grateful you tried to help,” Smith said.

“I’m glad somebody survived the sinking, Mr Smith,” Burgess sounded sincere. “I wish I could help you.”

“I wish the same, Mr Burgess.” Smith stood. “I don’t know the truth yet, but I’ll find out.” He lowered his voice. “By God, I’ll find who was responsible for leaving my men to drown, and when I do, I’ll make him pay.”

Burgess placed his hands on the table. “Maybe they are already paying, Mr Smith. It’s a bad thing to leave men to drown.”

“You and I know who is responsible,” Smith hissed. “And it was not you.”

“Hell mend him, Mr Smith,” Burgess said. “Hell bloody mend him.”

* * *

Bess passed over two mugs of coffee. “What now, John?”

“Now we have questions to answer,” Smith said. “Why did three of my ships sink? Was the cargo on London’s Pride badly loaded? And if so, why? And why did Burgess lie about trying to help the survivors?”

“How will you get the answers?” Bess asked.

“I’ll find out at the source,” Smith said. “I’ll cross the Atlantic.”

ChapterTwo

Boston, Massachusetts, British North America, January 1776

“I thought these colonies were English.” Captain Fletcher cradled his glass of rum in a huge hand, “but they are anything but. The people are either Scotch or Irish, and they’ve intermarried with the Dutch, Germans, or even the French, God help us, to create a hybrid race.”

Smith listened, saying nothing. He saw Abraham Hargreaves on the nearest table, hiding his smile.

Fletcher continued. “From that bastard breeding has sprung the high-spirited brood that boasts so much of British blood and liberty and who have the damned cheek to talk of chastising Great Britain. There’s not an ounce of British blood in them.”

“Aren’t the Scots as British as the English?” Smith asked.

“No, damn them. They’re rebel dogs, gallows bait. Oh, they come crawling to us now, fawning for our acceptance and pleading loyalty to King George. Loyalty!” Fletcher shook his head so hard his wig nearly fell off. “Show a penny to a Scotchman, and he’ll plead undying allegiance. Show him two pence, and he’ll throw himself into the greatest danger to earn such munificence.”

“You think the Crown can buy their loyalty?” Smith sipped at his rum, with his gaze roaming around the public house, examining everybody present.

“Buy a Scotchman’s loyalty? Yes, with tokens and smooth promises. But these damned Yankees!” Fletcher shook his head. “They’re a troublesome lot with their talk of liberty and their refusal to pay taxes.”

Smith shook his head. “Terrible people,” he said. “If we all refused to pay taxes, where would we be?”

Fletcher nodded. “I agree, Mr Smith.” Lifting his hat, he stood up. “I must leave you now; I have a ship to prepare.”

Abraham Hargreaves stepped across to Smith’s table. “You keep interesting company, Mr Smith. I wonder what Fletcher would say if he knew you were once the most successful smuggler on the south coast of England.”

Smith smiled. “That’s only hearsay, Abraham, and it was long ago.”

“My father might say otherwise,” Abraham replied, smiling. “He has told me many tales of your early days in Kent.”

Smith met Abraham’s smile. He had spent years working with Abraham’s father in the cross-Channel smuggling trade. “I am an eminently respectable merchant now, Abraham, with a fleet of ships and shares in a stagecoach line.”

Abraham Hargreaves continued. “My father also told me about the stagecoaches. That’s when you were a highwayman, wearing a yellow mask, calling yourself Yellowhammer, roaming the roads and lanes of Kent, holding up coaches and terrorising travellers.”

“Your father is repeating hearsay,” Smith said carelessly, “if I recall, Lord Fitzwarren was Yellowhammer. Why even his wife proved that in court.”

“A woman you subsequently married, my Lord,” Abraham Hargreaves said quietly. “That’s how you gained the title and lands.”

“I never use that title on the western side of the Atlantic,” Smith reminded. “And very seldom on the eastern.” He looked up as a crowd passed the public house, chanting and shouting loud slogans. “Something’s happening out there.”

Abraham joined him in looking out of the multi-paned window. The mob was jeering and throwing eggs and dung at a small patrol of red-coated soldiers that limped past under the command of a young sergeant. The soldiers looked angry, but the sergeant kept them under control despite the provocation.

“As you see,” Abraham said, “the army is not popular in Boston. Not since the massacre and not before then, either.”

“I see,” Smith agreed, sipping at his rum. “The lobsters seem to be remarkably self-restrained.”

“They’re under strict orders not to retaliate,” Abraham said.

“I presume the mob knows that?” Smith said dryly. “Or they would not be so bold.”

Abraham nodded. “Maybe so. Any repetition of the massacre and there’d be more blood on the street than King George could handle.”

“That must be the reason,” Smith said. “Show me your city, Abraham.”

Abraham tossed back his rum, smacked his lips, and bowed. “This way, my Lord.”

“Mr Smith will do nicely,” Smith said and grinned. “Blasted Yankee Doodles.”

“That’s us,” Abraham agreed. “Things are different over here, Mr Smith. We’re more open to freedom and liberty.”

“We?” Smith raised his eyebrows. “You’re English-born and bred, Abraham, a man of Kent.”

They stepped outside into the cool Boston air, with snow piled in the street and a grey-white blanket of cloud threatening more.

“I know, Mr Smith, but England feels a long way off, and not just in distance.” Abraham struggled to find the words. “It’s the class system, I think. In England, people are so subservient to the nobility and the king. The elite has all the rights and grabs the land and the power. Ordinary people struggle to survive, while the aristocrats live as they please.”

“I’ve risen from nothing,” Smith reminded, playing devil’s advocate.

“You have,” Abraham agreed. “But only because you sidestepped the system. You didn’t obey the restrictive laws or pay the crippling taxes.”

Smith grunted, accepting the truth of Abraham’s words. “Do you feel more akin to the colonies than to Great Britain now?”

Abraham was silent for a few moments. “No, Mr Smith. I don’t feel akin to any colonies. I think we’re growing out of any thought of colonialism. I feel like we’re a butterfly evolving from a caterpillar. We’re ready to take wings and fly, leaving the Old World behind.”

Smith nodded. “I like your Boston,” he said as Abraham’s words planted the seeds of an idea in his mind.

Boston was a settlement of around 17,000 people, beautifully situated on a peninsula between the Charles River and Boston Harbour. Although Smith thought the town was slightly run down, the streets presented a picturesque panorama of undulating roofs, and some public buildings could compare with any provincial centre in England.

“This could be quite a presentable little town,” Smith said as Abraham introduced him to the array of wharves on the eastern side. “It undoubtedly has potential.”

“Yes, Mr Smith,” Abraham agreed.

“Do you think Massachusetts could compete with the world?” Smith threw out a suggestion, wondering how big Abraham dreamed.

“It’s not only Massachusetts,” Abraham said. “We’d combine all the colonies into one country, bigger than Great Britain or any European country except Russia.”

“Ah, I see.” Smith eyed Abraham, remembering him as a cheeky young boy who ran riot in Kingsgate and drove his parents to distraction. He had grown into a self-confident young man, eager to test himself against the world.

A platoon of redcoats marched past with muskets on their shoulders and fire in their eyes. When the corporal in charge began to sing, the others joined in, eyeing the passers-by, and clearly hoping for a fight.

“Yankee Doodle went to town,

A-riding on a pony,

Stuck a feather in his cap,

And called it macaroni.”

Abraham’s face tightened. “Some of the Tommy Lobsters like to rile us,” he said. “They laugh at our supposedly rustic manners and ideas.”

Smith nodded. He understood that a doodle was a slang term for a buffoon or a country simpleton. The song insinuated that an American colonist believed he could be a macaroni, a man of high fashion, merely by having a feather in his cap. “They’re frustrated,” he said, “and want to take out their anger on the men who insult and abuse them.”

Abraham smiled. “They might get their chance sooner than they realise.”

They walked along the Long Wharf that extended into the harbour, and Smith stopped to view the islands offshore.

“Noddles Island, Governor’s Island and Bird Island,” Abraham named them, pointing to each one.

“I see the harbour is shallow.” Smith twirled his cane, pointing to the discoloured water. “How deep are the channels between the islands?”

“Some as deep as five fathoms,” Abraham said, “others are three fathoms on the approaches, and only one fathom as we approach Boston Neck and South Boston, skirting the Dorchester Flats.”

Smith nodded, digesting the information. “Most are deep enough for seagoing vessels,” he said, “and better than the Thames at low water.”

“Are you planning something, Mr Smith?” Abraham asked.

“Only shipping-related,” Smith said, tapping his cane on the ground. “Nothing for you to worry about.” He shivered. “It’s cold here, though.”

“This is mild for January,” Abraham said. “We get more snow here than London does.”

They returned to the town, walked through Boston Common, where groups of men gathered in earnest conversation, and headed to the Bunch of Grapes in King Street, a tavern the British officers had made their own.

“So many redcoats make me uneasy,” Smith admitted, remembering the military guard around the scaffold where a pitiless authority had hanged him. He touched the nearly faded scar around his throat where the hempen noose had burned away the skin. “Soldiers and I are not always the best of friends.”

“That is in the past, Mr Smith,” Abraham reminded. “You are eminently respectable now, one of London’s most successful merchants.”

Smith shook away the old memories. “Respectability is a mask worn to cover hidden crimes,” he said darkly. “While authority hangs little people for minor misdemeanours, it shrugs off the sins of those with money and power.” After a glance inside, Smith walked past the Bunch of Grapes and continued his interrogation. “Tell me more about the Americas, Abraham.”

“It’s an interesting place,” Abraham replied immediately. “The scale is immense, everything is painted in bold colours, and the people have strong opinions, whether they are Tories who support the Crown or Whigs who advocate more powers for the colonies.” He looked sideways at Smith. “Do you want an example of the Whig point of view?”

Smith twirled his cane, stopped to allow a laden wagon past and nodded. “Undoubtedly, Abraham. This is my first visit to the Colonies, and I mean to experience all I can when I am here.”

“I’ll take you to church then,” Abraham said, smiling.

Smith raised his eyebrows and said nothing as Abraham brought him to the Old South Meeting House. He had expected a quiet place of worship, but a sizeable crowd filled the interior, listening to a tall, handsome man in his mid-thirties.

“That’s Joseph Warren,” Abraham whispered. “He’s a noted firebrand. Listen to what he says, Mr Smith. It will help you understand the feeling here.”

“I will,” Smith said and settled down in a pew near the back.

“What we want,” Warren said, with his strong Massachusetts accent reaching every corner of the room, “is more equality between the American colonies and Great Britain. We are no longer children but fully mature adults, able to stand on our own feet.”

The crowd nodded in agreement, some murmuring to themselves and a few raising their hats in the air.

“We will protest to the Crown and the forces of the Crown,” Warren continued. “We will write to their representatives in the strongest possible terms, requesting, nay, demanding, our rights as free people. Great Britain boasts of the liberty of the people and a perfect constitution. Let the Crown prove that liberty by extending it to King George’s subjects on this side of the Atlantic!”

“He’s a good orator,” Smith commented as Abraham lifted his voice to cheer.

“He’s right,” Abraham said. “Every word he says is correct! Massachusetts and the other colonies deserve better. The Crown should not tax us without representation in parliament! That’s nothing but tyranny!”

Smith raised his eyebrows without comment as Warren continued.

“If our mild protests, our pacific measures are ineffectual, and it appears the only way to safety is through fields of blood. I know you will not turn your faces from your foes but will undauntedly press forward until tyranny is trodden underfoot.”

The audience cheered the words, throwing their hats in the air, with Abraham as enthusiastic as any.

Smith nodded and ran his gaze over the gathering. Most of the men present looked sober and respectable, not the malcontents and wastrels of society he would expect to become involved in such protests.

Warren was speaking again. “We do not want the forces of the Crown in Massachusetts, for standing armies always endanger the liberty of the subject.”

Smith watched Abraham’s reaction with a mixture of amusement and interest. He could understand why people felt disassociated from central authority when thousands of miles separated the American Colonies from the mother country. Words such as liberty and tyranny seemed to strike a chord.

Smith was thoughtful when the building emptied, with men talking to each other and Warren smiling as he watched them leave.

“Do you think this discontent will lead to violence, Abraham?”

“Undoubtedly,” Abraham replied immediately. “Unless the Crown accedes to the Colonists’ requests. The people are growing angry at the Crown’s tyranny.”

“The Colonies have self-government and lower taxes than Great Britain has,” Smith probed to see how Abraham would reply.

“And no representation in the British parliament,” Abraham said, evidently spoiling for an argument.

Smith nodded. “And no representation in the British parliament,” he agreed.

Abraham is my man; enthusiasts are always fertile ground.

Smith stopped at the north-western extremity of the town, from where he could see the slopes of Breeds and more distant Bunker Hill. “You seem quite at home here,” he said.

“I am,” Abraham agreed, “Since I moved to the Americas, I’ve opened my eyes to the Crown’s tyranny.” He stopped outside a shipyard and faced Smith. “You used to fight against such things, Mr Smith. You opposed the Crown’s taxes with your smuggling operations and took to the high toby to fight oppressive landowners.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Smith agreed.

“Are you a Tory now?” Abraham challenged. “Have you joined the ranks of the oppressors since you became a lord, grinding down the ordinary people?”

“What do you think, Abraham?” Smith asked. “Do you think I would do that?”

Abraham considered for a few moments and then shook his head. “No,” he said. “You are a man with strong principles.”

Smith wondered at Abraham’s words. He had long thought himself a man devoid of any principles except what was best for himself. “Thank you, Abraham, and that’s what I wish to talk to you about.”

Abraham smiled. “I didn’t think you had crossed the Atlantic merely to view Boston. What can I do for you?”

“It’s what we can do for each other,” Smith said. “Do you have somewhere we can talk in private?”

ChapterThree

The woman stood in a doorway in Leadenhall Street, in the City of London. Dressed in shabby-genteel clothes, she looked upwards at the drizzling rain, pulled the three-cornered hat more firmly over her head and waited. Fifty yards from the prestigious offices of the Honourable East India Company, John Smith and Company’s headquarters was smaller but equally stylish. Doric pillars supported a pediment above the front door, while an array of tall, multi-paned windows faced the street.

The woman saw candlelight reflected inside the windows and the occasional shape of somebody inside. She watched as a succession of men entered or left the building, all well-dressed, well-fed and seemingly prosperous. She examined each man and discarded them without interest.

At seven in the evening, with the rain persisting and the dark gathering like an ominous cloud, the woman rubbed the stiffness from her legs and crossed the road. She stepped through Smith’s front door into a vast, oak-panelled hallway, where models of ships sat within glass cases, and a crystal chandelier hung from an ornately plastered ceiling.

A man in a grey suit and wig approached. “Yes, madam?” His deep voice sounded disapproving.

“I am looking for Mr John Smith,” the woman said.

“Mr Smith is abroad at present,” the grey man said. “May I enquire about the nature of your business?” His gaze swept over the woman from her head to her booted feet. He analysed her as a respectable matron down on her luck, perhaps a shipmaster’s widow seeking money.

“I used to know Mr Smith,” the woman said.

“I see.” The grey man gave a brief bow. “I am sorry I cannot help you, Mrs..?”

“Rider,” the woman said. “My name is Kate Rider. When do you expect John, Mr Smith, to return?”

The grey man shook his head. “Mr Smith has not seen fit to inform me, Mrs Rider. Shall I leave a note telling him you called?”

Kate shook her head. “No, thank you.” She dropped in a curtsey. “I’ll call back in a few weeks.”

“As you wish, Mrs Rider.” The grey man opened the door for Kate and watched her walk away.

There’s a woman with a story, he thought. Her past is written in her eyes.

After a few moments, the grey man closed the door against the evening chill and returned to his station in the inner hall. By the time the long-case clock chimed eight, he had forgotten all about Kate Rider.

* * *

Smith stepped ashore from the trim Boston cutter and looked around the wharf. The tobacco town of Baltimore wilted under the lash of a gale, and three lounging men watched him. Only one showed any interest in this middle-aged, granite-eyed man.

“You look lost, stranger.” Long-jawed and lean, the watcher pushed himself from a bollard. “What are you looking for?”

“Harry Osborne,” Smith said, “and the Eastern Tobacco Wharf.”

“You’re in luck, stranger.” The long-jawed man eyed Smith up and down. “I’m Harry Osborne, and I know the Eastern Tobacco Wharf.”

“I am John Smith,” Smith introduced himself.

“I thought you might be,” Osborne said. “I’ll take you to the East Wharf. It’s at Fell’s Point.” Osborne spoke over his shoulder as he led the way. “What’s your business in Baltimore, Mr Smith?”

Smith was still unprepared for the directness of colonial speech. “I want to talk to some of the dock workers. Why do you ask?”

“Curious, Mr Smith, curious,” Osborne said. “We don’t often get important London merchants visiting the dock areas.”

“I wish to speak to the foreman or the wharf manager if such a personage exists.”

“He’s another Londoner.” Osborne looked sideways at Smith. “Except you’re not from London, are you?”

“Not originally,” Smith admitted. “And you’re not from Baltimore.”

“Not originally,” Osborne countered. “How do you know that?”

“I make it my business to know about my employees,” Smith said. “And you’ve been the company agent here for three years.”

“I have,” Osborne admitted.

“You were born in New York, worked in coastal traders, sailed on a privateer in the last French war, and became a ship’s agent five years ago.”

Osborne nodded. “That’s correct, Mr Smith.” He led them along the Baltimore shore with a long, loping stride.

“Tell me why I’ve lost three vessels.” Smith could also be direct.

“You’ve certainly had some unfortunate luck recently,” Osborne said,

“Two of my ships have gone down,” Smith reminded. “And a third was missing when I left London.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“That’s why I’m here,” Smith confirmed.

“I knew people on Martha of Norfolk,” Osborne said. “The master was a hardnosed bastard but a good seaman.”

“What happened?” Smith asked, placing a hand on Osborne’s shoulder.

Osborne stopped and faced Smith. “I don’t rightly know,” he said. “Maybe they hit foul weather.”

“London’s Pride did,” Smith confirmed, “but she might have survived if the cargo had not shifted.”