‘So your loyalty is only to yourself?’
‘The only King left. The one you now threaten.’
He shifted the gun again and Jack’s grip tightened on the knife, watching the man’s eyes, not his finger. The eyes would give it away and Jack would have to take his chances and strike. He had the speed of youth. But the old drunk had gunpowder. Then, as he watched, something seemed to sag in Pounce’s face.
‘You spoke of a choice?’
Jack breathed out. ‘I can prevent the letter being sent. And I will not reach London for months perhaps. You have time.’
‘Time for what?’
‘Time to disappear.’
The eyes narrowed, almost vanishing into the fleshy face. Then Pounce sighed. ‘I have indeed grown to suspect that I am too old for all this. I have even begun some plans, a villa in the hills near …’ He focused on Jack. ‘What would I have to do in return for this temporary silence?’
Jack’s fingers relaxed slightly on the knife’s hilt. ‘Get me out of Rome.’
This silence was shorter. ‘And if I did this? I could not expect you to conceal anything from Colonel Turnville. You are still young enough to believe in your duty. But will you swear, on something you truly believe in, that if you do meet him again, you will say nothing of my aid to the Irishman? He would be displeased, to say the least. He would find me, or have others do so, however well I hid. And I have not saved his life.’
Jack took a step forward, his empty hand outstretched. ‘I will swear it on my honour. And that, as the Irishman will discover, is something I never compromise.’ He still saw the hesitation in Pounce’s eyes, even if the pistol point was tipping away, coming to rest on the table. ‘You need not fear him, Watkin. For I will be after him, and when I next see Red Hugh McClune, he will be dead. For I am going to kill him.’
‘That would indeed be a feat.’ Pounce studied him for a long moment. ‘Your honour demands it?’ On Jack’s nod, he continued. ‘Well, I hazard I know the cause. Laetitia, the Countess di Cavalieri. Née Fitzpatrick?’ Jack stayed silent. ‘She married in great splendour, did you know? King James was there, risen from his sick bed. His cardinal son Henry officiated.’
‘I did not know.’
‘And it is said she is now carrying an heir to the house.’
‘Indeed.’ Jack had almost reached the table now. ‘Are we agreed?’
There was a final moment of hesitation, a last search of Jack’s eyes. Then the pistol was laid down. Jack placed his knife beside it.
‘Agreed,’ said Watkin Pounce, eyeing the blade with a shudder. Heaving his bulk from the chair, he said, ‘Arrangements must be made, certain people suborned. Do you have any gold?’
‘I gave you fifty scudi to hire horses. Where is it?’
‘Here,’ said Pounce, rubbing his belly.
Jack reached for his fallen satchel. ‘Then I will divide what I have left with you.’ He counted. ‘There’s near twenty apiece.’
‘Twenty?’ The disappointment was pronounced. ‘Not much, is it?’
‘Twenty and my silence, Watkin. Remember that.’
‘True.’ With the coins in his hand, Pounce’s excitement seemed to banish his drunkenness and he started for the door. ‘I’ll get to it. The fellows who will help us do not keep regular hours.’ Looking back, he said, ‘And one will know if there is a ship at Civitavecchia bound for Lisbon.’
‘Lisbon?’ said Jack, surprised.
‘Well, did you not say you would be after McClune?’
‘I did.’
‘Then you will find him in Portugal. All communications are to be forwarded to a certain house in Lisbon. Perhaps I should not have told you that.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Though he will not be there himself, of course. Besides, do you not read the newspapers?’
Jack grunted. ‘The Inquisition is lax in providing them.’
Pounce gestured to the foot of the bed. ‘There’s one from London. Quite recent, only took five weeks to get here. I always believe a young man should attend to the affairs of the world.’ Then he was gone.
The paper referred to, the London Advertiser, was dated 15 June 1762. Pounce had circled a section in pencil.
With regard to the late compact between the Bourbon tyrannies of France and Spain and the King’s declaration of war against the latter, a strong force is being dispatched to aid our doughty ally the King of Portugal and his noble people. Under the command of the illustrious Earl of Loudoun will be the 3rd, 67th, Boscawen’s and Crawford’s regiments of Foot together with those Hibernian hammers of the French, the regiments Armstrong’s and Traherne’s …
Jack paused. Irish regiments could be trouble. One was never sure where their loyalties lay. The French had several battalions in their own army ever delighted to fight the British. And there was always something a-stir in their homeland. He read on.
In addition, and fresh from winning laurel wreathes in the late action upon Belleisle, two troops of the 16th Light Dragoons have joined the other four direct from Portsmouth to present, under their noble Colonel, John Burgoyne, the most fearsome aspect of cavalry the Spaniard has ever had to face.
Startled, Jack read the same sentences again and again. The whole of the 16th – the comrades he’d left training in London when he’d been sent as King’s Messenger to Quebec three years before – were engaged in this campaign. And somewhere nearby – concealed, no doubt, by a new name and uniform – was an Irish Grenadier Jack particularly wanted to meet again. What had he said at their last encounter in the prison? That he was always looking to do something ‘spectacular’? Something even greater than the killing of a King? Scanning the column again, Jack could have no doubts: McClune would be seeking that opportunity in Portugal.
‘So,’ Jack said aloud, reaching for his glass of wine, raising it before him, ‘it appears it is time for me to rejoin the regiment.’
– FIVE –
Dead Man’s Shoes
‘You are dead, Cornet Absolute.’
Jack made no reply. It didn’t do to contradict one’s superior, especially on one’s first day back with the regiment. Besides even Captain Onslow – who Jack now remembered was referred to by all the junior officers during training as, simply, ‘Slow’ – would eventually figure it out.
He had some way to go yet. ‘Says so here, d’ye see?’ The man spun a sheaf of papers around. ‘ “Missing, presumed dead. September seventeen fifty-nine.” One is only presumed dead for so long, Absolute, until one is dead, hmm?’
Jack sighed, less at the man’s blockheadedness than at the conspiracy that had written his epitaph. In September 1759 he’d been captured by the Abenaki at the end of the first battle before Quebec. He had been thought dead then. But General Murray had used him as a spy in the subsequent campaign and then Turnville had also sent him to Rome in the same role.
‘Did Colonel Turnville not inform you, sir, that I had been transferred, temporarily, to his command?’
‘Turnville? Never heard of him. Sounds like a Frog to me.’ Onslow puffed out his cheeks, perhaps in imitation. ‘What regiment?’
‘I am not sure. He was in charge of some intelligence matters for which he—’
‘Intelligence?’ The Captain had thrown himself back in his chair as if the word were a pile of ordure Jack had just dumped upon his desk. ‘Don’t much like “intelligence”, man.’
‘That’s obvious,’ Jack muttered.
‘What’s that?’
It had long ceased to surprise Jack how many officers considered intelligence to be like a sneaky ball in a game of cricket. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘Colonel Turnville said that he would inform you of my return and my transfer to his operation. That he did not may suggest the delicacy of that mission?’
The words, their quiet delivery, had the desired effect. ‘Ah, yes, quite, quite!’ Onslow flapped his hands as if waving away flies, which he might well have been as the room was so full of them. ‘Less said, eh?’
‘Yes, sir. But, as you s
ee, I am not, in fact, dead. Indeed I am quite fit and ready for active service.’
The captain took out a handkerchief and wiped sweat from his brow. Portugal was held in a terrible heatwave and the Dragoon uniform, despite the earliness of the hour, only magnified its effects. Jack, in a linen sailor’s shirt and trousers of brown Osnaburg canvas, was a cool contrast.
His superior was now eyeing these distastefully. ‘Active service, eh? Well, I suppose we do have a uniform for you, since poor old Peers got his brains blown out on Belleisle. And his death did cause a vacancy at captain of the third troop. Lieutenant Crawford is moving up to that. But Cornet Stokey was to occupy the lieutenancy, with young Worsley made up from the ranks. We were only waiting for Colonel Burgoyne to arrive for his final approval.’ He started flicking through some other rolls. ‘What date was your commission, d’ye happen to remember?’
‘Fourteenth of June seventeen fifty-nine,’ Jack said.
‘And Stokey’s was … the nineteenth of June.’ He grunted in disappointment. ‘So you are senior.’
‘And a lieutenant already, sir. General Murray was so good as to appoint me—’
‘A brevet promotion, unconnected to the procedures of the regiment!’ Onslow glared. ‘Still, you are senior, so,’ he sighed, ‘I suppose you must have the lieutenancy. I can tell you now, though, it will not be popular. These men have all served together on Belleisle. They wanted one of their own.’
Jack shrugged. That was their problem, not his. He’d earned his lieutenancy and the perks that went with it.
Onslow still looked dubious. ‘Speaking of serving – are you up with the latest drills?’
The man had obviously not taken in what Jack had just told him. ‘I have been unable to keep up, sir, being with—’
The hand flapped again. ‘Yes, yes! Well, you will have to be taught, sirrah. Can’t have someone who doesn’t know how to dress his ranks, hmm? And have you ever been in a charge?’
‘Actually, sir,’ Jack thought back to Quebec, his seizing of the Frenchman’s horse, his pursuit of the enemy that day, ‘I did—’
‘Never mind. You will just have to learn. Since the vacancy is in the third troop, you will report to Sergeant Puxley. He’ll put you through it, never fear.’ He wiped his brow again. ‘You may go.’
‘Yes, sir. Uh, where, sir?’
‘See my clerk out there,’ the man almost shouted. ‘We officers mess at the Praho Taberna. Be there at eight tonight. Don’t be late! And shave, for God’s sake, man. You look like a Dago wagon driver!’
A shaken handkerchief dismissed him. As Jack shut the door, he scratched his chin beneath the full growth. He supposed he’d have to trim his hair also, now halfway down his back. He’d let both grow to aid his escape from Rome, as he’d remained in the city for two weeks while the hue and cry abated and the Inquisition thought him already gone. He’d kept the look in case of pursuit and because it suited his guise as a Languedocian cod trader, returning to his base in Portugal. But now that he was at his destination, the regimental base in the town of Abrantes, he supposed the look would no longer do. Not in the Queen’s Light Dragoons.
Jack stared at the stains. When Captain Onslow had told him that the officer he was to replace had had his brains blown out, he’d neglected to mention that so many of them still remained on the man’s uniform. While the rest of the wardrobe was acceptable – the late Sir William Peers being of a similar height and chest to Jack, though the jockey boots were a snug fit – this short coat clearly was not. He could not appear with such an obvious reminder of recent tragedy. It would spook the men. Ecod, it would spook him! The brains must be removed. And since the troop was out watering the horses, there was no one to hire as a batman. He would have to do the cleaning himself.
A Portuguese groom fetched buckets of water and a bar of lye soap to an empty stable stall. The terrible mid-morning heat and the vigour with which he was forced to scrub the coat made him sweat in profusion. Taking his shirt off, he set to again, gratified to see progress. He began to hum an Iroquois battle chant.
So intent was he at his task that the sound of many horses barely impinged. It was the voice that roused him, rich in rolling Welsh vowels and profanity. ‘Oi, you Dago turd, where’s your fucking master?’
Jack – crouched over the bucket, coat in hand – looked up. Standing in the doorway was a man he vaguely remembered from his scant weeks of training with the Dragoons before he shipped out to Canada. ‘Right here, Sergeant Puxley. Master and man. Lieutenant Absolute. How very good to see you again.’
He could see shock working its way over the man’s face in the sagging jaw, widened eyes and bushy eyebrows rising to the cavalry helm on his head. He knew what the man was seeing – thick beard, shaggy long hair, skin darkened from his weeks at sea – the wagon driver Onslow had labelled him. What distinguished him was obviously the voice, an officer’s undoubtedly, though the tattoos Até had so painfully embroidered on his body threw everything back into confusion.
‘Who?’ was all the man could manage for the moment.
Jack laid the coat down, wiped his hands on his trousers, stepped forward. ‘Cornet Absolute that was, Sergeant. Promoted to the vacancy in the third. You may remember me?’
‘Can’t say I do.’ Puxley had taken the proffered hand in reflex and was shaking it mechanically, though his eyes were fixed on the blue-inked wolf’s head on Jack’s shoulder.
‘I was sent to North America, bearing dispatches at the King’s command?’
Puxley’s eyes rose to meet his. ‘Absolute? You’re dead.’
‘Apparently not,’ said Jack, detaching his hand. ‘And eager to resume my duties. Though, as the Captain pointed out, I may be a little rusty on the finer points of drill. He said you may be able to refresh me?’
Puxley was obviously not a man to remain perplexed for long. ‘Absolute! Got you, now. Cocky little sh …’ He paused. ‘You could ride a bit though … sir. Am I right?’
‘Again, it’s been a while but I am confident I’ll recall the mechanics.’
‘Well, we can only hope the rest will come back as well.’ Puxley had straightened, all his discountenance gone. ‘No time like the present, eh? I was just about to take the troop through some drills. Would you?’
He gestured through the door. ‘Delighted,’ said Jack, ‘but I think …’ He stroked his beard with the back of his hand. ‘Not regulation, is it?’
‘Hardly, sir. We have a trooper who’s not bad with shears and blade. Shall I send him in?’
‘Do. And could you hang this in the sun to dry?’
Puxley took the jacket. ‘Captain Peers’s, ain’t it? But you’ve stripped off the lace.’
Jack nodded. ‘Learned to do that in Canada. Makes too inviting a target.’
‘So Captain Peers discovered.’ Puxley’s eyes were appraising. ‘Seen some action, have you?’
‘Some.’
‘Good. Many of our officers haven’t. I’ll send Wallace in.’
Puxley left and Jack inspected the rest of his inherited equipment. Aside from the standard lawn shirts, black stocks, white cloth breeches, boots, gloves and saddlery, the regiment had its distinguishing designations: the japanned, black copper cap with its ridge plume of reddened horse hair, the King’s cipher and crown enamelled on it; the scarlet cloak with red half-cape lined with the regimental facings of black. Together with the now-drying short coat, this uniform was nearly as good as the one he’d had made for himself in Newport. It signified that his days as privateer, prisoner, fugitive and even spy had come, at least temporarily, to an end. And looking at the scarlet and the black facings of his regiment, Jack found that he was not at all unhappy at the exchange.
He was not so sure three hours later. Puxley had indeed ‘put him through it’. There did not seem to be a part of him that was not sore, chafed, aching – and they hadn’t even started riding yet. His right-hand knuckles were skinned because there were only so many times you could draw and re
turn swords before flesh struck hilt or pommel. His thighs throbbed from the innumerable times they’d dismounted, which required at least nine different movements that Jack could count. And his brain ached as he tried to remember the drill of linking, in which horses could be joined at their collar rings so that one man would take care of up to ten horses alone. But since the movement to link required one man to step one way and the man next to them to step the other, and since Puxley kept changing his position, it took Jack some time to remember that when he was right he went left about and when left, the opposite. Only after numerous errors on his part, each one causing an increase of muttering in the ranks – his clumsiness was forcing the men to work longer – was Sergeant Puxley satisfied and allowed the troop some water.
‘And now we’ll train for the parade,’ he announced. ‘For Colonel Burgoyne is to rejoin us shortly and will want to review the regiment. And you wouldn’t want to shame me, would you, boys?’
The sun had the sky to itself the entire day; it was like exercising in a bread oven. The air was oppressive and sweat soaked their clothes. Jack realized he might have spared himself his washerwoman exertions, for his scarlet short coat was sopping.
Jack took his place – as Lieutenant his position was the first file of the third rank. The gelding he stood beside was large, upwards of seventeen hands and biddable, though Jack would not know that truly until he had put him through his paces. But he was obviously a replacement as his coat was distinctly grey and stood out in the troop of almost uniform brown. Jack wondered if it was just the lace that had drawn the sniper’s fire to its former owner. Grey horses were usually avoided for precisely that reason.
‘Make ready to mount!’
He placed his left foot in the stirrup, left hand on the pommel, right on the centre of the cantle, fingers turned toward the crop in the approved manner and waited.
‘Mount!’
The horse shifted slightly under him as he tied up the collar. He chk-chk’d quietly and it settled.