Death and glory, p.16
Death and Glory, page 16
“I’m not just going to let the man go,” the inspector said.
“Yes, you are,” Pierce insisted. “You have a few choices here. I can speak to my superior, who will speak to his and if necessary, get the prime minister involved. Or I could call the prime minister personally and have him speak to you himself. If you’re reasonable, however, you will let Mr. Llewelyn go free and we’ll take him off your competent hands.”
Tunbridge frowned and removed the darbies, giving a surly look at Her Majesty’s civil servant. The Guv and Pierce hefted me and walked me out of the building.
“You’re a pip, Thomas Llewelyn,” Pierce said. “Did you really jump off a building?”
“No,” I answered. “I climbed down the side, but I slipped. Luckily the cobblestones were there to break my fall.”
“I’m sending you home, lad,” Barker said when we were out in Great Scotland Yard Street. “Get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”
The two of them put me in a cab and I headed toward Camomile Street, wondering what in the world I would tell Rebecca.
CHAPTER 18
The next morning, the Confederate delegation, Barker, and I took the morning express train from London to Sussex. The Brighton line had been full when it arrived at Victoria station, but the carriages were half empty returning to Seaford, where Barker’s hundred-foot lorcha, the Osprey, lay anchored near the docks. Philippa Ashleigh was awaiting us with a cold brunch and champagne. She often acted as a kind of ambassador for her part of the world, and if so, they were fortunate to have her. Like the Guv, she had a firm understanding of governmental and political matters. She was on easy terms with several members of Parliament, in order to influence matters for the good of the South Downs. She was an excellent example of the modern female aristocrat, who led without officially doing so. Her private parties were well attended, although she was a figure of mystery. With so many eligible bachelors in London and the South Downs, speculation was rampant about how she had remained unwed for so many years, and about the shadowy man who visited her occasionally. People’s ears pricked up whenever Cyrus Barker came to town. With his black spectacles and his tall, menacing figure, he was a permanent enigma. Among the residents of Seaford, the consensus was that he must be foreign.
Cyrus Barker on the sea, however, was different from the man on land. Gone was the stoic manhunter in his cutaway jacket and bowler hat. In the Channel he wore a white shirt with a bandana inside the collar and an open waistcoat. The wind buffeted his hair, and he generally had a clay pipe between his square teeth. He is usually in a fine mood on the water, his natural domain, but there was no doubt who was captain of the ship. On board, his word was law. In the English Channel, I was quicker to obey him than on land. I wouldn’t want to be keelhauled, whatever that is.
Barker took the Osprey out to sea as often as possible when the weather wasn’t foul. I’d join him only every month or so. We occasionally traveled south together, me toting a fishing rod. Philippa joined him frequently on the vessel, as well. She was not an enthusiastic sailor, but there were many things to do on the French coast, such as retrieving a Worth dress or two from Paris that was awaiting her in Calais. She and Barker knew the coast from Normandy to Amsterdam, and not a few of her ensembles had a nautical air to them. Sometimes all four of us would go, and Philippa and Rebecca would shop along the esplanade of Seaford or take the train to Eastbourne or Brighton.
“I did not expect to be so well-fed today, ma’am,” General Woodson said, looking into a hamper full of delicacies provided by Her Ladyship. “I thought we’d have salt pork and hardtack rations. The last thing we expected was to be feted in such a manner.”
“We couldn’t have you gentlemen starve,” Her Ladyship replied.
Philippa’s attempts to engage Colonel Beaufort in conversation was met with little success, however. The man was watching Barker the way a lion takes on a water buffalo: cautiously. Something was going to happen between these two, I told myself. After brunch was finished, we bid adieu to our gracious hostess and boarded the Osprey. It had begun life as a lorcha, rather like a large Chinese junk, but one would be surprised at what can be improved if enough money is thrown at it. Woodson and his men were shown about from stem to stern, rigging to galley, and gave a glowing review to the Guv. However, my eye was drawn to the quiet one in the group, Captain Manuel Cortes. The fellow climbed everywhere he could on the boat and studied everything. He introduced himself to Beauchamp, the sailor who looked after the vessel when it was not in use, pestering him with questions. It was the first time he’d shown more than polite interest in anything.
Naturally, my eyes wandered to St. Ives. As we sailed, he stood with his hands on the rail, eyes closed, as the wind whipped his curls about.
“If you look any harder,” he drawled, “your eyes are going to roll right out of your head, Mr. Llewelyn.”
“I was concerned you were feeling unwell,” I said. “In which case I suggest you face forward.”
St. Ives laughed. I’ve never seen anyone who looked so comfortable in any situation. I suspected, however, in his heart of hearts, that he was bored, bored with the Confederacy, bored with the subterfuge, bored even with life.
“I see you’re wearing your chain again,” I remarked. He’d removed his tie and opened his soft collar, as if contemplating a climb up the ratlines.
“I always have it with me,” he replied, nodding. “I figure at some point in my life, I shall need it.”
“Are you sober today, then?” I asked.
“Hardly, sir,” he said. “Life is too banal to be sober. This morning, I imbibed a new elixir of various herbs, gin, and cocaine. I am tracking its progress through my body. I believe at some point today, I shall feel low, and may require your kind services, but I feel marvelous here with the wind and the sails and the drug thrumming in my veins. It’s a glorious feeling. You should try it.”
“I appreciate the offer, Brigadier.”
“David, please,” he insisted. “We are comrades-in-arms now.”
It was about sixty nautical miles from Seaford to the Royal Docklands in Portsmouth. It took six hours, but it was a glorious morning. We had a steam engine in case the wind died, but it did not. The day was fine, the weather warm, and the wind sufficient to fill the sails and push us along under Barker’s practiced hand. I stood by him for a time, then I walked the deck. In doing so, I was able to speak with Woodson.
“Good morning, General,” I said. “If all goes according to your plans, you may be on another ship next week.”
“I hope so, Mr. Llewelyn.”
“I think you have the prime minister over a barrel,” I said.
“Are you persuaded to our cause or are you glad to get rid of us?” he asked, scrutinizing me carefully.
Up close, the man had medium brown hair, tanned skin, a few lines about the eyes, and a firm jaw. His pale eyes reflected the morning sky overhead. Under his shirt I saw the ugly scar. He noticed my glance and buttoned his collar.
“I certainly wish you well against the Yankees.”
“I hate them,” Woodson said. “They killed my pa, almost killed my ma, and destroyed my childhood home in Missouri. I have vowed to use all my powers to destroy the United States of America.”
“Good luck, then,” I said, though there was gall on my tongue.
I returned to Barker and related what Woodson had just told me, sotto voce.
“I expected he would have some sort of story to tell,” the Guv said in my ear. “Exactly where is this Missouri?”
“Somewhere in the West, I think,” I answered. “The late Albert Pike fought there, if you recall.”
I had a thought then, some connection between facts, or a memory of something. Alas, it failed me, and no amount of thinking would bring it back.
“What’s Beaufort doing?” he asked.
“Holding on for dear life, I suspect,” I said, watching him as he stood against the rail. “He isn’t feeling well here on the rough water.”
“And St. Ives?” Barker rumbled.
“He’s growing restless. He had a cocaine cocktail. There isn’t enough about the Channel to pique his interest. Do you think he exaggerates his eccentricities?”
“I’m sure he does for effect, but he has enough genuine ones.”
“Do you believe he is Booth, as Corbett claims?”
“I don’t believe it, nor do I disbelieve it,” he said, turning the wheel. “Here you are.”
“What?” I asked, looking about.
“Take the wheel.”
“Sir, I don’t know the first thing about steering a boat!”
“Then you’d better learn quickly, lad. I’m going below.”
That’s Cyrus Barker for you. No training, no manuals or texts, no guidance. Just get on with it and work it out for yourself. He had to, once. Why make it any easier for me?
I seized the wheel, which was far more truculent than I anticipated. It felt like a living thing, wanting to do as it liked, writhing under my hands. Keep it straight, I told myself. No closer to shore, no closer to France, just straight ahead. It fought me all the way.
Beaufort lost the good meal Philippa had provided, which only made him more ill-tempered, if such a thing is possible. Captain Cortes stood in the bow watching the sea, enjoying the voyage, and the impressive sight that is the Portsmouth Docks as it came into view. It was worth the trip along the coast to see the Royal Docks bristling with masts in rows. There were long warships with cannons, sailing ships with impossibly white sails, and vessels designed to carry supplies and troops. I was impressed that the country owned so many, but then we had the largest fleet in the world, not that Germany and America weren’t trying.
Now Barker buttoned his waistcoat and donned his Prince Albert jacket. We docked and within five minutes our boat was full of sailors, from the lowest swab to rear admirals, wanting to explore the lorcha, which one usually must visit Hong Kong or China to see. Beauchamp was pestered with questions, which he answered bashfully. He is by nature a quiet man who keeps to himself. He was a commercial fisherman with his sons, but he kept the Osprey so spotless, the brass work so polished, and the cabin a dazzling white, that it hurt the eyes to look at her on a bright day.
The Guv explained to one sailor who we were and what we were there for, and the pilot was able to place us in a berth in the crowded dock. We were led down the long boardwalk and finally reached our destination, the warship called the Yellow Rose. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I wasn’t prepared for what I found. The ship was what is known as a casement ironclad. It was low to the water, motor-driven, with a tall funnel. The only part above the waterline was a sloped deck of iron from which cannons extended in all directions. The dainty vessel I expected from its name was anything but. You couldn’t hide what it was, a battleship built to bombard a coast.
“Abraham Lincoln tried to get a stranglehold on our country during the war,” General Woodson explained. “Our ports were blocked with warships from Virginia to Mexico. We needed supplies of all sorts, so we set up a dock in Cuba from which we raided slower vessels or enemy ports. We purchased all of our supplies from the very countries we intend to bring into the Confederacy.”
“It’s certainly sturdy looking,” I noted, putting my foot on the iron shell, which looked like an overturned boat. I heard an echo inside.
“That’s three layers of two-inch steel,” he said. “She’s a fast, maneuverable, and indestructible ship. Cannonballs deflect off the slope and land in the ocean. Many of our ships came from England. By the end of the war, we had three hundred vessels in our navy. We’ll have twice that many this time.”
“You’ll make your own?” I asked.
“Yes. Not only does South America have plenty of raw materials and dockyards,” he said, “but Brazil just put down a naval revolt and the shipbuilding industry in Petropolis is currently disused.”
“I assume you had nothing to do with that,” I said.
Woodson smiled and winked. “Mr. Llewelyn, you may believe as you like.”
“Yes, but this piece of war equipment is out-of-date. What can you do with it?”
“The English navy has made improvements and we hope to make more. As for training, the United States Naval Academy is in Annapolis, Maryland. That’s in the South. We’ve sent an entire generation of young Confederate minds there. We are nothing if not up-to-date. Shall we go below?”
A hatch lifted and we descended. It was close inside, and the atmosphere therein made my head hurt. However, the interior was dry and there was no sign of rust anywhere. I lasted a minute at most. Enclosed spaces fray my nerves. If they hadn’t, I’d have been a coal miner like my brothers.
I waited on the dock while they undertook their inspection. After a minute or two, Barker came up and stood beside me.
“The naval cadets will have to find another training ship if the general gets what he wants,” he stated.
“He says he has the raw materials and facilities to produce more of these and even improve them,” I said. “We’ve got to stop them!”
“That is what the government is for,” Barker argued. “We are merely enquiring, seeking information and taking notes about their movements while they are here in London.”
There was a plank from the dock to the boat. As we watched, an admiral descended it. He was sturdily built, and he had a thick white beard.
“I am Admiral Cummings. Are you Mr. Barker?” he demanded.
“I am Cyrus Barker.”
“Are these fellows going to take my training vessel? Do you think I’ll just give her up without a murmur?”
“That is a political matter, sir,” the Guv stated. “I’m afraid I have no aim of my own. I am only a private enquiry agent.”
“My glass eye,” he said. “I know about you. Not much goes on that the navy doesn’t get wind of.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” the Guv said. “Come, let me introduce you to what they call the ‘delegation.’”
We were headed toward the hatch when it disgorged the four men that Barker was seeking. They looked elated, from what I could see. Woodson had a rare smile on his face. St. Ives grinned like the Cheshire Cat, and even Beaufort was smiling. The general passed around cigars, even to the admiral. The wrapper had a Confederate flag furled in the breeze,
“Made in Havana by my own factory,” he bragged.
Woodson lit his cigar and we passed and lit them end to end until we were all puffing.
“You’re taking a vessel,” the admiral said. His name was Scott.
“If we can manage it, yes,” Woodson admitted. “We bought and paid for it thirty years ago. For now, we are only taking a tour.”
“You Americans!” Scott growled.
“Of a sort,” St. Ives said blandly.
The admiral kept his temper and took the delegation back on board. They steamed out of the harbor, while I stayed near the Osprey. The cabin on the ironclad had been small and clammy enough without a half dozen extra men inside. It was an ugly little brute, I thought, so low to the water it looked as if it were scuttled. It had none of the beauty of a sailing ship or the gracefulness of the Osprey. In my opinion, it was a hunk of iron with deadly intent.
Eventually the vessel steamed into port again and docked. Everyone climbed up on deck looking a trifle wilted. It had been hot and moist below. St. Ives glanced my way. He was bored again or worse, perhaps growing sober. As I watched, he pulled a flask from his pocket and took a swig of it. Sour mash whiskey, I thought, a favorite of Southern gentlemen.
We said our goodbyes to the admiral. He was still civil, but no cheerier than when he had greeted us. Having performed his disagreeable duty, he nodded at the general and retreated up the gangplank. Woodson departed the vessel reluctantly, even patting the side of the hot smokestack as if it were a pet.
We boarded the Osprey once again and sailed out of the dockyard. As we did, I noticed that our silent officer, the captain, was studying everything around him with an intensity he had not shown thus far. I told myself not to underestimate him.
CHAPTER 19
It had been a long day and I was tired from the trip to Portsmouth, as well as still in some pain from my fall. When we arrived back in London, I took a cab to our house in Camomile Street, eager to see my wife. She had been a bit low that morning, and I worried about her in spite of her protests that nothing was wrong. She was generally happy and full of energy, but I knew when she was under the weather, even though she tried to act as if she were feeling well.
Lily, our maid, was arranging flowers in the front hall when I opened the door. She smiled as I approached.
“How is Mrs. Llewelyn doing?” I asked, removing my coat.
“Better, sir,” she answered. “She’s been quite perky this afternoon.”
I hurried up the stair and found my wife sitting up among a half dozen pillows knitting. I was relieved to see that she looked her normal self.
“Hello, darling,” she said. “How was your day?”
“Bother my day,” I told her. “Are you feeling better than you did this morning? Perhaps we should have the doctor in.”
“I’m fine, Thomas,” she replied. “In fact, I feel much better. And anyway, I already did have the doctor in. He said it’s perfectly normal to have these symptoms when you’re going to have a baby.”
I sat abruptly in the closest chair, suddenly weak in the knees. At first, I didn’t even register the words. Then they crashed over me.
“What?” I articulated, like the Oxford student I had been. “Who? How? How did … But we can’t have children! The doctor told us both.”
“Apparently the anxiety we both had made us unable to, temporarily,” she said, as her knitting needles clacked together in rhythm. “Once we accepted the diagnosis and calmed ourselves, Nature took its course.”
Naturally, I was astonished. I hugged her over and over. I wanted to tell my friend Israel Zangwill, who had listened patiently to my tirades about how unfair it was to not be able to have children. I wondered how to announce to the synagogue that we were going to finally be parents. Of course, I’d have to tell my own pastor the good news.
